28. When Property Divides What Blood Once United

 

    "Blood is thicker than water." It is an old saying, but every day in our courts, one wonders whether we have begun to forget its meaning.

Today, I witnessed a matter that left a deep impression on me—not because of the legal arguments, but because of the silent tragedy unfolding behind them.

Two brothers stood on opposite sides of a courtroom, locked in a bitter dispute over their late father's Will. The younger brother had challenged not only the probate proceedings but had also filed a separate petition seeking revocation of the Will itself.

The advocates passionately debated provisions of the Code of Civil Procedure and the legal principle of res judicata.

Res judicata is a Latin expression meaning "a matter already decided." In law, it prevents the same parties from repeatedly litigating an issue that has already been finally decided by a competent court. It is a principle intended to bring finality to litigation, prevent harassment through endless lawsuits, and ensure certainty in the administration of justice.

The legal submissions continued with precision and intensity.

Yet, my thoughts drifted elsewhere.

Seated quietly was a ninety-one-year-old mother.

One could only imagine what she must have been feeling.

Her husband had spent a lifetime building his assets. Like many parents, he would have known his children better than anyone else. He would have understood their individual circumstances, their needs, their strengths, their weaknesses, and perhaps even who had stood beside him during his advancing years.

After careful thought, he exercised the right that every individual possesses—the right to distribute his self-acquired property according to his own wishes. His Will was supported by a medical certificate certifying that he was of sound mind, and it had been executed in the presence of two independent witnesses.

Yet, despite all these safeguards, the family had arrived in court.

The law permits a Will to be challenged. There may indeed be genuine cases involving fraud, coercion, undue influence, or lack of testamentary capacity. Courts exist precisely to examine such allegations fairly and impartially.

But beyond the legal rights lies a more profound question.

What is the true cost of winning an inheritance if, in the process, we lose our brother, our sister, and our family forever?

No mother dreams of seeing her children become strangers.

No father accumulates wealth so that it becomes the cause of lifelong bitterness after his passing.

Parents leave behind property as a blessing.

Children sometimes transform it into a battlefield.

As advocates, judges, and litigants, we naturally focus on legal rights.

As human beings, perhaps we should also reflect upon our moral responsibilities.

An unequal distribution in a Will does not always signify injustice. Equality and fairness are not always identical. A parent may leave more to one child because that child has greater financial need, has cared for ageing parents, has sacrificed opportunities, or because circumstances genuinely warrant different treatment. Every family has a story that outsiders may never fully understand.

Not every perceived inequality deserves a courtroom battle.

Sometimes, acceptance demands greater strength than litigation.

Another reality deserves thoughtful reflection.

When children marry, they gain a life partner whose advice, support, and perspective are invaluable. A healthy marriage is built upon mutual trust and shared decision-making. Yet every married individual must also preserve the affection, respect, and lifelong bond they share with their parents and siblings. Wisdom lies in knowing where guidance ends and where lifelong relationships must be protected. Family decisions should be made with balance, maturity  and an awareness that words spoken in moments of anger can fracture bonds that took decades to build.

Property can be earned again.

Wealth can be rebuilt.

Even fortunes lost today may return tomorrow.

But the childhood memories shared between siblings...

The laughter of growing up together...

The comfort of having someone who has known you since birth...

Those are treasures no court can restore once they are lost.

As someone practising in the field of succession law, I have increasingly come to believe that the greatest legacy parents leave behind is not their houses, bank balances, jewellery, or investments.

It is a united family.

Every legal battle over inheritance should begin with one simple question:

"If our parents were sitting beside us today, would this be what they wanted?"

If the answer is "No," perhaps it is worth pausing before allowing property to become more valuable than people.

Because in the end, an estate can always be divided.

A family should never be.

"स्वतःच्या अहंकारासाठी नात्यांना तोडण्यापेक्षा समंजसपणे प्रश्न सोडवायला शिका."
Instead of breaking relationships because of ego, learn to resolve differences with understanding and wisdom.

"रक्ताच्या नात्यांमध्ये गैरसमज टिकवू नका, कारण नाती एकदा तुटली की पुन्हा जोडता येत नाहीत."
Do not let misunderstandings persist in blood relationships, because once relationships break, they can never truly be restored.

 

27. Before Love Reaches the Courtroom - An Advocate's Reflections on Marriage, Ego, and the Silent Victims of Litigation.

         Yesterday, I was walking through the corridors of the Family Court. It was an ordinary day. Lawyers hurried from one courtroom to another with bulky case files tucked under their arms. Litigants sat anxiously on wooden benches, waiting for their matters to be called out. Some wore expressions of hope, some of despair, and many simply looked exhausted. Children clung to their parents, unaware that the building around them was deciding the future of their families.

As I walked through those long corridors, something above my head caught my attention.

Suspended from the ceiling, at regular intervals, were simple white signboards carrying messages in Marathi. They were not quotations from great philosophers. They were not legal principles. They were simple reminders—perhaps the simplest truths about relationships.

One read:

"Instead of breaking relationships because of your ego, learn to resolve differences with understanding."

Another said:

"To preserve relationships within the family, what is needed is communication, not ego."

Further ahead I read,

"For the sake of your children and your future, do not let your family fall apart."

Then came another,

"Resolve family disputes peacefully, because preserving relationships is the true measure of success in life."

The messages continued.

"Dialogue is the best way to resolve disputes. Here, we give you the opportunity to be heard and guided."

"Love is the essence of every relationship. Leave behind conflict and choose dialogue."

"Harmony and communication are the foundation for maintaining peace and happiness in the family."

"The true meaning of relationships lies in rebuilding them when they have been broken."

And finally, one message stayed with me long after I had left the Court.

"Sometimes stepping back is not a defeat; it is a wise step taken to preserve the family."

I paused for a moment.

Then I asked myself a question.

Do you know where these signboards are displayed?

Not in marriage halls.

Not in pre-marital counselling centres.

Not outside temples where newly married couples seek blessings.

Not in schools where children are taught values.

They hang from the ceilings of the Family Court.

There could perhaps be no greater irony.

These messages are read not by couples beginning their married life, but by husbands and wives who have already reached the stage of filing petitions for divorce, maintenance, custody of children, domestic violence, restitution of conjugal rights and property disputes.

The thought reminded me of the statutory warning printed on every cigarette packet.

"Smoking is injurious to health."

The warning is absolutely correct.

The tragedy is that it is read after the packet has already been bought.

The Family Court signboards carry the same irony.

Every single message hanging from those ceilings is true. Every word is worth practising. But by the time most couples pause to read them, months or years of anger have already accumulated. Communication has broken down. Families have taken sides. Lawyers have been consulted. Police complaints may have been filed. Petitions have already been drafted. The relationship has crossed the stage where advice is easy to accept.

As I stood there absorbing these thoughts, a matter was called out in one of the courtrooms.

A young woman, probably in her early thirties, stood before the Judge. There was no advocate standing beside her. She was representing herself because she simply could not afford one.

With folded hands she requested the Court to direct her husband to comply with the maintenance order already passed.

The Judge patiently explained that the Court was not a recovery agency. It could pass orders. It could enforce the law through legal processes. But it could not personally recover money every month. He looked towards the husband and reminded him of his obligation to comply with the order.

Immediately, the husband rose and said that his wife herself earned nearly ₹60,000 a month and questioned why she was still demanding maintenance.

The young woman quietly replied that she was not asking him to maintain her.

"I earn enough to pay my rent and my food," she said.

"But our daughter is not my responsibility alone. Her education, her upbringing and her future are equally his responsibility."

Then she said something that moved everyone present.

"I have forgiven him. I am trying to forget everything that he and his family did to me. I only want him to fulfil his responsibility towards our daughter."

Within minutes, the atmosphere inside the courtroom changed.

What had begun as a legal hearing became an emotional confrontation.

The husband spoke.

The wife interrupted.

The Judge intervened.

Young advocates watched.

Police personnel stood quietly.

Members of the public listened.

The most private moments of two people's married life had become the subject of discussion before complete strangers.

As I watched them, one question kept echoing in my mind.

How does a relationship that once began with love, blessings, music, laughter and wedding vows finally reach a courtroom?

Because no marriage breaks in a single day.

It begins with small misunderstandings that remain unresolved.

Words spoken in anger.

Words that should have been spoken but never were.

Expectations that were never communicated.

Apologies that were never offered.

Forgiveness that was postponed.

Parents and relatives, often with the best of intentions, become emotionally involved. Every family naturally wishes to protect its own child. Advice is offered. Opinions are formed. Ego quietly enters the relationship. Husband and wife slowly stop speaking to each other and begin speaking through others.

The disagreement grows larger than the relationship itself.

Soon, what was once a misunderstanding becomes a contest of self-respect.

Then comes the legal notice.

Then the police complaint.

Then the maintenance petition.

Then the custody proceedings.

Then the divorce petition.

And something changes the moment litigation begins.

The purpose is no longer reconciliation.

It gradually becomes vindication.

The husband wants the Court to believe he was right.

The wife wants the Court to recognise the injustice she suffered.

Every WhatsApp message becomes evidence.

Every bank statement becomes an exhibit.

Every conversation becomes an allegation.

Every family member becomes a witness.

Children become silent spectators in a battle they never chose.

Years pass.

Money can be earned again.

Cases eventually conclude.

Judgments are pronounced.

But emotional wounds rarely follow the court's timetable.

This is why every marriage should begin with a conversation that is far more important than discussing the wedding venue, jewellery, careers or finances.

What exactly is marriage?

Marriage is not merely a ceremony performed before relatives. It is not merely a legal status recorded under personal laws. Marriage is a conscious decision taken every single day by two imperfect human beings to protect their relationship from pride, suspicion, interference and silence.

Trust is not built in one day.

Communication cannot begin only when problems arise.

Transparency cannot be selective.

Truthfulness cannot be occasional.

If husband and wife are not each other's safest place, someone else will occupy that space. And once outsiders begin influencing every disagreement, the marriage gradually stops belonging to the couple.

Parents deserve respect. Their blessings are invaluable. Their experience is immense. But every married couple must decide where guidance ends and interference begins. No parent can truly understand what happens inside a marriage unless both spouses continue speaking honestly with each other.

Not every marriage can be saved. There are cases of cruelty, abuse, violence and addiction where approaching the Court is not merely justified but necessary. The law exists precisely to protect the vulnerable.

But countless other cases do not begin with cruelty.

They begin with communication breaking down.

And perhaps that is why those ten signboards hang silently from the ceilings of the Family Court.

They are not addressed to litigants.

They are addressed to society.

They remind us that the greatest victory is not obtaining a decree of divorce, a maintenance order or a custody order.

The greatest victory is ensuring that such litigation becomes unnecessary when understanding prevails over ego, dialogues prevail over silence, forgiveness prevails over revenge, and wisdom prevails over anger.

The law can dissolve a marriage.

Only maturity can preserve one.

 

26. My First Visit to Belapur Court – A Day of Learning and New Beginnings

         Today was a special day for me—my first visit to the Belapur Court. Having lived in Kharghar for so many years, it was amusing to realise that I had never even known exactly where the court was located!

The day began unexpectedly when Vaishali called and told me that she and Monica were going to court and asked me to join them. I reached there 10 minutes earlier than the appointed time, excited and curious about this new world that I am now beginning to enter as an advocate.

Vaishali and Monica took me first to the Ladies’ Advocates’ Room and then patiently guided me through the various courtrooms. They explained the civil and criminal courts, the NMMC matters Court Room, the different proceedings, and many practical aspects of court functioning. They introduced me to fellow advocates and, throughout the visit, made sure that I felt comfortable and included.

In some ways, the experience took me back more than twenty years, when, as an Income Tax Inspector, I used to visit the High Court on behalf of the Department. But today felt very different. Then, I was there as a departmental officer; today, I was seeing the world of litigation from the perspective of an advocate. It felt new, challenging and fascinating.

As I watched the litigants, defendants, accused persons, advocates and court staff moving through the corridors, one thought stayed with me: courts, like hospitals, are places that most people would rather not have to visit. Behind every case is a person waiting for an answer, a resolution or justice. It made me feel even more strongly that justice should reach people as fairly and as early as possible.

I was also impressed to see so many young advocates—boys and girls—working hard, learning, arguing and building their careers. There was so much to observe and so much to learn. It was my day out.

A very special thank you to my dear colleagues and fellow advocates, Vaishali and Monica. You were wonderful guides today. You patiently explained everything, introduced me to people, looked after me and made my very first visit to the Belapur Court comfortable, interesting and memorable. You have shown me a direction, and I am truly grateful.

Today was a day of observation, learning and, perhaps, the beginning of a new chapter in my life. I look forward to many more such visits, to understanding court procedures and the practical side of law, and eventually to using my knowledge and experience to be of help to others and to do some meaningful work.

Thank you, Vaishali and Monica, for making my first day at Belapur Court such a good experience. A new journey has begun, and I look forward to where it takes me.

 

25. When Rain Changed a Destiny: Suyash’s Engineering Admission

     It was raining heavily. I sat by the window, watching the sheets of rain blur everything outside, and felt a quiet ache within. Such a beautiful opportunity… gone. And yet, I told myself, let it be their way. Perhaps it is better when children take their own decisions and live life on their own terms. Maybe this was also a way for me to step back — to no longer feel responsible for shaping Suyash’s life.

2.      We were then living at Napean Sea Road in Mumbai, while my sister Preeti and her son Suyash were in Kharghar, Navi Mumbai. I had spent nearly 25 years of my life travelling from Kharghar in Mumbai’s local trains, and not a single day passed without me feeling that precious time was being lost in travel. That thought had stayed with me so strongly that when it came to my own children’s education after their HSC, I was very clear — I did not want them to spend their youthful years commuting. I wanted them to study in a residential college, away from home. In my mind, it solved everything. I would not have to rush every morning preparing lunch boxes, I could focus better on my work which had become quite demanding after my promotion as an Officer, and most importantly, the children would learn to live independently — managing themselves, their time, their responsibilities, and slowly growing into confident individuals.

3.      But with Suyash, life had unfolded very differently. He lost his father at the tender age of 11, after years of watching him battle brain cancer. His childhood was not filled with carefree outings or vacations but with hospital visits and uncertainty. Growing up as an only child with his mother, he became her companion in every sense. Surrounded mostly by elders, including my father, he turned into a gentle, helpful boy — running errands, assisting with technology, helping others with mobile phones and smart TVs. Then came the COVID years — two crucial academic years spent entirely at home through online classes. His world had been small, protected, and deeply intertwined with his mother’s.

And yet, somewhere within him, there was clarity. He wanted to pursue Computer Engineering.

4.      May 2023 brought with it the results — and with it, a quiet disappointment. JEE Mains did not open the door to Advanced. BITSAT was not encouraging. A few private universities had given admissions — Manipal, Amrita, VIT — but the fees were high, hostel costs even higher, and still there was no assurance of getting Computer Engineering. I suggested SASTRA University at Thanjavur, a place we knew well because our own son had studied there. I had seen how transparent their admission process was, how reasonable the fees were, and how the peer group consisted of students who were sincere and grounded — not necessarily toppers, but not weak either. It felt like the right place.

5.      When Suyash got Computer Engineering (AI & DS) at SASTRA, my heart was filled with joy. Silently, I offered my gratitude to Siddhivinayak Temple, Prabhadevi, because somewhere deep within, I had wished for exactly this for him — his desired stream, a good college, a path that could secure his future.

But life is never just about opportunities. It is about emotions — deep, binding, sometimes overwhelming emotions.

6.      For Preeti, this was not just about sending her son to college. It was about letting go of the one person who had been her constant through years of struggle. From the time her husband fell ill, it had always been just the two of them, holding on to each other. The thought of sending him far away, all the way to Thanjavur, felt unbearable. And Suyash, sensitive to his mother’s feelings and aware of her financial situation, began to step back from his own desire. He said he would study in Mumbai, in whatever stream he got through MHT-CET.

7.      They eventually secured admission in EXTC at a college in Chembur. When they told me, I accepted it outwardly. But within, there was unrest. I could already see the life ahead — long, exhausting train journeys from Kharghar, the daily uncertainty, the anxious waiting of a mother if he got delayed or unreachable, the limitations on his growth, his exposure, his independence. And yet, I questioned myself — who was I to insist? What if he could not adjust away from his mother? What if she could not stay alone? What if, in the end, everything worked out anyway?

8.      That rainy morning, as I sat by the window, these thoughts weighed heavily on me. I expressed my sadness to my husband. He listened quietly and said he wanted to speak to Suyash just once — to understand his reasoning. I messaged Preeti accordingly.

9.      And then, something unusual happened. My daughter called from the US — something she rarely does so early in the morning. Almost instinctively, I poured out everything to her. Her husband, who had studied EXTC himself and later moved into the IT field, listened carefully and said something so simple, yet so powerful: “If he wants Computers, he must study Computers. Otherwise, he will have to come back to it later anyway.”

That one sentence shifted something.

10.    Soon, all of us were on a conference call — my daughter, my son-in-law, Preeti, and Suyash. Questions were asked gently, but there was no strong reason, no convincing explanation for why he should let go of Computer Engineering. And then, my husband stepped in with quiet assurance — he said he would personally take them to Thanjavur and settle everything.

What happened next still feels unbelievable.

Between 6:30 am and 8:00 am, a decision that seemed final… changed completely.

Flight tickets were booked.
Hotel arrangements were made.
And just like that, they were ready to leave for Thanjavur.

11.    Looking back at the events of the previous day, I cannot help but feel that something beyond us was at work. The heavy rains, the long queues, the technical issues during document upload, the sudden requirement of an HSC hall ticket which was never asked before, the system not accepting uploads, the counters closing — all of it felt like invisible obstacles. And then, something even rarer — a pre-announced government holiday due to heavy rains, preventing them from completing the process the next day.

It was as if every attempt to finalize the Mumbai admission was gently being stopped.

12.    When I called Preeti that morning, she said she was just about to continue the process — upload documents and pay fees. But within those ninety minutes, everything changed. There was nothing left to upload, nothing left to pay. The direction itself had changed.

13.    For me, this was nothing short of divine intervention. The Almighty had worked through circumstances, through delays, through people — even through us — to guide Suyash towards a path that was meant for him.

14.    Today, Suyash is in his third year at SASTRA, doing well, growing, becoming more confident with each passing day. Recently, he secured an internship at a prestigious Government Institue in Mumbai for May 2026. And when I look back at that rainy morning, I no longer feel a sense of loss. Instead, I feel gratitude.

Because sometimes, what we think we are losing is actually what we are being protected from.

Sometimes, when paths close, it is not rejection — it is redirection.

And sometimes, faith quietly works in the background, arranging things in ways we cannot even imagine.

All we need to do… is TRUST.

 

24. 50th Wedding Anniversary Celebrations that I attended.

 

I feel truly happy and grateful that I got this opportunity to say a few words today for Uncle and Aunty’s golden wedding anniversary.

I met the Bagaria family a few years ago as next-door neighbours, at a phase in my life when both my children had gone away to college and my husband was mostly a weekend husband because of work postings. Even though I was busy with my own work during the day, evenings in an empty house had started feeling difficult.

And that is when this family quietly became such a beautiful support system for me.

The children — especially Shourya and Shristi — would come running to greet me. Aunty would often keep aside some special dish or snack for me and lovingly say, “Come, eat with us.” Those simple words carried so much warmth and comfort.

I stayed near them only for a short period, but the affection and bond have continued for years.

One thing I always admired about Aunty was how proudly and lovingly she spoke about her family — her children and daughters-in-law. I remember when she had kept an Ekadashi fast and wanted to do the udyapan pooja. She was so happy talking about how everyone supported her wholeheartedly. Listening to her always felt so lovely because you could genuinely see the love and respect in this family.

Recently, when I was posted in Goa and staying in a rented apartment, some people there openly told us they didn’t want to become friends because we were “just tenants” and would leave someday.

And I remember thinking — what a contrast.

Because families like the Bagarias make people feel included, welcomed and cared for, no matter how temporary life may be.

And on a lighter note… aren’t we all tenants in this world anyway?

Maybe we can all learn something from Uncle and Aunty — to be a little more affectionate, a little more accommodating, and a little more inclusive.

So today, here at the Jio Convention Centre, we have all been enjoying a truly rich and memorable experience of hospitality—from the moment we handed over our vehicles to the valet at the entrance, to the lavish and delicious spread that has been so thoughtfully arranged for all of us. And as we receive the prasad of the Satyanarayan pooja and this beautiful Lord Ganesha memento, I feel that these are not merely gifts; they are reflections of the generosity, warmth and thoughtfulness that Uncle and Aunty have shared with family, friends and well-wishers throughout their lives.

From the bottom of my heart, I wish Uncle and Aunty a very happy Golden Wedding Anniversary. May God bless them with good health, happiness, peace and many more years of togetherness. May their love, kindness and ability to make everyone feel like family continue to inspire all of us for years to come.

Thank you.

23.When Faith Overruled Fear: The Night That Saved Shashank

 

The year was 2012. Shashank, my nephew, was about six-and-a-half years old. He had cough, cold, and fever — something so common, especially when viral infections are around. Normally, with a few days of medication, children bounce back. So initially, there was no great cause for worry.

2.      But Pooja being Pooja, she never treated anything casually. She would personally take charge — balancing allopathic medicines with home remedies, carefully managing side effects, and ensuring that symptoms did not aggravate. She had, over the years, become deeply knowledgeable about the human body and its responses. After all, this was the same woman who had tirelessly managed her husband’s chemotherapy and all its painful side effects with remarkable strength and precision.

3.      Pooja and her husband were both banking professionals posted in Gujarat. Back in 1991, when their first son was born, they had relied on Jyoti’s parents to care for the child while she resumed work after maternity leave. Everything seemed perfect — after all, what could go wrong when a child is under the loving care of his own grandparents? But life had other plans. When the time came to admit him to school in Vapi, they arranged for a babysitter to take care of him after school hours. One day, the child fell sick. What began as a simple illness soon turned mysterious. Communication gaps, unfamiliar surroundings, and a growing dependence on beliefs and practices that Pooja was not entirely aligned with — all of it created a situation where, despite trying various treatments in well-known hospitals, they could not save their son. He passed away at just five-and-a-half years old.

That loss was not something that could ever fade.

4.      So when Shashank fell ill at the age of six in 2012, those painful memories came rushing back. Fear took over logic. This time, Pooja and her husband placed complete faith in the doctors.

5.      They were living near us in Kharghar then. When Pooja called me and said that Dr. Moralwar had diagnosed Shashank with a disease called “Kawasaki” and that an injection costing ₹40,000 in cash was urgently required, I was taken aback. I could not believe it. I rushed to the hospital immediately.

6.      There I saw Shashank — my little nephew — lying on the hospital bed with an IV drip. He looked alert, his face did not reflect any severe distress, and yet he had been admitted and was being given glucose intravenously. I was shocked. I questioned — why an IV when the child could eat normally? But Pooja and her husband were in a different state of mind. They looked defeated, almost resigned, as if history was about to repeat itself.

But something within me refused to accept that.

7.      I immediately thought of Dr. Shenoy, an MBBS general practitioner based in Goregaon East, about 43 kilometers away from Kharghar. He was known to see nearly 300 children a day and was regarded by many as nothing less than a God’s messenger for the poor in the Goregaon-Malad area. I had trusted him completely with my own children throughout their growing years. Based on my own experience and understanding of his treatment approach, I felt strongly that we must seek his opinion before proceeding with such a serious diagnosis and expensive treatment for a disease we had barely even heard of.

8.      At around 5:30 pm, I called his clinic and explained that we would be travelling from Kharghar and might reach by 8 pm. Then I turned to Pooja and told her to inform the hospital that we were taking Shashank out. But she hesitated. Her fears were valid. What if the hospital refused to take him back later? What if something went wrong? What if this was destiny, and no doctor could change it? She was caught between fear and faith — and fear was winning.

9.      At such moments, my husband has always been my pillar of strength. When I told him that I wanted to take Shashank to Dr. Shenoy, he did not question me. He simply said yes and got ready to drive.

10.    Time was slipping. I urged Pooja to sign the hospital form — “Discharged Against Doctor’s Advice.” With a heavy heart, she did. We carried Shashank, still with the IV port in his tiny hand, and began our journey to Goregaon. Traffic was terrible. Reaching by 8 pm seemed impossible. I called the clinic again and informed them we would be late — around 9 pm. To our relief, they assured us they would wait.

11.    When we finally reached, Dr. Shenoy saw us immediately. He examined Shashank calmly and then said something that changed everything in that moment — “There is nothing to worry. It’s a viral flu. The child is hungry. Feed him.”

12.    He gave a simple dose of medicine, packed a few more, removed the IV port, and said, “Free the child. He will be alright.”

That was it.

No panic. No complicated diagnosis. No expensive injection.

Just clarity. Just experience.

We stepped out of the clinic around 10:30 pm. All of us were hungry. We stopped at our sister’s house in Powai and had a simple meal of curd rice. But that night, that simple meal felt like a celebration. There was relief, there was gratitude, there was quiet joy.

We returned home — and we never went back to that hospital again.

13.    That was in 2012. Today, in 2026, Shashank is a healthy 21-year-old young man. And not once did we face any such health scare again.

14.    Later, out of curiosity, we looked up what “Kawasaki disease” actually was. It turned out to be a rare but serious condition affecting children, involving inflammation of blood vessels, often requiring prompt treatment. It is part of a broader category called vasculitis — disorders involving inflammation of blood vessels, which can affect various organs. The disease was first described in detail by a Japanese pediatrician, Tomisaku Kawasaki, in 1967, after observing several such cases.

Reading about it on the internet could easily make any parent panic.

15.    But our experience taught us something invaluable.

No matter what we read or hear, nothing replaces the reassurance, judgment, and experience of a trusted doctor whom we can meet in person.

Sometimes, fear magnifies situations beyond reality.
And sometimes, faith — combined with the right guidance — brings us back to truth.

That night, it was not just a doctor who treated Shashank.
It was faith, courage, and timely action that saved us from making a decision we might have regretted forever.

 

22. The AIBE Exam I Went to Write, and the Lesson in Humanity I Brought Back.

 

AIBE XXI – My Story

I got my AIBE examination centre at a school in Nallasopara, a good 70 kilometres away from where I stay. Given my physical health, limited stamina, and recurring acidity issues, I was genuinely concerned. How would I manage a journey of nearly three hours, write a three-hour examination, and then undertake another three-hour journey back home?

The examination was scheduled from 1 p.m. to 4 p.m.—exactly in the middle of the day, neither before nor after lunch. Even planning meals required careful thought.

The immediate solution seemed obvious: check into a hotel near the examination centre the previous evening.

It was a practical and feasible idea. There were innumerable hotels in the area, though not very close to the centre, most being about 20–30 minutes away by road. That sounded reasonable enough.

Meanwhile, my husband spoke to a few friends because Nallasopara was a place we had only heard about and never actually visited. It always sounded like a far-off suburban residential area. The most economical and practical connection with Mumbai was through the Western Railway local trains, which run frequently.

But with a bag full of books, advancing age, health concerns, and a life that had gradually moved from middle-class train journeys to travelling by car, train travel was simply out of the question.

One of our friends then offered us the use of their earlier residence, which happened to be much closer to the examination centre.

Little did I know that I was about to experience a royal welcome and what felt like VIP treatment.

We left our home in Kharghar at around 5.30 p.m. and reached our friend's place by 8.30 p.m. During the journey itself, our friend Suraj called several times to check on our progress and informed us that their maid was waiting to show us the flat.

I remember wondering what there was really to see. I had carried food for ourselves and was mentally planning my last-minute revision for the examination.

The first warm feeling greeted us even before we entered the building.

The security guard at the gate showed us where to park our car. The moment we mentioned Suraj's name, everyone became noticeably courteous and hospitable. It may sound like a small thing, but it was a rare experience.

Over the years, whenever we visited someone, security personnel would usually ask us to make entries in registers, instruct us not to park in certain places, or direct us to leave the car outside the society premises. Here, however, we felt welcomed even before entering the building.

When we entered the house, another surprise awaited us.

The refrigerator was stocked with vegetables, coconut water, curd, buttermilk, eggs, milk and bread. The house was spotless, fully functional, and ready for comfortable living.

A little later, Lakshmi, the maid, came to explain where everything was kept. I told her there had been far too much trouble taken for us. After all, we were only going to stay for a single night and would leave immediately after the examination.

She replied, "Madam has told me to keep everything ready for your stay—new towels, new bedsheets, and even the air-conditioners have been serviced."

At that very moment, Suraj's mother called on Lakshmi's phone. I took the opportunity to speak with her.

All I heard was:

"Geeta, you can stay for two or three days. Cook, eat, rest. Everything has been kept for you."

Those words brought tears to my eyes.

That night, one question kept ringing in my mind:

What is true richness?

People may possess immense wealth and money, yet may not know how to spend it. People may interact with hundreds of others every day, yet may not know what words need to be spoken at the right moment.

Those words—"You can stay for two or three days"—were not merely words.

They felt like affection.

They felt like belonging.

They reflected a largeness of heart, generosity of spirit, and a magnanimity that cannot be measured in material terms.

Even the best words fail to describe the sense of gratitude and overwhelm that I have felt since arriving here.

I kept wondering how I could express my happiness and gratitude to Suraj and his family.

The next morning, I woke up and made coffee for us. I cooked rice and tomato chutney, along with cucumber salad and curd for lunch. My husband prepared omelettes and bread for breakfast.

We did all this partly to make use of the fresh provisions thoughtfully kept for us and partly as our small way of acknowledging the care that had been extended to us.

The AIBE examination brought me to Nallasopara.

But the greater lesson I learned was not from any law book.

It was a lesson in hospitality.

A lesson in kindness.

A lesson in how genuine affection can transform an ordinary act into an unforgettable memory.

Thank you, Aunty.

My deepest regards and namaskarams to you.

My heartfelt wishes to Suraj and his entire family for a long, healthy, prosperous, happy and blessed life. May good fortune, good health, and happiness remain with your family for generations to come.

Sometimes, the most important examinations in life are not the ones we write in examination halls.

They are the ones where people quietly demonstrate the values of humanity, generosity, and love.

And in that examination, your family scored full marks.

I had gone to Nallasopara carrying law books for an examination. I returned carrying something much more valuable—a reminder of the goodness that still exists in people.