Mr Prashant is a seasoned educator and author with years of experience in school administration and classroom teaching. Having served as a Principal, he brings a wealth of knowledge on effective teaching practices and classroom management. He is also the author of several books, including "Image of my Experiences - a book of poetry," "Speeches from the Desk of the Principal," and "The Legend of Inara Wali." Now retired and residing in Bangalore, he
continues blogging etc
I must admit, with no shame and a good deal of glee, that I have an incurable sweet tooth — the kind that salivates at the mere rustle of a chocolate wrapper. And if the confectionary gods ever allowed me to create my own dream chocolate bar, the world of cocoa would never be the same again!
Let us begin with the body — a silky, sensuous blend of dark and milk chocolate, because I am a diplomat at heart. Why choose one when you can harmoniously have both? Dark enough to feel grown-up and responsible, and milky enough to feel like you’re bunking off school for a sugar rush.
Now for the soul of the bar — nuts! Oh yes, I’d have the audacity to throw in not just one but a veritable UN of nuts: almonds from California, pistachios from Iran, cashews from Goa, and maybe a lonely macadamia just to confuse everyone. Crunch is crucial, for chocolate should not be a mushy whisper — it must bite back!
But wait! It wouldn’t be a dream bar without the fruity drama. Enter raisins, cranberries, and cheeky bits of candied orange peel. The kind that explode with tart rebellion just when you’re comfortably floating on a cocoa cloud. They sneak up like plot twists in a Bollywood thriller — unnecessary but absolutely delightful.
Of course, we need texture — hence the inclusion of crushed wafers, cookie crumbs, and if the factory allows, a dash of popping candy. Yes, the kind that fizzes and crackles like fireworks in your mouth, just to make sure your dentist stays employed.
As for the coating, let’s go wild — a shimmering gold foil that makes you feel like royalty, even if you’re wearing socks with holes and bingeing reality TV at 2 a.m. And when you unwrap it? A heady aroma wafts out, making even stoic monks question their commitment to simplicity.
I’d name it The ChocoNuts Spectacular — a bar that’s fruity, nutty, layered, and delightfully confused — much like myself. A bar that respects tradition but flirts with chaos. A bar that, once eaten, whispers sweet nothings to your soul and unforgivable calories to your waistline.
Would it be healthy? Absolutely not. Would it be worth every single bite of sin? Indubitably yes. Because life’s too short for boring chocolate.
And if Cadbury or Willy Wonka are reading this — consider this a formal pitch. I come with ideas, imagination, and an empty stomach.
The Lanterns of My Boyhood: Tales That Lit the Path
“The butterfly counts not months but moments, and has time enough.” — Rabindranath Tagore
Long before life shackled me with bills and responsibilities, before the ticking clock of adulthood began its rhythmic march, there was a time when books whispered secrets to my soul. Those early years—spent between school desks, monsoon-soaked afternoons, and starlit nights—were cradled not just by people, but by pages. Books, for me, were not merely ink on paper; they were portals, prophets, and companions.
Among the many stories that shaped my young mind, three stand like ancient trees in the forest of memory—David Copperfield, The Three Musketeers, and Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves. Each book was a world unto itself, filled with valour, virtue, villainy, and the silent philosophy of survival.
David Copperfield: The Mirror of My Soul
Reading David Copperfield, was like holding up a mirror to my own vulnerabilities. The boy with wide eyes and a trembling heart, tossed into the tempests of circumstance, became a friend of quiet understanding. Dickens didn’t just write a novel; he wrapped pain and perseverance in a tender embrace. I found in David’s endurance a kind of solemn beauty, a quiet encouragement that adversity can forge a diamond heart.
The descriptions of London’s lanes, the orphan’s anguish, and the bitter-sweet symphony of friendships felt less like fiction and more like a handwritten letter to my growing self. “Suffering refines, and kindness defines,” seemed to echo between the lines.
The Three Musketeers: A Lesson in Loyalty
“All for one and one for all“—a phrase that marched across my mind like a banner of honour. Alexandre Dumas’ The Three Musketeers didn’t merely thrill with sword fights and courtly conspiracies; it taught the invincible strength of camaraderie. In the musketeers’ steadfast friendship, I saw what loyalty looked like when chiselled into the shape of action.
There was something deeply philosophical in their shared purpose—a reminder that life, for all its individual battles, is best lived with companions who fight beside us. The musketeers were not perfect men; they were flawed, full of pride and passions—but therein lay their humanity.
Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves: The Candle of Wonder
Then came the tales from the East—the scent of oud and the shimmer of golden sand blew through the pages of Ali Babaand the Forty Thieves. Here was a story not merely of treasure, but of cunning, caution, and cosmic justice. “Open Sesame” wasn’t just a magic phrase—it was a metaphor for the human desire to unlock the unknown.
These tales shimmered with mystique, drawing me into bazaars, caves, and perilous plots. The oil jars hiding robbers and the silent wits of a brave servant girl—all stirred my childlike awe and kept the embers of curiosity glowing.
The Gentle Echoes of Short Stories
Beyond these grand narratives, it was often the humble short story that left the deepest impression. In those slender books—often dog-eared and smudged from too much love—I found entire worlds folded like origami.
In Nepali: Stories of the Soul
The short stories of Guru Prasad Mainali, especially Naso (The Ward), touched me with their raw human realism. His ability to show rural life, marred by caste, poverty, and misplaced honour, left me stirred. The tragedy wasn’t in the telling—it was in the silence between the lines, in the unwept tears of characters who had no voice.
Stories like Paralko Aago (A Blaze in the Straw) by Madan Mani Dixit seared into memory the futility of short-lived anger and long-standing ego, reminding me that often it is pride, not poverty, that brings ruin.
In English: Echoes of Everyday Epiphanies
From the corridors of school libraries came English short stories—those by O. Henry, with his twist endings and common men made extraordinary; or Saki, whose sharp wit masked moral depth. Stories like The Last Leaf and The Gift of the Magi made me feel the sublime beauty of sacrifice. There was something holy in their simplicity, like finding a pearl in a puddle.
And then there were the haunting yet tender works of Katherine Mansfield, whose characters often wandered like me—confused, fragile, and quietly waiting for life to begin.
Tagore: The River Between Words and Wisdom
But if there was one writer whose short stories didn’t just speak but sang to the soul—it was Rabindranath Tagore. Stories like Kabuliwala, The Postmaster, and Atithi were not merely narratives; they were poems in prose, drenched in melancholy, scented with love, and echoing with the music of missed chances.
The Postmaster reminded me how distance isn’t always measured in miles, and how loneliness can be a language only children and poets understand. Tagore’s characters, often standing at the crossroad of duty and desire, carried an invisible lantern—shedding light not on their path, but on mine.
Philosophy Between the Lines
Looking back, I realise these books were my first philosophers. They taught me that loss carves depth, loyalty shields us, and wonder renews the spirit. In their characters I found silent guides, and in their plots, the unfolding map of life itself.
Time may weather the pages and memory may blur the details, but the essence remains—a lingering perfume in the corridor of the mind.
In an age of scrolling feeds and fleeting reels, I often return, in thought, to those paper-bound worlds. They remind me of who I was and what I sought—courage, connection, and the consolation of stories.
For those seeking to understand a child’s heart, do not look only into their eyes—look into the books they hold close. For in them lies a universe they are learning to name, and a destiny they are beginning to shape.
Books are not just read; they are absorbed—like rain into the roots of our becoming.
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In the hush of the early morning, when the world still slumbers beneath a silver veil of dew, I retreat into a quiet, sacred space within myself. I close my eyes, fold my hands—not just in gesture, but in surrender—and let my spirit rise like the morning sun. This is my one simple joy: prayer.
Not the kind wrapped in ritual or restrained by rehearsed lines, but a personal dialogue—a wordless whisper of the soul. Prayer, to me, is not an act. It is a state of being. A delicate thread that connects the mortal to the eternal, the weary to the divine, the broken to the whole. It is in prayer that I shed the noise of the world and sit at the feet of silence.
When I pray, I do not ask. I listen. For there are truths that speak only in stillness, and prayers, I believe, are the language of that stillness. Sometimes, they take the form of verses—ancient, wise, and rhythmic. Sometimes, they are simply sighs wrapped in gratitude or tears cupped gently by hope.
“O unseen Listener, dwell in the cracks of my heart,” I murmur, and feel a warmth that words cannot hold. In that moment, prayer becomes a presence—a soft, embracing awareness that I am not alone, never have been, and never will be.
Philosophers have long pondered the idea of divinity. Is it a force? A being? A truth? In prayer, I do not try to define it. I experience it. As the Upanishads remind us, “That which is the ear of the ear, the mind of the mind…”—God, perhaps, is not to be found but felt. And prayer is that feeling, blooming like a lotus in the still waters of the self.
There is a curious paradox to prayer. It is both the question and the answer. The search and the solace. It requires no temple, no priest, no doctrine. Just a heart willing to kneel and a soul daring to rise.
In prayer, I find perspective. What seemed urgent begins to soften. What felt heavy begins to lift. The maze of mind gives way to a map of meaning. I do not come out of prayer with solutions; I emerge with strength. Not because life changes, but because I do.
And so, each day, I return to this simple act—this gentle communion with the unseen. For it brings me not the joy of excitement, but the joy of anchoring. It teaches me to bend like grass in the storm, to bloom like a flower in the dark, and to burn like a lamp in the wind.
To the world, it may seem like I am merely sitting, eyes closed, unmoving. But within, there is a sacred stirring. A symphony of surrender. A quiet that sings.
Yes, my one simple joy is prayer—a soft and sacred rebellion against chaos, a tender trust in the Divine, and a reminder that even silence, when prayed, becomes eloquent.
When the lips fall silent, let the heart begin to speak.
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“When the Roots We Nurtured Turn Against Us: A Tale of Autumn Leaves and Silent Prayers”
“The heart knoweth – his own bitterness; and a stranger doth not intermeddle with his joy.” — Proverbs 14:10 “Pitṛ devo bhava” (पितृ देवो भव) — Let the father be thy god. Pronunciation: pit-ri de-vo bha-va Meaning: The father, as a divine force, must be revered — a sacred tenet of Hindu dharma.
There comes a time in life when the harvest of our efforts, love, and sacrifices ought to yield fruits of gratitude, warmth, and tender companionship. But alas, for some, the orchard turns barren, and the trees once planted with hope grow thorns of hostility.
What a peculiar irony! In the twilight of life, when one’s hands tremble not from weakness but from years of giving, the very hands one raised to shelter and bless now rise in defiance. The echo of a raised voice from a child — once cradled against the chest during fevered nights — strikes deeper than thunder across a naked sky. What pain, what devastation, to stand rebuked by the fruit of one’s own being.
One remembers the quiet sacrifices — of meals foregone, comforts delayed, dreams downsized — all for the joy of watching a child take flight. And yet, to be painted as a burden in old age, to be labelled ‘unproductive’ or worse, to see one’s savings snatched under emotional duress, feels like watching your home collapse brick by brick while you sit in silence amidst the rubble.
“न मां दु:खेन क्लिश्यन्ति सन्तः” na māṁ duḥkhena kliśyanti santaḥ Pronunciation: na maam duh-khe-na klish-yan-ti san-taḥ Meaning: The wise are not shaken by sorrow. This verse from the Mahabharata speaks of the quiet resilience of saints and elders, who absorb grief not with complaint, but with understanding. Yet, even saints have hearts.
The feeling of being ‘orphaned by one’s own blood’ is a wound deeper than any sword. There’s no vocabulary in any language for a parent who loses the affection of a living child. The world may offer shelters, charities, even consoling words — but none can mend the fracture of trust within the heart.
The friends one once cooked for, the family one guarded like a lion, now roam freely in pleasures while the provider sits ignored, like a monument — respected only in stories, not in presence.
“Cast me not off in the time of old age; forsake me not when my strength faileth.” — Psalm 71:9
This cry from the Psalms echoes through many tear-soaked pillows of elders whose sacrifices are now discredited, whose rooms are growing lonelier by the day.
Autumn Leaves Fall Silently
Old age should have been a gentle symphony — of storytelling, prayer beads, cherished music, memories revisited over cups of tea, and the laughter of grandchildren dancing in one’s lap. But what if it instead becomes a theatre of insults, gaslighting, or a place where love is a transaction and respect is conditional?
“The wound of the tongue cuts deeper than the sword.” — so says both the Bible and the Vedas in spirit.
To be unemployed in old age is natural. To be unwanted — is cruel. To be helpless — is a silent prayer waiting for God’s intervention.
A Poetic Meditation
I watered the roots, I shaped the tree, Through storm and drought, I let them be. But now they shade me not, nor bloom, Their branches point, their words consume.
I ask no gold, no throne, no crown, Just peace before I lay me down.
But bitter fruits fall every day — My soul retreats. I kneel and pray.
A Philosophical Note
Time is a teacher with no syllabus. What we give today may or may not return tomorrow. The Bhagavad Gita, in its immortal wisdom, says:
“कर्मण्येवाधिकारस्ते मा फलेषु कदाचन” karmaṇy-evādhikāras te mā phaleṣu kadācana Pronunciation: kar-man-ye-vaad-hi-kaaras te maa pha-leshu ka-daa-cha-na Meaning: You have the right to perform your duties, but not to the fruits thereof.
Perhaps, then, our love was duty. The reward — an illusion. But even illusions have the power to lift the soul. The disillusionment, however, is what hurts.
✨ Where Does One Go?
We turn to the divine. To prayers whispered under breath. To quiet hymns, to a page from the Book of Job, to chants of the Gita. We find solace in knowing that even Lord Rama walked into exile, that Yudhishthira was doubted, that Jesus was betrayed.
We are not alone in sorrow. But we are called to be greater than it.
Let the sky be your roof and truth your walking staff. For even if one’s child forgets the footprints that led him forward, the heavens remember. The divine ledger is not made of currency or credit — but of conscience.
A Prayer
May the hands that once raised tempests in my home Be softened by time and touched by grace.
May they remember the lullabies, the tears, The shared biscuits on broken plates, the walks to school.
And may I find in my solitude — not sorrow — But the light of the Eternal who knows all hearts.
“A grey head is a crown of glory; it is found in the way of righteousness.” — Proverbs 16:31
And if no one stands by you, let the trees, the wind, and your God be your companions. You are not forsaken. You are seasoned, scarred, sacred.
There comes a time when even the most spirited river must pause at the edge of a rock, when the brightest flame dims into a quiet ember, and the most restless soul longs for stillness. In a world addicted to noise, speed, and the ceaseless ping of digital urgency, the call to unplug is not a shout — it is a whisper.
But how do we recognise it?
The Inner Bell of Fatigue
It starts subtly — a soft fog over your thoughts, a weariness that no sleep can heal, a feeling of being tethered to invisible strings pulling you in a hundred directions. You begin to forget why you opened that tab, scrolled that feed, or started that conversation. Your laughter rings hollow, your responses automatic, your mind elsewhere — perhaps nowhere.
These are signs from within. Not thunderous alarms, but gentle bells of fatigue chiming softly in the cathedral of your soul.
The Symphony of Stillness
Unplugging, then, is not an act of abandonment. It is an act of reverence — a way to return to oneself. Like a musician tuning their instrument before a symphony, one must retreat, recalibrate, and realign.
For me, it begins with the conscious decision to pause. I silence the screen, step away from the desk, and step into silence. Not the silence of emptiness, but the fertile hush that allows the thoughts to bloom again. I may walk barefoot on the grass, touch the bark of an ancient tree, or listen to the language of birds. I return to books not lit by pixels, but by pages stained with time. I write by hand, sip tea slowly, and let the day breathe through me rather than rush past me.
The Philosophical Pulse
Philosophers from Epictetus to Tagore have reminded us that the self cannot be found in the marketplace — it resides in solitude, reflection, and the quiet corners of life. To unplug is to befriend that solitude, to greet it not with fear, but with folded hands.
Time spent unplugged is not wasted — it is invested in being. For in that sacred retreat, the mind rests, the heart heals, and the soul remembers its original rhythm.
The Art of Making It Happen
To make unplugging possible, one must create rituals. Just as we brush our teeth or lock our doors, we must ritually unplug. Perhaps it is a Sunday without screens, or an hour at dawn when only the birds are allowed to speak. One could light a candle, play a melody, or recite a verse that marks the beginning of digital fasting.
Sometimes, the simplest acts are the most profound: closing your eyes, listening to your breath, and asking — “What do I need right now?”
If the answer is nothing, then you are already halfway home.Musings
Musings
Unplugging is not an escape from reality, but a return to it. It is the art of letting the world go, just long enough to remember who we are without it. And when we return, we are better — not just for ourselves, but for those around us.
In the grand theatre of existence, even the stars take their moments of eclipse. So must we.
As the poet once said, “Sometimes the most important thing in a whole day is the rest we take between two deep breaths.”
And in that rest, may we find ourselves again — humming, healing, whole.
“From Chalk Dust to Star Dust: The Many Hats I Wore”
What are 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
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.”
To read more such stories, please go through the following books available at http://www.amazon.com
