phani adivi

@phaniadivi

Journalism, interested in Iran, Israel, North Korea, Middle east enthusiast, Foreign policies and relations, Modern History, cricket, quora, desk job, blogger.

Michigan, USA

Joined May 2009

507 Following

86 Followers

208 Posts

phani adivi @phaniadivi

11 months ago

Woah!!

Raj Kunkolienkar

@kunksed

11 months ago

I was in fifth grade when I learned to read my parents' silence. They were talking in the kitchen, late at night, in that particular hush that parents use when they think children are asleep. I caught fragments. Bombay. Tests. Something about a doctor. The next morning, everything was normal. Chai, school, the shop. But I had heard the frequency shift. It was 2004. My father was 39. We had just moved out of the room behind our kirana store—a chawl on the outskirts of Panaji—into a proper apartment. Our first EMI. Things were looking up in the way they do for Indian middle-class families who have spent years looking at the same ceiling: slowly, carefully, one calculated risk at a time. Then the diagnosis. Stage 3 follicular lymphoma. I didn't know what lymphoma meant. There was no internet to tell me, no Google to spiral into. Cancer was a word from movies—something that happened to people in cities, in dramatic hospital scenes with violins. Not to shopkeepers in Goa. Not to fathers who opened shutters at 7 AM and counted change at night. They kept me in the dark. The logic was simple: don't disturb the boy's studies. So I went to school. I came home. I did homework. And in the margins of this ordinary life, my father was taking buses to Mumbai for chemotherapy. I still don't fully understand how he did it. A biopsy, then a bus. Chemo, then the overnight journey back. Tata Memorial to Kadamba bus stand. The same man who winced when he cut his finger slicing onions was now traveling eight hours each way with poison in his veins, because what else was there to do? Goa didn't have the facilities. We didn't have the money for flights or hotels. So he sat on buses, probably in pain I can't imagine, probably next to someone complaining about the AC being too cold. My mother ran the shop. Not "helped out"—ran it. Wholesale orders, inventory, customers, credit books, all while her husband was in the jaws of something that might kill him. New scans kept showing the cancer spreading. The word "spreading" did a lot of work in those days. And I? I was a child. Which means I was selfish in the way only children can be—not out of cruelty, but out of not knowing. My father was alive and not going bald like he did so I assumed things were now fine. I was still in the dark. I remember crying for days because I wanted a geared cycle. All my friends had them. The fancy ones with the grip shifters. I needed it for school, I argued. I needed it because everyone else had one. I remember my parents' faces when I wouldn't let it go—that particular exhaustion of people who cannot explain why they're saying no, because the explanation would break something. Every rupee mattered. I didn't know that yet. I didn't know that they were borrowing money from friends, from family, sometimes from customers at the shop—the same aunties who haggled over soap prices were quietly lending us cash to keep my father alive. That's the thing about the Indian middle class: the safety net is made of relationships. Of people who've known you long enough to trust you'll pay them back, eventually. No paperwork. Just faith, and shame, and gratitude all mixed together. My father then spent 40 days in Mumbai for radiation. He stayed with my aging grandparents in a small flat while I finished my exams and my mother kept the shop open. I don't know what those 40 days were like for him. He never talked about it. Men of that generation don't. They just endure, and then they come home, and life continues as if nothing happened. The magnitude of what was happening to my family didn't hit me until years later. No health insurance, of course—it was unheard of for people like us. The treatment, the travel, the lost income from the shop, the interest on loans that weren't from banks. It drained us completely. Not metaphorically. Actually. The kind of drained where you stop going to movies. Where eating out becomes a memory. Where "vacation" is a word other families use. Miraculously—and I use that word carefully—things stabilized. By 2007, the cancer was in remission. Whether it was the radiation, the medication, or the wheatgrass cow dung milk ayurvedic concoctions my mother sourced from god-knows-where, I don't know. Probably all of it. Probably none of it. Cancer does what cancer does, and we tell ourselves stories about why. But remission doesn't mean freedom. It means waiting. It means every annual checkup is a held breath. It means the knife never really leaves—it just hangs higher for a while. It took us until 2015 to recover financially. Eleven years. A whole decade of my adolescence spent in the aftermath of something that happened in three months. That's the part nobody tells you about illness: the medical crisis has a timeline, but the financial crater doesn't. It just sits there, and you fill it in slowly, one repaid loan at a time, one favor returned, one customer you finally pay back. In 2012, I got admits to colleges abroad. Good ones. The kind of opportunity that I'd dream about for my children. My mother sat me down and gently suggested I reconsider. She didn't say "we can't afford it." She said: "What if it comes back?" The knife, always dangling. She was right to think it. I knew she was right. So I gave the BITSAT, got into BITS Pilani with a generous scholarship from the Goa government, and made it through. It was the practical choice. The safe choice. The choice you make when you've learned that life can pivot on a diagnosis. It did come back. In 2022, the lymphoma transformed—DLBCL this time, more aggressive—and everything we'd feared for eighteen years arrived all at once. My father went through treatment again. CAR-T therapy, a clinical trial. Brief remission. Then not. He passed in 2023. But the thing I think about now, the thing that connects that fifth-grade boy crying about a cycle to the man I became: when it came back, I was ready. Not emotionally—you're never ready for that. But financially. I could go all out. Best doctors. Best facilities. No borrowed money from customers. No buses to Mumbai. When the bill came, I could pay it. The CAR-T didn't work. Cancer won anyway. But I sleep at night. I sleep because I know I did everything that could be done. There's no version of me lying awake wondering: what if I'd had more? What if I could have afforded that other treatment? That guilt would have eaten me alive. It would have been worse than grief. I think about this when people ask me why I care so much about money. Why I write about financial security. Why I'm building what I'm building. It's not ambition. It's not greed. It's not even wisdom. It's trauma response. The boy who cried about a geared cycle grew up to understand something about money that no finance book teaches: it's not about the stuff. It's about what happens when the phone rings and someone says the word "biopsy." It's about having options when you have no good choices. It's about not borrowing from the aunty who buys soap from your shop. My father ran a kirana store. He woke up early. He counted change at night. He took buses to chemo because that's what was available to him. He never complained. He came home and opened the shop the next day. I don't know what he would think about me writing this. He wasn't the type to share. But I think he'd understand why I'm sharing it: because somewhere, there's a family in a small town, getting a diagnosis, doing the math, realizing the numbers don't work. I want them to know they're not alone. And I want the version of me that comes after them—the child who doesn't fully understand yet—to grow up in a world where this story is a little less common. That's all. Now go, get some insurance and take your parents out for dinner while they're still around.

kunksed's tweet photo. I was in fifth grade when I learned to read my parents' silence.

They were talking in the kitchen, late at night, in that particular hush that parents use when they think children are asleep. I caught fragments. Bombay. Tests. Something about a doctor. The next morning, everything was normal. Chai, school, the shop. But I had heard the frequency shift.

It was 2004. My father was 39. We had just moved out of the room behind our kirana store—a chawl on the outskirts of Panaji—into a proper apartment. Our first EMI. Things were looking up in the way they do for Indian middle-class families who have spent years looking at the same ceiling: slowly, carefully, one calculated risk at a time.

Then the diagnosis. Stage 3 follicular lymphoma.

I didn't know what lymphoma meant. There was no internet to tell me, no Google to spiral into. Cancer was a word from movies—something that happened to people in cities, in dramatic hospital scenes with violins. Not to shopkeepers in Goa. Not to fathers who opened shutters at 7 AM and counted change at night.

They kept me in the dark. The logic was simple: don't disturb the boy's studies. So I went to school. I came home. I did homework. And in the margins of this ordinary life, my father was taking buses to Mumbai for chemotherapy.

I still don't fully understand how he did it. A biopsy, then a bus. Chemo, then the overnight journey back. Tata Memorial to Kadamba bus stand. The same man who winced when he cut his finger slicing onions was now traveling eight hours each way with poison in his veins, because what else was there to do? Goa didn't have the facilities. We didn't have the money for flights or hotels. So he sat on buses, probably in pain I can't imagine, probably next to someone complaining about the AC being too cold.

My mother ran the shop. Not "helped out"—ran it. Wholesale orders, inventory, customers, credit books, all while her husband was in the jaws of something that might kill him. New scans kept showing the cancer spreading. The word "spreading" did a lot of work in those days.

And I? I was a child. Which means I was selfish in the way only children can be—not out of cruelty, but out of not knowing. My father was alive and not going bald like he did so I assumed things were now fine. I was still in the dark.

I remember crying for days because I wanted a geared cycle. All my friends had them. The fancy ones with the grip shifters. I needed it for school, I argued. I needed it because everyone else had one. I remember my parents' faces when I wouldn't let it go—that particular exhaustion of people who cannot explain why they're saying no, because the explanation would break something.

Every rupee mattered. I didn't know that yet. I didn't know that they were borrowing money from friends, from family, sometimes from customers at the shop—the same aunties who haggled over soap prices were quietly lending us cash to keep my father alive. That's the thing about the Indian middle class: the safety net is made of relationships. Of people who've known you long enough to trust you'll pay them back, eventually. No paperwork. Just faith, and shame, and gratitude all mixed together.

My father then spent 40 days in Mumbai for radiation. He stayed with my aging grandparents in a small flat while I finished my exams and my mother kept the shop open. I don't know what those 40 days were like for him. He never talked about it. Men of that generation don't. They just endure, and then they come home, and life continues as if nothing happened.

The magnitude of what was happening to my family didn't hit me until years later. No health insurance, of course—it was unheard of for people like us. The treatment, the travel, the lost income from the shop, the interest on loans that weren't from banks. It drained us completely. Not metaphorically. Actually. The kind of drained where you stop going to movies. Where eating out becomes a memory. Where "vacation" is a word other families use.

Miraculously—and I use that word carefully—things stabilized. By 2007, the cancer was in remission. Whether it was the radiation, the medication, or the wheatgrass cow dung milk ayurvedic concoctions my mother sourced from god-knows-where, I don't know. Probably all of it. Probably none of it. Cancer does what cancer does, and we tell ourselves stories about why.

But remission doesn't mean freedom. It means waiting. It means every annual checkup is a held breath. It means the knife never really leaves—it just hangs higher for a while.

It took us until 2015 to recover financially. Eleven years. A whole decade of my adolescence spent in the aftermath of something that happened in three months. That's the part nobody tells you about illness: the medical crisis has a timeline, but the financial crater doesn't. It just sits there, and you fill it in slowly, one repaid loan at a time, one favor returned, one customer you finally pay back.

In 2012, I got admits to colleges abroad. Good ones. The kind of opportunity that I'd dream about for my children.

My mother sat me down and gently suggested I reconsider. She didn't say "we can't afford it." She said: "What if it comes back?"

The knife, always dangling.

She was right to think it. I knew she was right. So I gave the BITSAT, got into BITS Pilani with a generous scholarship from the Goa government, and made it through. It was the practical choice. The safe choice. The choice you make when you've learned that life can pivot on a diagnosis.

It did come back. In 2022, the lymphoma transformed—DLBCL this time, more aggressive—and everything we'd feared for eighteen years arrived all at once. My father went through treatment again. CAR-T therapy, a clinical trial. Brief remission. Then not.

He passed in 2023.

But the thing I think about now, the thing that connects that fifth-grade boy crying about a cycle to the man I became: when it came back, I was ready.

Not emotionally—you're never ready for that.

But financially. I could go all out. Best doctors. Best facilities. No borrowed money from customers. No buses to Mumbai. When the bill came, I could pay it.

The CAR-T didn't work. Cancer won anyway. But I sleep at night. I sleep because I know I did everything that could be done. There's no version of me lying awake wondering: what if I'd had more? What if I could have afforded that other treatment? That guilt would have eaten me alive. It would have been worse than grief.

I think about this when people ask me why I care so much about money. Why I write about financial security. Why I'm building what I'm building.

It's not ambition. It's not greed. It's not even wisdom.

It's trauma response.

The boy who cried about a geared cycle grew up to understand something about money that no finance book teaches: it's not about the stuff. It's about what happens when the phone rings and someone says the word "biopsy." It's about having options when you have no good choices. It's about not borrowing from the aunty who buys soap from your shop.

My father ran a kirana store. He woke up early. He counted change at night. He took buses to chemo because that's what was available to him. He never complained. He came home and opened the shop the next day.

I don't know what he would think about me writing this. He wasn't the type to share. But I think he'd understand why I'm sharing it: because somewhere, there's a family in a small town, getting a diagnosis, doing the math, realizing the numbers don't work.

I want them to know they're not alone. And I want the version of me that comes after them—the child who doesn't fully understand yet—to grow up in a world where this story is a little less common.

That's all. Now go, get some insurance and take your parents out for dinner while they're still around.

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phani adivi @phaniadivi

almost 2 years ago

Surprisingly I am reading this tweet on a Qatar flight from Doha to Chicago and there is a family of 4 who hv been making continuous phone calls over WhatsApp. They don’t even care to use headsets/airpods. Just blasting it on speaker. 0 respect/concern for co-passengers.

Dinesh Joshi Office

@OfficeOfDNJ

almost 2 years ago

A sincere advice to some Indians . When you are travelling abroad , along with your baggage carry some manners too . Don’t speak loudly in fine dining restaurants , keep your Daal , Bhaat Shaak , Rotli conversations to your rooms. There’s no need to do video calls with family. Last but not the least don’t make Chaak Chaak noise when you eat. Thank You.

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phaniadivi retweeted

Chetty Arun

@ChettyArun

over 2 years ago

I spoke with yet another scammer today. I don't know why I do this, but here we go. It all started with a few annoying Whatsapp messages trying to scam me. But we ended up wishing each other good luck 😂 1/n

ChettyArun's tweet photo. I spoke with yet another scammer today. I don't know why I do this, but here we go.

It all started with a few annoying Whatsapp messages trying to scam me. But we ended up wishing each other good luck 😂

1/n https://t.co/Sm49J5XtNW

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phaniadivi retweeted

Deedy

@deedydas

over 3 years ago

Parents getting old when most kids in their late 20s/30s live far away from them grinding at work is such a social tragedy that we don’t talk about enough It’s truly depressing

191

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Who to follow

Paul Ware

@PaulWare

Enjoys working out, competition, politics, sports and the outdoors

@scorpionT84

Konstantin Shtauber

@shtayber

Philosophy, science, art, sports and another exciting things that inspire my soul!

phaniadivi retweeted

Priyanka Thirumurthy @priyankathiru

almost 4 years ago

This is how a perfect day looked like in 2001! #nostalgia

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phani adivi @phaniadivi

over 4 years ago

😞 😔 … some of his songs - Pal .. Yaaron were one of the favourites while growing up … sad to hear this ..

Roahan Mitra @rohansmitra

over 4 years ago · Kolkata

#BreakingNews unbelievable, Popular singer Krishnakumar Kunnath aka KK passed away while performing live in Kolkata right now. His first song which made me a fan was Pal. This is so tragic and sad. Rest in peace, condolences and prayers with the family.

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phani adivi @phaniadivi

over 4 years ago

Yo @espn @ESPNPlus - ads on your app suck big time. The ads that are being aired while streaming #IPL2022 get stuck and repeat 3-4 times. Not only now your ads are boring.. they are stuck too. Every time I after an over, I have to mute so to avoid your ads. Hope you fix them.

phani adivi @phaniadivi

about 5 years ago

#Tesla #teslastock @elonmusk

phani adivi @phaniadivi

about 5 years ago

I have Tesla stock in my portfolio and I have voted Yes. It’s ok. I believed in the long term and the company’s products. Holding for long.

Elon Musk

@elonmusk

about 5 years ago

Much is made lately of unrealized gains being a means of tax avoidance, so I propose selling 10% of my Tesla stock. Do you support this?

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phani adivi @phaniadivi

about 5 years ago

@Twitter - ur ad suggestions (promoted ones) are the worst amongst the apps that I use. The ads that you place don’t make any relevance and I don’t even click them. May be, take a suggestion or two from FB (Instagarm app) or google (YouTube ads).. Ur ads are hopeless.

phani adivi @phaniadivi

about 5 years ago

Good to see continuous ads of @Hertz featuring Tom Brady and @Tesla on @hulu while watching the #T20WorldCup games.. literally free marketing for #Tesla considering they don't spend a buck on ads. @elonmusk

phani adivi @phaniadivi

about 5 years ago

Never a fan of Kohli's captaincy - but genuinely feeling bad for him for not able to get to the Cup being a captain..no doubt, for sure.. he's a one-for-the generation player and hoping to see him score mountain full of runs.. just like old days.. #RCB #Kohli #IPL2O21

phani adivi @phaniadivi

about 5 years ago

The only comic reason I find in this whole charade is - #Kohli wrote the name Ravi in the playing 11 and handed it to Shastri and went to restroom. #RaviShastri got confused which Ravi it was - Ravi #Ashwin or Ravi #Jadeja. #INDvENG @ashwinravi99 #kohli. Too many Ravi’s in team

phani adivi @phaniadivi

about 5 years ago

It’s ok if you pick the best team and lose. It means you tried your best. It’s not ok if you keep the worlds current 2nd ranked bowler in the sidelines and lose - just so u can play with your friends. Hoping the boys win tomorrow. #IndvsEng @ashwinravi99 #ashwin #kohli

phani adivi @phaniadivi

about 5 years ago

Lol True

Gabbar

@GabbbarSingh

about 5 years ago

The win is sitting in the stands wearing shorts listening to commentary.

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phani adivi @phaniadivi

about 5 years ago

It's just sad to see @ashwinravi99 sitting alone near the dressing room .. what else shud a guy do to be in the team.. Whatever may be the conditions.. he deserves a place in the team .. #INDvsEND #ravichandranashwin

phaniadivi retweeted

Adam Carolla

@adamcarolla

about 5 years ago

Rest In Peace Heroes 💔

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phani adivi @phaniadivi

over 5 years ago

@davelee Also, its all politics at the end of the day. The Big 3 are in Michigan - a swing state, extremely important for both parties. $TSLA is in Calif/Tx. They would have invited TSLA, had it been in one of those swing states like WI, MI, FL, NC etc.

phani adivi @phaniadivi

over 5 years ago

Multiple sites like homedepot, fidelity, fedex, costco are down and throwing a similar DNS failure error. Identified the error when Oracle wasn't working too. #internetoutage #OutageUpdate #fidelity

phani adivi @phaniadivi

over 5 years ago

If not us, then NZ. It’s ok. #WTC21 #INDvNZ They too rightfully deserve to win. 🏏

phani adivi

@phaniadivi

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