Siddharth Mehta

M.S. DHONI #JAIN

[Siddharth Mehta @SidMehta38]

WOW 🙏

[KolkataKnightRiders @KKRiders]

"𝘕𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘶𝘱 𝘰𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘴, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘥𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘦" 💜

🎥 Scenes from last night as the boys watched the inspiring #KaunPravinTambe at a special screening by @DisneyPlusHS!

@legytambe #KKRHaiTaiyaar #IPL2022

[🐘 @TinuAnandless]

Ek hi toh dil hai, Javed Sahab, kitni baar todoge? ❤️🐐✨🫠

[Bhagavad Gita 🪷 @Geetashloks]

सर्वधर्मान्परित्यज्य मामेकं शरणं व्रज ।
अहं त्वां सर्वपापेभ्यो मोक्षयिष्यामि मा शुचः ॥

[Lemonwatersalt 🍋😊 @Aloneguy_1]

Ilanti richness kavali life lo 😍😊

[Andhoruvan @vandhurukaandae]

🏃🏃

[Elite Predators @elitepredatorss]

Brother of Major Sandeep UnniKrishnan, AC shared this video on instagram.

You can't beat this country, the reason is in the video.

[Luna Vantour @Luna_vantour]

The Beauty of Men's Friendship :)

[The Better India @thebetterindia]

“It’s been a second home to me,” Rahul Dravid says, and today, Bengaluru’s M Chinnaswamy Stadium honours him.

As a young boy, he sat in these stands with his father, watching every Test, ODI, and Ranji Trophy match with wide-eyed wonder.

His father would take leave just to bring him here, letting him soak in the crack of the bat, the roar of the crowd, and the magic of cricket.

Day after day, those seats became a classroom. Every cheer and every moment on the field taught him patience, focus, and love for the game.

From those quiet afternoons of watching and dreaming, India’s Wall emerged — steady, humble, legendary.

Today, a stand at M Chinnaswamy Stadium bears his name.

A tribute not just to his runs and centuries, but to the boy who once sat quietly, dreaming big, guided by his father’s love.

#RahulDravid #ChinnaswamyStadium #Cricket

[Rahul Dravid, M. Chinnaswamy Stadium, Bengaluru]

[NekoRei @Neko_Re1]

My favourite place ❤️‍🔥

[Akul (𝑨𝑻10) @Loyalsachfan10]

Story of Rahul Dravid's father.
He used to come to Bangalore to watch the Test Cricket whenever Rahul used to play.

Full story 👇👇

[Vatsala Singh @_vatsalasingh]

Really This is Goosebumps..🔥

गाना ऐसा बनाओ कि 4 लोग नहीं बल्कि
दुनिया भक्ति में झूमे नाचे..!!

हर हर महादेव.. 🕉️ 🔱

[Pallavi @pallavisiinghh_]

Men with their daughter's 🥹🫶

[Top 1% Men @dtop1percentmen]

one step at a time

[Mohini Maheshwari @MohiniWealth]

On the night of May 20, 2025, a little girl in a faded pink frock fell asleep on her mother’s lap at Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj Terminus. Her parents, simple people from Solapur, had come to Mumbai for her father’s treatment. They were exhausted. Just for a moment, the mother closed her eyes.

When she opened them, her daughter was gone.

Six months.
Six months of walking from police station to police station.
Six months of showing the same crumpled photograph to strangers on trains, in slums, in orphanages.
Six months of the father not sleeping, the mother not eating, both of them growing hollow-eyed, whispering the same name into the dark: “Aarohi… Aarohi…”

In Varanasi, a thousand kilometres away, a tiny girl with no memory of her real name was learning to call herself “Kashi.” She had been found crying near the railway tracks in June, barefoot and terrified. The orphanage gave her food, a bed, and a new name. She smiled easily, because children always do, but sometimes at night she clutched the edge of her blanket and asked for “Aai” — Marathi for mother — and no one understood.

Back in Mumbai, the police refused to close the file. They printed posters with Aarohi’s face, stuck them on every platform from Lokmanya Tilak Terminus to Bhusawal to Varanasi Cantt. They ran newspaper ads, knocked on doors, begged journalists for help. Six months is a long time for hope to stay alive, but some officers carried her photograph in their shirt pockets like it was their own child.

Then, on November 13, a local reporter in Varanasi saw the poster. Something clicked. He had seen a girl who spoke Marathi words in her sleep. He made a phone call.

The next morning, a Mumbai Police inspector sat in front of a laptop in Varanasi and opened a video call. On the screen appeared a little girl in a pink frock — the same colour she was wearing the day she vanished. The mother, standing behind the officer in Mumbai, saw her daughter and collapsed without a sound. The father just kept repeating, “That’s my Aarohi… that’s my baby…”

They flew her back on Children’s Day — November 14.

When the plane landed, the entire Mumbai Crime Branch was waiting. They had bought her balloons and a new frock, sky blue this time. But the moment the little girl stepped out and saw the sea of khaki uniforms, she did something no one expected.

She ran.

Not away — toward them.

Tiny legs pumping, arms outstretched, she threw herself at the nearest officer and laughed — the purest, clearest laugh that had been missing from the world for half a year. The officer, a tough man who had seen everything, felt his eyes burn. He lifted her high, and she wrapped her arms around his neck like he was family.

Her parents were crying too hard to walk. So the policemen carried their daughter to them.

The mother touched her face again and again, as if checking she was real. The father fell to his knees and pressed his forehead to his child’s tiny feet, sobbing words no one could understand except God.

And the little girl? She just kept smiling, looking from her parents to the officers and back again, completely unaware that she had turned an entire police station into a sobbing, laughing, praying family.

Six months of darkness ended in one hug.

Aarohi is home now.
The kidnapper is still out there, but that is tomorrow’s fight.

Today, a mother is singing lullabies again.
Today, a father is smiling in his sleep.
And somewhere in Mumbai, there are policemen who will never forget the weight of a four-year-old girl in their arms — the weight of an entire life returned.

Sometimes the uniform doesn’t just catch thieves.
Sometimes it carries lost children all the way back to their mothers’ hearts.

[Siddharth Mehta @SidMehta38]

@calm_sutra @pikaso_me screenshot please