A good,short read!...

A good,short read!... The AC in my bedroom conked out in the middle of the night. Not sputtered. Not whimpered. It just gave up, like a resigned bureaucrat on a Friday afternoon. One moment I was wrapped in Himalayan bliss, the next I was drenched in Sahara sweat. And so I tossed and turned all night like a chicken being barbequed. By morning, I looked like I’d spent the night dancing in a steam room, and felt like I’d been at war—with a mattress and my melting dignity. The mechanic arrived late morning. Snooty fellow, eyes half shut with indifference and an air of casual brilliance, like he knew the secrets of the universe… or at least the secrets of split ACs. “It’s a good brand,” I told him hopefully, pointing at the machine like it was a pedigree dog that had soiled the carpet. “The best,” he nodded solemnly, opening the unit with the reverence of a surgeon unveiling a chest cavity. “Then what’s the problem?” I asked, hoping he wouldn’t suggest I replace it with some obscure cousin from a new brand he’d conveniently be selling on the side. “Air vents clogged. Filters dirty. Fins choked. All jammed with muck. Sir, there’s construction going on next door?” “Yes,” I said, “it’s been going on for the last two years!” “All the more reason,” he replied, with the wisdom of the Himalayas. “That you should have got it serviced regularly.” He tinkered for the next hour while I hovered like a parent outside an operation theatre. Then, like Lazarus from the tomb, the AC sprang back to life. Cold, sweet air whooshed out, almost like a sigh of relief—mine, not the AC’s. And as I sat under the newly sanctified breeze, I couldn’t help but think: Aren’t we a bit like that air-conditioner? We go through life with dust collecting in our systems—stress, deadlines, family drama, cholesterol, WhatsApp forwards from that hatred filled friends. Slowly, our vents get clogged, our filters don’t work, and our emotional fins seize up. Then one day we snap. Tempers flare. Health breaks down. Relationships stall. Spiritual life flattens. And someone gently tells us, “You need servicing.” Not a vacation to Bali, though that sounds lovely. But simple, quiet servicing—like regular walks, fewer gulab jamuns, annual health check-ups, forgiving that ex-friend, meeting close friends and a little conversation with the Divine each morning—not a rant, not a chant, but a chat. You see, our lives are surrounded by constant construction—of expectations, responsibilities, ambitions. And in all this dust, we forget to clean our vents. My AC’s working fine now. Whisper-cool. Just like the soul after a bit of prayer and the body after a morning stretch. Hope your vents aren’t clogged, dear. If they are—well, you know what to do. Service due, sir. Service due…!