Strings of the Soul: My Melodic Companions from Three Worlds

  Strings of the Soul: My Melodic Companions from Three Worlds

Music is not merely a form of entertainment. It is the dialogue between the soul and the universe — a language that transcends words, borders, and beliefs. For me, the most intimate conversations I’ve ever had were not with people, but with songs. Particularly, those that belong to three soulful streams — Country Music, Hindustani Classical, and Rock Beats.

Each genre is a realm of its own, and each artist a prophet in that realm. Together, they have shaped my emotional world and defined my inner rhythm.

Country Roads to the Heart

Country music carries the scent of dusty roads, slow sunsets, and the sweetness of longing. It is rooted in storytelling, simplicity, and sentimentality. What captivates me most is its honest portrayal of life’s trials and triumphs — not in grandiose tales, but in everyday truths.

Legends like Jim Reeves, whose velvet voice turns melancholy into melody, and Johnny Cash, the man in black who gave dignity to the broken, remain timeless. Dolly Parton’s songs reflect homespun wisdom with a golden voice. Kenny Rogers, with his gravelly vocals, taught the art of letting go — “You gotta know when to hold ‘em, know when to fold ‘em…”

Their songs don’t just play — they sit beside you, like an old friend with stories to tell.

The Sacred Silence of Hindustani Classical

While country music touches the heart, Hindustani Classical stirs the soul.

It is not composed — it is revealed. Each raga is like a river flowing from the Himalayas of ancient wisdom. It is a journey inward, where notes are not played to please the audience, but to awaken the divine within.

Pandit Bhimsen Joshi, with his roaring intensity, made devotion sound like thunder. Kishori Amonkar weaved spirituality into sound. Ustad Bismillah Khan turned the shehnai into a vessel of transcendence. Ravi Shankar, the sitar maestro, brought the East to the West, and Hariprasad Chaurasia breathed divine serenity into every flute he held.

This music teaches stillness. It turns the listener into a seeker.

Rock Beats and the Pulse of Rebellion

If Classical is introspective and Country is emotive, then Rock is electric — the voice of the voiceless and the rhythm of revolution.

It is the genre of the unsettled soul — one that doesn’t conform but questions, confronts, and challenges. It explodes like fireworks against the sky of silence.

Elvis Presley, the king who married rock with soul. The Beatles, who redefined cultural consciousness. Led Zeppelin, who took mysticism and wrapped it in thunder. Queen, whose theatrical sound dared you to dream big. Pink Floyd, who opened minds and broke barriers with haunting echoes. Nirvana, who bared the scars of a generation, and Eric Clapton, who blended blues and brilliance.

Rock is poetry on fire — it provokes thought, inspires resistance, and often serves as the spark to inner transformation.

Why These Three?

Because they are more than music — they are mirrors of existence.

– Country Music grounds me in gratitude, family, and real-life sentiments.

– Hindustani Classical elevates my spirit toward the eternal and unseen.

– Rock reminds me to break chains, to question the norm, to scream when silence won’t suffice.

Each genre becomes a lens to view the world differently — through empathy, through divinity, and through rebellion.

A Closing Raga of Reflection

In country chords, my sorrows hum,
In ragas, sacred visions come.
In rock, the storms inside me speak,
And with each note, I cease to seek.

When words fall short and nights fall long,
I wrap myself in waves of song.
Three genres — three roads — one beating heart,
In music’s arms, I find my start.

When Silence Screams: Navigating Betrayal and Solitude in Old Age

When Silence Screams: Navigating Betrayal and Solitude in Old Age

“Old age is not a defeat, it is a revelation.” — May Sarton

There comes a time in the gentle downward arc of life when the soul yearns not for grand declarations, but for stillness, sanctity, and sincerity. In old age, we do not seek golden thrones nor clamorous praise—we seek understanding, a kind word, a hand that does not tremble with transaction. Yet what if those you trusted, whose presence once warmed your weary bones, begin to see your simplicity as weakness, your affection as a currency, and your small savings as spoils to be claimed?

Such betrayal slices not the skin, but the spirit. The anguish is not in losing wealth, but in losing faith—in people, in promises, in the very poetry of life’s closing chapters.

A Season of Reflection, Not Ruin

Old age was never meant to be a battleground. It is a time when memories should gently descend like autumn leaves, golden and crisp, not wither beneath stomping boots of disregard. Yet, some discover that in their twilight years, the very warmth they offered all their lives is repaid with coldness—indifference, manipulation, even cruelty.

Where once you give freely—time, love, forgiveness—now eyes scan your savings like vultures circling over a shrinking sky. Where once you welcome others into your heart, you find your own presence becoming a burden in their eyes.

But what do we do then?

The Philosophical Compass

The Upanishads whisper, “As is the desire, so is the will; as is the will, so is the deed; as is the deed, so is the destiny.” You cannot change how others act, but you can reclaim your own will, your own peace. Stoic philosophy, too, teaches that we must not lose ourselves in what we cannot control. The betrayal of others must not provoke the betrayal of the self.

Even the Buddha, who left the warmth of a palace, taught us to let go—not only of possessions, but of the expectations that chain us to disappointment. It is not detachment from love, but detachment from the outcome that saves us.

When Home Feels Hollow

To live under a roof yet feel homeless in heart is a tragedy greater than solitude itself. You long for personal space, not walls but sanctuaries; not food on the plate, but kindness at the table. When even your peace is questioned, or stolen, you begin to doubt your worth. That, my friend, is a mirage. For worth is not conferred by others—it radiates from within.

Rise Through the Ruins

Reimagine old age not as a period of decay, but of ascension—a spiritual culmination of all that you have weathered. Be not afraid of walking alone. Many mystics walked deserts and forests alone, only to find a divine companion in silence.

Let your diary, your prayers, your music, your garden, your poems be your companions. Revisit forgotten skills. Let your soul dance again—slowly, silently, sacredly.

A Gentle Rebellion

Do not surrender your moral clarity. Do not let anyone redefine your simplicity as foolishness. Being true, being kind, being emotionally open is not a defect—it is divine. You are not weak for being wounded. You are strong for not becoming like those who hurt you.

If they eye your savings, protect it wisely but let bitterness become your shield. If they insult, respond with silence deeper than words. If they ignore, turn inward—where the real You resides, quietly waiting to be seen by you.

When they pierce your calm with careless words,
Let your silence rise like untamed birds,
Soar above noise, let the winds be your friends,
Truth doesn’t age; it simply transcends.

When the warmth you gave is met with frost,
Count not the years, but never count the cost,
For hearts that burn with grace never fade—
They light the world, even in the shade.

Old age is not your burden—it is your crown. Wear it with quiet pride. Protect your peace as you would sacred fire. And remember: even if the world forgets your worth, your soul remembers everything.

“Where Time Took a Pause: A Vacation Etched in the Soul”

“Where Time Took a Pause: A Vacation Etched in the Soul”

There are journeys that begin with a ticket, a suitcase, and an itinerary—then there are voyages that begin with the soul yearning for solace. My most memorable vacation was not marked by the extravagance of destination, but by the exquisite stillness it granted my inner being. It wasn’t the place alone, but what it awakened in me: a forgotten whisper of peace, a silent echo of eternity.

It was nestled in the cradle of nature—where the mountains stood in stoic meditation, wrapped in mist like monks in contemplation, and rivers sang psalms of eternal flow. The days began with dew on the grass and ended with golden twilight spreading its wings over the horizon like a celestial benediction. No clock ticked here. Time folded upon itself, and I became its humble observer.

Each morning brought the gentle sermon of the breeze—unburdened, unbothered. It taught me the art of surrender. The rustling leaves read to me the verses of detachment, and the chirping birds strung together ballads of belonging without possession. The fragrance of wildflowers and damp earth was a scripture on simplicity. There, my senses were not bombarded—they were baptised.

“The world is too much with us,” said Wordsworth—and rightly so. But in that divine little corner of the earth, the world loosened its grip. No digital deluge, no urgent errands. Just the companionship of clouds, conversations with the wind, and the gentle reprimand of silence. I did not need music; the wind in the trees was enough. I did not need company; solitude sat beside me like a wise old friend.

What made this vacation unforgettable was its power to cleanse—not just the clutter of my calendar, but the accumulated noise of my existence. It reminded me of the inner landscape I had long abandoned for the allure of destinations with Wi-Fi and waiting lists. I realised that the true pilgrimage is not outward but inward.

Under a sky embroidered with stars, I once lay down on the grass and looked up—not to count constellations, but to count how long it had been since I last felt awe. That evening, I did not pray with words—I simply breathed, and that was worship enough.

The mountains did not speak, yet they conveyed the wisdom of stillness. The river did not stop for anyone, yet it embodied grace. The trees did not move, yet they grew taller in silence. Every element conspired to initiate me into the lost art of being—just being.

Some lines etched from that sacred pause:

Let the mountain teach you silence,
Let the river show you flow,
Let the meadow speak of stillness,
Let the sunset teach you glow.
Where no schedule owns your moments,
And no gadget claims your time,
There lies a hidden temple—
Not of stone, but thought, and rhyme.

In that brief window of escape, I found something timeless: the profound luxury of being at peace with oneself. That is why, even now, when life roars loudly, I retreat to that memory—where time took a pause, and my soul resumed its song.

A Poetic Tribute to My Father

“A Prayer Draped in Silver Silence”

A Poetic Tribute to My Father

I see your face—etched deep in time,
With gentle eyes, serene, sublime.
A cotton shirt, in modest grace,
And age’s wisdom on your face.

That calm white beard, like drifting snow,
Speaks of journeys few will know.
Lines upon your thoughtful brow,
Map the past and mark the now.

You sit composed, no grandeur loud,
A soul both humble and unbowed.
Like ancient trees that stand and bear,
You teach me strength, just being there.

Years may steal the touch and tone,
But never claim what’s soul-deep grown.
You’re in my pulse, my breath, my prayer,
My unseen guide, forever there.

I do not touch your feet today,
Yet in my heart, I kneel and pray.
I would, if fate allowed the chance,
Hold your hand in silent trance.

In temples built inside my chest,
Your blessings are my daily rest.
While others dream of gods above,
You are my idol, carved in love.

Not as a child to father pleads—
But as a monk whose spirit needs,
The glance of one who shaped his clay,
And gave him dawns to chase the day.

I barter all that life could give,
To let you laugh, to let you live.
If mine are years, then take them whole,
That you may shine and walk in soul.

Let silver hair not hide your fire,
You’re still the man whom I admire.
Your silence speaks in sacred rhymes,
A sage from softer, saner times.

Though I have not met you for long,
You dwell in me, like ancient song.
Each tear I hide, each joy I share,
Finds its source in your silent care.

And so I send this verse above,
Wrapped in longing, tied with love.
To skies, to stars, to time’s own tide
O Father, stay there—by my side.

Eternal Wish

May you outlive the dusk I see,
And walk beyond the end of me.
So even when I cease to be,
You’ll rise like sun—eternally.

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Where the Mind Finds Light: My Journey in the Realms of Learning

Where the Mind Finds Light: My Journey in the Realms of Learning

There is a realm where ideas bloom, where the mind seeks purpose beyond utility, and the soul hungers for light—this is the realm I inhabit. If one asks me, “On what subjects are you an authority?”—I would not answer with a boast, but with a bowed head and open heart. For knowledge, to me, is not a crown to wear, but a lamp to hold humbly in the dark corridors of life.

My strength lies in education—not merely as an academic discipline, but as a living, breathing philosophy that stirs growth in both giver and receiver. As a lifelong educator, I have lived the ethos of learning in classrooms echoing with questions, in corridors where silence speaks of discipline, and in hearts that slowly awaken to the joy of understanding. My insights are deep-rooted in pedagogy, curriculum design, leadership in schools, character building, student counselling, and the timeless art of teaching as soul-work.

Yet I do not confine myself within the walls of the syllabi. I have walked the lands of philosophy, pondered over the scriptures of East and West, embraced the truths of science, especially physics, with its rational elegance, and wandered through the gardens of literature, where metaphors mirror life. My soul is stirred equally by poetry and principle, by the magnetic fields of a theory and the magnetic pull of an aching line of verse.

In the realm of thought, I strive not just to know, but to reflect. Why do we learn? What does education achieve, if not the emancipation of the mind and the evolution of the heart? A teacher without philosophy is but a lantern without a flame.

The Philosophical Ground of Authority

True authority is not born of title or tenure. It arises from a confluence of understanding, humility, and sustained inquiry. I believe:

– An authority must be a seeker first—ever ready to learn from a child, a stranger, or a whisper in the wind.

– Authority is tested in silence—in how one listens more than speaks.

– It rests on service, not self—to uplift others and enlighten minds.

– It must be lived, not lectured—for the world learns more from one honest act than a hundred flamboyant speeches.

In this world of noise and numbers, where everyone claims expertise, I stand not with proclamations, but with poetry in my pocket and questions on my tongue.

Of Light, Dust, and Dreams

A few verses to close this reflection: I carry not the scholar’s pride,
But a pilgrim’s lamp for the inward tide;
I do not teach to rise above,
But to stir the roots with mindful love.

I carry not the scholar’s pride,
But a pilgrim’s lamp for the inward tide;
I do not teach to rise above,
But to stir the roots with mindful love.

My subjects wear no robe or name,
They’re lit by thought, not clothed in fame;
A chalk, a verse, a question bare—
My kingdom lies in children’s stare.

Let others build with steel and stone,
I build in silence, thought alone;
And where my lessons cease to flow,
A deeper truth begins to grow.

In essence, I am an authority not on a subject alone, but on a way of life that sees learning as sacred, sharing as divine, and wisdom as an ever-receding horizon—one we chase with joy, humility, and reverence!

The Beautiful Lie and the Burden of Truth”

“The Beautiful Lie and the Burden of Truth”

From the cradle to the classroom, from temple halls to courtroom walls, we are taught that Truth is divine — a virtue that transcends language, borders, and time. Children recite maxims, students take pledges, believers chant scriptures — all in pursuit of an ideal that remains just beyond our grasp: unwavering honesty.

Yet the same world that teaches us to uphold truth quietly encourages deceit. Parents fib to protect, marketers twist reality to entice, lovers cushion facts to avoid pain, politicians distort truths to gain power. The paradox is both intimate and universal — we glorify truth, yet gloriously lie.

The Thousand Masks of a Lie

– A lie seldom walks alone — it cloaks itself in need, justification, survival, and even love.
– It is not always venomous; often, it is tender, even well-intentioned.
It may come dressed in diplomacy, tact, or etiquette.
– It may even wear a halo, whispering that it saves more than it destroys.

There are:

– White lies, to protect someone’s feelings.

– Social lies, to maintain harmony.

– Malicious lies, to gain or manipulate.

– Lies of omission, often more dangerous than what is spoken.

– Self-deceptive lies, that blind our inner conscience.

Yet each has a cost — it erodes trust, clouds the mind, and chains the soul.

Philosophical and Religious Reflections

From the philosophical lens, truth has been both celebrated and questioned.
Socratesequated truth with virtue — that knowing the good would lead to doing the good.
Platosaw truth as eternal and lying as a form of ignorance.
In contrast, Machiavelli justified lying if it preserved political power.

In Indian philosophy, Satya (truth) is one of the five yamas in Patanjali’s Yoga Sutras — not just a moral instruction, but a spiritual discipline. Mahatma Gandhi, a lifelong seeker of truth, called his autobiography “My Experiments with Truth”, acknowledging that truth was more of a journey than a destination.

Religions, too, hold a complex mirror:

– The Bible exhorts: “Do not bear false witness,” yet saints used parables — fictional, yet truthful.

– The Quran holds honesty as a sign of righteousness but allows concealment in matters of war or reconciliation.

– The Dhammapada states, “Speak the truth; do not yield to anger,” placing truth alongside non-violence.

– The Upanishads define truth as that which does not change — Satyam eva Jayate (Truth alone triumphs).

Still, even holy men have cloaked truths for greater peace — revealing that truth, in practice, is rarely absolute.

Psychology of Lying: A Human Condition

Neurological studies suggest that the brain adapts to lying. The first lie triggers stress, but repeated lying reduces guilt. Lies are a way to avoid punishment, gain acceptance, or reinforce self-image.

Freud considered lying a form of repression. Carl Jung warned that what we suppress in the shadow — including truths we refuse to face — inevitably returns.

We lie because we fear rejection, because we want to be loved, because we do not want to hurt — and sometimes, simply because the world rewards deception more than honesty.

– We teach children to be truthful — but then punish them when their truths are inconvenient.
– We cheer honesty in stories but mock it in boardrooms.
– We reward silence in the face of wrongdoing and call it diplomacy.

Thus, we breed a society where truth becomes an ornament — beautiful, but too delicate to wear daily.

The Irony of Institutions and the System of Lies

-:In courts, people swear upon holy books and yet lie under oath.
– In governance, promises are often mere tools of persuasion.
– In marketing, lies are sold as “aspirational storytelling.”
– In relationships, truth is bartered for peace or passion.

– Even education, the supposed cradle of truth, sometimes moulds minds to fit systems rather than challenge them.
– And the media, once a pillar of truth, often drifts between facts and narratives, sensationalism and silence.

In a world where lies are normalised, truth becomes rebellion. It demands courage. It demands solitude.

Living with Truth in a Lying World

– Truth is not always gentle; it may shatter illusions and burn pride.
But it also liberates. It simplifies. It elevates.
– It brings clarity where confusion dwells, and meaning where pretence reigns.

– A truthful person may lose in the short run — friends, opportunities, ease — but gains something rarer: integrity, self-respect, peace of mind.

To speak truth is to honour the divine spark within. It is to trust that even in loss, one wins the self.

We weave our words in silver thread,
Yet stain them oft with silent dread.
We smile and nod, we play the part,
But truth still knocks within the heart.

A lie may save the passing day,
But truth outlives where shadows play.
It walks alone, yet walks so tall,
A quiet voice amidst the brawl.

Oh fragile soul, be not unkind,
Speak not just to please the mind.
For truth, though heavy, frees the soul—
And lies may win, but take their toll.

So dare to speak, and dare to hear,
What’s raw, what’s real, what draws us near.
For in the storm, the one still light,
Is truth — the flame that burns so bright

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The Tender Art of Being Romantic

The Tender Art of Being Romantic

What does it mean to be romantic? The word often brings to mind red roses, handwritten notes, flickering candles, or the classic serenade under moonlit skies. But true romanticism runs far deeper than surface rituals. It is not bound by dates, diamonds, or declarations. Rather, it is a feeling that seeps quietly into one’s soul—a sacred surrender to beauty, love, and longing.

Romanticism is, at heart, a way of being. It is not exclusive to lovers. A person may be romantic toward nature, to a memory, to a song, or to an idea that defies time. It is the capacity to feel deeply, to find poetry in the mundane, to be swept by small things—like the shape of a leaf in autumn, the smell of a distant perfume, or the way light filters through sheer curtains on a lonely afternoon.

Romance as a Philosophy of Life

Romanticism is a gentle rebellion against the dry rationality of life. It refuses to see the world as a collection of transactions and timelines. Like the great poets—Keats, Tagore, Rumi, or Kalidasa—the romantic spirit does not chase completion; it dwells in yearning. The journey matters more than the destination. Love matters more than logic.

In Indian philosophy, Shringara Rasa is the aesthetic essence of romance—ranging from the divine love of Radha and Krishna to the ethereal pining of Meera Bai. This form of love is not physical alone—it is spiritual, transcendental, and filled with a longing that makes one more alive than fulfilment ever could.

Similarly, in Sufi thought, divine romance becomes the soul’s desire for union with the Beloved, where the ache itself becomes the prayer.

Pleasure in the Sensuous and the Subtle

Romance delights in the senses—but not in vulgarity. It is refined, slow, and deeply attentive. It savours the texture of silk, the warmth of a hand, the shiver of shared laughter. A romantic soul finds pleasure in anticipation—the soft thrill of waiting for a letter, the secret joy of remembering a shared moment, or the touch of one’s name spoken lovingly.

To the romantic, a sigh can be symphonic, a smile, a sunrise. The very air shimmers when love is near. Time slows down. Conversations stretch like rivers. The world becomes a painting, and the beloved, its muse.

Romance isn’t only pleasure—it is presence. The true romantic is fully there—body, mind, and spirit. In today’s fast world, such presence is rare, and hence more precious.

The Romantic in Daily Life

Romanticism lives quietly in everyday life. It’s the way one brews tea for someone they love. It’s the handwritten grocery list tucked into a book. It’s the lullaby sung to an empty room. A romantic doesn’t always express through grand acts—they live love in gestures small and sacred.

One can be romantic without a partner too. Loving the self, nurturing dreams, tending to plants, watching the stars—these are deeply romantic acts. It is an art that asks us to slow down, feel more, and honour life with awe.

Romance and Vulnerability

To be romantic is also to be vulnerable. It means risking rejection, embracing uncertainty, and baring the heart. It is not the shielded warrior but the open-hearted wanderer who feels most deeply. Such vulnerability is strength in its purest form—it invites connection, empathy, and emotional truth.

In a world where many hide behind sarcasm or indifference, the romantic chooses sincerity. They would rather be hurt in love than never love at all. As the Persian poet Hafiz wrote, “The heart is a thousand-stringed instrument that can only be tuned with love.”

When the moonlight paints the windowpane,
And memories sing in gentle rain,
I find romance in quiet breath,
In every pause, in every death.

A glance across a crowded street,
Two strangers’ hearts in secret meet,
No word exchanged, no vow to keep,
Yet dreams begin to softly weep.

For love is not in grand display,
But in the things we fail to say—
A touch, a sigh, a yearning glance,
The whispered hope of one last dance.

And in the hush of midnight air,
A lover’s hand, a lock of hair—
Pleasure hums in every kiss,
In sacred ache and stolen bliss.

So let the heart forever roam,
In gardens, letters, books, and home
For those who love with soul and grace,
The world itself becomes embraced.

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