BLOGGING TO SOOTH THE NERVES.

AI s will think (?) that I have come with a musing immediately? But somedays have passed between the last musing and now. The musing Waiting time is thinking time. Waiting time is to try writing the thoughts. The mood is such that the action of writing is in synch with the mind. Lovely moment. Right? Yesterday while driving my Baleno, I was slightly sleepy. I fought with that and almost won...but but..at a place slightly the battle went wary and I hit a side barricade. (Caution bala.. when you are feeling dizzy...move the car to a restaurant...walk.. fight with wife..have tea... please) The left rear view mirror went fut. Slight bruises to the car on the front side. Thank God the two wheeler driving boy and girl gave support to us morally, the girl getting down from the pillion and brought the broken piece of the metal behind it. Smilingly they said, nothing has happened ...and we moved on. Wife was tensed up (me stoically tensed up) She wanted an immediate appointment with the vehicle...

I was sixteen when  Sholay  released. Now I am sixty-six. Back then, cinema arrived like thunder. News travelled by word of mouth. Friends narrated scenes with more excitement than accuracy. I hadn’t even watched the film then, but I already  knew  it. That was the power of those days. What mattered to me at sixteen was pride. The film was shot near Bengaluru, where I lived. That alone made it special. Cinema touching familiar land felt like destiny brushing past my street. And then there was Hema Malini. The Dream Girl. No analysis needed. She didn’t just appear on screen, she quietly rearranged adolescent emotions. Many hearts learned their first silence there. Amitabh Bachchan fascinated me not by dialogue, but by restraint. His silence carried weight. At sixteen, it felt heroic. Cool. Strong. Now at sixty-six, that same silence feels different. It feels lived-in. It feels like a man who knows words won’t fix everything. What strikes me today is how  Sholay...

🤠 🤠 🤠 🤠 🤠 🤠 🤠 🤠 🤠 🤠 I like the emoji with the hat because it fits this phase. Not denial. Not bravado. Just quiet confidence with lived-in joints. At 66: I walk slower, but notice more. I sit comfortably, rise carefully. I don’t chase youth — I maintain dignity. This 15 minutes is not about adding years to life. It’s about adding life to these years. Hat on. Morning accepted. Day, let’s see what you have today. 😎

66. A number that once sounded distant. Now it sits quietly beside me, sipping morning air. This is not a fitness routine. This is not a medical prescription. This is a conversation with the body, before the world starts talking. Minute 0–2: Waking Up Without Arguments I don’t jump out of bed. I negotiate. A slow turn. Feet touch the floor. The hips complain softly — not rebellion, just a reminder: “Ease into the day.” I smile. We’ve known each other long enough. Minute 3–6: Gentle Movements — No Heroics A few knee bends near the wall. Hip circles — small, like drawing commas in the air. Marching in place, as if I’m late for nothing. This is not exercise. This is oiling old hinges. The body responds politely. Minute 7–11: Walking — The Best Medicine Slow. Then moderate. If the weather is kind and yesterday’s dinner was lighter, I allow myself a gentle upward slope. No speed targets. No apps judging me. Just footsteps, breath, and that quiet joy of still being able to move forward. Minu...