| The Diary Game| 14/08/2026 | Gloomy to Hopeful |

When I woke up today and saw the weather, I thought my plans would fail. It had rained last night. I went to the rooftop and saw water everywhere even puddles were visible under the dull morning light, the parapet was dripping, and the air heavy with the smell of wet cement.

I felt as my morning walk I had mapped in my head, the vlog I meant to shoot at the park, even the quick bike ride to the temple but now all seemed suddenly impossible.

I stood there, as my wife has gone to her brother's house so I had a few plans for outing but now the weather although cool, but damp. I saw a layer of water flow toward the drain.

The sky was full with clouds, reluctant to let go. For a moment, I thought I must cancel my program and go back to sleep.

But then I noticed the little green shoots pushing through a crack near the water tank, bright against the grey. Maybe the rain hadn’t ruined my plans; maybe it had just changed them. I could write instead, capture this moody sky, turn the disappointment into a story.

I finished my morning routine, spending thirty minutes in the washroom, enough time to shave, splash cold water on my face, and let the lingering sleepiness drain away with the tap. When I finally stepped out, towel around my neck, I glanced toward the window and was surprised: the sky had cleared.

The heavy clouds that had threatened to ruin the day were gone, replaced by a soft, milky blue that promised warmth.

I felt relived so I quickly finished my breakfast, simple toast and chai and got ready for the bike ride I had almost written off. I pulled on my sports shoes, checked the tire pressure, and slung my small backpack over my shoulder. The air felt fresh, still cool from the rain, with that clean, washed-earth smell that makes even a short ride feel like an adventure.

I sat in front of my laptop, logged into Binance and checked my charts, and a shock was waiting for me. BCH, which I had bought yesterday at $214, had slipped below $206 overnight. The red candles looked almost personal, as if the market knew my entry point and aimed right for it.

Worse still, LTC—the coin I trust so much, the one I’ve held through cycles—was trading under $45. My stomach tightened. I had told myself I wouldn’t panic-sell, but seeing those numbers this morning tested that resolve. For a moment I just stared at the screen, calculating how much I’d lost on paper, wondering if this was a temporary dip or the start of something uglier. I entered new selling points and forgot the prices for time being.

As I stepped out of the gate, the sun broke through properly, turning the wet roads into a pleasant view. I could already picture the route, past the park where children would soon be playing, down the lane with the tea stall I sometimes film for my vlog, and toward the open stretch near the fields. I parked my bike and went in.

The morning had begun with doubt, but now it felt like a gift. I started the bike into motion, smiling at how quickly a day can turn. Maybe by the time I come back prices of these coins will change too. No worries, I am not going to sell, no matter where they head.

I biked towards the Shiva temple where, until yesterday, millions had gathered for Shravan prayers. The roads that were once choked with devotees, vendors, and police barricades were now almost empty.

Today there was no crowd, no chants of “Har Har Mahadev,” no long queues, no bells ringing in a continuous chorus. I slowed down, but I wasn't surprised by the sudden quiet as it happens every year, twice.

I entered the temple courtyard and spent a few minutes standing near the sanctum. The air still carried the faint scent of incense and wet flowers from yesterday’s rush, but the energy was different calmer, more personal.

I touched the cold stone of Shiva's Statue, offered a silent prayer for my portfolio to recover 😄and watched a priest sweep the steps. In that stillness, the temple felt less like a festival ground and more like a refuge. Photography is prohibited but I took one.

Then I biked towards the Delhi bypass, the wide, freshly tarred road stretching ahead like a ribbon under the clearing sky. The morning traffic was light—just a few trucks rumbling past, their diesel exhaust mixing with the damp, post-rain air. I kept a steady pace, letting the rhythm clear my head from my crypto charts.

As I headed towards Moradnagar, the landscape shifted from the familiar lanes to the more open, semi-rural stretch dotted with small roadside eateries. The fields on either side glistened with leftover rainwater, and every now and then, a flock of birds would lift off from the crops, startlingly white against the green.

I passed the bypass itself was a study in contrasts, modern flyovers looming over tractors, shiny SUVs overtaking loaded e-rickshaws. I thought about how this road connected so many lives of commuters, traders, pilgrims and how, for these few kilometers, I was just another story moving along it.

By the time the Moradnagar sign came into view, my mind quieter, and the morning felt like mine again. But that was my last point for the day and I started my way back.

I stopped at my favorite spot, The Flavor Fiesta, just as the sun climbed higher and the air began to warm. It was almost lunch time, so I ordered something light—crispy samosas with tangy chutney and a small plate of their famous chat, the one with just the right balance of spice and tang.

I sat at my usual corner table, watching the slow mid-morning rush: a few families sharing plates, a couple of students huddled over phones, and the owner calling out orders with practiced ease.

The snacks hit just right after the ride, flavorful, and not too heavy. I sipped on a chilled Shikanji, feeling the coolness spread through me as the earlier tension from the charts faded. For those few minutes, I wasn’t thinking about BCH or LTC, just the simple pleasure of good food and a quiet break.

On my way back home, I rode through NH58 toward Modipuram. The road was busier than the morning, with more cars and two wheeler now out in the post-rain sunshine. When I reached the stretch near IIM, I was suddenly stuck in a road block. Police had cordoned off the street, and a crowd had gathered on both sides.

You see, tomorrow is our Independence Day, so this community celebrates it in their own style—by taking out a procession today itself, singing and dancing on the road. There were children in tricolor headbands, women in bright sarees clapping to patriotic songs, and a band playing “Vande Mataram” besides their own religious songs with surprising energy. I parked my bike near a tree and joined them, letting the rhythm pull me in.

I spent about two hours there, watching the procession wind through the colony, catching snippets of speeches, and smiling at the improvised dance steps of kids who clearly didn’t care about traffic rules. For a while, I forgot everything.