The Art of Doing It All

When I was younger, I often heard this proverb: “Jack of all trades, master of none.” 

It lingered in the back of my mind like a quiet warning, whispering that trying too many things might mean excelling at none. At the time, I didn’t question it. But I also didn’t let it stop me.

I was the curious kid - the one who could never stick to just one hobby. I read everything I could get my hands on, doodled endlessly on notebooks in between boring lectures and played with different letterforms before I even knew what calligraphy was. I journaled like my thoughts depended on it. I experimented with makeup - not just on myself, but mostly on my friends. I braided hair, baked cookies and cakes, tried new recipes with whatever was in the kitchen. I simply did everything I could, with whatever I had.

Then came college. In India, career choices are often less about passion and more about pleasing society.. It usually boils down to two “noble” options: medicine or engineering. I wasn’t particularly drawn to either (needles made me squeamish and math stopped being appealing once alphabets took over the numbers), but architecture seemed like a loophole - a way to tick the engineering box while sneaking in some creativity. So, I chose it, hoping it would let me hold on to both logic and art. 

 And as the years passed, my list of interests only grew - photography, cooking, illustrating, storytelling. Each phase of my life brought a new layer, a new skill, a new version of me. And yet, somewhere in the back of my mind, that old proverb still echoed: Jack of all trades, master of none.

It made me wonder: was I diluting my potential by dabbling in so many things?

But life has a beautiful way of connecting the dots when you least expect it. That eye for detail from drawing served me well in architectural design.. eventually helping me finish third in my class for my thesis. My journaling evolved into storytelling, which later shaped my tone as a brand and artist. My love for fonts and handwriting turned into a career in calligraphy. I now write on paper, glass, metal, leather; anything that tells a story. My love for photography helps me create content for my brand. The hobbies I once considered random have now become the very tools that help me stand out in my work.

I’ve come to realize that every skill I picked up was never a distraction - it was preparation. It was a thread in the tapestry of who I was becoming.

And here’s the best part: the proverb? The full version actually says:

“Jack of all trades, master of none, but oftentimes better than master of one.”

Isn’t that something?

I no longer fear being “too much.” I’ve learned that I don’t need to fit neatly into a box. I’m not just one thing - I’m many.. and I think that fits me perfectly.

In Memory of a Gentle Soul

In the quiet rhythm of my daily work, especially in a city where language barriers and logistical issues can make even simple tasks feel overwhelming, I once found something rare: reliability in a stranger.

Months ago, I was struggling with a complicated delivery. A technical glitch disrupted the order, and I ended up coordinating directly with the driver. He messaged me on WhatsApp, and we sorted things out. When I met him in person, he struck me instantly - an older gentleman in a bowler hat, polite and composed. He carried himself with quiet dignity, and I felt, for the first time in a long time, that I could trust someone thoroughly with my work.

He spoke fluent English and always understood my often complicated delivery instructions, which made him my go-to person for pickups and drop-offs. And this wasn’t just about convenience. As someone who works with luxury items and brand activations, there’s a certain level of care and precision I need - and he gave me that without ever needing to be asked.

Two weeks ago, he helped me with something as small as a hand fan for an event. I said Assalamu Alaikum, but I didn’t ask how his Eid was, didn’t check in. I was in a rush. I wish I had taken a moment longer.

Then, just days later, I called him again: I needed a set of cards picked up and dropped off at a venue. A stranger answered his phone, confused. I asked for him by name. The voice on the other end said something I wasn’t prepared to hear: He passed away last night.

I asked again, certain I had misunderstood. But no - it was his number, his family, and they were at the hospital, waiting to bring his body home.

I was stunned. Not just because I had spoken to him so recently, but because I never realized how much I had come to rely on him - not just as a service provider, but as someone whose presence quietly eased the burden of my days.

We often talk about grief as something tied to deep relationships. But sometimes, it’s the people on the periphery of our lives - the kind, dependable souls who pass through it with grace and consistency - who leave a strange, aching silence when they go.

I didn’t know much about him. I didn’t even know his full story. But I knew he was kind, trustworthy, and did his work with dignity. And I am grateful to have crossed paths with him.

He reminded me that even brief encounters can leave lasting impressions. That trust, when offered without expectation, is a rare and beautiful thing. And that grief - even for a stranger - is still grief.

May he rest in peace. And may we never take the quiet blessings of everyday life for granted.

The Flicker of Then

Every now and then, in the middle of a busy day, something flickers.

It could be a whiff of something cooking in the air, or the golden warmth of a certain kind of sunlight, and suddenly, I’m not here anymore. For just a second, I’m back there - in a memory, a moment so familiar that I can feel it with all my senses.

The other day, while talking to a friend, we found ourselves stumbling into that shared space of nostalgia. That soft, blurry zone where memories feel more like dreams than facts. We were talking about our college days, and suddenly I was there again. Sitting at that tiny shop called Aklu's, waiting for my aloo paratha. I could hear the laughter of my friends, the clatter of plates, the familiar rhythm of a college afternoon. I could feel the sunshine on my face, the dust in the air, the smell of food that made everything feel okay. It was all so real for a flickering moment. And then it was gone.

Sometimes it’s home that comes back to me. A winter evening, quiet and still. I’m curled up on the old sofa in our living room, a plate of warm French toast in my hands - Amma’s French toast, the kind that made everything better. Scooby-Doo is playing on TV, my brother is next to me, and we’re just… there. No homework, no pressure, nothing to chase. Just the soft hum of comfort and the feeling that life is whole in that very moment. How I wish I could bottle that up. Keep it safe somewhere. Open it up when things get too loud, too fast, too grown-up.

And then there were the school days. The hallways that felt like mazes - long, echoing corridors where we chased each other, ducked behind corners, waved from one floor to another. I still dream about those stairs sometimes. About bunking class and sneaking behind the building with just two parathas shared between six of us. We’d sit in a circle, tearing pieces, dipping them into chana, laughing about our latest crushes, mimicking teachers, giggling over nonsense that felt like everything. We didn’t know it then, but we were living the stories we’d ache for later.

I think what I miss the most is not the moments themselves, but who we were in them. The version of me that didn’t have to plan things, or juggle responsibilities, or reply to emails. The me that just was. In the moment. Fully. Freely.

These memories – they visit quietly. No warning. No announcement. Just a flicker, and suddenly you’re there. And just as quickly, you’re back. Older. Busier. Maybe wiser. But always a little homesick for a time that doesn’t exist anymore - except in your heart.

From Daydreams to Downstrokes

I Am a Dreamer

I can’t help it - truly, I can’t.

Even in the middle of something mundane or routine, my mind wanders. Ideas, visions, and daydreams swirl around endlessly. Maybe that’s why boredom is such a stranger to me.

After I got married, especially during that first year, people often asked - “How are you surviving at home all day?”

No job. No office. Just home. “Don’t you get bored?”

It was always asked with a tone of disbelief - like I didn’t seem the type to idle away my time.

And they were right. I don’t idle.

At least not in this magical world I carry inside my head.

My mind is constantly moving - so much so that I often struggle to keep up with myself.

So no, I was never bored. Not once.

In fact, I cherished that time. The freedom of unstructured hours, the quiet joy of being lazy and creative all at once - it was liberating.

Somewhere along that journey, I stumbled upon lettering and calligraphy.

It started with those mesmerizing videos of calligraphers dancing across the page with elegant tools. I was captivated. So I picked up a pen and gave it a try.

And I loved it.

Still do - more with every passing day.

What started with strokes and curves soon expanded into painting, styling, and exploring photography techniques to showcase my work. I unearthed skills I hadn’t touched since school or my early college years - things I’d long forgotten I loved.

Instagram became more than just a platform - it became a community. A space filled with fellow artists who inspire and uplift. And I can’t thank my family enough for cheering me on through every wild idea and creative detour.

I’m grateful I took that first step.

I may still be far from where I dream of being, but I know I’ve climbed a few steps up this tall staircase - and that matters.

If you’re reading this, and there’s something calling out to you - some passion or hobby that lights a tiny spark - please chase it. No matter how impractical or crazy it seems.

Because the rest - it unfolds beautifully along the way.

Yes, I’ve made countless mistakes.

Shredded papers. Wasted efforts. Learned hard lessons.

But not once did I feel like giving up.

There’s still so much to try, so much to explore.

And I can’t wait.

From within a tornado.