Prashant Kumar Lal , Author, Recipient of Shiksha Rattan Award - 2007,
Mr Prashant is a seasoned educator and author with years of experience in school administration and classroom teaching. Having served as a Principal, he brings a wealth of knowledge on effective teaching practices and classroom management. He is also the author of several books, including "Image of my Experiences - a book of poetry," "Speeches from the Desk of the Principal," and "The Legend of Inara Wali." Now retired and residing in Bangalore, he
continues blogging etc
There are people, places, habits and passions that once lived at the very centre of our days—and now exist only as faint echoes. This blog is a quiet letter to them all.
To forgotten friends, families, hobbies and interests— this is not an apology. It is a remembering.
Once upon a time, friendship was not scheduled; it simply happened. It arrived barefoot, unannounced, knocking not on doors but on hearts. Friends knew the geography of our silences, the grammar of our laughter, the pauses between our words. We shared cups of tea that grew cold because the conversation was warm. Today, many of those friendships sit archived in phone contacts, their names glowing silently, waiting for a call that never comes.
Life, we tell ourselves, became busy. But perhaps we became careless.
Families, too, slipped into the background—not because love diminished, but because familiarity bred postponement. “I’ll call tomorrow,” became a sentence with no calendar. The elders waited, their memories sharper than their hearing, hoping to recognise our voice before time erased theirs. The children grew, faster than our awareness, learning to pronounce the world without us watching closely enough.
Homes turned into transit points. Conversations into bullet points. Relationships into obligations.
And then there were our hobbies—the quiet companions of our youth. The sketchbook now gathers dust. The harmonium waits patiently, its keys yellowing, still tuned to ragas that once healed us. The morning walks, the evening runs, the handwritten journals, the half-finished poems—all suspended mid-breath, like paused music. These were not mere pastimes; they were mirrors, reminding us who we were when no one was watching.
We often say, “I don’t have time.” But time was never lost—only misplaced.
In the great marketplace of adulthood, interests that did not earn applause or income were slowly traded away. We learnt to value productivity over presence, urgency over depth. Notifications replaced knocks on the door. Screens replaced shared skies. We became efficient, informed, connected—and strangely alone.
There is a particular loneliness in modern life: the loneliness of having everything, except the things that mattered.
Yet memory has a gentle rebellion of its own. It surfaces in the smell of old books, in a song from the 1960s, in a childhood street glimpsed from a moving car. Suddenly, the past does not feel distant; it feels patient. Waiting. Not accusing us—just asking quietly, “Do you remember?”
Remember how friendships were slow-cooked, not microwaved. How families were anchors, not WhatsApp groups. How hobbies were prayers in disguise.
This is not a call to return entirely to what was—time does not walk backwards. But it is an invitation to retrieve. To write one message. To make one call. To open one forgotten notebook. To sit beside someone without checking the clock. To allow ourselves the luxury of being human again.
Because what we abandon does not always disappear. Sometimes, it waits for us— in the margins of our lives, hoping we will one day turn the page.
Let us, then, send postcards to what we left behind. Not with regret, but with grace.
Not to mourn the past, but to reclaim the parts of ourselves we unknowingly set down along the way.
After all, a life well-lived is not measured only by what we achieved— but by what, and whom, we chose not to forget.
“Ink & Imagination: Why Printed Material Still Matters in a Digital World”
In an age where notifications ping relentlessly and short-form video clips gobble up our attention, it’s tempting to declare printed books, newspapers and magazines relics of a bygone era. Yet, despite the meteoric rise of screens and digital platforms, printed material still holds a remarkable place in how people consume information and stories today. Let’s turn the page on assumptions and explore the real trends shaping reading habits in the 21st century.
The Printed World Isn’t Dead — Just Evolving
It’s true that digital formats have transformed how we read. E-books, online news, blogs and social media have made information instant and portable. But data shows that print remains unexpectedly resilient: globally, an estimated 2.14 billion people regularly read printed newspapers — a striking figure in a screen-saturated era.
Surveys also indicate that a strong majority of readers still prefer the tactile experience of printed material. For example, around 72% of global respondents favour printed books over e-books, and sizable majorities express the same preference for magazines and newspapers.
In the UK — a bellwether for global reading trends — approximately three-quarters of book sales are for printed editions, with only about a quarter for digital formats like e-books.
Why Print Still Appeals
1. The Pleasure of Print
Many readers describe printed books and magazines as more enjoyable and engaging than reading on a screen. The physical presence of ink on paper, the ability to flip back and forth easily, and the lack of digital distractions deepen focus and enjoyment.
Surveys show a large share of readers believe they gain a better understanding of content from print than from online sources.
2. Trust and Credibility
Print media, especially newspapers, often score higher on trust metrics than social media or unverified online sources. In an age plagued by “fake news,” many readers still turn to newspapers precisely because they believe the editorial vetting process is more reliable than algorithm-driven feeds.
3. Longevity and Habit
Printed books don’t require batteries, software updates or internet access. They can be revisited, annotated, shared, gifted or shelved — qualities that give them emotional and practical longevity. Ownership of physical books remains high: in one UK poll, 83% of adults owned at least one printed book, with many owning sizable personal libraries.
The Challenges Print Faces
Despite its enduring charm, print isn’t immune to downward pressure from digital alternatives. Younger generations, for instance, often prefer to access news digitally — particularly through social platforms and apps — where immediacy and interactivity outpace the daily newspaper ritual.
Digital news audiences are projected to exceed 3.3 billion users worldwide in the near future, a testament to the speed of change.
Meanwhile, data from large surveys suggest leisure reading — whether in print or digital form — has declined in some regions, with fewer people reading daily than in previous decades.
The Indian Context: Print’s Persistent Pulse
In India, the story of printed material remains distinctively resilient even as smartphones and digital platforms proliferate. Unlike many Western markets where daily print readership has declined sharply, India still boasts one of the highest proportions of print newspaper readers in the world — with around 54 % of urban Indians reporting that they read a printed newspaper daily, a figure that is significantly higher than in many other countries.
Data from WARC also shows that roughly 45 % of Indian consumers across urban areas continue to engage with printed newspapers most days, and they spend an average of nearly an hour each day with print editions, valuing detailed coverage and credibility. Meanwhile, print book readership in India is projected to reach over 500 million, with physical books commanding the majority of sales in many bookstores — especially in tier-2 and tier-3 cities where printed formats are preferred over digital.
Additionally, more than one in four Indians reported purchasing a print magazine in the past year, the highest share among surveyed countries, underlining that magazines too remain a culturally relevant medium.
Taken together, these trends suggest that in India the printed word hasn’t faded — it has simply adapted and continues to influence how millions access news, knowledge and stories.
A Balanced Picture: Print and Digital Coexist
The narrative that “books and newspapers are dead” is far too simplistic. Instead, the evidence suggests a hybrid ecosystem: – Print thrives among core audiences who value depth, permanence and enjoyment.
– Digital soars for rapid news, short reads and on-the-go updates.
– E-books and audiobooks broaden the universe of reading by fitting into busy lifestyles.
Interestingly, some younger readers — including Gen Z — continue to embrace printed books, showing that paper isn’t merely the domain of older generations.
Beyond Data: Why Reading Matters
At its heart, reading — whether on paper or screen — remains one of the most enriching habits a person can cultivate. Books nourish empathy and imagination; newspapers sharpen our understanding of the world; magazines broaden our horizons with culture and ideas. Even in a world of binge-watching and bite-sized content, reading fosters slower thinking, reflection and depth — qualities that screens don’t always encourage.
Printed material hasn’t vanished — it has adapted. In fact, rather than being relegated to history, print still resonates because it fulfils something digital formats can’t quite capture: a sensory and intellectual connection between reader and text. So when someone picks up a paperback on a rainy afternoon, turns the pages of a Sunday paper, or savours the glossy feel of a magazine, they aren’t indulging in an anachronism — they’re participating in a timeless ritual that, despite modern challenges, continues to enrich lives.
– WordsRated (2024). UK Reading Habits and Book Format Preferences. Statistical overview of printed book versus e-book sales in the United Kingdom. Available at: https://wordsrated.com/uk-reading-habits/
– Two Sides North America (2018). Print and Paper in a Digital World. Research on trust, comprehension and reader engagement with printed media. Available at: https://twosidesna.org/resources/ The Guardian (2025). New Poll on Book Reading Habits in Britain.
– Survey data on book ownership and reading frequency in the UK. Available at: https://www.theguardian.com/books Financial Times (2024). Leisure Reading and Media Consumption Trends. Analysis of declining leisure reading and shifting media habits. Available at: https://www.ft.com World Economic Forum (2023). Gen Z and Print Reading Behaviour. Report highlighting younger generations’ engagement with printed books. Available at: https://www.weforum.org
A Pause or an Escape? Rethinking the Idea of a Break
“Do you need a break?” It sounds like a kind question, almost affectionate. Yet it quietly demands another one in return: From what, exactly?
In an age that glorifies exhaustion and romanticises busyness, the idea of a “break” has become fashionable—almost obligatory. Holidays are planned months in advance, wellness retreats are advertised aggressively, and social media insists that if you are not taking time off, you are somehow failing at life. But rarely do we stop to ask a deeper, more unsettling question: what are we actually trying to break away from?
A Break from Work—or from Meaning?
Traditionally, a break was meant to provide rest from physical labour. In earlier generations, fatigue was tangible: aching muscles, long hours under the sun, or repetitive tasks that demanded bodily endurance. The rest had clarity. It was earned, deserved, and effective.
Today, however, work has changed its costume. It often follows us home, hides in our phones, and whispers through notifications. For many, the exhaustion is not muscular but mental—an overload of expectations, targets, reviews, comparisons, and invisible pressures. We claim to need a break from work, but often what we truly crave is a break from constant evaluation, from the fear of becoming irrelevant, from the anxiety of proving our worth repeatedly.
In such cases, a holiday may refresh the body, but the mind returns just as cluttered as before.
A Break from Routine—or from Monotony of Thought?
Routine is often blamed for dullness. We say we need a break from the same schedule, the same roads, the same faces. Yet routines themselves are not the enemy; they are, in fact, stabilising. What drains us is not repetition of action, but repetition of unexamined living.
When days pass without reflection, when life becomes a checklist rather than a conversation with oneself, even comfort turns heavy. A break, then, is not about escaping routine but about reintroducing awareness into it. Sometimes, a quiet walk, a book revisited, or an honest conversation can be more restorative than an expensive getaway.
A Break from People—or from Pretence?
“I just need space,” we often say, suggesting that people are the source of our fatigue. Yet solitude does not automatically heal, and company is not always draining. What truly tires of us is pretence—the need to perform roles, to smile when weary, to agree when unconvinced, to explain ourselves endlessly.
We may not need a break from people, but a break from being someone we are not. Authenticity, though demanding courage, is far less exhausting than constant adjustment.
A Break from Noise—or from Ourselves?
Silence is marketed as luxury now—quiet rooms, silent retreats, and digital detoxes. But silence has a way of confronting us. In the absence of noise, unresolved questions grow louder. Regrets knock. Fears ask for attention.
Many breaks are not sought for rest, but for distraction. We fill time with travel, entertainment, or novelty to avoid sitting with ourselves.
Yet the most meaningful breaks are not those that help us forget, but those that help us face gently—without judgement, without haste.
The Difference Between Rest and Escape
There is a thin but important line between rest and escape. Rest renews; escape postpones. Rest allows us to return stronger; escape delays an inevitable reckoning.
A genuine break does not always involve leaving a place. Sometimes it involves leaving a habit, a grievance, a comparison, or an unrealistic expectation. Sometimes it means forgiving oneself for not being endlessly productive, endlessly cheerful, endlessly strong.
So, Do You Need a Break?
Perhaps the better question is not “Do you need a break?” but“What is within you asking for attention?” If the answer is fatigue, then rest. If it is boredom, then learn or create. If it is resentment, then reflect or release. If it is emptiness, then reconnect—with faith, purpose, or service.
A break, after all, is not an event on the calendar. It is a conscious pause—a moment when life is allowed to breathe, and so are we.
And sometimes, that pause is not from life itself, but from the way we have been living it.
The Click That Changed the World: The Most Important Invention of My Lifetime
Every generation believes it has lived through extraordinary times, but some inventions do more than merely ease life — they quietly, and then suddenly, redefine what it means to be human in a connected world.
In my lifetime, amidst the hum of machines, the glow of screens and the march of science, one invention stands head and shoulders above the rest: the Internet.
Not the Internet as a gadget, nor as a luxury, but as a living ecosystem — a nervous system for the modern world.
Before the Web Wove Us Together
I was born into a world where information travelled slowly and selectively. Knowledge lived in libraries, locked behind wooden cupboards and guarded by time, distance and privilege.
Letters took weeks, news travelled by word of mouth, and photographs were precious because they were rare. Learning demanded patience; communication required effort.
In those days, silence was common and isolation was physical as well as intellectual. One had to wait — for results, for responses, for recognition. Time moved at a human pace.
The Internet: A Revolution Without a Parade
The arrival of the Internet did not come with drums and trumpets. It crept in silently — through dial-up tones, flickering screens and hesitant curiosity. Yet, in retrospect, it has proved to be more disruptive than the steam engine and more far-reaching than electricity. With one click, boundaries collapsed. Geography became irrelevant. A student in a remote village could access the same information as a professor in Oxford. A retired teacher could publish his thoughts for the world to read. Voices once unheard found platforms; minds once constrained found wings.
The Internet democratised knowledge — and that, perhaps, is its greatest gift.
A Teacher’s Lens: Learning Reimagined
From the standpoint of an educator, the Internet altered the very grammar of learning. Chalk and blackboard gave way to smart board and screens; encyclopaedias surrendered to search engines. Learning ceased to be linear and became exploratory.
Yet, like fire, it demanded wisdom in its use. The Internet made information abundant but discernment scarce. It taught us that knowing everything is not the same as understanding anything. The teacher’s role evolved — from a dispenser of facts to a guide, mentor and conscience.
The Paradox of Connection
Ironically, the same invention that connected continents also introduced a new loneliness. We gained hundreds of contacts but lost many conversations. Emojis replaced expressions; speed replaced depth. The Internet magnified both virtue and vice — empathy and anger, wisdom and misinformation.
It became a mirror, not of what we wished to be, but of what we truly are.
An Invention That Refuses to Retire
Unlike many inventions of my lifetime, the Internet did not peak and fade. It reinvented itself — giving birth to social media, digital classrooms, online governance, telemedicine and now artificial intelligence. It became not just a tool, but an extension of human thought.
For someone in the autumn of life, it offers relevance. For the young, it offers possibility. For society, it poses a moral question: Can progress be guided by values?
A Responsibility, Not Just a Miracle
The most important invention of my lifetime is not merely technological — it is philosophical. The Internet gifted humanity unprecedented power: to inform, to influence, to inspire. Whether it becomes a bridge or a barrier, a lamp or a wildfire, depends entirely on us.
In the end, inventions do not change the world; people do — using inventions. And the Internet, for all its brilliance and blemishes, has handed us the pen to write the future. The question is no longer what can it do? but what should we do with it?
As the saying goes, we have learned how to fly the skies and dive the seas, but we are still learning how to live wisely on the earth.
From First Light to Final Prayer: Sketching My Ideal Day
An ideal day, for me, is not stitched together by luxury or applause; it is woven quietly from rhythm, purpose and gratitude. It begins without an alarm and ends without regret. Somewhere between the first birdcall and the last whispered prayer, the day teaches me—once again—that life is less about grand events and more about graceful continuities.
Dawn: When the World Is Still Honest
My ideal day tiptoes in with dawn. The sky, still undecided between indigo and gold, feels like a confidant that has not yet learnt the art of deception. A cup of simple tea in hand, I sit with my thoughts—not to interrogate them, but to let them stretch. Silence at this hour is sacred; it has a language of its own. A gentle raga, perhaps Bihag on the flute, flows softly in the background, reminding me that harmony does not need volume. The morning prayer follows—not a ritual of fear, but an act of surrender and thanksgiving.
Morning: Purpose Finds Its Feet
As the sun gathers confidence, so do I. The morning hours are reserved for reading and writing—my twin anchors. A few pages of philosophy, a skim through the newspaper, and then the slow, deliberate act of writing. Words, like people, reveal themselves only when treated with patience. This is the time when ideas are uncluttered and intentions are clean. A walk later—unhurried, observant—grounds me further. Trees, children on their way to school, a passing smile from a stranger: life, in its everyday uniform, salutes you quietly.
Midday: Simplicity on the Plate, Contentment in the Heart
Lunch on an ideal day is modest and mindful. Food tastes better when eaten without haste and without guilt. A conversation at the table—sometimes with family, sometimes with memories—adds flavour no spice can provide. If my grandson’s laughter punctuates the afternoon, the day already feels blessed. Children have a way of resetting our moral compass; they remind us that joy is a default setting, not a reward.
Afternoon: The Gentle Hustle of Engagement
The afternoon belongs to engagement without exhaustion. Consulting work, mentoring conversations, or responding to messages from former students and colleagues—these moments reassure me that retirement is not redundancy.
Experience, when shared, multiplies. There may be music again—Mukesh humming through old speakers, or a gospel hymn that feels like a balm. If a short nap sneaks in, I do not protest; even the mind needs punctuation.
Evening: Reflection without Reproach
As daylight loosens its grip, the evening invites reflection. A stroll, a little banter at home, perhaps watching the sky change its clothes—none of it dramatic, all of it meaningful. This is when I look back at the day, not with a judge’s gavel but with a teacher’s red pen—ticking what worked, gently circling what needs improvement.
Night: Gratitude, Then Rest Dinner is light, conversation lighter. Before sleep, a final prayer—short, sincere, unembellished. Gratitude, I have learnt, is the most effective sedative. The day ends the way it began: quietly. No noise, no unresolved bitterness, no borrowed anxieties from tomorrow.
An ideal day, from beginning to end, does not chase perfection. It seeks alignment—between thought and action, duty and desire, self and society. If most days fall even a little short of this ideal, it is no failure. After all, the purpose of an ideal is not to be lived every day, but to keep us from living carelessly.
How Time and Turning Points Quietly Rewrite Our Perspective
There are moments in life when time behaves like a gentle river, flowing unnoticed beneath our feet. And then there are moments when it crashes like a wave, drenching us with awareness. It is often at the intersection of significant life events and the passage of time that our perspective on life is reshaped—sometimes subtly, sometimes irrevocably.
Time: The Silent Sculptor
Time does not argue, explain, or announce its intentions. It simply passes, and in doing so, chisels away our illusions. What once felt urgent slowly loses its sting; what once seemed trivial acquires unexpected depth. In youth, time appears abundant and forgiving. Deadlines are negotiable, mistakes are reversible, and tomorrow feels guaranteed. As years accumulate, time becomes less of a resource and more of a teacher—firm, fair, and unsentimental.
With age, we learn that time is not merely measured in calendars and clocks, but in experiences, relationships, and regrets. We stop asking how long something will take and start asking whether it is worth our time at all.
Life Events: The Turning Points We Don’t Rehearse
If time is the sculptor, life events are the decisive strokes of the chisel. Births, deaths, failures, successes, betrayals, illnesses, retirements, and unexpected acts of kindness—each arrives uninvited, yet leaves a permanent imprint.
A single event can dismantle years of carefully constructed beliefs. Loss teaches us the fragility of attachment.
Failure humbles the ego and refines ambition.
Responsibility—whether as a parent, mentor, or caregiver—forces us to look beyond ourselves. Retirement, often misunderstood as an end, becomes a mirror reflecting what we valued and what we postponed.
Such moments do not merely happen to us; they happen within us, rearranging priorities and redefining meaning.
From Ambition to Acceptance
In the early chapters of life, perspective is largely driven by achievement—titles, milestones, approval, and visibility. We measure success by accumulation and progress by speed. However, as time stretches behind us, the lens changes. The pursuit of more quietly gives way to the pursuit of enough.
Acceptance replaces restlessness. Listening becomes more valuable than speaking. Peace outranks applause. We realise that not every battle deserves our energy and not every opinion needs defending. The passage of time teaches us the rare art of letting go without bitterness.
Memory as a Moral Compass
Significant life events also turn memory into a guide. We remember what hurt us, and ideally, we learn not to inflict the same pain. We recall who stood by us when nothing was left to offer in return. These memories refine our moral compass, nudging us towards empathy, patience, and restraint. Over time, we discover that wisdom is less about knowing answers and more about asking better questions.
The Quiet Gift of Perspective
Perhaps the greatest gift time and life events offer is perspective—the ability to see life as a whole rather than as isolated incidents. Pain no longer feels pointless; joy no longer feels accidental. Everything finds its place in a larger narrative. We come to understand that life is not a straight road but a series of seasons—each with its own rhythm, responsibility, and reward. Fighting a season only exhausts us; understanding it sets us free.
The significance of life events and the passage of time do not make life easier, but they make it clearer. They strip away pretense, sharpen priorities, and soften judgments. They remind us that while we cannot control the length of our days, we can shape the depth of our living.
In the end, time does not merely pass—it passes through us, leaving behind perspective as its most enduring legacy.
A Candle, a Plate, and a Quiet Promise: Cooking for One’s Muse
There is something profoundly intimate about cooking for one person—not a crowd, not a family gathering, not a festival table—but for a muse. A private dinner is less about indulgence and more about intention. It is where flavours whisper, not shout; where time slows down; where the clink of cutlery competes gently with silence that is comfortable, not awkward.
If I were to serve my muse a dish, it would not be flamboyant or overworked. It would be lemon-and-herb pan-seared fish with saffron rice and a side of slow-roasted vegetables—a recipe that believes in balance, restraint, and quiet confidence.
Why This Dish?
A muse, after all, is not impressed by noise. She is drawn to depth.
Fish, especially a delicate white fillet, teaches patience. It cannot be bullied by heat or hurried by ego. Like inspiration, it responds only when handled with care. The lemon brings brightness—an echo of wit and laughter—while fresh herbs lend an earthiness that anchors the dish, much like shared memories ground a relationship.
Saffron rice, fragrant yet subtle, plays the role of the silent companion. It does not demand attention, but once noticed, it lingers. The roasted vegetables—carrots, courgettes, peppers—are honest and unpretentious, much like truths exchanged late into the evening.
The Ritual Matters as Much as the Recipe
This dinner would not begin in the pan, but much earlier.
As the fish sizzles gently, there is time to reflect. Cooking becomes a metaphor: you season carefully because words, too, can overpower if used recklessly. You taste, adjust, and wait—because some things reveal their beauty only when given time.
Serving the Muse
When served, the plate must look inviting, not intimidating. No architectural experiments, no towering ambitions. Just harmony on a plate.
The first bite is always a moment of quiet judgement—not just of the food, but of the effort behind it. And if the muse smiles, even faintly, the dish has done its job. Food, like art, does not need applause; recognition is enough.
More Than a Meal
This recipe is my favourite not because it is complex, but because it understands the soul of a private dinner. It respects the person across the table. It allows conversation to lead, laughter to interrupt, and silence to rest where it wishes.
In the end, the true dish served to a muse is not fish or rice or herbs—it is attention. The recipe merely provides an excuse to offer it. And that, perhaps, is the finest thing one can ever place before a muse.
