At the Crossroads of Relevance: The Quiet Battle of the Next Six Months

“At the Crossroads of Relevance: The Quiet Battle of the Next Six Months”

There are seasons in life when storms announce themselves with thunder and lightning. And then there are seasons when the sky appears deceptively clear, yet a silent tremor runs beneath one’s feet. I sense that the next six months may not challenge me with a dramatic upheaval, but with something subtler, deeper, and perhaps more unsettling — the battle for relevance, rhythm, and renewed purpose.

Having spent thirty-eight years in education — serving as Principal, mentor, trainer, and guide — one does not simply retire; one merely steps aside. The chalk dust may have settled, the morning assemblies may no longer echo with my voice, yet the instinct to lead, to correct, to nurture, still lives within me. The challenge ahead, I suspect, is not about competence. It is about positioning. Not about ability, but about acceptance.

In today’s world, youth is often mistaken for innovation, and age for obsolescence. Experience is respected ceremonially but consulted selectively. The next six months may test my patience as I continue to offer my services through Prashant Educational Consultancy Services OPC Pvt Ltd, knocking on doors that open slowly, if at all. It is not rejection that wounds; it is indifference. And indifference, as philosophy reminds us, is colder than criticism.

The Stoics would say, “Focus only on what lies within your control.” I have often told my students that dignity lies not in applause but in perseverance. Yet when one stands at this stage of life, the heart occasionally whispers, “Have I done enough? Do I still matter?” These questions are not signs of weakness; they are signposts of transition.

History reassures me. When Mahatma Gandhi returned from South Africa, he was not immediately embraced as a national leader. His relevance was built through quiet resilience. When C. V. Raman pursued his research under limited resources, recognition did not knock instantly at his door. Relevance is rarely gifted; it is carved.

Another potential challenge in the coming months may be emotional — the subtle loneliness that creeps in when social engagements thin out and digital responses grow sparse. In a world of constant notifications, silence can feel louder than noise.

Yet perhaps this silence is not abandonment, but invitation — an invitation to deepen one’s writing, refine one’s thoughts, and converse more intimately with one’s Creator.

Financial prudence too may demand attention. Without the cushion of a pension, one learns to budget not only money but also expectations.

The ancient Indian philosophy of Aparigraha — non-possessiveness — teaches that security lies not in accumulation but in contentment. Still, the practical world insists on planning, and prudence must walk hand in hand with faith.

The greatest challenge, therefore, may not be external at all. It may be the internal balancing act between gratitude and ambition. Between accepting the evening of life gracefully and yet keeping the lamp of aspiration burning brightly. Between saying, “I have served well,” and still daring to ask, “What next?”

In these six months, I must guard against two extremes — complacency and cynicism.

Complacency whispers, “You have done enough; now withdraw.” Cynicism murmurs, “The world no longer values what you offer.”

Both are seductive. Both are dangerous. The antidote lies in disciplined routine — reading, writing, walking, consulting, praying — and in small, consistent acts of engagement.

Perhaps the real challenge is to redefine success. No longer in terms of position, but in terms of peace. No longer in designation, but in direction.

If I can emerge six months later with steadier finances, richer writing, deeper faith, and undiminished dignity, then the season will have served its purpose.

As I stand at this crossroads, I am reminded that autumn is not a sign of death but of ripening. Leaves fall, yes — but only to nourish the soil for another spring.

And so, if a challenge must come, let it come quietly. I shall meet it with experience in my hands, faith in my heart, and hope as my walking stick.

Letters to a Boy with Burning Dreams

“Letters to a Boy with Burning Dreams”

If I were granted the rare privilege of sitting beside my teenage self — that lanky boy with restless eyes and a heart too large for his fragile circumstances — I would not scold him. I would not sermonise. I would simply place a reassuring hand upon his shoulder and say,

“Breathe. Life is not a race; it is a pilgrimage.”

Adolescence, as described by the Swiss psychologist Jean Piaget, is the stage of formal operational thought — when reasoning awakens and imagination stretches its wings. Yet, no textbook prepares a young soul for loneliness, comparison, fear of failure, or the heavy silence of unexpressed pain.

To that boy, I would offer these gentle counsels.

1. Do Not Mistake Noise for Significance

The world will tempt you with applause and terrify you with criticism. Neither defines you. In the corridors of life, gossip travels faster than truth. Learn early that character is built in silence.

Remember what Marcus Aurelius wrote in his Meditations: “You have power over your mind — not outside events.”

Guard your mind as a sacred sanctuary. It is your true kingdom.

2. Failure Is Not a Verdict

You will stumble. You will sometimes feel left behind. But take heart from Thomas Edison, who found thousands of ways that did not work before discovering one that did. Failure is not the opposite of success; it is its stern but faithful tutor.

Do not fear falling; fear remaining where you fell.

3. Read Widely, Reflect Deeply

Let books be your quiet companions. Read not merely to pass examinations but to understand humanity. The wisdom of the Bhagavad Gita reminds us of nishkama karma — action without attachment to results. When Arjuna trembled on the battlefield of Kurukshetra, it was the clarity of duty that steadied him.

In your own battles — academic, emotional, or moral — choose righteousness over popularity.

4. Do Not Rush Love, Nor Fear It

Teenage affection often feels like eternity compressed into a glance. Feel deeply, but decide wisely. Affection is beautiful; obsession is bondage. Respect yourself and respect others. The heart must remain tender but not naïve.

Love should elevate, not consume.

5. Honour Your Parents, But Find Your Own Voice

Gratitude is a moral duty. Yet blind obedience is not maturity. Listen carefully to those who care for you, but cultivate discernment. As Rabindranath Tagore wrote, “Let your life lightly dance on the edges of Time like dew on the tip of a leaf.”

Dance lightly, but stand firmly in your convictions.

6. Take Care of Your Body
You inhabit only one body.

Walk, run, stretch, breathe. Do not neglect sleep. The vigour you build now will become your shield in later years. Health is not merely absence of illness; it is the quiet harmony between mind and muscle.

7. Wealth Is a Tool, Not a Master

You will worry about money. You will see others prosper quickly. Remember this:

integrity outlasts income. Earn honestly. Spend thoughtfully. Save patiently.

The glitter of quick success often conceals the rust of compromise.

8. Forgive Early, Forgive Often

Resentment is emotional poison. Forgiveness does not justify injustice; it liberates the wounded. Carrying anger into adulthood only multiplies sorrow. Release what you cannot control.

9. Seek God Without Fear

Whether through prayer, meditation, music, or silent reflection, seek a higher anchoring. Faith is not superstition; it is courage in the unseen. In moments when you feel abandoned, you are often being shaped.

10. Believe That You Are Enough

Comparison will try to devour your peace. There will always be someone brighter, wealthier, or more celebrated. But there is only one you. Your uniqueness is not accidental; it is intentional.

Do not shrink to fit into borrowed expectations.
If I could conclude my counsel to that teenage boy, I would say this:

You will endure storms. You will hide tears. You will question your worth. But you will also rise — again and again. The world may measure you by titles and achievements, but heaven measures you by resilience and kindness.

Walk steadily. Speak truthfully. Work diligently. Love generously.

And when doubt clouds your sky, remember — even the longest night yields to dawn.

The Tyranny of the Tedious: What Truly Bores Me

The Tyranny of the Tedious: What Truly Bores Me

Boredom, I have often felt, is not merely the absence of activity; it is the absence of meaning. For a man who has spent thirty-eight years in education—two decades at the helm as Principal—life has rarely offered me the luxury of dullness. Yet, there are certain experiences that drain colour from the canvas of existence and make even the ticking of the clock sound louder than it ought to.

What, then, bores me?

1. Conversations Without Substance

Nothing wearies my spirit more than conversations that skim the surface of life like a stone skipping across water—never once daring to plunge into its depths.

Endless gossip, repetitive complaints, and trivial chatter about who wore what or who said what leave me mentally exhausted.

Having lived through administrative challenges, curriculum reforms, staff training sessions, CBSE inspections, and countless parent-teacher dialogues, I have come to value discourse that builds bridges of understanding. Dialogue that enlightens, even when it disagrees, excites me. But conversations that circle the same drain of negativity bore me beyond measure.

As the philosopher Socrates suggested, an unexamined life is not worth living. I would add—an unexamined conversation is hardly worth having.

2. Mechanical Routine Without Purpose

Routine in itself is not the enemy. In fact, discipline is the backbone of achievement. However, routine devoid of reflection becomes a treadmill—much motion, no movement.

When work is performed merely to tick boxes, when teaching becomes delivery rather than inspiration, when meetings become rituals without resolution—that is when boredom creeps in like an uninvited guest.

Education, to me, was never about paperwork; it was about awakening minds.

When that spark disappears, monotony takes its place.

3. Pretence and Hollow Formality

Politeness is a virtue; pretence is a burden. Ceremonies conducted merely for display, speeches delivered without conviction, applause offered out of compulsion—these weary my soul.

Having addressed assemblies and delivered countless speeches myself, I know the difference between words spoken from the diaphragm and words spoken from the heart. The former echo; the latter resonate. Hollow formality, however, leaves only silence.

4. Digital Noise Without Human Warmth

In recent years, I have sensed how social engagement has thinned into virtual acknowledgements. A hundred emojis cannot replace one meaningful conversation. Endless scrolling, algorithmic suggestions, and superficial engagement often bore me because they substitute quantity for quality.

The irony is sharp: we are more connected than ever, yet more isolated than before.

5. Intellectual Stagnation

Perhaps what bores me most is stagnation—the refusal to grow. I have always believed that retirement is not withdrawal but redirection.

Writing books, running my consultancy, training educators—these pursuits keep the mind agile.

To stop learning is to rust. And rust, unlike dust, does not simply settle—it corrodes.

As Rabindranath Tagore wrote, “You cannot cross the sea merely by standing and staring at the water.”

Inactivity disguised as contemplation is, for me, a recipe for boredom.

What Does Not Bore Me

Interestingly, the antidote to boredom is surprisingly simple:

– A meaningful conversation with a former student

– A well-played raga on the harmonium

– A thoughtfully written book

– A brisk morning walk

– A challenging idea that unsettles complacency

Music never bores me; it heals. Books never bore me; they provoke. Purpose never bores me; it propels.

Boredom is not an enemy to be feared; it is a signal to be interpreted. It whispers that the soul seeks depth, authenticity, and engagement. Whenever I feel its shadow approaching, I ask myself: Am I merely passing time, or am I shaping it?
Life, after all, is too brief to be lived on the surface. If we must tread water, let it at least be in the ocean of meaning—not in a puddle of triviality.

And perhaps that is what truly bores me: anything that forgets the grandeur of being alive.

A Cup That Whispers to the Soul: In Praise of Tea

“A Cup That Whispers to the Soul: In Praise of Tea”

If I were asked to choose my favourite drink, without hesitation and without embellishment, I would say: tea. Not as a fashionable preference, nor as a social accessory, but as a quiet, loyal companion that has stood by me in sunshine and storms alike.

Tea, to me, is not merely a beverage; it is a pause between two heartbeats.

A Brew Steeped in History

The story of tea stretches back to ancient China, where legend attributes its discovery to the Chinese emperor Emperor Shen Nong. From there, it travelled across continents, shaping economies, cultures, and even political movements. One cannot forget the symbolic rebellion of the Boston Tea Party, where tea became a catalyst for change and a metaphor for freedom.
In India, tea found fertile soil and flourishing plantations, particularly in Assam and Darjeeling. The robust Assam brew and the delicate fragrance of Darjeeling have become part of our national rhythm. A railway platform without the cry of “Chai, chai!” feels incomplete, as though history itself has missed a train.

The Ritual and the Reflection

There is something profoundly philosophical about making tea. Water must boil — sometimes we too must endure heat before we release our true colour. Leaves must steep — patience, after all, is the silent architect of strength. Milk may soften its sharpness — compassion tempers conviction. Sugar may sweeten — kindness lightens the bitter truths of life.
In the Bhagavad Gita, equanimity is praised as a virtue. Tea teaches equanimity. It neither rushes nor resists; it simply becomes.

In the quiet hours of dawn, when the world is still stretching its limbs, a cup of tea rests beside my notebook. Many a page has been written under its gentle influence. It does not intoxicate like coffee, nor does it demand attention. It accompanies, it listens, it waits.

Tea and Togetherness

Tea has been the silent witness to countless staff meetings, counselling sessions, parental consultations, and reflective evenings. As a school Principal, I often found that a tense conversation mellowed when prefaced with the words, “Shall we have some tea?”

It breaks the ice without breaking the spirit.
In Indian households, offering tea is not mere hospitality; it is acceptance. It says, “You are welcome here.” It says, “Let us share a moment.” In a world that moves at breakneck speed, tea reminds us to pull the handbrake and breathe.

A Companion in Solitude

There have been evenings when loneliness knocked gently at the door. Social circles shrink, seasons change, and one sometimes feels like a bookmark left between forgotten pages. On such evenings, tea has been my quiet solace. It neither asks questions nor offers unsolicited advice. It simply warms the hands and, mysteriously, the heart.
As the English saying goes, “A cup of tea solves everything.” While that may be an exaggeration, it certainly softens the edges of many problems.

The Final Sip

My favourite drink is not chosen for glamour or trend. It is chosen for memory, meaning, and mindfulness. Tea is democratic — equally at home in a clay cup by the roadside or in fine porcelain on a polished table. It does not discriminate; it unites.
And perhaps that is why I cherish it.

For in every cup, there is history. In every sip, there is philosophy. And in every shared moment, there is humanity.

So, if ever you visit me, do not expect extravagance. Expect instead a simple cup of tea — brewed with patience, poured with warmth, and served with conversation.

No Man Is an Island: Why We Still Need People Around Us

No Man Is an Island: Why We Still Need People Around Us

“Man is by nature a social animal,” wrote Aristotle centuries ago, and the statement has refused to age.

In an era of smartphones, solitary screens and silent scrolling, we may imagine that independence is the highest virtue and self-sufficiency the noblest badge of honour. Yet, when the day grows long and the evening stretches into reflective silence, a simple truth stares back at us: we are not designed to walk alone.

The Architecture of Belonging

Human life is constructed not merely of bricks and achievements, but of voices, hands and shared glances. Even the most resilient among us carries invisible threads tied to others — threads of memory, gratitude, conflict, forgiveness and affection. Without people around us, life may function, but it seldom flourishes.

From the Gurukul system of ancient India to the academies of Plato, learning itself was born in dialogue. A teacher without pupils is a monologue; a pupil without peers is a half-written manuscript. Ideas sharpen through discussion, character strengthens through interaction, and wisdom matures through disagreement.

As one who has spent decades amidst classrooms, staff rooms and assembly grounds, I have witnessed how a child blossoms when surrounded by encouragement. Education is not a transaction of information; it is a relationship of trust.

The Mirror We Do Not Own

People around us act as mirrors we ourselves do not possess. We may believe we know our strengths and weaknesses, but often it is a colleague who gently points out our impatience, a student who unknowingly reveals our influence, or a friend who reminds us of our forgotten talents.

In Indian philosophy, the concept of Vasudhaiva Kutumbakam — “the world is one family” — echoes through the pages of the Mahā Upaniṣad. The idea suggests that isolation is not natural to the human condition. We are interconnected beings; our joys multiply when shared, and our sorrows shrink when spoken.

The Psychology of Companionship

Modern psychology affirms what ancient sages intuited: loneliness corrodes the spirit. While solitude can refine thought and deepen prayer, prolonged isolation can become a silent thief. A hearty laugh with a friend, a shared meal, or even a brief conversation at the gate may restore emotional balance more effectively than a shelf of self-help manuals.

Even the Stoics, often misread as advocates of detachment, valued fellowship. Marcus Aurelius reminded himself daily that he was made for cooperation, like “hands and feet, like eyelids, like the rows of the upper and lower teeth.”

Nature itself is collaborative.
Strength in Vulnerability
We sometimes resist closeness out of fear — fear of judgement, betrayal, or dependency. Yet, paradoxically, vulnerability strengthens relationships.

When we allow others to see our uncertainties, we build bridges of authenticity.
After retirement, many discover that titles fade but relationships remain.

Positions may be surrendered; companionship sustains. The laughter in the corridor, the informal tea-time discussions, the choir practices, the collective celebrations — these were not peripheral to work; they were its heartbeat.

Society as a Moral Compass

Communities do more than comfort; they correct. Law and order, tradition and culture, even festivals and rituals, are collective expressions. Without people around us, we would neither celebrate Diwali nor Christmas, neither debate policy nor compose poetry for an audience. Civilisation itself is a grand collaboration.

As John Donne famously wrote, “No man is an island.” His meditation reminds us that each person’s loss diminishes the whole. Our presence matters not only for ourselves but for the ecosystem of humanity.

The Balance Between Solitude and Society

Of course, one must not mistake noise for connection. Solitude refines; society enriches. The art of living lies in balancing the two. A thoughtful evening alone with a book may nourish the intellect, but a warm conversation nourishes the soul.

We need people not merely to fill time but to fill meaning. To celebrate our victories. To challenge our assumptions. To stand beside us when life tightens its grip. To remind us that our story is part of a larger narrative.

Why should we have people around us, after all?
Because laughter needs an echo.
Because wisdom seeks dialogue.
Because grief demands a shoulder.
Because love requires another heart.

To live alone may prove our independence.
To live with others reveals our humanity.
And in the grand theatre of existence, it is not the solitary spotlight that defines us, but the shared stage upon which we perform the drama of life together.

Where My Shoes Remember More Than My Feet”

“Where My Shoes Remember More Than My Feet”

There are companions in life who do not speak, yet silently walk through every season of our becoming. For me, that companionship has often come in the form of two faithful pairs of shoes — the black Hush Puppies and the brown ankle-high Woodland shoes.

They may seem ordinary to a casual observer, but to me, they are chapters stitched in leather.

The Black Hush Puppies: Authority with Grace

The black Hush Puppies were my allies in the corridors of responsibility. They walked with me into staff meetings, inspections, seminars, and solemn assemblies. Their quiet elegance matched the tone of formal addresses and boardroom deliberations.
When I stood before teachers, students, or parents, articulating policies or delivering a morning address, those shoes grounded me. They were not flamboyant; they were dignified — much like the values I tried to uphold as a Principal and mentor.

Black has always symbolised seriousness, discipline, and authority. In those shoes, I felt prepared — not merely dressed. They carried me into rooms where decisions were made, futures were shaped, and responsibilities weighed heavily on the conscience.

They witnessed applause and criticism alike. They bore the dust of playground inspections and the polished floors of conference halls. And through it all, they reminded me that leadership is not about height, but about the steadiness of one’s step.

The Woodland Brown Ankle Shoes: Freedom with Strength

If the black shoes represented duty, the brown Woodland ankle shoes symbolised freedom. Unless the occasion demanded strict formality, my heart — and feet — leaned towards them.
There is something reassuring about ankle-high shoes. They hold you firmly, almost protectively, as though saying, “Go ahead, tread boldly.” Whether it was travelling for school work, visiting friends, attending informal gatherings, or simply driving through long highways, these brown companions were my preferred choice.

Brown, to me, speaks of earth — of roots, resilience, and warmth. These shoes walked with me through journeys both literal and metaphorical. They accompanied me on roads less travelled, on visits to new institutions, and on family outings where laughter outweighed schedules.

Perhaps my inclination towards them reveals something about my temperament: I value strength, but I cherish comfort; I respect formality, but I celebrate authenticity.

What Shoes Teach

Shoes, in their silent wisdom, teach us humility. They remain closest to the ground, absorbing dust and pressure so that we may walk upright.

In many ways, they mirror life’s philosophy — endurance without complaint.

Like the “sandals” of wandering sages or the sturdy boots of explorers, footwear has always symbolised journey and purpose. We do not merely wear shoes; we entrust them with our direction.

In my life, these two pairs have carried me through decades of service, self-discovery, and silent reflection. They have walked across stages, through classrooms, along highways, and into moments of solitude. They have known my fatigue and my determination.

Beyond Leather and Laces
Now, when I look at them resting quietly in the rack, I do not see leather and stitching. I see a memory. I see miles travelled, conversations held, challenges faced, and victories earned.

– The black Hush Puppies remind me of discipline and dignity.
– The brown Woodland ankle shoes remind me of courage and comfort.
Both, in their own way, have taken me not just to destinations, but into deeper versions of myself.
For in the end, it is not merely about where our shoes take us —
it is about who we become while walking in them.

The Unwrapped Gift: When Life Gives Without Ribbons

The Unwrapped Gift: When Life Gives Without Ribbons
“One of the best gifts I have ever received?”

If I search my memory for parcels wrapped in shimmering paper, for boxes tied with satin bows, for surprises hidden in cupboards or beneath festive lights, I find none that stand out as a gift. In truth, I do not remember receiving the “best gift” in the conventional sense at all.

And yet, as I sit with this question, I realise that perhaps the finest gifts of life rarely arrive wrapped.

The Gift of Becoming

There were no dramatic unveilings, no applause, no ceremonious presentations. What I received instead were circumstances—some stern, some silent, some severe.

They did not come with greeting cards, but they came with lessons. They did not carry price tags, but they carried purpose.

Life, in its curious generosity, handed me responsibility before comfort, duty before indulgence, and questions before answers. At that time, I may not have recognised these as gifts. They felt more like burdens placed upon unprepared shoulders.

But as the Roman philosopher Seneca wisely observed, “Difficulties strengthen the mind, as labour does the body.” What seemed like deprivation slowly chiselled resilience. What appeared as absence became an invitation to grow.

The Gift of Education and Thought

If I must choose something tangible, it would not be an object, but an opportunity—the privilege of education. Books became companions. Chalk and blackboard became allies. Classrooms transformed into sanctuaries of thought.

Education did not merely teach me facts; it taught me perspective. It trained me to question, to reflect, to analyse. It instilled within me the scientific temper that our Constitution subtly encourages under Article 51A(h), reminding citizens to develop scientific inquiry and reform.

In this sense, the gift was not a possession but a preparation. It prepared me to stand firm when winds were strong and to bow gracefully when storms demanded humility.

The Gift of Trust

Perhaps the greatest invisible gift I ever received was trust—trust placed in me by institutions, colleagues, students, and parents. Leadership is never handed as a decorative trophy; it is entrusted as a responsibility. And trust, once given, becomes a sacred covenant.

The philosopher Immanuel Kant wrote about duty as a moral imperative. I felt that imperative deeply whenever responsibility knocked on my door. Each opportunity to guide, mentor, or serve was less a reward and more a calling.

Trust shaped my character more profoundly than any material gift could have.

The Gift of Solitude

There were seasons when silence became my closest confidant. In those quiet corridors of life, I often felt unseen, even forgotten. Yet solitude, like a stern teacher, revealed truths that noise never could.

The great poet William

Wordsworth found “emotion recollected in tranquillity.” In solitude, I too discovered reflection. Loneliness, though heavy, carved depth into my understanding of self and others.

It is strange how the gifts we initially resist become the treasures we later cherish.

The Gift of Writing

If I look at my present life—my pen resting faithfully beside me—I realise that writing itself is a gift. It allows pain to become prose, memory to become meaning, and silence to become sound.
The Bhagavad Gita speaks of Nishkama Karma—action without attachment to reward. Writing, for me, embodies that principle. I write not for applause, nor for awards, but because words seek expression. They insist on existence.

Perhaps the best gift I ever received was the ability to transform experience into expression.

The Gift That Was Never Wrapped

When I say I do not remember receiving the best gift, I now understand that I was mistaken. The gifts were simply not adorned with glitter. They arrived as challenges, as responsibilities, as education, as trust, as solitude, and as the quiet courage to continue.
Material gifts fade. Gadgets become obsolete. Clothes wear thin. But the invisible gifts—character, conviction, competence—grow stronger with time.

As Mahatma Gandhi once reminded us, “The best way to find yourself is to lose yourself in the service of others.” Service itself became a gift to me—one that gave more than it demanded.

A Quiet Conclusion

So, if someone asks me today, “What is the best gift you have ever received?” I would gently smile and say:
It was not something I opened with my hands.
It was something that opened me.

Life did not place a ribbon in my palm; it placed resolve in my heart.It did not gift me luxury; it gifted me lessons.And in those lessons, I found my wealth.

Sometimes, the finest gifts are not given to us.
They are grown within us.