The Unseen Ascent: How Life Quietly Measures Our Growth

“The Unseen Ascent: How Life Quietly Measures Our Growth”

Growth in life is rarely a trumpet blast; more often, it is the soft rustle of leaves before a season changes. We imagine growth as a ladder—higher income, grander titles, wider recognition. Yet true growth is more subterranean than spectacular. It is the invisible strengthening of roots before the branches stretch towards the sun.

In my understanding, growth is not merely progression; it is transformation. It is not the addition of years but the deepening of wisdom. It is the slow alchemy by which experience turns into insight.

Growth Beyond Achievement

Modern society frequently equates growth with external success. From the corporate ladder to the social media timeline, we are conditioned to measure ourselves in milestones. But history and philosophy whisper a gentler truth.

When I read the reflections of Marcus Aurelius, I find that growth lies in mastering one’s reactions rather than circumstances. In the teachings of Swami Vivekananda, growth is the expansion of the soul through service and self-belief. Even Mahatma Gandhi demonstrated that growth could mean shedding power rather than accumulating it.

Thus, growth is internal architecture. It is the strengthening of character when no one applauds.

Experiences That Reveal Growth

How does one realise that one has grown? Rarely through celebration. More often through contrast.

1. When Anger Softens into Understanding

A situation that once provoked rage now invites reflection. The pause before reaction—this is growth.

When the tongue that once lashed now chooses restraint, one has ascended silently.

2. When Loss Teaches Gratitude

Difficult goodbyes, broken expectations, professional disappointments—these are harsh tutors. Yet they refine us. Growth becomes evident when bitterness is replaced by balance. As the Stoics believed, adversity is not an obstacle but the way.

3. When Solitude Becomes Companionable

There comes a phase when loneliness no longer terrifies. Instead, it becomes a chamber of introspection. Growth reveals itself when one can sit alone without feeling abandoned by the world.

4. When One Listens More Than One Speaks

Youth seeks to assert; maturity seeks to understand. Growth is realised when curiosity outweighs the need to dominate conversations.

5. When Failure No Longer Defines Identity

Earlier in life, failure feels like a verdict. Later, it becomes a chapter. The ability to separate event from self is a hallmark of growth.

The Subtle Signs

Growth is noticed in the way we forgive ourselves. In the way we apologise without ego. In the way we accept change without collapsing. It is visible when comparison loses its sting and gratitude gains its glow.

Psychologically, growth is the widening of perspective. Philosophically, it is the refinement of conscience. Spiritually, it is the quiet assurance that life is not merely happening to us, but shaping us.

The Paradox of Growth

Interestingly, growth often feels like discomfort. A seed must split before it sprouts. A caterpillar must dissolve before it becomes a butterfly. Likewise, we must confront our fears, question our assumptions, and sometimes walk through valleys of uncertainty before we recognise the mountain we have climbed.
In retrospect, one realises growth not by counting victories but by observing responses:

– Do I react differently now?

– Do I forgive more swiftly?

– Do I fear less intensely?

– Do I value substance over spectacle?

If the answer tilts towards serenity, growth has occurred.

A Personal Reflection

There comes a time in life when one stops chasing applause and begins seeking alignment—between thought and action, between belief and behaviour. That shift is profound. It is the moment when life ceases to be a race and becomes a pilgrimage.

Growth, then, is not an event but a continuous unfolding. It is the gentle correction of our inner compass. It is the ability to remain steady when storms arrive and humble when sunshine returns.

In the end, growth is not about becoming someone else; it is about becoming more fully oneself.

And perhaps the truest sign of growth is this: when we look back at our younger self not with embarrassment or pride, but with compassion.

That compassion is the summit.

And the climb, though unseen, is magnificent.

“Written in the Stars or Carved in Stone? — A Dialogue Between Fate and Free Will”

“Written in the Stars or Carved in Stone? — A Dialogue Between Fate and Free Will”

There was a time when I dismissed fate with a casual wave of the hand. Destiny, to me, was a poetic indulgence — a convenient alibi for those unwilling to shoulder responsibility. I believed in effort, in discipline, in the old-fashioned virtue of earning one’s sunrise by waking before it. Life, I thought, was not written in the constellations but chiselled by human resolve.

Yet age has a way of softening certainties. What once appeared black and white now rests in shades of thoughtful grey. I find myself pausing at crossroads I once strode past with confidence.

Is everything merely the arithmetic of action and consequence? Or is there, somewhere beyond our sight, a quiet script unfolding?

The tension between fate and free will is not new. In the epic canvas of the Mahabharata, the mighty warrior Arjuna stands paralysed on the battlefield of Kurukshetra. His dilemma is not merely about war; it is about destiny and duty. In the sacred dialogue of the Bhagavad Gita, Krishna does not command blind surrender to fate. Instead, he urges action — karma. “You have the right to work, but not to the fruits thereof.” The message is subtle: destiny may provide the stage, but we must still perform our part.

Across continents, the Stoic emperor Marcus Aurelius wrote in his Meditations that we should accept what is woven into the pattern of our lives. To resist what we cannot change is to wrestle with the wind. Yet even he emphasised virtue — the deliberate shaping of one’s character within the framework of circumstance.

Science, too, complicates the debate. Genetics and environment mould us long before we make our first conscious choice. We inherit temperaments, tendencies, perhaps even predispositions. And yet, the human mind retains a remarkable capacity for reflection and change. We are neither entirely programmed nor entirely autonomous. We live in the tension.

Looking back, I see moments that feel orchestrated — meetings that altered direction, losses that redirected ambition, unexpected turns that led to unforeseen clarity. Were these random ripples or part of a larger design? It is tempting to label them destiny when hindsight grants coherence. Perhaps fate is simply the name we give to patterns we only recognise after they have formed.

There is also comfort in believing that life is not entirely accidental. The idea that suffering carries purpose can steady the trembling heart. However, overreliance on destiny may dull initiative. If everything is predestined, why strive? If all is written, why write at all?

I now stand somewhere between disbelief and surrender. I no longer scoff at destiny, nor do I abdicate responsibility. I have come to suspect that fate and free will are not adversaries but partners. Fate may deal the cards; free will decides how they are played. Destiny may open or close doors; courage determines whether we knock again.

In the end, perhaps life is less about choosing between fate and free will and more about harmonising them. Like a raga improvised within a fixed scale, we operate within boundaries yet create something uniquely our own.

The structure exists; the melody is ours.

So do I believe in fate or destiny? I believe in effort shaped by circumstance, in acceptance without passivity, in trust without complacency.

I believe that while some chapters may be pre-written, the margins remain blank — waiting for our annotations.

And perhaps that is enough!

When the River Changed Its Course

“When the River Changed Its Course”

There are chapters in life that conclude with applause, and others that close in contemplative silence. Yet there exists a rarer kind of ending — one that feels less like a full stop and more like a reluctant comma.

For me, the most difficult farewell was not to a person or a profession, but to a phase of becoming — the long, demanding, exhilarating years of striving.

The Season of Ascent

There was a time when life moved at the pace of ambition. The calendar was a battlefield of commitments; the diary overflowed with plans. One woke with purpose and slept with exhaustion that felt earned. Every sunrise whispered opportunity; every setback felt like a duel to be fought again at dawn.

In those years, the mind burned bright. One was not merely living — one was constructing, negotiating, persuading, proving. Recognition mattered. Achievement mattered. Relevance mattered.
I often reflected upon the dialogue between duty and detachment found in the Bhagavad Gita. Act without attachment to the fruits, it says. Yet how human it is to savour the fruit when it ripens! The applause, the affirmation, the sense of being needed — these are intoxicating nectars.

That phase was a river in spate — forceful, forward-moving, unstoppable.

The Identity of Usefulness

What made it difficult to say goodbye was not the busyness itself, but the identity it conferred. To be consulted, to be relied upon, to be called upon in moments of crisis — it fosters a subtle but powerful self-definition.
When the intensity gradually softened, when urgency yielded to quiet reflection, there emerged an unsettling question: Who am I without the momentum?

The Victorian poet Alfred Lord Tennyson wrote, “I am a part of all that I have met.” Indeed. But what happens when the meetings reduce, when the telephone rings less frequently, when the world appears to move forward without awaiting your nod?

The farewell was not dramatic. There was no ceremony. Just a gradual shifting — like twilight absorbing daylight without protest.

The Philosophy of Transition

In Ecclesiastes, we are reminded that there is “a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted.” Modern life teaches us how to plant; it rarely trains us how to relinquish.
Indian thought speaks of the four ashramas — stages of life — each with its own dignity. The phase of intense action must eventually yield to the phase of reflection. Yet the heart resists. The warrior is reluctant to lay down his armour.

Like Arjuna hesitating before battle, one hesitates before withdrawal — not out of fear, but out of attachment to purpose.

The Silent Realisation

Gradually, however, a revelation dawned: the river had not dried; it had deepened. The frantic current gave way to calm depth. The external clamour subsided, but inner clarity sharpened.

The difficulty of goodbye arose because that striving phase had sculpted discipline, resilience, and courage. It had forged identity in the furnace of responsibility. To part with it felt like parting with youth itself.

Yet maturity whispers a gentler truth — growth is not always vertical; sometimes it is inward.

The Quiet Renaissance

With the change came a slower rhythm. Reading without hurry. Writing without deadline. Reflection without interruption.

Conversations that explore meaning rather than strategy.
Strangely, in relinquishing the urgency of proving oneself, one begins to rediscover the joy of simply being.

The farewell to striving was painful because striving had been glorious. But letting go did not diminish life; it refined it.

The river changed its course. It no longer roared; it meandered. It nourished quietly rather than carving valleys dramatically. And in its quietude, it revealed something profound:
Purpose is not confined to productivity.
Worth is not measured solely by applause.
And endings, when embraced with grace, are merely transformations in disguise.

The phase I found hardest to relinquish was the era of constant ascent. Yet in bidding it farewell, I discovered that life’s summit is not a peak of noise — it is a plateau of perspective.
The river still flows.
Only its music has changed.

Book ReviewMy Pen and My Universe – Volume VII: Chronicles of Life, Love and LearningBy Prashant Kumar Lal

Book Review
My Pen and My Universe – Volume VII: Chronicles of Life, Love and Learning
By Prashant Kumar Lal

In a literary climate often driven by speed and spectacle, My Pen and My Universe – Volume VII stands apart as a work of measured reflection and moral clarity. This seventh volume is not merely an addition to an ongoing series; it is a culmination of decades of lived experience distilled into thoughtful prose.

About the Author

Prashant Kumar Lal is not a writer fashioned overnight. A seasoned educationist with 38 years of service — including two decades as a Principal — he brings to his writing the authority of experience and the humility of introspection. With an academic foundation in Physics and a career shaped by leadership, mentoring and institutional development, Lal writes from a rare vantage point: that of one who has led, reflected and evolved.

Post-retirement, his intellectual journey has continued through consultancy, authorship and philosophical engagement. His earlier works, including Image of my Experiences, Speeches from the Desk of the Principal, and The Legend of Inara Wali, etc reveal his versatility across genres — poetry, academic guidance, fiction and reflective essays. This breadth of engagement strengthens the authenticity of Volume VII.

About the Book

Volume VII explores themes of ageing with dignity, leadership without position, faith without fanaticism and relevance without noise. It weaves together educational insight, personal memory and philosophical meditation.

Drawing inspiration from both the Bhagavad Gita and the Bible, Lal adopts an interfaith tone that is inclusive rather than doctrinal.

The prose is dignified, structured and reflective — shaped by the analytical discipline of science and the lyrical softness of poetry.

Readers encounter essays on digital disconnection, generational shifts, moral leadership, and the quiet transformation from Principal to grandfather. The book does not promise dramatic revelations; instead, it offers steady illumination.

Target Audience

This volume is ideally suited for:
1. Educators and School

2. Leaders seeking reflective insight into value-based leadership.

3. Retired Professionals navigating questions of relevance, identity and contribution.

4. Parents and Grandparents reflecting on generational transitions.

5. Readers of Philosophy and Spiritual Essays who appreciate interfaith wisdom.

6. Students of Education and Leadership Studies exploring practical ethics.

7. Thoughtful General Readers who value contemplative literature in refined UK English.

It is particularly relevant in contemporary India, where education, family structures and digital culture are undergoing rapid transformation.

Why It Works as a Contemporary Read

The book’s strength lies in its authenticity. Lal writes neither to impress nor to provoke; he writes to engage. His reflections carry emotional warmth without sentimentality and intellectual depth without pretension. The language is accessible yet polished, making it suitable for both academic and general readership.

In marketing terms, My Pen and My Universe – Volume VII positions itself as:

1. A reflective memoir blended with philosophical essays.

2. A leadership companion for educators.

3. A spiritual yet non-sectarian guide for mature readers.

4. A legacy work from an experienced Indian educationist.

Final Assessment

This seventh volume reinforces Prashant Kumar Lal’s identity as a reflective chronicler of life’s layered journey. It is not a book to be skimmed; it is one to be savoured. In a world that moves swiftly, this work invites the reader to pause — and in that pause, to rediscover meaning.

For those who believe that learning deepens with age and that wisdom ripens through reflection, this book offers not merely reading material, but companionship.
It is both personal and universal —
much like the universe it seeks to explore. ✍️

“In Another’s Shoes: Borrowing a Conscience for a Day”

“In Another’s Shoes: Borrowing a Conscience for a Day”

If I were granted the whimsical liberty to be someone else for a day, I would choose neither a monarch enthroned in splendour nor a tycoon surrounded by glass towers. I would choose a frail man wrapped in simplicity yet armed with moral thunder — Mahatma Gandhi.

Why Gandhi? Because power may command obedience, but character commands history. In a world that often confuses noise with influence, I would wish to inhabit a mind that mastered silence as strategy and humility as strength.

The Weight of Simplicity

To be Gandhi for a day would mean walking barefoot upon the sands of Dandi during the epoch-making Salt March, challenging the might of the British Empire with nothing but moral resolve. It was not merely salt he lifted from the shore; it was the dignity of a nation.

Imagine confronting injustice without bitterness, resisting oppression without violence. That paradox fascinates me.

As a former Principal who spent decades shaping young minds, I learned that authority does not lie in raising one’s voice but in raising one’s example.

Gandhi’s life was precisely that — a living curriculum of courage.

The Experiment with Truth

Gandhi titled his autobiography The Story of My Experiments with Truth. The phrase itself is profound. Life is not a finished monument; it is an ongoing experiment.

If I could inhabit his consciousness for a day, I would wish to feel that inner laboratory — the discipline behind fasting, the turmoil behind political negotiations, the solitary nights of introspection. Leadership is often a mountain peak: one stands tall, yet frequently alone.

At sixty-five, with abiding energy yet reflective pauses growing longer, I too conduct my modest experiments with truth — as an educator, as a consultant, as a father, and now as a grandfather. Have I always chosen conviction over convenience? Have I spoken truth with grace rather than harshness? Gandhi’s example nudges me gently but firmly.

Courage Beyond Anger

Non-violence, or Ahimsa, was not passive submission; it was disciplined strength. Even leaders like Martin Luther King Jr. drew inspiration from him, proving that moral courage travels farther than armies.
To be Gandhi for a day would mean feeling the tremor of history beneath each word uttered. It would mean forgiving when retaliation appears tempting. It would mean standing firm while storms of criticism rage.

Yet I would not romanticise him blindly. To be Gandhi would also mean enduring misunderstanding, criticism, and the burden of imperfection. Greatness does not imply flawlessness; it signifies transparency and accountability.

Returning to Myself

And then, as twilight descends upon that imagined day, I would gladly return to being myself — Prashant: husband to Agnes, father to Akash, and grandfather to Vaidehi and Agastya. Their laughter is my ashram; their innocence, my prayer meeting.

For ultimately, we need not become Gandhi to practise truth. We need only begin where we stand — in our homes, in our conversations, in our daily dealings.

If I borrowed his conscience for a day, it would not be to escape my own identity, but to refine it.
Because the final lesson is simple:
To walk in another’s shoes is education;
To walk wisely in one’s own is wisdom.

Let me not crave another’s fame,
Nor covet crowns that glitter bright;
Grant me instead a steady flame
To guard my conscience through the night.

If I could borrow a saintly tread,
To feel how fearless hearts endure,
I’d learn that truth is daily bread
And humble living makes it pure.

And when I’m back where I belong —
With little hands in mine at play —
May love be firm, my patience strong,
And truth my compass, come what may.

For greatness is not a borrowed role,
Nor history’s echo in a hall;
It is the quiet shaping of the soul —
And that, perhaps, is the greatest call.

The Great Noodle Conspiracy: A Domestic Epic in One Packet

The Great Noodle Conspiracy: A Domestic Epic in One Packet

There are wars recorded in the annals of history — the Mahabharata, the Trojan War — and then there are wars that erupt in kitchens over a humble packet of instant noodles.

This, dear reader, is the chronicle of one such epic: The Case of the Missing Nissin Geki.

My son, Akash — a man of intellect, professional acumen and otherwise admirable temperament — had preserved, with almost archaeological care, a packet of Nissin Geki noodles. It lay in the kitchen cupboard like a hidden treasure, awaiting its destined hour of boiling glory.

One fine evening, the treasure vanished.
Not misplaced. Not partially opened. Vanished.
Like the Koh-i-Noor from Indian soil, it was simply… gone.

Akash began his investigation. His eyebrows arched like a seasoned detective from CID. His tone grew analytical. His questions became pointed.
“Pushpa… did you see my Nissin Geki?”

Pushpa, my ever-graceful daughter-in-law, responded with calm innocence, “No. Why would I?”

But suspicion had already entered the room like an uninvited auditor from the Income Tax Department.
Days passed. The inquiry deepened. The cupboard was inspected. The shelves were interrogated. Even Agastya’s toy box was spared no scrutiny. Yet the noodles did not reappear.

And then, one evening, the inevitable happened.
Akash, with mild annoyance fermenting into theatrical accusation, declared,
“You must have eaten it and not told me!”

Pushpa, aghast, protested her innocence.

“I did not! Why would I steal noodles in my own house?”

There they were — two educated, articulate adults — circling around a missing packet of instant noodles as if it were a matter of constitutional amendment.
For a fleeting moment, I feared the United Nations might need to intervene.

What fascinated me was not the disappearance of the noodles — that remains a mystery worthy of Sherlock Holmes — but the seriousness with which both parties defended their honour. There was logic. There was cross-examination. There was emotional appeal.
All for seventy-odd grams of dehydrated carbohydrates.

Eventually, wisdom prevailed. The case was closed under the clause of “Mysterious Loss Due to Unknown Causes.” Peace was restored. Tea was served. Life resumed.

But I could not stop laughing.
It reminded me how easily the human mind constructs narratives. A missing object becomes a missing moral fibre. A trivial doubt becomes a thesis on betrayal. We are quick to suspect, quicker to defend, and slowest to laugh.

How fragile is our peace — and how inexpensive the cause of its disturbance!
In my 65 years of life — as a Principal, a father, and now a grandfather — I have witnessed boardroom debates less passionate than this noodle inquiry. I have seen institutional conflicts over policies that carried less emotional charge.

And yet, what is life without these harmless comedies?

The truth is, the packet may have slipped behind the shelf. It may have been accidentally discarded. It may have transcended into some culinary heaven.

But what remains is the laughter.

In the end, it was not about noodles.
It was about attachment.
It was about an assumption.
It was about the delightful absurdity of being human.

Let not suspicion boil
Faster than the kettle’s steam,
For many wars begin
Over things that only seem.

A packet lost in shadows
Can darken reason’s sight,
But love, when stirred with humour,
Turns the quarrel into light.

Guard not just your cupboard,
Guard the trust you daily weave—
For noodles may go missing,
But let not hearts take leave.

And if tomorrow something’s lost,
Before conclusions recklessly you seek,
Pause… and smile a little—
It may just be another
Great Noodle Mystery of the Week.

Silencing the Page: Do We Ban Books to Protect Society or to Protect Our Fear?”

“Silencing the Page: Do We Ban Books to Protect Society or to Protect Our Fear?”

There are few acts as symbolically powerful as banning a book. It is not merely the removal of paper and ink from a shelf; it is the silencing of a voice, the arrest of an idea, the throttling of dissent. From the burning of manuscripts in ancient empires to the censorship boards of modern democracies, societies have wrestled with a perennial question: Should intellectual property ever be banned?

This is not a question of convenience. It is a question of conscience.

The Historical Shadow of Censorship

History is a stern teacher. When the Qin dynasty in ancient China burned Confucian texts, it was not just books that were destroyed, but memory itself.

In Europe, the Catholic Church’s Index Librorum Prohibitorum sought to regulate thought. In the twentieth century, the images of books aflame under the regime of Adolf Hitler remain an indelible reminder of how fear of ideas often precedes fear of people.

Closer to home, even in democratic India, debates have surrounded works by writers such as Salman Rushdie and Perumal Murugan. The controversy around The Satanic Verses demonstrated how literature can ignite passions, challenge faith, and unsettle established norms.

But the deeper question remains: do bans protect society, or do they expose its fragility?

The Case for Banning: Order, Morality, and National Security

Let us be fair. Those who argue for banning intellectual property often do so in the name of protection. They claim that certain content may:
– Incite violence or communal hatred
– Promote obscenity or moral decay
– Threaten national security
Spread misinformation

Indeed, most modern democracies, including India under Article 19(2) of the Constitution, allow reasonable restrictions on free speech in the interests of sovereignty, public order, decency, or morality.

One cannot deny that propaganda literature has, in some cases, fuelled extremism. Words can wound. Ideas can mobilise mobs. The pen, as the proverb goes, can be mightier than the sword.

The Case Against Banning: The Marketplace of Ideas

Yet, John Stuart Mill in On Liberty argued that silencing an opinion robs humanity. Even a false opinion has value — it sharpens the truth. When we ban a book, we do not eliminate the idea; we merely push it underground, where it festers without scrutiny.

In our own Indian philosophical tradition, debate was not feared but encouraged. The Upanishadic dialogues, the Shastrarth between scholars, even the robust arguments within the epics like the Mahabharata — all demonstrate that truth emerges from dialogue, not suppression.

If we begin banning books because they offend, we may soon find ourselves banning questions because they disturb.

Intellectual Property in the Digital Age

Today, censorship extends beyond books. Films are trimmed, songs are muted, digital content is geo-blocked, and social media posts are removed. Intellectual property now includes blogs, podcasts, research papers, and even software.
But the digital world complicates bans. The internet knows no borders. What is prohibited in one country may circulate freely in another. Thus, banning often becomes symbolic rather than effective — a gesture to appease sentiment rather than a solution to a problem.

The Slippery Slope of Moral Policing

Who decides what is offensive? Whose morality prevails? In a pluralistic society like India — with its tapestry of religions, languages, and cultures — uniformity of thought is neither practical nor desirable.

As a former Principal and an educationist, I have seen young minds blossom when exposed to diverse ideas. Shielding them excessively may produce conformity, not character. A student who never encounters disagreement never learns discernment.

Education must build resilience, not fragility.
When, If Ever, Is a Ban Justified?

There are rare circumstances where restriction may be justified — direct incitement to violence, explicit criminal propaganda, or material that demonstrably endangers public safety. Even then, such action must be:
– Transparent
– Legally accountable
– Time-bound
– Subject to judicial review

A ban should be the last resort, not the first reflex.

The Philosophical Dilemma

Socrates was executed for “corrupting the youth.” Galileo was silenced for asserting heliocentrism. Many ideas once banned are now celebrated. If society had permanently suppressed dissenting thought, would progress have been possible?
Fear often masquerades as morality. But civilisation advances not by extinguishing candles of thought, but by learning to live in the light they cast.

Ban the Harm, Not the Thought

The real question is not whether we can ban books — governments certainly can. The question is whether we should.

A mature society does not tremble at printed words. It debates them. It critiques them. It counters them with stronger arguments.

To ban a book is to confess insecurity. To engage with it is to demonstrate confidence.

In the end, perhaps the true safeguard of society is not censorship, but education. Not silence, but wisdom. Not prohibition, but discernment.
For when we silence a page, we may unknowingly silence a possibility.

And a society that fears ideas is already in quiet retreat.