Ranjit Kulkarni's Blog, page 2

Swami’s Diwali Lights

Swami burst into the caf�� last weekend, nearly tripping over a chair on his way to our usual table. Jigneshbhai and I could see that he was tense about something.

���Jigneshbhai!��� he exclaimed, waving his phone like a man on a mission even while he took his seat opposite ours.

���You have to see this! Everyone in my building has gone all out for Diwali this year.���

Across the table, Jigneshbhai calmly stirred his coffee. He didn���t even look up. He just made his signature hmm sound ��� the one that meant, Go on, Swami. I���m listening��� sort of.

I knew something was cooking underneath that calmness. Swami shoved his phone under Jigneshbhai���s nose.

���Look! These balcony decorations are stunning ��� fairy lights, giant rangolis, shiny lanterns! Even Sharmaji���s balcony looks like a five-star hotel lobby!���

Jigneshbhai finally took a slow sip of coffee.

���And now look at mine,��� Swami continued dramatically, swiping to a photo. ���Two rows of diyas. TWO! One at each end. That���s it. How will these humble lights stand in the face of all the jazzy decorations?���

Jigneshbhai peered at the screen, nodded once, and returned to his coffee. I peeked and agreed too. They were indeed quite austere.

���This is a disaster,��� Swami declared, sinking into his chair. ���Vidya says we must upgrade ��� more lights, bigger rangoli, maybe even a fog machine for effect!��� he said in a panic-stricken tone. ���But the shop near the apartment is sold out, and the online delivery slots are full till Sunday.���

I tried to hide my smile behind a bite of my muffin. Swami���s voice grew sadder.

���My balcony is going to win the competition for the dullest one in the building!���

I was going to ask Swami if there was any such competition but held myself back. Jigneshbhai finally looked up, his eyes calm and steady.

���Swami,��� he said slowly, ���lights outside don���t matter much if it���s dark inside.���

Swami blinked. Once. Twice. Even I tried to absorb it again.

���Eh? What does that even mean?��� Swami���s facial expression seemed to ask.

Jigneshbhai took another sip of coffee and smiled that maddening, peaceful smile.

Swami stared at his phone again, scrolling between pictures of glowing balconies and his two lonely diyas ��� suddenly unsure whether to laugh, cry, or just order another coffee.

Jigneshbhai says Diwali isn���t about what others see. It���s about the quiet warmth that lights up our homes and our hearts, he says. And the wealthy old man in the sprawling bungalow says that the best Diwali glow comes from the inside.

Meet Jigneshbhai & Swami

If you���ve ever been like Swami, frantically competing with neighbors, or like Jigneshbhai, sipping calmly through the chaos ��� you���ll enjoy their many conversations over coffee.

[Explore the full ebook set ��� at my estore ]

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Engineer’s Block (and Other Myths)

Have you ever heard of Engineer���s Block?
An engineer saying, ���I can���t think of what to code.���

Or Doctor���s Block?
A surgeon saying, ���I���m stuck, I can���t decide what to tell my patient.���

Or Plumber���s Block? Electrician���s Block?

No one���s ever heard of them.

And yet, ���Writer���s Block��� is spoken of as if it���s a real thing ��� a creative curse, a mysterious state where ideas dry up until a muse or fairy descends to whisper solutions.

The truth is far less magical.

What I���ve realized is that Writer���s Block is usually just one of two things: laziness or anxiety.

Laziness is when a writer doesn���t show up. Unlike an engineer or a doctor, who can���t simply skip work because they ���aren���t feeling it,��� a writer sometimes drifts into that excuse. If you don���t sit at the desk, the writing won���t get done.

Anxiety is the other culprit. The nagging doubts: ���Is this any good? Will anyone read it? Will it be liked?��� That worry keeps a writer from putting words on the page.

Both lead to the same outcome ��� no writing. Which then gets a fancy label: Writer���s Block.

But there���s no mystery here. The only cure is simple and boring: write.
Write badly. Write well. Write nonsense. Write brilliance.
Just write. Like an engineer codes, like a doctor diagnoses, like a plumber fixes leaks.

Show up, do the work. That���s all a writer does.

Writer���s Block isn���t real. It���s just laziness or anxiety, dressed up as something profound. The only way through is the same for all of us, whether we���re writers, engineers, or neighbors in Keshav Kunj: turn up, and keep at it.

Explore More
Everyday struggles with laziness, anxiety, and calmness run through my stories too. Sometimes Swami freezes in panic, sometimes Jigneshbhai just smiles and stirs his coffee. Staring into blank space doesn’t do anything. Showing up, doing the work is the cure.
You���ll find these everyday battles ��� and everyday wisdom ��� in both Jigneshbhai & Swami and Everyday Epics.

[Explore my collections ��� at my estore]

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The Tea Stall

There���s a little tea stall at the corner of our street. It is an old one. The paint is peeling, the wooden benches are wobbly, and the tea is always a little too sweet.

But no one seems to mind. Every morning, the place fills up with people ��� strangers, neighbors, and regulars ��� all of whom stand at the corner sipping their cup of tea, some of them with a cigarette in their hands. I see these faces often on my morning walk.

The tea stall is not much to look at. It is like a booth, just a corrugated tin roof, a rickety counter, and a few steel kettles whistling away, next to a bakery that sells other things.

Yet, somehow, it always feels alive, more than the bakery.

The other day, I stopped by to get something at the bakery.

Next to me, standing near the tea stall, an auto driver gulped down his tea, constantly checking the time. His phone buzzed with incoming rides, and before finishing his last sip, he was off.

At the far end, two young men argued loudly about something in office ��� probably their boss – a common topic for a rant. Their voices rose and fell, as they swung from one end of their argument to another.

Two elderly men sat quietly on the tottering wooden bench, holding their cups and a newspaper. They took small, slow sips, staring out at the street with a faint smile that seemed to come from another time entirely.

A dog wagged its tail next to them, waiting for a morsel of biscuits.

Behind the counter, the tea seller kept up a constant rhythm ��� pouring, stirring, handing out glasses ��� like the conductor of an orchestra that played the music of everyday life.

For a few minutes, while I waited at the bakery for my order to be packed, all these lives intersected in that tiny, crowded space.

No one knew each other���s names. No one knew each other���s stories.

But in the simple act of sharing tea, there was an unspoken connection. It didn���t last long ��� only as long as it takes to finish a cup of tea or a cigarette. By the time I left, the tea stall returned to its quiet hum, ready for the next set of stories to arrive.

Who knows if there might be a storm brewing in a tea cup?

It���s easy to think of places as just places ��� a shop, a tea stall, a bench. But sometimes, they are crossroads where lives meet briefly, quietly, beautifully, before heading back into the world.

Explore Everyday Epics

Some such characters are part of Potpourri, a collection that celebrates the beauty of everyday characters and their fleeting, powerful moments, featured in my anthology Everyday Epics.

[Explore the full collection ��� at my estore]

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When Memories Say Hello Again

The radio was playing an old song I hadn���t heard in years.

Suddenly, it wasn���t just music anymore. It was the soft lilting of the song, the sound of melody drifting from the next room, and a presence I hadn���t felt in a long, long time.

For a moment, I wasn���t sitting in my present. I was back there ��� in the past.

I stared at the chipped coffee mug on the table, the one I���ve been meaning to replace but never have. It���s an ordinary mug, nothing special.

But that day, it became something more ��� a quiet reminder of coffee shared, conversations unfinished, and an existence once taken for granted.

It���s strange how memories work.

One moment, you���re thinking about what to have for dinner or how many unread messages you have. And the next, a song, a sight, or a flash from the past gently taps you on the shoulder.

Grief doesn���t announce itself. It doesn���t knock loudly. It just��� slips back in, softly, like a whisper.

I sat there for a while, letting it wash over me. It wasn���t painful.

The sharp edges were gone now, smoothed by time.

What remained was a quiet memory ��� bittersweet and oddly comforting.

Grief doesn���t really disappear. It changes form. The hard knocks turn into a soft knock on the door ��� a reminder that love never truly leaves us.

Yesterday morning, as the song ended, I smiled, lifted the old mug, and took a slow sip of coffee.

For a brief, beautiful moment, the past and present sat together at the same table.

A Gentle Reflection

Memories have their own timing. They don���t fade.

They sit quietly, waiting for just the right moment to say hello again.

Explore Everyday Epics

If this story resonates with you, you���ll find more such quiet, heartfelt tales in my collection Kaleidoscope, part of the Everyday Epics anthology.

[Explore the full collection ��� at my estore]

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Swami���s Deadlines and Jigneshbhai���s Coffee

Last weekend, when we met for coffee, Swami���s phone buzzed like a swarm of angry bees. Notifications flashed. Emails piled up. Deadlines closed in like storm clouds.

Across the table, next to me, Jigneshbhai stirred his coffee slowly, as if he had all the time in the world.

Swami, on the other hand, clearly didn���t. He was hunched over his phone, muttering under his breath, his coffee sitting untouched and growing cold.

���This is a disaster, Jigneshbhai!��� he finally burst out. ���I have five things on my to-do, two hours, and an inbox full of people breathing down my neck!���

Jigneshbhai nodded and said nothing. He pushed Swami���s coffee cup closer to him, which only made Swami more agitated.

���Hang on. If I don���t send this report by noon, it���s over!���

Jigneshbhai raised an eyebrow. ���What���s over, Swami?��� he asked, nonchalantly.

Swami stared at him. ���You don���t get it! You have never worked for Raichand!!���

Jigneshbhai sipped his coffee calmly. ���Hmm.��� I took a bite of the chocolate muffin.

Swami waved his hands wildly. ���How can you guys sit there so calmly while I���m drowning in deadlines?���

Jigneshbhai smiled, the kind of smile that made Swami even more restless. He took another slow sip.

���We are just having our coffee hot,��� he said. ���While you ..well, work on your deadlines. Deadlines that apparently can���t be extended even while your coffee turns cold.���

Swami blinked. Then he glanced at his cold, untouched cup, and for a brief moment, he wasn���t sure whether to laugh, cry, or order another coffee.

A Moment to Pause

Watching them, I couldn���t help but wonder how often we confuse urgency with importance.

We rush from one task to another, convinced the world will collapse if we don���t meet every deadline.

Maybe the real task isn���t getting everything done ��� but remembering to pause for a sip of coffee along the way.

That���s when I saw the wealthy old man walk up to us from the adjoining table. ���The real deadline is to enjoy your coffee before it gets cold,��� he said, leaving all of us in splits.

Join Them at the Table

If you���ve ever been like Swami, drowning in deadlines, or like Jigneshbhai, sipping calmly through the chaos, you���ll enjoy their many conversations over coffee.

[Grab the full ebook set ��� at my estore]

***

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A Lift Ride in My Apartment

I was not in a particular hurry, but closed lifts seem to do it to us. I tapped my foot as the lift doors finally closed, waiting to reach the ground floor.

A few of us were crammed inside ��� strangers sharing a tiny metal box for a few seconds. Most of us stared at the numbers above the door, counting floors like prisoners counting days.

The lift hummed and groaned, stopping at almost every floor on the way down. With each stop, someone stepped out, and someone new stepped in, like a constantly changing cast in a very short play.

On the next floor, a young man walked in, mumbling to himself. At first, I thought he was talking on his phone, but then I noticed there were no earbuds. He was rehearsing something ��� a speech, perhaps, or maybe a college exam.

Two floors later, a tired-looking mother stepped in with a toddler clinging to her leg. The child let out a small wail, and she gave a weak, embarrassed smile to the rest of us. Her face carried the exhaustion of sleepless nights and unending days.

On the 1st floor, an elderly gentleman entered, clutching a battered file to his chest as if it contained his whole world. He pressed the ground floor button which was already pressed. He didn���t meet anyone���s eyes. But his shoulders, stooped and tense, told us enough about the weight he was carrying.

The doors opened when we reached the ground floor. We all spilled out into the lobby and went our separate ways, never speaking a word to each other.

As I walked away, I couldn���t help but wonder.

What speech was the young man rehearsing?

What battles was the mother fighting?

What was inside that old file that the elderly man was clutching?

We pass hundreds of people every day.

Strangers in lifts, buses, queues ��� names we���ll never know, lives we���ll never fully see.

But for a few brief moments, our stories intersect.

A Gentle Reflection

Everyone has a story. Some just need to be told.

Explore Everyday Epics

Such stories are part of Potpourri, a collection of tales about everyday characters and the hidden worlds they carry, featured in my anthology Everyday Epics.

[Explore the full collection ��� at my estore]

***

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Stories We Tell

When I turned writer, I never told anyone that I was just a writer.

In my corporate years, the dreaded question ��� ���What do you do?��� ��� had a simple answer: ���I work for ������ The company name changed over two decades, but the conversation stopped there. No one asked more, no one expected more.

Now, when I say ���I am a writer,��� it never ends there. It sparks curiosity. It invites pauses. It demands a backstory.

So, I found myself telling stories.

���I took up writing after twenty-three years in corporate life.���
���I am an independent consultant who also writes.���
Or, when someone was feeling creative on my behalf:
���He is following his passion in semi-retirement.���
���He was always a writer in disguise.���

Each version carried shades of truth, shades of fiction. Like the six blind men and the elephant, every questioner believed their version of me. And why not? It made for better conversation.

The fact is, ���I am a writer��� never felt enough ��� for them, or for me. A present-tense label without a past or a future feels incomplete. People want origins. They want direction. They want the character���s arc.

Lately, the questions have shifted too.
���What���s next?���
���When is the bestseller coming?���
���Are you aiming for an award?���

It seems we are never content with where someone is. We want to know where they came from and where they are going.

That���s when I realized: the audience is always looking for a story. Not just a statement. Not just a label. A story that links past to present, present to future.

So why not tell one? Otherwise, how boring would life be, and how drab would conversations become, without the stories we tell?

A Gentle Reflection
Stories are how we make sense of ourselves, how we connect with each other. Even everyday answers ��� the kind exchanged at a caf��, a tea stall, or in the lift ��� become richer when they carry a story.

Explore More Stories
That���s what I try to capture in my books ��� the humor, depth, and meaning hidden in everyday lives.
Whether it���s Swami panicking over coffee or a neighbor in Keshav Kunj, it���s always about the stories we tell.

[Explore my collections ��� at my estore]

The post Stories We Tell appeared first on Ranjit Kulkarni.

And Swami Worries About Everything

Swami had been fidgeting with his phone for the last ten minutes, his face tightening with every swipe. Jigneshbhai, on the other hand, sat back comfortably in his chair, sipping his coffee as if he were in no hurry at all.

“The markets are going to tank, Jigneshbhai!” Swami finally blurted out, his voice loud enough to make the waiter glance over.

“My portfolio is soon going to be redder than this tablecloth!”

Jigneshbhai raised an eyebrow, smiled faintly, and took another slow sip of coffee.

“Hmm,” he said.

Swami leaned forward, exasperated.

“Hmm? That’s it? All you have to say is hmm?”

Jigneshbhai’s calm expression didn’t change.

“Swami,” he said, “markets sometimes go up, markets sometimes go down. Coffee prices? Always up. So, focus on the coffee.”

For a moment, Swami just stared.

A Conversation Over Coffee

This wasn’t the first time Jigneshbhai and Swami had sat at this very table. I had seen them have these conversations for many years.

Last month, Swami was worried about his health insurance premiums. Before that, it was his neighbour’s barking dog. And before that, it was the existential question of whether his WhatsApp messages were being ignored on purpose.

The topics changed, but Swami’s restlessness remained the same. Jigneshbhai’s calmness remained the same. He never seemed fazed. He had a way of distilling complex problems into simple truths — truths that were usually delivered between quiet sips of coffee. And I remained the same silent observer, privileged to listen and learn from their talks, chiming in at times.

Even today, Swami couldn’t stop himself from ranting. Today it was about every dip, crash, and ominous headline he had seen that morning.

“You don’t get it, Jigneshbhai! This isn’t just numbers on a screen. This is about my future, our collective future!” Swami said, waving his hands dramatically.

Jigneshbhai nodded slowly, as though he were listening to a bedtime story.

“Swami, your future is not on a screen,” he said. “It’s in your cup.”

Swami blinked. “My… cup?”

“Yes,” Jigneshbhai said, pointing at Swami’s coffee. “Worry about numbers you can’t control… or enjoy the coffee that’s in front of you.”

Calm in a Cup

I remained silent and waited for Swami to calm down. He always did, most times after some sense prevailed after Jigneshbhai’s sane advice. But it always needed some time.

As Swami drained the last drop of his coffee, he felt a little lighter. I checked that the markets were still down. His portfolio must have been red. But his mood was lighter.

Maybe it was the caffeine.

Maybe it was Jigneshbhai’s perspective.

Or maybe it was both.

And so, when he finished his coffee, Swami sighed, half in frustration, half in amusement.

“Fine. But next time you’re paying for coffee, Jigneshbhai,” he said.

The three of us broke into a loud guffaw. And I noticed the wealthy old man in the sprawling bungalow stealing a smiling glance too from the adjoining table.

Your Turn to Sip

If you’ve ever worried like Swami — or smiled like Jigneshbhai — you’ll enjoy their many misadventures over coffee and conversation.

Grab the complete Jigneshbhai & Swami eBook set and spend some time laughing, reflecting, and sipping along.

[Get it here → at my estore]

 

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Becoming a Mountain: Review

Essentially a reflective travelogue by Stephen Alter, a writer raised in Mussoorie by missionary parents, ‘Becoming a Mountain: Himalayan Journeys in Search of the Sacred and the Sublime’ is a different type of mountain climbing travelogue.

Most trekking or climbing experiences are full of action and excitement, an account written by adrenaline pumped adventurers providing thrill to readers. But this is a book of slow contemplation and getting close to nature, written by a true lover of the mountains, and a story of personal healing.

Alter and his wife suffered a miserable stabbing incident one early morning at their home in Mussoorie. The perpetrators, probably young men wanting to steal money for drugs, were never caught. Alter went through a slow journey of redemption and his treks to the mountains were part of that process.

The book is written in the form of multiple essays and memories, but the largest portions consist of his treks around Nanda Devi, Kailash Mansarovar, and finally, his (curtailed) attempt to summit Bandar Poonch. The writing is measured and contemplative, and also consists of vivid descriptions of nature and people that he encounters along the way.

An interesting component of the memoir is the detailed observations and reflections on the religious and ritualistic aspects of the mountains by the locals and the (interesting) stories behind them. These have been chronicled especially well on his hike around Nanda Devi with local guides and his long sojourn in Tibet for Kailash Mansarovar accompanied by a group of mostly middle-aged devotee Indians. It makes interesting reading especially coming from a self-confessed atheist American, and his openminded appreciation of the rituals, beliefs and associated spiritual musings are nice.

Overall, it is a deeply reflective book, unlike many other action packed mountain memoirs. It is a combination of a man’s healing journey, his love for nature and a thoughtful penning of his journey among the Himalayan mountains.

It’s a book that needs to be read slowly and in the right mood to be enjoyed.

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Getting Into the Character’s Shoes

Once I decide to write a story based on a character, I have realised that I must see the world the way he or she sees it. I can’t see it from my viewpoint. I can���t come in the way. Otherwise, I run the risk of I and my worldview entering the character’s story.

If the character is an auto driver, I have to see the world the way he sees it. If the story is about a cook or a maid, I must see the world from her viewpoint. I once wrote a story about an underworld character who wanted to leave that world and is given a last job. I had to force myself to get into his shoes to make the story credible.

If I believed what the character believed, I would act the way the character would. I would know what the character would do. The story would unfold without any effort.

It is incredibly difficult to get into someone else’s shoes. And it is tougher to get into the shoes of a fictional character that doesn’t exist, even if you created it yourself for the story.

I have realised that some of my stories got stuck because I couldn’t get into the character’s shoes. I wanted it to do what I would do in a particular scene. I couldn���t figure out what it would do next.

I had to drop some stories as they got worse. That was mainly because I wanted to move ahead and do something which seemed to conflict with what the character would. At one point, I decided to write stories only about characters that I understood.

Understanding somebody else’s story is incredibly difficult.�� But once I get into the character’s shoes, the story flows easily from there, because all I am doing after that is to tell it as it is.

It is a fictional story, yet it is not fiction.

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