Is it worthwhile? The question waits around me like a vulture. It shows up when I feel like a guy with invisible shackles, when my body turns into a prison, and when the suffering grows into something intolerable. Pain is more than simply a feeling. It’s a captor. A robber. It deprives me of air, mobility, relaxation, and sleep. For as long as I can remember, it has been a part of me, encircling my bones and slipping into my joints like an unwelcome lover who won’t go.

However, is it worthwhile?
This is a question I have asked myself many times. Every time, I have responded in a different way. I don’t always believe my responses.

I’ve dreamed about getting away because of pain. falling into the arms of the sky, sliding away undetected, and giving in to the silent draw of water. I’ve seen the river in Goa, fueled by the rain, rise with hunger in my imagination. I’ve seen the flood engulfing the automobile, the sea enveloping me like a cradle, engulfing me in something boundless and expansive. But soon as the idea crosses my mind, another one comes to me: the driver.

An individual having a family. He is a guy with his own life, his own challenges, and unfulfilled goals. How could I? How could I allow him to suffer as much as I did?

The question resurfaces as the city shines in the distance in Bombay on the Bandra-Worli Sea Link: what if? One more driver. It is yet another voyage that is not mine. Another life that is still developing and has a lot of potential. Later, as I stood on my 45th-floor balcony, looking down at a city I like so much that it hurts sometimes, I asked myself, “What if the floor beneath me cracked or gave way?”

Who would I leave behind, though?
Sunita. Mom. My anchor. The lady who, even when I felt like I was crumbling, never left me, never faltered, and never allowed me to think I was anything other than exceptional. Karun, Ajit, Seema, and Samir. The people who have supported me through my worst moments and remained by my side are my brother, sister, brother-in-law, and nephew. My companions. My protégés. Those strangers who have given me a grin when I most needed it. Clouseau, my dog, is waiting for me in Delhi and has faith in my unwavering return.

There are also the dreams. Both the ones I have yet to touch and the ones I have lived, sure.
Walking is still something I want to do.

For Malhotra Manish. His star shines in Bombay, Dubai, and every other city. With amazement, enchantment, and mastery, a galaxy of light multiplies, becoming brighter. One day, I want to enter that light, walk in the world he created, and feel the weight of his heritage and fabric wrapped around me. Not only on his runway, but also at his boutiques in New York, Bombay, and Calcutta, I still want to walk for Sabyasachi. In order to transform his surroundings into a feast where food and fabric dance together, I would want to cook for him and bring my art to his craft. Perhaps one day we’ll bring food to the runway and produce a presentation in which fabrics, taste, and texture all come together poetically. Perhaps.

I still want to cook, however.
My restaurant in Mumbai, Neuma, is located in the most picturesque area of the city and is situated in a history building. A place where the world comes together on a plate, where tastes tell tales, and where food reflects my spirit.

At Jolene, in Anjuna, a love song dedicated not just to the music of the original singer but also to the aspirants who composed it: Gaurav Batra, Ankit Tayal, Amrita Arora Ladak, Shakeel Ladak, and myself. A place to be, not simply sit, by the beach. To hang, to relax, to congregate, to fit in. And I still want to serve many dinners there, with each mouthful telling a story.

I still wish to work as a chef in Pune, at Oi Brew House, Murphy’s, and Qora. I adore Pune. The way my love, my travels, and my ideas are carried by the meals there. This modest Indian village has a significant impact on the globe. I want to share their dreams, live with them, and be nourished by them—not only with food, but also with the depth of our common history and the understanding that we are a part of something greater than ourselves.

I still want to sing, nevertheless.
I’ve lost that aspect of myself for a very long time. My early years pass before me—me, on a stage, my voice filling large rooms, fearless, unbroken. Then followed sickness. Pain turned into sound. Noise turned become a foe. Instead of being something I could embrace, the world became something I had to protect myself against. I want to fight for it, however. I’d want to pick up singing once again. I’d want to perform fearlessly on a stage.

I shall live for it.
For Rohit Bal, too. Gudda. My closest companion. The guy who said I looked stunning in black. In his last words to me, the guy who always wanted me to walk for him said, “I know something, so I don’t want you to walk for me.” He feared that I may feel whole if I did. that I could let go. so I could believe I had nothing else to pursue. But two days ago, I walked for him. I wore all-black.

I walked to stay, not to say good-bye.
It was never your fault, I say to anyone who have lost someone to suicide, despair, or that dark place where grief overpowers reason. It was never your fault. You couldn’t have done anything.

I’ve been on that precipice, so I know this. And the world becomes smaller at such times. It becomes all about the pain. It distorts the intellect, robs the light, and makes love seem far away and unattainable. It’s not you who makes people leave. They go because they can no longer bear the misery. Because they were unable to see a path ahead at that time. However, you were their celebration, their pleasure, and their anchor. You brought them this far. They have so many memories to treasure because of you.

Therefore, avoid taking on their load as your own. Keep your darkness from becoming yours. Give up the guilt. Give up the blame. Pardon me. Pardon yourself. Pardon them. Because love is the only path ahead. Living—not just for them, but also for yourself—is the only way to pay tribute to their memory. to make someone else’s life better. to be the beacon of hope for someone who is standing on the same abyss, questioning if there is any reason to stay.

And I have no response for you, who endures pain, who ponders, who questions if the suffering will ever stop. Just know that you’re not alone. They see you. We’ve heard you. You are cherished.

And despite the immense suffering, the love is more profound.
Wait a moment. More meals need to be prepared. There are more ramps to traverse. More aspirations to fulfill. There are more tunes to sing.