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

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

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

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

The White Chalk Years

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

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

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

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

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

The Consultant’s Compass

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

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

Jobs That Weren’t on Paper

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

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

A Poetic Pause

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

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

Philosophy of the Path

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

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

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

In the Temple of My Soul: A Pilgrim Without Borders

In the Temple of My Soul: A Pilgrim Without Borders

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

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

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

A Devotion Not Defined, But Deepened

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

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

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

Faith Without Walls, Love Without Limits

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

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

Prayer: A Daily Return to the Centre

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

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

A Philosophy of Flow

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

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

A Final Benediction

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

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

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

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

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

“Rewind, Reflect, and Rejoice”

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

A Universe of Waiting — And Wonder

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

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

Whispers of the World — Before the Web

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

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

Childhoods Carved in Clay and Clouds

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

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

Learning: A Journey, Not a Shortcut

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

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

Philosophy in Every Footstep

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

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

When Privacy Meant Peace

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

A Gentle Closing of Eyes, A Gentle Opening of Heart

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Craft of Words

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

The Art of Listening

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

Living with Curiosity

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

Grace in Solitude

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

Resilience Woven in Silence

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

A Soulful Steward of the Ordinary

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

So, what am I good at?

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

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

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

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

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

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

1. A School that Felt Like Home

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

2. The Power of the Pen and the Voice

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

3. Philosophy in Practice

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

4. Standing Tall When the Odds Were Low

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

5. The Unseen Mentor

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

6. Embracing the New Without Shedding the Old

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

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

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

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

Whispers of Winter: My Love Affair with the Cold

Whispers of Winter: My Love Affair with the Cold

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Between Screams and Stillness

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

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

The Anatomy of Pain

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

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

With One Hand and an Undying Heart

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

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

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

The Lump that Remains, and the Lessons that Live

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

A Life Rewritten with a Broken Pen

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

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

And so the road continues…

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

That I chose to survive.

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

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

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

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

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

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