When the Roots We Nurtured Turn Against Us: A Tale of Autumn Leaves and Silent Prayers”

“When the Roots We Nurtured Turn Against Us: A Tale of Autumn Leaves and Silent Prayers”

“The heart knoweth – his own bitterness; and a stranger doth not intermeddle with his joy.” — Proverbs 14:10
“Pitṛ devo bhava” (पितृ देवो भव) — Let the father be thy god.
Pronunciation: pit-ri de-vo bha-va
Meaning: The father, as a divine force, must be revered — a sacred tenet of Hindu dharma.

There comes a time in life when the harvest of our efforts, love, and sacrifices ought to yield fruits of gratitude, warmth, and tender companionship. But alas, for some, the orchard turns barren, and the trees once planted with hope grow thorns of hostility.

What a peculiar irony! In the twilight of life, when one’s hands tremble not from weakness but from years of giving, the very hands one raised to shelter and bless now rise in defiance. The echo of a raised voice from a child — once cradled against the chest during fevered nights — strikes deeper than thunder across a naked sky. What pain, what devastation, to stand rebuked by the fruit of one’s own being.

One remembers the quiet sacrifices — of meals foregone, comforts delayed, dreams downsized — all for the joy of watching a child take flight. And yet, to be painted as a burden in old age, to be labelled ‘unproductive’ or worse, to see one’s savings snatched under emotional duress, feels like watching your home collapse brick by brick while you sit in silence amidst the rubble.

“न मां दु:खेन क्लिश्यन्ति सन्तः”
na māṁ duḥkhena kliśyanti santaḥ
Pronunciation: na maam duh-khe-na klish-yan-ti san-taḥ
Meaning: The wise are not shaken by sorrow.
This verse from the Mahabharata speaks of the quiet resilience of saints and elders, who absorb grief not with complaint, but with understanding. Yet, even saints have hearts.

The feeling of being ‘orphaned by one’s own blood’ is a wound deeper than any sword. There’s no vocabulary in any language for a parent who loses the affection of a living child. The world may offer shelters, charities, even consoling words — but none can mend the fracture of trust within the heart.

The friends one once cooked for, the family one guarded like a lion, now roam freely in pleasures while the provider sits ignored, like a monument — respected only in stories, not in presence.

“Cast me not off in the time of old age; forsake me not when my strength faileth.” — Psalm 71:9

This cry from the Psalms echoes through many tear-soaked pillows of elders whose sacrifices are now discredited, whose rooms are growing lonelier by the day.

 Autumn Leaves Fall Silently

Old age should have been a gentle symphony — of storytelling, prayer beads, cherished music, memories revisited over cups of tea, and the laughter of grandchildren dancing in one’s lap.
But what if it instead becomes a theatre of insults, gaslighting, or a place where love is a transaction and respect is conditional?

“The wound of the tongue cuts deeper than the sword.”
— so says both the Bible and the Vedas in spirit.

To be unemployed in old age is natural.
To be unwanted — is cruel.
To be helpless — is a silent prayer waiting for God’s intervention.

 A Poetic Meditation

I watered the roots, I shaped the tree,
Through storm and drought, I let them be.
But now they shade me not, nor bloom,
Their branches point, their words consume.

I ask no gold, no throne, no crown,
Just peace before I lay me down.

But bitter fruits fall every day —
My soul retreats. I kneel and pray.

 A Philosophical Note

Time is a teacher with no syllabus.
What we give today may or may not return tomorrow.
The Bhagavad Gita, in its immortal wisdom, says:

“कर्मण्येवाधिकारस्ते मा फलेषु कदाचन”
karmaṇy-evādhikāras te mā phaleṣu kadācana
Pronunciation: kar-man-ye-vaad-hi-kaaras te maa pha-leshu ka-daa-cha-na
Meaning: You have the right to perform your duties, but not to the fruits thereof.

Perhaps, then, our love was duty. The reward — an illusion.
But even illusions have the power to lift the soul. The disillusionment, however, is what hurts.

✨ Where Does One Go?

We turn to the divine. To prayers whispered under breath.
To quiet hymns, to a page from the Book of Job, to chants of the Gita.
We find solace in knowing that even Lord Rama walked into exile, that Yudhishthira was doubted, that Jesus was betrayed.

We are not alone in sorrow.
But we are called to be greater than it.

Let the sky be your roof and truth your walking staff.
For even if one’s child forgets the footprints that led him forward, the heavens remember.
The divine ledger is not made of currency or credit — but of conscience.

 A Prayer

May the hands that once raised tempests in my home
Be softened by time and touched by grace.

May they remember the lullabies, the tears,
The shared biscuits on broken plates, the walks to school.

And may I find in my solitude — not sorrow —
But the light of the Eternal who knows all hearts.

“A grey head is a crown of glory; it is found in the way of righteousness.” — Proverbs 16:31

And if no one stands by you, let the trees, the wind, and your God be your companions.
You are not forsaken. You are seasoned, scarred, sacred.

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The Whispering Silence: Knowing When to Unplug

The Whispering Silence: Knowing When to Unplug

There comes a time when even the most spirited river must pause at the edge of a rock, when the brightest flame dims into a quiet ember, and the most restless soul longs for stillness. In a world addicted to noise, speed, and the ceaseless ping of digital urgency, the call to unplug is not a shout — it is a whisper.

But how do we recognise it?

The Inner Bell of Fatigue

It starts subtly — a soft fog over your thoughts, a weariness that no sleep can heal, a feeling of being tethered to invisible strings pulling you in a hundred directions. You begin to forget why you opened that tab, scrolled that feed, or started that conversation. Your laughter rings hollow, your responses automatic, your mind elsewhere — perhaps nowhere.

These are signs from within. Not thunderous alarms, but gentle bells of fatigue chiming softly in the cathedral of your soul.

The Symphony of Stillness

Unplugging, then, is not an act of abandonment. It is an act of reverence — a way to return to oneself. Like a musician tuning their instrument before a symphony, one must retreat, recalibrate, and realign.

For me, it begins with the conscious decision to pause. I silence the screen, step away from the desk, and step into silence. Not the silence of emptiness, but the fertile hush that allows the thoughts to bloom again. I may walk barefoot on the grass, touch the bark of an ancient tree, or listen to the language of birds. I return to books not lit by pixels, but by pages stained with time. I write by hand, sip tea slowly, and let the day breathe through me rather than rush past me.

The Philosophical Pulse

Philosophers from Epictetus to Tagore have reminded us that the self cannot be found in the marketplace — it resides in solitude, reflection, and the quiet corners of life. To unplug is to befriend that solitude, to greet it not with fear, but with folded hands.

Time spent unplugged is not wasted — it is invested in being. For in that sacred retreat, the mind rests, the heart heals, and the soul remembers its original rhythm.

The Art of Making It Happen

To make unplugging possible, one must create rituals. Just as we brush our teeth or lock our doors, we must ritually unplug. Perhaps it is a Sunday without screens, or an hour at dawn when only the birds are allowed to speak. One could light a candle, play a melody, or recite a verse that marks the beginning of digital fasting.

Sometimes, the simplest acts are the most profound: closing your eyes, listening to your breath, and asking — “What do I need right now?”

If the answer is nothing, then you are already halfway home.Musings

Musings

Unplugging is not an escape from reality, but a return to it. It is the art of letting the world go, just long enough to remember who we are without it. And when we return, we are better — not just for ourselves, but for those around us.

In the grand theatre of existence, even the stars take their moments of eclipse. So must we.

As the poet once said,
“Sometimes the most important thing in a whole day is the rest we take between two deep breaths.”

And in that rest, may we find ourselves again — humming, healing, whole.

“From Chalk Dust to Star Dust: The Many Hats I Wore”What are

“From Chalk Dust to Star Dust: The Many Hats I Wore”

What are jobs, really? Are they mere ways to earn bread, or are they the crucibles where our character is forged, our beliefs tested, and our essence revealed? If life were a theatre, then I have played roles of every shade — sometimes the lead actor, sometimes the director, and often the humble stagehand whose name may not be known, but without whom the curtain wouldn’t rise.

My journey through professions was not a neatly planned ascent but a winding path—lined with stones of learning, lit by lamps of kindness, and at times, shadowed by self-doubt and solitude.

The White Chalk Years

My earliest and longest-held post was that of a teacher — first by chance, later by choice, and finally, by conviction. I began humbly, standing before a blackboard smeared with yesterday’s chalk dreams. Physics was my subject, but life was my lesson. Each class became a cosmos, each student a star. The chalk I held became a wand—sometimes etching equations, at other times sketching possibilities.

In those formative years, I discovered that teaching wasn’t just a job. It was a silent revolution. It meant believing in minds yet to bloom, holding torches for those lost in the fog, and planting thoughts in soil you may never revisit.

The Principal’s Chair: Crown of Thorns and Garland of Grace

Ascending to the role of a Principal felt like being handed both a sceptre and a crucifix. The responsibilities were weighty, the expectations towering. It demanded not just administration, but adjudication; not just policies, but philosophies.

I was no longer merely teaching — I was shaping cultures, soothing conflicts, and standing firm in storms that didn’t appear in the job description. My office turned into a court, a sanctuary, a workshop, and sometimes, a confession box. Leadership, I realised, was less about commanding and more about listening. It was less about wielding power and more about surrendering ego.

The Consultant’s Compass

After retiring from formal corridors, I stepped into the flexible yet uncertain terrain of consultancy. Here, I wasn’t anyone’s boss — I was everyone’s adviser. Schools called upon me to steer their ships, to fix broken compasses, or simply to remind them where the North Star lay.

This phase was quieter, almost monastic. It lacked the bustle of bells and assemblies but compensated with deep conversations, strategic puzzles, and the joy of relevance even in the after-hours of one’s career. Like a retired lighthouse still guiding lost vessels, I found purpose in echoing wisdom gained the hard way.

Jobs That Weren’t on Paper

There were other roles too — unofficial, unpaid, yet unforgettable. I was a mentor to the troubled, a listener to the lonely, and a cheerleader to the timid. These weren’t titles you print on cards, but they were sacred in their own right.

Evenings were spent preparing speeches, writing circulars that inspired rather than instructed, and coaching both the brilliant and the bewildered. I carried more invisible roles than visible ones, and perhaps those were the most transformative.

A Poetic Pause

I’ve swept floors of egos and climbed ladders of praise,
Brewed morning hope and stayed for twilight’s haze.
Wore ties of tact and cloaks of care,
In rooms where silence was heavier than air.

Jobs, they say, come and go,
But what you become — is the true show.

Philosophy of the Path

Each job I held was a stepping stone — not to success, but to selfhood. There was never a role too small to teach me something profound, nor a position too high to spare me from humility. What I gathered were not just accolades, but anecdotes; not just promotions, but perspectives.

In this journey, I have been moulded by both applause and absence. My resume may mention posts and periods, but my soul retains the impact, the intent, and the indelible imprint of every moment.

So, if you ask me, “What jobs have you had?” — I might smile and say, “All of them, and none.” For in the grand ledger of existence, what matters is not the titles we held, but the truths we lived.

In the Temple of My Soul: A Pilgrim Without Borders

In the Temple of My Soul: A Pilgrim Without Borders

There is a hush that precedes dawn — a sacred silence that seems to stretch between heaven and earth. In that tender hour, while the world still slumbers beneath the velvet shawl of night, I awaken not just to a new day, but to an old companionship — one that I share with the Eternal.

Do I practise religion? Yes — but not with a label, nor with a ledger. I pray, but my prayers do not wear uniforms. I belong to no single fold, and yet I bow before all sanctuaries that open their arms to love, to light, and to the longing of the human soul.

I am, perhaps, best described as a pilgrim without borders — walking barefoot across the spiritual sands of time, drawing water from many sacred springs

A Devotion Not Defined, But Deepened

My prayer mat is woven from many threads — sacred chants from the Vedas, whispers from the Psalms, melodies from the Guru Granth Sahib. Sometimes I clasp the rosary with the same tenderness with which I recite Sanskrit shlokas; sometimes I close my eyes to the rhythm of Sikh Ardas or the quiet hum of a Marian hymn.

They are not borrowed garments. They are living expressions of the yearning within — the kind that does not ask, “Which God?” but rather, “How can I meet Thee?”

Rituals, for me, are not about routine — they are reminders. The lighting of a lamp is not just to chase away darkness, but to awaken light within. The fragrance of incense is not just for the air, but for the soul. A folded hand, a bowed head, a whispered name — these are gestures of surrender, not submission.

Faith Without Walls, Love Without Limits

There is a fragrance in the house of prayer that no one religion owns — the scent of surrender, of silence, of seeking. I have wandered into temples, churches, and gurudwaras, and found in each a sliver of heaven. I have knelt on marble, sat on wooden pews, and stood beneath golden domes — all the while realising that the Divine does not ask for passports. He (or She, or simply It) only asks for presence.

What is religion, if not a song — and can a song belong to only one singer? I have found divinity not just in scriptures, but in streams and shadows, in a mother’s lullaby, a beggar’s blessing, and the wind brushing past an ancient tree.

Prayer: A Daily Return to the Centre

Each day, I return to the sacred — not out of compulsion, but out of hunger. The hunger to stay connected to that still voice within. The world often shouts; God, I’ve noticed, whispers. And it is in that whisper that I hear the truths which no sermon can teach.

Sometimes, my prayer is articulate — rich with chants and invocations. At other times, it is the quiet tear at the corner of my eye, or the deep breath that carries with it a thousand unsaid hopes.

A Philosophy of Flow

Like a river that refuses to stay trapped between man-made banks, my spirituality meanders — soft, strong, silent. I do not fear contradiction. I embrace the paradox. I believe that faith, when pure, does not divide; it dissolves boundaries. It does not insist; it invites.

The essence of every faith, stripped of politics and pride, points to the same North Star — to compassion, humility, justice, truth, and transcendence.

A Final Benediction

So yes, I practise religion — but not one that insists on one name, one book, or one path. Mine is a tapestry of verses and visions, woven not from borrowed beliefs but from deeply felt experiences. I worship not only in temples built of stone, but in the one constructed by silence, wonder, and awe.

And in this inner temple — unfenced, unbranded, unshakeable — I find the Divine waiting, always, with arms open wide.

“Wherever the heart bows with love,
There is a shrine.
Wherever the soul sings of truth,
There is a scripture.
And wherever man becomes less,
That he may meet the More —
There is religion.”

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When Life Was Analog: Echoes from a Pre-Internet World

When Life Was Analog: Echoes from a Pre-Internet World

“Rewind, Reflect, and Rejoice”

There was a time — not too long ago, though it now feels like a previous birth — when the world breathed slower, dreams were handwritten, and silence was not a vacuum but a presence. A time when the morning sun greeted us, not through a screen but through the curtains, accompanied by the aroma of ink on paper and the music of rustling leaves. Yes, I remember life before the Internet — a world woven with pause, patience, and poetry.

A Universe of Waiting — And Wonder

Life was not about instant answers, but about enduring questions. We dwelled in the slow unfurling of time, and every discovery was a pilgrimage. The joy of waiting — for a letter, for a visit, for a festival — seasoned the soul with serenity. The postman was more than a courier; he was a harbinger of emotion, bringing in missives wrapped in longing and love.

The calendar was not cluttered with notifications, but with sacred markers of seasons, harvests, and handwritten reminders. We measured time in heartbeats, not bandwidth.

Whispers of the World — Before the Web

The world spoke in softer voices then. Winds carried scents of earth, not pings of updates. Birds shared stories in notes unrecorded. Conversations flowed like rivers — sometimes meandering, always meaningful. There were no screenshots of affection, no algorithms of companionship. Friendships grew in soil, not on servers.

And when someone was missed, they were truly missed — not messaged. Absence had depth. Silence was not awkward, but sacred.

Childhoods Carved in Clay and Clouds

Children were sculptors of imagination. Their toys were ephemeral — sticks, stones, bottle caps, clouds shaped into dragons. Their playgrounds were the courtyards of simplicity and skies of boundless possibility. No passcode guarded their world. Curiosity roamed free like a monsoon breeze. They listened to bedtime stories with wide eyes and wider hearts, and every moral was planted like a seed in the orchard of conscience.

The bruises they carried were from real falls, not virtual wars. Their memories were not in galleries but in the grains of the earth and the grooves of time.

Learning: A Journey, Not a Shortcut

Education then was not a race to the finish line but a pilgrimage of the mind. Teachers were the lighthouses, guiding with firm kindness. Books smelt of wisdom, not gloss. Knowledge was not ‘consumed’ but cultivated — through discussions under banyan trees and hours spent tracing the curve of a question mark.

There was grace in ignorance, for it led to humility. And there was virtue in repetition, for it forged understanding.

Philosophy in Every Footstep

Without Google to summon answers, we looked inward. Life posed questions without hyperlinks — “Who am I?”, “Why this sorrow?”, “What is truth?” — and we sat by the riverbank of our soul to contemplate. Solitude wasn’t loneliness. It was the company of the eternal.

Festivals were not selfies, but surrender. Prayers were not performed; they were felt. God wasn’t followed, but sought — in temples, in fields, in the tender eyes of strangers.

When Privacy Meant Peace

The soul had sanctuaries — diaries with locks, rooms with silence, memories that stayed unshared, sacred in their stillness. We lived not to prove, but to feel. Not to broadcast, but to belong. Life was lived for life’s sake — not for ‘likes’, but for light.

A Gentle Closing of Eyes, A Gentle Opening of Heart

I do not mourn the present. Every age has its miracles. Yet in this age of swipes and speed, I sometimes close my eyes and touch that quiet, analog world — like a beloved page in an old book.

And in that hush, I hear the whisper of a world where the soul once sang freely, unfiltered, uncompressed.

Let us not forget that world. For in remembering, we reconnect — not to the Internet, but to the inner net of being.

“Even the clouds once moved slowly, just to watch us dream.”

In the Garden of My Gifts: What I Am Good At”

“In the Garden of My Gifts: What I Am Good At”

What am I good at? The question appears as a whisper in the corridors of silence when the din of the world fades away. It knocks not on the doors of pride, but gently tugs at the curtain of introspection, asking me not to measure, but to recognise. What am I truly good at?

The world today measures skill in speed and precision—certificates, achievements, likes and accolades, blinking like neon signs in the souk of self-worth. But I speak here not of professional proficiencies or glittering trophies gathering dust, but of those innate whispers of the soul—those things I do, not to prove, but to be.

The Craft of Words

I am good at weaving words—not for applause, but to breathe life into feelings unspoken. Words, to me, are not just syllables tied in grammar’s garb; they are dew on morning leaves, fireflies in the night forest, sails on the ocean of thought. When I write, I do not merely ink paper—I excavate emotion, time-travel through memory, and polish truths buried beneath convention. Perhaps I am not a laureate, but in the quietude of my room, when ink meets thought, I feel I belong.

The Art of Listening

I am good at listening—not just hearing, but listening. Not merely to voices, but to silences between sentences, to pauses filled with pain, and laughter layered with longing. I have learnt to listen to what the eyes say, to what the footsteps confess, and what the breeze sometimes murmurs to the leaves. In a world that screams to be heard, I offer the gift of a still ear, a patient heart.

Living with Curiosity

I am good at wondering—about stars and souls, atoms and afterlives, myths and morals. The ‘why’ and ‘what if’ have never left my side. I walk with curiosity as one walks with an old friend, strolling through the garden of philosophy, picking petals of paradox, and humming hymns of ancient wisdom. I do not seek to solve every mystery, but to marvel at their existence.

Grace in Solitude

I am good at being alone—not lonely, but alone, like a mountain peak untouched, or a book unopened yet full of stories. In solitude, I find companionship with myself. I talk to my past selves and listen to the future knocking. It is in this sacred solitude that I stitch together the fragments of my being into a cohesive self—not perfect, but whole.

Resilience Woven in Silence

I am good at standing again. I have known the floor well—its cold, unyielding reality—and yet, each time, I have risen. Quietly, without banners or bugles, I have begun anew, like dawn after a ruthless storm. My resilience is not a battle cry; it is a whispered prayer in the temple of time.

A Soulful Steward of the Ordinary

I am good at observing the mundane and unveiling the miraculous. A drop of rain is to me not just water—it is a messenger from the sky. A crack in the pavement might hold the poetry of persistence. A child’s question might echo the riddles of sages. I find meaning in moments others may overlook.

So, what am I good at?

Perhaps, I am good at being. Being present in a world that runs. Being aware in a time of numbness. Being grateful when despair tries to settle. I may not climb Everest or win gold, but I ascend the invisible mountains of the mind, and treasure the unseen gems of the heart.

In the garden of my gifts, I am both the gardener and the bloom. I cultivate quietly, but what grows there is real, rooted, and radiant.

Footprints Beyond the Final Bell”What Legacy Do I Wish to Leave Behind?

“Footprints Beyond the Final Bell”What Legacy Do I Wish to Leave Behind?

As a Principal who walked the corridors of learning for nearly four decades, the thought of legacy is not a pursuit of glory, but a quiet reckoning — of whether the seeds sown will bloom long after I’ve left the stage. Legacy is not etched merely on stone plaques or farewell speeches; it is whispered in classrooms, reflected in changing mindsets, and carried in the hearts of those whose paths we crossed.

If legacy were a canvas, I would wish it to be coloured with compassion, integrity, resilience, and the unquenchable thirst for knowledge. These values — not medals or designations — are what I hope will ripple through time.

1. A School that Felt Like Home

I dreamt of schools where every student felt safe to speak, fail, explore, and thrive — where education did not just prepare them for exams, but for life. A school that did not merely produce scholars but nurtured individuals. If the walls I helped build could echo laughter, questions, debates, and songs, then they have served their purpose.

2. The Power of the Pen and the Voice

Through my books, speeches, and training sessions, I tried to ignite curiosity and foster dialogue. I wanted to show that writing is not just self-expression — it is service. It is the bridge between the soul and society. If even one hesitant writer found their voice after reading my words, I would count that as a triumph.

3. Philosophy in Practice

Life taught me that education without philosophy is like a ship without a compass. I wove into my leadership the threads of ancient Indian wisdom and global philosophical insights — hoping students and teachers alike would learn to see the world not just through microscopes or reports, but also through the lens of ethics, wonder, and purpose.

4. Standing Tall When the Odds Were Low

Having navigated through personal and professional headwinds, I want to leave behind the lesson that age, adversity, or anonymity need not wither ambition. That one can still dream, still contribute, still inspire, even when the world looks away. Legacy, to me, is in quietly holding the torch when the storm howls the loudest.

5. The Unseen Mentor

Many legacies go unsung — a pat on a back, an extra hour spent with a struggling student, a word of encouragement that made someone stay in the race. I want to be remembered as that mentor — not perfect, but present; not famous, but formative.

6. Embracing the New Without Shedding the Old

In my journey, I welcomed technology, celebrated innovation, and embraced change — but never at the cost of timeless values. My legacy, I hope, will remind future educators and leaders to blend tradition and transformation in equal measure.

Let the students I taught, teach others better.
Let the teachers I trained dare to dream louder.
Let the systems I challenged learn to listen deeper.
Let the silence I filled with songs, verses, and laughter remain echoing in future celebrations of learning.

If someday, someone unknown to me chooses the harder right over the easier wrong because of something I once said, wrote, or did — then my legacy would have quietly, humbly, arrived.

Because in the end, it’s not the name I leave behind — it’s the nature I inspired.

Whispers of Winter: My Love Affair with the Cold

Whispers of Winter: My Love Affair with the Cold

There’s something profoundly poetic about the cold — a stillness that seeps into your bones not to numb, but to awaken a different rhythm of life. While many may shrink from the shivers of winter, I have always leaned into its embrace. For most of my life — from my schooling years to my professional chapters — cold weather wasn’t a seasonal guest, but a steadfast companion. Nepal, Darjeeling, Mussoorie, Dehradun, Shimla — these weren’t just places on a map; they were stages upon which the drama of my life unfolded, draped in mists and wrapped in woollens.

The chill in the air, the crackling of dry leaves underfoot, the bite of the wind on one’s cheeks — these sensations are etched in my memory like a timeless hymn. The cold brought with it more than weather. It carried quietude, discipline, introspection, and above all, a peculiar sense of warmth found only in contrast.

In Nepal, winter mornings often began with the reluctant parting of warm blankets and a quick dash to a brass basin filled with icy water. One didn’t need an alarm clock when the cold slapped you into consciousness! But even those frosty awakenings built resilience — the kind that stays with you long after the fog clears.

The hill stations of Darjeeling and Mussoorie were my poetic playgrounds. The fog often played hide-and-seek with the landscape, creating silhouettes that danced like shadows in a dream. Tea tasted better when the fingers around the cup were half-frozen. Every breath that fogged my spectacles reminded me I was alive — very much so.

As a professional in the educational sphere, the cold served as both a teacher and a test. It demanded preparedness, punctuality, and perseverance. There was no room for lethargy when the first bell rang amidst a frosty dawn. I still remember those chilly assemblies — students bundled in layers, breath visible like little clouds of purpose, and the school anthem echoing through pine-scented air. The cold taught us to be still, to be solemn, and at times, even to be silent — all vital virtues in a world full of noise.

Of course, the cold isn’t always kind. It has its sharp edges. Doors creaked, water pipes froze, and heaters failed at the most inconvenient hours. But life, much like the weather, doesn’t promise comfort — it offers character.

Philosophically, winter has always been a metaphor for inner growth. In Indian mythology and spiritual texts, the season is often viewed as a time for contemplation and renewal. The Mahabharata speaks of the forest exile during the colder months as a time of spiritual refinement. Similarly, the Upanishads remind us that knowledge, like fire, glows brighter in the stillness of a meditative mind — and what better ambience for such contemplation than the calm of a Himalayan winter?

There’s a certain joy in watching the world slow down — to hear the silence of snowfall, to smell wood smoke curling from a distant chimney, to feel the crunch of frost under one’s boots. The cold doesn’t just touch the skin; it caresses the soul.

In retrospect, I owe a great deal to the cold. It honed my discipline, nurtured my love for books and music, and gave me a lifelong admiration for silence and stillness. It taught me to seek warmth — not just in fire or flannel, but in friendships, faith, and self-reflection.

Cold weather, to me, is no antagonist. It is a wise old friend — austere, but deeply affectionate. And as I sit now in a city where winters are less biting, I sometimes close my eyes and imagine a walk down Mall Road, Mussoorie — the smell of roasted peanuts in the air, the clang of church bells, and the comforting cold that whispered, “Keep going, you’re on the right path.”

When Silence Screamed and Time Bled: A Handful of Pain, A Heartful of Grace

When Silence Screamed and Time Bled: A Handful of Pain, A Heartful of Grace

There are days when the sun rises like any other, but by dusk, nothing remains the same. One such day drove through me like a phantom wind—leaving splinters of memory and scars carved in bone and soul.

I was returning alone from Karnal to Ludhiana, a road I had travelled many times before. The trees whispered along the highway, and the asphalt ribbon unrolled steadily under my wheels. I remember the music, the open sky, and the solitude that often becomes a companion in one’s seasoned years. Little did I know, I was speeding into the heart of a storm.

A car—driven recklessly by intoxicated youth—came hurtling from the front. I barely had time to breathe when a truck rammed me from the rear. In an instant, my car was reduced to crushed steel—twisted like a paper crane in a child’s furious hand. I was trapped—pinned between the steering wheel and the caving roof, time suspended like a painting held mid-stroke.

Between Screams and Stillness

I don’t remember screaming—but I remember silence. The kind of silence that rings loud in your ears, drowning even your heartbeat. My left hand and fingers bore the violence of the impact—broken, bleeding, throbbing. But I had no luxury to mourn them. With a will summoned from the deepest chambers of my being, I forced my way out—one movement at a time, like emerging from the womb of calamity.

The boys in the other car were dangling on the parapet that divided road from canal—barely clinging to life. I don’t know how I found the strength, but I pulled them out—one by one. Strangers in blood, yet bound by a sacred thread of humanity. The highway was jammed, yet help remained a rare commodity. A crowd had gathered, but empathy is often the first to vanish when danger arrives.

The Anatomy of Pain

Eventually, familiar faces appeared. My car was towed, my body transported, and my spirit sedated. In the sterile walls of a hospital, I was operated upon—stapled back into function, though never quite the same. The insurance claim, like many promises, delivered less than it vowed. My car was eventually repaired, but I was not.

There is a peculiar loneliness in recovering with broken bones and a broken career. I lived those months like a ghost between rooms—left hand wrapped in plaster, heart wrapped in silence. Interviews came, like clouds without rain—turning me down not for lack of skill, but because I was “damaged goods.”

With One Hand and an Undying Heart

But pain, if it doesn’t break you, builds a new person within you.

One morning, with the defiance of a man who refuses to kneel before destiny, I opened my own plaster. My fingers screamed, but my soul sang. I took the wheel again—this time with one hand—and drove from Ludhiana to Dehradun. Not just to reclaim a job, but to reclaim my name, my pride, and my narrative.

And life, as if moved by this reckless leap of faith, opened a door. I walked into a Principal’s office, not just to lead a school—but to lead myself out of the shadows.

The Lump that Remains, and the Lessons that Live

Even today, my left hand bears a lump. A silent hillock of memory. The pain lingers in my fingers, like autumn’s ache in a tree that once stood through storm. But I no longer curse it. I have learned to live with the hurt—like one learns to live with the memory of an old love, or a melody that plays softly in the background of one’s solitude.

A Life Rewritten with a Broken Pen

Philosophers say the body is the chariot, the mind the reins, and the soul the charioteer. That day, my chariot crashed—but the charioteer did not falter. I realised then: we are not what happens to us. We are what rises from it.

If you’re reading this and carrying your own fractures—visible or not—remember: healing isn’t always about erasing the pain. Sometimes, it’s about finding beauty in how we endure.

And so the road continues…

I still drive. I still write. I still feel the occasional jab in my hand. But now, it only reminds me that I survived.

That I chose to survive.

That even when silence screamed and time bled—I answered, not with fear, but with fire.

As the wheels of life turn on, I leave you with this thought:

“In the furnace of pain, the soul is tempered.
In the silence of suffering, the self is revealed.”

And as the Gita reminds us:
“श्रेयान्स्वधर्मो विगुणः परधर्मात्स्वनुष्ठितात्।
स्वधर्मे निधनं श्रेयः परधर्मो भयावहः॥”
(Shreyān swadharmo vigunah paradharmāt svanushṭhitāt.
Swadharme nidhanam shreyah paradharmo bhayāvahah.)
— Bhagavad Gita 3.35
“Better to live your own path imperfectly, than to follow another’s perfectly. Death in your own path is noble; fear lies in another’s way.”

So, I chose to walk my path—broken hand, unbroken spirit!

To read more such stories, please go through the following books available at http://www.amazon.com

Walking the Tightrope: The Art of Balancing Work and Home Life

Walking the Tightrope: The Art of Balancing Work and Home Life

In the ebb and flow of daily life, the balance between work and home often resembles a tightrope walk over a bustling bazaar—one misstep, and chaos ensues. But finding that fine line is not merely a matter of routine; it is a cultivated discipline, honed over time, and deeply rooted in age-old wisdom.

From ancient scriptures to modern-day self-help shelves, the pursuit of balance has been a perennial concern. The Bhagavad Gita reminds us: “Yogasthaḥ kuru karmāṇi“—Perform your duties being steadfast in yoga, with equanimity. Lord Krishna’s counsel to Arjuna was not to renounce action, but to perform it with detachment and inner balance. A lesson as relevant to our boardrooms as to our living rooms.

1. Time: The Monarch of All

As Chanakya wisely observed, “A person should not be too honest. Straight trees are cut first and honest people are screwed first.” In context, this teaches that while sincerity is noble, practicality is paramount. Likewise, managing time judiciously—discerning what truly matters from what merely appears urgent—is the cornerstone of balance. Time is a sovereign ruler, and we, its loyal subjects; wise is the one who keeps the royal court in order.

Use of planners, alarms, and digital reminders is modern-day astrology—we may not chart the stars, but we can certainly plot our hours.

2. Boundaries: The Great Wall Within

Much like the Ashokan edicts carved in stone to demarcate values, boundaries must be defined to protect one’s sanity. In the Upanishadic tradition, the self is not isolated but layered. Each layer—professional, personal, emotional—requires its sanctum.

A designated time for home and another for work is akin to the Lakshman Rekha—not to imprison, but to preserve peace. Crossing it often results in Ravana-like disruptions—be it stress, burnout, or strained relationships.

3. Work with Dharma, Rest with Delight

Dharma, in its truest sense, is duty done in harmony with one’s nature and situation. Pouring oneself into work with mindfulness and resting without guilt forms the perfect symphony. It is said that even Lord Vishnu, the preserver of the universe, takes his yogic slumber (yoganidra) on Sheshnag between cosmic cycles. If rest, befit the divine, why should mortals deny themselves?

Be it a hot cup of chai under the evening sky or a quiet moment with a book, rest is not idleness—it is renewal.

4. Delegation: Lessons from History

Even the mighty Akbar had his Navaratnas. Leadership lies not in doing it all, but in knowing whom to trust and when to let go. At home and work, delegation is wisdom in motion. It shows humility and vision—the mark of those who build legacies, not just empires.

5. Reflection: The Mirror of the Soul

Socrates famously declared, “The unexamined life is not worth living.” In our context, the unbalanced life is not worth the burnout. A few moments each day to pause, reflect, or offer a prayer can realign the axis of a weary mind.

The practice of sandhyavandanam, or quiet reflection at dawn and dusk, is not mere ritual—it is a spiritual reset button, a habit that blends the sacred into the schedule.

6. Celebrating the Midst

Balance is not a tight-lipped exercise in restraint—it is a joyful equilibrium. Just as Indian classical ragas flow between notes with grace, life too must glide between roles with fluidity. A hearty laugh in the middle of a spreadsheet or a warm conversation amidst deadlines is not escapism—it is enlightened living.

In Closing…

Balancing work and home is not about being everything to everyone—it is about being true to oneself in every role. The ancient wisdom of both the East and West echoes the same truth: fulfilment lies in harmony. As the Rig Veda says, “Let us move together, let us sing together, let us come to know our minds together…”—this call for unity applies equally to the parts within us.

So, walk your tightrope not in fear, but in grace. Wear your responsibilities like a well-draped dhoti or sari—neither too loose to trip over, nor too tight to restrict breath. After all, it’s not about balancing time—it’s about balancing the soul.

To read more such stories, please go through the following books available at http://www.amazon.com

L

The Unseen Altars Where I Laid My Dreams

The Unseen Altars Where I Laid My Dreams

Some lives are composed like ballads—rich in rhythm, remembered in chorus. Others, like mine, are quieter—more akin to ancient ragas heard in distant temples, their notes soaked in longing, discipline, and grace.

I did not inherit a staircase to climb. Instead, I found a rope and began to braid it with strands of hope, toil, and unyielding faith. In the theatre of life, where many actors change masks to suit the script, I remained the stagehand—sweeping, arranging, enduring—so that others could perform without stumbling. And yet, there was no audience to applaud.

In the earliest chapters of my journey, while others memorised poems or solved equations under lantern light, I was learning the science of survival. Education was not handed to me; I chased it like a famished soul runs after a mirage. There were days when books were a luxury and meals a miracle. But I swallowed my hunger, fed my dreams instead, and walked miles not only to reach school, but also to escape the gravitational pull of despair.

I wore hand-me-downs stitched with dignity. I learnt to smile through the fog of want. Festivals arrived at my door not with sweets or sparklers, but with questions: “Can I afford a gift of joy this year?” Even so, I lit my own lamp—a flickering resolve that kept burning through the darkest nights.

As the wheel of life turned, I stepped into roles that demanded more giving than receiving. I became the provider—not just of food and fees, but of courage, confidence, and quiet wisdom. There were moments I stood on the edge of exhaustion, but turned back—not because I couldn’t jump, but because there were others depending on my balance. I sacrificed dreams of travel, ambitions of grandeur, and at times, even the luxury of rest. Each sacrifice folded into another, like origami—plain from outside, but carrying intricate design within.

I’ve walked through life like an unsalaried saint—offering my time, intellect, and intuition to the altars of duty. I postponed pleasure, parked my passions, and politely declined desires that didn’t align with necessity. I trained others to fly while I stitched my own broken wings quietly behind the curtain.

Some might ask, “Was it worth it?” But worth is not always measured in wealth or recognition. I measure it in the smiles I lit, the silences I endured, and the souls I nurtured. I measure it in the mornings when the sun rose upon a roof I could call my own, however modest. In the pride of seeing others stand taller because I chose to bend.

Philosophers say that true sacrifice is when you give up something valuable, not expecting anything in return. But I did not give in despair. I gave with the quiet confidence that some blessings are born only through burning—like camphor offered to the divine.

Today, I walk slower, with the scent of wisdom in my stride. I no longer run after recognition; I carry contentment in my satchel. I still have dreams—simpler ones, perhaps, but not less sacred. A walk under the trees, a good book, a warm cup of tea, and a quiet evening where no one needs anything from me anymore. That, too, is a triumph.

And if my story is never told in grand auditoriums or printed in glossy magazines, so be it. The universe keeps a more accurate record—in stardust, in echoes, in the silent applause of the soul.

For I have lived a life of giving—uncelebrated, perhaps, but undeniably noble.

To read more of such stories, please go through the following books available at http://www.amazon.com

Beads of Eternity: The Rosary I Wear and the Spirit It Sustains

Beads of Eternity: The Rosary I Wear and the Spirit It Sustains

As I began my day today, buttoning my shirt and preparing myself for yet another chapter in life’s unpredictable story, a gentle weight tugged at my attention — familiar, steady, unassuming. It was my rosary — the oldest thing I am wearing today.

Not old in the way an heirloom is admired or antiques are appraised. It is old in the way rivers are old — having flowed quietly across the terrain of my soul, shaping it, smoothing it, and occasionally rising in tide when I needed it most. This rosary, made of dark wooden beads and a modest crucifix, has become more than an accessory. It is my silent companion, my spiritual compass, and, in many ways, the keeper of my inner monologue with the Divine.

There is something profoundly moving about wearing something that has absorbed your tears, echoed your prayers, and rested against your heartbeat during sleepless nights and quiet sunrises. Each bead carries the memory of intentions whispered — some fulfilled, others deferred — and the soundless cries that words could never quite hold.

My rosary has aged with me. The beads, once glossy, have dulled from the faithful touch of fingers that have returned to them over and over again, in joy, in despair, in thanksgiving. The string has weakened but held, much like my body at times, or my resolve — stretched, but never snapped. And the crucifix, though simple, stands like a sentinel — witnessing the confessions I’ve made not aloud but through silence.

Rosaries have long been misunderstood by those who see only ritual and not relationship. For me, it is not merely a religious object. It is a thread that connects earth to heaven, self to spirit, chaos to calm. It is theology strung into rhythm — a living manuscript written bead by bead through the soul’s interaction with eternity.

In the religious tradition, and in many other strands of religion and even other faiths, prayer beads are not meant to decorate. They are meant to deepen. They are used not to show off piety but to train the heart into stillness and the mind into remembrance. My rosary reminds me to breathe deliberately, to forgive often, to intercede for others, and to reflect on mysteries far beyond my limited understanding.

There is deep symbolism in this object. The circular form of the rosary represents the eternal nature of God. The repetition of prayers is not vain muttering, but spiritual rhythm — like a mantra, a lullaby, or the beating of a heart — drawing us back again and again to the centre of all love. It demands neither noise nor display, only presence.

In a world obsessed with what’s new, what’s trending, and what’s showy, wearing something so deeply personal, so spiritually resonant, feels like a quiet act of rebellion — or perhaps, of surrender. I don’t wear it for others to see. I wear it so that I see — myself, my purpose, my failings, and my faith.

The rosary does not promise answers, but it helps me live the questions. It does not erase the pain of the world, but it lends me the grace to endure it. It does not grant me control, but it teaches me to trust.

And in its silent company, I have found not just routine, but relationship — with God, with the world, and most importantly, with myself.

So yes, the oldest thing I wear today is not a badge of honour or a sign of past success. It is a loop of beads — fragile, yet powerful. A string of hope and history. A soft tether to the eternal. And in its quiet weight, I feel lifted.

And you — what do you carry that carries you?

To read more such stories, you may follow these books… available at http://www.amazon.com

To Lead or to Follow: The Compass Within

To Lead or to Follow: The Compass Within

Leadership is not always about standing at the front, nor is following always about trailing behind. Both roles demand strength, vision, and discernment. In the orchestra of life, some wield the baton, while others play the notes that give symphonies their soul. So, am I a leader or a follower? I would say—I am both, and neither, depending on the moment and the mission.

The Measure of a Leader

True leadership is not conferred by title or authority but by the power to inspire, to act with conviction, and to bear responsibility without flinching. My life’s journey—shaped by challenges, shaped by learning, shaped by the sheer will to stand when it would have been easier to sit—has given me opportunities to lead. As a teacher, mentor, and Principal, I have had the privilege to influence, to mould, and to show the path. I have spoken in assembly halls with gravitas and held the hand of a trembling child with quiet assurance. Leadership, I have learned, is a lonely hill sometimes, where applause is faint but the echo of one’s conscience is loud.

But I also know that no leader stands alone. Behind every wise decision lies a thousand small learnings—many drawn from quietly following the wise, the experienced, the humble. A leader must first be a good follower—of truth, of principles, of collective good.

The Grace in Following

The word “follower” often bears an undeserved stigma, especially in an age that glorifies visibility. But following is an art. It requires humility, discipline, and clarity of purpose. To follow a cause, a conscience, or a community with sincerity and integrity is as noble as leading a charge.

I have followed the teachings of ancient scriptures, the philosophy of the wise, the science of reason, and the voices of those who dared to walk paths I hadn’t yet imagined. Following has helped me grow roots before I reached for the sky.

The Balance of Being

Life is not a linear journey from follower to leader; it’s a circular dance of roles. One must know when to hold the torch and when to light someone else’s path. The greatest leaders I have known were also great listeners. They could kneel to lift, pause to ponder, and walk behind to push someone forward.

To use an idiom, “A wise man changes his mind, a fool never.” In knowing when to lead and when to follow, I find not contradiction, but complementarity.

Drawing from Philosophy

Indian scriptures teach of dharma—righteous duty—not just to act, but to act rightly, whether by taking the reins or by lending strength from behind the scenes. The Bhagavad Gita doesn’t just show Krishna leading Arjuna, but also standing as a charioteer, guiding from the shadows. What a splendid metaphor for life’s dual roles.

Greek philosophers, too, pondered the concept of the phronimos—a practically wise person who knows the right thing to do in the right manner at the right time. Sometimes, that means taking charge; sometimes, stepping back.

The Compass Within

So, am I a leader or a follower? I would say I am a compass-bearer, guided not by position but by purpose. I lead when duty calls me to speak, to act, to uplift. I follow when wisdom lies in stillness, silence, and support. The joy lies not in being one or the other, but in knowing which role the moment asks of me.

Because in the grand scheme of things, leadership is not a throne to occupy, and following is not a shadow to hide in. Both are paths of dignity, if walked with truth.

And in the end, whether you lead or follow, walk with grace—because someone, somewhere, is watching your footsteps.

Fruits of the Indian Soil: Nature’s Sweet Story in Five Flavours

Fruits of the Indian Soil: Nature’s Sweet Story in Five Flavours

India, a land resplendent with diversity, colour, and vitality, finds expression in its fruits as much as in its festivals, folklore, and flora. Among the many treasures borne of her generous soil, five fruits – Mango, Guava, Blackberry, Berries, and Oranges – stand out not merely as delicious delights but as threads in the cultural and mythological tapestry of this ancient land. Let us peel back the layers and bite into their story – a mix of nourishment, nostalgia, seasons, and symbolism.

1. Mango – The King That Wears a Crown of Summer

Origin & Cultivation
The mango, Mangifera indica, is a true son of Indian soil, with references as far back as 2000 BCE. It has spread its sweetness across continents, but its heart remains Indian. The states of Uttar Pradesh, Andhra Pradesh, Maharashtra, and Bihar are primary mango-producing regions, with varieties like Alphonso, Dasheri, Langra, and Banganapalli being household names.

Season of Plenty
Mangoes ripen with the Indian summer, peaking between April and June, when the sun bestows both heat and harvest.

Nutrition at a Glance
Rich in Vitamin A and C, antioxidants, and fibre, mangoes aid in immunity, digestion, and skin health. A mango a day, in the right portion, keeps your gut and glow on display.

Myth and Meaning
In Hindu mythology, mangoes are associated with prosperity and love. The mango blossom is sacred to Kama, the god of love. Legend holds that Lord Buddha rested in mango groves, which symbolised peace and mindfulness.

Fun and Frolic
Who can forget the pleasure of sucking on a juicy langda aam, competing in mango-eating contests, or relishing aamras with puris? It’s a festival in itself – the grand Indian mango season!

2. Guava – The Humble Healer

Origin & Cultivation
While native to Central America, guava (Psidium guajava) has become an Indian staple. It thrives in tropical and subtropical climates and is widely cultivated in Allahabad, Maharashtra, and parts of Karnataka.

Season of Plenty
Guava trees fruit twice a year, with the best harvest in winter (November to February).

Nutrition at a Glance
A powerhouse of Vitamin C – even more than oranges – guavas boost immunity, help digestion, and regulate blood sugar. With pink, white, or red flesh, they’re a rainbow of health.

Myth and Meaning
Though not strongly embedded in Indian mythology, guava is often regarded in rural folk stories as the fruit of the wise. Its leaves are used in traditional Ayurvedic remedies.

Fun and Frolic
Peeling guavas, sprinkling them with salt and chilli, or munching them with the skin on during a winter walk is pure rustic delight. It’s also a common trope in village tales and childhood memories.

3. Blackberry – The Monsoon’s Midnight Kiss

Origin & Cultivation
In India, the term ‘blackberry‘ often refers to Jamun (Syzygium cumini), not to be confused with the Western Rubus varieties. Native to the Indian subcontinent, Jamun trees flourish in Uttar Pradesh, Maharashtra, and Tamil Nadu.

Season of Plenty
Come monsoon – June to August – and the streets are speckled with purple, as vendors pile high their carts with this dusky treat.

Nutrition at a Glance
Jamun is known for its low glycaemic index, making it ideal for diabetics. It’s also rich in iron and antioxidants.

Myth and Meaning
Lord Krishna’s skin colour is often likened to the rich, dark hue of Jamun – Shyam varna. According to folklore, it was the favourite fruit of sages, symbolising inner peace and spiritual calm.

Fun and Frolic
Purple tongues and giggles, climbing trees, and spitting seeds – the antics of Jamun time are etched in the childhood of many Indians. Sticky fingers, purple smiles, and monsoon memories abound.

4. Berries – Nature’s Dainty Darlings

Origin & Cultivation
India grows several local berries like Ber (Indian jujube), Phalsa, Karonda, and Raspberry. These wild gems are cultivated in Rajasthan, Uttar Pradesh, Madhya Pradesh, and hilly terrains of the North-East.

Season of Plenty
Different berries have different harvest times, though most flourish between spring and summer (February to May).

Nutrition at a Glance
Tiny yet mighty, berries are rich in Vitamin C, potassium, and fibre. They are gut-friendly, anti-inflammatory, and a good source of natural sugar.

Myth and Meaning
The Ramayana tells of Shabari, a tribal devotee of Lord Rama, who offered him wild berries after tasting them to ensure their sweetness. This simple act of love and devotion underscores the spiritual purity of these modest fruits.

Fun and Frolic
Berry-picking trips, roadside treats wrapped in leaves, and tart-sweet explosions in the mouth – berries bring rustic joy and countryside adventure.

5. Oranges – The Sunshine in Your Hand

Origin & Cultivation
While oranges (Citrus sinensis) trace their origin to Southeast Asia, India has embraced them wholly. Nagpur in Maharashtra is famously called the ‘Orange City’, producing the finest and juiciest variety.

Season of Plenty
Oranges shine in the winter months, typically from November to March.

Nutrition at a Glance
They are a quintessential Vitamin C source, hydrating and rejuvenating, aiding iron absorption, and a great post-illness pick-me-up.

Myth and Meaning
In some Jain traditions, oranges are offered to deities due to their purity. Their golden hue is symbolic of knowledge, warmth, and the sun’s bounty.

Fun and Frolic
Peeling oranges with chilled fingers on a wintry morning, juice trickling down the chin, is a cherished moment. Orange squash, marmalade, and even orange-flavoured toffees owe their joy to this fruit.

A Country in a Fruit Basket

India’s fruits are more than a medley of flavours – they are cultural landmarks, seasonal companions, and bearers of stories, songs, and smiles. Whether it’s the golden mango of summer, the peppery guava of winter, the mystical Jamun of monsoon, the sacred berry of lore, or the citrus glow of the orange – each fruit is a chapter of India’s natural epic.

So next time you bite into one, remember – you are not just tasting a fruit, but a story ripened by the sun, nourished by rain, whispered by myth, and gifted by the soil.

Let us cherish these fruity gifts, not just for their taste but for the traditions they carry, the health they nourish, and the joy they bestow – season after season.

To read more such stories, read these books.. available on http://www.amazon.com

Sharpening the Saw: The One Change I Owe Myself

Sharpening the Saw: The One Change I Owe Myself

In the ceaseless tide of life’s obligations, we often find ourselves playing many roles—educator, thinker, friend, guide—but somewhere in this grand performance, we forget the simplest and most profound act: taking care of ourselves.

As I reflect upon the many seasons I have weathered, if there’s one improvement I must usher into my life, it is this—to build a sustainable habit of self-care through disciplined reflection and physical well-being.

Time, like a silent sculptor, carves wrinkles on the face and wisdom in the heart. But wisdom, when not replenished, can turn stale. Just as a blade loses its edge with overuse, so too does the mind and body. I have long taught others to introspect, to refine, to seek, and to soar. Yet, in this golden chapter of life, I now ask myself: Do I practise what I have preached?

The answer comes wrapped in modesty: not quite enough.

To sharpen the saw, as Stephen Covey aptly put it, is not just a metaphor for renewal—it is an urgent necessity. It requires no grand resolutions or flamboyant gestures, only a quiet commitment to pause, breathe, and revisit the foundations of self-care. This includes not just the body, but also the mind and spirit.

Gone are the days when self-improvement was tethered solely to qualifications or performance metrics. Today, it means spending time in nature, taking brisk walks that remind me of my own rhythm, meditating upon scriptures or poetry, or even journaling the echoes of the day before sleep steals them away. It means finding joy not in accomplishment, but in awareness. To rise not to rush, but to rejoice.

The idiom “charity begins at home” now translates for me into: discipline begins within. And so, this one improvement—this single, subtle shift—has the potential to rewire my life from within. It is not a revolution, but a quiet reformation.

We live in a world that celebrates hustle and undervalues harmony. But it is in harmony with oneself that clarity dawns, choices become deliberate, and life regains its melody. As a lifelong learner, I now embrace this lesson with renewed gratitude: The most important syllabus left to master is self-kindness.

I am reminded of a simple Sanskrit verse:

“Arogyam paramam bhagyam” — Health is the ultimate wealth.

May this improvement not just be a fleeting resolution but a lifelong rhythm. For in caring for myself, I prepare myself better to serve, to smile, and to stay sincere to the very end.L

The Man with the Umbrella: A Stranger Who Changed My Sky

The Man with the Umbrella: A Stranger Who Changed My Sky

Life, in all its wild unpredictability, often introduces us to characters who leave indelible imprints—not necessarily for a lifetime, but for a moment that changes everything thereafter. Not all heroes wear capes; some simply carry umbrellas.

It was a rain-washed afternoon in the bustling lanes of Kolkata, sometime in the late ’80s, when fate decided to introduce me to a gentleman I would never meet again—but who left a positive impact so profound that it shaped my perspective forever. I was younger then, freshly appointed in my career, filled with anxiety over my future, grappling with the harsh financial realities that danced mockingly around my modest aspirations. The city, with all its chaos and cacophony, offered no refuge that day—except for this stranger with an umbrella.

I had just exited the General Post Office, clutching a damp envelope containing documents I was to send to a prospective employer. The sky had opened up with a deluge as sudden as a philosophical revelation, and in those pre-mobile days, seeking shelter meant either crowding beneath a shop’s awning or embracing the rain.

As I stood, hopelessly wet, a middle-aged man, neatly dressed in a beige safari suit with spectacles that made him look like a professor from an old Raj-era institution, approached me. Without a word, he extended his large, navy-blue umbrella over me.

“I noticed you came out from the GPO. Documents mustn’t get wet,” he said with a soft, almost musical cadence to his voice.

We walked for nearly fifteen minutes together until we reached a tram stop. In that brief period, he asked me nothing personal, offered no advice, made no attempt to patronise or preach. Instead, he spoke about rain—its rhythm, its music, and how he loved walking beneath it with a purpose. It was a conversation suspended in poetry, wrapped in kindness, and unburdened by expectations.

Before parting, he handed me a small card with only a quote printed on it:

“Even the smallest act of caring has the potential to turn a life around.”

No name. No number. Just a thought.
And that thought stayed.

Years passed. I never saw him again. But I carried his gesture with me like a secret lamp, one that flickered through many of my own professional and personal storms. I began noticing those who were lost in rain—metaphorical or real—and lent them my own umbrella, sometimes in the form of time, sometimes guidance, sometimes merely a listening ear.

I often wonder if he had any idea that such a simple act would ripple through my conscience for decades. Perhaps he was an angel in disguise; or maybe, just maybe, he was a kind man doing what kind men do.

In a world increasingly transactional and hurried, we underestimate the power of brief kindness from a stranger. A smile, a seat offered on a bus, a door held open, or an umbrella shared—they aren’t grand gestures, but they speak the language of grace, one the soul instantly understands.

The man with the umbrella may never read this blog. But to him, wherever he is, I say—thank you for changing the sky above my head that day, and more importantly, the one within me.

Unchained: The Many Colours of Freedom

Unchained: The Many Colours of Freedom

Freedom. A word so often spoken, yet so rarely understood in its totality. It is not merely the absence of shackles or the liberty to roam. Freedom, to me, is a state of being—an ever-evolving dialogue between self and society, between duty and desire, between fear and faith.

From the sun-baked lands of ancient Sparta to the battle-scarred plains of Kurukshetra, the quest for freedom has shaped civilisations. Yet, while history records it in wars and treaties, the truest struggles for freedom often go unrecorded—in the quiet corners of the mind, in the silent resistance of the soul.

As a lifelong educator, I have seen how freedom expresses itself differently in a child’s tentative steps on stage, in a teacher’s brave voice against injustice, and in a leader’s quiet refusal to yield to corruption. These moments, though seemingly small, are monumental. They remind us that freedom is as much about expression as it is about restraint.

Freedom from or freedom for?
Therein lies the deeper philosophical question. Are we simply seeking freedom from oppression, fear, expectations, and failure? Or are we seeking freedom for creativity, truth, service, and self-realisation?

One cannot help but think of the Bhagavad Gita, where Krishna urges Arjuna to act—not in blind obedience, but in informed freedom. “Karmanye vadhikaraste ma phaleshu kadachana”—you have the right to act, not to the fruits thereof. This is perhaps the most profound call to inner freedom: the detachment from reward and result.

In the corridors of colonial history, freedom was once a slogan, shouted hoarse on the streets of India, Ireland, and Africa. But today, in a hyperconnected world, our battles are subtler. The chains are invisible—algorithmic manipulation, social validation, consumerist pressure, and even the tyranny of routine. We are often imprisoned by our own choices, habits, and fears. The mind, as sages from Patanjali to Plato have warned, can be both a sanctuary and a prison.

Freedom to me is also the courage to live with difference. The liberty to question, to dissent, to laugh at power and embrace vulnerability. It is not about loud rebellion alone, but about quiet authenticity. To live one’s truth without masquerade.

But freedom, like all precious things, comes with responsibility. As John Stuart Mill rightly asserted, “The worth of a state in the long run is the worth of the individuals composing it.” Our individual freedoms must never encroach upon the dignity of others. Freedom must be tempered with empathy, else it curdles into anarchy.

In my twilight years, freedom has come to mean something more intimate. It is the ability to wake up without bitterness, to think without fear, to speak without flattery, to walk without haste, and to rest without guilt. It is to savour silence as much as sound, solitude as much as society.

And so, as the sun of each new day rises, I remind myself: Freedom is not a destination—it is a journey, often uphill, sometimes lonely, but always worth the climb.

To be free is not just to live—it is to live meaningfully.

When Voices Divide: The Public Figures Who Preach Prejudice

When Voices Divide: The Public Figures Who Preach Prejudice

In a world increasingly connected by technology and torn apart by ideology, the power of public figures to shape hearts and minds is undeniable. Their words can unite or divide, heal or hurt, guide or mislead. It is this immense influence that makes it all the more alarming when such individuals—whether political leaders, media personalities, or self-proclaimed prophets of nationalism—use their platforms to sow seeds of racism, glorify violence, or trample upon the sanctity of another’s faith.

I hold a strong and unshakable disagreement with such public figures.

They may walk in suits of civility, but the language they employ often strips the veneer of social harmony. Under the garb of ‘free speech’, they peddle prejudice. Cloaked in patriotism, they demonise diversity. They draw lines in the sand where bridges should be built.

The Root of the Disagreement

My objection isn’t born out of political leaning, cultural affinity, or religious allegiance. It stems from a deeper reservoir—of lived experience, of exposure to pluralistic communities, and of a lifelong commitment to values that promote coexistence. I have seen how a single derogatory remark from a public figure can ripple through classrooms, neighbourhoods, and online platforms, leaving behind bruises no apology can erase.

History is replete with examples—when inflammatory rhetoric led to genocide, when supremacist ideologies destroyed empires, and when bigotry masqueraded as nationalism to justify colonisation, segregation, and social stratification. Those who ignore these lessons are not just rewriting history; they are condemning us to repeat it.

Faith: A Garden, Not a Battlefield

One of the greatest tragedies of our time is the weaponisation of faith. Public figures who ridicule others’ spiritual beliefs or pit one religion against another not only violate the essence of religious teachings but also insult the divine universality that runs through all of them.

True faith doesn’t need a loudspeaker. It speaks through compassion, humility, and service. To disparage another’s form of worship is akin to stepping into a garden only to pluck the flowers you like and trample the rest. It is not only disrespectful—it is sacrilege.

Violence: The Last Refuge of the Incompetent

Those who glorify violence—be it through incendiary speeches, dog whistles, or glorification of aggressive actions—forget that violence never settles a dispute; it only multiplies it. Peace, not provocation, is the measure of true leadership. As history reminds us, from the ashes of war arise not merely ruins but generations of trauma.

A Call for Collective Vigilance

It is not enough to disagree in silence. Edmund Burke aptly said, “The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.” Our disagreement must translate into discourse, into dissent expressed with dignity, and into dialogues that reaffirm our common humanity.

Let us measure public figures not by their popularity or power, but by the bridges they build, the prejudices they challenge, and the peace they promote. Let us challenge those who trade in hate as if it were currency and remind them that history is a stern accountant—it records every transaction.

Speaking Truth to Power

In the final reckoning, it is not wealth, title, or trending hashtags that determine a public figure’s legacy—it is the values they leave behind in the hearts of people. I choose to stand firmly against those who poison the wells of harmony, however eloquent their speech or grand their podium. Because in the marketplace of ideas, truth may walk slowly, but it always arrives.

And when it does, it speaks softly—but carries the strength of centuries

Still in the Arena: Carving New Paths After the Bell Rings

Still in the Arena: Carving New Paths After the Bell Rings

“Retirement,” they say, “is the end of a career.” I beg to differ. To me, it is not a full stop but a semicolon—a pause, perhaps, but never an end. After decades in education—designing systems, mentoring educators, steering institutions, and shaping young lives—I find myself not in retreat, but in realignment.

The fire to contribute still crackles within me, and my pen, once used to correct notebooks and sign certificates, now flows freely with reflections, reason, and revelation.

A New Chapter with Familiar Ink

As an author of multiple books—ranging from poetry and motivational addresses to subject-wise test series and even fiction—I now see writing as both legacy and lifeline. Titles like Image of My Experiences, Speeches from the Desk of the Principal, and The Legend of Inara Wali are not just publications; they are pages of my personal evolution. I have authored 23 books so far. Through each work, I reach out to kindred minds, sharing lessons, laughter, laments, and a lingering hope for a better world.

My Career Plan? A Purposeful Continuum.

I now walk a path that blends lived experience with literary endeavour, bridging school corridors with written words, and daily thoughts with deeper philosophies.

1. Educational Consultancy with Integrity
Through Prashant Educational Consultancy Services, I offer tailored support to schools navigating the turbulent waters of modern-day education. Be it restructuring academic frameworks, organising teacher training, or streamlining student services—I provide hands-on solutions grounded in decades of practical insight.

2. Writing as Reflection and Revolution
The writer in me is more than a chronicler; he is a crusader. My blogs and books strive to stir minds and soothe souls. I explore history, law, mythology, and educational policy—always with a critical eye and a compassionate heart. Writing has become both my profession and my prayer.

3. Training and Thought Leadership
Having spent years mentoring faculty and engaging with learners, I now offer workshops and talks that blend old-world wisdom with contemporary relevance. From leadership training to parenting insights, I continue to share what life has so patiently taught me.

4. Remaining Adaptable and Aware
I keep my roots firm and my branches flexible. I actively follow global pedagogical trends, technological shifts, and social transformations. I believe the mind must be like a parachute—open to function. I seek, I read, I reflect.

Challenges Are There—but So Are Choices
Yes, age-related bias persists. The perception that one becomes redundant post-retirement is a sad cultural flaw. But I prefer to focus on my circle of influence, not the limits imposed by others. Instead of lamenting lost chances, I nurture new ones.

The Mission Remains

My journey now is not about career ladders, but about purpose-filled platforms. I may no longer be called ‘Sir’ in bustling corridors, but I remain a lifelong teacher. I may not clock in at 8 AM, but I remain ever-on-duty in thought and expression.

I write. I guide. I grow. I contribute.

Because once a mentor, always a mentor. Once a writer, always a seeker. And once a Principal, always a custodian of young dreams and better tomorrows.

The arena may look different now, but I am still in it—pen in hand, purpose intact.

Kaifi Ki Kahani: An Evening of Verse, Valor and Velvet Memories

Kaifi Ki Kahani: An Evening of Verse, Valor and Velvet Memories

Bangalore has its share of evenings steeped in art, but every once in a while, there arrives a moment that transcends performance—it becomes poetry in motion, memory in the making. One such evening unfurled before me in the gentle embrace of Kaifi Aur Main, a dramatised reading that blurred the lines between stage and soul.

Curated with affection and intellectual elegance, the show unravelled the epic of Kaifi Azmi—not just as a poet of protest, but as a man who lived his verses. The narrative moved seamlessly between his revolutionary writings, his romance with Shaukat Kaifi, and the political fire that fuelled his pen. It was not a linear biography but a lyrical tapestry, embroidered with love letters, hunger strikes, film lyrics, and flaming verses.

Shabana Azmi, poised and powerful, channelled her mother with breathtaking depth. Reading from Yaad Ki Rahguzar, she offered more than words—she gifted us moments.

“Main chali thi unse milne, Kaifi Azmi se. Milne gayi thi ek shaayar se… aur laut aayi ek inquilabi ke saath.”
(I had gone to meet a poet… but returned with a revolutionary.)

The auditorium, usually restless with the shuffle of feet and phones, sat entranced. Silence became sacred.

The script, co-authored and directed with restraint and brilliance, flowed through Kaifi’s personal letters, political convictions, and poetic reflections. Atul Tiwari (or another seasoned narrator) delivered the commentary with the cadence of a companion looking back—not with nostalgia alone, but with the weight of lived truth.

Kaifi’s own voice, crackling from old recordings, suddenly filled the room, reciting lines like:

“Aurat ne janam diya mardon ko, mardon ne use bazaar diya…”
(Woman gave birth to man, and he returned the favour by casting her into the marketplace…)

That verse hit like thunder—reminding us that Kaifi’s ink was soaked in the blood of social injustice and lit with the fire of reform. He wasn’t merely an observer; he was a participant in the revolution of hearts and headlines.

Yet it was not all fire and fury. There was romance too—delicate and defiant. In one passage, Shaukat writes about the time Kaifi mailed her a letter proposing marriage, ending it with:

“Main aapko pasand karta hoon. Agar aap razi hain toh jawab dein. Agar nahi, toh is baat ko chhod dein jaise yeh kabhi hua hi na ho.”
(I like you. If you agree, please reply. If not, forget this as though it never happened.)

The simplicity of the line brought chuckles, sighs, and knowing smiles. This was love, Kaifi-style—honest, urgent, and poetic.

In the latter part of the performance, as Shabana recounted her father’s final moments, her voice faltered—not in weakness, but in reverence. There was a passage that will stay with me forever:

“Kaifi sahab ne aakhri waqt mein apne haathon se mera haath pakad kar kaha – Shabbo, main jaa raha hoon. Apna khayal rakhna…”
(Kaifi Sahib, holding my hand with his own, said: Shabbo, I am going. Take care of yourself…)

Not a whisper stirred after that. The air was dense, not with sadness, but with awe. The standing ovation that followed was less for the performance and more for the presence—of Kaifi, of Shaukat, of all those souls who once dreamed aloud in verse.

As I stepped out into the Bangalore night, I felt lighter yet deeper, moved yet steadied. I was reminded of what Kaifi once said:

“Main akela hi chala tha janib-e-manzil magar,
Log saath aate gaye aur kaarvaan banta gaya.”
(I set off alone toward my destination,
But people kept joining—and it became a caravan.)

Indeed, that evening, we had all joined Kaifi’s caravan—for an hour or two, we lived in his world. And what a world it was.

Kindling the Common Flame: My Journey Through Community Involvement

Kindling the Common Flame: My Journey Through Community Involvement

There’s an old proverb that says, “A single stick breaks easily, but a bundle is unbreakable.” This, in essence, is the spirit of community — a mosaic of souls moving together toward a shared good. As someone who has spent decades shaping young minds and nurturing institutions, the desire to stay meaningfully tethered to the community did not retire when I did. If anything, it intensified.

From Authority to Affinity
During my years as a school Principal, community engagement came by default — parent-teacher interactions, civic partnerships, outreach programmes, and educational camps were part of my calendar. But post-retirement, the challenge became how to stay engaged not by title, but by intent. That required reinventing myself, not as a retired educator, but as a citizen still carrying the torch of service.

Wearing Many Hats, Carrying One Heart
I began modestly — volunteering at local schools, mentoring young teachers, and conducting workshops on educational leadership. These sessions were not sermons from the mount, but shared stories of struggle, strategies, and silent triumphs. What surprised me was the thirst among young educators and students to connect with lived wisdom, not just textbook theory.

Beyond classrooms, I made it a point to attend community meetings, participate in environmental drives, and speak at local cultural gatherings. Each interaction was a thread, weaving me back into the social fabric. “Out of sight, out of mind,” some say, but I learned that “presence is a silent poem,” and just showing up matters.

The Power of Listening
Community involvement is not only about what you offer; it’s also about what you absorb. I made it a practice to listen — to local shopkeepers, workers, librarians, youth at parks — anyone who bore a story. These voices, often brushed aside in the race of modern life, held the pulse of the locality. Their tales, raw and unscripted, reminded me that every man is a volume if you know how to read him.

Digital Bonds, Real Roots
While my fingers fumble with touchscreens more than they glide, I ventured into digital communities too. Online forums for retired professionals, social service groups, and virtual workshops helped me expand my reach beyond the postcodes I dwell in. The irony of modern times is that while the world has become smaller, true connection has grown rarer. But where there’s authenticity, even pixels can pulse with purpose.

The Inner Community
Not all engagement is outward. Some of the most powerful community work begins within. Through introspection, prayer, and self-education, I try to remain a well that does not run dry. A vibrant inner world allows one to bring clarity, compassion, and creativity to the outer one.

Leaving Footprints, Not Just Impressions
True community involvement is not about grand gestures. It is in the art of consistency — a kind word, a well-timed suggestion, a willingness to walk beside rather than ahead. In doing so, we don’t just touch lives; we become part of the collective heartbeat.

So, when asked, “What do you do to be involved in the community?” I reply — I remain reachable, relevant, and real. I may no longer wear a badge or wield a title, but I carry a lamp lit long ago, and I strive to pass its flame forward — kindling the common light, one interaction at a time.