When I Dared to Step Out of the Boat

When I Dared to Step Out of the Boat

There comes a time in every life when the ground beneath your feet crumbles, and the only way forward is to take a leap of faith. Mine came—not with the sound of trumpets or the waving of flags—but in the quiet ticking of time after retirement. After nearly four decades in the noble corridors of academia, twenty of which I served as a Principal, the curtain seemed to have drawn. Many assumed I would lay my pen to rest, tuck away my chalkboard dreams, and slip into the leisurely hum of retirement. But I had other plans—or perhaps, plans had me.

The last time I took a risk was not in my youth when courage is careless, nor in midlife when the stakes are high and responsibilities peak. It was in the later chapter of my story—at 64, when society often whispers, “It’s time to slow down.” That whisper, I decided to ignore.

I took the risk of starting anew. Of launching Prashant Educational Consultancy Services OPC Pvt Ltd. Of applying for assignments in a world that subtly favours the young, the trending, the tech-savvy. Of writing books that were never marketed but deeply lived. Of being relevant in a space that was rapidly evolving and not always welcoming.

Was it easy? Not at all. Was it worth it? Absolutely.

Each rejection taught me something—about resilience, about perception, about the way age is often misread as a liability rather than an asset. The journey hasn’t yet brought me a windfall or a headline, but it has brought me purpose—and in that, I found success.

The experience was much like Peter stepping out of the boat in the Bible. The waters were turbulent, the wind howled in uncertainty, but the calling was stronger. And though the world didn’t always extend a hand, grace did. The mercy of the Divine became my buoy—my unseen strength.

This risk opened avenues I hadn’t imagined: helping schools in need, mentoring young teachers, writing blogs that connect my past with the present, and being able to witness events with eyes not clouded by 9-to-5 obligations.

To those who fear that the sunset years are meant only for reflection, I say: “The sun may set, but it always rises again.” Sometimes, the most glorious dawns come after the darkest nights. Risks do not always guarantee rewards—but they guarantee growth. And sometimes, that’s the greater prize.

So, when did I last take a risk? When I chose to be more than my retirement, to become a voice, a consultant, a writer, a grandfather with stories yet to be written. It hasn’t been a smooth sail—but as the idiom goes, “A ship in harbour is safe, but that is not what ships are built for.”

If you’re standing at the edge, doubting your worth or worrying about the fall—remember, sometimes the risk is not in jumping, but in staying still.

Leap of Faith: A Risk Worth Its Weight in Gold

Leap of Faith: A Risk Worth Its Weight in Gold

There are moments in life when the heart speaks louder than reason, when logic takes a backseat and you take a step into the unknown. For me, one such moment was when I relinquished the comfort of a well-paying, secure job to embrace the uncertain path of school leadership in a struggling institution — a risk that raised many an eyebrow but one I’ve never regretted.

I still remember the day. The sun was setting behind the distant hills of Dehradun, casting golden rays through my office window. I had a lucrative role, a predictable routine, and the assurance of financial stability. Yet, something gnawed at my soul — a whisper from within that said, you’re made for something more meaningful.

The opportunity came from a school teetering on the edge of closure, marred by poor results, low morale, and dwindling enrolment. Many saw it as a sinking ship; I saw it as an opportunity to rebuild, to inspire, to lead from the front. Family members cautioned me — “Don’t bite off more than you can chew.” Well-wishers advised, “Why fix what’s not broken in your own life?” But deep within, I knew — this wasn’t just a job switch; it was a mission, a calling.

Walking into that school for the first time, I was met with scepticism and quiet despair. But as I looked into the eyes of students who had silently given up, I knew I had made the right choice. Like a gardener with a barren patch, I began sowing seeds — of hope, discipline, vision, and love. We started with morning assemblies that echoed with new hymns, invested in teacher training, overhauled assessments, and created an inclusive culture where every child felt seen.

It wasn’t an easy ride — there were days when I felt like I was pushing a boulder uphill. But with every small success — a prize won, a parent’s smile, a teacher’s transformation — the winds began to change. The school rose like a phoenix. Within three years, it became a model institution, and I, a grateful witness to the miracle of collective effort.

Was it risky? Absolutely. Did I lose sleep? More nights than I can count. But would I go back and change it? Not for all the tea in China. That one decision taught me that the most rewarding paths are often hidden behind the veil of risk.

I look back now, in the quiet twilight of my retirement, and realise that risk is not always about danger — sometimes, it’s about discovering who you truly are. As they say, a ship is safe in harbour, but that’s not what ships are built for.

To anyone standing at a crossroads, dithering between security and purpose — take it from an old Principal whose best decision came dressed in doubt: sometimes, a leap of faith lands you exactly where you were meant to be.

The Bridge I Never Crossed: A Lesson in Lost Moments

The Bridge I Never Crossed: A Lesson in Lost Moments

There are junctures in life when fate knocks gently on our doors, and all it takes is a little courage to open it. But sometimes, swayed by doubt, paralysed by overthinking, or tethered to comfort, we let the moment pass. And what remains is a lingering ‘what if’ — like an echo trapped in the hollows of our hearts.

One such moment from my life still clings to me like a shadow at dusk. Years ago, I was offered an opportunity — a leadership role in a fledgling institution nestled in the folds of a serene hill town. The school had promise, vision, and above all, the hunger to grow. The Board sought someone who could blend tradition with innovation, discipline with warmth. And there I was — seasoned, ready, and yet, hesitant.

I hesitated not because I lacked confidence in my ability, but because I let the murmurings of uncertainty overpower the call of my inner voice. I was comfortable where I was. Moving meant uprooting routines, facing new challenges, and venturing into unfamiliar terrain — both literally and metaphorically.

So, I politely declined, citing logistical reasons and familial responsibilities. I convinced myself it was the practical choice. But deep within, a whisper of regret took root.

In the months that followed, I watched from afar as that institution blossomed under someone else’s stewardship. New buildings emerged, awards were won, and it became a beacon of holistic education in the region. While I applauded their success, a part of me couldn’t help but think — that could have been my canvas to paint, my symphony to compose.

Looking back, I realise it wasn’t the fear of failure that held me back, but the fear of letting go. I had forgotten that comfort is a beautiful cage, and growth often demands discomfort. Sometimes, you must leap even when the bridge ahead is rickety and veiled in fog — for on the other side lies transformation.

If I could turn back the clock, I would have embraced the offer, packed my bags, and walked into the unknown with an open heart. I would have silenced the noise of overthinking and trusted the whisper of destiny.

That experience taught me that not every opportunity knocks twice. Some arrive only once — brief as a comet, bright with possibility. And when we let them go, we don’t just lose an opportunity — we lose a version of ourselves that could have been.

To anyone standing at the crossroads today, I say this: don’t let the fear of change rob you of your next great chapter. Sometimes, the bridge not crossed becomes the burden too heavy to carry.

As for me, I have learned to listen more intently — not just to the world outside, but to the voice within. For it is often in stillness that clarity dawns, and in action that destiny unfolds.

Butterflies in the Mind: When Calm Takes a Rain Check

Butterflies in the Mind: When Calm Takes a Rain Check

Nervousness—a word so commonplace, yet a feeling so profoundly personal. It creeps in like a silent guest at an otherwise placid gathering of thoughts, shaking hands with anxiety and waltzing with doubt. For me, nervousness doesn’t shout; it whispers. It doesn’t always come with grand announcements but slips in uninvited, most often when the stakes are high and the spotlight is brighter than usual.

The Quiet Before the Quiver

There is a moment—just a breath before stepping onto a stage, addressing a gathering, or submitting a piece of work—that a small tremor makes itself known. It’s not fear, mind you. It’s that silent tug at the hem of confidence, questioning if all preparations will stand the test of an expectant audience. “Have I done enough?” That question alone can stir the pot, even when the soup of effort has simmered long.

As someone who has spent a life around blackboards and balance sheets of expectations, I’ve learned that nervousness is the body’s way of saying, “This matters to you.” And perhaps, that’s its redeeming quality. The fluttering butterflies in the stomach are less of a problem and more of a performance enhancer—if you can keep them flying in formation.

Tightropes and Tender Steps

There’s nervousness that stems from novelty. Trying something for the first time—be it public speaking in a foreign land, a chance interview, or navigating a new system—can send shivers down the spine. The unknown has an uncanny ability to make even the most seasoned sailor check the weather twice.

Then there’s the pressure of perfection. When you care about the outcome—when your name, your reputation, or your values are on the line—even the most confident soul might feel the ground beneath getting a tad unsteady. You begin to measure your own mettle with a yardstick too harsh, forgetting that even the best-crafted plans can be blown off course by the gentlest wind.

Silence Can Be Loud

But if I were to pick one specific scenario that makes me most nervous, it would be the silence after vulnerability. The pause after expressing a heartfelt opinion, sharing an original thought, or opening up about a belief—those moments carry the weight of judgment. The fear of being misunderstood or met with apathy is more daunting than outright rejection. It’s like playing a note and waiting to see if it resonates or ricochets.

Handling the Hiccups

How does one handle this jittery beast called nervousness? I’ve found that routine helps. Preparation is a reliable antidote, but even more so is acceptance. Acknowledge the tremble, shake hands with it, and walk forward anyway. Because courage is not the absence of nervousness—it’s dancing with it till the music fades.

Deep breathing, a silent prayer, a mental rehearsal of outcomes—these are small torches I carry into the cave of uncertainty. And if all else fails, I remind myself of the idiom, “Feel the fear and do it anyway.”

The Final Take

Nervousness, in all its uninvited glory, is a part of being alive. It keeps us grounded, humble, and alert. It’s the mind’s way of wearing a raincoat before the storm, just in case. And while I may never fully silence that inner drumbeat before an important moment, I’ve learnt to march to its rhythm instead of being paralysed by it.

So the next time nervousness knocks, I won’t pretend it doesn’t exist. I’ll simply nod, offer it a cup of tea, and say, “Alright, let’s walk through this together.”

DADT at Home: A Family of Strangers under One Roof”When silence isn’t golden, but a cage made of rules.

“DADT at Home: A Family of Strangers under One Roof”
When silence isn’t golden, but a cage made of rules.

In an age when families are meant to be sanctuaries of trust, comfort, and open-hearted conversations, imagine a household governed by a peculiar unwritten rule: DADT—Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell. No, not the military policy, but a twisted family norm. One where you don’t ask me about myself, and you don’t tell me about yourself.

Such a code may seem harmless at first—an attempt to avoid friction, perhaps, or to respect boundaries. But when taken to heart, it turns the home into a hall of closed doors, a place where hearts beat in unison under the same roof but minds drift like ships passing in the night, unmoored and unseen.

The Illusion of Peace

Many families unknowingly operate under this protocol. “Better not ask—he might get angry.” “No point telling her—she won’t understand.” So we zip our lips, smile politely, share meals, exchange pleasantries, and yet remain islands in a sea of silence.

Yes, such silence avoids arguments—but also avoids intimacy. It dodges confrontation but also sidesteps connection. In a world bursting with notifications and noise, our family becomes the one place where no one is really heard.

When Rules Replace Relationships

In such an environment, emotions are exiled, and feelings are reduced to fleeting shadows. A son struggling with failure dares not speak for fear of being judged. A mother battling loneliness bottles it up, assuming no one will ask. A father feels irrelevant but puts on a brave front. And the daughter, burning with dreams and doubts, finds no sounding board.

Is this not emotional erosion in the name of decorum?

We start mistaking detachment for discipline, and reserve for respect. Yet families aren’t boardrooms or battlegrounds—they’re supposed to be breathing spaces for our inner worlds, not cloisters of secrecy.

Of Roots and Wings

Children need roots to keep them grounded, and wings to help them fly. But roots don’t grow in sand; they grow in soil enriched with conversations, confessions, and caring counsel. When we don’t ask our children about their dreams, or don’t tell them our own stories of struggle, we rob them of their heritage of hope.

And when elderly parents live among grown-up children who never ask how their day was, or what’s troubling them, it’s akin to watching a tree wither while watering the lawn.

Breaking the Code

To break the DADT pattern, we need neither sermons nor psychology degrees—just a little curiosity, a sprinkle of empathy, and the courage to start small. Ask your spouse, “How was your day, really?” Ask your parents, “What made you happy today?” Tell your child, “You know, I messed up at work once too.” These are the bridges we build over the chasms of silence.

Every family has its share of secrets, but when secrecy becomes the default language, love becomes a monologue, not a dialogue.

Let’s Rephrase DADT

Maybe it’s time to redefine the acronym:

– Dare to ask.

– Accept the answer.

– Disclose your truth.

– Trust the bond.

Because when we ask, we show care. When we tell, we express trust. And between the two, we weave the tapestry of togetherness.

Let’s not allow politeness to become poison, nor privacy to mutate into emotional exile. Instead, let the home echo with real voices, not just background noise.

Tags:
#FamilyDynamics #CommunicationMatters #EmotionalWellbeing #FamilyBonding #BreakingTheSilence #DADTInFamilies #ModernParenting #MentalHealthAwareness #HomeAndHeart #RelationshipsMatter #FamilyLife #TrustAndTruth #SpeakAndListen #EmotionalIntelligence #SilentSuffering

How I Unwind Without Unravelling: A Civilised Guide to Post-Chaos Decompression”

“How I Unwind Without Unravelling: A Civilised Guide to Post-Chaos Decompression”

Let’s be honest — after a long day of dodging deadlines, deciphering messages that say “Kindly do the needful”, and resisting the urge to throw your mobile into the nearest lake, the soul demands what I call a graceful collapse.

Unwinding isn’t just about flopping onto the sofa like a Victorian fainting aristocrat — it’s an art. A delicate dance between maintaining your dignity and unashamedly retreating from all adult responsibilities. After all, we’ve braved the storm. We deserve a medal — or at least a decent cup of something strong.

Step One: Mentally Fire Everyone

No matter your profession — principal, plumber, or planetary physicist — the first act of unwinding is conducted mentally: fire everyone. That annoying colleague? Gone. That unrealistic WhatsApp group admin? Muted for eternity. The neighbour who insists on drilling at 9 p.m.? Promoted to Chief Officer of Noise Pollution, then promptly sacked.

This imaginary HR exercise is surprisingly therapeutic and costs nothing. Except your last shred of patience, which was already fraying anyway.

Step Two: Wear Clothes that Offend Fashion

Professional attire has its place — that place being not at home. The moment I walk in, I change into something so comfortable, it’s practically a legal grey area. I speak of trousers with questionable elastic, T-shirts that have seen better centuries, and socks that no longer pair — they just coexist.

Comfort over couture, every time.

Step Three: The Art of Doing Absolutely Nothing — With Intention

Some call it mindfulness. I call it staring into the abyss of my living room with profound philosophical detachment. It’s a high-performance activity that involves absolutely no movement, minimal blinking, and an internal monologue that ranges from “What is the meaning of life?” to “Did I leave the geyser on?”

This meditative pause resets the brain — or at least puts it in flight mode.

Step Four: Take an Unofficial Tea Break (or Three)

Here’s a life hack: tea doesn’t judge. Herbal, masala, green, black — it welcomes you back from the frontline of your daily grind. The ritual is calming. The sip, divine. The third cup? Slightly concerning but entirely necessary.

It’s not a beverage anymore — it’s a loyal companion. The teabag has more patience than most people I’ve met.

Step Five: Initiate Controlled Social Hibernation

No, I don’t want to join another video call, thank you. No, I won’t respond to 17 “urgent” texts that involve neither urgency nor importance. Evening hours are sacred territory — guarded fiercely against the invasion of social duties.

Unless it involves food or scandal, I’m respectfully unavailable.

Step Six: Laugh — Unapologetically

Whether it’s an old comedy sketch, a reel that’s so silly it threatens your IQ, or a well-timed memory of your own public embarrassment — laughing is non-negotiable. Nothing unwinds the tightly coiled spring of modern life like a proper laugh — the kind that begins as a chuckle and ends in a breathless existential crisis.

Before I Pretend to Sleep

Unwinding isn’t a fixed recipe. It’s more like a buffet — you pick what comforts you, ignore what bores you, and occasionally regret the third helping of nonsense. The goal isn’t to be productive, insightful, or even awake — it’s simply to recover the version of yourself that existed before the day happened.

So, if your idea of unwinding includes tuning out, turning off, or threatening your Wi-Fi with bodily harm, know this: you’re not alone. You’re in the dignified company of people who’ve chosen peace over productivity — at least for a few sacred evening hours.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a pressing appointment with my sofa and a blanket that has seen too much.

Scrolling Through the Soul: My Social Media Safari

How do you use social media?

Scrolling Through the Soul: My Social Media Safari

Once upon a time, conversations were held over cups of tea, letters carried emotions across continents, and photographs lived in albums with crinkled corners. Fast forward to the 21st century, and we find ourselves living double lives—one in the tangible world and the other in the bustling, buzzing world of social media.

As for me, my voyage through the social media jungle has been nothing short of a safari—part thrilling, part bewildering, and occasionally exhausting.

Social Media: A Window and a Mirror

To begin with, I don’t “use” social media so much as I “navigate” it—like an old sailor studying the stars while sailing unfamiliar seas. Platforms like Facebook, LinkedIn, and WhatsApp have become both my compass and my telescope. They help me stay in touch with old students, respected colleagues, and distant relatives, and occasionally discover new voices that echo my own musings.

Yet, social media is a double-edged sword. On one end, it gives me a platform to share my thoughts, verses, and educational philosophies. On the other, it often whispers in the ears of youth (and adults alike) the intoxicating lies of popularity, likes, and virtual validation. I’ve learned to tread carefully, like a gardener walking barefoot among roses—enjoying the fragrance but mindful of the thorns.

Facebook: My Public Drawing Room

Facebook is where I don my philosophical hat. I share blogs, poems, memories, and at times, life lessons that I believe might strike a chord with someone somewhere. It’s less about showing off my breakfast and more about sharing a slice of my soul. I avoid the comparison trap and refrain from scrolling endlessly. One could call me a “selective surfer” in that regard.

WhatsApp: The Digital Living Room

WhatsApp groups are, frankly, like Indian joint families—noisy, nostalgic, and full of drama. I appreciate the meaningful forwards, but the barrage of “Good Morning” messages with sunflowers and doves sometimes feels like a classroom where everyone talks but no one listens. Still, it keeps me connected to my former staff, my extended family, and cherished friends from Nepal to Ludhiana.

LinkedIn: A Suit-Wearing Stranger

LinkedIn is the most formal of them all—a place where people seem to always be ‘honoured’ or ‘humbled.’ I use it sparingly, mostly to share my consultation work and to inspire educational institutions to look beyond textbooks and timetables. However, it often reminds me how the world values youth over wisdom, and speed over depth—a bitter pill, but a real one.

YouTube and Instagram: Occasional Flirtations

My interaction with YouTube is primarily musical. It’s my jukebox, my evening retreat, my partner in solitude. Occasionally, I share videos of me playing the harmonium or keyboard. Instagram, however, is a territory I tiptoe into—more observer than participant. The fast pace and fleeting attention span it demands doesn’t sit well with my reflective temperament.

The Soul of Social Media

At its best, social media is a bridge—a way to cross time and space, to connect, to console, to celebrate. At its worst, it’s a stage for vanity, echo chambers, and mindless noise. I try to keep it sacred, using it as a journal of ideas, a scrapbook of gratitude, and a tool for sharing my legacy with the next generation.

Final Musings: Use It, Don’t Be Used

The golden rule I follow: Be the master, not the minion. Use social media without letting it use you. Take a break when it begins to steal your peace. Speak when your words can bring warmth, and scroll with purpose, not with passivity. After all, we weren’t born to merely watch others live—we were born to live, and if possible, inspire.

So, while I scroll, post, like, and comment, I also pause, pray, reflect, and disconnect. That, to me, is how social media becomes a source of light rather than noise.