Santa Gets Letters. Why shouldn't Lakshmiji?

Every December, children around the world sit down to write letters to Santa Claus. They carefully list everything they want, promise they've been good (at least most of the time!) and hope Santa fulfils their wishes.

Watching this tradition over the years got me thinking. We have our own beautiful traditions, our own festivals and our own way of seeking blessings. So why not create a little tradition of our own?

And that's how the letters to Lakshmiji began in our home.

Every Diwali, I ask my girls to sit down and write a letter to Goddess Lakshmi. Just like children write to Santa, they can tell Lakshmiji what they wish for. They can ask for things they'd love to have, share their hopes for the coming year, seek blessings for their family and, most importantly, thank her for everything they already have. They write letters and place them in the Puja room in our house. 

Of course, the wish lists are sometimes quite interesting! Children have their priorities, after all. And I am sure Lakshmiji gets to hear about everything from material wishes to academic ambitions!

But what I love most is seeing the little notes of gratitude tucked between all those requests. It's a small exercise, but it makes them pause and think about what they have, what they value and what they hope for.

As parents, we often talk to our children about gratitude, blessings and being thankful. But sometimes, instead of giving them another lecture, it's better to let them express these feelings in their own little way. As a reward I give them a small silver trinket each year. One year, it was tiny silver earrings, another year it was a silver plated pen and last year I kept it simple to a silver coin.

I don't know if this will ever become a big family tradition, or whether the girls will continue doing it when they grow older. But for now, these handwritten letters are something I look forward to every Diwali.  

And who knows? Maybe Santa has some competition!

Dear Lakshmiji, the letters are waiting. We hope you've read them!

I'm Saying it Now! Because Later never comes...

I attended a prayer meeting recently. Not of someone who had lived a long, life and left peacefully—but of someone just 45 who left suddenly.

There was a strange stillness in the room. Not just grief—but disbelief.

And somewhere between the prayers, the quiet conversations, and the sight of a family trying to hold themselves together, something shifted inside me.

It wasn’t just the loss that shook me.
It was the suddenness of it all.

Because when something like this happens, there is no time to think, to decide, to ask—What would he/she have wanted?
Decisions are made in a rush. By others. With love, of course—but also with uncertainty. And that thought stayed with me long after I left. 

In life, we make choices about everything. 

What we wear. What we eat. Where we travel. How we celebrate.

But when it comes to the one moment we won’t be around to decide… we leave it completely unspoken. 

That day, I came home with an unusual thought:

What would I want, if I didn’t get the chance to say it?

And so, I’m writing it down. Not out of fear—but out of clarity.
Not because I expect anything—but because I don’t want my loved ones to ever sit in confusion, wondering. Trying their best to bid a befitting farewell!

My Last Wishes

I would want my last rites to be done the traditional Hindu way. A slow, manual cremation.
I would want my husband and my father to light the pyre together. And if my children are older than 21, they may do so too—but only if they wish. There should never be any force in something so deeply emotional.

I don’t want to leave this world dressed in white. I would want to be wrapped in something colourful—maybe pink or red. Something that reflects life, not just departure.

Afterwards, I would want my ashes to be collected and immersed in the Ganga at Rishikesh—not Haridwar. I don’t know why, but Rishikesh feels more peaceful to me. More like a goodbye I would want.

For my prayer meeting, I don’t want something quiet and heavy. I want it to be warm. Full. With food arranged for as many people as possible. I would want people to love the food I loved to eat. I think Dal Makhani, Bullets(From Ludhiana), flavours of the East and Spaghetti should def make it to the buffet. And the dessert table should put a wedding menu to shame!

It should be a space where people can come, sit, talk, remember… and maybe even smile.

I would love white flowers—especially rajnigandha. There is something about their fragrance that feels calm, almost comforting. 

I don’t want silence filled with only sorrow.

Play Achyutam Keshavam… and other traditional bhajans. Let there be a sense of peace, not just loss. And if they decide to celebrate me later , don’t forget to play ‘Saturday, Saturday’.

If anyone wishes to speak about me, they should be allowed to.
And if someone is too overwhelmed to say anything, that’s perfectly okay too. No one should be forced into words when their heart is heavy.

I don’t want loud crying or scenes that make it harder for my family. Grief will be there, I know. But I would want it to be held gently, not expressed in a way that deepens the pain for those closest to me.

If my children are still young when I go, I don’t want them to witness the last rites or the burning. Let them remember me with warmth, not with that image. If they are older than 21, then the choice can be theirs. To attend and to conduct the rites. 

And above everything else…
I want to be remembered as someone who was happy, easy-going, and always trying to help.
Someone who meant well. Who loved deeply.

To My People

Don’t forget me. But don’t hold on to me in sadness either. Remember me with love.  Remember me as I was—someone who tried, who cared, who wanted to do everything she could for you. If you think of me, let it be with a small smile… not just tears.

We plan holidays. We plan careers. We plan birthdays and anniversaries.
Maybe it’s time we also think about the one moment we won’t be there to plan.

Not because we are afraid of it.
But because the people we leave behind who have the onus of responsibility to do the last rites deserve clarity, even in our absence.

Maybe this isn’t about death at all.

Maybe this is about bidding farewell gracefully!

Maybe this is just another way of living consciously.

The Curious Case of 13 STEMBER!

There are some childhood stories that never fade away—they just grow sweeter with time. One such story from my life is how I could never pronounce September. For beginners I am born on 13th September, as a talkative kid I used to proudly declare to anyone who asked that I was born on “13 Stember.” Of course, my little tongue couldn’t get around the word, and the whole family would burst into laughter every time I announced it. Even today, ask anyone in my family what my favorite childhood word was and they’ll say: ‘Stember'. Kaju Barfi being a close second! 

Even now, decades later, “Stember” is a family joke that never gets old. At weddings, festivals, or just over chai, someone or the other will say, “Arrey, our 13 Stember girl!” and the entire room erupts in laughter. My cousins would tease me endlessly—sometimes even making up fake months just to see how I’d try to pronounce them. My parents, instead of correcting me, lovingly let the joke live on. And now, it’s one of those stories that feels like a family heirloom—handed down with joy and affection.

As a child, I was the classic second daughter in a traditional Indian household—mischievous, endlessly talkative, and forever up to some prank or another. I was that kid who couldn’t sit still, who had a story ready for every occasion, and who somehow always managed to get away with trouble thanks to my chatter and charm. 

I didn’t just tell stories, I performed them—with sound effects, hand gestures, and an audience that had no choice but to listen. From my mota moti joke to my toota hua gate riddles, I was the kid who didn’t just talk to people—I’d talk to walls, toys, and sometimes even plants. Someone had to listen! 

Now, as I stand on the edge of turning 45, I look back and laugh at how some things never change. I may not mispronounce September anymore, but the mischief, the love for storytelling, and the childlike energy are still very much alive in me. My family still teases me that I was a free entertainment package before TVs got remote controls. Well, I'm still one without any such controls! I proudly proclaim to my cards group(of course I have one, doesn't everyone?) that I am more than just teen patti- I am the entertain they don't give royalty for!

Over the years, life has been a mix of adventures and lessons—school days filled with laughter, the ups and downs of growing up, building a family of my own, and watching my daughters grow into their unique selves. Each phase has added a layer to who I am, but the core remains that same spirited “Stember girl.”

Most of all, I feel grateful. Grateful for parents who nurtured me, for siblings who joined in the laughter, for my husband who has been my partner in every adventure, and for my daughters who keep me young at heart. My family has been the constant thread of love and support that makes every birthday feel like a celebration of us, not just me. So indebted to my roots- My Khemka and Aggarwal Family who lovingly message me on 1st September- STEMBER is here! No one has forgotten that and more! I am blessed and loved and forever in debt!

So this week, as I turn 45, I raise a toast to all the laughter-filled stories, the quirky childhood memories, and the incredible family who has stood by me. Because in the end, whether it’s 13 September or 13 Stember, the date only matters because of the people who make it special. To my family—thank you for letting me be loud, mischievous, curious, and completely myself. You gave me wings when the world only handed out labels.

Here’s to staying mischievous, staying talkative, and staying forever young at heart—even at 45!

Lets admit it- I was born in September, but honestly, Stember sounds way cooler!

From the Ghat to the Heart: Love in the Chaos of MahaKumbh

Let’s be honest—when people talk about romantic trips, they imagine luxury resorts, candlelit dinners, or a beach vacay. So, when my husband and I decided to head to Mahakumbh instead of some romantic cliché, our friends were intrigued. “A pilgrimage? Seriously?” they asked. Someone even joked that it was the best way to lose your wife. Yes, seriously—and spoiler alert—it was one of the best decisions we’ve ever made for our relationship. 

Picture this: millions of people chanting, the smell of incense in the air, and a river bustling with devotion and energy. Not your typical couple’s getaway, right? But that’s the magic of Mahakumbh—it strips away the frills and makes you focus on the real stuff.

The highlight? Taking that holy dip in the Ganges together. Now, I’ll admit, the water was freezing, and we spent the first few seconds squealing like kids. But as the chills subsided, something profound happened. It wasn’t just a ritual; it felt like we were washing away not just “sins” but also petty arguments, grudges, and the stress of everyday life. We came out shivering but somehow lighter—like we’d pressed the reset button on “us.”

And then there was the chaos—the crowd, the noise, the non-stop activity. You’d think it’d be exhausting (and, okay, it was a bit), but navigating it together brought out our teamwork skills like never before. Who knew holding hands so we wouldn’t get lost in the crowd could feel so romantic? Who knew when he asked me to hoodie up in the Rickshaw could be a gesture of love? Who knew when he pulled me aside as the wave of sadhus brushed by could be a moment of emotions?

In between the spiritual talks, prayers, and the magical glow of the evening aartis, we found time to reflect—not just on life but on us. We laughed at how far we’ve come, shared dreams about the future, and even sneaked in a selfie or two amid the throng of pilgrims.

The trip wasn’t about romance in any which way. It was about discovering a deeper connection—a reminder that love isn’t just built in fancy settings. Sometimes, it’s found in shared silences, unspoken support, and plunging into sacred waters together (literally and metaphorically). 

We didn't need an insta worthy dinner under the stars, just a late night trip in the rickshaw to Shastri bridge was enough. We didn't need a private sunset on the beach, the rays of the rising sun on the ghats were enough. We didn't need a Gucci Bag, just the evil eye bracelet we brought back was enough. We didn't need an expensive meal, just sharing the Dominos pizza was enough. We didn't need to dress up to look attractive just the Tilak on the forehead was enough.

So, here’s my second pitch to sell the Mahakumbh to you: if you want a quirky yet transformative couple’s trip, skip the usual romantic ones. Go spiritual. Go Mahakumbh. It’s messy, chaotic, and completely unscripted—just like real love. And trust me, nothing says “I love you” quite like holding hands dodging the devotees.