Greetings

Some important days of our life.

CHINA

• New Year's Day (元旦)

• Chinese New Year / Spring Festival (春节)

• Lantern Festival (元宵节)

• Labour Day (劳动节)

• Chinese Valentine's Day (七夕)

• Mid-Autumn Festival (中秋节): October 6, 2025 (Monday)

• National Day (国庆节 ): October 1, 2025 (Wednesday)

Birthday

Festivals

The day I always forget, August 21 and the day she might be getting very angry June 22.

INDIA

• Holika Dahan

• Holi

• Hindi New Year

• Rama Navami

• Raksha Bandhan

• Ganesh Chaturthi – August 26 (Tuesday)

• Dussehra – October 2 (Thursday)

• Diwali – October 20 (Monday)

• Christmas – December 25 (Thursday)

Our Stories

Every Sunday visit to Hyderabad, India....

Back when I lived in Amravati, Maharashtra, every Saturday became a ritual of love and longing. I’d travel to Hyderabad—sometimes just for a day, sometimes two. No matter how brief the stay, she was always there, waiting.

She’d cook with care, knowing exactly what I liked. And every time I left, she’d quietly slip money into my hand—not out of obligation, but out of a love that spoke in gestures more than words. Her way of loving me was unlike anything I’ve known. It made me feel seen, valued, and deeply cared for.

Those weekends weren’t just journeys across cities—they were journeys into a kind of affection that stays with me even now. 

Crossing Countries - Continent.

#1; A Journey that begins and not ended yet.

The morning light in Hyderabad felt thin, almost hesitant, as if even the sun knew I was chasing something fragile. It was early February 2025—just days before Saint Valentine would remind the world to celebrate love—and I pushed through the sliding doors of the airport with a single mission: find her.

I breezed past immigration—this leg was still domestic—heart hammering each time scanners hummed. At Gate A7, I sank into a plastic chair, suitcase at my side, and let my thoughts drift. We had wandered markets together, her laughter ricocheting between stalls as she plucked trinkets from dusty shelves. Today, I imagined her exploring duty-free shops instead of sitting beside me, fingers brushing souvenir postcards.

A boarding call snapped me back. Fear of flying usually sent me diving into downloaded shows, but as headphones slid over my ears, I realized I didn’t care about “Luke Cage” or any distraction. Up here, above the clouds, my prayers murmured for safe passage—and for her face to be waiting at journey’s end.

The descent into Mumbai was too swift. Stepping into its cavernous international terminal felt like entering another world: glass walls arching toward the sky, sunlight spilling across terrazzo floors. I caught myself smiling at the architecture’s beauty but immediately chastised the momentary calm. Urgency thrummed through me.

Immigration officers studied my passport. “Purpose of travel?” I said it simply: “To find someone.” They stamped me through, and I found myself drifting past duty-free displays. Whiskey nearly tempted me with promises of numbed nerves, but instead I reached for a packet of salted cashews—her beloved “kidney-shaped fruits”—tucked them into my pocket like a sacred offering.

Gate 23 became my vantage point. Around me, faces told silent epics: newlyweds bursting with first-flight excitement, business executives clutching briefcases, parents poised to reunite with children overseas. In that mosaic of beginnings and endings, my story felt both ordinary and impossibly urgent.

I closed my eyes and rehearsed our reunion. She’d cross her arms in mock anger, and I’d pull her into a wild hug so tight she’d have no choice but to forgive me. Then I’d scoop her onto my back—her favorite piggyback ride—and whisper sorry a thousand times until our laughter drowned out every mile we’d been apart.

The final boarding announcement fluttered through the terminal. I rose, heart in my throat, and stepped onto the jet bridge. Inside the cabin, two Chinese travelers settled into their seats. I claimed mine by the window, palms slick with anticipation.

Engines roared to life, and the plane surged forward—more than metal and fuel, it carried my hope across continents. As we climbed, I pressed my forehead against the cool glass, staring into the vast blue. Ahead lay Addis Ababa, Lusaka—and her arms waiting to dissolve every doubt.

I exhaled, ready for the next chapter of this journey: the moment she walks into the arrivals hall, and every mile between us collapses into the first beating of her heart against mine.

A Trip That Taught Me More Than I Expected Bangkok, Thailand....

The trip was meant to be memorable—and it was, though not in the way I had hoped. We fought. Again and again. The arguments weren’t really about the trip itself, but about something deeper: our habits, our upbringing, the values we carry from the homes we were raised in.

Coming from India, I’ve grown up with a mindset shaped by modest means. Money, for us, is first about survival—basic needs. Only after those are met does luxury enter the picture. I now realize that her world, shaped by China’s more developed economy, operates differently. Comfort and convenience aren’t indulgences—they’re expectations. And I failed to understand that.

She cried. I stayed angry—held back by my own ego, my own inability to bend. The trip lasted just two days, but I managed to spoil it with my stubbornness. And yet, despite everything, she chose to stay. She could have walked away. She could have found someone with more money, more emotional maturity. But she didn’t. She compromised—for us.

That kind of love humbles me. It reminds me that relationships aren’t built on perfect moments, but on the willingness to fight through the imperfect ones. I may have failed her on that trip, but I won’t let that be the end of our story.

Crossing Countries - Continent.

#2; A Flight Through Memory

The engines roar to life as the Mumbai skyline slips beneath the wings. The airhostess’s gentle reminder to switch off mobile networks rings through the cabin, oddly tender—like an invitation to rest your head in someone’s lap. I remain awake, heart thrumming with the familiar unease that keeps me alert on flights, but in that hush I slip into another kind of journey: the lap of my own thoughts.

I’m back on a crisp afternoon in Jinan Park, weakness pressing against my bones. Cucii is beside me, her presence a balm to every ache. Even amid pain, her nearness feels like the safest place in the world. From there I’m carried forward, to an airport arrival in 2014, where she met me with a wide smile and open arms. I trace every detail of how she led me from the terminal—hoping, even now, that in Lusaka she’ll come for me again.

A soft tap on my shoulder pulls me from that memory. The airhostess appears, beverage tray in hand. I order two cans of beer and settle into my seat, flipping open the tablet to Luke Cage. I squint at the screen, trying to remember where I left off—rewinding through episodes until the story line snaps back into focus.

As the series unfolds, so do my thoughts. Saturdays spent with her at Inorbit Mall, drifting between shops hand in hand. Sundays were sacred: I’d leave home at dawn on a rattling bus, breathless with anticipation. If the bus paused in a forested stretch at night, the world outside would plunge into pitch black, and I’d slip away to relieve myself, searching the sky for the moon’s reassuring glow. That same moon hovers in my mind now—my beacon, my Cucii.

Another tap on my shoulder. The second beer’s gone; I ask for a third. She hustles away and returns with the can. I pour it slowly, thinking how Cucii would tease me for indulging. On screen, a barber-shop brawl erupts; a new inspector—whom I recognize from Daredevil—hunts the truth behind a colleague’s mysterious death. But I can barely follow the plotline; my mind circles back to China, to the moment I hurt her by forgetting her birthday. I can still hear her scolding, fierce with disappointment. It wasn’t the cake she missed—it was the feeling of being remembered.

Shamed and hopeful, I vow then and there to wash her clothes for a lifetime if she’ll only forgive me. My pulse hammers as the pilot’s voice announces our descent. I jolt upright, flattening my palm against the window as Ethiopia’s arid plains come into view.

Below, tents and tin-roofed shelters scatter across a dusty landscape. We circle a ridged formation, then align with the runway. The wheels hit asphalt with a sharp jolt, and the captain reminds us to fasten our seatbelts. Through the glazed port, I spot a cluster of hotels glowing near the airport—small beacons of civilization in the vast unknown.

On the tarmac, I join the queue for the bus to the lounge. The attendant’s voice calls out: connecting passengers bound for Zambia, gather your luggage. I climb aboard and, already scanning faces, search each Chinese woman for a hint of Cucii’s laugh. My heart flutters with each passing stranger, but there’s no sign of her.

At the airport hotel’s banquet hall, I find a modest feast of vegetables, chicken, and dal laid out. An Indian chef, here for seven years, tells me scores of compatriots pass through Ethiopia daily. I share a brief nod, finish my plate, and retreat to my room. The day’s journey tugs at my limbs like gravity itself, and as I shed clothes onto the floor, my mind drifts again—adrift in memories of love and longing—before sleep finally claims me.

Crossing Countries - Continent.

#3; Between Departures and Dreams

I woke with heavy eyelids after a day’s relentless travel, every muscle aching as though baggage weighed not just in my hands but deep in my bones. Sleep eluded me—fear of missing my next flight clung to my thoughts, teasing any attempt at rest.

My mind drifted to early 2019 in Jinan, where she and I wandered through a brand-new mall vast enough to swallow our footsteps. Everything in China seemed built on a grand scale, and this mall was no exception—its fluorescent corridors stretched farther than we could see.

We stepped into a jewelry shop flooded with light, each diamond glittering like a fragment of starlight. We tried on countless rings. Though I sensed her disappointment when one stone proved too small, we settled on a modest beauty and left the store hand in hand, hearts buoyed by hope.

That same day, she surprised me with a fur coat priced around ten thousand rupees—more than I’d ever spent on clothing in my life. As I tried it on, I felt every soft fiber whisper her devotion; no gift had ever spoken so clearly of love.

A sudden jolt snapped me back to the present. My phone glowed 9:00 PM. I panicked, convinced my flight had departed at 8:30, until I realized the clock still read India time. Outside, the sky glowed with the last embers of sunset, as if forgiving my tardiness.

I forced myself out of bed, washed my face, slipped into fresh clothes, and raced to the reception desk. The clerk’s broken English carried a warmth that eased my racing heart: the bus to the airport would leave at 7:00 PM. I still had time for snacks in the lounge.

In the lounge, I sipped strong tea and nibbled two slices of bread. The taste was fine, but every bite felt like a burden—an echo of the heaviness inside me. I asked where to smoke and was directed to an area between two buildings by a fountain.

Stepping outside, I was startled by a cold wind. All my life I’d learned that Africa was hot, but this breeze felt crisp and invigorating, unlike anything back home. I joined a handful of other travelers under the open sky and let the smoke carry away a fraction of my tension.

Returning to my room, I packed my luggage, checked my passport and tickets, and tucked the velvet box containing the ring into a secure pocket. At the bus stop—just beside that smoking area—I climbed aboard and scanned every face, hoping to glimpse her. A young Chinese woman hurried past; I dared to turn, imagining she might be Cucii. Her startled look told me it was only wishful thinking.

The bus carried me to the airport, where security insisted on scanning my main bag. I fingered the ring’s box inside, reassured by its weight. In the departure lounge, I searched again for her—no sign.

When it was time to board the flight to Lusaka, I walked down the tunnel, heart pounding. From my window seat, I watched the airport lights fade into the distance as the plane lifted. Fear and longing knotted in my chest, but beneath them lay a fragile spark of hope—hope that love, like any journey, finds its way across skies and time zones.

Please Forgive Me.

Please forgive me. I am still the same person you once loved—the one who made you smile, the one who felt complete just being beside you. I know I’ve made countless mistakes, and every time, it was you I turned to for forgiveness. You were always my safe place, and even now, I find myself searching for that comfort in you.

I understand that this time, my mistake may be too big to forgive. I truly do. But even so, I’m asking you—hoping you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me once more. I know relationships aren’t built on logic; they’re built on something far more powerful—magic. And that magic, I’ve only ever felt with you.

Please forgive me for everything I did that made you shut down, that turned your warmth into silence. I never wanted to hurt you. I don’t know if I’m worthy of your love anymore, but I still ask for your forgiveness—not because I deserve it, but because I can’t live without you.

If I could move on, I would have stopped messaging you long ago. But the truth is, I never tried to get over this. I never wanted to. I still don’t. I’m hurting every day, and yet I hold onto this pain because it’s the only thing that keeps me connected to you.

Cucii, I’m truly sorry. I know I’ve said it before, but this time, I mean it with everything I have. I can’t live without you. I’ve tried, and I’ve failed. That’s the truth.

If you can find even a small space in your heart to talk to me again, I’ll be here waiting, hoping, and ready to listen. Not to defend myself, but to understand you. To hear your pain. To be better.

One promise I do today, I will keep looking for you till my entire lifetime. 

My Childhood Trauma...

I came across a video today. It was about childhood trauma and how it affects relationships. It wasn’t emotional, just informative. But it reminded me of myself. It hit something deep. I realized how much of what I am today, comes from what I went through back then.

I was always compared with other children. Others were praised in front of me, and I was left wondering why I wasn’t enough. That constant comparison made me selfish—not because I didn’t care about others, but because I was always thinking about myself. I didn’t learn to understand others’ pain. I just wanted to be seen, to be praised, to be good in front of my parents. I wanted to be the one they were proud of, not the one they overlooked.

As I grew older, that need turned into anger. I started hating my parents—not because I didn’t love them, but because I felt trapped. Their rules made me feel like a failure. I wanted to be free. I wanted to make my own decisions; not live the life they had chosen for me.

When I started working, I felt that freedom for the first time. But the difference between us grew bigger. We fought—a lot. Verbal fights that drained me. So I moved away. Not because I was looking for peace, but because I couldn’t take the fights anymore. And in that distance, I realized how different our ways of thinking were. I got a job far from home, and I thought things would change for me.

I stayed away for almost 15 years. And even now, I see how that childhood pain has stayed with me. It didn’t just affect my relationship with my parents—it affected everything. Including you.

I remember never listening to you. Just like I never listened to my parents. I was always trying to prove something. That I was smarter. That I was better. That I wasn’t a failure. I understand now why I didn’t listen to you about the money for our marriage. I invested it in shares—not because I didn’t care, but because I wanted to prove I could give you something grand. Your sister’s marriage left a mark on me. I wanted to give you something like that. I wanted to be the man who could do that for you.

But it wasn’t love. It was ego. Pride. And I lost everything.

I don’t know if I’ve changed. Maybe I haven’t. But I’ve realized something. That I was always trying to be better than others. That I was always trying to prove myself. And that in doing so, I hurt the one person I truly cared about.

I’m sorry, Cucii. I don’t expect forgiveness. I don’t even hope for it. I just want to be considered. To be understood. To be seen—not as someone who failed you, but as someone who didn’t know how to stop chasing praise.

I Miss You Very Much...

Crossing Countries - Continent.

# 4 A Journey of Lights, Memory, and Love

The engines rumbled and we lifted off, looping around the same mountain we’d skirted on landing. Below, the city lights were sparse, scattered like distant stars in an unfinished sky. The dim glow mirrored the ache I carried—so much left unsaid and undone. Twenty-five minutes into the flight, I already felt both weightless and unbearably heavy.

I remembered my first Shanghai descent, the city unfurling in a tapestry of bright LEDs that spoke of relentless growth. Back then I welcomed possibility without knowing love awaited me in the maze of skyscrapers. Her laughter rode the neon with me even now. That unexpected romance had rewritten every plan I ever made.

Thoughts drifted to our impending reunion in Lusaka and the tears I imagined we’d share—an hour’s worth to wash away years of ego clashes, pandemic separations, diplomatic row over China and India, and visa nightmares. I replayed her accusation of cheating, the sting she must have felt, and wondered what else demanded forgiveness. My chest tightened at the idea of confessing every fault. I trembled with the hope of a clean slate.

The memory burned brightest when I forgot her birthday in China. She refused to answer my calls at the airport and drove me home in cold silence. At her door she separated our beds and made me sleep on the floor. The wooden planks under my back hurt less than the quiet between us.

I glanced around the cabin—some passengers eating, some sleeping, each wrapped in their own story. I ordered two beers and scrolled through “Luke Cage” on my phone to escape the bitterness. Despite the show’s banter and action, my mind kept looping back to her. I refused a third drink, fearing it would unlock tears I couldn’t hide.

Unable to resist, I opened my gallery and froze on her face. A single smile appeared beside my own reflection in tears. I remembered how she taught me that gifting a bra in China symbolized protection and care. In that moment I wanted to buy her every unspoken promise, to kneel and whisper sorry in every language I knew.

The landing announcement startled me—our descent had begun. My heart pounded as I peered through the window: Lusaka’s lights were modest, a quiet counterpart to Addis Ababa’s dim glow. My hands shook thinking of my cabin bag and how I’d dash off the plane. I longed to be first in the aisle, to break free of this metal tube and find her waiting.

Moments later I stood by the baggage claim, eyes straining toward the arrival's door. My breath hitched with every new passenger stepping into the fluorescent hall. I held onto one image: her smile blossoming as she saw me after all this time.

Every journey across continents is marked by more than geography. Tonight, my flight traced the curves of memory and mapped the contours of a love I’m determined to reclaim.

Crossing Countries - Continent.

# 5 Landing in Lusaka: An Overnight Vigil

Landing in Zambia felt like the first beat of an unpredictable heart. I landed in Lusaka, Zambia, under a sky that felt both foreign and familiar. My heart pounded so hard that I could feel every pulse in my chest. It seemed to ask whether she would greet me with warmth or scold me at the airport—and how I would calm her if she did. The air felt impossibly fresh as I stepped away from the plane toward the baggage-claim lounge.

When my small bag finally appeared, it struck me how modest it was for an international journey—never had I imagined on that flight from Hyderabad that it would feel so tiny beside the towering luggage around me. Still, I grabbed my bag and rushed toward the airport’s exit. It was 1:00 am, and I studied every arriving face with desperate hope.

I glanced at my phone again, only to see there was no network. I approached the gate desk and asked for the Wi-Fi password, but the connection was so slow I felt transported back to India’s 3G era.

I called her, trembling with expectation, but she did not answer. I sent photos of myself standing outside the airport, but still there was no reply. I phoned again and again, yet she never picked up. I scanned every incoming passenger, but she was nowhere to be seen. I stayed rooted to the spot, memories of our last trip to China flooding my mind—where her late arrival had felt like a punishment.

I reassured myself that Africa might be unpredictable and that she could arrive in the morning. With only a few seats available, I settled on one and rose whenever a car pulled up, hoping she might emerge. I lost count after checking more than thirty-two vehicles, still without a trace of her. Tears welled in my eyes as I sent voice messages into the void, receiving no reply. Yet I remained, my heart refusing to accept that she wouldn’t come.

By 5:00 am, a small shop opened, and I realized the night’s chill in Africa was harsher than I’d expected. I bought a packet of cigarettes and searched for her work project—Maamba at Sinazongwe. I checked the distance from there to Lusaka on my phone. Seeing it stretched for five to six hours, I reasoned that if she left at dawn, she could arrive by 10:00 am, and I vowed to wait until then. As I waited, my mind replayed every moment of our shared history.

The scene that haunted me most was the day she accused me of withholding money. I wondered how she could ever think that of me. Money had never held such importance in my life. I recalled the day I sold my semen to afford something truly necessary. I had always wanted to give her everything—I just knew to understand her needs when she asked.

I remembered the expensive camera, the iPhone, and the diamond ring I had purchased on EMIs. I never imagined that one misguided decision—to save more for our marriage like her sister’s wedding—would cause such pain. I had written about my childhood trauma, and now I understood why I had acted that way. I always longed to be recognized by my loved ones, because I had often been compared to others. When 10:00 am passed and she still didn’t arrive, I refused to leave; instead, I wandered into nearby shops, and having bought a local SIM, I continued messaging her with my hotel details.

By that point, I finally accepted that she was not coming. I searched for the next flight home and opened a car-hire app. I had to choose between flying back immediately or hiring a car—and I hesitated. I knew that if I stayed and she never arrived, enduring a week alone would be brutal. There at the crossroads of choice, I decided to stay for the week.

I booked a taxi through the app and waited for the driver with almost nothing but a fragile hope. When the car arrived, I climbed in, clinging to a dream that she might join me by Valentine’s Day. The roads were nearly empty; I asked the driver where Chinese travelers usually stayed, but his directions blurred in my mind. He dropped me in front of a decent hotel, but I felt no emotion as I stepped inside.

My messages continued to go out, though I knew there would be no response.

I carried that hollow feeling through that day—and I still feel it today.

Crossing Countries - Continent.

#6; Landing in Lusaka

Finally, I am in the hotel. I remembered I told her about the hotel as well. Standing at the gate of the hotel I stare at each vehicle parked outside; my eyes search for her. I take a deep breath and go inside.

The place is good and clean, with a reception desk. I ask for a smoking room. They tell me they have a no-smoking policy and no smoking rooms. If I need to stay here for the week, I ask for a lower floor, thinking it will take less time for me to go around.

I meet the Bengali contractor, the same man I saw near the airport arrival. He says he came to the hotel last night, and I wonder if it was safe to travel at night. I have kept the number of the driver who dropped me at the hotel. The contractor tells me he is going to Victoria Falls in Zambia—it's on his bucket list. He asks why I came to Zambia. I tell him it's for an interview, though really it was nothing.

I take my luggage to the room and begin staring at the road from the window. I am confident she will come, so my eyes stay fixed on the street. I try to meditate, or at least I try to calm myself. I try hard not to panic, but nothing helps.

I ask reception where I can get beer. To be frank, I did not use to drink much those days, so I bring only six small beers to find some peace or to sleep. After drinking them I still do not get peace, so I try to sleep but cannot. I buy another six small beers and drink them too, but peace still does not come. It is almost 9:30 p.m.; I ask reception again and they send another six. I drink two of them and finally pass out, or rather I boozed off.

I wake at around 1:00 a.m. and frantically check my phone for messages or calls from her; there is nothing. I cry and realize her pain is still not healed. I try to meditate and, I guess, eventually sleep the way I always do after making her angry. I fall asleep often like that: guilt heavy, exhausted.

Selfishness and promises

I feel the pain she must be suffering even though my selfishness has been greater than that pain. I did not think about how she must feel when she saw me in pain. I keep messaging her from selfishness and start drinking again; by 4:00 a.m. I am boozed. The cycle keeps repeating until 14th February, and Valentine’s Day passes like that.

I send many messages. I message a colleague of hers to inform him about my visit to Africa. I informed her too, though I never told anyone about our relationship and I never will— I know myself. Still today I think she is afraid I will bring her a bad name; I do not know why, but if she thinks so there must be a reason.

Sometimes telling the truth to loved ones threatens them. Sometimes love becomes a matter of belief and disbelief. I thought many things those days, and one was that we had not yet reached the stage where she could believe me even for her safety. That idea makes me feel cheap, though I know I am the one who made that gap.

Even in that time of brokenness, I kept one promise: I had vowed not to track her, and I did not. I wanted to, but I didn’t. From that moment onward I wanted to keep my promises, and that is part of why I reached where I am now—with the website.

My episode keeps repeating—regret, selfishness, depression, frustration, apologies, memories of her—all that comes with love falls over me. She is younger than me but much more mature. Maybe deep down I knew she loved me more than I returned.

I messaged her many things that came from an honest place inside me, but I now know those words must have hurt her. I do not remember much of those days, or I choose not to, because beyond my guilt there is a lot of pain—for both of us.

The final date of 18th September arrives; I must return. I realize that instead of healing her by coming there, I brought her more hurt. I was there to bring her back into my life to complete my incompleteness, not to fill the empty part of her.

I get into the cab I booked with the same Application and bid my final adieu to Zambia and, quietly to my selfishness.