Ten Pillars of Certainty in an Uncertain World”

“Ten Pillars of Certainty in an Uncertain World”

In a world that sways like reeds in the wind, where even the stars seem to wander across the skies of our doubts, one is often left wondering—what can we truly count on? Is there anything that remains unmoved amidst the tremors of time and tides of change? Though much is transient, and so much more remains ambiguous, there do exist a few timeless truths—solid ground beneath our metaphysical feet.

Here, I share ten such certainties, not carved merely in stone, but inscribed upon the soul by experience, contemplation, and the patient chisel of life.

1. Change Is Inevitable

Like the moon’s phases or the cycle of seasons, change dances uninvited into every chapter of our lives. We resist it, we welcome it, we dread it—but it comes nonetheless. Heraclitus, the pre-Socratic philosopher, said, “No man ever steps in the same river twice.” That river flows still, and we continue wading through.

2. Death Is the Final Door

All that is born must one day fade into the mist. Death, though veiled in mystery, is no illusion. It grants value to each moment and lends urgency to our songs and silences alike. Like autumn leaves that fall not in despair, but in graceful surrender, we too must return to the earth’s embrace.

3. Love Heals, Even When It Hurts

Not always returned, not always understood—yet love, in its truest form, remains a balm. Whether in the rustle of old letters or in the eyes of a stranger we help without reason, love continues to be the invisible thread binding existence with purpose.

4. Kindness Echoes Beyond the Moment

A gentle word, a smile to a weary soul, a hand stretched across silence—kindness often seems small, but it reverberates. It can mend what logic cannot. It is the ripple that creates unforeseen waves across the ocean of human experience.

5. The Present Is All We Truly Possess

The past is a tapestry of memory, the future a foggy corridor. But now—this single breath, this fleeting second—is what we can inhabit, touch, and transform. To live fully is not to chase time but to sit beside it and sip its nectar.

6. Nature Is a Mirror of the Divine

Mountains, oceans, the humble ant, and the vast sky—they whisper of an order beyond comprehension. In their rhythm and grace, we find metaphors for our own journeys. One need not be religious to feel sacredness in the way sunlight filters through morning mist.

7. Silence Speaks Where Words Fail

Not all truths are spoken. Sometimes, it is in the hush between words, in the tear unshed, or the pause before a reply, where the soul unveils itself. Silence, when sincere, is the language of the wise and the wounded alike.

8. Learning Is a Lifelong Flame

To learn is not confined to schools or books; it is the heartbeat of the curious spirit. The more one knows, the more vast one’s ignorance appears. Socrates was wise not because he knew all, but because he knew how little he knew.

9. Art Transcends Time and Pain

A poem, a song, a painting—these are not mere creations, but salvations. Art records the inexpressible and gives form to our formless emotions. It is how we immortalise our fleeting selves.

10. Hope Springs Eternal

Even in the darkest tunnel, some corner of the human heart dares to imagine light. This indomitable hope—naive, stubborn, sacred—is what moves us forward, step by trembling – step.

In doubt’s dominion, I’ve walked alone,
Yet found ten stones that feel like home.
Where silence speaks and rivers roam,
Some truths are stars in twilight’s dome.

Though storms may rage and shadows bend,
These certainties my soul defend—
Like roots beneath the forest’s floor,
They hold me firm for evermore.

In a world that unravels itself each day, these certainties offer me not answers, but anchors. Let them be reminders not just to think, but to feel the truth as it pulses quietly beneath the noise of living.

Would you care to name yours?

My Pen and My Universe: Chronicles of Life, Love and Learning – Volume 5

Book Review

Title: My Pen and My Universe: Chronicles of Life, Love and Learning – Volume 5
Author: Prashant Kumar Lal
Genre: Non-fiction | Memoir | Reflective Essays

Introduction

In a world overwhelmed by speed and surface, My Pen and My Universe – Volume 5 invites readers to slow down, breathe deeply, and listen to the inner murmurs of life. This fifth volume in the series penned by Prashant Kumar Lal is a gentle yet profound collection of blog-inspired reflections that traverse the terrains of experience, emotion, and enlightenment.

Summary

Drawing from his decades-long journey as an educator, thinker, and soulful observer, the author compiles a series of contemplative pieces that explore themes such as love, solitude, nature, memory, ageing, spirituality, education, and self-discovery. Each entry stands alone yet threads into a wider narrative—a memoir without timeline, a diary without dates—where the universe within becomes as vast and engaging as the universe outside.

The volume is not linear in progression but panoramic in perspective. From nostalgic recollections of school corridors and melodies from harmoniums, to philosophical musings on God, grace, grief, and growth, the book quietly engages the reader in an ongoing dialogue of the heart and mind.

Critical Analysis

What sets this volume apart is its capacity to blend simplicity with depth. The author’s tone is warm and inviting, as though sitting across from a trusted friend. He uses poetic phrases, idiomatic expressions, and philosophical allusions seamlessly, drawing from a rich life lived across cultures and decades. One feels the quiet presence of Indian spirituality, the cadence of English literary tradition, and the sensibility of a seasoned educator throughout.

Unlike many memoirs that rely heavily on plot or chronology, this book flows through moments and insights. There’s no loud drama or flamboyant self-celebration—instead, a profound humility runs through each piece, turning ordinary experiences into sacred stories.

Themes and Tone

The recurring themes of gratitude, introspection, lifelong learning, and the divine presence make the book spiritually resonant. Education is not portrayed merely as a profession but as a sacred calling. Love is not just romance but compassion, forgiveness, and sacrifice. Life is not seen as a problem to be solved but a mystery to be embraced.

The tone is reflective, tender, and at times wistfully poetic. There’s humour in the right measure, philosophy in every layer, and a deep reverence for the written word.

Strengths

Authenticity: The voice is real, rooted, and relatable.

Language: Lyrical yet accessible, filled with idioms and literary charm.

Diversity of Content: From daily observations to spiritual awakenings, from educational philosophy to emotional vulnerability.

Cultural Richness: The book bridges classical and contemporary, Indian and Western, sacred and secular with grace.

My Pen and My Universe – Volume 5 is a book not meant to be read in haste but to be savoured slowly—perhaps over morning tea, an evening pause, or a silent night. It is ideal for readers who seek depth, reflection, and meaning in a distracted world. Whether you are a student of life, a lover of literature, or simply someone navigating the labyrinth of emotions, this book will speak to you softly—and stay with you long after the last page is turned.

Highly recommended for thoughtful readers who believe that the pen, indeed, holds a universe within.

Rating: 4.8/5

Are you seeking security or adventure?

Are you seeking security or adventure?

In the winding narrative of our lives, we are often torn between two compelling forces — the comforting arms of security and the wild heartbeat of adventure. This eternal dilemma lies not merely in the logistics of daily existence but is deeply rooted in our philosophy of life. Are we the sailors who anchor close to shore, or are we the wind-chasers who raise our sails to the unknown?

Security is the soft quilt on a winter’s night — the assurance of familiarity, of known faces, of measured risks. It offers us warmth, order, and predictability. In Maslow’s pyramid, security is foundational — it is the food on the table, the roof above, the health we preserve, and the savings we count like autumn leaves gathered in the barn.

But adventure — ah, that is the call of the open road, the whispering forest, the undulating sea! It is the mythic journey of Odysseus, the longing of Siddhartha, the leap into the abstract. Adventure is that which defies routine — not just the journey outward, but the plunge inward into unexplored thoughts, emotions, and meanings. It is the soul’s rebellion against rust.

The Tug Within

There’s a tug-of-war in every human heart. Even the safest fortress can grow dreary, and the wildest expedition can leave us yearning for a familiar cup of tea. The wise walk the razor’s edge, balancing these two, creating a life both rooted and reaching. As Rumi echoes — “Don’t get lost in your pain, know that one day your pain will become your cure.” And likewise, don’t get lost in your comfort, for stagnation can sometimes be the greatest peril.

Philosophy Between the Extremes

The Buddha abandoned his palace in search of truth; yet later spoke of the Middle Path — not the abandonment of the world, nor complete indulgence in it. Philosophers from Kierkegaard to Tagore have suggested that meaning is found not in fleeing from security or blindly chasing thrills, but in learning why we do either.

The Modern Crossroads

Today, in a world both intensely connected and emotionally distant, we are more frequently confronted by this choice. A stable job versus a passion project. A long-term investment versus a short, soul-satisfying experience. To stay or to go. To obey or to question.

Is it not possible, then, to carry a piece of home in one pocket and a compass in the other? Can we not design our lives to weave in both constancy and change — where routine is enriched by novelty and adventure is softened by moments of pause.

Security anchors the body, but adventure enlivens the spirit. To live is not merely to preserve life but to illuminate it. The question is not which one we must choose, but how harmoniously we can host them both — like the moon that guards the night, and the star that dares to travel.

Some seek shade beneath known trees,
Where winds don’t howl, and time can freeze.
Their garden blooms in measured rows,
With petals safe and seldom woes.

Yet some will chase the rising dawn,
Where every comfort is foregone.
They write their tales on mountain crests,
With storms as pens and stars as guests.

Between the hush and thunder’s roll,
There lives the longing of the soul.
To find a shore where dreams can stay,
Yet sail again at break of day.

So ask not which — but how to blend,
The hearth we keep, the path we send.
For life’s true grace is not the end,
But how we dance through curves and bends.

My Pen and My Universe: Chronicles of Life, Love and Learning – Volume 5

🌟 Book Launch Announcement 🌟
I’m delighted to share the release of my latest book,
My Pen and My Universe: Chronicles of Life, Love and Learning – Volume 5

A heartfelt collection of reflections drawn from my journey through time, thought, and truth.
May these pages stir your soul, comfort your heart, and remind you of the quiet power of introspection.

📖 Available in print and digital editions on Amazon platforms
Stay connected, and thank you for being a part of this universe I continue to write with wonder and gratitude. ✍️✨

A Banquet of Souls and Stars: My Dream Dinner Guests

A Banquet of Souls and Stars: My Dream Dinner Guests

What if time bent for a night? What if space made room for dreams, and destiny agreed to be the humble butler at a table where I, an ordinary sojourner of life, could host a dinner graced by the extraordinary? This isn’t a feast of silver spoons and golden platters, but a gathering where intellect, emotion, spirit and stardust dine together—where minds meet, eyes gleam with understanding, and the silence between sentences holds more meaning than words could ever say.

If I could summon any souls from across the eons and geographies, living or departed, assured that each invitee would accept, my table would become an amphitheatre of humanity’s most compelling narratives.

First Course: Wisdom Dished from the Divine

I would begin by inviting Socrates, the master of questions. In his humble robe and ironic ignorance, he would no doubt ask why dinner is being served before truth is tasted. Sitting beside him would be Adi Shankaracharya, whose Advaita Vedanta whispers the oneness of all beings—his presence would stretch my understanding like a raag in twilight. Across from them, I would seat Rumi, the whirling poet of love, to let his words rise like warm bread, nourishing our inner hunger.

Imagine the debate between reason and revelation, with each sentence tasting like nectar pressed from the fruit of deep reflection. “Is love not the highest wisdom?” Rumi might muse, and Socrates, leaning in, would ask, “But what is love?”

Main Course: Revolution and the Resilient Heart

I would then welcome Nelson Mandela, whose quiet dignity held together the fractured bones of a nation. His eyes would carry the sorrows of prison and the serenity of forgiveness. Malala Yousafzai would sit by his side, her young voice fierce and eloquent, drawing courage from scars. She, a candle refusing to be snuffed, would speak not in volumes but in values.

Tagore, in his white flowing attire, would hum a poem as he broke bread, offering metaphors like morsels, feeding our souls more than our bodies. I would ask him to read from Gitanjali, and perhaps he’d smile and say, “You must learn to listen not with your ears, but with your breath.”

Dessert: Dreamers and the Cosmos

For dessert, I would bring in the stargazers. Carl Sagan, with his cosmic awe and poetic science, would lift our eyes beyond the chandelier to galaxies unknown. “We are all star-stuff,” he’d remind us, stirring our tea with stardust. Alongside him, I would seat Leonardo da Vinci, the eternal sketcher of futures, who painted imagination before technology dared to follow.

In the candle’s flicker, I’d watch da Vinci and Sagan sketch the universe in words. One with a quill, the other with a telescope; both dreamers of vast tomorrows.

And I? The Silent Observer

What would I do at this table of minds, hearts, and stars? I would listen. I would be the one who poured the wine of wonder, served the silence between their syllables, and let my own thoughts marinate in their brilliance.

The room wouldn’t echo with noise, but with meaning. And when the night would end, no one would rise from the table unchanged. Even I, the humble host, would have touched the hem of transcendence.

A Feast for the Soul

In a world of fleeting texts and noisy notifications, this dinner would be my prayer—a communion of thought, faith, freedom, and feeling. No Instagram stories, no filters, no hashtags. Just a long table draped in the linen of longing, where the only currency is curiosity, and the only dish that truly fills is truth.

As I extinguish the imaginary candles and fold the napkin of reverie, I realise: perhaps such a dinner is not just a dream. Perhaps it is what each of us seeks in fragments—in books, in conversations, in quietude. And though the guests may never knock at my door, their voices still arrive, through poetry, philosophy, and the constellations that whisper when the world sleeps.

After all, is not every life a banquet, and every moment an invitation to greatness?

In candle’s glow and time’s embrace,
I dined with stars in dreamlit space.
No clink of gold, no trumpets grand,
Just wisdom flowing hand to hand.

A robe of thought, a garland bright,
Wove tales of love through silent night.
Each guest a mirror, deep and clear,
Reflecting truths I longed to hear.

The wine was hope, the bread was grace,
Each course revealed a sacred place.
The meal may end, the souls depart,
But they’ve carved poems in my heart.

And though they fade with dawn’s first hue,
Their words remain—a faithful few.
For when I walk this world alone,
Their voices guide me, like my own.

Aged to Perfection: The Silent Elegance of Growing Older

What do you think gets better with age?

Aged to Perfection: The Silent Elegance of Growing Older

As the sun arcs gently across the sky of our lives, there are certain gifts that do not fade—they deepen. Age, often feared in its approach and misunderstood in its dwelling, bestows treasures not available to the hurried feet of youth. Like a vintage wine breathing in oak barrels, or a weathered violin mellowing with each sonata, some things do indeed get better with age.

In the clamour of modern life, obsessed with quick returns and instant youth, we often forget that there is unmatched value in slowness, in memory, in the grace of wrinkles earned by seasons of sun and sorrow. Wisdom, perspective, resilience—these are not hurried fruits. They ripen in the silent vineyards of time.

The Wisdom of Worn Pages

With age comes the capacity to reflect without regret and act without impulse. The youthful mind burns bright, but it is the seasoned mind that burns steady. Aged thoughts are like old books—annotated with life’s margins, highlighted by heartaches and ha-has, footnoted by failures and forgiveness. One sees patterns where chaos once reigned, understands silence where once only noise was tolerated.

As Heraclitus put forth, “No man ever steps in the same river twice.” With age, we begin to understand that the river is not just water—it is time, it is a change, and we, too, are never the same.

Kindness as a Learned Art

Age tempers the sharpness of ego. Where once we may have rushed to win the argument, now we seek to win the person. Kindness—sincere, unwavering kindness—blossoms with time. It is not a weakness of the weary but the strength of the wise.

The heart begins to understand subtleties—the sadness behind a smile, the courage behind silence, the beauty in imperfection. One learns to walk softly not out of frailty, but out of reverence for the fragile worlds others carry within them.

Depth Over Drama

Age brings a delicious depth to our tastes, thoughts, and relationships. We no longer hunger for applause from every corner. Instead, we long for meaning. A solitary sunset, a warm cup of tea, a poem read aloud under a tree—these are no longer dismissed as simple pleasures but revered as sacred experiences.

There is beauty in this withdrawal from noise. The soul turns inward not to escape but to expand. We begin to converse more with eternity than with echo chambers. We listen more to the whispers of the wind than the clamour of crowds.

The Philosophy of Patina

Philosophers have long championed the notion of becoming—Plato’s Forms, Kant’s reason, Advaita’s unity—all point towards a journey of unfolding. Age is not a detour but the very path through which the self matures into harmony with the universe.

Like autumn leaves that fall not out of failure but fulfilment, the aged soul lets go. There is poetry in that surrender—a knowing that not all who age grow old. Some grow luminous.

The Beauty in Being

It is often said that beauty fades. But perhaps it only changes form. The glow of youth may dim, but in its place emerges a radiance from within—a gentler light, like moonlight over still waters.

Lines on the face become scripts of survival, of joy, of loss, of love. Each tells a story that no photograph could ever capture. The hands may tremble, but they carry the firmness of experience. The steps may slow, but the direction becomes truer.

To grow older is not to diminish, but to distil.
Like dew that gathers not from the storm, but from the silence of night, age condenses what truly matters.

Let youth chase the wind. Let age hold the air.

The silver thread of time unwinds,
A tapestry of shifting minds.
What once was haste becomes serene,
In twilight’s hush, the soul grows green.

No hour is lost, no tears in vain,
The sun returns through the softest rain.
For what grows old is not undone—
It’s simply seasoned by the sun.

Growing old is not a curse—it is a quiet coronation. The crown is invisible, but the dignity is unmistakable. In a world that races, may we learn to age like mountains—firm, enduring, and full of untold stories.

Let age come—not as a thief, but as a friend with gifts. And when it does, may we have the heart to receive them.

Written with reverence for the golden light of age, and the shadows that give it shape!

Between Twilight and Dawn: The Sacred Rhythm of Sleep

Between Twilight and Dawn: The Sacred Rhythm of Sleep

There is a sacred cadence to the silence that descends as night falls—a hush that soothes the aching echoes of a day too loud with living. In this hushed hour, when the world turns its face from the spotlight of consciousness, I, too, yield to sleep—neither hurriedly nor begrudgingly, but with a quiet reverence, as one might kneel at an altar. My body retires, most nights, around ten—sometimes earlier, sometimes a shade later—drawn by the gentle tide of fatigue that rises like moonlight across the shores of thought.

And I rise—without alarm, without resistance—somewhere between four and five. Not out of obligation, but because the world at that hour is a secret symphony meant only for the chosen few who know its language. Birds have not yet composed their full chorus. The wind speaks in whispers. The stars still linger, reluctant to part. It is a time when divinity walks closest to the earth.

Sleep, to me, is no mere necessity. It is a pilgrimage inward. In its embrace, we lay down not only our limbs but our defences, our delusions, our disappointments. The soul, like a leaf carried on the breath of God, floats into realms the conscious mind dares not tread. Dreams are not always vivid, but their aftertaste remains—mystical, poetic, almost scriptural.

Psychologists will tell you that sleep is when the brain consolidates memory, repairs tissues, recalibrates hormones. But beyond the mechanics of REM and delta waves, there lies something ancient and inexplicable—like Jacob wrestling angels in his sleep, or the Buddha awakening under the Bodhi tree after deep contemplation.

Philosophically speaking, every sleep is a rehearsal for death, and every waking is a rebirth. It is no wonder then that in many sacred traditions, the hours before dawn are considered the holiest. The Brahmamuhurta in Hindu philosophy, the Tahajjud hour in Islam, the early Matins in Christianity—all point to the sanctity of that liminal space where sleep ends and wakefulness begins. It is not just time—it is kairos, the divine moment.

To sleep well is not just to be well-rested; it is to trust the universe with one’s unconsciousness. It is an act of surrender—psychological, theological, and poetic. One must unclench the fists of control, exhale regret, and inhale serenity. The bed becomes not just furniture, but a sanctuary. The blanket not just cloth, but a shroud of divine comfort. The pillow, a vessel for the head to return to the heart.

Of course, there are nights when sleep evades me—when worries waltz in the parlour of my mind, and fears rattle doorknobs. On such nights, I do not wrestle with insomnia. I commune with it. I write, I pray, I listen—to silence, to scripture, to my own fragile breath. And somehow, even then, rest comes—not always in the form of slumber, but in acceptance.

I wake not with a jolt, but with a whisper from within. The early hours are not empty—they are full of promise. I stretch, not just my limbs, but my aspirations. The kettle sings softly in the kitchen, the sky blushes in anticipation, and a new page waits to be written—not just in my journal, but in the theatre of existence.

In a world that romanticises sleeplessness as ambition, and all-nighters as heroic, I choose the discipline of sacred rest. For what is life, if not a series of awakenings—each one more gracious than the last?

Let us then not ask, what time do you sleep or rise?
But rather, how gently do you lay your worries down?
And how gratefully do you greet the morning light?

Night is not the end but a doorway unseen,
A quiet hymn in a chapel serene.
And dawn, oh dawn!—a breath so divine,
Where heaven and earth in slumber align.