Blogs by Mukul S.

“I love you” — just three words, nine letters, yet they carry the power of an emotional tsunami. Everything depends on who says it, how it’s said, and when it’s spoken. What those words carry These words are never just words. They are a bundle of promises, emotions, and expectations. When a husband whispers “I love you” to his wife before falling asleep, it’s a gentle reminder: I’m here, we’re still together, even through the rough days. “I Love You” during school days carries a very special feeling. It is innocent, pure, and often the very first taste of affection beyond family. A handwritten note passed in class, a shy smile in the corridor, or a nervous whisper on the playground makes these words unforgettable, because they are wrapped in simplicity and the thrill of discovering love for the very first time. When someone says it for the very first time during a date, it feels like a leap into the unknown: Everything could change after this moment. When a mother looks at her newborn ...

It began with a perfume store I wandered into one evening. The shelves glittered with rows of bottles, each holding a promise of memories yet to be born. Some scents felt new and fleeting, while others carried a depth that seemed older than time. And then, suddenly, there was one that stopped me. A fragrance so familiar it silenced the world around me. It was not just a perfume, it was a memory, fragile yet alive, waiting to be remembered. That scent carried me back to my school days. My principal wore a perfume so distinct, so unlike anything else, that it became a part of who he was. I could never describe it in words, but even today, years later, I can close my eyes and feel it. It was there in the morning assemblies, in the quiet echo of his footsteps through the corridors, in the stillness of his office where he spoke about discipline and dreams. His perfume was not just a fragrance, it was the aura of respect, care, and authority that he embodied. We all have such perfumes etched...

The metaverse is no longer a sci-fi dream, it is becoming a growing digital reality. But while immersive environments and 3D worlds often grab the spotlight, it is artificial intelligence quietly working behind the scenes that brings these virtual spaces to life. From building intelligent avatars to creating dynamic experiences, AI is the invisible engine powering the metaverse.  What is the Metaverse, and Why Does AI Matter? The metaverse refers to a network of interconnected digital worlds where users can socialize, work, play and even trade using avatars. Think of it as the internet in 3D, with virtual spaces that feel real and alive. But to make these spaces responsive, adaptive and truly immersive, you need more than just graphics and code. This is where AI steps in. Artificial Intelligence, is a field of computer science focused on building systems that can perform tasks normally requiring human intelligence. These include understanding language, recognizing patterns, maki...

There was a time when love in India bloomed slowly, like a monsoon flower. It was never rushed, never loud, but tender, patient, and deeply personal. A boy would take days to gather the courage to write a letter, carefully choosing his words, often hiding his feelings in poetry and metaphors. The envelope carried not just paper but the fragrance of hope, sometimes sprinkled with a little attar. When the letter finally reached its destination, it would be read again and again until the ink began to fade, while the emotions remained fresh. The ways these letters were delivered were astonishing, sometimes through post, at times hand-delivered, and lovers had to be nothing less than Sherlock to find the most untraceable method of expressing their feelings. In small towns, postmen became silent witnesses to countless love stories, delivering letters written by shaky handwriting. A girl would tuck the letter between the pages of a diary or hide it under her pillow, smiling to herself each t...

There is something sacred about the word freedom . It is not just a political idea, not just a legal right, and certainly not a gift wrapped in red, white, and saffron ribbons. Freedom is far more personal. It is the moment your lungs fill with air you did not have to beg for, the ability to walk where you wish without glancing over your shoulder, and the courage to think a thought without fear of who might be listening. In India, the word freedom is stitched into the very fabric of our history. It dances in the echo of “ Vande Mataram ” sung by voices that once trembled under foreign chains. It is carved into the silent bravery of Bhagat Singh, who smiled in the face of the noose, and in the stubborn resilience of Rani Laxmibai, who rode into battle not for glory, but for the right to decide her own fate. The Freedom We Fought For The year was 1947. The clock struck midnight, and an entire nation held its breath. In those minutes, the air changed, not in temperature or texture, bu...

It was a quiet Sunday afternoon when I saw her again, almost twenty years later. For a moment, my heart forgot how to beat. Could it really be her? Time is a strange thing. It slips through your fingers when you’re young and races past you when you’re older. But in that fleeting moment when our eyes met, time did something magical, it stood still. She stood by the edge of the park, sunlight wrapping around her like a familiar shawl. She wore a floral dress, pink shoes peeking beneath the hem, her hair swaying gently in the breeze. Those same warm brown eyes looked at me, still holding that quiet mischief I remembered. But this time, there were soft wrinkles at the corners, streaks of silver in her hair, and a kind of calm in her smile that only life can bring. And yet, to me, she was still the most beautiful girl. We first met in school, back when dreams were scribbled in the margins of notebooks and love meant stealing glances across the classroom. She used to sit two benches ahead of...

When we think of superheroes, our minds often drift to the ones in comic books, flying across the sky, saving lives, fighting villains. But my superhero never wore a cape. He wore a simple kurta or shirt, sometimes crumpled from a long day’s work, and the quiet confidence of a man who carried his entire world on his shoulders without ever asking for applause. My earliest memories of my father aren’t filled with dramatic declarations, they’re full of everyday moments soaked in silent strength. They’re full of  chai,  shared during early mornings, the faint sound of his bicycle bell outside the gate, and the comforting rustle of the newspaper in his hands. I’ve seen him pedal that old bicycle with me tightly clutching onto the back seat, no helmet, no worries, just trust, a freedom I have never felt before. I’ve seen him come home carrying bags heavy with vegetables, from the  sabzi mandi , in those bags, I eagerly waited for some surprize for me, a toffee, my favourit...