📖 PUKI'S STORIES

Entry date: March 14th. Location: Somewhere over the Arabian Sea, altitude 37,000 feet, dignity: zero.

I want to start by saying I was prepared. I had done everything right. Acupressure wristbands on both wrists. Ginger candies in three different pockets. Window seat over the wing. Motion sickness tablet taken exactly one hour before boarding. I had a plan. The plan was good.

Hour 2: The First Sign

Everything was fine until the meal trolley appeared. The smell reached me three rows before it reached my seat — warm chicken curry, recycled air, and something called "aircraft ambience." My stomach sent a polite internal memo: I am aware of this development. I am monitoring the situation.

Hour 5: The Turbulence

The captain called it "light chop." I want to formally dispute this description. What we experienced was 45 minutes of the aircraft reminding every passenger that we were in a metal tube held aloft by physics and optimism, both of which felt temporarily unreliable. The woman next to me watched a romantic comedy without removing her headphones. I watched her in genuine awe. What is she? I want whatever she has.

Hour 9: The Turning Point

I want to formally thank the inventor of the paper sick bag. Not just one — the full row thoughtfully provided in the seat pocket. Whoever designed that little accordion-fold mechanism: you are a hero. You have never been properly celebrated. I celebrate you now. I used two of the four available. I considered this a personal victory.

Hour 14: Arrival

We landed in London under grey drizzle. Beautiful, perfectly stationary London. I sat on a bench outside arrivals and breathed non-recycled air for six uninterrupted minutes. Would I fly again? Of course. I have a vacation planned for July. I remain, despite everything, an optimist. — Puki 🤢

From "The Chronicles of Puki" — Chapter 3.

My cousin Meera's wedding was described as "intimate." Three hundred guests, twelve flower arrangements per table, eight bridesmaids who had coordinated their perfumes in advance, and a fog machine rented "for atmosphere." The venue was a converted greenhouse. Every smell was trapped inside forever.

The moment I crossed the threshold, every scent hit me simultaneously. Roses. Jasmine. Tuberose. Three women wearing the same perfume in different concentrations. And something called "Cozy Cabin" from the candles that smelled like pine, cinnamon, and a dare.

I lasted through the ceremony. I evacuated during the first dance when the fog machine appeared, filling the venue with sweet theatrical mist that rolled across the dance floor like something from a music video. Everyone gasped with delight. I gasped for different reasons.

Meera found me in the garden with a ginger ale and plain crackers from the kitchen. "You came," she said. "That's what matters." I cried. It was worth it. — End of Chapter 3.

January 8th. Kabir's living room. Mood: overconfident.

Kabir got a new VR headset. "You HAVE to try it," he said. "It's incredible." I privately thought: I'll manage. I've been working on my motion sickness. I had not, in any meaningful sense, been doing the exercises.

Seconds 1–15: Beautiful. I was standing on a clifftop over an ocean. I said out loud "Oh, this is actually amazing." I meant it.

Seconds 16–30: The demo switched to flying. I was a bird. The horizon tilted. My stomach sent its first official warning.

Seconds 31–45: I removed the headset with great composure and said calmly: "I think I'm going to sit down for a minute." The room continued to move, despite being completely stationary, for approximately eight more minutes.

The headset sits on Kabir's shelf. He still uses it every weekend. I watch from the sofa at a safe distance. Some experiences are simply not for everyone. I am at peace with this. Mostly. — Puki 🤢

From "The Chronicles of Puki" — Chapter 1. The origin story.

Every superhero has an origin story. Mine involves an overnight Rajdhani Express, a middle berth, a compartment that smelled aggressively of samosas, and a curve somewhere outside Nagpur at 2:47 AM that I will never, ever forget. I was sixteen. I thought I had outgrown motion sickness. I was optimistic about trains. Trains are smooth, I told myself. Trains are stable.

Middle berths, I learned that night, are the worst possible position on a train. You cannot see the window. Your brain receives movement signals with no visual information and responds by declaring a full internal emergency.

At 3 AM, the attendant — Ramesh, according to his badge — wordlessly handed me a plastic bag, water, and glucose biscuits. He did not comment. He did not make eye contact. He simply provided the supplies and moved on. I think about Ramesh often. He was prepared. He was kind. He was everything I aspire to be for other people.

When we arrived I stepped onto the platform and made myself a promise: I will not let this stop me from travelling. I will just travel better. That promise is why this website exists. — End of Chapter 1.

November 23rd. The mall. The beautiful, terrible, weaponised candle shop.

It looked so innocent from outside. Warm lighting. Little glass jars in rows. "SERENITY & CO." the sign said. It promised serenity. It delivered the opposite.

My friend Divya wanted to buy a gift. "Two minutes," she said. The moment I crossed the threshold, forty candles all burning simultaneously hit me at once. Vanilla. Sandalwood. "Sea breeze." "Midnight jasmine." And something called "Cozy Cabin" that smelled like pine, cinnamon, and a dare.

I lasted four minutes. I exited and sat on a bench outside a pharmacy — which felt appropriate — until the world stabilised. Divya emerged seven minutes later with three candles and no awareness of the crisis I had survived.

"Wasn't that lovely?" she said. We are still friends. I remain supportive of her candle habit from a safe distance. — Puki 🤢

From "The Chronicles of Puki" — Chapter 5.

He chose a rooftop revolving restaurant — the kind that rotates 360° over an hour so you can see the whole city without moving from your seat. I did not read the full restaurant description. I saw "rooftop." I saw "fine dining." I confirmed. I did not see the word "revolving."

I noticed it around the time the starter arrived. The building across the road had moved. Not the building — me. We had rotated approximately fifteen degrees. My inner ear began its complaint process immediately.

By the main course I had run out of brave. I told him. He called the waiter, explained the situation, and asked if we could move to a stationary table. The waiter did not even blink. We moved. We laughed about it for the rest of the evening.

He texted the next day. We went somewhere non-rotating the following week. Reader, I liked him. — End of Chapter 5.

Entry date: April 22nd. Location: Express Elevator, MegaMall Tower.

It was supposed to be a fun shopping trip. The new MegaMall featured a glass "sightseeing elevator" that climbs 50 floors in 12 seconds flat. Kabir was excited. "The view of the city is breathtaking!" he said.

Unfortunately, I had just finished a plate of triple-cheese double-jalapeño nachos from the food court. My stomach was currently doing the heavy lifting of digestion. It was not looking for additional gravitational challenges.

The acceleration was vertical, but my vestibular system interpreted it as a sudden, aggressive push backwards. Then came the deceleration on Floor 50. It felt like my body stopped, but my internal organs continued upward for another half-second.

I exited on Floor 50, bypassed the scenic viewing deck, and spent twelve minutes leaning against a very cold marble pillar in the restroom. I did not puke, which was a miracle of pure willpower and deep breathing. We walked down using the stairs. All fifty floors of them. My legs hurt for three days, but it was the safest path. — Puki 🤢

Entry date: May 9th. Location: Ground Floor, Luxe Plaza.

I was only trying to take a shortcut to the metro. The path lay directly through the ground floor of Luxe Plaza — specifically, the "fragrance avenue" where thirty luxury brands display their scents.

I was walking fast, holding my breath, when a representative from a brand called "Oud & Lavender" stepped directly into my path. Before I could say no, he depressed the nozzle of a heavy crystal bottle, releasing a fine mist of concentrated floral musk directly into the airspace between us.

The scent was overwhelming. It wasn't just a smell; it felt like a physical weight in my chest. My vestibular system, already sensitive, interpreted the sudden sensory overload as motion. The floor felt like it pitched left by about ten degrees.

I made a sharp left turn, bypassed the exit, and stumbled into the fresh air of the loading bay behind the store. I stood among cardboard boxes and delivery vans for five minutes, coughing, until my head stopped spinning. Divya found me there and asked why I was standing next to a trash compactor. "Fresh air is fresh air," I told her. She understood. — Puki 🤢