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
If humans were sent to this earth with taglines sewn gently into the fabric of their breath, mine would read: “Grace in the Grind, Faith in the Fog, and Light through the Cracks.” Not crafted in boardrooms, not conjured by clever minds in pursuit of applause—this line would have emerged slowly, carved out of the echoes of pain and the hum of perseverance.
It would be born of solitude and silence, of questions whispered into the dark and answers that came like dew—soft, hesitant, yet holy.
The Soul’s Signature
Taglines, in their truest form, are not marketing tricks—they are soul-signatures. They are the distilled fragrance of one’s journey. And what is mine if not the memory of standing alone on uncertain paths, holding nothing but an old dream and a prayer whispered on tired lips?
“Grace in the Grind“—because I have walked through life not in haste, but in hope. I have endured the mundane with quiet reverence, for even the ordinary has its sacred song. There is grace, I have learned, in the unnoticed tasks, in the dust-laden moments where effort meets dignity.
“Faith in the Fog“—because life does not always offer a map. There were crossroads veiled in mist, where I had only my heartbeat and belief to guide me. I have made friends with the unknown, walked with shadows and yet trusted in the sun’s return. Faith, to me, is not blind—it is wide-eyed and brave.
“Light through the Cracks”—because perfection is not my aim. It is in the brokenness of things that I have found the divine. It is in the incomplete verses of life that poetry sings loudest. What leaks from the cracks of the soul is not weakness, but wonder.
Philosophy of a Phrase
A tagline should not shout; it should whisper what a man stands for. It should outlive applause and endure silence.
Mine would not crown me—it would cradle me.
It would remind me that life is not measured in milestones but in the manner we wait, endure, forgive, and believe. That the worth of a man is not in how high he climbs but how gently he holds others when they cannot walk.
As the ancient sages taught, “Asato mā sad gamaya, tamaso mā jyotir gamaya…” — Lead me from untruth to truth, from darkness to light. So has been my journey: from questions to quiet, from chaos to calm, from ambition to acceptance.
A World with Taglines
If only we saw people not for their stature, but for their essence. If every forehead bore a line of truth—how much kinder we might become. Some might wear:
– “Healed but Healing.”
– “Still Blooming in Winter.”
– “Carrying Stars in the Ashes.”
And yet, mine would remain as it is: “Grace in the Grind, Faith in the Fog, and Light through the Cracks.”
Because I am still becoming. And that, perhaps, is the most human tagline of all.
In a world that often races ahead on wheels of ambition and noise, the quest for a good life remains a gentle, timeless pursuit. It is not defined by titles or trophies, but by moments of quiet fulfilment, deep awareness, and heartfelt connection. To live well is not merely to exist in the physical sense—it is to breathe with purpose, feel with depth, and walk through life with grace. It is less about the height of our achievements and more about the depth of our being.
The question remains—what are the true essentials for such a life? What are the invisible threads that hold the fabric of a meaningful existence together? Let us explore, not as philosophers or preachers, but as humble seekers under the same sky.
1. A Peaceful Mind—The Quiet Kingdom Within
Peace of mind is not the absence of noise but the presence of stillness in the heart. It is the ability to sit with one’s thoughts and not be afraid of their shadows. In ancient Indian thought, this serenity is called Shanti; the Stoics revered it as a form of rational composure, and the mystics saw it as divine alignment.
A peaceful mind does not wage war with the world—it reconciles with the self. It is a sanctuary where chaos cannot enter.
“Peace comes from within. Do not seek it without.” — Gautama Buddha
2. Purpose—The Compass of a Worthy Life
Without purpose, life is a rudderless boat adrift in a vast sea. Purpose gives us a reason to rise each morning, to strive, to serve, and to smile. It needn’t always be grand or glorious—it could be as quiet as nurturing a garden or as noble as educating a child.
A good life does not demand greatness, but meaning. Ask yourself, “What fills my heart with light, and how can I share that light?”
Purpose is not something we stumble upon; it is something we create, gently and daily.
3. Relationships—A Few Good Souls
It is not the number of people around us but the quality of hearts beside us that matters. Relationships are not built on grand declarations but on small, sincere gestures—listening without judgement, standing quietly during another’s storm, and celebrating their sunlight without envy.
Let your inner circle be one where your spirit is safe, your laughter genuine, and your silences understood.
“Let us be grateful to the people who make us feel alive.” — Marcel Proust
4. Health—The Silent Architecture of Joy
A sound body and a clear mind are not indulgences; they are prerequisites for living fully. Health is not merely the absence of illness—it is vitality, energy, and a certain rhythm in one’s breath. Walking at dawn, resting well, eating simply, and laughing heartily are more curative than many prescriptions.
The wise do not take health for granted; they tend to it like a sacred flame.
5. Gratitude—The Alchemy of Enough
Gratitude turns the mundane into miracles. It transforms a humble meal into a feast, a modest room into a palace, and a passing smile into a lifelong memory. It teaches us to bow before life’s generosity, even when it arrives in subtle packages.
To whisper thank you in the midst of adversity is to claim victory of the spirit.
“Gratitude is not only the greatest of virtues, but the parent of all the others.” — Cicero
6. Curiosity and Creativity—The Soul’s Playground
A curious mind is a young mind, regardless of age. A creative heart finds colour in clouds, poetry in silence, and music in movement. Whether it’s writing a line of verse, sketching a face, crafting a melody, or simply asking ‘Why?’, creativity connects us to our divine essence.
The good life is not rigid—it flows, plays, questions, and rejoices in wonder.
7. Simplicity—The Grand Elegance of Less
Simplicity is not deprivation; it is clarity. It is about owning less but feeling more, chasing less but living more. It is the elegance of clean spaces, unhurried thoughts, and uncluttered emotions. As the poet Tagore wrote, “Everything comes to us that belongs to us if we create the capacity to receive it.”
The simple life is neither loud nor lifeless—it is deep, deliberate, and deliciously slow.
A Gentle Benediction
The good life is not a summit to scale but a path to tread—gently, mindfully, joyfully. It asks for presence over perfection, warmth over wealth, and essence over extravagance. One need not own the world to feel fulfilled; one only needs to feel at home within.
Live such that your days hum with harmony, your nights echo with contentment, and your legacy is not measured in marble but in memories of kindness, honesty, and joy.
“To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all.” — Oscar Wilde
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“Seven Steps Through Time: The Celestial Symphony of the Week”
From ancient temples to modern timetables, the seven-day week dances to a rhythm rooted in the stars, scriptures, and spirits. Across Romanavenues, Anglo-Saxonmeadows, and Indianghats, each day emerges not just as a division of time, but as a divine appointment. Let us traverse the fascinating corridors of history, myth, philosophy, and cosmic wisdom that gave rise to the names of the days we now so casually speak.
Roman Roots: Gods Who Governed the Sky and the Calendar
The Romans, influenced by the Babylonians and the Greeks, aligned each day with a celestial body and its corresponding deity:
1. Dies Solis (Sunday) – Day of the Sun (Sol Invictus): symbol of light, power, and life.
2. Dies Lunae (Monday) – Day of the Moon (Luna): emblem of intuition and emotion.
3. Dies Martis (Tuesday) – Day of Mars (god of war): action, courage, confrontation.
4. Dies Mercurii (Wednesday) – Day of Mercury (god of communication and travel): wit, commerce, agility.
5. Dies Iovis (Thursday) – Day of Jupiter (king of gods): expansion, wisdom, and justice.
6. Dies Veneris (Friday) – Day of Venus (goddess of love and beauty): relationships, harmony, art.
7. Dies Saturni (Saturday) – Day of Saturn (god of time and discipline): structure, limitations, reflection.
English Etymology: A Saxon Touch on Roman Names
The Anglo Saxons, absorbing Roman culture through Christianity and trade, adapted these names, swapping Roman gods for their Germanic counterparts:
1. Sunday – Sun’s day
2. Monday – Moon’s day
3. Tuesday – Tiw’s day (Tiw = Norse god of war, equivalent to Mars)
4. Wednesday – Woden’s day (Woden = Odin, like Mercury)
5. Thursday – Thor’s day (Thor = thunder god, akin to Jupiter)
6. Friday – Frigg’s day (Frigg = goddess of love, like Venus)
7. Saturday – Saturn’s day (unchanged from Latin)
Indian Insights: The Cosmic Circle of the Week
In India, each day or “Vāra” is named after one of the Navagrahas (nine planetary deities), and has its own mythological, philosophical, and astrological resonance.
1. Ravi-vāra (Sunday)
Deity: Surya (Sun god)
Attributes: Vitality, health, vision
Verse: “Ravivāsare yatra na gamanam kāryam na kraya-vikrayam” (रविवासरे यात्रा न कार्यं न क्रय-विक्रयम्) Pronunciation: Ravivāsare yātra na kāryaṃ na kraya-vikrayaṃ Meaning: On Sundays, travel and trading should be avoided — it’s a day for worship and rest.
2. Soma-vāra (Monday)
Deity: Chandra (Moon), Chandra Deva (Moon God) and Lord Shiva
Auspicious for introspection, family prayers, and rituals for ancestors.
Sanskrit Verse:
सोमवारे शिवं ध्यात्वा, पितॄणां तर्पणं चरेत्। न यात्रा न क्रयं कार्यं, सोमः शान्तिप्रदः सदा॥
Pronunciation
Somavāre Śivaṃ dhyātvā, pitṝṇāṃ tarpaṇaṃ caret। Na yātrā na krayaṃ kāryaṃ, Somaḥ śāntipradaḥ sadā॥
Meaning:
“On Monday, meditate upon Lord Shiva and offer oblations to the ancestors. Do not undertake travel or buying/selling on this day — for the Moon (Soma) bestows peace and calm always.”
This verse is rooted in classical Hindu astrological wisdom and Vedic tradition, where Monday is viewed as a day for reflection, reverence, and restraint, especially in memory of the ancestors (Pitṛs) and the calming influence of Chandra Deva, the Moon God.
3. Mangala-vāra (Tuesday)
Deity: Mars (Mangala)
Attributes: Energy, aggression, discipline
Traditionally inauspicious for weddings or new ventures.
Verse: “Mangalavāre vivāham na kāryam” (मङ्गलवारे विवाहं न कार्यम्) Meaning: One should not perform marriage ceremonies on a Tuesday.
4. Budha-vāra (Wednesday)
Deity: Mercury (Budha)
Attributes: Intelligence, speech, commerce
Favoured for education, writing, travel, and business deals.
Verse: “Budhe likhanam pathanam cha shubham” (बुधे लेखनं पठनं च शुभम्) Meaning: On Wednesdays, writing and studying are auspicious.
5. Guru-vāra (Thursday)
Deity: Jupiter (Guru or Brihaspati)
Attributes: Wisdom, spirituality, charity
A day for teaching, learning, and devotional practices.
Verse: “Guruvāre dānam adhītyam cha shreshtam” (गुरुवारे दानम् अधीत्यं च श्रेष्ठम्) Meaning: Charity and learning on Thursdays bring divine merit.
6. Shukra-vāra (Friday)
Deity: Venus (Shukra)
Attributes: Love, pleasure, wealth
Favoured for shopping, beauty treatments, romantic pursuits.
Verse: “Shukravāre vastra-alankāra krayah shubhaḥ” (शुक्रवारे वस्त्रालंकार क्रयः शुभः) Meaning: Buying clothes and ornaments on Fridays is auspicious.
7. Shani-vāra (Saturday)
Deity: Saturn (Shani)
Attributes: Karma, delay, discipline
A day of restraint, charity to the needy, and avoidance of major beginnings.
Verse: “Shanivāsare navakāryam na kāryam” (शनिवासरे नवकार्यं न कार्यम्) Meaning: Avoid initiating new tasks on Saturdays.
Philosophical and Poetic Reflections
Each day represents not just a planetary influence but a philosophy:
1. Sunday teaches us radiance without arrogance.
2. Monday whispers the art of softness and calmness.
3. Tuesday thunders with resolve but warns of impulsiveness.
4. Wednesday sings the ballad of clarity in thought and dialogue.
5. Thursday lights the inner lamp of learning and introspection.
6. Friday paints the canvas of life with beauty, affection, and balance.
7. Saturday sculpts us with patience, justice, and quietude.
Like a Raag in Indian classical music, each day has its own emotional and spiritual tone — a rhythm that aligns with cosmic principles and human conduct. The ancients understood that life was not linear but cyclic — and so they designed a week that was not mechanical but meaningful.
Astronomy Meets Astrology
In Indian Jyotisha (astrology), the sequence of days reflects the Hora system, where each planetary hour (hora) rotates in a 7-hour sequence across days. This astronomical pattern lays the foundation for the week — bridging science and soul.
Each planet’s energy descends upon Earth in a sequence designed by cosmic harmony. Our ancestors didn’t merely name the days — they invoked them.
A Journey in Every Day
1. Sunday – रविवासरः (Ravivāsaraḥ)
Sanskrit Verse: रविवारे न कर्तव्यं यात्रा क्रयविक्रयम्। सूर्यं स्मृत्वा जपेद् मंत्रं, आरोग्यं दीयते सदा॥
Meaning: “On Friday, worship Lakshmi and purchase clothes or ornaments. Engage in music and joy — Venus brings prosperity and charm.”
7. Saturday – शनिवासरः (Śanivāsaraḥ)
Sanskrit Verse: शनिवारे शनिं ध्यात्वा, तेलं दद्याद् द्विजातये। न आरम्भः न यात्रा च, शनिः शान्तिं प्रयच्छति॥
Pronunciation : Śanivāre Śaniṃ dhyātvā, telaṃ dadyād dvijātaye। Na ārambhaḥ na yātrā ca, Śaniḥ śāntiṃ prayacchati॥
Meaning: “On Saturday, meditate on Shani and offer oil to the Brahmins. Avoid starting new tasks or travelling — Saturn bestows peace through discipline.”
The days of the week are not just markers on a calendar. They are sacred stations on the journey of the self — each urging us to reflect, refine, and realign. From Roman gods to Sanskrit shlokas, from Saxon sagas to Vedic vedas, the week is a mystical choreography — a celestial song written across sky and soul.
Let every Monday be a moonlit meditation, every Friday a fragrant offering of joy, and every Saturday a silent teacher. The week, when walked mindfully, becomes not just a circle of routine but a spiral of ascension.
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There are questions one may answer lightly—tea or coffee, mountains or sea, sunrise or moonlight—and then there are questions that strike the core like a bell struck at midnight. One such question is: Would you ever change your name?
I smile gently at the thought. No, I would not. For my name is not a convenience. It is a consecration. It is not an accessory to be exchanged with time’s passing fashions, but an offering placed at the altar of existence, lovingly, prayerfully, and purposefully.
A Name is Not Just Given—It is Grown
My name was not merely chosen—it was breathed into me, like a soul blown into clay. It has weathered the winds of time, echoing through corridors of classrooms, across silent thresholds of interviews, in the sighs of solitude, and the applause of fulfilment.
It is more than a word—it is the echo of my becoming.
My name has risen with me like the morning sun when dreams felt reachable and rested beside me in the hush of nights when hope flickered like a last candle. It has felt the burden of failures and the lightness of small, sacred victories.
Would I trade it for another, no matter how mellifluous? Never. That would be like giving away a mountain carved by my own climbing.
The Theosophical mutter of Identity
Theosophy teaches that names are more than sounds; they are spiritual impressions. Each syllable holds a vibration aligned with the dharma of the soul. Names are the karmic signatures we carry, echoing through the subtle worlds.
What I bear is not just a name—it is a soul’s frequency entrusted to me for this journey. It was bestowed not as a random utterance but as a divine hint, a cipher to my soul’s contract.
To alter it would be to drift from the compass I was given. Like renaming a sacred text mid-recitation. Like calling a temple by another name while still expecting the same peace from its sanctum.
The Philosophical Anchor
From the quiet stillness of the Upanishads to the bold declarations of the Stoics, the philosophical mind reminds us that the self is not in what we possess, but in what we endure, evolve, and express.
My name has evolved with me. Like a stone shaped by both caress and current, it has been softened by compassion and sharpened by resolve.
The existentialists might argue that we are born without essence—but I believe that through actions, decisions, and truths lived, we lend essence to our name. It becomes a philosophical vessel—a container for the stories that form us.
A Poem, A Prayer, A Pilgrimage
My name has heard more prayers than my lips could utter. It has been written in dusty school registers and etched on formal documents—but more importantly, it has been inscribed on the hearts of moments I survived and sanctified.
It is a poem—composed not in rhyme but in resolve. A prayer—whispered in moments of despair, spoken aloud in days of delight. A pilgrimage—from innocence to insight, from burden to blessing.
In the soft parlance of Tagore, “Every child comes with the message that God is not yet discouraged of man.” And in every name, God leaves a message—a hope, a path, a purpose.
The Final Benediction
No, I will not change my name. For to change it is to disown the temple I have built with my own hands, brick by brick, sacrifice by sacrifice, silence by silence.
It is to cover the original brushstrokes of my life’s canvas with the paint of someone else’s palette.
It is to forget that in a world which often forgets us, our name is the last echo of our truth.
Let the world forget. Let time erase. But as long as I breathe, I shall remain the keeper of my name. And in it shall bloom my unspoken story, my unseen strength, my un-surrendered – spirit.
To read more such stories, please go through the following books available at http://www.amazon.com
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.
To read more of such stories, please go through the following books available at http://www.amazon.com
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.
To read more such stories, please go through the following books available at http://www.amazon.com
