Dust on the Pedestal: Are Some Classic Books Overrated?

What’s a classic book that you think is overrated?

Dust on the Pedestal: Are Some Classic Books Overrated?

There is an old saying: “Time is the greatest critic.” Yet time, much like society itself, can sometimes become a stubborn curator of reputations. Certain books survive not merely because they are magnificent, but because generations are taught that they must be magnificent. To question them is often treated almost like literary blasphemy. However, must every “classic” automatically deserve reverence? Or have some books become monuments that people admire from a distance while secretly struggling to enjoy them?

The debate about overrated classics is as old as literature itself. Every age redraws the map of greatness. What enthralled Victorian readers may leave modern readers yawning into their coffee mugs. What once felt revolutionary may now appear ponderous, elitist, or emotionally distant.

Literature, after all, is not embalmed in a museum jar; it breathes through the changing conscience of humanity.

To call a classic “overrated” does not necessarily mean it is bad. It simply means that the reputation surrounding it may have outgrown the actual reading experience for many people. Sometimes the emperor’s robes are indeed magnificent; at other times, the emperor may be standing in intellectual fog while readers nod politely to avoid appearing uncultured.

Take, for instance, Moby-Dick by Herman Melville. Revered as a masterpiece of symbolism and existential struggle, it is also infamous for pages upon pages describing whale anatomy and maritime procedures. Many readers begin the voyage enthusiastically only to feel stranded in an ocean of technical details. The philosophical depth is undeniable, yet one may legitimately wonder whether every chapter truly deserves its legendary status.

Similarly, Ulysses by James Joyce is often praised as the Everest of modern literature. Scholars worship its linguistic innovation and psychological complexity. Yet countless ordinary readers confess, often in hushed tones, that reading it feels like attempting to solve a crossword puzzle during an earthquake. One cannot help but ask: if a book requires encyclopaedic guidance merely to understand a paragraph, has art become inaccessible to the very people it seeks to illuminate?

Then there is The Catcher in the Rye by J. D. Salinger. For one generation, Holden Caulfield embodied youthful alienation and rebellion. For another, he appears petulant, repetitive, and emotionally exhausting. The world has changed dramatically since the 1950s. Modern youth grapple with digital anxieties, climate fears, and fractured identities on social media. Holden’s complaints may now sound less like profound rebellion and more like privileged grumbling.

Even giants such as War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy often intimidate readers more than they inspire them. It is undoubtedly monumental in scope and psychological insight, but one cannot ignore how many readers treat finishing it as an Olympic achievement rather than a literary joy. Sometimes a book becomes a badge of endurance rather than a companion of delight.

The same criticism extends to certain philosophical classics.

Thus Spoke Zarathustra by Friedrich Nietzsche dazzles with poetic brilliance yet frequently vanishes into clouds of abstraction. Many quote Nietzsche without truly reading him, and many read him without truly understanding him. It becomes a case of “all hat and no cattle,” as the old idiom goes.

However, before we throw these classics into the bonfire of modern impatience, caution is necessary. The problem may not always lie in the books themselves but in the culture surrounding them. Schools often force-feed classics to students long before emotional maturity allows appreciation. Reading becomes an examination exercise instead of an intimate conversation with humanity. A teenager compelled to dissect Paradise Lost may naturally feel as though he has been asked to chew granite.

Moreover, classics are products of their times. They reflect older social structures, slower rhythms of life, and different standards of storytelling. Contemporary readers, accustomed to cinematic pacing and digital brevity, often struggle with descriptive richness. We now live in an age where attention spans flutter like restless butterflies. Patience has become a rare virtue.

Therefore, perhaps the real question is not whether classics are overrated, but whether modern society has become underprepared for deep reading.

Still, literary worship can sometimes resemble organised intimidation. Many pretend admiration out of fear of appearing intellectually inferior. It is akin to applauding a symphony one barely understands because everyone else is clapping.

Honest reading demands honesty of response. A reader should never feel guilty for disliking a celebrated work. Literature is not a dictatorship; it is a dialogue.

The Indian philosophical tradition beautifully reminds us of this freedom. In the Upanishadic spirit of inquiry, even revered ideas were questioned. The Bhagavad Gita itself unfolds through Arjuna’s doubts and Krishna’s responses. Questioning is not disrespect; it is the beginning of wisdom. Blind admiration turns culture stagnant, whereas thoughtful criticism keeps it alive.

History also teaches us that reputations fluctuate dramatically. William Shakespeare himself was not universally worshipped in every era. Some Victorian critics considered parts of his work vulgar and excessive. Yet today he towers over English literature like a Himalayan peak. On the other hand, authors once wildly celebrated have now faded into obscurity like footprints washed away by rain.

The truth, perhaps, lies somewhere in the middle. Some classics genuinely deserve their immortality because they reveal profound truths about love, suffering, ambition, loneliness, morality, and human frailty. Others survive partly because academia, publishing industries, and cultural prestige keep polishing their statues. As the idiom goes, “One man’s meat is another man’s poison.”

Personally, I believe a book should not be judged merely by how often it is quoted in universities, but by whether it still touches the human soul. Does it awaken empathy? Does it provoke reflection? Does it leave a lingering fragrance in memory? If not, then no amount of scholarly applause can rescue it from emotional irrelevance.

A truly great book is not one that sits proudly on a shelf gathering dust like a royal heirloom. It is one that walks beside the reader through life’s storms and silences. It consoles, disturbs, questions, and transforms. Classics must earn their crowns repeatedly with every new generation.

In the end, perhaps the healthiest attitude towards literature is humility mixed with courage: humility to recognise the historical significance of classics, and courage to admit when a revered masterpiece simply does not resonate with us. After all, reading is deeply personal. The heart has its own library, and not every celebrated volume finds a home there.

For literature, like life itself, is not merely about what survives the centuries — it is about what survives within us.

Sacred Thrones and Silent ChainsDoes Spirituality Compliment Patriarchy?

Does Spirituality Compliment Patriarchy?

Sacred Thrones and Silent Chains
Does Spirituality Compliment Patriarchy?

The relationship between spirituality and patriarchy is as old as civilisation itself, woven like golden threads into the scriptures, customs, rituals, and power structures of humanity. Yet the question remains profoundly unsettling: Does spirituality genuinely elevate patriarchal systems, or has patriarchy merely worn the robes of spirituality to preserve its authority?

The answer is neither entirely simple nor comfortably binary.

Spirituality, in its purest essence, seeks liberation, compassion, transcendence, and inner awakening.

Patriarchy, on the other hand, often concerns hierarchy, control, lineage, inheritance, and social dominance. Sometimes the two have walked hand in hand like old companions; at other times they have stood on opposite banks of the same river.

To understand this paradox, one must travel through history, philosophy, religion, mythology, and the silent corridors of human psychology.

The Ancient Alliance Between Authority and the Sacred

From the dawn of organised societies, spiritual institutions frequently became intertwined with male authority. Kings were called divine representatives. Priests, sages, bishops, monks, qazis, and philosophers were predominantly men. The sacred and the sovereign often dined at the same table.

In many civilisations, spirituality became the velvet glove over the iron hand of patriarchy.

A father was projected not merely as the head of the family but as the earthly reflection of divine order. Obedience to men became synonymous with obedience to God. Thus, questioning patriarchal norms was often interpreted as questioning heaven itself.

In ancient Rome, the Paterfamilias possessed almost absolute authority. In several Eastern traditions, lineage and ritual inheritance flowed through men. Even in Victorian Christianity, the phrase “man of the house” carried theological undertones.

Yet this does not automatically condemn spirituality itself. One must separate spiritual truth from institutional interpretation. The river and the vessel carrying it are not always the same.

Spirituality in Its Pure Form

True spirituality rarely speaks the language of domination.

When one reads the teachings of Gautama Buddha, one encounters compassion and detachment from ego. When one studies Jesus Christ, one sees tenderness toward the marginalised. The teachings of Guru Nanak rejected caste and superiority. The Upanishads repeatedly declare the divine essence to exist equally in all beings.

The Bhagavad Gita says:

Vidya-vinaya-sampanne brahmane gavi hastini,
Shuni chaiva shvapake cha panditah sama-darshinah.

Meaning:
“The wise see with equal vision a learned man, a cow, an elephant, a dog, and even an outcast.”

Equality of the soul stands at the heart of authentic spirituality.

If spirituality genuinely recognised the divine presence in every being, then oppression based on gender would appear philosophically inconsistent. A soul has no gender. Consciousness has no surname. Truth wears no crown.

How Patriarchy Borrowed Spiritual Language

Patriarchy survived centuries because it learned to sanctify itself.

Rules governing women’s movement, dress, speech, inheritance, education, and even silence were often justified as “divine will.” In many cultures, women were praised as goddesses symbolically while denied autonomy practically. Society placed them on pedestals yet clipped their wings — a classic case of “gilding the cage.”

Ironically, several traditions worship feminine divinity while maintaining masculine social control.

In India, devotees bow before Durga, Saraswati, and Lakshmi, yet many women continue battling discrimination in homes, workplaces, inheritance systems, and even religious spaces.

Thus spirituality did not necessarily create patriarchy, but patriarchal societies often used spiritual symbolism as a protective shield.

The Feminine Voice Within Spirituality

History, however, is not entirely one-sided.
Mystical traditions across the world have produced extraordinary women whose spiritual depth shattered patriarchal assumptions.
Meerabai abandoned royal expectations in pursuit of divine love. Rabia al-Basri transformed Islamic mysticism through devotion. Mother Teresa redefined service through compassion. Anandamayi Ma inspired thousands irrespective of gender.

These figures demonstrated that spiritual authority is not dependent upon masculinity but upon inner illumination.
Like lamps in a storm, they proved that the soul’s radiance cannot permanently be imprisoned behind social walls.

Patriarchy and Fear

At its psychological core, patriarchy often arises from fear — fear of losing control, lineage, identity, or social order. Spirituality, conversely, asks one to surrender fear and ego.

This is where the contradiction becomes visible.

A deeply spiritual person gradually learns humility. Patriarchy frequently demands dominance.

Spirituality dissolves ego; patriarchy often protects it. One bows before the infinite, while the other insists upon hierarchy.

Thus, when spirituality becomes truly experiential rather than ritualistic, it can actually weaken patriarchal rigidity.

The problem begins when spirituality is reduced to ritual without introspection — when religion becomes performance rather than transformation.

As the old idiom goes, empty vessels make the most noise.

Modern Society and the Reinterpretation of Faith

Contemporary generations increasingly question traditional structures. Women now study scriptures, lead institutions, become scholars, priests, spiritual teachers, and philosophers. Many men too are redefining masculinity through empathy rather than dominance.

This does not mean rejecting spirituality; rather, it means rescuing spirituality from narrow interpretations.

A civilisation matures when it learns to distinguish eternal wisdom from temporary social customs.
One cannot deny that some spiritual traditions preserve families, morality, sacrifice, discipline, and social stability. Yet one also cannot ignore the suffering caused when patriarchy disguised itself as sacred inevitability.

The truth, therefore, lies somewhere between reverence and rebellion.

Having observed society across schools, families, institutions, and generations, I have often noticed a curious contradiction. The same men who recite prayers for compassion sometimes deny emotional freedom to the women around them. The same societies that worship motherhood occasionally silence mothers themselves.
Perhaps spirituality begins not in temples alone but in behaviour.

– A truly spiritual father respects his daughter’s dreams.

– A truly spiritual husband honours his wife’s individuality.

– A truly spiritual son values the silent sacrifices of his mother.

– And a truly spiritual society does not fear equality.

After all, the fragrance of incense means little if the heart remains filled with arrogance.

Companion or Contradiction?

So, does spirituality compliment patriarchy?
It depends entirely on how spirituality is understood.
If spirituality is used merely as ritual, authority, and social control, then yes, it can become an ally of patriarchy.

But if spirituality is understood as inner awakening, compassion, equality of souls, humility, and transcendence of ego, then it quietly challenges patriarchal domination from within.

The candle and the shadow coexist in the same room. Patriarchy may use the language of spirituality, but genuine spirituality ultimately illuminates every corner where injustice hides.
And perhaps that is the eternal struggle of civilisation — not between men and women, but between power and wisdom, ego and enlightenment, possession and love.

For in the end, no soul enters eternity carrying titles of dominance.

Before the Infinite, all crowns eventually become dust.

The Bare Cupboard and the Full Heart”Minimalist Living in a World that Preaches Simplicity but Worships Excess

What are the biggest benefits of minimalist living?

“The Bare Cupboard and the Full Heart”
Minimalist Living in a World that Preaches Simplicity but Worships Excess

There was a time when a man’s wealth was measured not merely by the size of his house, but by the serenity of his sleep. Today, however, wardrobes overflow, kitchens groan under unused gadgets, mobile phones become outdated before their covers fade, and yet the human heart remains restless — “water, water everywhere, nor any drop to drink.”

Minimalist living, therefore, has emerged not merely as a fashion statement but as a philosophical rebellion against clutter, noise, vanity, and unnecessary consumption. It asks a simple yet uncomfortable question: How much does a human being truly need to live meaningfully?

Ironically, many who preach minimalism to others rarely practise it themselves. Society often applauds sacrifice when others make it, but hesitates when its own comforts are questioned. Like the old saying, “It is easy to preach from the pulpit but difficult to carry the cross.”

Minimalism, in its truest sense, is not poverty. Nor is it forced deprivation. It is the art of removing excess so that life may breathe again.

What is Minimalist Living?

Minimalism is the conscious choice to live with fewer possessions, fewer distractions, fewer pretensions, and fewer artificial needs. It does not mean abandoning beauty or comfort. Rather, it means learning the difference between need and greed, between utility and vanity.

The ancient Indian sages understood this long before the modern world coined fashionable terminology around it.
The Sanskrit ideal:

“सादा जीवन, उच्च विचार”

Saada Jeevan, Uchch Vichaar
“Simple living, high thinking.”

This philosophy shaped saints, scholars, freedom fighters, and philosophers. Mahatma Gandhi possessed very little materially, yet carried the moral weight of a civilisation. Lord Buddha abandoned royal luxury to discover inner enlightenment. Even in the Bible, Holy Bible reminds humanity:
“For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”

The human mind often becomes a prisoner of its own possessions.

The Biggest Benefits of Minimalist Living

1. Freedom from Mental Clutter

A cluttered room often mirrors a cluttered mind. Excessive possessions silently demand attention, maintenance, cleaning, protection, and emotional attachment.

Minimalism liberates mental space.

When there are fewer unnecessary objects, there are fewer anxieties. The mind begins to breathe like a quiet lake untouched by storms.
Modern life has become a circus of notifications, shopping temptations, endless comparisons, and artificial urgencies.

Minimalism acts like a broom sweeping away psychological dust.

One begins to realise:
“The richest man is not he who has the most, but he who needs the least.”

2. Financial Stability

Many people spend half their lives buying things they do not need to impress people they do not even like.

Credit cards, loans, EMIs, fashionable upgrades, lavish celebrations — these become invisible chains around the ankles of modern society.

Minimalist living reduces unnecessary expenditure and encourages financial wisdom. Money saved from impulsive desires can support education, health, travel, charity, or future security.

In old age especially, simplicity becomes a blessing. After retirement, one understands deeply that peace is often more valuable than possessions gathering dust in locked cupboards.

3. Better Relationships

Ironically, material abundance sometimes creates emotional poverty.
Families living under the same roof often remain buried inside separate screens. Dining tables become silent while televisions speak endlessly.
Minimalism encourages intentional living. It restores attention to conversations, books, music, prayer, relationships, nature, and reflection.

A grandparent narrating stories to a child under a dim evening lamp may create richer memories than expensive gadgets ever can.
My own life experiences — from school leadership to musical evenings, family gatherings, and spiritual reflections — beautifully reveal that joy often hides in ordinary moments rather than luxurious possessions.

4. Environmental Responsibility

The earth is silently choking under human greed.
Mountains of plastic, electronic waste, polluted rivers, deforestation, and reckless consumerism are warning signs of civilisation running too fast without wisdom.

Minimalism indirectly becomes an ecological responsibility.

Buying less, wasting less, and consuming thoughtfully reduces pressure on natural resources. Nature herself follows minimalism elegantly — trees shed leaves when necessary, rivers flow without hoarding water, and the sky owns nothing yet contains everything.

5. Spiritual and Philosophical Growth

Minimalism creates inward silence.

When external noise decreases, inner reflection increases. Prayer deepens. Music becomes more meaningful. Books speak louder. Solitude becomes healing instead of frightening.

Indian philosophy repeatedly teaches detachment:
“तेन त्यक्तेन भुञ्जीथा”
Tena Tyaktena Bhunjitha
“Enjoy through renunciation.”

This does not mean abandoning life, but avoiding enslavement to possessions.

Many saints, monks, philosophers, and thinkers across cultures discovered that happiness rarely lives inside shopping bags.

The Great Contradiction: Preaching Simplicity for Others

Yet here lies society’s hypocrisy.

Many influential people advocate minimalism publicly while privately indulging in extravagant lifestyles. Governments urge citizens to conserve resources while officials enjoy lavish privileges.

Wealthy individuals advise the poor to “adjust” while living in enormous comfort themselves.

This contradiction breeds frustration.

Sometimes minimalism is imposed selectively upon the powerless:

– Employees are asked to “tighten budgets”.

– Citizens are told to “live simply”.

– Children are advised to “avoid distractions”.

Yet those issuing advice often chase luxury relentlessly.
Human beings frequently admire sacrifice — provided someone else makes it.

The old idiom fits perfectly:
“Do as I say, not as I do.”

Such selective morality weakens the authenticity of minimalist philosophy itself.
True minimalism cannot be a sermon delivered from golden chairs. It must emerge from personal conviction.

Minimalism Should Not Become Miserliness

Another danger exists.
Some people mistake minimalism for emotional dryness or extreme stinginess. Life must still contain beauty, celebration, hospitality, generosity, music, books, festivals, and warmth.

A simple meal shared lovingly may be minimalist. Refusing kindness in the name of simplicity is not.
Minimalism should simplify life — not shrink the heart.

The Contemporary Challenge

Modern capitalism thrives by manufacturing dissatisfaction. Advertisements constantly whisper:
“You are incomplete.”
“You need more.”
“Upgrade yourself.”
“Buy happiness.”
Minimalism resists this manipulation.

It teaches that self-worth cannot be purchased like a seasonal discount item.

Young people today especially face enormous pressure to display lifestyles online. Social media has transformed ordinary existence into a permanent exhibition hall. Behind smiling photographs often hide anxiety, debt, loneliness, and exhaustion.

Minimalism quietly says:
“You need not run in every race.”

Owning Less, Living More

At the twilight of life, people rarely remember the number of shoes they owned or the brands they displayed. They remember conversations, songs, prayers, journeys, kindness, laughter, and moments of human connection.

The greatest benefit of minimalist living is perhaps this: it returns human beings to themselves.
Not every empty space must be filled.
Not every silence must be broken.
Not every desire deserves obedience.

A lamp burns brightest not because it possesses abundance, but because it removes darkness.

And perhaps that is the true essence of minimalism —
not reducing life,
but illuminating it.

Children of the Digital Storm: Obsessions, Opportunities and the Art of Wise Parenting

What’s a thing you were completely obsessed with as a kid?

Children of the Digital Storm: Obsessions, Opportunities and the Art of Wise Parenting

There was a time when childhood smelt of wet soil after rain, cricket bats made from coconut branches, spinning tops, marbles, fairy tales under dim lanterns, and evenings filled with grandmother’s stories. Today, childhood glows beneath LED screens, gaming consoles, streaming platforms, artificial intelligence, influencers, instant gratification, and endless scrolling. The world has changed its costume, and children are growing up inside a whirlwind that neither pauses nor sleeps.

The contemporary child is not necessarily weaker, ruder, or less intelligent than previous generations. In fact, many children today are astonishingly smart, technologically gifted, globally aware, and creatively expressive. Yet, they are also standing at the crossroads of distraction and development. Like moths circling a flame, many are becoming obsessed with things that glitter brightly but often leave emotional emptiness behind.

As an educator, Principal, parent, and observer of society, I often wonder whether modern civilisation is nurturing children or quietly stealing their innocence one notification at a time.

The Contemporary Obsessions of Children

1. Mobile Phones and Social Media

The smartphone has become the modern-day magic wand. With one swipe, children enter worlds of entertainment, gossip, gaming, shopping, and fantasy. Platforms like YouTube, Instagram, and TikTok have transformed attention spans into fragile threads.

Children now measure happiness through likes, followers, emojis, and views. Many wake up with phones in their hands and sleep with screens glowing beside their pillows. The tragedy is not technology itself but dependency upon it.

An old English phrase says, “Too much of anything is good for nothing.” Excessive digital indulgence often creates anxiety, loneliness, impatience, and poor concentration.

2. Gaming Addiction

Video games are no longer simple entertainment. They are designed like psychological traps, rewarding players with points, victories, upgrades, and virtual fame. Games stimulate dopamine, the brain’s pleasure chemical, making children crave “just one more round.”

Many children lose interest in studies, outdoor play, family conversations, and even meals because virtual victories begin to feel more exciting than real life. A child may become a warrior on screen but emotionally fragile in reality.

The irony is painful: children connected to thousands online often feel disconnected from themselves.

3. Obsession with Appearance and Fashion

The contemporary child grows up in a world where appearance is marketed as identity. Influencers, celebrities, filters, branded clothes, cosmetics, and curated photographs silently teach children that looking perfect is more important than being authentic.

Many youngsters compare themselves endlessly with edited online images. This comparison becomes a silent poison. Self-worth starts hanging by a thread.

Indian philosophy beautifully reminds us:

“सत्यं शिवं सुन्दरम्” Truth itself is beauty.

True beauty is not merely external charm but purity of character, kindness, humility, and wisdom.

4. Fast Food and Instant Gratification

Modern children are increasingly attracted towards burgers, pizzas, fizzy drinks, packaged snacks, and unhealthy eating habits. The tongue becomes the ruler while the body suffers silently.

Life itself is becoming “instant.” Instant food, instant fame, instant answers, instant entertainment. Patience — once considered a virtue — is now treated like an inconvenience.

Yet nature works slowly. A seed does not become a tree overnight. Human character too requires time, discipline, failure, and endurance.

5. Celebrity and Influencer Culture

Children today often know more about internet influencers than about scientists, philosophers, freedom fighters, or saints. Fame has become the new religion of the digital age.
Many youngsters dream not of contribution but of visibility. They wish to “go viral” rather than become valuable.

The danger lies here: when applause becomes more important than purpose, emptiness eventually follows.

6. Artificial Intelligence and Virtual Escapes

The rise of Artificial Intelligence is opening astonishing doors for learning and creativity. Yet it also risks making children mentally lazy if used carelessly. Some may begin depending entirely on machines for thinking, writing, solving, or creating.
Technology should remain a servant, never a master.

A sharpened sword in wise hands protects civilisation; in careless hands, it wounds humanity.

Why Are Children Becoming Obsessed?

The reasons are many:

– Busy parents with limited emotional availability

– Nuclear families and loneliness

– Aggressive marketing industries

– Peer pressure

– Academic stress

– Lack of playgrounds and natural environments

– Easy internet access

– Desire for social acceptance

– Absence of moral and spiritual grounding

Children are like wet clay. Society, media, schools, and families all leave fingerprints upon them.

The Do’s for Parents and Teachers

1. Spend Time, Not Merely Money

Children remember affection more than expensive gifts. A warm conversation during dinner can heal more than a costly gadget.

2. Encourage Reading Habits

Books still remain humanity’s greatest silent teachers. Introduce children to biographies, mythology, literature, poetry, science, and philosophy.

A child who reads learns to think independently.

3. Promote Outdoor Activities

Running, cycling, football, gardening, and nature walks strengthen both body and mind. Sunlight and soil often cure what screens cannot.

4. Teach Spiritual and Moral Values

Whether through the Bhagavad Gita, the Bible, or simple moral stories, children need ethical anchors.

Without values, intelligence becomes dangerous.

5. Create Technology Boundaries

Set healthy screen-time rules:

– No phones during meals

– Limited gaming hours

– Screen-free family time

– No gadgets before sleep

Discipline is not punishment; it is protection.

6. Listen Without Immediate Judgement

Sometimes children do not need lectures. They need listeners. A child whose voice is heard at home is less likely to seek unhealthy validation outside.

The Don’ts for Parents and Society

1. Do Not Compare Children

Comparison is the thief of confidence. Every child blooms differently. Mango trees and roses cannot be measured by the same yardstick.

2. Do Not Use Gadgets as Emotional Babysitters

Many parents unknowingly silence children by handing over phones. This may buy temporary peace but creates long-term dependency.

3. Do Not Overburden Them Academically

Marks are important, but mental health is priceless. Childhood should not become a factory assembly line.

4. Do Not Ignore Warning Signs

Withdrawal, anger, sleeplessness, falling grades, social isolation, or extreme attachment to screens may indicate deeper emotional struggles.

5. Do Not Forget Your Own Example

Children imitate more than they obey. Parents glued constantly to phones cannot realistically preach digital discipline.

As the proverb says:
“Actions speak louder than words.”
As someone who spent decades in education, trained choirs, guided students, delivered speeches from the Principal’s desk, and observed generations passing through school corridors, I feel both hope and concern for modern childhood.

Today’s children possess brilliance beyond imagination. They can learn languages online, explore astronomy from their bedrooms, compose music digitally, and communicate globally within seconds. Yet they also stand vulnerable before an age of distraction that often steals silence, reflection, patience, and human warmth.

I still remember children once singing hymns together in assembly grounds, laughing during sports periods, sharing lunch boxes beneath trees, and waiting eagerly for library periods. Those simple joys carried invisible wisdom.

Perhaps the challenge before humanity is not to reject modernity but to humanise it.

Technology must walk hand in hand with tenderness. Knowledge must walk with wisdom. Progress must walk with compassion.

Otherwise, civilisation may become materially advanced yet emotionally bankrupt.

Saving Childhood Before It Slips Away

Children are not machines to be programmed or trophies to be displayed. They are living souls searching for meaning, identity, affection, and guidance.

The contemporary world offers them both ladders and traps. Parents, teachers, and society together must help them distinguish between the two.

For if we fail to guide our children wisely today, tomorrow’s society may become a magnificent palace built upon hollow foundations.

And as every wise civilisation eventually learns:
“The future of a nation is quietly written in the habits of its children.”

Jaago: When Punjab Sings Through the Night”A Lamp-lit Procession, Folk Verses, and the Soul of Togetherness

What’s the most interesting local custom you’ve encountered?

“Jaago: When Punjab Sings Through the Night”
A Lamp-lit Procession, Folk Verses, and the Soul of Togetherness

India is not merely a country marked on maps; it is a civilisation woven with songs, rituals, stories, and emotions. Every region possesses customs that transform ordinary human gatherings into unforgettable experiences. Some traditions are grand in scale, while others are simple yet deeply touching. Among the many fascinating customs I have encountered in life, one tradition continues to glow in my memory like a flickering flame against the Punjabi night sky — the vibrant wedding ritual known as Jaago.

I witnessed this unforgettable celebration during the marriage festivities of my niece, and to this day, whenever I hear the distant beat of a dhol, my mind wanders back to those joyous Punjabi lanes overflowing with music, laughter, and dancing hearts.

The evening before the wedding carried a festive electricity difficult to describe in words. The house was overflowing with relatives arriving from various towns and cities. Children ran around dressed in bright clothes like butterflies escaping a garden. Elderly women sat in circles discussing old weddings, family histories, and humorous incidents buried beneath decades of memory.

The kitchen breathed life through the irresistible aroma of desi ghee, fried snacks, sweets, and steaming tea. Every wall appeared alive with excitement.
Then began the ritual of Jaago.

A beautifully decorated brass pitcher, adorned with mirrors, ribbons, colourful cloth, flowers, and tiny glowing lamps, was carefully placed upon the head of a female family member. The illuminated vessel sparkled magnificently in the darkness. The word Jaago means “Wake Up,” and symbolically the procession moved through the neighbourhood awakening not only people from sleep but also awakening joy, togetherness, and celebration itself.

Soon, accompanied by the energetic beat of the dhol, the procession stepped into the narrow lanes of the locality.
And then Punjab truly came alive.

Family members, neighbours, friends, and relatives walked together from door to door singing traditional Punjabi verses that echoed through the night air like living poetry. Young boys danced bhangra with boundless enthusiasm while women clapped rhythmically and sang folk songs carrying both humour and emotion.

The most enchanting part of the evening was undoubtedly the singing of the Jaago verses. Their rhythm possessed an infectious charm, impossible to resist.
One of the most popular refrains rang repeatedly through the streets:

“Jaago aaya ae, ni jaago aaya ae,
Saareyan ne mil ke jaago laya ae…”

(The Jaago has arrived, yes the Jaago has arrived,
Everyone together has brought the Jaago alive.)

With every repetition, more laughter erupted, more feet began dancing, and more windows opened across the neighbourhood.

Another playful verse followed amidst cheerful teasing:

“Kudi da vyaah ae, ghar vich chaanan hoya,
Nach lo tapp lo, rabb ne mehar kiti hoyi ae…”

(The daughter’s wedding has filled the home with light,
Dance and rejoice, for God has showered blessings tonight.)

These songs were not merely lyrics; they were emotional bridges connecting generations. Within their playful simplicity lived blessings, humour, philosophy, and the bittersweet emotions surrounding marriage.

Punjabi folk traditions possess the rare ability to make people laugh while quietly moistening their eyes.

As the glowing pitcher swayed gently through the lanes, its flame appeared almost sacred. In Indian culture, light symbolises purity, continuity, hope, and divine blessings. Watching that illuminated vessel moving through the darkness felt deeply symbolic — as though a daughter carried the radiance of her parental home before embarking upon a new chapter of life.

At one doorstep, an elderly neighbour joined the singing enthusiastically, adding another traditional line:

“Jaago waleo ni, ajj di raat na souniyo,
Vyaah wali khushi ghar ghar pounchouniyo…”

(O bearers of the Jaago, do not sleep tonight,
Carry the joy of the wedding to every home.)

And indeed, nobody wished for the night to end.

What touched me most profoundly was the spirit of collective participation. In today’s modern world, people often live behind closed doors and silent routines. Mobile phones glow brightly, yet human relationships grow dimmer. Neighbours remain strangers. Families meet less frequently. Celebrations have increasingly become performances for cameras rather than experiences for the soul.

Yet Jaago breaks those invisible walls.

It forces people outdoors into shared laughter, music, and emotional connection. It reminds society that happiness multiplies only when celebrated together. In Punjab, weddings do not belong merely to a family; they belong to the entire neighbourhood. One person dances, and ten others instinctively join. One person sings, and suddenly an entire lane becomes a chorus.

As I quietly walked amidst the dancing crowd, memories from my own earlier years surfaced unexpectedly.

Weddings in former decades possessed remarkable warmth and innocence. There were fewer extravagant decorations but greater affection. People participated wholeheartedly rather than posing endlessly for photographs. Traditions like Jaago preserve that disappearing fragrance of genuine human togetherness.
Punjab itself seems to embody resilience wrapped in celebration. Despite historical wounds, sacrifices, and hardships, Punjabis continue to embrace life with astonishing courage. They sing loudly, feed generously, and dance as though sorrow itself must surrender before joy. Perhaps celebration became their answer to suffering.

That night, long after the dhol had fallen silent and the streets emptied, the memory remained alive within me — the glowing pitcher, the rhythmic clapping, the joyful verses floating beneath the night sky, and the sight of people walking together as one extended family.

Some customs entertain us.
Some traditions educate us.
But a few illuminate the deeper meaning of human life.

Jaago became one such unforgettable experience for me.

Even today, whenever I hear Punjabi folk music drifting from afar, my soul quietly returns to those lively lanes where songs awakened not merely a sleeping neighbourhood, but the timeless spirit of love, belonging, and togetherness itself.

A Modest Roof Beneath the Infinite Sky”The Portrait of My Ideal Life

The Portrait of My Ideal Life

If you had to describe your ideal life, what would it look like?

“A Modest Roof Beneath the Infinite Sky”

The Portrait of My Ideal Life

What would my ideal life look like?

Would it resemble a palace shimmering with chandeliers, expensive cars sleeping in polished garages, or a calendar packed with worldly achievements?

Perhaps for some, that is the summit of human fulfilment. Yet, for me, the ideal life has slowly changed its colours with the passing years, much like autumn leaves surrendering themselves to the wisdom of the wind.

Life, after all, is a stern teacher. It first takes the test and later gives the lesson.
Today, if I were asked to paint the portrait of my ideal existence, I would not use the loud colours of ambition alone. I would choose softer shades — peace, dignity, meaningful relationships, books, music, prayer, and the quiet satisfaction of being useful to others.

My ideal life would begin with a simple morning.
Not the noisy rush of alarms, deadlines, and honking traffic, but a dawn where the first rays of the sun gently touch the curtains while the distant chirping of birds becomes nature’s own hymnbook. A cup of tea in hand, scriptures and poetry resting on the table, and silence sitting beside me like an old faithful companion — that would be luxury enough.

I have spent decades amidst schools, students, assemblies, reports, inspections, speeches, and responsibilities. As a Principal, life often resembled a spinning wheel which never paused. One carried the burdens of institutions while quietly hiding personal worries beneath a carefully ironed smile. People saw authority; very few saw exhaustion.

Now, my ideal life no longer runs after applause.

I would rather have a small room filled with books than a mansion filled with emptiness. Books are strange companions; they neither betray nor demand explanations. In their company, one may travel from the battlefields of the Mahabharata to the philosophy of Swami Vivekananda, from the poetry of Mukesh echoing softly in memory to the reflective wisdom of the Bible.

My ideal life would also contain music — plenty of it.
An evening where the harmonium rests before me, old Hindi melodies float through the air, and perhaps a soulful bhajan or a Gospel hymn heals the invisible wounds accumulated over the years. Music, unlike people, often arrives without judgement. It understands loneliness without asking questions.

And yes, there would be family.

Not grand gatherings decorated for social media admiration, but genuine human warmth. A conversation with my son over tea, the laughter of grandchildren echoing through the house, my wife arranging things in her familiar graceful manner, relatives and friends visiting not out of obligation but affection — these small moments are pearls often ignored while chasing mountains of gold.

In my ideal life, there would also be enough financial stability to avoid becoming a burden upon others.

Retirement teaches difficult truths. The world respects rising suns more easily than fading lamps. Yet dignity in old age matters immensely.

One need not possess overflowing wealth, but one should at least possess enough to sleep peacefully without counting anxieties instead of sheep.

However, beyond all comforts, my ideal life would ultimately revolve around inner peace.

The older one grows, the more one realises that the world is a marketplace of temporary things. Fame fades. Positions disappear. Beauty wrinkles. Crowds disperse. Even relationships sometimes become seasonal rivers.

But inner peace — that silent kingdom within — remains priceless.

Indian philosophy beautifully speaks about this through the concept of Vairagya — detachment not from responsibility, but from unhealthy attachment. Lord Shiva, seated calmly amidst cremation grounds, snakes, poison, and cosmic chaos, becomes the eternal reminder that true mastery lies not in possessing the world but in remaining unshaken by it.

Perhaps that is why my ideal life would include spiritual reflection every single day.

A few Sanskrit shlokas. A prayer whispered before sleep. Gratitude for survival despite countless storms.

Acceptance of destiny without bitterness. Faith that God’s handwriting, though difficult to read at times, never loses meaning.

I would also wish to continue writing.

Writing transforms pain into purpose. Many wounds that cannot be spoken aloud quietly become essays, poems, blogs, and reflections. Through writing, one leaves behind not merely words but footprints of experience for future generations. If even one struggling soul finds comfort through my thoughts, then my journey would not have been in vain.

My ideal life would not be free from sorrow.
No honest life ever is.
There would still be moments of loneliness, memories of departed loved ones, concerns for the future, and occasional disappointments.

But there would also be resilience — the ability to smile through cracks, like sunlight entering an old cathedral through stained glass.

For life is not about possessing a perfect road. It is about learning to walk gracefully even upon uneven stones.

In the end, my ideal life would be astonishingly simple:

A peaceful home.
A praying heart.
A useful mind.
Books on the table.
Music in the air.
Love within the family.
Dignity in old age.

And faith in God strong enough to endure both sunshine and storm.
Nothing extravagant.

Just enough light to continue the journey beneath the infinite sky.

When Music Became Prayer: An Evening beneath the Spell of Santoor and Shehnai

What is the best concert you have been to?

When Music Became Prayer: An Evening beneath the Spell of Santoor and Shehnai

There are concerts, and then there are experiences that quietly settle into the soul like evening dew upon sacred grass. Some performances entertain; a few illuminate. And then, once in a lifetime, there comes a gathering of art so profound that it ceases to remain a performance altogether — it becomes prayer, meditation, memory, and silence woven together.

Among the finest concerts I have ever attended were the divine santoor vadan of Pandit Shivkumar Sharma, the soul-stirring shehnai recital of Ustad Bismillah Khan, and the celestial Odissi dance presentation by Sanjukta Panigrahi. Even today, years later, their echoes continue to walk beside me like faithful companions through the corridors of memory.

The Santoor that Sounded like Falling Snow

When Pandit Shivkumar Sharma touched the strings of the santoor, it did not feel as though a musician was playing an instrument. It felt as though the Himalayas themselves had begun whispering ancient secrets.
Every strike of his delicate mallets carried both precision and tenderness. The hall was full, yet one could hear the silence breathing between the notes. Such was the discipline of his art. His rendition in Raag Bihag seemed to pour moonlight into the hearts of the listeners. I remember sitting motionless, almost afraid that even the rustle of my clothes might disturb the sanctity of the moment.

Music, they say, hath charms to soothe the savage breast. That evening, I realised it could also awaken forgotten tenderness within hardened hearts.

The santoor did not merely produce melody; it painted landscapes. One could visualise Kashmir’s valleys, snow-clad peaks, saffron fields, and flowing rivers through the vibrations of those strings. The experience was not auditory alone — it was spiritual geography.

As someone deeply fond of classical ragas and instrumental healing, I felt as though the instrument had entered directly into the chambers of my inner being.

Some notes carried joy, others longing, and a few possessed that indescribable ache which only true art can create.

When the Shehnai Wept and Smiled Together

If the santoor resembled a mountain stream, the shehnai of Ustad Bismillah Khan was the voice of Mother India herself.

The moment he began, the atmosphere transformed. There was Banaras in his breath, the Ganga in his pauses, temple bells in his improvisations, and centuries of civilisation hidden in his alaaps.

His music carried both celebration and sorrow together — like life itself.

Traditionally associated with weddings and auspicious occasions, the shehnai under his mastery transcended ritual and entered eternity. His recital reminded me of early dawns in temples, village festivities, processions, and the emotional fragrance of old India which modernity often forgets.

There was humility in his posture and divinity in his sound. He did not appear to perform for applause. He seemed to converse with God through music while the audience merely overheard the sacred dialogue.

At one point, the recital became so emotionally overwhelming that I noticed several listeners quietly wiping tears from their eyes. Nobody spoke. Nobody wished to break the spell.
Indeed, silence too has a language.

Odissi: Poetry Carved into Movement

The unforgettable Odissi performance of Sanjukta Panigrahi. If music can flow like a river, her dance resembled sculpture brought to life.

Every mudra, every glance, every movement of her eyebrows carried meaning. Odissi is not merely dance; it is literature in motion, devotion in rhythm, and philosophy expressed through the human body.

Being originally from Odisha, watching Odissi always awakens something ancestral within me. The sound of the mardala, the grace of tribhangi posture, the lyrical devotion to Lord Jagannath — all these evoke memories deeper than words can fully contain.

Sanjukta Panigrahi danced with astonishing balance between discipline and abandon. She appeared both grounded and ethereal simultaneously. During one abhinaya sequence depicting Radha’s longing for Krishna, the entire auditorium seemed suspended between mythology and reality.

It reminded me of the ancient Indian understanding that art is not separate from spirituality. In our civilisation, music and dance were never mere entertainment. They were pathways to transcendence.

The Vanishing World of Listening

Today, music often competes with noise. Concerts are flooded with flashing lights, hurried recordings, restless audiences, and mobile screens raised higher than human attention itself. We hear more, yet perhaps we listen less.

Those earlier concerts belonged to another era — an age when audiences arrived not merely to consume art but to surrender themselves before it. People dressed with respect, sat patiently for hours, and absorbed every nuance with reverence. There was dignity in the atmosphere.

Modern life moves at breakneck speed, but classical art teaches us the forgotten discipline of stillness.

To appreciate a raag unfolding slowly is to understand patience. To observe Odissi is to understand grace. To listen to the shehnai is to understand longing.

And perhaps, to truly listen is also to heal.

Music as a Companion through Life

As I journey through the autumn of life, I increasingly realise that music has remained one of my most loyal companions. Friends drift away, circumstances change, cities transform, but a melody heard once with sincerity remains forever.
Whether it is the voice of Mukesh, the gentle country songs of Jim Reeves, the soulful melodies of Kenny Rogers, or the meditative strains of Indian classical ragas, music has often stood beside me during loneliness, struggle, gratitude, and reflection.

Some people inherit wealth. Some inherit land. A few fortunate souls inherit moments.

I consider these concerts among the richest inheritances of my life.

The Concerts Never Truly End

Great art does not conclude when the curtain falls. Its true performance begins afterwards — inside memory, conscience, and silence.

Even today, when evening descends quietly and the world slows down for a moment, I can almost hear the distant resonance of the santoor, the aching sweetness of the shehnai, and the rhythmic footsteps of Odissi returning like old friends.

Time may age the body, but certain melodies remain eternally young.

And perhaps that is the greatest miracle of all.