Quiibyyy♥️ @thodi-si-guftugu - Tumblr Blog

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6 months ago, I found a best friend for life. She’s amazing ❤️. These days, whenever I want to go somewhere, I don’t even bother calling my friends anymore (bakchod hai saare, kahin aate jaate bhi nahi waise 😅). I just make a plan with her.

I feel incomplete when she’s not around — she’s like the CSS to my HTML output 💻❤️

We fight, we argue, we even threaten 😂 each other, but at the end of the day, we always laugh and smile together.

I love you, Fel ❤️♾️ @falaaafeels

#felo #fel♥️#her #bff #mera baccha hai re tu😂🤌🏻✨✨#mine #love #infinity #muuahh😚#tumlbr #tumblr girl

falaaafeels

Moody week

falaaafeels

What a power packed Weekend it was

With my people, my friends and my circle.

Oh for so many years, I have felt like I needed my people and to be blessed with them.

Makes me wanna say alhumdullilah every other second.

We hosted our first ever tiny Readers club and it was such an awesome feel. Felt productive and actually care about it. It was so much fun with @gulabi-dil

I hope it reaches heights of success we can't imagine.

@gulabi-dil you my heart ❤️

@thodi-si-guftugu thanks for being our spot dada

falaaafeels

This was a beautiful kheema Roti date. We ate to our hearts full and roamed around in the lanes of mumbai. It was impromptu and crazy.

@thodi-si-guftugu please thank me for pushing you to get out of the house.

Next stop : Shimla babyyyyy

iiumz

nottblessed

falaaafeels

Crazy hogya salad bowl

@thodi-si-guftugu

falaaafeels

Celebrating the man of the hour.

Constant partner in hogging, karaoke singer, best chai wala and biggest chugalkhor in the family.

You make this life tolerable.

@thodi-si-guftugu

Special thanks to the decorator of the year @gulabi-dil not possible with out you.💖🙏

falaaafeels

Konkan always feels like a place that was made on a Sunday afternoon when God wasn’t in a hurry .He took his time, laid out the red soil carefully, planted rows of coconut trees for symmetry, added mangoes and jackfruit for good measure, and then, most thoughtfully, filled it with people who would always offer you food before asking your name.

Konkan does not try to impress you. It doesn’t sparkle or announce itself. It simply exists, sun-warmed and slightly sleepy, like an old house that knows it is loved and therefore need not try too hard.

And then you arrive at Devbagh which very confidently calls itself “God’s garden.” Now, that is quite a claim for a small village. But Devbagh, in its quiet way, manages to live up to it without appearing the least bit proud.

It is a narrow strip of land, as though someone drew a line between the Arabian Sea and the Karli river and said, “This will do nicely.”

The Karli river, I must say, is the gentlest river I have ever met. If it were a person, it would be the sort who listens more than speaks, smiles without reason, and never interrupts. It flows with a quiet dignity, making you feel that perhaps life need not always be rushed and resolved.

The sea, on the other hand, has a flair for drama. It crashes, it roars, it throws itself at enormous rocks as though rehearsing for a performance. Between the two the calm river and the restless sea you begin to feel like you are watching an odd but harmonious conversation.

There is also a peculiar rock formation called Mhatrochi Chul, which seems to spend its time spraying water into the air like a child who has discovered a new toy and refuses to stop. Nearby, a lighthouse stands tall and dignified, probably wondering why humans insist on photographing everything except stillness.

The waters here turn that unreal shade of blue that makes you doubt your own eyesight. Naturally, we respond to such beauty by strapping on oxygen tanks and diving into it because admiration, for us, is rarely complete without activity.

Devbagh, I am told, is now quite popular on Instagram. This is both flattering and slightly unfortunate. People arrive with great enthusiasm, phones in hand, chasing views and angles, as though beauty might escape if not captured quickly.

But Devbagh is not in any hurry to be understood.

It prefers those who linger. Those who sit by the river without checking the time. Those who watch the sea without needing to record it. It reveals itself slowly, like an old story told in parts never all at once, and never to those who are in a rush to leave.

And perhaps that is its quiet wisdom:

some places are not meant to be seen quickly. They are meant to be stayed with long enough for them to notice you back.

falaaafeels

To us. Felo and Qibo ✨❤️

falaaafeels

The lanes were quieter than I expected, though perhaps it had always been this way, gently keeping its stories to itself. As I walked through Kharepatan, I felt a strange familiarity, like returning to a place I somehow already knew.

The village rested beside the river, calm and unhurried. The water moved slowly, as though it had nowhere else to be. There was a kind of peace in that stillness the sort you don’t notice at first, but soon begins to settle within you.

The old Sarang house stood at the bend, locked and silent. It did not feel empty, though. It felt full of memories, of lives once lived, of voices that had simply faded into time. I imagined the wooden furniture inside, resting patiently in the dim light… and among them, a red sheesham four-poster bed, more than a hundred years old. I could almost see it solid, carved, carrying the weight of generations. It lingered in my thoughts longer than I expected, as though it, too, had a story it wished to tell.

Nearby, a masjid and a temple shared the same wall. They stood together without fuss, as though they had always understood each other. It was a simple sight, but one that stayed with me.

In front of them lay a small open graveyard. My great grandfathers rested there five of them. The place felt quiet, not in a lonely way, but in a gentle, watchful way, as though the past was still close by.

I thought of my grandfather then. He used to tell me stories of these lanes walking with his elder sister, carrying sweetmeats to sell to travellers who passed through. His stories had always seemed small and simple, but standing there, they felt alive again.

And this village held stories even older than his.

It is said that Shivaji Maharaj once stopped here, by the same river, letting his horses drink from its waters. I stood there for a while, trying to picture it the quiet river, the soft sounds of hooves, the same sky watching over them.

The people here mostly speak Marathi, and even when I couldn’t follow every word, it still felt familiar like a language I had known in another time.

There were small signs of change a new wall here, a repaired roof there but they were easy to miss. Many people had left for Mumbai, drawn by its busy streets and bright lights. And so, the village had grown quieter, as if it had decided to slow down rather than follow.

It felt, in that moment, like a painting unchanged, unhurried, quietly holding on to time.

The red soil, the wide blue sky, the slow-moving river everything seemed to pause, just for a while.

And as I stood there, I had the feeling that the village was not new to me at all.

It was simply waiting.

As though it remembered me.