Mr Prashant is a seasoned educator and author with years of experience in school administration and classroom teaching. Having served as a Principal, he brings a wealth of knowledge on effective teaching practices and classroom management. He is also the author of several books, including "Image of my Experiences - a book of poetry," "Speeches from the Desk of the Principal," and "The Legend of Inara Wali." Now retired and residing in Bangalore, he
continues blogging etc
I am not the shade of skin I wear, Nor the silver in my autumn hair. I am not the frame that time has bent, But dreams I’ve chased and days well spent.
I am the hush of morning dew, The echo of a thought once true. A fading hymn at vesper’s call, A silent oath, a whispered sprawl.
I’ve taught beneath a banyan wide, With chalk in hand and heart in stride. In dusty rooms where futures bloom, I planted hope and swept out gloom.
I’ve watched the sun through glass panes fall, While poems rose on classroom wall. My voice has held both truth and tears, Warmed by youth, and cooled by years.
You cannot see the scars I hide, But feel them in the words I bide. From childhood lanes to starlit bends, I’ve walked alone and called them friends.
I am the rain that kissed dry land, The tremble of a reaching hand. The laughter shared on twilight’s edge, A prayer once carved on window ledge.
A book once lost and found again, With notes in margins inked by pain. A letter never sent nor read, But cherished still for what it said.
I’m pages dog-eared, worn but wise, A pilgrim under changing skies. I’ve searched for light in darkest fears, And learnt the weight of silent years.
I’m music played on rusted strings, Yet still it soars, yet still it sings. The scent of old forgotten tunes, The dance of dusk beneath full moons.
Though you may not behold my face, You’ll find me in a quiet place — Where thoughts are soft and spirits true, And silence paints what sight can’t view.
For I am not a man you see, But soul and story — endlessly. So feel the breeze, not where I stand, But who I’ve been, and what I am.
“Some people are unseen, not because they hide — but because they dwell where depth resides.”
If I were to introduce myself to someone who could not see me, I would not begin with my height or the colour of my eyes, nor the way my hair has silvered with time. For the essence of a man lies not in the contours of his face but in the contours of his character, not in how he appears under sunlight but in how he endures through stormlight.
I am the sum of my thoughts and the scent of my memories — a traveller of time, quietly walking through seasons of laughter and solitude. You might think of me as a river, not always rushing, not always still — shaped by the valleys I have passed, carving meaning through the rocks of routine and uncertainty.
If you touch my words, you will feel a texture of sincerity, sometimes wrapped in silence, sometimes rippling with resonance. My voice holds echoes of dusty classrooms, of chalkboards and young dreams, of philosophical debates under banyan trees and long walks beneath the stars.
I am a seeker — not of riches or renown — but of understanding. I find poetry in the rising mist and philosophy in the fading light. I believe in the gentle rustle of leaves as much as in the heavy weight of truth. The world, to me, is not just what is visible, but what vibrates within — a spectrum of feelings, ideals, faiths, and fragile hopes.
I would tell you that my gait may be slower now, but my will is no less fierce. That though years have crept upon my shoulders, they haven’t dimmed the fire in my belly nor the curiosity in my eyes. I am aged like autumn — crinkled, golden, and contemplative. But within, there still beats the song of spring.
You may not see the colour of my skin, but you can sense the colour of my kindness in my words. You may not observe the lines etched on my face, but you may read the lines I have etched into time — in the lives I’ve touched, the lessons I’ve taught, and the stories I still carry.
If I were music, I would be a soft hymn at dusk. If I were a tree, I’d be one with low-hanging branches that invite the weary to rest. If I were a book, I’d be a dog-eared volume of musings, both weighty and whimsical, annotated by experience and edited by grace.
I carry with me the bruises of battles fought within, and the balm of blessings received without asking. I have walked alone in crowded halls and found company in quiet corners. I laugh easily, cry rarely, and forgive often. I know the fragrance of loss, the music of hope, and the silence of surrender.
I am the unseen me — neither masked nor marred by the eyes that cannot see, but naked in my truth, robed in reflection, and adorned in dreams.
So, if you wish to know me, close your eyes and feel — for I am not the image you behold, but the soul you sense. And that, dear friend, is the truest way I wish to be known.
“The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes.” –Marcel Proust
There are traditions that arrive like the morning sun—inevitable, warm, and full of ancestral glow. Passed through gestures more than words, these customs once painted my childhood with hues of incense, chants, whispered prayers, and silent reverence. And yet, as time advanced like an impatient tide, many of these rituals were left resting like unopened letters at the threshold of modernity. This is a reflection on the traditions I did not carry forth—those tender inheritances that faded into memory, like fragrances long dispersed.
The Slow Vanishing of Ritual Time
I recall how days once revolved not around the clock but around the bell—a brass clang marking morning offerings, the lighting of a lamp at twilight, the aroma of sacred herbs dancing with the wind. There was a serenity in repetition, in the cyclic cadence of devotion. Now, in the hurried pace of contemporary life, where dawn is chased by deadlines, that sacred slowness has grown rare. The lamp sits polished, perhaps admired, but often unlit. Not out of disbelief, but due to a misplacement of priorities. Time, once a sacred ally, has become a hurried taskmaster.
Songs Unsung and Seasons Unmarked
There were songs sung not for entertainment but for alignment—with the seasons, the stars, the harvest, the rains. These tunes tethered one to the soil, the skies, and the stories of the land. I no longer remember their exact melodies, only that they soothed the tired heart. Festivals, once anticipated with weeks of preparation, now arrive as mere calendar entries—reminders, not revelations.
There was a rhythm to the seasons, and with it, a harmony of action—fasting not for weight loss but for inner clarity, abstaining not as denial but as an honouring of cycles. Those meanings now lie like ancient scripts unread, covered by the dust of convenience.
The Language of Reverence
There was once a language of greeting where hands met in humble prayer, not just in gesture but in spirit. Today, communication is abundant, but connection feels thin. Reverence, once the bedrock of every interaction—with people, trees, animals, and gods—has turned performative, or worse, forgotten. The bow of the head, the silence before a meal, the gratitude before a journey—all were quiet rituals of belonging. Now, they flicker like candles in the wind of modernity.
Philosophy Now Muted
I was raised amidst metaphors, where rivers were goddesses and trees were sages. Philosophy flowed not from books but from everyday observations. A fallen leaf, a crow’s call, the steady flame—they all meant something. The world was a text to be interpreted with the heart. But slowly, that instinct to philosophise has been shelved, replaced by facts and figures, analytics and outcomes.
In this forgetting, something more than customs was lost—perhaps the soul’s compass, which once pointed not north, but inward.
Yet, Not All is Lost
To admit these absences is not to dismiss the past, nor to grieve it beyond repair. The spirit of tradition, I believe, is less about duplication and more about essence. Though the outer forms have faded, the inner yearning for meaning remains. I may not perform the exact rituals of old, but I seek their spirit in quiet meditations, in the turn of pages from wisdom texts, in the silent acknowledgement of dawn’s beauty or dusk’s mystery.
Perhaps traditions, like rivers, change their course yet remain rivers. Perhaps what I lost was not the entire ocean, but the shore I once stood on.
A Whisper to the Ancients
To those whose footsteps I no longer exactly follow: I have not forgotten you. I carry you, not in practice, but in pulse. I may not recite the same hymns, but I look at the stars with the same awe. I may not light the same lamp, but I yearn for the same light.
And so, while some echoes have gone unanswered, I still listen. I listen deeply.
The lamp may sleep, the chant grow faint, The sacred thread now loose and quaint, Yet in my heart the fire stays bright, A quiet flame in modern night
How does one describe the self — a creature of paradoxes, memories, ambitions, and regrets — without drifting into either pride or pity? I am neither a hero cast in bronze nor a victim trapped in a tale of sorrow. I am but a ripple in the vast ocean of time, trying to leave behind a gentle shimmer before being absorbed into the depths once again.
I see myself not through accolades or possessions but through what stirs quietly within. If I were to sketch myself in words, I’d begin with this — I am a seeker. A seeker of meaning in mundane moments, of music in silence, of light in the crevices where shadows often dwell. I carry a lantern lit by old books, fading hymns, mountain winds, and the kind eyes of strangers who once helped me find my way.
In a world that prizes noise and spectacle, I often find solace in solitude. I have learnt the language of trees, the whisper of dusk, and the soft conversations between clouds. They do not demand, they only remind — that life is fleeting, fragile, and yet infinitely full.
Philosophically, I believe that every life is an unfinished poem — and mine has been inked with verses of perseverance, commas of contemplation, and ellipses of dreams deferred but never abandoned. I am no sage, but I have walked barefoot on the edges of both success and sorrow, learning from each bruise and blossom.
There lies within me an old clock — it ticks not to keep time, but to honour it. I revere discipline not as a burden, but as a beautiful rhythm that gives form to the formless hours of the day. Yet I never bind myself to a rigid script — I allow spontaneity to pour in like unexpected rain over a sun-drenched garden.
Emotionally, I carry a tender heart clothed in quiet strength. I do not wear it on my sleeve, but let it guide me like a compass in the fog. I have been broken — gently and cruelly, sometimes by fate, sometimes by my own doing — but I rise, again and again, like the moon after a night of storm.
In the company of people, I listen more than I speak, not because I lack words but because I respect the sanctity of theirs. I value authenticity — it is the rarest perfume in today’s market of masks. I am often told that I live in the past, but perhaps that is where I learnt the value of the present — by understanding what it means to lose a moment forever.
I am a confluence — of reason and rebellion, of science and spirit, of laughter and longing. I find joy in a well-brewed cup of tea, in the chirp of an unseen bird, in a page turned at the right time. To some, these may seem trivial; to me, they are threads in the grand tapestry of a meaningful life.
I do not chase greatness. I chase grace. I do not seek applause. I seek alignment. I do not count followers. I count blessings.
And if someone were to ask me — “Who are you really?” — I would simply say:
“I am a river, Sometimes raging, sometimes still. I carve my path, not to conquer — But to feel, to flow, to fulfil.”
“ A Lost Thunder: If I Could Bring Back One Dinosaur”
In the hush of twilight, when dreams wander across the veil of time, I often wonder—what if history could whisper louder? What if one majestic creature, long erased by fate, could tread again upon this Earth?
Were I granted the solemn magic to summon one dinosaur from the crypts of the Mesozoic age, I would choose not the fiercest, nor the swiftest, nor the most outlandish—but the Brachiosaurus, the gentle colossus of the Jurassic era.
With its elongated neck stretching like an ode to the heavens, and its lumbering grace casting shadows that kissed the stars, the Brachiosaurus was less a beast and more a moving monument of time. A living tower of tranquillity. In the thickets of primeval forests, it swayed like a slow-moving prayer, munching leaves with the peace of a monk in meditation.
Why this creature, you may ask?
Because the world, as it stands, is not in want of more aggression or terror. We have forged weapons more fearsome than the Tyrannosaurus rex. Our skies, once blue and benevolent, now bear witness to storms of our own making. What we lack, truly, is wonder—grandeur without arrogance, strength without fury, size without destruction.
The Brachiosaurus, in my eyes, is an emblem of that sublime paradox. A creature so immense, yet so serene. In its very existence lies a reminder that power need not roar. Sometimes, it simply breathes.
Philosophers through the ages have marvelled at the concept of “magnificence in moderation.” Aristotle saw it as a virtue—sadness in proportion, purpose, and perspective. The Brachiosaurus, then, becomes a symbol of this lost virtue: an unhurried titan that never trampled the world, but walked upon it with mindful steps. In bringing it back, we might learn again to walk gently upon the Earth.
Imagine standing in a sun-dappled glade at dawn, the mist curling like silver smoke around your ankles, and then—out of the forest—comes this giant of a bygone dream. It does not charge. It does not threaten. It pauses, it breathes, and then it continues its timeless march as though it were never extinct.
To see such a creature would be to confront the soul of time itself.
It would be a hymn to evolution, a living verse of poetry that predates language. The rustle of its movement would be like the turning of ancient pages—the epic of existence murmured again into the ears of mankind.
Would we learn from it? Or would we cage it, brand it, and turn it into spectacle?
That, dear reader, is a question not for the dinosaur, but for us.
A Few Final Verses to End This Muse:
Bring me the beast who towers above, Yet stirs no fear, but silent love. Not claw, nor fang, nor crimson trail But leaves and skies within its tale.
A soul from yore, with eyes so wide, A titan with no need for pride. May we, like it, learn grace anew— To walk the Earth with reverence is true.
In the end, it’s not just the creature we bring back, but the conscience we must awaken. Let the Brachiosaurus return—not as a marvel of science alone—but as a moral of existence.
A soft thunder from a forgotten world, reminding us: greatness lies not in ruling the world, but in belonging to it!
“Two Tickets, One Dream: A Journey from Fjords to Fables”
What if, by a stroke of serendipity, life handed me not a cheque, not a crown, but two free plane tickets—slender paper wings promising boundless skies? I would not squander the chance to dance with destiny. I would board one flight that sails through northern light and another that lands softly amid candlelit cafés—my heart split between Norway and Paris, the austere and the amorous, the sublime and the sentimental.
Norway: Whispers of the Fjord
Norway is no ordinary escape—it is a reverent pilgrimage into nature’s ancient diary. With soaring fjords that speak in echoes, pine-cloaked mountains wrapped in mists, and waters that shimmer like liquid sapphires, Norway is poetry carved in stone and sky.
I would begin in Bergen, nestled like a secret between sea and slope. There, the wooden wharf houses of Bryggen still whisper Norse sagas—of sailors who chased horizons and of dreamers who scribbled stardust in the margins of history. The North Sea breeze would ruffle my thoughts like the fingers of forgotten gods.
I would board a ferry through Geirangerfjord, that haunting corridor of stillness, where waterfalls weep like harps and every turn is an invocation. Here, I’d let the silence baptise me. I’d gaze at the Northern Lights from Tromsø, letting those celestial ribbons write poems in the winter sky.
Norway reminds the soul to be humble. It tells us that the Earth is older than all our ambitions, and that beauty, when untouched, speaks louder than progress.
Paris: The City of Timeless Murmurs
And then—Paris. If Norway is a hymn to solitude, Paris is a sonnet whispered to the soul.
The City of Light is not just a place on the map—it is a mood, a memory, a melody. I would walk along the Seine, under the twilight hues that Monet once bled into canvas. Bookstalls, lovers, violinists, and flâneurs would keep me company, all wrapped in the faded scent of centuries.
I’d sit at a corner café in Montmartre, where once Picasso sketched dreams and Edith Piaf sang of aching hearts. I’d sip slow coffee and pen my own verses, as accordion music drifted through the Parisian hush. Even the raindrops here are stylish, landing on cobblestones with a poetic sigh.
To stand beneath the Eiffel Tower at night is not merely to witness architecture, but to feel what it’s like when steel falls in love with starlight. There is romance in the air—not only of lovers, but of life itself.
Paris is a reminder that passion matters, that art heals, and that time is best spent lingering.
One Soul, Two Worlds
These two destinations—so different, yet so profound—would pull my heart like twin moons. Norway would teach me the sacredness of silence, the thunderous calm of glaciers and fjords. Paris would seduce me with its candle-lit chaos, its art and its audacity to live fully.
If given two free tickets, I would not just travel—I would transcend. I would embrace both stillness and song, both the voice of the wild and the whisper of the city.
Two wings gifted, I rise to roam, From icy cliffs to café’s dome. One hand clasps snow, one clutches wine, One foot on moss, one toe in brine.
In Norway’s hush, I find my grace, In Paris’ kiss, my soul’s embrace. Two lands, one love, no need to choose— I walk the sky in wanderer’s shoes.
In the end, we don’t just travel to see the world. We travel to meet ourselves. And between Norway’s introspection and Paris’ seduction, I would find a version of myself more whole, more awakened, and more grateful than ever before.
In the tapestry of our lives, nicknames are often threads woven in childhood, dyed in affection, laughter, and a touch of mischief. They carry echoes of days gone by, of who we were when the world was simpler, our steps lighter, and our hearts full of wonder. My nickname—just two letters, PK—has journeyed with me like a shadow in sunlight, sometimes ahead of me, sometimes behind, but never absent.
I do not recall the first utterance of PK, nor the precise lips that christened me with it. Perhaps it was a tongue too young for the full weight of my given name. Or perhaps, it was a whimsical abbreviation crafted by someone seeking ease in affection. Yet over time, those two syllables became not just a sound, but a persona—compact, charismatic, and curious.
The Soul of an Abbreviation
PK—so simple, yet rich with resonance. It never asked for grandeur, nor did it claim legacy. But like an ink-drop in water, it quietly spread its identity into the many spaces I occupied. Whether called out in school corridors, written hastily on notebooks, or murmured in a moment of camaraderie, it felt oddly comforting—like an old jumper that still fits after all these years.
I often wondered, does a name shape the self, or does the self shape the name? In the case of PK, I believe both rings are true. While my full name stood firm on certificates and official letters, PK danced in the margins, untamed and untethered. It was the part of me that loved the rains, the books, the wanderings of thought and sky. It was the part of me that felt at home in music, meadows, and metaphors.
A Name Beyond Sound
What is in a name, Shakespeare mused—yet every name carries a universe within. PK is not just who I was called, it’s who I became in moments of trust, of jest, of reflection. It holds the sound of chalk against the board, the rhythm of bicycle wheels down dusty village lanes, the silent gaze at starlit skies with questions too vast for answers.
There’s something deeply philosophical in a nickname. It bypasses titles, ranks, and even the expectations laced in surnames. A nickname like PK doesn’t ask where you come from, but how you smile. It doesn’t inquire about lineage, but listens to laughter. It is a name born of spontaneity and kept alive through memories.
Time, Memory, and the Echo of PK
Years passed. The boy with wide eyes and hopeful dreams matured, as all must. Responsibilities grew, cities changed, roles multiplied. Yet in every station of life, someone would tap my shoulder and say “PK!”—and suddenly, I would feel the soft breeze of an old era brushing against my face. Like a musical refrain in a forgotten tune, it brought me back to centre, to stillness, to self.
And even now, when silence wraps around me like a shawl, I sometimes whisper it—PK—to myself. Not out of habit, but as a chant of belonging. For in that small, unassuming pair of letters lies the child I was, the seeker I became, and the soul I still try to understand.
Two letters, stitched in time and thread, Echo softly where childhood fled. Neither full name nor masked disguise, Just whispered truths in simpler guise.
PK they called, and so I turned, To find a world where wonder burned. Now older, wiser, still I stay— As PK, in my quiet way.
What’s in a name? Perhaps everything, perhaps nothing. But in a nickname—there lies poetry, philosophy, and the portrait of a life well felt.
Health and well-being — not just a checklist of habits, but a sacred symphony of body, mind, and soul — are quietly crafted with mindful moments, humble routines, and reverent silences. In a world spinning faster each day, I find myself choosing slowness, like the unfolding of a lotus at dawn, embracing stillness not as stagnation but as a spiritual necessity.
Let me walk you through the garden of my strategies, where each path is shaded with a different philosophy, scented with wisdom, and nurtured by nature’s lullaby.
Waking with the Whisper of Dawn
I rise with the sun — not merely out of discipline, but in alignment with the ancient rhythm that guided sages and saints. Mornings for me are sanctified — filled with stretches that greet the day like open arms, and breaths that echo the silence of the universe.
Yoga isn’t an exercise, but a conversation with my inner cosmos. The asanas become poetry in motion — soft, fluid, and free from worldly rigidity. I do not chase abs; I pursue alignment.
Eating as a Prayer
In my world, food is no fuel alone — it’s a celebration. I cook as though tending to a sacred fire, choosing seasonal, simple, and soul-satisfying meals. I listen to what my body needs, not what the world markets.
I chew slowly — as if decoding a mantra. I savour tastes as if they were sutras of wellbeing. The occasional indulgence isn’t sin; it is rasāsvāda — the tasting of joy, in moderation, without guilt.
Walking the Philosophical Mile
My feet know the softness of morning grass, the quiet roads kissed by dew, and the gravelled paths of contemplation. Walking, for me, is not escape — it’s entry into the temple of thought. I walk not to reach a destination, but to converse with silence.
Like Thoreau by Walden or Buddha beneath the Bodhi tree, I believe great revelations visit humble walkers.
Feeding the Inner Flame
Books, music, and philosophical musings are not luxuries but necessities. They are my vitamins of the soul. I dwell in Gita’s wisdom, Tagore’s vision, Rumi’sintoxication, and Vivekananda’s fire.
Mental wellness is a garden — and I choose what thoughts to water. I refuse to rent my mind to worry and envy. I journal not as a chore, but as a mirror held to the spirit.
Mindfulness: The Inner Pilgrimage
Meditation is my gentle rebellion against noise. It is where I sit, not in emptiness, but in the rich presence of now. With eyes closed, I see more. With lips sealed, I speak louder to the divine.
Silence isn’t void. It is a fertile space where healing, creativity, and grace germinate.
Rest: The Forgotten Ritual
In a world glorifying hustle, I worship rest. Sleep isn’t laziness; it is the universe pressing the reset button. I read a poem before bed, not social media. I choose lullabies of old winds and rustling trees.
I sleep early, not to follow rules — but to wake up closer to the stars.
Health and well-being are not sculpted in gyms alone, nor secured in superfoods and supplements. They are born in awareness, nourished by routine, and perfected by peace. My path is not one of perfection, but of gentle persistence — walking mindfully, laughing deeply, eating consciously, and listening endlessly to what the body and spirit whisper.
Some Verses from the Path
Each breath I take, a hymn of grace, A silent ode in time and space. Each step I walk, a quiet plea, To keep my soul and body free.
The food I touch, the words I speak, Are roots of strength when I feel weak. Not every day is bright or kind, But peace I nurture in my mind.
So here I dwell in simple means, Among the stars, within my dreams, A pilgrim on the path unseen, Seeking joy where life has been.
Wanderlust : My Future Journey into Solitude and Soul
There are journeys one takes with luggage and maps—and then there are those led by longing and whispers of the soul. As I gaze ahead into the uncertain mist of days to come, a soft, restless call stirs within me. It is not the clamour of cities or the luxury of cruises that beckon me, but the silent poetry of nature—raw, untouched, and profound.
My future travel plan is neither meticulously drawn nor driven by timelines. Rather, it is a pilgrimage to stillness—towards a world untroubled by human haste. I wish to disappear for a while, not to escape life, but to let life, in its primal rhythm, reach me undisturbed.
A Drift Towards the Wild and the Wordless
I dream of walking barefoot on a lonely beach—somewhere where the wind speaks a dialect lost to the civilised ear. No resorts, no beach umbrellas. Just the salt in the air, the wet sand underfoot, and the rhythmic chant of waves writing lullabies to the moon. I will sit beside a driftwood log, sketching thoughts in the air, letting my silence speak louder than a thousand conversations.
And when the sea becomes too loud with emotion, I shall retreat to the hills. Maybe to the stoic Himalayas or the whispering ghats of the South, where clouds descend to rest in your arms like wayward birds. There, among deodar and pine, I hope to find clarity, as sages did, where each sunrise slices through fog like divine revelation.
Or perhaps a wooden hut in a dense forest, where the clock ticks only to the rhythm of bird calls and rustling leaves. I will rise with the sun, sip dew from leaf-tips, and sleep to the lull of crickets. A place where the internet is absent but intuition thrives, where solitude is not loneliness but a sacred companionship.
Philosophy on the Path
Travel, to me, has ceased being a checklist. It is now a ritual of renewal, of returning to the essence from which all meaning springs. In nature’s embrace, I feel the presence of ancient philosophers—the stoics who sought truth in simplicity, the rishis who heard the Vedas in the rustle of winds, and the wanderers who traded comfort for clarity.
There is no greater education than the journey taken alone, armed only with curiosity and conscience. These travels will not be shared on social media; they will be etched in the hollows of my heart, known only to trees, skies, and stars.
A Prayer Draped in Verse
O distant shores of dream and pine, Where thoughts dissolve and spirits shine, Prepare a space beneath your sky, Where wanderers rest and worries die.
I seek no crowd, no golden dome, But forest trails and ocean foam, A hut, a fire, a book, a breeze, And time that flows with ancient ease.
Let thunder roll, let wild winds blow, My heart shall bloom where soft streams flow, For every step, though lone and wide, Is homeward bound, with soul as guide.
So let the world run its course, choked by calendars and careers. I shall find my refuge in the untamed corners of the Earth—where stillness breathes, where the wild welcomes, and where my spirit feels most alive.
One day, when I finally vanish into that dream, I hope not to be found—for I will have found myself!
Mending the Modern Mosaic: What I Would Change About Society Today
In the shifting sands of time, every era has seen its own kaleidoscope of virtues and vices. Our modern society, painted with the hues of digital brilliance and material progress, often dazzles the eye — yet a closer glance reveals the hairline cracks beneath the sheen. If given the power to change, not with wrath but with wisdom, I would gently mend some of these broken shards in the mosaic of modern civilisation.
The Lost Art of Listening
We live in an age that talks too much and listens too little. Amidst the cacophony of tweets, reels, and hashtags, the profound silence of true understanding has been drowned. The ear that once leaned gently to stories by the hearth is now often turned inward or tuned out entirely. I would bring back the culture of deep listening — not merely hearing words, but understanding silences. In a world where everyone is broadcasting, we desperately need receivers.
From Speed to Stillness
Today, we chase time like hounds after a hare. Speed is mistaken for success, and slowness, sadly, for stagnation. But isn’t there beauty in the pause? The dew doesn’t rush to dry, the moon doesn’t race the sun, yet both perform their duties with grace. If I could, I would teach the world to slow down — to sip the tea, not gulp it; to watch the sunset, not photograph it; to live moments, not just archive them.
The Currency of Kindness
In a world obsessed with GDP and net worth, we’ve almost forgotten the unquantifiable currency of kindness. A smile to a stranger, a warm hand in a time of grief, a gesture of forgiveness — these hold no place in annual reports, yet they build empires of trust and goodwill. I would weave kindness into curricula, into policy, into workplace codes. Let kindness no longer be optional, but habitual.
Reclaiming Human Connection
We are more connected than ever, yet lonelier than before. Screens glow, but hearts dim. Relationships, once nourished with handwritten letters and long conversations, now flounder in the shallows of emojis and “seen” ticks. I would summon a renaissance of real connection — Sunday picnics, neighbourly visits, spontaneous laughter over shared meals — the vintage wine of life that never loses its taste.
The Balance Between Mind and Machine
Artificial intelligence, machine learning, virtual realities — these are not foes, but tools. Yet we must ensure that in making machines more human, we don’t become more machine-like. I would place conscience ahead of convenience, ethics over efficiency, and soul above silicon. As Tagore once wrote, “Let us not pray to be sheltered from dangers but to be fearless in facing them.” Let us not create a world that is too safe to feel, too efficient to empathise.
Re-rooting in Nature
The concrete jungles we have created have slowly muffled the call of the koel, the scent of wet earth, the rustle of leaves. I would reintroduce society to its first home — nature. Not as a weekend getaway but as a daily companion. Let urban planning breathe with green lungs, and let the rivers run free of our greed. Let children climb trees, not just charts.
Reviving the Soul of Education
Education has become a race, a ranking, a result. The spark of curiosity, the thirst for wonder, the dance of imagination — all lie smothered under standardised templates. I would redesign our classrooms to cultivate minds that think deeply, feel widely, and act wisely. A student who learns to question is far richer than one who merely answers.
The changes I long for are not revolutions of rage but revolutions of reflection — quiet, thoughtful, and profound. I dream of a society where compassion outpaces commerce, where silence is not awkward but sacred, where progress is not just vertical but spiritual. A society that does not merely exist, but exhales poetry, inhales wisdom, and dances through its days with dignity.
As the poet Rumi said, “Try not to resist the changes that come your way. Instead, let life live through you.” And yet, when the change is within our grasp — let it be towards love, light, and lasting meaning.
A Few Verses for the Road Ahead
And so I dream, not loud but deep, Of souls that wake while others sleep; Of hearts that beat not just to strive, But feel, and lift the world alive.
Let cities bloom where kindness grows, And silence speak what no one knows; Let every stranger, passerby, Find comfort in a shared “goodbye.”
Not wealth alone, nor fame too tall, But quiet joy that touches all — A child’s soft laugh, a tree in bloom, A candle glowing in the gloom.
If change begins from one lone spark, Then let me kindle in the dark, A flicker born from thought and pen — To shape this world more whole again.
Constellations of Fate: The Poetic Science of Indian Astrology — A Journey through Stars, Karma, and Cosmic Truths
Under the shimmering scroll of the Indian night sky, where constellations whisper ancient songs, unfolds the story of human fate and free will. Indian astrology—or Jyotish Shastra—is more than a tool for prediction. It is a map of the soul, a fusion of science and mysticism, and a spiritual lens through which generations have searched for purpose, peace, and possibility.
The Sacred Script of the Sky
The Sanskrit word Jyotish comes from “jyoti” (light) and “isha” (lord), signifying the “lord of light.” This light, emanating from the stars and planets, is believed to illuminate the karmic imprints each soul carries into this birth. Unlike Western astrology, which predominantly follows the tropical zodiac, Indian astrology adheres to the sidereal system, which aligns planetary positions with fixed constellations.
Every individual’s destiny is seen as an interplay of planetary energies recorded at the moment of their first breath. The precise calculation of this moment leads to the formation of the janma kundali or birth chart, revealing the karmic story etched into one’s being.
Techniques and Tools of Fortune Telling
Indian astrologers employ a wide repertoire of predictive systems, honed over centuries:
Dasha Systems: Especially the Vimshottari Dasha, it breaks down the lifespan into planetary periods that rule over phases of life—each with its unique impact.
Transits (Gochar): Current planetary movements are analysed in relation to the natal chart to understand shifts in energy, fortune, or misfortune.
Ashtak varga System: A mathematical model that assigns numerical strength to planets in different houses, providing quantitative insight into the ease or difficulty of certain life areas.
Prashna (Horary Astrology): Fortune telling based on the exact time a question is asked, when no birth data is available.
Muhurta (Electional Astrology): Choosing the most auspicious moment to begin a venture—be it marriage, business, or travel.
Such readings are not mere predictions—they are poetic translations of celestial poetry into human experience.
Sadhe Saati and Other Planetary Trials
Among the most discussed phases in Indian astrology is Sadhe Saati—a 7.5-year period during which Saturn (Shani) transits the Moon’s natal house and its adjacent signs. This period, steeped in folklore and fear, is actually an invitation to discipline, detachment, and introspection.
Other critical planetary conditions include:
Rahu-Ketu Dasha: When the shadow planets (the lunar nodes) dominate, causing illusions, karmic upheavals, and spiritual awakenings.
Mangal Dosha: The adverse influence of Mars in certain positions, believed to affect marital harmony.
Kaal Sarp Yog: A condition where all planets lie between Rahu and Ketu—signifying unresolved ancestral karma and spiritual turbulence.
Each trial is accompanied by prescriptions—chanting, fasting, pilgrimages, and even behavioural changes—thus transforming fate into an opportunity for conscious living.
Relevance and Rise in the West and Middle East
Over the past century, the mystical allure and structured complexity of Indian astrology have found fertile ground beyond its birthplace.
In the West:
Indian astrology has gained increasing credibility due to:
1. Spiritual Context: Western seekers, weary of materialism, find comfort in its karmic philosophy and reincarnation-based readings.
2. Cross-cultural Adaptation: Many yoga teachers, therapists, and coaches incorporate Jyotish to better understand the psycho spiritual dimensions of their clients.
3. Precision and Detail: The sidereal zodiac and the division into nakshatras offer a deeper granularity than Western systems.
Institutions across the UK, Germany, and the US now offer structured courses in Indian astrology. Even Silicon Valley entrepreneurs consult Jyotishis before launching new ventures or choosing business partners.
In the Middle East:
Despite certain religious sensitivities, Indian astrologers have long been in demand across Gulf nations. From merchant princes to royalty, many have historically relied on Jyotish Vidya to decide upon marriage, investments, and political decisions. Indian temples and spiritual centres in cities like Dubai and Doha often host consultations and seminars.
There is also a growing interest in Palmistry, Numerology, and Vaastu Shastra—sister sciences of Indian astrology—among expatriates and locals alike.
A Philosophical Mirror, Not a Crystal Ball
At its heart, Indian astrology is not fatalistic. The chart reveals tendencies, not destinies. It shows the threads—but not how one will weave the tapestry.
As the Rig Veda says, “Let me not wander in the world blindfolded; let the stars guide me with eyes wide open.”
Astrology does not bind—it enlightens. It asks: “What shall you do with this moment, knowing all that came before and all that might come?”
The Stars Know, But They Don’t Dictate
The night sky is not just a canopy of cold stars—it is a living manuscript of myths, maths, memories, and mysteries. Indian astrology, with its roots deep in Vedic philosophy, teaches us to read this manuscript with reverence.
It invites us to walk in rhythm with the heavens—not in fear, but in wonder. To honour both our script and our pen. And to remember that in the cosmic theatre, we are not just spectators, but performers—capable of improvisation, growth, and grace.
“As above, so below. As within, so without.” — The Hermetic principle, echoed in every ancient wisdom tradition, finds living proof in the rhythmic pulse of Indian astrology.
So, the next time the sky darkens and the stars awaken, may you look up and smile—not in superstition, but in soulful connection to something vast, beautiful, and eternally guiding.
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It was spring — a night of fragrant lore, Where April’s breath kissed every shore. The sky, a canvas tinged with flame, As twilight blushed and night became.
A bonfire danced on silver sand, With flickers held in nature’s hand. Around it, laughter lilted light, And wine was poured with pure delight.
The breeze — a minstrel, soft and bold, Played secrets only evenings told. The trees wore gowns of emerald green, And stars prepared their midnight scene.
There she appeared — not loud nor late, A vision carved by dreams and fate. The firelight kissed her windswept hair, And moonbeams lingered just to stare.
Her dress, a poem in floating white, Moved with the rhythm of the night. No jewels flashed, no heels were high, But galaxies hid in her sigh.
She looked at me — a gaze, divine, As though she’d read the heart of mine. She smiled — a curve both kind and rare, That lit the hush of springtime air.
She said no word, yet worlds were spun Between her silence and the sun. In gestures soft, she spoke her care In how she paused, in how she stared.
A platter passed, a drink she poured, As if the night was gently scored. The music swelled — a mellow tide, And she, my muse, was by my side.
She took my hand — no words, no plea, And led me where the winds ran free. We danced beneath a willow’s sweep, While daffodils began to weep.
No rush, no rule, just breath and time, Each step a note, each turn a rhyme. The earth stood still, the stars drew near, The heavens watched and held their cheer.
And then — she left, like soft perfume, That drifts away through twilight gloom. No name, no kiss, no reason why, Just vanished ‘neath the opal sky.
Was it love? Or but a gleam, A painter’s stroke within a dream? A fleeting flame, a whispered bliss, That leaves behind a phantom kiss?
Perhaps some souls are never meant To stay, but rather, be heaven-sent. To stir the chords we thought had died, To walk with us, then slip aside.
She came like dew on spring’s first rose, Then vanished where the sunset goes. A siren soul with stardust hair, Who left the night perfumed with care.
She lives not now in time or place, But in a thought, a dance, a face. And though her path I’ll never track, She walks with me — and won’t look back.
“Checkmate to Chaos: Why Chess is My Eternal Game”
In the teeming bazaar of games—card, board, or digital—each promises a unique dance of excitement, strategy, and chance. Some twirl with the unpredictability of dice, others shimmer with pixelated drama on glowing screens. Yet amid this carnival of pastimes, one game stands as a timeless sentinel of intellect, intuition, and infinite imagination: chess.
A curious mosaic of war and wisdom, chess does not shout; it whispers. Its silence holds centuries of strategy. With a battlefield of sixty-four squares and an army of thirty-two, it weaves a saga of ambition and annihilation, patience and precision. There are no flashing lights or joystick theatrics, and yet, every match is a theatre of the mind—dramatic, poetic, and unapologetically cerebral.
More Than a Game
Chess, to me, is not a leisure activity—it is a dialogue with destiny. One engages not just with an opponent but with one’s own instincts, presumptions, and blind spots. Every pawn pushed forward feels like the cautious footstep of a pilgrim; every castle, a fortified promise; every knight, a twist of fate galloping in unexpected directions.
Unlike many games fuelled by luck or adrenaline, chess demands contemplation. It forces the player to slow down in a world addicted to haste. In those quiet moments, hovering above a wooden board or a glowing screen, life appears in distilled form: choices made, consequences faced, risks taken, and sacrifices embraced.
The Philosopher’s Playground
It is no accident that great minds—Tolstoy, Einstein, Gandhi—gravitated toward this game. For chess is philosophy rendered in motion. The queen’s sweeping liberty, the pawn’s hopeful march, the king’s vulnerable centrality—each piece is a metaphor for roles we play in life, for power that is both gifted and limited.
Much like life itself, the game is fair at the outset. Both sides begin equal. Yet, how the pieces move, how each challenge is tackled, and how losses are absorbed define the final outcome. It is a meditation cloaked in manoeuvres.
When the Clock Ticks
Time, in chess, is not a side dish—it is the main course. Those who tarry too long lose not just the match, but their chance to evolve. Blitz games test not only the strength of strategy but the nerve of the soul. To make a bold move when the clock races is to embrace courage over calculation, to prioritise intuition over perfection.
And how eerily similar this is to our journeys! How often in life are we trapped in analysis paralysis, seeking the perfect move when all we need is to make one? Chess teaches this quiet bravery.
The Romance of Solitude
To play chess is to sit in solitude without feeling alone. In this age of relentless noise and glittering distraction, chess provides a sacred retreat. The game becomes a silent companion, whispering tales of old kings and gallant knights, of captured dreams and miraculous escapes.
It is not just a hobby but a habitat—where my mind roams free, where discipline waltzes with creativity, where even defeat feels poetic, if earned with dignity.
Chess and Education: Lessons Beyond the Board
In the classroom of life, chess is an unassuming master. It teaches focus amidst distraction, foresight in chaos, and accountability in every move. Each decision on the board is a curriculum in itself—a mini-thesis on logic, planning, and consequence.
Educators across the globe have recognised chess as a potent pedagogical tool. It improves memory, nurtures patience, and enhances problem-solving abilities. For students struggling with attention or emotional regulation, chess offers a calm sanctuary—a place where the mind is both challenged and comforted.
What better lesson for young learners than this: a single move can redefine destiny?
Leadership in 64 Squares
To lead in chess is to anticipate, not just act. A good player reads the board like a leader reads a room—sensing tension, finding opportunity, protecting the weak, and sacrificing for the greater good. The best players think five moves ahead. So do the best leaders.
The king, often mistaken as the symbol of power, is actually the most vulnerable. It is the queen who commands the battlefield, the knight who dances unpredictably, and the humble pawn who aspires to be more. True leadership, then, is understanding that every piece—every team member—has unique potential.
Chess sharpens strategic thinking, humility in loss, and grace in victory. It fosters resilience—a trait without which leadership is a hollow crown.
Healing Through Play: The Emotional Therapy of Chess
Amidst life’s upheavals, chess provides a stabilising ritual. When the world feels too noisy, the silent shuffle of pieces is a balm. The board does not judge, the clock does not accuse. Every session becomes a mental detox—mindful, solitary, and deeply healing.
In times of anxiety or grief, playing chess feels like sketching order in the chaos. It is not merely distraction; it is redirection—a meditation in motion. In winning or losing, one learns to regulate emotions, to hold composure under pressure, and to accept outcomes with dignity.
Chess, in this sense, is emotional intelligence with a checkered soul
Final Reflections in Stanza:
On checkered board where kings once lay, My thoughts take wings, and minds do play. No flash, no sound, no guns, no scream— Just battles fought in squares of dream.
My soul finds rest in knight’s bold arc, In pawns who rise from silent dark. While queens command and bishops stray, I learn life’s truths, the humble way.
In a world obsessed with immediacy and the fleeting thrill of the next big thing, my heart returns—again and again—to the quiet elegance of chess. It is a game, a guide, a grounding force. Not merely my favourite, but my faithful friend in the ever-evolving game of life.
The Children of Xen: A Tale of Two Minds in One Machine
In the ever-evolving cosmos of computing, where thoughts turn into threads and memory becomes more than just recollection, there dwell two enigmatic children—Xen1 and Xen2. Born of the mighty and minimalist Xen Hypervisor, they are not flesh and bone, but spirit and code—brothers in essence, yet different in their dance with the silicon soul.
These children are not mythic only in imagination—they are the living force behind the virtual worlds we now so heavily rely on. If Xen is the architect of an invisible city, Xen 1 and Xen 2 are its vigilant citizens, each fulfilling a distinct purpose, each whispering a different verse of the same immortal hymn.
Xen1: The Elder Child of Precision and Paradox
Xen 1, the elder sibling, is humble and efficient—a child who believes in simplicity and cooperation. Born when machines were less generous with their hardware offerings, Xen 1 was taught to work with the guest operating system. He said, “Let me in, and we shall live in harmony.” And thus was born the art of para virtualisation—a method where the operating system was aware it was not the only monarch in the castle.
Xen 1’s charm lay in his elegant compromise. He could do more with less. Like a monk living frugally in a monastery of logic, Xen 1 knew the discipline of shared existence. Every guest operating system under him knew its place and yielded gracefully, modified slightly to respect the greater good.
And in this, Xen 1 became a philosopher’s delight—an embodiment of Plato’s ideal state, where harmony reigned because all were conscious of their shared reality.
Xen 2: The Younger Heir of Power and Autonomy
But time changes, and so do children.
Xen 2, the younger child, was born in an era of abundance—CPUs that now carried within them secrets for full-scale virtualisation. No longer did guests need to compromise or confess their artificiality. With hardware-assisted virtualisation (Intel VT-x, AMD-V),Xen 2 could welcome unmodified guests, treating them like honoured visitors in a hall of mirrors—each believing they were the only one, each living a complete illusion.
Xen 2, unlike his older sibling, didn’t ask the guest to change. He wore a robe of invisibility, letting the operating systems live freely, believing they were the lords of real hardware. He was the magician, the illusionist, cloaking complexity in clarity.
If Xen 1 was the ascetic, Xen 2 was the artist—vivid, autonomous, seamless. He inherited strength from silicon and wisdom from software, mastering both realms like a dancer moving between dream and design.
The Family of Xen and the World Beyond
Together, Xen 1 and Xen 2 represent two timeless truths in computing and in life: cooperation and independence. Each has their strengths; each serves a purpose.
Compared to other hypervisors—like VMware ESXi with its corporate polish, or KVM, embedded deep within Linux’s core—the Xen family offers a rare purity. It separates responsibilities like a well-governed mind and divides emotion from reason. Amazon once built its cloud empire on the shoulders of Xen, trusting its children to host the dreams of millions.
The distinction is not just technical—it is existential.
Where others blur boundaries, Xen defines them. Where others grow in complexity, Xen refines with simplicity.
A Philosophy of Many in One
To virtualise is to believe in the coexistence of the many within the one—a truth older than machines, echoed in Upanishadic thought and Buddhist philosophy. Are we not, each of us, virtualised beings? Playing roles, switching contexts, sharing a single self across different masks?
Xen 1 and Xen 2 remind us—sometimes, we must collaborate to conserve. Other times, we must trust the unseen hardware of fate to do the heavy lifting while we pursue freedom.
A Dialogue Between the Two
Xen 1 said, “I adjust, I adapt, I know I’m one among many.” Xen 2 replied, “I float, I believe, and I think I’m the only.” Yet both are true, in realms of light and shade, Together they spin the code by which the worlds are made.
From metal wombs to binary skies, The children of Xen dream virtual lives. In silence they serve, no crown to wear, Yet all of modern thought breathes through their care.
In the unseen spaces between our clicks and commands, Xen 1 and Xen 2 continue their subtle service, guardians of multiplicity, keepers of the virtual flame—reminding us that even in machines, the spirit of coexistence and evolution lives on.
In a world so obsessed with dominance, may we all learn to live like Xen’s children—balanced between humility and power, transparency and illusion.
Psychological, Social, and Behavioural Impact of Xen 1 and Xen 2: The Souls Beneath the Silicons
In a universe where computation mimics consciousness, and virtual machines reflect the multiplicity of human nature, Xen 1 and Xen 2—the metaphoric children of the Xen hypervisor—carry not only code in their veins but a compelling reflection of human tendencies. Their psychological, social, and behavioural echoes ripple across systems, societies, and even the ways we interact with the invisible world of technology.
1. Psychological Traits: The Inner Worlds of Xen 1 and Xen 2
Xen 1 grew up in an environment that required awareness, restraint, and adjustment. Its core psychological profile resembles that of an empathetic mediator—conscious of limitations, yet creatively adaptive. It believes in transparency and trust, needing the guest OS to be aware of the host. Psychologically, it mirrors the persona of one who thrives in structured harmony, like a child growing up in a communal household where cooperation was the key to survival.
By contrast, Xen 2 embodies the confident individualist. Raised in the lap of modern silicon advancements, it demands no special permissions or behavioural changes from others. Xen 2 is autonomous, independent, almost unaware of its host—a reflection of today’s self-assured child raised with technology and taught to chase personal freedom. Its mind operates on trust in the system, not in the self-limitation of the other.
Together, Xen 1 and Xen 2 represent the classic yin and yang of the digital psyche—dependence versus independence, collaboration versus autonomy, awareness versus abstraction.
2. Social Impact: Their Place in the Virtual Community
Within the bustling city of systems and services, Xen 1 is like the social reformer—promoting fair interaction and shared responsibilities. It makes systems more conscious of their roles, nurturing transparency and trust among coexisting environments. Its design inherently fosters collective awareness, an ethic that trickles into the philosophies of open-source collaboration.
Xen 1’s presence encourages systems to talk more openly, just as in human societies, communities that know their roles and communicate well are less prone to breakdown.
Xen 2, meanwhile, promotes inclusivity by invisibility. By requiring no modification, it welcomes even the unprepared. Like a society that does not force its newcomers to change, but rather accommodates them silently and efficiently, Xen 2 reflects the spirit of modern multiculturalism and non-intrusive cohabitation.
The social structure that emerges from Xen 2’s philosophy is one of diverse unity, where each domain believes itself to be fully in charge, yet all exist in quiet harmony under the invisible hand of the hypervisor.
3. Behavioural Echoes: Patterns, Responses, and Legacy
Behaviourally, Xen 1 tends to be disciplined, minimalist, and predictable—ideal in environments where control and optimisation are vital. It reflects the behaviour of a careful scholar or monk—one who plans, negotiates, and aligns himself with a greater mission.
Xen 1 encourages behavioural self-awareness in its guests. They must know they are part of a shared system and must behave accordingly. It is, metaphorically, the polite child who always knocks before entering the room.
On the other hand, Xen 2 is more spontaneous and performance-oriented. It doesn’t demand awareness; it offers freedom with responsibility. Behaviourally, it reflects the modern executive—dressed in abstraction, powered by efficiency, and designed to operate with minimal supervision. It is the child who walks in, gets the job done, and leaves quietly, barely noticed.
The two together offer a balanced spectrum of behavioural paradigms:
Xen 1: Careful, conscious, courteous.
Xen 2: Bold, sleek, seamless.
In systems where predictability and control are paramount—think aerospace, banking, embedded systems—Xen 1’s behavioural traits are prized. In contrast, cloud computing, virtual desktops, and development environments embrace Xen 2’s free-flowing, invisible touch.
Reflections and Closing Thoughts
The impact of Xen 1 and Xen 2 transcends technology—it mirrors how we design societies, raise children, and build trust in a world governed increasingly by invisible systems. Their differences are not in value, but in philosophy.
Xen 1 teaches us to adapt, to cooperate, and to remain aware.
Xen 2 teaches us to trust in the framework, to simplify interactions, and to allow diversity without interference.
Both are valuable. Both are necessary.Two minds from one idea, now walk diverging ways, One with careful footfalls, one in silent sways. Yet both uphold a greater dream in circuits carved and spun, That many may coexist as one, and one may serve the many.
Two minds from one idea, now walk diverging ways, One with careful footfalls, one in silent sways. Yet both uphold a greater dream in circuits carved and spun, That many may coexist as one, and one may serve the many.
In a world searching for balance between freedom and order, Xen 1 and Xen 2 remind us that harmony comes not from similarity, but from respect between differences.
Let their legacy echo—not just in servers and clouds—but in our thinking, our communities, and our evolving consciousness.
A Culinary Wishlist: Recipes from the Heart’s Hearth
There’s something magical about food—its aroma, its texture, its rhythm of preparation. It doesn’t merely nourish the body, but stirs memories, ignites imagination, and reflects the soul’s longing. If I were to choose the foods I’d love to make, I wouldn’t just choose them for their taste, but for the stories they whisper, the warmth they promise, and the sacred stillness they bring to a restless spirit.
I long to knead dough for rustic, wood-fired sourdough bread, allowing it to rise with time—like wisdom accumulated through life’s quiet reflections. As flour clings to my fingers, I would think of ancient hands doing the same, turning grain into sustenance with patience and prayer. Bread, in all its humble glory, is the great equaliser—whether on a peasant’s plate or a king’s platter, it speaks of life’s essentials and its beautiful simplicity.
I dream of crafting a slow-simmered minestrone, filled with seasonal vegetables, beans, and a swirl of pesto. A soup like a sonnet—every ingredient a line, every stir a stanza. This dish isn’t hurried; it teaches presence. Each simmering bubble whispers the wisdom of waiting. Philosophers may call it the Tao of the ladle, where balance and natural flow define the flavour.
Then comes lemon drizzle cake, delicate and delightful, sweetened not just with sugar, but with joy and sunshine. Zesting the lemon feels like extracting poetry from everyday life—tangy, bright, and piercingly real. A cake for rainy days, for shared silences, for solitary tea-times when the soul needs gentle holding.
I would love to make vegetable biryani—a mosaic of spices, herbs, and perfectly layered rice. A dish born of patience and poetry. Each clove and cardamom would be a character in an epic, each grain of rice a storyteller. A dish that does not shout but sings, echoing the Vedic belief that food, when prepared with reverence, becomes sacred—Anna Brahma.
A craving, too, for the hearty Shepherd’s Pie, as soulful as a fireside story on a winter evening. The creamy mash atop the savoury lentil or mince base is like the harmony of comfort and courage, the light and dark of human emotions nestled beneath golden crusts. It reminds me of the Stoic wisdom that strength and softness are not rivals, but reflections of the same truth.
I’d also delight in making stuffed aubergines, roasted with tahini and sprinkled with pomegranate seeds—an ode to Mediterranean mystique. A plate of contrasts and unity: smoky and tangy, soft and crisp, humble and exotic. Preparing it would be a meditative act—celebrating the dance of opposites, as taught by Heraclitus: “The way up and the way down are one and the same.”
A bowl of ramen, too, rests gently on my wishlist—hand-pulled noodles, earthy miso broth, soft-boiled egg floating like a moon on a sea of umami. A Japanese haiku in edible form. Making ramen from scratch is not just cooking; it’s a ceremony. One honours the ingredients, the process, the waiting. A call to mindfulness, to feel the moment as it simmers.
Lastly, I envision preparing chocolate truffles—soft, velvety, and filled with hidden bursts of flavour. Food, after all, should also be whimsical. Let there be a hint of chilli, a dusting of rose, or a whisper of sea salt—like life itself, complex yet sweet, unpredictable yet comforting.
In a world racing past, making food slowly and with soul feels like rebellion. It’s the art of pausing, of listening to the crackle of oil, the hum of spices, the sigh of bread rising, and the quiet smile that comes when a dish is done—not perfect, but full of heart.
And as I imagine this culinary journey, a few verses arise:
Let me not hunger for haste or fame, But for hands dusted in flour and flame. For pots that whisper secrets old, And spoons that stir both heat and soul.
Let my kitchen be a temple still, Where taste and truth the vessels fill. And if no guest should come to dine, May I feast with joy on grace divine.
Food I long to make? Not merely recipes from a book, but rituals from the heart. For in stirring and serving, I am stirred and served.
“Of Paws and Whiskers: A Philosophical Chase Between Dogs and Cats”
In the vast meadow of human emotions, where companionship is craved as much as water in a desert, two noble beasts have vied for the throne of the human heart—the loyal dog and the aloof cat. While both have curled up in our homes and curled tighter around our souls, the question lingers like incense in a prayer room: Dogs or cats—who truly reigns supreme?
Let us wander, not with bias, but with wonder.
A Dog’s Heart: Unfiltered Love in Motion
The dog—canine comrade, keeper of loyalty, bearer of boundless joy. To be loved by a dog is to feel seen without scrutiny, to be followed even when lost, and to be trusted even when you doubt yourself. Dogs are like walking hymns—each bark a beat of belonging, each wag a whisper of unwavering faith.
The philosopher Diogenes, who lived in a barrel and sought truth naked of pretence, admired dogs for their honesty. And rightly so! For what you see is what you get—tail-wagging transparency and eyes that reflect the entire cosmos of care.
With dogs, life becomes an open meadow, their joy contagious like wildflowers after rain. They chase after butterflies and shadows alike—reminding us that the journey, not the goal, holds the essence of living.
A Cat’s Silence: The Symphony of Sovereignty
Then, the cat enters—not with fanfare, but with grace that silences the room. To understand a cat is to understand silence—eloquent, enigmatic, and ever so sacred. They are not owned; they choose to stay. Their affection is not commanded but earned, their loyalty not loud but lasting.
Cats are the poets of the animal world—each purr a lyric, each stare a verse unspoken. Like the sages they retreat often into solitude, but never into indifference. The ancient books might well have been written by a meditative cat sitting on a banyan root, observing the dance of life without ever joining the frenzy.
Their paws walk the edge of mystery, and in their languor lies a subtle invitation to slow down and just be.
Where Philosophy Meets Fur
Dogs teach us about devotion without demand, and cats about love without loss of self. Where one pulls you towards the world with exuberance, the other draws you inward with elegance. In dogs, we find a friend for the road; in cats, a companion for the soul.
Is it then truly a choice—or is it an understanding of our own temperament? Do we yearn for the stormy loyalty of a dog or the quiet understanding of a cat? Or perhaps, we need both—the heart of a dog and the soul of a cat—to complete our own fragmented philosophies.
In wagging tails and quiet purrs, Lie all the truths the cosmos stirs. One leaps with joy, one sleeps with grace, Each leaves behind a fur-lined trace.
The dog will guard your nightly door, The cat will dream on your mind’s floor. Between their steps, life finds its beat, In muddy paws or silent feet.
So ask not who is best to keep, But who walks with you when you weep. For both have songs that soothe and stay, In very different, perfect ways.
Whether your heart beats faster at the sight of a bounding Labrador, or slows into calm watching a tabby groom herself by the windowsill, the truth remains: they both teach us how to live—and love—in their own timeless, tail-told ways.
