They said, “Grow mint—it’s easy! It grows like a weed!” And I believed them. I really did. But here I am, yet again, with a tea glass of half-dying mint sprigs, questioning my place in the gardening world.To be fair, I’ve tried. More than once, and for many years now. I’ve picked up promising pots from nurseries, the kind that look all lush and hopeful in their tiny black containers. I’ve “rescued” mint bundles from the grocery store, optimistically trimming the ends and tucking them into soil like some plant whisperer. And this time, I went all-in on the water rooting method. Simple, right? Just pop the stems in a glass of water and wait for magic to happen.

Alright, I’m doing it again. This time with Just $100After several failed attempts at crypto trading in the past (yes, including the infamous FOMO buys and late-night panic sells), I’m dipping my toes back into the game—but with a twist. This time, I’m keeping it simple, small, and stress-free. Just $100. No Bitcoin. No hype coins. No complicated strategies. Just staking and basic trading.

Composting has been a quiet yet deeply rewarding practice in my life. It’s grounding to watch waste transform into something rich, dark, and earthy – a full-circle moment from kitchen to soil. I’ve composted in three very different environments over the past many years: on a balcony in Dubai, in a backyard in a small town in Southern India, and now in a yard in Dubai.

Some days, I don’t feel like doing anything. Not because I’m tired or overworked—though that happens too—but simply because I feel... stuck. A strange mix of lazinessboredom, and procrastination starts to take over. The longer I wait to start something, the harder it gets. And soon, the weight of what I haven’t done feels heavier than anything on my to-do list. And that is how my weekend was.

We woke early on the third day, expecting to hear of the most sacred moment of the Maha Kumbh—the shahi snan, when the sadhus take their royal procession and plunge into the confluence of the Ganges, Yamuna, and the mythical Saraswati. But that moment never came. Word spread quickly through the camp: the procession had been cancelled. Police had cordoned off the confluence. There had been a stampede, and in a decision unheard of in Kumbh’s long and sacred history, the sadhus had cancelled their holy dip. No chants. No drums. No chariots. Just silence—and confusion. Lives lost. Some identified. Some remain just a statistic.

By the time we reached the Akhada site we wanted to go to, the sun had dipped low and a soft haze settled over the banks of the river. What greeted us was not a chaotic congregation, but a surreal calm—almost sacred in its stillness.