Retirement Without A Rocking Chair: A Life Still in Bloom

“Retirement Without A Rocking Chair: A Life Still in Bloom”

Retirement, for many, is the closing act of a well-rehearsed play—curtains drawn with applause, pensions assured, and comfort promised. But for some of us, it arrives more like a slow sunset—quiet, uncertain, and open-ended.

I have retired from formal work, yes, but I have not retired from life. There’s no pension that cushions my evenings. Instead, I survive on the modest royalties of my books and the slowly diminishing comfort of old savings. Yet, this is not a lament—it is an honest testimony. Life, after all, does not always follow the script we imagined in our youth.

What I miss cannot be wrapped in words easily:
– I miss the corridors filled with footsteps and voices that once echoed my name.
– I miss the chalk dust, the hurried assemblies, the timetables and the purpose they held.
– I miss the shared tea, the staffroom banter, the earnest eyes of young learners, and the sense of being needed.
– I miss relevance—that silent affirmation which once came daily in work done, decisions taken, and responsibilities fulfilled.

Sometimes, I even miss the fatigue—the good tiredness of a day well-spent. Now, the clock ticks slower, and sometimes louder.

There are days when I feel like a bookmark in a book nobody’s reading anymore—still holding meaning, but long since passed over. Friends grow fewer, calls grow rare, and relevance often seems to belong to the past. The world outside races ahead, and I watch it from a quieter place.

But I have learned—slowly, gently—to overlook what is missing and overcome what is heavy.

How?
By shifting my gaze.

I begin my mornings not by checking calendars, but by opening windows. I sip tea not for rush, but for reflection. I remember—fondly and freely—the chapters of my life that still shine with significance. I read again the words I once wrote, and I write anew what still flows from my soul.

Books, silence, prayer, and music—they are no longer luxuries but lifelines. I let nostalgia pass through me gently, not as a wave of sorrow, but as a breeze of blessings. I revisit my achievements not to boast, but to believe—I mattered, I made a mark.

There’s a grace in letting go, in not keeping score, in not needing the world to notice. Life becomes lighter when I choose to travel inward rather than outward. I choose meaning over motion, reflection over reaction, presence over performance.

And above all, I smile—often, and for no reason. Because I still can.

Wisdom from the Gita

From the Bhagavad Gita, a verse that sits beside me like a wise friend:

श्रेयान् स्वधर्मो विगुणः परधर्मात्स्वनुष्ठितात्।
स्वधर्मे निधनं श्रेयः परधर्मो भयावहः॥
(Gita 3.35)
Shreyān svadharmo viguṇaḥ paradharmāt svanuṣṭhitāt,
Svadharme nidhanaṁ śreyaḥ paradharmo bhayāvahaḥ.

Meaning:
“It is better to live your own purpose imperfectly than to live another’s perfectly. Even death in one’s own calling is better than a borrowed life.”

This verse reminds me that the path I walk—however modest, however pensionless—is mine. It carries the scent of authenticity and the light of meaning.

हिंदी की एक भावुक पंक्ति (A Heartfelt Hindi Verse)

ना तनख्वाह है, ना भीड़ है, ना पहचान की प्यास,
फिर भी मुस्कुरा देता हूं हर एक सुबह के साथ।
ज़िन्दगी अब गणना नहीं, गीत बन गई है,
जहाँ हर शब्द में छुपी है एक दुआ की बात।

Translation:
No salary, no crowds, no thirst for fame—
Yet I smile with each new morning’s name.
Life is no longer a tally or a race,
But a song that carries a prayer’s grace.

Final Verses

A room may fall into hush and grey,
Yet memory’s lamp still lights my way.
Though pensionless, my soul’s not poor—
It sings in silence, strong and sure.

With books and birds and breeze for balm,
I quiet the noise and sip the calm.
For life is not a race to run—
It is a poem, still being spun.

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Worn by Time, Held by Faith: The Oldest Things I Still Use

Worn by Time, Held by Faith: The Oldest Things I Still Use

In a world that worships the new—be it gadgets, garments, or fleeting trends—there are some things in my life that have defied the tides of time, surviving the entropy of years not merely as artefacts, but as daily companions. They are not just old possessions; they are silent witnesses of my journey, sagas wrapped in leather, ink, thread, and prayer.

A humble belt, looped around my waist each morning, has no brand name to boast nor shine to dazzle the world. Its faded stitches, frayed holes, and softened hide speak not of decay but of devotion. It has seen me through seasons of scarcity and abundance, tension and ease. It clings not to fashion, but to function—an emblem of endurance, like time’s patient grip around the body of man.

My Bible—worn, weathered, yet ever wondrous—is more than a book. It is a reservoir of wisdom where my soul often drinks in silence. Its corners are curled, its margins ink-stained with musings that once trembled on the brink of despair or delight. Some pages bear the scent of old incense; others are tear-salted with the aches of prayer. It is no longer just printed parchment but a living manuscript, hand-annotated by the pilgrimage of my life.

Then comes my Chalisa collection—devotional hymns to deities who have often been the unseen company in my solitude. Folded, re-folded, tucked in sacred corners of my room or bag, these booklets sing in Sanskrit and Hindi, echoing the legacy of saints and seekers. I recite them not as a ritual but as a conversation, a chant that stitches the self to the sacred.

And lastly, my rosary—those knotted beads gliding –  through fingers like droplets of divine time. Every bead, every repetition is a stepping stone towards stillness. It is both my rhythm and refuge. In crowded places or empty nights, it turns my chaos into cadence. It binds not only prayers but the quiet discipline of the heart.

These are the relics of my soul’s survival—simple, sacred, and serenely strong. While the world upgrades and replaces, I hold onto them, not out of nostalgia, but reverence. They have aged not in years but in depth.

There is a quiet dignity in using the same thing for decades. It anchors you. It whispers, “You have not drifted too far; you still belong to something timeless.”

In closing, a few lines to linger on:

In leathered loop and tattered page,
I find my past, my prayers, my age.
Not worn-out things, but sacred thread—
That bind the living to the dead.

So let the new rise, sleek and fast,
I’ll walk with relics from my past.
For in these things the soul shall see
The grace of age, the gift to be.

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A Cup of Stillness in the Rush of Time

A Cup of Stillness in the Rush of Time

There are moments in life that ask for no witnesses, no grand celebrations, and no photographs to preserve them—only a soft silence, like dew resting on a blade of grass at dawn. Among all the memories strewn across the cobblestone path of my years, one such moment stands as my quiet favourite—a solitary encounter with dawn on a mist-wrapped morning.

It was neither an occasion nor an achievement. It was simply being—with the world, with the air, with time itself. The sun, still shy beneath the horizon, had begun to wash the eastern sky in a palette of prelude: a gradient of blues, greys and amber. I was seated on an old wooden bench, weather-worn and splintered, by the edge of a pond I had passed many times but rarely noticed. That morning, it was a mirror—still, knowing, and profound.

The trees stood like sages around it, draped in veils of fog, their reflections trembling ever so slightly in the water like dreams on the edge of awakening. A single crane glided low, its wings outstretched like a slow-moving thought. And in that crystalline stillness, something within me stilled too.

No urgency gnawed at me, no burden of identity weighed upon my shoulders. I wasn’t a designation, a pursuit, or a story. I was simply a presence—awake, aware, and at peace. And in that moment of perfect anonymity, I found something more real than recognition: a tender intimacy with existence itself.

Philosophers have long sought to define happiness. Some call it fulfilment; others, the absence of desire. But to me, that moment whispered another possibility—that happiness is not something we pursue, but something that quietly arrives when we stop running. It is not the crescendo of life’s orchestra, but the pause between notes, the silence that lends music its depth.

How often we overlook these unlabelled gifts! Like raindrops on an old windowpane or the scent of earth after a summer drizzle. Life, in its truest sense, is not a race to be won but a rhythm to be remembered. And sometimes, the most profound poetry is written not in words, but in the pauses between our breaths.

A Reflection in Verse

Beneath the sky’s half-open eye,
I met a world that did not try.
No ticking clock, no weight of name,
Just breath and breeze, both wild and tame.

A fleeting hush, a sacred balm,
The universe, at once, was calm.
And I, no longer man or feat,
Was but the morning—pure, complete.

“A Day India Held Her Breath: Chronicles of 12 June 2025”

“A Day India Held Her Breath: Chronicles of 12 June 2025”

The morning broke not with birdsong but with the sluggish hum of overhead fans and the slow, weary exhale of a city already half-burnt in heat. In Delhi, dawn peeled back the curtain on yet another blistering day—46.3°C—the highest of the season. The tarmac shimmered like a hallucination; the air smelled of dust and wilted bougainvillaea. Even the pigeons, usually chattering on window ledges, sat silent in resignation.

It was 12th June—World Day Against Child Labour—and yet, on street corners across old lane of a city, little hands clutched greasy tools, polishing the futures they were denied. In one alley, a boy, no older than eleven, hummed an old Kishore Kumar song as he fixed a bicycle tyre. His melody—innocent and tragic—was lost amid the roaring buses and political speeches playing on radios.

Midday: A Nation Wavers

By noon, headlines had turned grim. From the buzzing newsroom of Lutyens’ Delhi to WhatsApp groups in the farthest corners of Meghalaya, the air carried tremors—an Air India Dreamliner had crashed near Ahmedabad, shortly after take-off. The first fatal crash for that aircraft model. 241 people gone. One survivor.

Time stood still.

Markets reeled; the rupee stumbled. On television, sombre anchors spoke in hushed tones. But for the families waiting at Terminal 3, no news anchor could soften the punch of fate. A woman in a yellow saree fainted at the arrival gate. An old man clutched his son’s boarding pass and kept murmuring, “He promised he’d call…”

Afternoon: Anguish and Action

By 2 p.m., protests had erupted in parts of two different cities —students, activists, and social workers holding banners for child labour abolition. The sun showed no mercy, yet neither did their resolve. A girl in a school uniform shouted through a loudspeaker, “It is not charity we need, it is justice!”

India’s conscience simmered alongside her skin.

Simultaneously, news filtered in from Rome, where NATO’s ministers discussed Europe’s rising insecurities. While India wasn’t in that room, she watched from afar—a wise, ancient civilisation, both participant and observer of the world’s chessboard. In the silence between missile tests and diplomatic statements, one could almost hear the words of Tagore: “The butterfly counts not months but moments, and has time enough.”

Evening: A Flicker of Grace

As twilight approached, monsoon clouds—ghostly and slow—hovered above the Deccan Plateau but offered no promise of rain. In Hyderabad, a poet posted a verse:

“In a world burning without flame,
Hope walks barefoot, still unashamed.”

And then, unexpectedly, from a small NGO in Varanasi came a sliver of hope. A report showed a 40% drop in child labour in eastern Uttar Pradesh due to community schooling. Not earth-shattering news, but in a day of despair, even whispers of progress echo loud.

Night: Reflections in Silence

The night in India is not silent—it is filled with sighs, chanting, televisions, crickets, and prayers. Somewhere in a city, an old man switched off the news and whispered to the portrait of his wife,

“Too many deaths today. Too much heat. But the jasmine still bloomed.”

And so my country went to sleep—not in peace, but in persistence.

Tomorrow, she will rise again. With chai in clay cups. With morning ragas. With the newspaper folded under arms and hearts braced for more.

Epilogue: What This Day Meant

12 June 2025 was not just a date—it was a reminder of our fragility and our fire. A day when the skies betrayed, but the spirit did not. When children still worked, but others marched for their right not to. When India didn’t break, but held her breath—and carried on.

For in the great tapestry of Time, not every thread gleams. But every single one counts.

Beneath the blaze of burdened skies, we walked with wounds unseen,
Our feet on fire, yet dreams intact—still chasing what might mean.
A single tear, a silent prayer, a jasmine in the dust,
In shattered moments, we find grace, in chaos, learn to trust.

The sun may scorch, the engines fail, the world may tilt and sway,
Yet truth still whispers through the storm: we live not just a day.
We are the echo of the past, the flicker in the flame,
Not merely names upon a list, but souls who rise again.

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In Love with the Infinite: Beauty, Nature, and the Fire Within”

“In Love with the Infinite: Beauty, Nature, and the Fire Within”

In the hush of dawn, when the sky is still brushing its eyes open and the earth carries dew like divine pearls, something stirs within me — a longing, a devotion, an ineffable passion. It is not driven by conquest, nor by reward, but by a quiet allegiance to three ethereal muses: Beauty, Nature, and Love. These are not just concepts, but companions to the soul — intangible yet transformative forces that colour my every thought and heartbeat.

The Worship of Beauty

Beauty, to me, is not confined to symmetry or the gloss of perfection. It resides in the crooked lines of an ancient tree, the gentle wrinkles around a wise eye, or the delicate imperfection of a pot handmade by trembling fingers. I see beauty not merely with the eye, but through the soul’s lens. “Satyam Shivam Sundaram” — Truth, Godliness and Beauty — the Sanskrit triad that has long been the lighthouse of Indian aesthetics.

Beauty breathes in silence and speaks in whispers. Keats’ words often echo in my heart: “A thing of beauty is a joy forever.” It does not clamour; it enchants. It doesn’t demand; it draws you in — like moonlight over ruins, like the lingering scent of jasmine on a monsoon breeze.

Nature: The Divine Canvas

If beauty is the language, Nature is the script in which it is most eloquently written. A rustling leaf, a floating cloud, a soaring eagle, or a moss-covered stone — each bears a story more profound than a hundred tomes. Nature is not merely the backdrop of our lives; it is the sacred stage, the actor, the poet and the audience.

In the forests of thought and the valleys of reflection, I often walk hand in hand with Nature. The Upanishads whisper that the five elements — Prithvi (earth), Jala (water), Agni (fire), Vayu (air), and Akash (ether) — are the eternal sources of life and liberation. To sit under a banyan tree and listen to the breeze is sometimes more enlightening than reading a hundred books. It reminds me of the interconnectedness of all things — a blade of grass and a galaxy, bound by the same divine pulse.

Nature is the mother, the healer, the philosopher. It teaches without preaching, cures without medicines, and loves without expectation.

The Unseen Fire: Love

Love is neither a fleeting thrill nor the stuff of mere romance. It is, in its truest form, a fire that does not burn, but illumines. Love is the gentle glance between strangers who never speak, the silent care behind a shared umbrella in the rain, the serenity of prayer whispered alone in the dark.

As Rumi says, “With life as short as a half-taken breath, don’t plant anything but love.” True love, I believe, is not attachment, but expansion. It softens, it includes, it liberates. It is the sacred architecture of empathy. And often, it is best expressed not in grand declarations but in quiet consistencies — a warm cup of tea offered without being asked, a hand held during storms, or a letter never posted but always written in the heart.

A Triune Truth

Beauty, Nature, and Love — these are not separate passions but interwoven threads of one cosmic fabric. Each enhances the other: Nature expresses beauty, beauty awakens love, and love reveals the beauty of Nature. This holy trinity has given my life rhythm, silence, meaning and melody.

In this fragmented world, where noise often drowns out nuance and haste eclipses grace, I return again and again to these three — for solace, for strength, and for truth. My passion for them is not merely poetic; it is existential. For what is life, if not the patient cultivation of wonder?

In the end, when all is said and undone, may I be remembered not for what I built or broke, but for what I beheld in silence — the shimmer of a leaf, the softness of a sigh, the radiance of a heart that dared to love.

Of Heartstrings and Human Bonds: The Many Faces of Boyfriends and Girlfriends

“Of Heartstrings and Human Bonds: The Many Faces of Boyfriends and Girlfriends”

“Love is composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies.”
— Aristotle

In a world where every emotion finds a stage and every heart seeks a companion, the concept of boyfriend and girlfriend has evolved beyond its traditional contours. These roles, which once echoed courtship and eventual commitment, have now become multi-layered representations of affection, alliance, companionship, identity, and sometimes confusion. Let us walk through this nuanced garden of emotions with the mind of a scientist, the soul of a poet, and the heart of a philosopher.

What Are Girlfriends and Boyfriends?

At its simplest, a girlfriend is a female partner in a romantic or emotionally close relationship, and a boyfriend is the male counterpart. But the simplicity ends there. These terms are mere lexical capsules for relationships as complex and unique as the individuals in them.

In essence, a boyfriend or girlfriend is:

1. A confidant, in the shared silence of solitude.

2. A partner, walking side-by-side through emotional and physical landscapes.

3. A mirror, reflecting one’s desires, fears, aspirations, and flaws.

Yet, in the ever-fluid dynamics of human interaction, these labels can mean anything from deeply spiritual connections to fleeting, impulse-driven involvements.

Kinds and Names in the Contemporary World

Gone are the days when relationships wore binary robes. Today, love and bonding manifest in plural forms:

1. Platonic partner: Deeply affectionate but devoid of sexual desire. A soul-friend.

2. Romantic partner: Driven by emotional closeness and usually physical attraction.

3. Situationships: Undefined and often transient; they hover between friendship and romance.

4. Long-distance: Sustained by digital affection and emotional investment, often across continents.

5. Casual dating: A light-hearted companionship, without long-term expectations.

6. Live-in relationship partner: A cohabiting bond that mimics marriage but shuns its legal bindings.

7. Spiritual companion: Less discussed, but profound—united by metaphysical or philosophical intimacy.

And then, within each type, lies a spectrum—ranging from healthy and elevating to toxic and manipulative.

“Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”
— Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights

What It Has Become: Fast, Fluid, Fragile

In our swipe-left, scroll-down, share-it-now culture, love is everywhere and nowhere. The modern boyfriend/girlfriend dynamic can be:

1. Ephemeral, like digital stories that vanish after 24 hours.

2. Intense, yet unsustainable.

3. Inclusive, yet confused.

4. Liberated, but sometimes lost in its own maze.

“Love seeketh not itself to please, nor for itself hath any care,
But for another gives its ease, and builds a Heaven in Hell’s despair.”
— William Blake

What Should It Be?

Ideally, the bond between a girlfriend and boyfriend should be:

1. Respectful: The roots of all love are watered by mutual respect.

2. Transparent: Free of pretence, deceit, or malafide intentions.

3. Supportive: One should find refuge, not refugee camps, in such bonds.

4. Independent yet connected: Lovers should orbit like planets—distinct, but pulled by a shared gravity.

Science explains that love triggers the release of dopamine, oxytocin, and serotonin—neurochemicals associated with joy, trust, and bonding. But science also warns of attachment anxiety, trauma bonding, and emotional codependency—pitfalls when love loses balance.

What Did It Use to Be?

Historically, courtship involved patience, propriety, and perseverance. The pre-digital world was devoid of instant messaging but rich in handwritten letters, stolen glances, and secret poems. Relationships were:

1. Slow-burning candles, not fireworks.

2. Rooted in social approval, often supervised.

3. Often tilted towards marital intent, and less on personal liberty.

Yet, they were not without flaws—restrictions, gender bias, and limited emotional freedom coloured many of those relationships with helplessness and societal obligation.

What Will It Become?

The future of love is both dazzling and disorienting. Relationships might become:

1. Tech-mediated, with AI companions and digital avatars.

2. Gender-fluid, moving beyond heterosexual norms.

3. Ethically polyamorous, where love may not demand exclusivity but insists on honesty.

4. Contractual, defined not just by emotions but by negotiated boundaries.

However, if anchored in empathy and meaning, the future could also see a rise in conscious relationships—bonds that transcend physical attraction and embrace spiritual unity.

Bonding, Love, Epic… or Something Else?

1. Is it merely bonding?
No. It is bonding wrapped in poetry, affection tempered with madness, a duet between logic and longing.

2. Is it love?
Yes, if love means growth, giving, and going together even through the thorns.

3. Is it an epic?
Sometimes. Romeo and Juliet still echo through modern hearts, though we hope today’s lovers choose life over loss.

4. Is it just lust or deceit?
At times, yes. Let us not romanticise every liaison. Some connections are transactional, masked in the velvet of words but driven by physical desire or personal gain.

A Philosophical Note

Plato spoke of Eros, the passionate longing, and Philia, the soulful friendship. Buddha cautioned against attachment but endorsed compassion. In the Indian ethos, Radha and Krishna’s love was celestial, never tethered by rituals, yet more sacred than a thousand ceremonies.

Love must evolve with the times but remain rooted in truth and trust. When desire is guided by discernment and feelings are balanced by reason, a boyfriend-girlfriend relationship becomes a beautiful manuscript of mutual elevation.

Of Souls Meeting in Time’s Tapestry

A boyfriend or girlfriend isn’t just a label or a social status update. It’s a reflection of one’s journey toward the other, sometimes fleeting, sometimes forever. It can be a chapter, or the whole book—tragic, comic, or heroic.

Let us not reduce it to base urges or suspicious motives. Nor must we burden it with utopian expectations. Instead, may we see it as it truly is—a kaleidoscope of care, chaos, connection, and creativity.

May every relationship be a poem, not a puzzle. A prayer, not a performance. A promise, not a prison.

"When Frost Speaks in Silence” – Why Winter is My Favourite Season

"When Frost Speaks in Silence” – Why Winter is My Favourite Season

There’s a quiet dignity in winter’s arrival—a hushed arrival like an old friend tiptoeing back into one’s life. The world slows down, not out of reluctance, but reverence. Amid the flurry of the modern world’s bustle, winter teaches us to pause, to listen, to breathe.

While many may shiver at the thought of this season, wrapping themselves in woollens and woes, I embrace winter like a poet greeting a pause between two verses. It is a time when the earth retreats into silence, and in that silence, we often find the most profound truths.

A Season of Stillness and Self

Winter, to me, is not the absence of warmth, but the presence of reflection. Unlike the flamboyance of spring or the restlessness of summer, winter asks for less and offers more. In its monochrome canvas, one finds a thousand shades of meaning.

Bare trees, like philosophers in deep contemplation, stand rooted in thought. The fog drapes the morning like a shawl over a monk, veiling the noise of the world and drawing one inward. Nature itself becomes meditative, urging us to sit with our thoughts, to sip our solitude like one would a cup of hot tea—slow, honest, and soothing. The Poetry of Chill

The Poetry of Chill

Snowflakes, if one is lucky to witness them, are poems drifting down from the heavens—each one a silent stanza, unique and unrepeatable. Even in regions where snow never graces the ground, the crisp air of winter bears the fragrance of something eternal. There is beauty in the brittle grass, the grey sky, and the mellow sun that lingers a little before slipping away.

Long shadows stretch their limbs across the earth, and nights lengthen their stay. It is during these dark evenings that books come alive, music sounds warmer, and introspection becomes the hearth at which the soul warms its hands.

Warmth Means More When It’s Earned

In winter, everything meaningful is a conscious act. Lighting a fire, brewing a hot drink, slipping into a thick jumper—each gesture is a rebellion against the cold, and therein lies its charm. It is the season where comfort becomes sacred, and small things—a woollen blanket, a patch of sun, or the crackle of logs—become luxuries.

There is also a metaphor here: how life’s truest comforts are often realised only when we have braved the chill of adversity. Just as winter demands resilience, so too does the human experience.

A Philosopher’s Month

Winter is the philosopher’s month, the spiritual retreat of the calendar. In this quiet season, we are gifted with the time to ponder what truly matters—without distraction, without haste. The trees let go of their leaves not in despair but in trust, knowing spring shall return. And we too, must learn to surrender that which no longer serves us.

Contemporary society often exalts speed and noise. Yet winter teaches that in slowness there is depth, in stillness there is growth. It whispers that productivity is not always measured in motion and that value can be found in reflection.

A Cosmic Interlude

Astronomically, winter offers some of the clearest night skies. The stars twinkle as if in deeper conversation, the constellations more vivid than ever—Orion strides boldly across the heavens, Taurus charges onward, and the Pleiades shimmer like mystical hymns.

One cannot help but feel the universe leaning in a little closer during winter nights. The cosmos feels more intimate, as if it, too, is whispering secrets through the cold.The Prelude, Not the End

The Prelude, Not the End

Though winter may appear as an end, it is in truth a beginning. The seeds sleep beneath the soil, the buds prepare in silence. Nature does not mourn; it meditates. And this seasonal hush is nature’s way of tuning its instruments before the symphony of spring.

To me, winter is not a time to endure, but a time to embrace. It is the season of authenticity, where life, stripped of its embellishments, reveals its most honest form.

So here’s to winter—
A season of silence that speaks,
A chill that warms the soul,
And a stillness that dances with the divine.