Cloud Computing: Beyond the Buzzword

One of the hot questions these days is: "Hey, are you on the cloud?" or "Is that website cloud-based?"

Someone would even say it's not worth it if we are not on the cloud. Reminds me of one of the advertisements that aired on television in the mid-90s with the tagline "mooch nahi, toh kuch nahi"!

And if someone says the cloud is unknown to him or her, then that person is not considered a homo-sapien!

Jokes apart, let us try to understand what exactly a Cloud is. Many of us use this jargon daily without knowing the core concept behind it. It has become extremely fashionable to use this term quite often in our daily conversations.

So, what is a Cloud? In simple terms, companies or individuals can rent resources on an hourly basis, instead of buying physical servers. This hourly model has changed the IT economics.

The modern cloud era began 20 years ago; Amazon Web Services (AWS) launched its cloud services in 2006, with a handful of services like

Virtual Servers (EC2)
Cloud Storage (S3)
Databases
Networking

On the current day, the list has grown considerably, and AWS has added more than 200 solutions to its formidable repertoire. Each serves a different purpose.

Now, a layman would say simply host the website on the cloud, and everything will be automatically taken care of.

Is that so? The answer is NO.

The cloud ecosystem has its own caveats. Agreed, the cloud comes with numerous solutions and has a lucrative by-the-hour pricing; however, there is much more concealed than meets the eye.

Suppose one is designing a solution that requires multiple components. Each component has a price attached to it. If you want to save your time by automating the backup process of files, folders, etc., you have to pay extra.

The monthly billing of resources also tends to be ambiguous. Since every service is priced differently—and many services interact with one another—the final monthly bill can be difficult to predict without careful monitoring.

So, when someone says the cloud is cheaper, please don't believe them. They are incorrect in their assessment.

People are also of the opinion that if a solution is on the cloud, it's safe and secure by default. Again, an incorrect assumption. The safety and security of the data that users are putting on the resources depend completely on the owners of the resources. The cloud will only provide the tools; it's up to individuals how much they are willing to spend on the tools to safeguard the resources. Additionally, one has to be on one's toes and run security patches from time to time.

The AWS Shared Responsibility Model explains the above, that security is shared between AWS and the customer.

Though AWS still continues to be the preferred choice when it comes to deciding about cloud infrastructure, it faces stiff competition from vendors like Google, Microsoft, and other smaller players.

Though it has become very cloudy, many end users are migrating back to traditional servers due to price ambiguity and other complexities.

So, the cloud is definitely not the silver bullet that one may think of it!

Heartbreak

The other day, I was on a busy metro station platform, waiting for the train. The platform was buzzing with people all around. Suddenly, my attention was drawn to a young girl talking on her phone, tears rolling down her cheeks. She looked deeply saddened and dejected.

"Seems to be a case of heartbreak. Maybe she had a fight with her boyfriend." One of the bystanders commented lightly.

At that very moment, it dawned on me, is heartbreak only confined to matters of love and longing?

There can be, and there are multiple reasons that actually break the heart of us humans.

• A failed interview session.
• Serious illness / passing away of a near one.
• Unfulfilled promises.
• A denied promotion
• Losing something important 

and many more...

Heartbreak has many faces; the magnitude varies

You Type a Prompt. What Happens Next?

Like millions of users, I have been using Generative AI - especially Chat GPT - regularly to cope with my routine tasks. Have we considered what happens between giving a prompt and receiving the required response? What actually goes on behind the scenes?

The entire episode is nothing less than a journey and a fascinating one!

Let us review the various steps of this journey:

The moment we type a phrase (known as a prompt) and press the Enter key, the Tokeniser kicks in!

Now, what is a Tokenizer? 

Think of it as a chef's chopping board knife! It chops the prompt into smaller parts - known as Tokens.

For example, if I give a prompt - "What is the capital of India?" - the Tokeneiser splits the phrase in the following format:

["What","is","the","capital","of","India","?"]

The tokenizer decides the most appropriate split based on its algorithm and vocabulary.

These chopped pieces are Tokens.

Then the Tokenizer refers or looks up in a pre-defined library known as the Vocabulary.

This library has a numeric reference for each token. Something like this:

"what"       → 125

"is"   → 864

" the"  → 5421

"cpaital"       → 13

"of"       → 99

"India" → 199

"?" → 09

As soon as matches are found, the Tokenizer converts the tokens to corresponding numeric values - Token Ids - to be more specific.

Then comes the Embedding layer. 

This layer converts all token IDs into a vector format.

Token: "India"

Embedding Vector (illustrative)

[0.83,-1.42, 0.91,2.13,-0.37,1.78,-0.55,0.24]

This list of numbers is called an embedding vector. It is the mathematical representation of the token "India."

The embedding vector is a learned numerical representation of the token that captures statistical relationships with other tokens

Transformer

The transformer can only understand vector-based inputs; it doesn't understand texts, unlike humans. It neither comprehends the token IDs. The Transformer then processes these vectors using its self-attention mechanism to understand the relationships between tokens, refine their representations through multiple layers, and predict the most appropriate next token. By repeating this prediction one token at a time, it gradually generates the complete response.

This response is again in the form of token Ids.

The predicted token IDs are then converted back into human-readable text by the tokenizer's decoding process, producing the response that appears on our screens.

The response is rightly termed as closure.

Contrary to popular belief, an LLM doesn't think of the complete answer first. It predicts one token at a time. After generating each token, it repeats the entire prediction process for the next one until the response is complete.

To us, an LLM appears to understand language. Under the hood, however, it is performing mathematics on vectors, predicting one token at a time until a coherent response emerges.

So, imagine millions of requests and responses going through the same pipeline daily!

 

The appearance doesn't maketh a spy!

 So..coming back here after a hiatus due to multiple reasons.

************************************

I went to the theatre this afternoon to watch "Alpha" - the latest installment of the YRF Spy Universe. The cast has done a decent job, though I feel the storyline could have been better. 

Bobby Deol eerily looked like Stephen Lang for most of the time.

I don't intend to write a review of the film - I am simply not qualified for that, and moreover, many knowledgeable critics have already done their share of analysis of the film.

So what am I doing?

Post the release, I have been hearing and reading lots of comments on social media about the comparison of spy-themed movies, especially from the Yashraj stable, with Aditya Dhar's Dhurandhar (parts 1 & 2). 

What is the need for such comparisons? Why can't undercover agents be portrayed as glamorous? 

Much before Dhurandhar or YRF Spy Universe, we had a certain Englishman, who went by the name of James Bond - always suave and dapper - and the audience used to simply love him for his antics. My father adored him; I also have liked him since my childhood.

The spies in the Kingsman franchise were always styled with bespoke attire.

Even before, there was Mata Hari, the Dutch-born exotic dancer, who used her charms and glamour for espionage during the First World War.

If we consider Hercule Poirot's or Rip Kirby's sartorial style (fictional characters), they were portrayed as stylish individuals. Though neither of them was a spy in the true sense, being detectives, they did have to resort to some sort of spying now and then.

Dhurandhar certainly did commendable business and caught the nation's fancy. It has been hailed for being "realistic". Probably it has been so; however, do we - the common people - actually know what an actual spy/undercover agent looks like? Why do people want all the spy movies to be Dhurandhar templated now onwards? Where is the fun or logic in that?

If a spy can complete his/her missions successfully, then does the appearance actually matter?

If people are so particular about realistic cinema, then they should watch movies like Ardh Satya (1983)/Kalyug(1981) and the like..

Masala films like Dhurandhar are meant to be enjoyed and discussed over lunch, but expecting such movies to become the benchmark for future films is a little too much.

For now, grab a bucket of popcorn and a glass of Coke and enjoy the show..

Companion

Siliguri, 1942

When Professor Sukumar Chaudhuri, a fastidious and mildly irritable orthopaedic, received a complete human skeleton in the mail, he didn’t expect companionship. Certainly not the kind that would  alter his life completely.

The skeleton—was couriered by a former student in Bombay—was of a woman. Mid-20s, well-preserved, and oddly dignified, even in bone. One silver toe ring glinted on the right foot.

"A bit dramatic," he muttered. "Who sends skeletons with accessories?"

Along with his house help Chotu , he placed the skeleton in a selected corner in his study.

At first Chotu was scared and wouldn't touch it. He only reluctantly touched it after being rebuked by his master. 

"Ram, ram, ram.." he chanted.

"Arre buddhu..it's just a skeleton; most harmless."

Chotu left the room in a hurry after placing it appropriately in its designated spot.

Satisfied, Sukumar stood front of it.

"You are in fine shape..good for my studies and research." He said . "Let's call you Anaya."

---

Sukumar lived alone in a dated colonial bungalow that creaked like an old man clearing his throat. His only frequent visitor was Chottu, the house help who came four times a week, mostly to gossip and reorganize the kitchen incorrectly.

"Sir," Chottu said, narrowing his eyes at Anaya, "this lady gives me the creeps."

"She’s quieter than you," Sukumar replied. "Which I appreciate."

---

DAY 8: First Signs

Sukumar woke to find his spectacles perched neatly on his bedside table, cleaned. His notebooks neatly stacked.

He blinked.

"Why, thank you", he muttered to himself.

---

DAY 15: Domestic Partnership

Every day brought something novel. Papers sorted. Socks paired. Tea made.

"Anaya," he said one evening, swirling his cup, "you’ve reorganized my thesis notes. Also, your taste in Assam tea is excellent."

The skeleton, of course, said nothing. But he could swear the lower jaw bone tilted, amused.

That evening, Chottu found him humming Rabindra Sangeet while dusting the skeleton’s collarbone with a peacock feather.

"Sir," Chottu whispered, backing out of the room, "I think you’re getting drawn to the bone lady."

"Don’t be ridiculous," Sukumar snapped. Then, softly, to Anaya: "Not until she makes luchi."

---

DAY 27: Guests and Ghosts

A surprise visitor arrived—Dr. Nandini Sen, a former student turned government health officer.

"Still living with bones, sir?" she teased.

"She has a name - Anaya" he said. "Quite loyal."

Nandini peered at the skeleton. "Is that a... flower in her hand?"

"She likes hibiscus."

Nandini leaned in, raising an eyebrow. "And lipstick on that teacup beside her?"

"Hmm..what to say..."

That night, as Sukumar settled into bed, a voice drifted through the shadows.

 “She was wearing rose oil. You never liked rose.”

Sukumar sat up. The voice was unmistakably female—faint but firm. He looked at the skeleton.

"Anaya...?"

No response. But the faintest scent of cardamom lingered.

---

DAY 40: The Saree

That night, thunder cracked. Sukumar lit a candle.

In the flickering glow, he saw it—an outline. Bare feet. Yellow saree. A woman standing by the window - a feminine silhouette.

He didn’t move.

She came closer. Bent. Touched his cheek with a cool hand. Then vanished. He stiffened momentarily.

Her face, though not clear, held softness. A nose pin shimmered faintly through the haze.

He poured two cups of tea the next morning. Cardamom. Light milk. She preferred it that way.

---

DAY 51: Fever

Sukumar fell ill. A harsh fever gripped him, confining him to bed for two days. Chottu was out visiting his aunt, unaware.

He drifted in and out of sleep, burning with high fever . But one moment stood out:

He opened his eyes at midnight and saw her.

Anaya. Seated next to his head, not in bone, not in shadow, but something gently luminous. Draped in a soft saree, her spectral fingers dipped cloth in water and pressed it to his forehead.

In a state of delirium, he reached out and held her hand—or thought he did. It was cold, but soft.

And in a whisper, he muttered, "Will I ever know about you?"

 “You already do,” came the faint reply. “More than most ever will.”

No words after. Just a presence.

The soft clinking of bangles. Light breaths - almost inaudible.

Then silence.

When he awoke in the morning, a folded cloth sat in the bowl of water. A fresh cup of ginger tea steamed gently on the side table.

Though still weak, he managed to walk to the study and glanced toward the skeleton.

"You make decent tea." He said, feeling grateful to his "companion".

After that, on numerous nights Sukumar felt her presence on the other side of the bed; soft ruffling of bedsheet, light tossing and turning - all indicated Anya's closeness.

"You are here , aren't you?" Sukumar would ask sleepily.

A soft chuckle would be the response.

In the mornings, the bed would feel warmer.

---

DAY 58: Intimacy

There were no confessions. No longings spoken aloud.

Only gestures. A folded shawl. A cleaned inkpot. A fingertip on his shoulder when he coughed too hard.

"Anaya," he said once, pausing mid-writing, "you’ve ruined me for real women. They expect conversation."

The skeleton tilted slightly on its hook.

“You talk enough for two.”

Sukumar froze. Then smiled, wide-eyed.

"So you do listen."

 “Only when you’re talking sensibly.”

He laughed till he wheezed.

---

DAY 100: Coexistence

The house was spotless. The garden bloomed. Chottu now bowed to Anaya when he mopped.

"Sir," he said one day, solemnly, "I think she runs this place."

"I know she does," said Sukumar, adjusting his shawl. "I just pretend to be in charge."

---

Social backlash also followed. A few people labelled the bungalow as haunted; Sukumar was belittled with monikers like lunatic, tantric and what not. But he took everything sportingly and brushed away all negatives.

--

Spring came. Sukumar, now gently greying, sat reading Tagore aloud in the study.

On the table, two teacups steamed. A butterfly sat still on her collarbone.

Chottu walked in, stopped, stared. Then nodded and said:

"Good evening, Professor. Good evening, Boudi."

Sukumar looked up.

"See, Anaya? Even Chottu agrees. We make a fine couple."

 “He’s not wrong,” came the soft voice, warm as a hearth. “Now stop pretending you can sing.”

And from somewhere between shadow and sunlight, the scent of jasmine enveloped the room.

---

A few years later, Professor Sukumar Chaudhuri officially retired from his post at the Government Medical College. Some former students and colleagues came to his bungalow to felicitate him.

One of them brought a camera.

They insisted on a photograph—Sukumar seated on his favourite old chair, shawl draped neatly, a half-smile on his face.

When the photo was developed a few days later, silence fell.

Beside Sukumar, standing just behind him, was the faint image of a woman. Hazy but unmistakable. One hand rested gently on his shoulder.

The outline was soft, almost like mist—and the faint glint of a nose pin shone on her blurred face.

Chottu stared at it, then simply said:

"Boudi wanted one last portrait."

And Sukumar, holding the photograph, whispered:

"Perfect framing, as always."

---

New Delhi, 2025

Reema Sen visits the house of Pradosh Mitra , her fiance. They are set to tie the knot in December.

A room in the house is dedicated to photographs - mostly the forgotten, sepia-toned ones. 

Reema stands in front of one particular frame.

"Hey, this seated gentleman has a resemblance with you." She nudged Pradosh. "But the lady's face along side him , is not very clear. They made a lovely couple, though. Who were they?" She asked.

"Oh .. that's one of my great grand father; lived in Siliguri. Come , let me tell you a beautiful story ". 

----

Shadows

 Arav glanced at the clear, blue sky as he steered his car toward Dehradun. 

He had been invited by the Dehradun Literary Club to be felicitated for his recent bestseller — a story collection blending dreams and reality, memories and myths. It was a proud moment, one his mother had insisted he attend, though deep down, Arav cared less about accolades and more about escaping the noise of his thoughts, and the city's hustle and bustle.

The organiser had offered a round-trip, first-class train ticket, but Arav insisted on driving to Dehradun instead.

The highway stretched empty ahead, framed by dusty fields and restless winds.

Suddenly, a storm began to rise — a wild, whirling curtain of dust. Arav slowed down, visibility dropping to almost nothing. The world outside became a furious blur of brown and gold. He stopped, waiting it out, when, through the swirling chaos, figures began to emerge.

The first was a stocky man, scowling under the shadow of a worn cap.

As the dust thinned, Arav realized the man was watching him closely. Their eyes met briefly — a flicker of coldness, a flash of recognition. It was Raman Raghav, a notorious South Indian gangster, whom Arav had once written into a forgotten draft.

Shaken, Arav pressed the accelerator to drive ahead, but almost immediately had to brake hard.

Another figure stood in the road — a woman in a khaki uniform, her badge gleaming through the dust.

Kiran Ahluwalia, it read.

Arav’s heart thudded. He knew that name — another character, a tough police officer he had once given life to on paper.

Kiran glanced at him, sharp and brief, before waving him through. No words exchanged, but the impact left Arav rattled.

The storm passed as suddenly as it had come.

At noon, Arav stopped at a roadside dhaba to refresh and fill his hungry stomach. Though a dhaba, the ambience was on par with any modern restaurant. It was reasonably occupied.He quickly found a corner table and settled there comfortably.

While waiting for his order to be served, he swept his glance across the dining area, making mental notes of the various people who were seated around him.

His gaze stopped at a particular table; he looked with intrigue at the middle-aged, balding male figure. Zorawar Khan - the name struck him instantly - a cunning and despicable politician, he had penned a few years back. The man was sipping from a beer can and speaking inaudibly into his phone. Each of the fingers on his right hand was adorned with a gold ring. His sly gaze didn't spare even a single woman who was present at that moment. 

The mannerisms were eerily similar to the fictional character. Infact , too similar to be true.

Arav promptly finished his lunch, paid the bill, and stepped out of the place.

When he neared his red Hyundai, he was amused to find a parrot perched on the bonnet. Upon seeing the approaching human figure, it squawked and flew off. It had a white dot under the left eye. 

Arav grimaced and shook his head in disbelief - the parrot's appearance was similar to a parrot that he had written about in a school magazine, many years ago.

A day of coincidences.. he said to himself.

**********************

He reached the outskirts of Dehradun just as twilight began to settle in. Guiding his car into a nearby empty field, he stepped out to stretch. The quiet surroundings and cool breeze helped calm his nerves. He took a deep breath and stood still, listening to the silence, broken only by the occasional passing vehicles.

Just then, a low but distinct humming sound caught his attention, and he instinctively looked up. A UFO? The oval shape and the eerie bluish pink light it emitted bore an uncanny resemblance to the spacecraft he had written about just a few months earlier.

Before he could react, the spacecraft zipped away toward the distant horizon. Shaking his head in disbelief, he climbed back into his car.

Arav drove on, mind racing, reality and imagination overlapping each other.

Reaching the hotel at Dehradun, Arav checked in and retired to his room. Some of the members of the literary club were present in the venue, who helped him to complete the formalities.

The hotel buzzed with preparations for the evening's felicitation dinner. The lobby gleamed under chandeliers. Elegant guests floated by.

As he moved toward the elevators, a faint floral scent—sweet and wild, caught him off-guard.

He paused, scanning the room.

There, near the vintage piano, sat a young woman, alone, in a simple crimson blouse and jeans.

Not flashy, but compelling.

A chill ran through him.

She resembled Scarlett, a character from an old,  but controversial story — a high-end escort who had drifted across his pages like a ghost made of fire and longing.

But this woman was different — ordinary, modest.

Only the physical features matched: the curve of her cheekbones, the restless glimmer in her eyes.

She isn’t Scarlett, Arav told himself. Just someone who looks like her.

Still, fact and fiction folded into each other, leaving him disoriented and more confused than ever.

The felicitation ceremony passed in a daze. Speeches, claps, smiles — Arav floated through it mechanically.

At the post-event dinner, he found a quiet table and was soon joined by Mehr, a cheerful young woman he had noticed earlier among the guests.

Mehr was just an attendee — not an awardee — but Arav found her easy to talk to.

They spoke about books, films, favorite places, and childhood memories.

Mehr laughed easily, a musical sound that somehow soothed his frayed mind.

Just when Arav began to relax, something tugged at his senses.

His gaze drifted across the hall and froze.

Near the far corner, Scarlett — or the woman resembling her — stood quietly, watching them.

There was sadness in her smile, a strange farewell in her eyes.

Arav rose instinctively, murmuring an apology to Mehr, and made his way toward her.

She lifted her hand in a soft wave... and before he could reach her, she turned and disappeared into the crowd.

Arav searched, but she was gone.

When he returned to his table, Mehr too had vanished.

Puzzled, he asked a staff member if they had seen where the lady from his table had gone.

But they looked at him blankly — no record of a guest matching her description attending the event.

A chill prickled his skin.

Too much — it was too much.

His head felt heavy. Beads of sweat enveloped his forehead.

The last thing he remembered was the ground moving beneath him as he collapsed.

---

Arav woke in a hospital bed, the ceiling whirring with the dull sound of a fan.

The doctors told him he had suffered a bout of stress-induced collapse.

"Nothing serious," they assured him. "Just fatigue. Rest, young man."

A mild tranquilizer was administered, and Arav slept deeply through the night, dreamless, for once.

He woke feeling lighter, refreshed.

At 8 AM, his phone buzzed with a WhatsApp message:

"Doctor has cleared discharge by noon. We will pick you up. Cheers, DLC Team."

He smiled faintly, called his mother, and reassured her that all was fine.

While speaking, he didn’t notice a nurse entering silently.

She was short, stocky, with quick, practiced movements — and left-handed.

Features that oddly matched a minor character he had created long ago: a gruff but tender-hearted nurse.

"Routine check-up, sir," she said softly, recording his temperature and blood pressure.

Before he could ask her anything, she was gone.

Vanished like a ripple across a still lake.

Do I exist in their world, Arav wondered with a weary smile, or do they exist in mine?

A Garden for All

Mr. Ghosh had always been a quiet man, but after his wife, his companion of forty years, passed away, he was left devastated. He became a recluse, barely speaking, rarely leaving his room. His days passed in silence, surrounded by her photos, her sarees folded carefully in the cupboard, and the old Bengali and Hindi songs they used to play on lazy afternoons. She was extremely fond of Kishore Kumar and Rabindra sangeet renditions by Hemant Mukherjee.

His children were worried. His daughter-in-law, Rukmini, would call him every few days from Delhi. “Baba, are you eating properly?” she’d ask gently. He’d whisper a half-hearted reply.

But nothing truly stirred him. The irreplaceable void was impossible to fill. Until that rainy evening arrived.

It was after a fierce kal baisakhi storm. The wind had upturned pots, broken a few branches in the garden. Mr. Ghosh stepped outside — a rare thing in itself — to survey the damage. And then he heard it: faint squeaks - barely audible. He followed the sound, and under the broken canopy of a guava tree, he found them. He switched on the torchlight. Two tiny, helpless baby parrots, their bodies trembling, their feathers yet to fully emerge. Eyes were yet to develop.

He knelt beside them, a strange ache swelling inside his chest.  A sense of purpose enveloped him instantly. “Ramu! Come quickly!!” he called to his longtime household help. “Bring an old basket… and some soft cloth.”

It filled Ramu with equal parts amusement and joy to hear his master call his name in that old familiar tone, something he hadn’t heard in such a long time.

With Ramu’s help, they built a small, temporary shelter in his room, lining it with cotton, old cloth and warmth. Mr. Ghosh kept an eye on them, feeding them drops of warm water, mashed fruits. 

He resorted to YouTube videos to figure out how to care for such fragile, young parrots.

Once he had kept the basket in the verandah. An adult parrot would come through the grills and inspect the chicks; once in a while, it would feed them also. "Could she be the mother"? Mr.Ghosh had wondered. However, after a couple of days, the visits ceased.

Every morning, he checked on the little beings, feeling amused as their feathers slowly grew, their squeaks strengthened, beaks became stronger and redder, and their color became radiantly green.

The birds fluttered about the house, floating from one room to another. Perching on the bedside edge or stationing themselves on the dining table, naughtily nibbling at the fruits kept in the fruit basket. Sometimes they would sit on Mr.Ghosh's study table, staring at the desktop monitor, or at times hovering in front of the dressing table mirror, getting amused by the reflections of their own antics!

Becoming confident and stronger, they ventured to the garden. They’d fly out during the day but always return by sundown, chattering excitedly around him.

The two would also 'raid' the kitchen to collect green chillies.

The garden soon became a home to sparrows, a few Mynahs, and a few more birds that Mr.Ghosh couldn't identify, and he didn't care; their chirping and colorful foliage made him happy.

One day, he snapped a photo on his phone — the two parrots perched on the easy chair in the garden, side by side, beaks touching. With a hesitant grin, he sent it to Rukmini on WhatsApp.

“Look at these naughty fellows, Rukmini! Already bringing their friends over.”

Rukmini replied immediately. “They’re adorable, Baba! I’m so happy to see this. You sound happier.”

Sometimes he’d call her. “Rukmini, guess what — they sat on my shoulder today! Like I’m their tree,” he chuckled softly.

Her heart swelled with relief. “They love you, Baba. I’m so glad you have company.”

The garden became livelier. The two parrots soon brought mates; then chicks followed. The guava tree became a bustling haven. Their playful squeaks filled the once-silent home.

One morning, while inspecting the garden, Mr. Ghosh noticed a small burrow near the boundary wall. Curious, he approached, adjusting his glasses. "Now, what is this?". He wondered. Suddenly, a small figure popped out — a rabbit, wide-eyed, nose twitching. It stared at him for a moment before darting back inside.

Mr. Ghosh laughed heartily. “Arre, Ramu! We have a new guest!”

Initially, the rabbit was hesitant and kept a safe distance from the humans. Over the period, it gained confidence and became bolder. He would hop about freely across the garden, and also enter the bungalow; he would sit near Mr.Ghosh and accept treats from him or Ramu.

 One particular stormy night, it refused to leave. It was afraid of the thunder and heavy rains. It cocooned itself against Mr.Ghosh's feet to comfort itself from the outside torment. Mr. Ghosh laid out an old cushion in a corner of his room. “Stay here tonight, little one. Safe from the rain.” And patted it. "But don't chew off my wifi cable." He warned the rabbit mockingly.

"But I'm worried about the birds outside.." he mumbled to himself.

****************

And so the garden’s family grew. Birds of different kinds flocked to the yard, drinking from the water bowls Mr. Ghosh set out, perching on the neem, the mango, the guava. The rabbit, too, found a shy mate, and together they made their burrow a home. Sometimes, both would visit the house to play with Mr.Ghosh.

"Aree..you have a wife now. Young ones will follow soon".He said jokingly," Do you have any idea how much carrots and cabbages cost?" The male would listen intently, twitching its big ears.

“Ramu, we’ll need to build a little barricade near the back wall,” Mr. Ghosh said thoughtfully one afternoon, watching the rabbits hop about. “Don’t want those stray cats sneaking in.” Then he sighed playfully. “Uff… they’re all making holes in my pocket, these fellows.” He had also consulted a neighborhood vet in case any of his "friends" fell ill or got injured. The vet, a young man in his early 30s, happily helped.

Years passed like this. Mr. Ghosh found purpose again — a quiet joy in tending to his growing sanctuary. Every few days, he’d send photos to Rukmini: of the parrots perched together, of the rabbits enjoying the early winter sun, of new birds visiting the garden.

Then tragedy struck.

One peaceful morning, as the sun rose over the garden, Ramu found Mr. Ghosh in his easy chair under the neem tree, a gentle smile still resting on his lips. The parrots were perched silently on his shoulders, nudging him softly. At his feet, the rabbit sat, still and watchful.

Mr. Ghosh had passed quietly, surrounded by the lives he’d nurtured. His friends, his companions in grief.

In the weeks that followed, Rukmini returned to the old house, her heart heavy yet proud. Together with Ramu and a few neighborhood youngsters, she expanded the sanctuary. They built more shelters, planted more trees, and laid flower beds.

The garden thrived. The current occupants — the birds, the rabbits — kept a gentle distance, watching with quiet understanding.

Once in a while, they would visit indoors - hoping to find their friend.The rabbit would sit quietly near the empty chair that was once used by Mr.Ghosh.

Mr. Ghosh’s garden easy chair remained firmly in its place, moss gathering over its weathered wood. It became a play station for the birds, a playground for rabbits, and many other life forms that made the garden their home.

One morning, Rukmini spotted a peacock strutting across the garden, its feathers gleaming under the sun. And in the hollow of the neem tree, a family of owls had made their home. The young ones would peek shyly at the outside world with wonder and amazement.

The garden thrived with life. And though he was gone, Mr. Ghosh’s spirit lived on in every chirp, every rustle of leaves, every flutter of wings.

The garden was never silent again.

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Ankur