Love Vs Attachments

Love or Attachment? When the Heart Holds, and When It Sets Free

There are few words in human life as beautiful—and as misunderstood—as love. We often use love and attachment as though they were twins, born of the same emotion and destined to walk together. Yet, beneath their familiar appearance, they are profoundly different. Love and attachment may begin at the same doorstep, but they often lead us down very different roads.

Love says, “I want you to be happy.” Attachment says, “I want you to make me happy.”

That single distinction perhaps captures the essence of the difference.

Love is expansive. Attachment is possessive. Love gives space; attachment seeks control. Love accepts change; attachment fears it. Love can survive distance, disagreement and even separation. Attachment often becomes anxious when the object of its affection is no longer available in the way we desire.

The Architecture of Love

Love is not merely an emotion. It is an attitude towards another human being—or towards life itself.

When we genuinely love someone, we recognise that they are an individual with their own dreams, choices, weaknesses and journey. We do not necessarily agree with everything they do, but we respect their right to be themselves.

True love does not require ownership.

A mother loves her child but eventually must allow the child to walk alone. A teacher loves a student by preparing them to leave the classroom. A friend loves by remaining present without demanding constant presence. Even romantic love at its healthiest contains a quiet understanding: I am with you, but you are not my possession.

Love therefore contains freedom.

It does not say, “Without you, I cannot exist.”
It says, “Your presence enriches my life, but I respect the life that is yours.”

The Shape of Attachment

Attachment is different.

Attachment arises from our psychological need to hold on. We attach ourselves to people, possessions, memories, identities, places and even ideas because they provide us with security and familiarity.

Attachment often whispers:

“Don’t leave me.”

“Don’t change.”

“Don’t choose someone else.”

“Remain the person I knew.”

This is where affection can gradually become anxiety.

We may believe that we are loving someone when, in reality, we are afraid of losing what that person provides—a sense of security, recognition, companionship, validation or belonging.

Attachment therefore often has an element of fear hidden inside it.

Love may say, “I will miss you.”

Attachment says, “I cannot live without you.”

There is a world of difference between the two.

Love Gives; Attachment Clings

Imagine holding a beautiful bird in your hands.

If you love the bird, you will protect it, feed it and admire its beauty. And when the time comes, you will open your hands and allow it to fly.

If you are attached to the bird, you may close your fingers more tightly because you are frightened that it will leave.

Ironically, the tighter you hold, the greater the possibility of harming what you claim to love.

Human relationships can be remarkably similar.

Sometimes we suffocate the very relationships we desperately want to preserve—not because we do not care, but because we care through fear rather than freedom.

How Do These Qualities Take Shape?

Love develops through understanding, empathy, trust, respect and acceptance.

Attachment frequently develops through fear, dependency, insecurity, habit and the desire for certainty.

Our experiences shape both.

A person who has experienced abandonment may become strongly attached because losing someone feels unbearable. Someone who has learned self-respect and emotional independence may love deeply without becoming possessive.

Attachment is therefore not necessarily a sign of weakness. It is often a reflection of an unmet emotional need.

The important question is not:

“Why am I attached?”

but:

“What am I afraid of losing?”

The answer can reveal much about ourselves.

Can Love Exist Without Attachment?

This is perhaps the most difficult question.

Human beings naturally become attached. We form bonds. We create memories. We miss people. We become emotionally invested. To suggest that love must be completely free of attachment may be unrealistic.

The distinction lies in how we respond when attachment is threatened.

If someone we love chooses a different path, can we respect their choice?

If circumstances create distance, can we continue caring without bitterness?

If a relationship ends, can we grieve without turning love into hatred?

If the person we love changes, can we accept that change rather than demanding that they remain frozen in our memory?

These are difficult tests.

Love does not mean that separation causes no pain. It means that pain does not become a justification for possession.

The Indian Philosophical Perspective

Indian thought has explored this distinction for centuries.

The Bhagavad Gita speaks of rāga—attachment—and dveṣa—aversion, and repeatedly points towards a state in which one performs one’s duties without becoming enslaved by the results.

The famous teaching of nishkāma karma is not an invitation to become emotionless. Rather, it suggests that we should act sincerely without allowing our desires to possess us.

There is profound wisdom in this.

We can care deeply without becoming consumed.

We can love passionately without demanding permanence.

We can give wholeheartedly without keeping an emotional ledger of what we expect in return.

Perhaps this is one of the highest forms of love.

Love Is Not the Absence of Pain

Sometimes people say, “If it hurts so much, it cannot be love.”

That is not necessarily true.

Love can hurt terribly.

We grieve because we loved. We miss because someone mattered. We feel emptiness because a presence once filled a space in our lives.

The difference is what we do with that pain.

Love transforms pain into gratitude:

“I was fortunate to have known you.”

Attachment transforms pain into resentment:

“You had no right to leave me.”

One looks backwards with gratitude.

The other looks backwards with accusation.

Love and Attachment Can Coexist

It would be too simplistic to say that love and attachment are always completely separate.

They frequently coexist.

We may genuinely love someone and simultaneously be deeply attached to them. We may care for a person while fearing their absence. We may understand intellectually that people are free while emotionally struggling to accept their choices.

The journey of maturity is not necessarily to eliminate attachment overnight.

It is to become aware of it.

Awareness creates distance between what we feel and how we behave.

I may feel insecure, but I need not become controlling.

I may fear losing someone, but I need not imprison them.

I may miss someone, but I need not make them responsible for my happiness.

That is emotional maturity.

The Ultimate Test

Perhaps there is a simple test to distinguish love from attachment:

Ask yourself what happens when you cannot have what you want.

If you can still wish the other person well, there is love.

If you become angry because they did not fulfil your expectations, attachment may be dominating.

If you can remain grateful for what was shared, there is love.

If you can think only about what was taken away, attachment has taken centre stage.

If you can say, “I would have preferred you to stay, but I respect your freedom,” you are moving towards love.

Love Ultimately Sets Free

Love is not a chain.

It is a bridge.

It connects two lives without erasing the individuality of either.

Attachment asks, “How can I keep you?”

Love asks, “How can I honour you?”

Attachment fears the future because the future may take something away.

Love accepts the future because it understands that nothing in life is permanently ours—not people, not possessions, not youth, not circumstances and not even life itself.

Perhaps the deepest form of love is therefore not holding someone tightly, but holding them gently.

To love is to say:

“I cherish your presence. I value what we share. I will stand beside you as long as life permits. But I will not confuse loving you with owning you.”

And perhaps that is the moment when attachment begins to dissolve and love begins to breathe.

For love, at its highest, does not imprison the heart.

It gives the heart wings.

Which author would you love to have dinner with?

An Evening with Tolstoy: Dinner at the Table of a Giant

If I could invite any author, living or dead, to dinner, my choice would be Leo Tolstoy.

I would not choose him merely because he wrote War and Peace and Anna Karenina, two of the greatest novels ever written. I would choose him because Tolstoy spent his life wrestling with the questions that trouble every thoughtful human being: What is a good life? What makes us truly happy? Why do we suffer? What is the meaning of love? And how should we live when the world around us is full of contradictions?

I imagine the dinner would begin quietly. Perhaps Tolstoy would arrive without ceremony, dressed simply, carrying the unmistakable presence of someone who had spent a lifetime observing human beings. I would probably have hundreds of questions, but I suspect I would first simply listen.

I would ask him about War and Peace. How did he manage to weave together history, war, politics, love, family, philosophy and ordinary human existence on such an enormous canvas? I would want to know whether he believed history was really shaped by great leaders or by millions of seemingly insignificant decisions made by ordinary people.

Then I would turn to Anna Karenina. I would ask him about love and society, about judgement and forgiveness, and about why human beings sometimes destroy what they love most. Tolstoy’s characters are never merely good or evil; they are wonderfully, painfully human. They make mistakes, repent, hope, deceive themselves and search for meaning.

But perhaps the most important question would be about happiness.

Tolstoy understood that wealth, status and recognition do not necessarily bring contentment. He increasingly believed that a meaningful life was found in simplicity, compassion, honest work and service to others. I would ask him whether, after all his searching, he had finally discovered the secret of happiness.

I suspect he might smile and say that happiness is not something we possess but something we create through the way we live.

I would also ask him about ageing. What does one learn when the years begin to outnumber the years ahead? Does wisdom really come with age, or does age merely teach us how little we know?

That question would probably lead us towards death.

Tolstoy wrote repeatedly about mortality, but he did not treat death simply as an ending. He saw the awareness of death as a powerful reason to examine the way we live. I would ask him whether knowing that life is temporary makes it more precious.

Perhaps he would tell me that the real tragedy is not that life ends, but that we sometimes spend too much of it without truly living.

And then, inevitably, I would ask him about writing.

What makes a story immortal? Is it beautiful language, unforgettable characters or profound ideas? Tolstoy might answer that the greatest stories survive because they reveal something truthful about human nature. Centuries may change our clothes, technology and circumstances, but jealousy, love, ambition, loneliness, courage and compassion remain remarkably familiar.

By then, dinner would probably have grown cold.

Because the real feast would not be on the table. It would be in the conversation.

I would want to tell Tolstoy how his books have travelled across generations and continents, reaching readers who were born long after he died. I would tell him that a writer may leave this world, but his questions can continue living in the minds of strangers.

Perhaps, before leaving, I would ask him one final question:

“If you could give one piece of advice to a person approaching the later chapters of life, what would it be?”

I imagine he might pause for a moment before answering.

Perhaps he would say, in his own way, that we should stop worrying about how much of life remains and concentrate instead on how truthfully, compassionately and meaningfully we live the days that are given to us.

That would be enough.

I would not need an autograph.

I would not need a photograph.

I would simply be grateful for the privilege of having shared a meal with a man who spent his life trying to understand the human soul.

Some dinners feed the body.

Some conversations feed the mind.

And, once in a lifetime, perhaps, there is a dinner that feeds the soul.

That is the dinner I would choose—with Leo Tolstoy.

Book ReviewThe Full Pant Chronicles: Threads of Time and TruthA Life Woven One Stitch at a Time

Book Review

The Full Pant Chronicles: Threads of Time and Truth

A Life Woven One Stitch at a Time

About the Book

The Full Pant Chronicles: Threads of Time and Truth is an introspective, philosophical and deeply human account of growing up, growing older and learning to accept the many imperfections that make a life meaningful.

At first glance, the title appears playful and unconventional. But the “full pant” soon reveals itself as a powerful metaphor for the entire journey of life. The transition from the half pant of childhood to the full pant of adulthood becomes a symbolic passage from innocence to responsibility, from dependence to independence and eventually from ambition to wisdom.

The book travels through childhood memories, education, early struggles, professional responsibilities, relationships, friendship, family, loneliness, failure, faith, introspection, ageing, legacy and acceptance. Rather than presenting life as a straight road towards success, it presents it as a garment that is continually stitched, altered, repaired and sometimes torn.

The six parts of the book create a natural progression: growing up, assuming responsibility, navigating relationships, confronting trials, discovering the inner self and finally arriving at wisdom, legacy and acceptance.

The result is neither a conventional autobiography nor a conventional self-help book. It occupies an interesting space between memoir, reflective narrative and philosophical life writing.

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The Central Idea

The genius of the book lies in its simplicity.

A pair of trousers becomes a metaphor for a lifetime.

The half pant represents childhood and innocence.

The first full pant represents the threshold of adulthood.

The creases represent experience.

The torn seams represent failure and adversity.

The needle and thread represent resilience, learning and repair.

The pockets represent memories and experiences carried through life.

The last button represents acceptance.

And the act of walking in full pant becomes a metaphor for continuing to live despite everything life places in our path.

The metaphor is accessible enough to be immediately understood, yet sufficiently deep to sustain an entire book.

That is one of the book’s greatest strengths.

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About the Author

Prashant Kumar Lal is an educator, writer, thinker and lifelong learner whose professional and literary journey has been shaped by education, observation and an enduring curiosity about human life.

With decades of experience in education and leadership, he has encountered generations of students, colleagues and institutions. His experience has given him an unusual vantage point from which to observe how people grow, struggle, succeed, fail, change and eventually search for meaning beyond conventional definitions of achievement.

As an author, he has written across several genres and subjects, including education, science, poetry, fiction, personal reflections and contemporary issues. His writing frequently brings together personal experience with philosophical observation, allowing ordinary incidents to open doors to larger questions about life.

In The Full Pant Chronicles, the author turns that accumulated experience inward. Instead of presenting himself as someone who has discovered all the answers, he writes as a traveller who has learnt to appreciate the questions.

His greatest strength as an author is perhaps this willingness to reflect honestly on both achievement and imperfection.

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Themes Explored

The book addresses themes that are universal, although they emerge through the author’s individual journey.

Growing up is explored not merely as a biological process but as the gradual accumulation of responsibility.

Education is presented as more than examinations and qualifications; it becomes a means of survival, opportunity, self-discovery and transformation.

Relationships are examined through love, marriage, friendship, family, companionship and separation.

Failure is not treated as the opposite of success but as one of life’s most persistent teachers.

Loneliness emerges as an emotional experience that can exist even in crowded surroundings.

Faith is examined beyond ritual, moving towards introspection and an attempt to understand one’s place in the larger scheme of existence.

Ageing is approached not as decline alone but as a period of perspective, gratitude and acceptance.

Legacy becomes less about being remembered and more about what one passes forward to others.

Finally, acceptance emerges as perhaps the deepest lesson of the book: the ability to look at one’s life—with its achievements, mistakes, scars, compromises and unfinished dreams—and still recognise its worth.

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The USP of the Book

The Unique Selling Proposition (USP) of The Full Pant Chronicles is its central metaphor.

Very few books could take something as ordinary as a pair of trousers and use it as a continuous philosophical thread connecting childhood, adulthood, responsibility, relationships, adversity, spirituality, ageing and legacy.

The metaphor is memorable because it is ordinary.

Everyone understands clothing.

Everyone understands growing up.

Everyone understands the experience of something becoming worn with time.

The author combines these familiar experiences to create something much larger.

Another distinctive feature is the book’s Indian sensibility. Its reflections emerge from an environment where education, social expectations, relationships, responsibility, aspiration, dignity and spirituality intersect. Yet its underlying questions are universal.

The book also avoids presenting life as a perfectly successful journey. It acknowledges uncertainty, loneliness, compromise, failure and emotional struggle. This gives the narrative authenticity.

Most importantly, the book does not say:

“Look at what I achieved.”

Its deeper message is:

“Look at what life taught me.”

That distinction gives the book its emotional character.

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Target Audience

The book has a potentially broad readership.

1. Readers in their forties, fifties and beyond may find themselves particularly drawn to its reflections on ageing, memory, relationships, changing priorities and acceptance.

2. Young adults may find value in its observations about education, ambition, responsibility, failure and the transition into adulthood.

3. Educators and professionals may connect with its reflections on leadership, responsibility, mentoring and the changing relationship between experience and younger generations.

4. Readers interested in memoir and life writing will appreciate its combination of personal narrative and philosophical reflection.

5. Readers of inspirational and reflective literature may enjoy its emphasis on resilience, gratitude, self-examination and acceptance.

6. Indian readers and readers familiar with Indian social and educational contexts may recognise many of the cultural nuances underlying the narrative.

7. Older readers may find particular emotional resonance in the later sections dealing with legacy, being forgotten, gratitude, slowing down and watching the next generation.

The book’s appeal, however, is not restricted by age. Its central questions belong to anyone who has ever wondered where the years went and what those years ultimately meant.

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Writing Style

The writing is reflective, conversational and philosophical.

Rather than relying entirely on chronological narration, the book uses memories as starting points for larger reflections. An incident may begin with something ordinary and gradually develop into an observation about human nature.

This approach allows the personal and universal to coexist.

The prose frequently returns to images of cloth, stitching, buttons, pockets, seams, tailoring and fitting. Instead of becoming merely decorative, these images gradually acquire symbolic meaning.

The writing also benefits from its willingness to pause.

The book does not always hurry towards a conclusion.

It allows a memory to breathe.

It allows a question to remain unanswered.

It allows silence to become part of the narrative.

That quality is particularly appropriate for a book concerned with introspection and the passage of time.

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What Makes the Book Different?

Many memoirs tell readers what happened.

Many self-help books tell readers what to do.

The Full Pant Chronicles attempts something different.

It asks readers to look at their own lives while reading someone else’s.

The author’s experiences become mirrors.

The reader may begin with the author’s childhood but soon find themselves remembering their own.

A first salary may remind one reader of their own early struggles.

A friendship may bring back another.

A torn seam may remind someone of a personal failure.

An old garment may suddenly evoke an entire period of life.

That is where the book moves beyond autobiography.

It becomes a conversation.

The author’s story becomes a doorway through which readers enter their own memories.

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Emotional Appeal

The strongest emotional quality of the book is its honesty about imperfection.

There is no insistence that life must always be positive.

There are moments of uncertainty.

There are losses.

There are disappointments.

There are periods of loneliness.

There are compromises.

There are unanswered questions.

But the narrative does not remain trapped in darkness.

It repeatedly returns to resilience.

The message is not that life will never tear.

The message is that torn fabric can be repaired.

And sometimes the repaired seam becomes stronger than the original.

That is a quietly powerful idea.

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Literary Significance

The book’s greatest literary achievement is the sustained transformation of an everyday object into a philosophical symbol.

The full pant begins as an item of clothing.

It becomes a marker of adulthood.

Then it becomes a repository of memory.

Then a metaphor for responsibility.

Then a symbol of life’s wear and tear.

Then a representation of wisdom and legacy.

Finally, it becomes an image of acceptance.

This gives the entire book a structural unity.

The beginning and ending speak to each other.

The half pant belongs to the boy.

The full pant belongs to the journey.

The final button belongs to acceptance.

And the act of walking continues beyond the final page.

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The Book’s Greatest Strength

The greatest strength of The Full Pant Chronicles is its relatability.

The story may belong to one individual, but its emotions belong to many.

Everyone has experienced some form of growing up.

Everyone has carried expectations.

Everyone has experienced disappointment.

Everyone has known relationships that changed.

Everyone has made mistakes.

Everyone has wondered about the meaning of success.

Everyone eventually confronts time.

And everyone, sooner or later, must learn the art of letting go.

That universality gives the book its reach.

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A Possible Limitation

The book is deliberately reflective and contemplative. Readers looking for a fast-paced conventional autobiography may find its philosophical pauses slower than expected.

But this is also part of its character.

It is a book to be read slowly rather than consumed quickly.

Some chapters invite the reader to stop, remember and reflect. Its greatest rewards may therefore come not from rushing through the narrative but from recognising one’s own experiences within it.

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Overall Verdict

The Full Pant Chronicles: Threads of Time and Truth is a warm, thoughtful and unconventional meditation on the journey from childhood to acceptance.

Its greatest achievement is turning an ordinary garment into an extraordinary metaphor for human existence.

The book reminds us that life is never perfectly tailored. There will be loose threads, uncomfortable fits, unexpected alterations, missing buttons and torn seams. Yet none of these necessarily diminish the value of the garment.

Indeed, they may be what give it character.

The book ultimately leaves the reader with a simple but profound message:

A life need not be perfect to be meaningful. It needs to be lived.

For readers who enjoy memoirs that combine personal experience with philosophy, emotion and introspection, The Full Pant Chronicles offers a distinctive and engaging reading experience.

It is a book about growing up—but equally about growing wiser.

It is about remembering—but also about letting go.

It is about what we achieve—but more importantly, what we become.

And perhaps its most enduring message is the one with which the journey finally concludes:

Keep walking.

The fabric may be worn.

The seams may carry scars.

The buttons may have been replaced.

But as long as we are still walking, the story is not truly over.

What’s a moment when a stranger completely restored your faith in people?

The Stranger Who Reminded Me That Kindness Still Exists

There are moments in life when our faith in humanity becomes a little fragile.

We read about dishonesty, cruelty, selfishness and indifference. We see people rushing past one another without looking up. We hear stories of exploitation and betrayal. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, we begin to believe that everyone is primarily concerned with themselves.

And then, sometimes, a complete stranger comes along and quietly proves us wrong.

I remember one such moment.

It was an ordinary day. Nothing about it suggested that it would become memorable. I was travelling somewhere, carrying my usual worries and thoughts, when I found myself in a situation that left me uncomfortable and helpless. I was struggling with something that, to me, felt significant at that particular moment. People around me noticed, but most simply continued with their lives.

Then a stranger stopped.

There was no dramatic conversation. No grand gesture. No expectation of recognition or reward. The person simply asked, “Are you all right? Can I help?”

Those few words carried a remarkable warmth.

The stranger helped me resolve the immediate difficulty and then disappeared into the crowd as quietly as they had arrived. I never learned their name. I could not thank them properly. There was no exchange of contact details and no promise that our paths would ever cross again.

Yet that brief encounter stayed with me.

What touched me was not merely the help itself. It was the fact that someone who knew absolutely nothing about me had decided that my problem mattered.

Perhaps that is the purest form of kindness.

When we help someone we love, there are often bonds, memories and obligations involved. But when we help a stranger, there is nothing to gain except the satisfaction of having made another person’s journey slightly easier.

That encounter made me think about how easily we underestimate the goodness of ordinary people.

We tend to remember the rude driver, the dishonest shopkeeper, the unkind colleague or the person who ignored us. Negative experiences have a strange ability to occupy more space in our memories than positive ones. One unpleasant encounter can make us suspicious of an entire world.

But humanity is not defined only by its loudest failures.

It is also defined by the person who holds the door open for someone whose hands are full.

By the stranger who tells an elderly person to take their seat.

By the passer-by who helps someone pick up belongings scattered on a pavement.

By the person who returns a lost wallet without taking anything from it.

By the commuter who notices someone crying and quietly asks if they are all right.

By the unknown individual who pays for someone’s meal and walks away before being thanked.

These acts rarely make the news. They do not become viral posts. There are no cameras recording them and no awards waiting at the end.

Yet they are perhaps the threads that keep society together.

That stranger taught me something else: kindness does not always need a reason.

We sometimes wait for people to deserve our compassion. We ask whether they are responsible for their circumstances, whether they have earned our trust or whether helping them will benefit us in return.

But genuine kindness often begins where calculation ends.

A stranger does not know our history. They do not know our mistakes, achievements, beliefs or disappointments. They see only the human being standing in front of them—and decide to help.

There is something profoundly beautiful about that.

Perhaps we should also remember that we may have been someone’s stranger at some point.

A small gesture that we barely remember might have remained in another person’s heart for years. A reassuring word, a helping hand, a smile at the right moment or simply the decision not to walk away may have given someone hope when they desperately needed it.

We may never know.

And perhaps that is all right.

The best acts of kindness are not transactions. They are gifts without invoices.

Since that day, whenever I find myself becoming cynical about people, I try to remember that stranger.

Not because one person’s kindness can erase all the cruelty in the world, but because it reminds me that cruelty is not the whole story.

There are still people who stop.

People who notice.

People who care.

People who help without asking who you are.

And sometimes, all it takes is one such stranger to restore something we thought we had lost—the quiet belief that, despite everything, there is still goodness in people.

Perhaps faith in humanity is not restored by great speeches or extraordinary events.

Perhaps it is restored one small act at a time.

A stranger stops.

A hand reaches out.

A burden becomes lighter.

And somewhere inside us, a little light comes back on.

We may forget the faces of the strangers who helped us, but we rarely forget how their kindness made us feel.

If your future self could send you one sentence, what do you hope it would say?

A Letter from Tomorrow: “You Were Always Going to Be Alright”

What if, just for a moment, we could hear from the person we are destined to become? Not through a dream, a prophecy or some mystical revelation, but through a single sentence sent backwards across the invisible bridge of time. What would our future self tell us?

Perhaps the sentence would be surprisingly simple:

“You were always going to be alright; you just needed to trust the journey.”

We spend an extraordinary amount of our lives worrying about what has not yet happened. We worry about tomorrow’s uncertainties, next year’s challenges and the consequences of decisions we have not even made. We look at the present as though it were a difficult examination for which we have forgotten to study. Yet our future self, standing at a point in time where today’s uncertainties have become yesterday’s memories, would probably smile at our anxiety.

Because the future has a peculiar way of putting the present into perspective.

The disappointment that feels unbearable today may become a story we tell tomorrow. The door that refused to open may eventually reveal itself as a blessing. The person who walked away may have unknowingly made room for someone or something better. The failure that wounded our pride may become the very experience that taught us resilience.

Our future self would know all this because they have already lived through it.

Perhaps they would tell us not to spend so much energy trying to control everything. Life rarely follows the script we prepare for it. We make plans, build expectations and draw careful maps, only to discover that life has its own compass. Sometimes it takes us through valleys we never intended to enter and sometimes it leads us to beautiful landscapes we never knew existed.

The irony is that we often understand life backwards.

When we look back, events seem connected. When we look ahead, everything appears uncertain.

That is why the future self has an advantage. They can see the pattern that we cannot yet see. They know that a chapter cannot be judged while we are still living through its middle pages.

Perhaps that is the message we most need to hear when life feels confusing:

“Don’t judge the whole story by the chapter you are currently living.”

There were probably moments in our past when we thought everything had gone wrong. Yet somehow, we survived them. We learnt from them. We grew around them. Some experiences changed us; others humbled us; a few broke our hearts. But each became part of the person we eventually became.

Our future self would not ask us to have all the answers.

They would ask us to keep walking.

Keep learning.

Keep believing.

Keep becoming.

They might also remind us that success is not always about arriving somewhere spectacular. Sometimes success is simply reaching another morning with enough courage to begin again. Sometimes it is choosing kindness when bitterness would be easier. Sometimes it is forgiving ourselves for mistakes that we cannot undo. Sometimes it is accepting that not everything lost was meant to be recovered.

We are often impatient with ourselves because we compare our unfinished lives with someone else’s seemingly completed picture. But our future self would probably laugh gently at this comparison. They would know how misleading appearances can be. They would know that every person carries invisible battles, unanswered questions and private fears.

So why hurry?

Why be ashamed of taking longer?

Why measure a life only by achievements?

Perhaps the future version of ourselves would say:

“You don’t need to become someone else; you only need to become more completely yourself.”

There is something deeply liberating about that thought.

We spend years collecting titles, possessions, qualifications and accomplishments, hoping that one day they will finally prove that we mattered. Yet perhaps the deeper measure of a life lies elsewhere—in the lives we touched, the kindness we offered, the courage we displayed when nobody was watching, and the wisdom we gathered from ordinary days.

Our future self would know that the things we worried about most were rarely the things that mattered most.

They would remember the sunsets we ignored because we were busy worrying about tomorrow. They would remember conversations we postponed, books we never opened, songs we never played and moments we allowed to pass because we were waiting for a better time.

And perhaps that would be their most urgent message:

“Please don’t postpone your life while waiting for life to become perfect.”

There is no perfect time.

There is only this time.

The future is not a destination waiting for us at the end of a long road. It is being quietly created by what we do today. Every choice, every habit, every act of courage and every small kindness is stitching another thread into the fabric of tomorrow.

That is why the message from our future self need not be complicated.

It need not predict wealth, success, fame or even happiness.

It simply needs to remind us that uncertainty is not the same as failure.

So, if my future self could send me only one sentence, I would hope it would be this:

“You worried far too much about tomorrow; it turned out that the best parts of your life were being quietly created today.”

And perhaps that is the message all of us need.

Not a promise that life will be easy.

Not an assurance that nothing will go wrong.

But a gentle reminder that we have survived every difficult day that has brought us this far—and that tomorrow is not necessarily something to fear.

Sometimes, tomorrow is simply the place where today’s courage finally makes sense.

What’s the best local dish you’ve ever eaten while traveling?

A Taste of the Journey: When India Served Its Best Meal on the Way

Some of the best meals of my life have not been eaten in famous restaurants, five-star hotels or carefully curated dining rooms. They have arrived unexpectedly—through the open window of a railway carriage, at a roadside dhaba somewhere between two cities, or on a paper plate at an airport when hunger had suddenly become the most important thing in the world.

Perhaps that is the magic of travelling in India. The country does not merely take you from one destination to another; it feeds you along the way.

I have often wondered what makes a local dish memorable. Is it the recipe? The spices? The freshness? The cook? Or is it the place and the moment in which we eat it? I believe it is a little of everything. Food becomes unforgettable when it carries a memory.

India is a country where every few hundred kilometres can bring a different culinary personality. The language may change, the landscape may change and even the way people dress may change—but so does the food.

And sometimes, the most delicious discovery is the one you never planned to make.

The Highway Has Its Own Kitchen

There is something wonderfully democratic about a highway dhaba. You arrive covered in dust, tired from driving, and hungry enough to eat almost anything. Yet the moment a hot plate of food arrives, the journey suddenly feels worthwhile.

A simple dal tadka, tandoori roti, aloo pyaz, paneer or mixed vegetable curry, served with onions and green chillies, can taste better than an elaborate restaurant meal. Perhaps it is because the food is hot, fresh and uncomplicated.

And then there is the legendary paratha.

Across North India, a highway stop can produce an astonishing variety—aloo paratha, gobi paratha, mooli paratha or paneer paratha, often served with curd, pickle and a generous spoonful of butter. Add a steaming glass of chai and you have a meal that needs no menu.

Further south, the highway changes its vocabulary. A plate of idli, vada, dosa and sambar, sometimes served at a modest roadside establishment, can be precisely what a weary traveller needs. In Tamil Nadu, Karnataka, Andhra Pradesh and Kerala, the highway food experience can become a culinary journey in itself.

And sometimes the best part is the tea.

A small glass of cutting chai, a cup of roadside masala tea or a simple sweet tea served in a steel tumbler can revive both body and conversation.

The Railway Platform: India’s Original Food Court

If highways have dhabas, Indian railways have platforms.

Few places in India can match the theatre of a railway station. Trains arrive and depart, porters rush about, announcements echo overhead and passengers keep looking at the station clock. Amidst all this movement comes the irresistible call of food vendors.

Samosa. Kachori. Pakora. Chai.

These are not merely snacks. They are part of the vocabulary of Indian travel.

There is something special about buying a hot samosa just before the train leaves. You hold it carefully because it is almost too hot to touch, tear it open and discover the steaming potato filling inside. Add green chutney, perhaps some sweet tamarind chutney, and the journey suddenly becomes more enjoyable.

Then there are the regional railway treasures.

Pyaaz kachori in Rajasthan, litti chokha in Bihar, poha in Madhya Pradesh, vada pav in Maharashtra, idli and vada in the South, and savoury snacks of every imaginable variety can turn a railway platform into a miniature map of India.

And who can forget railway chai?

It may not be the finest tea one has ever tasted, but it has a flavour that belongs uniquely to travelling. The announcement of the next station, the rhythm of the train and that small cup of hot tea somehow become one experience.

The Airport Plate

Airports are different. Everything is faster, cleaner and more organised. There are schedules to watch, security checks to negotiate and boarding gates to find.

Yet even airports increasingly offer travellers a taste of the region they are visiting.

At an airport in South India, one may find masala dosa, idli, vada and filter coffee. In Delhi, perhaps chole bhature, paratha or kebabs. In Mumbai, vada pav can provide a quick reminder that the city outside is never far away. At other airports, regional thalis, biryanis and local sweets offer travellers a final taste of the place before they fly away.

Airport food may be more expensive than its highway or railway counterpart, but when a delayed flight leaves you hungry at midnight, even an ordinary sandwich and a hot cup of coffee can taste remarkably good.

Perhaps hunger is the world’s greatest seasoning.

But What Is the Best Dish I Have Ever Eaten?

If I had to choose one category rather than a single dish, I would choose the humble Indian meal eaten during a journey.

It could be a hot paratha at a roadside dhaba, poha at a railway station, dosa before catching a flight, or a simple plate of dal and roti somewhere along a forgotten highway.

The dish itself is only half the story.

The other half is the journey.

I remember the anticipation of stopping after hours on the road. I remember the sound of a train approaching while holding a cup of tea. I remember the peculiar satisfaction of eating something warm at an airport after a long journey.

Food tastes different when one is travelling.

Perhaps it is because travel makes us more attentive. At home, we sometimes eat without noticing. While travelling, we look at the plate. We smell the spices. We notice the texture. We remember the person who served us. We associate the meal with a landscape, a railway station, a conversation or a destination.

That is why a simple meal can remain in our memory for decades.

India: A Country You Can Taste

One does not really need a gastronomic tour to discover India’s food. One only needs to travel.

Follow the highways and the dhabas will feed you.

Take the train and the platforms will tempt you.

Fly across the country and the airports will introduce you to regional flavours.

From Punjab’s parathas to Rajasthan’s kachoris, Maharashtra’s vada pav to Gujarat’s dhokla, Bihar’s litti chokha to Madhya Pradesh’s poha, Bengal’s sweets to South India’s dosa and filter coffee, India’s culinary map is as diverse as its geography.

And perhaps that is why I have never believed that the best food is necessarily the most expensive food.

The best food is the food that arrives when you are hungry, in a place you will remember, prepared with a little care and eaten with complete satisfaction.

A journey may begin with a destination in mind, but somewhere along the way, food often becomes part of the destination.

So, if someone asks me about the best local dish I have ever eaten while travelling, I might hesitate before naming one.

Because after travelling through India, I have learnt something important:

Sometimes the best dish is not the one on the menu. It is the one that becomes a memory.

And India’s roads, railway platforms and airports are full of such memories—served hot, wrapped in paper, poured into little cups and seasoned generously with the unmistakable flavour of travel.

What’s a thing you wish schools actually taught?

The Lesson No Textbook Taught Me: How to Live

Schools taught us mathematics, science, history, geography and languages. They taught us how to solve equations, remember dates, write examinations and compete for marks. They prepared us, quite efficiently, for the next examination, the next class and eventually, the next career.

But there was one subject I wish every school had taught seriously:

How to live.

Not how to earn a living. Not how to become successful. Not even how to get ahead of others. I mean how to live a life that remains meaningful when the certificates are framed, the applause becomes silent and the professional titles are left behind.

We were taught how to calculate interest, but not how to calculate the cost of anger. We learnt the laws of physics, but rarely the laws of human relationships. We studied the anatomy of the human body, but not the anatomy of loneliness, grief, disappointment or hope.

We were taught to speak, but not always how to listen.

We learnt how to win debates, but not how to disagree without losing respect for the person sitting opposite us. We learnt the importance of competition, but not enough about collaboration. We were encouraged to pursue success, but seldom asked what success should actually mean.

Perhaps schools should have taught us how to fail.

Failure is one of life’s most reliable teachers, yet we often treat it as a disgrace. A child who scores poorly may feel that the world has ended. An adult who loses a job, business, relationship or opportunity can carry the same fear into later life. We should have been told that failure is not the opposite of success. Sometimes, it is the road towards it.

We should also have learnt how to handle money.

Basic financial literacy could save people from years of unnecessary anxiety. How to budget, save, invest wisely, understand debt, distinguish between needs and wants, and plan for uncertain times—these are not merely practical skills. They are life skills. Yet many people leave school knowing the quadratic formula but not how compound interest works on a loan or an investment.

Then there is another lesson that perhaps matters even more: how to understand ourselves.

What are my strengths? What are my weaknesses? What makes me happy? What am I afraid of? What kind of person do I want to become? When should I say yes, and when should I say no? When should I persevere, and when should I let go?

These questions rarely appear in examination papers, but they appear repeatedly in the examination of life.

We should have been taught emotional intelligence—how to recognise our emotions without becoming prisoners of them. Anger, jealousy, insecurity, disappointment and fear are part of being human. The objective should never be to eliminate emotions, but to understand them and respond wisely.

And perhaps the most important lesson of all: kindness is not weakness.

In a world that often celebrates power, wealth, appearance and achievement, kindness can appear almost ordinary. Yet a kind word can remain in someone’s memory for decades. A teacher who believes in a struggling child, a stranger who offers help, a friend who listens without judgement—these seemingly small acts can change lives.

Schools should also have taught us how to let go.

Let go of resentment. Let go of the need to be right all the time. Let go of people who no longer belong in our journey. Let go of mistakes that cannot be changed. Let go of yesterday when yesterday has finished teaching its lesson.

Life becomes lighter when we understand that not everything is meant to be carried forever.

We should have learnt that comparison is a poor measure of happiness. Someone will always be richer, younger, more successful, more attractive or more accomplished. If our happiness depends upon being ahead of everyone else, we have chosen a race with no finish line.

Instead, we should have been taught to measure ourselves against the person we were yesterday.

And finally, schools should have taught us something beautifully simple:

There is more to life than achievement.

A career is important, but it is not an identity. Money is useful, but it is not a measure of worth. Recognition is pleasant, but it is temporary. What remains is the person we become and the difference we make to the lives we touch.

Perhaps education should ultimately be judged not merely by how many examinations a student passes, but by the kind of human being that student becomes.

Imagine a curriculum with a subject called The Art of Living.

Its lessons might include failure, forgiveness, friendship, financial wisdom, emotional resilience, relationships, solitude, gratitude, ageing, loss, purpose, compassion and the courage to begin again.

There would be no final examination.

Life itself would be the examination.

And perhaps the highest grade would simply be this:

You lived well. You remained kind. You learnt from your mistakes. You helped others along the way. And when you finally looked back, you had very few things to regret and many things to be grateful for.

That is the lesson I wish schools had taught us.

Because ultimately, education should not merely teach us how to make a living.

It should teach us how to make a life.