The Day the Mirror Was Late

Introduction

It was a regular Tuesday morning, the kind where nothing really happens until you’ve had your first cup of coffee. I shuffled into the bathroom, still half asleep, and flicked on the light. Everything was where it was supposed to be—towel on the hook, toothpaste cap forgotten as usual, and my trusty old mirror hanging there, waiting to deliver its daily verdict.

Except today, it didn’t.

I stood there, blinking a couple of times, waiting for my reflection to catch up. Nothing. No face staring back at me, no reassuring nod from my sleep-deprived self. Just...blank glass. It was like the mirror had decided to take a break.

I leaned in a bit, waved my hand in front of it, checked the back for any signs of tampering—nothing. Maybe I’d overslept and crossed into some alternate reality where mirrors don’t work. Or maybe, just maybe, my mirror was running late.

I could feel the absurdity of the thought creeping in. “Come on, you’re going to be late. Show up already.” No response. The mirror remained stubbornly silent, offering no reflection of the sarcastic grin I was sure I had on my face.

The Self-Reflection Dance

After a minute of this standoff, I tried another approach. Maybe it was the lighting. I flicked the bathroom switch a few times, bathing the room in flashes of light and shadow. Still nothing. Maybe I needed to go more high-tech. I pulled out my phone, opened the camera, and there it was—my reflection, alive and well. “Good to know I still exist,” I muttered, tapping my phone screen as if to prove something.

At this point, I was halfway between laughing at myself and wondering if this was some kind of cosmic joke. But what was it they said about vampires? No reflection, no soul? Surely not... But still, the longer I stood there, the more my mind began to wander. What if the mirror was trying to tell me something?

The Realization

Suddenly, the absence of my reflection felt less like an inconvenience and more like... an opportunity. Without the mirror, there was no face to check, no hair to fix, no judgment staring back at me. I was free from the routine, the daily inspection I didn’t even realize I relied on so much.

And there it was—the question I’d been avoiding. Who am I when there’s no mirror to tell me?

Every day, I’d stand here and let the mirror reflect who I was, or at least who I thought I was. Messy hair, dark circles, maybe a decent jawline on a good day. But today, with the mirror gone silent, I started thinking about how much I depend on that reflection. How much we all do. Mirrors, in one form or another, are everywhere. People’s opinions, the way the world sees you, the things you think you’re supposed to be. What happens when all those mirrors stop working?

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Without the reflection, there was no criticism, no standard to measure up to. I was still standing here, just as real, just as present. Maybe even more so.

The Return

Just as I was getting comfortable with this revelation, the mirror blinked back to life. There I was, staring at myself like nothing unusual had happened. I half-expected my reflection to shrug, as if to say, “What? I was just taking a break.” I couldn’t help but laugh.

“Thanks for showing up. But I think I’m good now.”

I took one last look and turned away. Perhaps the mirror had needed a break so that I could stop relying on it to tell me who I was. And for the first time in a while, I wasn’t so worried about what it showed me.

-- Pradeep K (Prady)

Bashing the Cliche: What Doesn’t Kill You Makes You Stronger

"What Doesn’t Kill You Makes You Stronger"

Really? Or perhaps it just makes you tired?

Tell me you've seen it—boldly printed on everything from gym walls to motivational memes—the line that’s supposed to comfort us when life hits a rough patch: “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” It’s been around for so long, we’ve stopped questioning it. But today, let’s question it, shall we?

Honestly, if everything that didn’t kill us made us stronger, wouldn't we all be superheroes by now? Most of us are just trying to make it through another Monday without needing an extra coffee (or three).

Take the professional world, for example. After being on the edge of a layoff for the fifth time in your career, are you really stronger—or just better at pretending you’re okay with uncertainty while secretly Googling “career switch to chicken farming”? That corporate resilience everyone talks about feels more like a survival instinct at this point, right?

How about the gym: the place where they take “What doesn’t kill you” a bit too literally. Sure, you thought lifting that extra weight would make you stronger... until your back decided to teach you otherwise. So now you’re not stronger—you’re just a little more familiar with your orthopedist's number than you'd like to be.

Then there’s the personal side of things. Like that breakup. We’ve all been there—wallowing in the idea that we’re going to come out the other side of heartache as some kind of enlightened, emotionally armored warrior. Spoiler alert: more often than not, it just turns into a three-month stint on awkward dating apps, and a newfound dislike of small talk over overpriced coffee.

What about the daily commute? You'd think that after years of sitting in traffic jams, you’d emerge with the patience of a Zen monk. But no, what doesn’t kill you—like that bumper-to-bumper grind—just makes you more likely to mutter choice words under your breath at the guy who cut you off. Strength? Maybe. Or maybe it’s just a new kind of exhaustion.

But here’s the kicker: What if life isn’t about coming out of every struggle with a new superpower? Maybe, just maybe, we can admit that sometimes the goal is to simply survive the tough stuff with our sanity intact. Strength doesn’t always mean emerging with chiselled abs or a fortified spirit. Sometimes, it looks like making it through without throwing your phone at the wall during another pointless Zoom meeting.

So, what doesn’t kill you doesn’t always make you stronger. Sometimes, it just gives you a good reason to take a nap. Or a vacation. Or an extra slice of cake. And that, my friends, is a strength in itself.

Real strength isn’t about never getting knocked down. It’s about knowing that when life gives you chaos, you don’t always have to turn it into a life lesson. Sometimes, you can just laugh, shrug, and move on. And maybe that’s the strongest thing of all.

-- Pradeep K (Prady)

Life: The Incurable, Fatal Disease We Catch at Birth

There are diseases that science can’t cure. A tragic truth, yet accepted with the sober acknowledgment of the limits of human knowledge. But then, if you think about it, there's no cure for the rest of us either.

Think about it if you will. Life itself is an incurable, sexually transmitted, fatal disease. A condition we catch without consent, endure with a mix of bewilderment and bravado, and eventually succumb to. And while the prognosis is universally grim (100% mortality rate, mind you), it's astonishing how seriously we take the treatment.

From the moment of diagnosis—typically marked by a slap on the rear end and the startled cry of "Congratulations, it’s a human!"—we embark on a lifetime of increasingly bizarre therapies. Take, for instance, the way we treat the early symptoms: "Infancy" is often managed with frequent doses of lullabies and absurdly expensive strollers that claim to cure sleepless nights. Side effects include chronic exhaustion for the parents, and, for the patient, an unshakable addiction to being carried everywhere.

As the disease progresses into childhood, the symptoms morph. Patients develop an insatiable curiosity and an alarming tendency to ask questions like "Why is the sky blue?" and "Why can't I eat candy for breakfast, lunch, and dinner?" The prescribed treatment? Endless school days, structured playtime, and the firm belief that answering "Just because mama/dada says so" is a valid medical response. This phase often includes an experimental diet of vegetables disguised as edible objects and frequent doses of homework.

The teenage years bring with them an acute outbreak of "Identity Crisis," a particularly aggressive strain of the disease. The afflicted frequently experience confusion, bouts of rebellion, and an inexplicable attraction to loud music and questionable fashion choices. The standard treatment is liberal applications of advice from adults who have long forgotten what it feels like to be 16, paired with a strong dose of peer pressure. Caution: Side effects may include eye-rolling, sulking, and the sudden conviction that no one understands you, especially those who have been through the same disease decades earlier.

But it's adulthood where the condition really ramps up. This is where things get particularly ludicrous. The patient enters the workforce—a carefully designed social experiment where we pretend that trading hours of our lives for paper rectangles called "money" will somehow alleviate the symptoms. To cope with the stress of this delusion, many turn to self-medication. Some prefer caffeine, others alcohol, and a select few swear by yoga and deep-breathing exercises. Yet, the disease stubbornly persists, manifesting in new ways: mortgage payments, car loans, and a mysterious ailment known as "responsibility."

And then, of course, there's the ultimate irony—the "Wellness Industry." Billions are spent annually on gym memberships, green smoothies, and mindfulness apps, all in the vain hope of delaying the inevitable. We guzzle down superfoods like kale and quinoa, convinced they’ll buy us a few extra years, while cheerfully ignoring that this disease has a strict "no survivors" policy. (Note: A particularly amusing subset of patients subscribes to the belief that cryogenics will eventually provide a cure. These individuals are often spotted debating whether to freeze just their heads or their entire bodies—because, you know, why not hedge your bets?)

But the real comedy of life’s disease lies in its treatment plans. Every so often, the patient encounters someone who claims to have found "the cure." Maybe it’s a book, a seminar, or a cult, but the pitch is always the same: "Follow my ten-step program, and you’ll finally beat this thing!" And so, with desperate hope and a credit card, they sign up, only to discover that the "cure" involves little more than rearranging their furniture, chanting affirmations, and pretending that their inevitable demise is somehow optional.

In the final stage, often referred to as "Old Age," the symptoms become too pronounced to ignore. The body, once resilient, starts to falter, and the patient is frequently found uttering phrases like "Back in my day…" and "Kids these days don’t know how good they have it." Medical professionals prescribe relaxation, reflection, and perhaps a hobby, while the patient reflects on a lifetime of treatments that, in the end, didn’t change the outcome.

As the disease reaches its final, unavoidable conclusion, the patient passes on—leaving behind a legacy of treatments, half-used gym memberships, and an impressively large collection of essential oils. The funeral is held, tears are shed, and life goes on for the rest of us who, despite knowing the terminal nature of our condition, continue to search for that elusive cure.

Because in the end, isn’t that the punchline? Despite knowing that life is fatal, we all keep treating it as if we might just find the remedy.

-- Pradeep K (Prady)

Measuring Success

Disclaimer: This post contains tongue-in-cheek, in-your-face humour. Meant as a situational satire. Not intended to offend anyone. If you don't like laughing at yourself, please don't read ahead.

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Use this funny behaviour of society as a measuring rod for success.

When you are successful, almost everyone else wants to announce a proud relationship with you. You may be surprised that several people, many of whom you don't even recognize, suddenly claim to know you very well. Some of them announce that they are your chuddi-buddies, regardless of the age difference between you. Some claim that you're "their boy/girl", in every possible connotations that it may be understood.

Many of your former neighbors start remembering you; some even recount funny anecdotes about you, which may have transpired only in the crooked confines of their scheming imagination. In reality, they may not even have interacted with you when you were neighbors. In fact, some of them might even have been instrumental in driving you out from the neighborhood. But when you're successful, they all claim to be your friends.

Even those who hardly knew your name or recognized your face until then suddenly recall that you hail from the same locality, street, area, city or state as they do. They claim to have seen you around, to have somehow helped you at some point in your life, even to have somehow inspired or otherwise prepared you for success.

All these "fake" people seem to believe that by making such tall claims they somehow become qualified enough to share credit for your success. Some of them even seem to believe that you're successful chiefly because you're from the same city or state as they are, or because they recognize you; if not, you'd probably never be as successful.

Keeping all your study, unpaid study loans, hard work, sweat, sleepless nights, expenditures, failed attempts and honest efforts aside, you can believe you've attained a measurable level of success only when these "fake" people start referring to you with phrases (in whatever dialect) such as "apna baccha hai", "humare gaon ki ladki", "nammoora huduga", "namma hudugi", "amgele gaonchi", "amgele makshi gharacho chello"... 

Until such time, keep going, you'll eventually get there.