kaisi hai · “how are you?”
Kaisi hai?
Two words, asked by someone who means it. A place to answer honestly, and to keep looking forward.
Free. No feed. No score. Just a question, and people who wait for the answer.
Not an app for when things go wrong.
An app for looking forward.
Most of what makes a day bearable isn’t a technique. It’s a person who asks how you are, and actually waits for the answer.
Kaisi hai is built on two beliefs: that people are good for each other, and that tomorrow is worth looking toward. So it makes sure someone asks. And it keeps a running record of what we’re all looking forward to.
No scores. No streaks. No feed built to keep you here. Ask, answer, look forward, close the app.
Maya asked kaisi hai?2h
Honestly, right now, you feel…
Something good might be coming.
Check in, in your own words
No 1-to-10. Nine honest words, a line if you want it, and a reply that isn’t a lecture.
A circle that asks
Up to eight people who matter. When you’re on their mind, they send a kaisi hai? You’ll know someone is waiting.
Tomorrow, out loud
Every check-in ends with one thing you’re looking forward to. Small or huge. Hold someone else’s with them.
A minute a day. Less on the days you don’t have it.
- 1
Say your name
That’s the whole sign-up. No email, no password, nothing to verify. Ten seconds.
- 2
Add your people
Up to eight. The ones who’d want to know how you are, and the ones you’d ask.
- 3
Ask. Answer. Look forward.
A minute a day, when you feel like it. Someone asks, you answer, you name one thing you’re looking forward to.
What people are looking forward to, right now.
Anonymous and unedited, from everywhere. A quiet reminder that the future is already being looked forward to by a lot of people, and you’re allowed to join them.
My sister's wedding. I'm giving the toast.
The first snow of the year.
Finishing my first 5K without stopping. I'm at 3.2.
My daughter's first day of school. She's already picked her backpack.
Sunday dinner with my mom. We don't even talk much.
Moving into a place with a window that gets morning sun.
The first peach of the season.
Seeing my best friend after four years. Airport, the 3rd.
Learning to swim at 34. Lesson two on Tuesday.
Getting my hearing aids fitted. I'll hear the birds again.
Going home for the holidays for the first time since I moved.
Planting the balcony garden. Tomatoes, if I'm brave.
My last chemo session is on the 18th.
Payday. I'm buying the good coffee.
My nephew learning to say my name.
Cooler mornings. The walk to work without sweating.
Opening the bakery in six weeks. The sign arrives Friday.
A whole Saturday with no plans.
The new season of the show my dad and I watch together.
Dancing at my cousin's wedding. Practicing in the kitchen.
Finally telling him. Either way, it'll be lighter after.
Sleeping in my own bed after two months away.
The train along the coast. Window seat booked.
Hearing back about the scholarship. I'm letting myself hope.
My hands not shaking when I present. Getting there.
Teaching my mother to video call. She'll finally see the baby.
The library reopening. My corner seat.
Running into the sea in October.
Winter. Something warm to drink, and nowhere to be.
The day I become a citizen. Dad's flying in.
Sealed until next spring
Dear future me,
By the time you read this, the thing I’m scared of this week will have happened, one way or another. I want you to remember that today, with all of it unresolved, I still made coffee and called home and…
Write to the you of next year.
Seal a letter to your future self. It stays closed until the day you choose. Not resolutions. Not goals. Just a note from someone who, on an ordinary day, believed you’d get there.
Most people cry a little when they open one. The good kind.