The Secret Ingredient Behind Those Smiles!!

I still can’t digest this. The universal answer to “How are you?” has become a polite smiley and a robotic, "I'm good, how about you?"

Of course, with time, I understood — in a world where being "busy" is worn like a badge of honour, time — actual, distraction-free, soul-soothing time — has become the rarest, most generous gift we can offer.

Everyone’s fighting silent battles — but sure, let's keep smiling, curating Instagram-perfect coffee mug photos, and pretending it's all under control. Forget luxury bags and overpriced wellness retreats; these days, just sitting with someone and letting your guards fall apart is considered "An act of rebellion against the entire social system."

Today, I met an Old Friend

The kind of friend you once created absolute chaos with — you know, the type of nonsense that made coworkers file noise complaints to HR and wonder how adults could behave like escaped teenagers. We laughed until our faces hurt, plotted nonsense, made jokes so bad they could have been criminal. It got to the point where other teams were mixing up our names so much, we joked that we should just print our names on T-shirts—because apparently, we were now a “Guess Who” game for everyone else!— and for a while, life was just... uncomplicated.

But Of Course, Life Happened

Responsibilities came marching in — careers, families, kids, taxes, existential crises — the usual parade.

Families expected perfection. We kept telling ourselves we had it under control — because God forbid we admitted otherwise.

We put on brave faces, managed work, managed households, managed crises, and smiled like it was effortless. Meanwhile, inside, we carried an invisible backpack stuffed with unspoken emotional labor, unmet expectations, guilt trips we never signed up for, and the exhaustion of constantly trying to prove we were worthy — worthy of recognition, of appreciation, of simply being seen.

Somewhere in the hustle to be the "ideal daughter," the "good wife," the "present mother," and the "successful professional," we — the women — quietly slipped to the bottom of our own priority lists.

We stayed in touch over quick phone calls and forwarded memes, pretending that counted as “keeping in touch.”

Spoiler alert: It doesn’t.

Today, we finally met. And in those few hours, something shifted. For once, we chose us.

We wandered through crowded streets, skimmed through every book in the bookstore (because obviously, we needed to pretend like we had all the time in the world to browse, even though one of us actually bought something — and, spoiler alert, it wasn’t me). We shopped like we were starring in a reality show called “How to Spend Money You Don’t Have,” and indulged in the much-hyped Mango Festival at a restaurant that promised “the ultimate experience” (and, shockingly, actually kind of delivered — for once, I mean, miracles do happen). We laughed till our faces hurt, made fun of each other’s ridiculous stories, mindless choices, and shamelessly judged passersby — including one poor guy so glued to his phone that he almost kissed the pavement. (Thank God for small mercies and reflexes, or we would have had front-row seats to a live-action faceplant.)

I tried on my favourite jhumkas — each more dramatic than the last — while we bargained with shopkeepers, not because we were serious, but just for the pure fun of it, reviving the old mischief that once got us HR warnings.

We finished off the day with icy-lemon-masala lemonades, the kind that somehow taste like bottled memories, spicy, tangy, sweet, all at once — just like the friendship that has survived life’s best punches.

Catching up isn't just nostalgia. It's medicine.

It reminds us that beneath all the adulting, the endless running around, and the polite small talk, there’s still a soul that needs a genuine laugh, a bad joke, a real connection.

And honestly?

We need more of that.

Not another self-help book, not another meditation app.

We need each other.

Real, messy, imperfect, and above all, "Seen".

And maybe — just maybe — that's all the therapy some of us really need...