When Yesterday Knocks Softly at the Door

When Yesterday Knocks Softly at the Door

Nostalgia is a gentle but persistent visitor. It does not announce its arrival with fanfare; instead, it slips in quietly—through a familiar tune, the smell of wet earth after the first monsoon shower, or the sight of an old photograph whose edges have curled with time. What makes me nostalgic is not merely the past itself, but the emotions the past still carries, like echoes that refuse to fade.
Music is perhaps my most faithful time machine. A Mukesh song from the 1960s, a hymn once sung in a school assembly, or a raga flowing tenderly from a flute can transport me instantly to another era. In those moments, I am no longer bound by the present. I am a young boy again—listening, learning, hoping. Music does not age; it only deepens, much like memory itself. Each note seems to carry the warmth of voices long gone and the comfort of silences once shared.
Places, too, awaken nostalgia with startling ease. A quiet school corridor, a playground at dusk, or a hill road winding into the unknown brings back the discipline, laughter, and innocence of my formative years. Having lived across cultures and geographies—Odisha, Nepal, boarding schools with English traditions—my nostalgia is layered. Each place has left its imprint, shaping my worldview and reminding me that identity is often a mosaic of many homes.
Relationships form the heart of nostalgic longing. Teachers who believed before I did, students whose curious eyes once looked up with trust, colleagues who shared both burdens and breakthroughs—all return uninvited yet warmly welcomed. Now, as a grandfather watching my grandchildren grow, I often find myself comparing generations, smiling at how time moves forward even as memory pulls us back. Nostalgia, then, becomes a bridge between who I was and who I am.
Even objects have a quiet way of stirring the soul. Old books with underlined passages, a harmonium resting patiently in the corner, handwritten notes from another lifetime—these are not mere things. They are witnesses. They remind me of effort, aspiration, and a slower rhythm of life where patience was a virtue, not an inconvenience.
Philosophically, nostalgia is a reminder of impermanence. Indian thought speaks of smriti—memory—as both a blessing and a burden. It teaches us gratitude for what has been, without imprisoning us in what can no longer be. In this sense, nostalgia is not an escape but a gentle teacher. It urges us to live the present more fully, knowing that today, too, will one day be remembered with longing.
Ultimately, what makes me nostalgic is the realisation that life, in all its fragility and beauty, has been kind in ways I only understand in retrospect. Nostalgia does not make me sad; it makes me reflective. It whispers that I have lived, loved, learned—and that in itself is a quiet triumph.
And so I end with these stanzas:

Yesterday walks beside me, not to bind my feet,
But to remind my heart of roads once sweet.
In every memory, a lesson lies,
In every tear, a truth disguised.

If time must pass, let it pass with grace,
Leaving gentle footprints, not a vacant space.
For when nostalgia softly calls my name,
I smile—life, it seems, was worth the flame.

More Than a Jersey: How Colours and Mascots Shape the Soul of a Sports Team

More Than a Jersey: How Colours and Mascots Shape the Soul of a Sports Team

In the theatre of sport, where passion often runs higher than reason and loyalty lasts longer than logic, two silent yet powerful actors command enduring influence — colours and mascots. Long before a ball is kicked, a bat is swung, or a whistle is blown, these symbols begin to speak. They whisper identity, shout intent, and quietly stitch individuals into a collective spirit. A sports team may be built with players and strategies, but it is sustained by symbols that endure far beyond any season.

The Power of Colours: Emotion in Visible Form

Colours are not mere aesthetic choices; they are psychological triggers. Science, culture, and history converge in the way colours influence human behaviour. Red ignites aggression and urgency, blue calms and commands trust, green signifies growth and balance, black denotes authority and resilience, while gold symbolises excellence and achievement.
In sport, colours become emotional uniforms. They create instant recognition, forge belonging, and often intimidate opponents. A fan does not merely wear a colour; he or she inhabits it. Stadiums turn into seas of shared emotion, where colour becomes language and loyalty becomes visible.
Historically too, colours have held symbolic meaning — from the banners of Roman legions to the flags of freedom movements. In Indian philosophy, colours correspond to the gunas:
– Sattva (white) for balance and wisdom,
– Rajas (red) for action and ambition,
– Tamas (black) for stability and endurance.
A wise team draws not from excess, but from harmony.

Mascots: The Living Metaphor

If colours form the skin of a team, the mascot becomes its soul in motion. Mascots personify values — courage, speed, intelligence, resilience, unity. From lions and eagles to mythical creatures, mascots translate abstract ideals into relatable symbols.
Anthropologically, humans have always relied on totems — animals or symbols representing tribal identity and protection. In the Mahabharata, banners bore emblems that reflected a warrior’s temperament. Arjuna’s flag bore Hanuman, symbolising strength guided by wisdom. The message was clear: power must walk hand in hand with purpose.
A good mascot does not frighten alone; it inspires. It becomes a rallying point for children, a badge of pride for supporters, and a psychological anchor for players under pressure.

If I Were to Have a Sports Team…

If I were to found a sports team, my choices would not be impulsive or ornamental; they would be philosophical and purposeful.
– Team Colours: Deep Blue and Burnished Gold
Deep Blue would represent depth, discipline, trust, and calm under pressure — qualities essential for sustained excellence. Blue is the colour of the infinite sky and the unfathomable ocean; it reminds players to remain composed, reflective, and steady even when storms rage.
– Burnished Gold would signify aspiration, dignity, and earned success — not flashy victory, but excellence achieved through perseverance. Gold does not shout; it glows.
Together, blue and gold speak of wisdom allied with ambition, a balance of head and heart.
– Mascot: The Elephant
I would choose the Elephant as the mascot — a symbol deeply rooted in Indian ethos and universally respected.
The elephant stands for:
1. Strength without arrogance
2. Memory and learning
3. Teamwork and loyalty
4. Quiet authority rather than noisy aggression

In Indian mythology, Lord Ganesha embodies intellect, foresight, and the removal of obstacles — precisely what a team needs in moments of crisis. The elephant moves steadily, protects its own, and never charges without reason. It teaches that true power lies not in speed alone, but in purposeful movement.
In a sporting world obsessed with instant results, the elephant reminds us that endurance outlasts excitement.

Beyond Branding: Building a Legacy

Colours and mascots are not marketing accessories; they are moral compasses. They remind players who they are meant to be, even when no one is watching. They create continuity when teams change, and identity when circumstances falter.
A team that understands its symbol plays not just to win, but to represent. As the saying goes, “You can change the players, but not the colours they sweat for.”

In the end, a sports team is a microcosm of life itself — conflict, cooperation, failure, hope, and renewal. Colours give it emotion; mascots give it meaning. Chosen wisely, they transform a group of athletes into a living idea.
And when the final whistle blows, trophies may tarnish, but symbols endure — quietly reminding generations that once, a team stood for something more than just victory.
Because in sport, as in life, what you stand for matters as much as how you play.

From Slogans to Substance: How My Political Views Matured with Time

From Slogans to Substance: How My Political Views Matured with Time

Politics, like life, rarely remains static. What begins as borrowed conviction in youth often ripens—sometimes painfully—into tempered understanding with age. My own political views have not so much swung from one extreme to another as they have settled, shedding noise and acquiring nuance. The journey from idealism to realism, from slogans to substance, has been slow, reflective, and deeply human.

The Early Years: Inherited Beliefs and Loud Certainties

In my younger days, political opinions were largely inherited—absorbed from family discussions, social circles, classrooms, and the dominant narratives of the time. Like many young people, I believed that clarity lay in certainty. Issues were black or white; leaders were heroes or villains. There was a romantic attraction to grand promises, stirring speeches, and ideological purity. Politics felt like a moral contest, and choosing sides felt like choosing righteousness.
Emotion, not evidence, often guided those views. The fire of youth seeks quick answers, not complicated truths.

Middle Years: Encounters with Reality

As professional life unfolded—particularly in education and administration—the simplicity of earlier beliefs began to crack. Policies were no longer abstract ideas but living forces that shaped institutions, budgets, teachers’ morale, students’ futures, and families’ lives. I began to see how good intentions could produce poor outcomes, and how unpopular decisions were sometimes necessary.
Exposure to diversity—of regions, cultures, economic realities, and human behaviour—played a crucial role. Ideology alone could not explain why the same policy succeeded in one context and failed in another. Gradually, I became less interested in who said something and more in what was said, why it was said, and how it would be implemented.
This phase replaced political enthusiasm with political responsibility.

Later Years: From Ideology to Ethics

With age came a quieter, more inward approach to politics. I became sceptical of theatrics and wary of constant outrage. Instead of asking, “Which side is right?”, I found myself asking, “Who benefits, who pays the price, and who is left unheard?”
Philosophy and mythology offered powerful mirrors. In the Mahabharata, even righteous war brings irreversible loss. In Plato’s writings, democracy without wisdom risks becoming mob rule. The Bible repeatedly warns against leaders who serve themselves rather than their flock. These teachings reinforced a central belief: politics divorced from ethics is merely organised self-interest.
Today, my views are less about party loyalty and more about governance, accountability, compassion, and long-term thinking.

What Has Changed—and What Has Not

What has changed is my impatience with absolutism and my distrust of easy answers. I now accept that disagreement is not betrayal and compromise is not weakness. I value institutions over individuals, processes over personalities, and evidence over emotion.
What has not changed is the belief that politics matters deeply because it touches the most vulnerable first. Education, health, dignity of labour, and social harmony remain non-negotiable concerns. If anything, age has intensified my conviction that power must always be questioned, no matter who holds it.

Political maturity, I have learned, is not about becoming cynical but about becoming careful. It is the shift from shouting opinions to weighing consequences, from defending positions to examining principles.
Once I believed politics could change the world overnight. Now I believe it changes lives slowly—sometimes clumsily, sometimes unjustly—but always significantly. And that is precisely why it deserves thought, humility, and conscience.
In the end, my politics did not change direction; they changed depth.

Borrowed Comforts, Broken Legacies: A Moral Debt No Parent Can Repay

Borrowed Comforts, Broken Legacies: A Moral Debt No Parent Can Repay

Across mythologies, philosophies and civilisations, parenthood has never been treated as a casual role. It is a sacred trusteeship—where one generation holds life, values and resources in trust for the next. When parents choose self-indulgence over the grooming and upbringing of their children, they do not merely make poor choices; they violate an ancient moral law that every culture, scripture and philosophy has warned against.
In our times, this violation often hides behind modern comforts. Income is spent on personal pleasures, loans are taken casually from friends, relatives and banks, and repayment is perpetually postponed. Borrowing becomes a lifestyle rather than a necessity. Accountability is evaded, and the burden quietly shifts to children and family members. What appears outwardly as personal freedom is, in truth, a slow emotional and ethical scam.

Mythological Mirrors: Lessons Ignored

Indian mythology offers stark reminders of parental duty. In the Mahabharata, King Dhritarashtra’s blind attachment and indulgence towards his sons led not only to their moral decay but to the destruction of an entire lineage. His failure was not lack of wealth, but lack of moral restraint and guidance. Similarly, in the Ramayana, King Dasharatha’s inability to uphold balance between desire and duty resulted in lifelong regret and personal tragedy. These stories remind us that indulgence without wisdom breeds ruin.
Even Greek mythology echoes the same warning. Cronus, consumed by fear and self-preservation, devoured his own children—an extreme symbol of parents sacrificing the future to secure their present. Though metaphorical, the message is chillingly relevant: when parents consume resources meant for their children, they devour their own legacy.
Biblical philosophy reinforces this moral boundary: “A good man leaves an inheritance to his children’s children.” Inheritance here is not merely material—it is faith, discipline, character and foresight. To leave behind unpaid debts, emotional wounds and shattered trust is to leave a curse disguised as inheritance.

Philosophical Perspective: Duty Over Desire

From a philosophical lens, Confucius placed filial responsibility at the heart of social order, insisting that harmony in society begins within the family. Indian philosophy speaks of Grihastha Dharma, where householders are duty-bound to sustain not only themselves but dependents, elders and the next generation. Personal pleasure was never forbidden—but it was always secondary to responsibility.
Modern existentialism, too, holds individuals accountable for the consequences of their choices. Parents who repeatedly borrow, default and indulge cannot escape moral responsibility by blaming circumstances. Freedom without responsibility, as Sartre warned, leads to bad faith—a self-deception that corrodes character.

The Silent Scam on Children and Society

The greatest victims of such behaviour are not lenders or banks, but children. They grow up amid instability, witnessing broken promises and moral contradictions. Education becomes negotiable, emotional security fragile, and self-worth compromised. Many internalise guilt, believing they are burdens rather than blessings. Others unconsciously inherit the same habits, mistaking irresponsibility for normal adulthood.
Friends and relatives, initially compassionate, become reluctant financiers. Trust erodes, relationships fracture, and social isolation follows. The parents themselves age into loneliness—surrounded by comforts once enjoyed, but stripped of dignity and respect.

Root Causes Behind the Decline

Several forces drive this erosion of parental responsibility:
1. Consumerist Culture – The illusion that happiness lies in consumption rather than contribution.
2. Financial Illiteracy – Poor planning, impulsive borrowing and ignorance of long-term consequences.
3. Emotional Immaturity – Adults who never outgrow self-centred living.
4. Social Pretence – Maintaining false status at the cost of family welfare.
5. Enabling Networks – Repeated bailouts that reward irresponsibility.

Remedies: Returning to Moral Ground

Correction is possible, but it requires humility and courage:
– Reawakening Dharma – Recognising parenting as moral stewardship, not entitlement.
– Practising Financial Discipline – Spending within means and honouring debts.
– Investing Emotionally in Children – Time, guidance and presence over indulgence.
– Restoring Accountability – Relatives must stop enabling habitual exploitation.
– Seeking Guidance – Counselling, financial education and ethical reflection.

A Powerful Closing Reflection

A parent may borrow money, but they also borrow the future—from their children. When that future is spent on fleeting comforts, the debt cannot be repaid with interest or apologies. Civilisations collapse not when wealth is lost, but when values are squandered. True parenting is not about living well today, but ensuring that tomorrow stands on firm moral ground.

They feasted on comforts, borrowed and thin,
While children paid for the parents’ sin.
Debts grew tall, but values were small,
And duty lay crushed beneath desire’s call.

Myth and scripture, old yet wise,
Warned of futures sacrificed.
For when parents choose the self alone,
They mortgage seeds that should have grown.

Raise not heirs to unpaid dues,
Nor gift them fractured, borrowed truths.
For legacy is not what you spend or save,
But the honest life you dare to pave.

Four Wheels, One Soul: Why the Land Rover Defender Will Always Be My First Love

Four Wheels, One Soul: Why the Land Rover Defender Will Always Be My First Love

Ask a person about their all-time favourite automobile and you will rarely receive a technical answer. You will hear a story instead. Cars, after all, are not merely engineered objects; they are companions of memory, witnesses to journeys taken and dreams pursued. My own choice, shaped by admiration rather than ownership, is the Land Rover Defender—a machine that feels less like a car and more like a philosophy on wheels.
The Defender does not flirt with glamour, nor does it seek approval through polished curves or indulgent luxury. It stands upright, unapologetic, almost stern—like a seasoned explorer who has seen enough of the world to care little for appearances. Its boxy silhouette tells you instantly that this vehicle was designed with purpose, not pretence. In an age obsessed with aerodynamics and touchscreens, the Defender speaks an older, sterner language: function before fashion.
What draws me most to the Defender is its honesty. Every bolt seems visible, every panel purposeful. There is no attempt to hide its rugged intent. It was built to endure—to cross deserts, climb mountains, wade through rivers, and return home bearing the dust and scars of adventure like medals of honour. This resilience resonates deeply with me. Life, much like a long journey, demands stamina more than speed, character more than comfort.
There is also something profoundly democratic about the Defender. It has served farmers, soldiers, explorers, aid workers, and travellers alike. From the African savannahs to Himalayan passes, it has carried both cargo and conviction. Few automobiles can claim such a global legacy of service. While many cars boast horsepower and acceleration figures, the Defender boasts stories—of survival, reliability, and trust.
In a philosophical sense, the Defender reminds us that progress does not always mean replacement. Sometimes it means refinement without betrayal of core values. Even its modern reincarnations, though technologically advanced, attempt to honour that original spirit of robustness and reliability. The Defender teaches us a quiet lesson: evolution need not erase identity.
As someone who values journeys as much as destinations, the idea of a vehicle that prioritises endurance over elegance feels deeply personal. The Defender may not offer the softest ride, but it promises something far rarer—dependability. And in both machines and human relationships, that is a virtue worth celebrating.
In the end, my fondness for the Land Rover Defender is not about metal and mechanics alone. It is about what it symbolises: resilience in adversity, dignity in simplicity, and strength without arrogance. It is a reminder that the best companions in life are those who do not abandon you when the road disappears.

Some cars impress the eye, some flatter the ego,
But a rare few steady the heart.
They teach us to move forward—slowly, firmly,
When paths are broken and maps fall apart.

The Defender does not promise ease or speed,
It promises to stay.
And in a world that often gives up too soon,
That, perhaps, is the greatest luxury of all.

Footprints on My Path: The Lives That Quietly Shaped Me

Footprints on My Path: The Lives That Quietly Shaped Me

When asked about the biggest influences in my life, I realise that influence rarely arrives with a drumroll. It comes softly—through lived examples, quiet discipline, unspoken sacrifice, and enduring values. Like the steady current beneath a river’s surface, these influences have shaped my thinking, my profession, and my philosophy of life without always announcing their presence.
The earliest and most profound influence was my family, especially the values absorbed in childhood. From them I learnt that dignity does not depend on wealth, that education is a form of worship, and that integrity is non-negotiable. Life was not always comfortable, but it was always principled. Those early lessons became the moral compass by which I still navigate turbulent waters. When circumstances were harsh and resources scarce, resilience became a habit rather than a heroic act.
A towering influence on my intellectual and ethical development was my education under the Jesuit Fathers. They did not merely teach subjects; they taught life. Their insistence on discipline, clarity of thought, service before self, and excellence without arrogance left an indelible imprint on me. The Jesuit philosophy of cura personalis—care for the whole person—later guided my own journey as a teacher and Principal. From them I learnt that authority must be humane, leadership must be earned, and knowledge must walk hand in hand with compassion.
My profession in education, spanning nearly four decades, has itself been a powerful influence. Students, colleagues, parents, and countless lived situations became my teachers. Every classroom interaction, every counselling session, every success and failure refined my understanding of human behaviour. Being a Principal taught me that decision-making is rarely black and white, and that empathy is not weakness but wisdom. In shaping others, I found myself constantly being reshaped.
Another enduring influence has been spiritual and philosophical literature—from the Bible to Indian mythology, from the Bhagavad Gita to reflective poetry. These texts offered answers when logic fell silent and comfort when circumstances felt unjust. They taught me acceptance without surrender, faith without blind obedience, and action without attachment to reward. Philosophy helped me ask better questions; spirituality taught me to live with unanswered ones.
Equally significant has been music—my lifelong companion. Whether it is a soulful hymn, a classical raga, a Mukesh melody, or a simple bhajan, music has healed wounds that words could not reach. It has been my refuge in loneliness, my celebration in joy, and my anchor in moments of self-doubt. In many ways, music taught me emotional literacy long before psychology named it.
In recent years, my **family again—my wife, children, and now my grandchildren—**has become a renewed source of influence. They remind me that life moves in seasons, that relevance is not lost with age, and that love evolves but never diminishes. Watching a new generation grow restores faith in continuity and purpose.
Looking back, I see that the biggest influences in my life were not those who told me what to do, but those who showed me how to be. They did not push me forward; they walked ahead, leaving footprints I could trust.
Some lives teach by speaking,
Some by silent grace;
They light our paths, then step aside,
Leaving us stronger in our own pace.
In the end, influence is not about control—it is about inspiration. And I remain deeply grateful to all those, seen and unseen, who shaped the person I continue to become.

1961: Born at the Crossroads of Hope and History

1961: Born at the Crossroads of Hope and History

The year one is born is never just a date on a certificate; it is a quiet prologue to a life. I was born in 1961, a year standing at the threshold of change—when the old world was still catching its breath after wars and partitions, and the new world was beginning to dream aloud. To be born in 1961 was to arrive when history was restless, science ambitious, and humanity cautiously hopeful.

A World on the Move

Globally, 1961 was a year charged with tension and transformation. The Cold War was no longer a distant murmur; it was a lived anxiety. The Berlin Wall rose like a concrete scar, dividing ideologies, families, and futures. The world learned that borders could be drawn overnight, but wounds would take generations to heal.
Yet, paradoxically, 1961 was also a year when humanity looked upwards with wonder. Yuri Gagarin, a young Soviet cosmonaut, became the first human to travel into space. His single orbit around the Earth did more than defy gravity—it expanded human imagination. For a child born that year, the sky was no longer a limit; it was an invitation.

India in 1961: A Nation Finding Its Feet

In India, 1961 carried its own profound significance. It was the year Goa was liberated from Portuguese rule, completing an unfinished chapter of independence. The tricolour flying over Goa symbolised more than territorial unity—it affirmed national self-belief.
India was still young, learning governance the hard way, balancing idealism with pragmatism. Institutions were being shaped, public sector enterprises strengthened, and education slowly recognised as the true wealth of a poor but determined nation. To be born in 1961 in India was to grow up alongside the Republic itself—stumbling, learning, correcting, and persevering.

Science, Culture, and the Quiet Revolution

The early 1960s were not loud with gadgets, yet they were rich with substance. Televisions were rare, radios were companions, and books were gateways. Letters carried emotions with patience; relationships were built face-to-face, not screen-to-screen.
Music had melody and meaning. Cinema told stories with pauses, poetry with purpose, and heroes with moral struggles. Education demanded discipline, respect, and rigour. Teachers were mentors, not service providers. Life moved slowly enough to be understood and fast enough to be valued.
Growing Up with the Times
Those born in 1961 became witnesses to extraordinary transitions: from black-and-white to colour, from typewriters to keyboards, from joint families to nuclear homes, from scarcity to surplus. We learnt to adjust, not complain; to adapt, not abandon. Change did not frighten us—it trained us.
We were raised in an era where values preceded convenience, and effort preceded entitlement. Failures were lessons, not traumas. Silence had meaning, patience had dignity, and perseverance was not optional—it was survival.

A Generation Between Two Worlds

The 1961 generation stands uniquely balanced—rooted in tradition yet conversant with technology; respectful of authority yet capable of questioning it. We remember waiting, striving, and earning. Perhaps that is why resilience comes naturally to us. We have lived through enough change to know that nothing is permanent—not even hardship.

In Reflection

Looking back, being born in 1961 feels like being handed a bridge—between eras, ideologies, and identities. It was a year that did not promise ease, but it quietly guaranteed depth.

Born when walls rose high in fear,
Yet stars were touched, so far, so near.
A year of conflict, courage, creed,
Of silent strength and thoughtful deed.

We learnt to wait, to walk, to rise,
With hope held firm and watchful eyes.
1961—no borrowed light,
A steady flame through wrong and right.

If the year of birth shapes the soul, then 1961 shaped us to endure, to reflect, and above all, to believe that progress—though slow—is always possible when guided by conscience and courage.

Between Masks and Mirrors: Am I Truly a Good Judge of Character?

Between Masks and Mirrors: Am I Truly a Good Judge of Character?

Am I a good judge of character?
It is a question that tiptoes into my mind often—sometimes invited by experience, sometimes provoked by betrayal, and at times gently nudged by moments of quiet pride when my instincts stood vindicated. Like most human enquiries, the answer is neither a confident yes nor a dismissive no. It lies somewhere in between, suspended delicately between wisdom earned and errors endured.

The Early Confidence of First Impressions

In our early years, judging character appears deceptively simple. A warm smile, fluent speech, social grace, or a position of authority often masquerades as moral depth. As young learners of life, we tend to trust appearances. Psychology calls this the halo effect—our tendency to attribute goodness to someone based on one favourable trait. Experience, however, soon teaches us that eloquence does not guarantee empathy, nor does silence imply insignificance.
History is replete with examples where crowds were swayed by charisma rather than character, and societies paid a heavy price for mistaking confidence for conscience.

Experience: The Stern but Honest Teacher

With age and exposure, judgement becomes more layered. Having spent decades as an educator and school leader, I learned that character reveals itself not on ceremonial stages but in corridors, staff rooms, and moments of crisis. How one treats the powerless, how one responds to disagreement, and how one behaves when no applause is expected—these are the true litmus tests.
Yet, even seasoned observers falter. Human beings are complex, layered with fears, aspirations, insecurities, and survival instincts. Behavioural science reminds us that context often dictates conduct. A good person may act poorly under pressure, while a manipulator may perform virtue convincingly when it serves self-interest.

The Clash Between Intuition and Evidence

I have often trusted my intuition—and more often than not, it has served me well. Intuition is not mystical; it is the subconscious processing of years of observation. Still, intuition without reflection can harden into prejudice. A good judge of character must therefore balance gut feeling with grounded evidence.
In the contemporary world of social media, curated personas and digital masks further complicate this judgement. We now assess character through status updates, forwarded wisdom, and filtered smiles—often forgetting that integrity cannot be uploaded, and values cannot be edited.

Pros and Cons of Judging Characters

Pros:

1. Helps in forming trustworthy relationships
2. Protects one from manipulation and emotional harm
3. Enables better leadership and decision-making

Cons:

1. Risk of misjudgement due to bias or incomplete information
2. Can lead to unfair labelling and missed relationships
3. Overconfidence in judgement may blind self-awareness
4. True wisdom lies not in claiming accuracy, but in allowing room for revision.

A Lifelong Refinement

Today, I no longer claim to be a perfect judge of character. Instead, I aspire to be a fair one—patient, observant, and willing to admit error. I have learned that character is not a fixed portrait but a moving picture, shaped by time, trials, and transformation.
Perhaps the greatest judgement of character is not how we assess others, but how honestly we assess ourselves.

I judged by words, by gait, by face,
By borrowed light and social grace;
But time revealed, with quiet art,
That truth resides within the heart.

Not all who falter lack their worth,
Not all who shine are saints by birth;
Judge less in haste, observe in care,
For souls are deep, and life unfair.

If I must judge, let this be so—
With humble mind and ego low;
For character, like flowing streams,
Is more than what it first appears or seems.

In the end, being a good judge of character is not a destination—it is a disciplined journey, marked by empathy, awareness, and the courage to keep learning.

When Silence Smiles Back: The Quiet Hours of My Happiness

When Silence Smiles Back: The Quiet Hours of My Happiness

Happiness, I have realised over the years, is not a trumpet-blown announcement nor a firework-lit spectacle. It does not always arrive with applause, achievement, or abundance. More often than not, it tiptoes in—unannounced, unassuming—settling beside me when I least expect it. If asked when I am most happy, my honest answer would be: when life allows me to be fully present, unhurried, and meaningful—without having to prove anything to anyone.
There was a time when happiness seemed tightly tied to roles and responsibilities: being a Principal, meeting deadlines, standing on stages, shaping institutions, guiding teachers, addressing parents, motivating students. Those years were fulfilling, no doubt, but they were also noisy—crowded with expectations, comparisons, and constant motion. Happiness then was often postponed, like a reward to be claimed later.
Today, happiness visits me in quieter forms.
I am most happy when the morning greets me gently—with a cup of tea, a readable silence, and the luxury of thought. In those moments, I am not reacting to the world; I am conversing with myself. Years of physics taught me laws and logic, but age has taught me balance—between motion and rest, ambition and acceptance. The mind, like a pendulum, needs both swing and stillness.
I am most happy when words flow honestly onto paper. Writing has become my sanctuary—a space where memory, philosophy, faith, history, and lived experience sit together without hierarchy. When I write, I am neither retired nor ageing; I am simply alive. Words give dignity to my silences and shape my reflections. They remind me that usefulness does not retire with designation.
Happiness also blooms in the laughter of my grandchildren, in the warmth of family conversations that do not demand explanations, only presence. There is a unique joy in watching life begin afresh—innocent, curious, unburdened by the weight of self-doubt that adults carry so effortlessly. In such moments, happiness feels generational, almost sacred.
I am most happy when I feel needed—not out of obligation, but out of trust. A thoughtful message, a request for guidance, a shared concern—these reassure me that wisdom still has a place, even in a world dazzled by speed and novelty. Popularity may fade, but relevance rooted in sincerity endures.
Interestingly, happiness does not mean the absence of loneliness. Sometimes they coexist. But happiness teaches me to sit with loneliness without bitterness, to treat it as a season—not a sentence. Psychology tells us that acceptance is a powerful coping mechanism; philosophy tells us it is wisdom. Life confirms both.
In a world obsessed with loud success, I have learned to cherish quiet contentment. I am most happy when my conscience is light, my relationships are honest, my faith is steady, and my days—though simpler—are purposeful.
Happiness, for me, is no longer a destination.
It is a manner of travelling.
When silence smiles back at me,
When memories no longer hurt but teach,
When I give without keeping my score,
And receive without guilt—
That is when I am most happy.

Not because life is perfect,
But because I have learned
To live it—fully, faithfully,
And without pretence.

When Play Wore a Thinking CapWhat was the last thing I did for play or fun?

When Play Wore a Thinking Cap
What was the last thing I did for play or fun?

At this stage of life, that question itself feels playful—almost mischievous—because play no longer announces itself with whistles, wickets, or loud laughter. It arrives quietly, uninvited, often disguised as reflection, memory, or creativity.
The last thing I did purely for fun was to sit with my thoughts and give them words—not out of duty, not for publication, not even for instruction, but for the sheer delight of letting the mind wander and wonder. It was an act of play where language became my playground and ideas my companions.

Play, Redefined by Time

In childhood, play meant scraped knees, lost marbles, and muddy shoes. In youth, it meant competition, recognition, and the thrill of being seen. In professional life, play was often postponed, rationed, or disguised as “productive engagement”. But in later years, play returns—wiser, quieter, and more intimate.
Now, play is not about doing more, but about feeling deeper.
To read a paragraph twice because it sounds beautiful.
To hum an old Mukesh song and let memory do the rest.
To recall a classroom, a stage, a student’s smile—and smile back.
To arrange thoughts the way a musician arranges notes, knowing well that silence between them matters most.

The Neuroscience of Gentle Play

Modern psychology tells us that play is essential for cognitive flexibility and emotional resilience. What it often forgets to add is this: play evolves with age. The brain of a reflective adult derives joy not merely from stimulation, but from meaning-making. Dopamine may spark excitement, but serotonin settles into contentment.
Thus, reflective play—writing, listening to music, revisiting memories, engaging in quiet humour—is not escapism. It is maintenance of the soul.

Why Does Such Play Matters?

In a world obsessed with speed, noise, and validation, quiet play becomes an act of resistance. It allows us to reclaim authorship over our inner life. It keeps bitterness at bay and curiosity alive. Most importantly, it reminds us that we are more than roles we once held—Principal, professional, provider—we are still players in the grand theatre of thought.
The tragedy of adulthood is not responsibility; it is the belief that play must end. The wisdom of maturity is knowing that play simply changes its costume.

When Fun Is Not Frivolous

The last fun I had did not leave photographs, receipts, or applause. It left something better: calm, clarity, and a quiet sense of gratitude. It was fun that did not exhaust me, fun that did not compete, fun that asked for nothing in return.
It was the kind of play that says, “You are still alive within.”

Play is no longer a race I run,
Nor a trophy bright, nor a game half-won.
It is a thought that chooses to stay,
A smile that blooms in a quieter way.

When words feel light and memories kind,
When silence itself can entertain the mind,
Know this well, before day is done—
The heart at play has truly won.

Two Sides of the Same Flame: Learning and the Learner in Eternal Dialogue

Two Sides of the Same Flame: Learning and the Learner in Eternal Dialogue

Introduction: A Relationship Older Than Time

Learning and learners are not merely connected; they are inseparable, like breath and life, river and bank, question and quest. One cannot be imagined without the other. Across civilisations, from the Gurukul to the modern digital classroom, this relationship has evolved, strained, renewed itself, and yet remained indispensable. Understanding this delicate interdependence is crucial if education is to remain humane, relevant, and transformative.

What Is Learning? What Is a Learner?

Learning is not the accumulation of information alone. It is a process of internal change—cognitive, emotional, ethical, and behavioural. It reshapes perception, sharpens judgement, and refines wisdom. Learning is dynamic; it adapts, resists stagnation, and seeks relevance.

A learner is not a passive recipient but an active participant in this process. A learner brings curiosity, fear, experience, bias, aspiration, and resistance into the learning space. Each learner is a living context, shaped by psychology, society, culture, and personal history.

Learning is the process; the learner is the pulse.

The Need and Necessity of Each Other

Learning needs learners to give it meaning. Without a learner, learning is an abstract possibility—potential without purpose. A beautifully designed curriculum, unread and unexperienced, is little more than ink on paper or data on a server.

Learners need learning for survival, dignity, and growth. From understanding fire and food in primitive societies to decoding algorithms and ethics in contemporary times, learning equips the learner to adapt, decide, and endure.

One gives direction; the other gives life.

How Do They Contemplate Each Other?

Learning constantly questions the learner:
Are you ready? Are you willing? Are you reflective?

The learner, in turn, questions learning:
Is this relevant? Is this humane? Does it respect my pace, my context, my voice?

This contemplation is not always harmonious. At its best, it leads to insight and innovation. At its worst, it results in alienation and apathy. True education emerges when learning listens as much as it teaches, and when learners engage as much as they question.

Interdependence: A Mutual Reliance

Learning evolves through learners. The questions asked by learners refine learning itself. Many scientific breakthroughs, social reforms, and philosophical shifts occurred because learners challenged accepted learning.

Learners, on the other hand, discover identity and agency through learning. Education does not merely inform; it forms. Without learning, the learner remains confined to instinct and imitation.

They grow together—or they wither together.

Can They Exist in Isolation?

Learning without learners becomes rigid doctrine.
Learners without learning become directionless energy.

Isolation leads to imbalance. Learning becomes authoritarian; learners become rebellious or disengaged. History shows us that whenever education ignores the learner’s humanity, it produces obedience, not understanding—and compliance, not conscience.

Challenges They Face

1. Mismatch of Pace – Learning often moves uniformly; learners do not.

2. Irrelevance – Learners disengage when learning ignores real-life context.

3. Over-standardisation – Treating diverse learners as identical units.

4. Fear and Pressure – Assessment-driven learning breeds anxiety, not curiosity.

5. Technological Overload – Access to information without wisdom or discernment.

These challenges strain the relationship, turning learning into a burden and learners into survivors rather than explorers.

Why and How Do They Clash?

They clash when learning becomes rigid and learners become restless.
They clash when authority silences curiosity.
They clash when success is measured only by marks, not meaning.

Psychologically, learners resist learning that threatens identity or self-worth. Scientifically, the brain learns best when it feels safe, engaged, and valued. When learning ignores these truths, conflict is inevitable.

Yet, these clashes are not failures; they are signals—indicating the need for reform, empathy, and dialogue.

Towards Reconciliation

The future of education lies not in choosing between learning and learners, but in harmonising them. Learning must become flexible, contextual, and compassionate. Learners must be encouraged to take responsibility, reflect deeply, and persevere patiently.

Education succeeds when learning bends without breaking, and learners grow without fear.

In Powerful Reflection

Learning is not a voice that only speaks,
Nor a path that dictates where one walks;
It is a lamp that waits for willing hands,
And a dawn that rises when curiosity talks.

The learner is not an empty cup to fill,
But a flame that seeks its spark and air;
When learning listens and the learner trusts,
Wisdom is born—quiet, deep, and fair.

Let them walk together, not ahead nor behind,
For alone they falter, together they soar;
In the union of learning and the learner’s soul,
Education becomes life—nothing less, nothing more.

When Applause Drowns Insight: The Loneliness of Wisdom in an Age of Noise

When Applause Drowns Insight: The Loneliness of Wisdom in an Age of Noise

There are moments in history—and many more in our present—when popularity rises like a roaring tide and wisdom stands quietly on the shore, unheard. When applause becomes louder than insight, when numbers matter more than nuance, the wise are often ignored, misunderstood, and left lonely. Yet this is not a new tragedy; it is an ancient human pattern, repeating itself with changing costumes and technologies.

Echoes from Older Days: Wisdom as a Solitary Lamp

From Socrates drinking hemlock for questioning popular beliefs, to Galileo being silenced for stating that the Earth moves, history is crowded with examples where popularity overpowered wisdom. The masses often chose comfort over truth, familiarity over challenge. In ancient India, sages withdrew to forests not because they despised society, but because society often failed to listen. Even in epics, the voice of wisdom—Vidura in the Mahabharata, for instance—was respected in words but ignored in action.

Literature captures this poignantly. Shakespeare’s King Lear banishes the honest Cordelia and trusts flattering voices instead. The result is chaos. The message is clear: when wisdom is sidelined for popularity, decline is not immediate but inevitable.

The Contemporary World: Metrics over Meaning

Today, wisdom competes not in quiet assemblies but in a marketplace of likes, shares, and followers. Social media rewards immediacy, not depth; emotion, not reflection. Popularity is quantifiable, wisdom is not. Algorithms amplify what excites, not what enlightens. As a result, the thoughtful voice—measured, cautious, complex—often loses to the loud, simplistic, and sensational.

Psychologically, this aligns with herd behaviour. Humans, wired for survival, often equate popularity with safety: if many believe it, it must be right. This cognitive shortcut once helped tribes survive but now misleads societies. The wise person, who questions the herd, risks isolation. Loneliness becomes the tax wisdom pays for integrity.

Human Behaviour, Survival, and the Scientific Lens

Neuroscience explains why popularity seduces us. Dopamine rewards approval; critical thinking demands cognitive effort. The brain prefers ease over examination. From an evolutionary standpoint, conforming increased chances of survival. Yet civilisation advances not by conformity alone, but by those who dared to think differently—often at personal cost.

Science also shows that minority opinions, when correct, improve group decisions. Wisdom ignored today may become tomorrow’s truth. The tragedy lies not in wisdom being lonely, but in society suffering for not listening sooner.

Pros and Cons of Popularity Dominating Wisdom

Pros:

– Popularity creates unity and rapid mobilisation.

– It provides emotional comfort and a sense of belonging.

– Simple messages are easily understood and widely adopted.

Cons:

– Oversimplification of complex truths.

– Marginalisation of experts and elders.

– Long-term harm masked by short-term approval.

– Loneliness and discouragement of the wise, leading to intellectual stagnation.

When the Wise Are Left Lonely—Then What?

Then wisdom waits. It does not shout; it endures. It survives in books, in quiet mentors, in reflective minds, and in the conscience of time. Popularity is seasonal; wisdom is perennial. Societies that learn to balance both flourish. Those that do not, repeat history’s mistakes with modern tools.

When claps replace the calm of thought,
And noise outshines the true,
The wise may walk a lonely path,
Yet still they light the view.

For crowds may cheer the fleeting now,
And crowns may rest on pride,
But time bows only to the truth
That wisdom keeps alive.

Listen soft, beyond the roar,
Where quieter truths begin—
For what is ignored in noisy days
May yet be the way we win.

In the end, popularity may win moments, but wisdom wins eras. The question is not whether the wise will be lonely—but whether society will learn to seek them before it is too late.

When Noise Became a Shield: The Night Geese Outwitted an Empire

When Noise Became a Shield: The Night Geese Outwitted an Empire

History is often written in the clang of swords and the silence of graves, yet sometimes it is preserved in the cackle of a bird. The saying “The cackling of geese saved Rome” springs from an episode that appears modest on the surface but profound in meaning. It reminds us that survival does not always depend on brute strength or celebrated heroes; sometimes it hinges on alertness, instinct, and the courage to respond to an unexpected warning.

The Story from Antiquity: When Rome Almost Fell

The incident dates back to 390 BCE, during the Gallic invasion of Rome. After a crushing defeat at the Battle of the Allia, Rome lay vulnerable. The Gauls advanced, plundering much of the city. The last Roman resistance retreated to the Capitoline Hill, a natural fortress believed to be secure.

One night, under the cover of darkness, the Gauls attempted a stealthy climb up the steep cliffs of the Capitoline. The Roman guards, exhausted and complacent, failed to notice the enemy’s approach. Dogs—often trusted as sentinels—remained strangely silent.

But the sacred geese of Juno, kept near the temple atop the hill, erupted into loud, frantic cackling. Their alarm woke Marcus Manlius Capitolinus, a Roman soldier, who rushed out, raised the alert, and pushed back the attackers. Rome survived—not because of the military might alone, but because of a bird’s instinctive response.

Whether every detail is historically precise or slightly embellished by Roman historians like Livy matters less than the enduring truth it conveys: vigilance can come from unexpected quarters.

Authenticity and Symbolism: Fact, Fable, or Both?

From a historical standpoint, the episode sits at the intersection of fact and allegory. Ancient historians often infused narratives with moral lessons. The geese symbolised divine protection—Juno’s watchful presence over Rome.

Yet, from a practical angle, the story is entirely plausible. Geese are naturally highly territorial, sensitive to unfamiliar sounds and movements, and prone to vocal alarm. Even today, they are used as guard animals in farms and sensitive installations.

Thus, the authenticity of the event lies not merely in archaeological certainty, but in behavioural truth—a truth repeatedly confirmed by observation and science.

Human Behaviour and Survival: Lessons Beyond the Hill

This episode mirrors a recurring pattern in human behaviour:

– Complacency breeds vulnerability. The guards slept; the dogs failed.

– Marginal voices often perceive danger first. The geese, disregarded as mere birds, sensed what trained soldiers missed.

– Survival depends on responsiveness, not hierarchy.

Psychologically, humans are wired to filter out routine noise but react sharply to sudden, unusual signals. The geese disrupted the silence—forcing attention. In modern terms, they acted as an early warning system, breaking cognitive inertia.

Many personal, organisational, and societal failures occur not because warnings were absent, but because they were ignored, ridiculed, or dismissed.

Scientific Perspective: Instinct as Intelligence

From an ethological (animal behaviour) standpoint:

– Geese have acute auditory perception.

– They exhibit collective alarm behaviour, amplifying threat signals.

– Their reaction is instinctive, rapid, and unbiased by fatigue or overconfidence.

Neuroscience tells us that instinctive responses often bypass overthinking. Humans, burdened by assumptions and fatigue, sometimes override their own intuition. Animals do not.

In this sense, the geese represent raw intelligence without ego—a form of wisdom modern humans often undervalue.

The Contemporary World: Are We Listening to the Geese?

In today’s context, the “geese” are everywhere:

– Scientists warning about climate change

– Teachers sensing emotional distress in children

– Whistle-blowers flagging institutional corruption

– Elders cautioning against reckless haste

Yet, like the Roman guards, we are often too tired, too proud, or too distracted to listen.

We trust sophisticated systems, technologies, and credentials—but crises frequently erupt from blind spots those systems fail to cover. The lesson remains timeless: alerts do not always arrive in polished language or authorised uniforms.

Pros and Cons of the Lesson

Pros

– Encourages humility and openness to unconventional warnings

– Highlights the value of instinct, intuition, and vigilance

– Reinforces collective responsibility for survival

– Promotes interdisciplinary thinking—history, psychology, science

Cons

– Over-reliance on symbolism may dilute factual scrutiny

– Can romanticise chance events as destiny

– Risk of misinterpreting noise as danger, leading to paranoia

– Instinct without reasoning may cause false alarms if unchecked

Balance, therefore, is essential—alertness guided by wisdom.

The Sound That Still Echoes

Rome stood that night because someone listened. The empire endured because noise was not dismissed as a nuisance. In every age, survival favours those who remain awake—not just in the body, but in mind.

Not every warning wears a crown,
Nor every saviour holds a sword;
Sometimes the truth arrives as sound,
A voice unheard, a cry ignored.

When silence lulls the guards to sleep,
And pride declares the walls secure,
It is the restless, watchful weak
Who sense the fall and find the cure.

So heed the cackle, hum, or cry,
That breaks your comfort, shakes your ease;
For empires fall when warnings die,
And stand when someone hears the geese.

Not Everything That Shines Sustains: A Life Lesson from Cradle to Contemporary Times

Not Everything That Shines Sustains: A Life Lesson from Cradle to Contemporary Times

There is a proverb that has travelled farther than most human beings ever will: “All that glitters is not gold.” Though often attributed to Shakespeare, its wisdom predates him and survives well beyond our digital age. It is a sentence simple enough for a child to memorise, yet deep enough to occupy a philosopher for a lifetime. From early childhood fascinations to modern obsessions with success, beauty, wealth, and fame, this proverb continues to whisper a necessary caution into human ears.

Early Lessons: The Innocence of Shine

In our early lives, we are naturally drawn to brightness—colourful toys, glossy books, shiny medals, well-dressed adults, and loud applause. Children learn quickly to associate glitter with reward and approval. A gold-coloured star on a notebook, a rank in class, or a prize on stage seems to define worth. Parents and teachers, often unintentionally, reinforce this idea by celebrating outcomes more than effort, appearance more than character.

At this stage, glitter plays a positive role. It motivates, excites, and instils aspiration. Without some sparkle, childhood might lose its sense of wonder. However, the danger lies in letting shine become the sole measure of value. When children grow believing that visibility equals virtue, disappointment begins early and quietly.

The Adolescent Crossroads: Between Substance and Show

As life progresses, the proverb becomes more relevant—and more painful. Adolescents encounter social hierarchies, comparisons, peer pressure, and the early performance of adulthood. The best-dressed student, the loudest voice, the most popular face often commands attention, while sincerity, kindness, and quiet intelligence wait patiently in the shadows.

Here lies a con: glitter can deceive. It creates illusions of happiness, success, and confidence, masking insecurity, emptiness, or ethical compromise. Many young minds chase borrowed light, mistaking it for inner fire.

Yet, to be fair, not all glitter is false. Presentation, confidence, ambition, and visibility have their rightful place in society. The pro lies in balance—when shine is backed by substance, when charisma walks alongside competence.

The Contemporary Mindset: A World of Filters and Facades

In today’s world, the proverb has acquired alarming relevance. Social media, corporate branding, instant fame, and consumer culture have elevated glitter into a lifestyle. Curated happiness, edited faces, exaggerated achievements, and viral opinions dominate public spaces. What is seen often matters more than what is true.

Success today is frequently measured by followers, possessions, and applause rather than integrity, resilience, or contribution. This is where the proverb serves as a moral compass. Many glittering careers collapse under ethical scrutiny; many glamorous relationships wither in emotional drought; many impressive resumes hide fragile inner lives.

Yet again, balance is key. Visibility can empower unheard voices. Technology can amplify genuine talent. Glitter becomes dangerous only when it replaces depth, not when it complements it.

The Mature Realisation: Choosing Gold Over Glow

With age and experience, life gently—or sometimes harshly—teaches discernment. One learns that reliability matters more than reputation, peace more than popularity, and character more than charm. True gold is often dull at first glance: a faithful friend, honest work, disciplined living, quiet service, and values that do not trend but endure.

The wisdom of the proverb is not a rejection of beauty or success, but a call for evaluation. Look beyond the shine. Ask what sustains, what serves, and what survives time.

A Proverb for All Seasons

“All that glitters is not gold” is not an invitation to cynicism, but to clarity. It urges us to teach children depth along with dreams, to guide youth towards substance alongside success, and to remind adults that lasting worth rarely needs loud advertisement.

In a world intoxicated with sparkle, choosing gold becomes an act of quiet courage.

Not every light can warm the soul,
Not every crown can make us whole.
Some truths arrive in modest hue,
Unseen, unheard—yet deeply true.

Seek not the shine that blinds the eyes,
But fires that burn when glamour dies.
For when the noise and lights grow cold,
Life remembers only gold.

He Left the Light On” — One Hope, Quietly Spoken

“He Left the Light On” — One Hope, Quietly Spoken

There are many things people say about us while we are alive—some kind, some careless, some born of misunderstanding, others of fleeting admiration. Reputation is a restless companion; it changes with time, circumstance and convenience. Yet, if I were allowed to hope for just one thing that people might say about me—unprompted, unembellished, and even in my absence—it would be this:

“He tried to be humane, even when it was difficult.”

Not brilliant. Not famous. Not powerful. Just humane.

The Contemporary Hunger for Validation

We live in an age where being seen often matters more than being sincere. Social media has trained us to curate lives rather than live them, to seek applause rather than understanding. Survival today is not merely biological; it is psychological. People struggle silently with anxiety, irrelevance, ageing, displacement, comparison and the fear of being forgotten. In such a climate, kindness becomes countercultural, and decency often goes unnoticed because it does not shout.

Human behaviour, shaped by competition and scarcity—real or perceived—tends to prioritise self-preservation. “Look after yourself first” has become a mantra, sometimes necessary, often misused. Yet history and psychology both tell us that humans survive best not as isolated islands, but as connected beings. Empathy, cooperation and moral consistency are not luxuries; they are survival tools refined over millennia.

To be remembered as humane, therefore, is not sentimental idealism—it is a deeply practical aspiration.

Being Humane in an Inhumane Tempo

To be humane does not mean being perfect or endlessly accommodating. It means trying—trying to listen before judging, to pause before reacting, to understand before dismissing. It means recognising that everyone is fighting a battle that is invisible to the casual observer.

Psychology reminds us of the fundamental attribution error: our tendency to judge others by their actions while excusing our own due to circumstances. A humane person resists this impulse. He grants others the same contextual generosity he quietly hopes to receive.

In professional life, it might mean choosing dignity over dominance.
In family life, it might mean patience over pride.
In public life, it might mean silence over sarcasm.

These choices rarely earn medals. But they leave traces—subtle, enduring.

Legacy Beyond Labels

At some point, titles fade: Principal, consultant, teacher, writer, retiree. What remains is memory—and memory is shaped less by what we achieved and more by how we made others feel. Neuroscience tells us that emotional experiences are encoded more deeply than factual ones. People may forget our words, but they remember whether they felt safe, respected, or diminished in our presence.

If someone were to say, years later,

“I could speak freely with him,”
or
“He did not humiliate me when I failed,”
or even
“He noticed me when I felt invisible,”

that would be achievement enough.

Survival with Softness

In a world that often rewards aggression, being humane requires courage. It is easier to harden oneself, to withdraw, to build emotional armour. But survival that costs one’s humanity is a hollow victory. True resilience lies not in becoming unfeeling, but in remaining sensitive without being shattered.

To leave the light on—for others, and sometimes for oneself—is an act of quiet rebellion.

If, one day, when my name surfaces briefly in conversation or memory, someone pauses and says,

“He was not perfect, but he was kind where it mattered,”

I would consider my time well spent.

Because long after opinions fade and achievements blur,
humaneness remains legible—
like a lamp left burning in a darkened corridor,
guiding no one loudly,
but helping many find their way.

When the Curtain Rises: My Life Across Stage and Speech

When the Curtain Rises: My Life Across Stage and Speech

There are moments in life when the spotlight does not merely fall upon you—it reveals you. For me, the stage has never been just a wooden platform framed by curtains; it has been a sacred arena where imagination breathes, philosophy echoes, and the unspoken finds its voice. Whether draped in the intensity of a dramatic role or standing before an expectant audience with a speech that demanded both courage and conscience, I found myself shaped, chiselled, and illuminated by every performance.

The Stage: My First University

Long before I learnt to speak in public as a trained orator, it was the stage that taught me to listen—to characters, to emotions, to silence itself. I was blessed to perform in and direct a wide spectrum of plays across languages, cultures, and sensibilities.

From English plays such as Fur Flies, Beyond Reasonable Doubt, The Shoemaker of Syracuse, The Prince Who Was a Piper, and St. Simeon Stylites, to regional productions like Bakri in Hindi, Panchali in Bangla, Aama in Nepali, and Sangharsh in Odia—the theatre became a mosaic of human experience.

Each play was a pilgrimage.
Each role was a revelation.

In Panchali, I lived the ache of Draupadi—betrayed, humiliated, yet unbroken—her dignity a flame that neither kings nor dice games could extinguish.
In Aama, the mother’s pain crept into my bones, reminding me of the universal language of sacrifice.
In St. Simeon Stylites, spirituality rose like incense, offering a philosophical ascent beyond worldly dust.

There were times when backstage whispers felt like ancient mantras, threads tying our mortal efforts to eternal stories. Theatre, after all, is where humanity rehearses its truths before the larger drama of life begins.

The Art of the Spoken Word

Alongside theatre, my journey as a speaker galloped forward with equal passion. From school assemblies to inter-state competitions, from inter-college to inter-university tournaments, I stood behind countless podiums—sometimes nervous, sometimes fearless, always alive.

Winning first prizes at so many levels did not inflate my pride; rather, they deepened my responsibility. Speech, unlike a rehearsed script, is a living organism—breathing through the speaker, evolving with the audience, and flowering in the moment.

A good speech is not delivered; it is surrendered.
Surrendered to truth, to conviction, to the invisible thread that binds speaker and listener.

I recall an elderly judge once telling me:
“Your words do not speak; they walk.”
Perhaps that is what oration truly is—words stepping out into the world to do their work.

In those moments, I understood why ancient philosophers believed speech was divine. The Vedas considered Vāk (speech) as a goddess. The Bible echoes, “In the beginning was the Word.” And theatre reminds us that all creation started with a sound—a cue, a call, a whisper from the wings of eternity.

Between Performance and Philosophy

Both drama and speech enthralled me because they shared a common purpose: to reflect the human condition.

In a one-act play, a character’s journey mirrors the fragile architecture of our emotions.
In a speech, one must distil wisdom into sentences that ring true long after the applause fades.

The stage sharpened my empathy; public speaking refined my intellect.
The stage taught me vulnerability; speeches taught me persuasion.
The stage opened my imagination; speaking opened my influence.

Together, they shaped my worldview—one that acknowledges the depth of human suffering, the beauty of human resilience, and the eternal dialogue between destiny and free will.

As Tagore wrote:
“The stage is not merely the meeting place of all the arts, but is also the return of art to life.”

Finale: When the Last Spotlight Fades

When I look back today, the countless hours under glaring lights, the tension of a silent hall before a speech, the trembling hands of co-actors backstage, the roar of applause—all of it feels like a beautifully crafted tapestry. Every role I played and every speech I delivered became a stanza in the ongoing poem of my life.

If I have learnt anything through these performances, it is this:
One does not perform to impress; one performs to express.
And when expression becomes authentic, the world listens—sometimes quietly, sometimes thunderously, but always sincerely.

So here I stand, years wiser, heart fuller, still carrying the fragrance of greasepaint and the warmth of many podiums. Life itself has become my stage now, and every day, I continue to perform—not for applause, not for awards, but for the sheer joy of being alive, articulate, and purposeful.

In the grand theatre of existence, where destinies are scripted in light and shadow, I have learnt to walk with the poise of a performer and speak with the clarity of a sage. The curtain may fall on many acts of my life, yet the echoes of passion, resilience, imagination, and truth linger like a timeless soliloquy. For the actor in me still seeks new characters to understand, and the orator in me still yearns for words that can heal, awaken, and transform. And thus, with every breath, I continue my silent rehearsal—polishing the soul, refining the voice, and preparing for life’s next magnificent performance.