Echoes I Did Not Answer

“

 

Echoes I Did Not Answer

There are traditions that arrive like the morning sun—inevitable, warm, and full of ancestral glow. Passed through gestures more than words, these customs once painted my childhood with hues of incense, chants, whispered prayers, and silent reverence. And yet, as time advanced like an impatient tide, many of these rituals were left resting like unopened letters at the threshold of modernity. This is a reflection on the traditions I did not carry forth—those tender inheritances that faded into memory, like fragrances long dispersed.

The Slow Vanishing of Ritual Time

I recall how days once revolved not around the clock but around the bell—a brass clang marking morning offerings, the lighting of a lamp at twilight, the aroma of sacred herbs dancing with the wind. There was a serenity in repetition, in the cyclic cadence of devotion. Now, in the hurried pace of contemporary life, where dawn is chased by deadlines, that sacred slowness has grown rare. The lamp sits polished, perhaps admired, but often unlit. Not out of disbelief, but due to a misplacement of priorities. Time, once a sacred ally, has become a hurried taskmaster.

Songs Unsung and Seasons Unmarked

There were songs sung not for entertainment but for alignment—with the seasons, the stars, the harvest, the rains. These tunes tethered one to the soil, the skies, and the stories of the land. I no longer remember their exact melodies, only that they soothed the tired heart. Festivals, once anticipated with weeks of preparation, now arrive as mere calendar entries—reminders, not revelations.

There was a rhythm to the seasons, and with it, a harmony of action—fasting not for weight loss but for inner clarity, abstaining not as denial but as an honouring of cycles. Those meanings now lie like ancient scripts unread, covered by the dust of convenience.

The Language of Reverence

There was once a language of greeting where hands met in humble prayer, not just in gesture but in spirit. Today, communication is abundant, but connection feels thin. Reverence, once the bedrock of every interaction—with people, trees, animals, and gods—has turned performative, or worse, forgotten. The bow of the head, the silence before a meal, the gratitude before a journey—all were quiet rituals of belonging. Now, they flicker like candles in the wind of modernity.

Philosophy Now Muted

I was raised amidst metaphors, where rivers were goddesses and trees were sages. Philosophy flowed not from books but from everyday observations. A fallen leaf, a crow’s call, the steady flame—they all meant something. The world was a text to be interpreted with the heart. But slowly, that instinct to philosophise has been shelved, replaced by facts and figures, analytics and outcomes.

In this forgetting, something more than customs was lost—perhaps the soul’s compass, which once pointed not north, but inward.

Yet, Not All is Lost

To admit these absences is not to dismiss the past, nor to grieve it beyond repair. The spirit of tradition, I believe, is less about duplication and more about essence. Though the outer forms have faded, the inner yearning for meaning remains. I may not perform the exact rituals of old, but I seek their spirit in quiet meditations, in the turn of pages from wisdom texts, in the silent acknowledgement of dawn’s beauty or dusk’s mystery.

Perhaps traditions, like rivers, change their course yet remain rivers. Perhaps what I lost was not the entire ocean, but the shore I once stood on.

A Whisper to the Ancients

To those whose footsteps I no longer exactly follow: I have not forgotten you. I carry you, not in practice, but in pulse. I may not recite the same hymns, but I look at the stars with the same awe. I may not light the same lamp, but I yearn for the same light.

And so, while some echoes have gone unanswered, I still listen. I listen deeply.

The lamp may sleep, the chant grow faint,
The sacred thread now loose and quaint,
Yet in my heart the fire stays bright,
A quiet flame in modern night

A Mirror to My Soul: The Man Behind the Silence”

“A Mirror to My Soul: The Man Behind the Silence”

How does one describe the self — a creature of paradoxes, memories, ambitions, and regrets — without drifting into either pride or pity? I am neither a hero cast in bronze nor a victim trapped in a tale of sorrow. I am but a ripple in the vast ocean of time, trying to leave behind a gentle shimmer before being absorbed into the depths once again.

I see myself not through accolades or possessions but through what stirs quietly within. If I were to sketch myself in words, I’d begin with this — I am a seeker. A seeker of meaning in mundane moments, of music in silence, of light in the crevices where shadows often dwell. I carry a lantern lit by old books, fading hymns, mountain winds, and the kind eyes of strangers who once helped me find my way.

In a world that prizes noise and spectacle, I often find solace in solitude. I have learnt the language of trees, the whisper of dusk, and the soft conversations between clouds. They do not demand, they only remind — that life is fleeting, fragile, and yet infinitely full.

Philosophically, I believe that every life is an unfinished poem — and mine has been inked with verses of perseverance, commas of contemplation, and ellipses of dreams deferred but never abandoned. I am no sage, but I have walked barefoot on the edges of both success and sorrow, learning from each bruise and blossom.

There lies within me an old clock — it ticks not to keep time, but to honour it. I revere discipline not as a burden, but as a beautiful rhythm that gives form to the formless hours of the day. Yet I never bind myself to a rigid script — I allow spontaneity to pour in like unexpected rain over a sun-drenched garden.

Emotionally, I carry a tender heart clothed in quiet strength. I do not wear it on my sleeve, but let it guide me like a compass in the fog. I have been broken — gently and cruelly, sometimes by fate, sometimes by my own doing — but I rise, again and again, like the moon after a night of storm.

In the company of people, I listen more than I speak, not because I lack words but because I respect the sanctity of theirs. I value authenticity — it is the rarest perfume in today’s market of masks. I am often told that I live in the past, but perhaps that is where I learnt the value of the present — by understanding what it means to lose a moment forever.

I am a confluence — of reason and rebellion, of science and spirit, of laughter and longing. I find joy in a well-brewed cup of tea, in the chirp of an unseen bird, in a page turned at the right time. To some, these may seem trivial; to me, they are threads in the grand tapestry of a meaningful life.

I do not chase greatness. I chase grace.
I do not seek applause. I seek alignment.
I do not count followers. I count blessings.

And if someone were to ask me — “Who are you really?” — I would simply say:

“I am a river,
Sometimes raging, sometimes still.
I carve my path, not to conquer —
But to feel, to flow, to fulfil.”

Let that be my story. Let that be enough!

“ A Lost Thunder: If I Could Bring Back One Dinosaur”

“ A Lost Thunder: If I Could Bring Back One Dinosaur”

In the hush of twilight, when dreams wander across the veil of time, I often wonder—what if history could whisper louder? What if one majestic creature, long erased by fate, could tread again upon this Earth?

Were I granted the solemn magic to summon one dinosaur from the crypts of the Mesozoic age, I would choose not the fiercest, nor the swiftest, nor the most outlandish—but the Brachiosaurus, the gentle colossus of the Jurassic era.

With its elongated neck stretching like an ode to the heavens, and its lumbering grace casting shadows that kissed the stars, the Brachiosaurus was less a beast and more a moving monument of time. A living tower of tranquillity. In the thickets of primeval forests, it swayed like a slow-moving prayer, munching leaves with the peace of a monk in meditation.

Why this creature, you may ask?

Because the world, as it stands, is not in want of more aggression or terror. We have forged weapons more fearsome than the Tyrannosaurus rex. Our skies, once blue and benevolent, now bear witness to storms of our own making. What we lack, truly, is wonder—grandeur without arrogance, strength without fury, size without destruction.

The Brachiosaurus, in my eyes, is an emblem of that sublime paradox. A creature so immense, yet so serene. In its very existence lies a reminder that power need not roar. Sometimes, it simply breathes.

Philosophers through the ages have marvelled at the concept of “magnificence in moderation.” Aristotle saw it as a virtue—sadness in proportion, purpose, and perspective. The Brachiosaurus, then, becomes a symbol of this lost virtue: an unhurried titan that never trampled the world, but walked upon it with mindful steps. In bringing it back, we might learn again to walk gently upon the Earth.

Imagine standing in a sun-dappled glade at dawn, the mist curling like silver smoke around your ankles, and then—out of the forest—comes this giant of a bygone dream. It does not charge. It does not threaten. It pauses, it breathes, and then it continues its timeless march as though it were never extinct.

To see such a creature would be to confront the soul of time itself.

It would be a hymn to evolution, a living verse of poetry that predates language. The rustle of its movement would be like the turning of ancient pages—the epic of existence murmured again into the ears of mankind.

Would we learn from it? Or would we cage it, brand it, and turn it into spectacle?

That, dear reader, is a question not for the dinosaur, but for us.

A Few Final Verses to End This Muse:

Bring me the beast who towers above,
Yet stirs no fear, but silent love.
Not claw, nor fang, nor crimson trail
But leaves and skies within its tale.

A soul from yore, with eyes so wide,
A titan with no need for pride.
May we, like it, learn grace anew—
To walk the Earth with reverence is true.

In the end, it’s not just the creature we bring back, but the conscience we must awaken. Let the Brachiosaurus return—not as a marvel of science alone—but as a moral of existence.

A soft thunder from a forgotten world, reminding us: greatness lies not in ruling the world, but in belonging to it!

Two Tickets, One Dream: A Journey from Fjords to Fables”

“Two Tickets, One Dream: A Journey from Fjords to Fables”

What if, by a stroke of serendipity, life handed me not a cheque, not a crown, but two free plane tickets—slender paper wings promising boundless skies? I would not squander the chance to dance with destiny. I would board one flight that sails through northern light and another that lands softly amid candlelit cafés—my heart split between Norway and Paris, the austere and the amorous, the sublime and the sentimental.

Norway: Whispers of the Fjord

Norway is no ordinary escape—it is a reverent pilgrimage into nature’s ancient diary. With soaring fjords that speak in echoes, pine-cloaked mountains wrapped in mists, and waters that shimmer like liquid sapphires, Norway is poetry carved in stone and sky.

I would begin in Bergen, nestled like a secret between sea and slope. There, the wooden wharf houses of Bryggen still whisper Norse sagas—of sailors who chased horizons and of dreamers who scribbled stardust in the margins of history. The North Sea breeze would ruffle my thoughts like the fingers of forgotten gods.

I would board a ferry through Geirangerfjord, that haunting corridor of stillness, where waterfalls weep like harps and every turn is an invocation. Here, I’d let the silence baptise me. I’d gaze at the Northern Lights from Tromsø, letting those celestial ribbons write poems in the winter sky.

Norway reminds the soul to be humble. It tells us that the Earth is older than all our ambitions, and that beauty, when untouched, speaks louder than progress.

Paris: The City of Timeless Murmurs

And then—Paris. If Norway is a hymn to solitude, Paris is a sonnet whispered to the soul.

The City of Light is not just a place on the map—it is a mood, a memory, a melody. I would walk along the Seine, under the twilight hues that Monet once bled into canvas. Bookstalls, lovers, violinists, and flâneurs would keep me company, all wrapped in the faded scent of centuries.

I’d sit at a corner café in Montmartre, where once Picasso sketched dreams and Edith Piaf sang of aching hearts. I’d sip slow coffee and pen my own verses, as accordion music drifted through the Parisian hush. Even the raindrops here are stylish, landing on cobblestones with a poetic sigh.

To stand beneath the Eiffel Tower at night is not merely to witness architecture, but to feel what it’s like when steel falls in love with starlight. There is romance in the air—not only of lovers, but of life itself.

Paris is a reminder that passion matters, that art heals, and that time is best spent lingering.

One Soul, Two Worlds

These two destinations—so different, yet so profound—would pull my heart like twin moons. Norway would teach me the sacredness of silence, the thunderous calm of glaciers and fjords. Paris would seduce me with its candle-lit chaos, its art and its audacity to live fully.

If given two free tickets, I would not just travel—I would transcend. I would embrace both stillness and song, both the voice of the wild and the whisper of the city.

Two wings gifted, I rise to roam,
From icy cliffs to café’s dome.
One hand clasps snow, one clutches wine,
One foot on moss, one toe in brine.

In Norway’s hush, I find my grace,
In Paris’ kiss, my soul’s embrace.
Two lands, one love, no need to choose—
I walk the sky in wanderer’s shoes.

In the end, we don’t just travel to see the world. We travel to meet ourselves. And between Norway’s introspection and Paris’ seduction, I would find a version of myself more whole, more awakened, and more grateful than ever before.

“Two Letters, a Thousand Echoes: The Tale of PK”

“Two Letters, a Thousand Echoes: The Tale of PK”

In the tapestry of our lives, nicknames are often threads woven in childhood, dyed in affection, laughter, and a touch of mischief. They carry echoes of days gone by, of who we were when the world was simpler, our steps lighter, and our hearts full of wonder. My nickname—just two letters, PK—has journeyed with me like a shadow in sunlight, sometimes ahead of me, sometimes behind, but never absent.

I do not recall the first utterance of PK, nor the precise lips that christened me with it. Perhaps it was a tongue too young for the full weight of my given name. Or perhaps, it was a whimsical abbreviation crafted by someone seeking ease in affection. Yet over time, those two syllables became not just a sound, but a persona—compact, charismatic, and curious.

The Soul of an Abbreviation

PK—so simple, yet rich with resonance. It never asked for grandeur, nor did it claim legacy. But like an ink-drop in water, it quietly spread its identity into the many spaces I occupied. Whether called out in school corridors, written hastily on notebooks, or murmured in a moment of camaraderie, it felt oddly comforting—like an old jumper that still fits after all these years.

I often wondered, does a name shape the self, or does the self shape the name? In the case of PK, I believe both rings are true. While my full name stood firm on certificates and official letters, PK danced in the margins, untamed and untethered. It was the part of me that loved the rains, the books, the wanderings of thought and sky. It was the part of me that felt at home in music, meadows, and metaphors.

A Name Beyond Sound

What is in a name, Shakespeare mused—yet every name carries a universe within. PK is not just who I was called, it’s who I became in moments of trust, of jest, of reflection. It holds the sound of chalk against the board, the rhythm of bicycle wheels down dusty village lanes, the silent gaze at starlit skies with questions too vast for answers.

There’s something deeply philosophical in a nickname. It bypasses titles, ranks, and even the expectations laced in surnames. A nickname like PK doesn’t ask where you come from, but how you smile. It doesn’t inquire about lineage, but listens to laughter. It is a name born of spontaneity and kept alive through memories.

Time, Memory, and the Echo of PK

Years passed. The boy with wide eyes and hopeful dreams matured, as all must. Responsibilities grew, cities changed, roles multiplied. Yet in every station of life, someone would tap my shoulder and say “PK!”—and suddenly, I would feel the soft breeze of an old era brushing against my face. Like a musical refrain in a forgotten tune, it brought me back to centre, to stillness, to self.

And even now, when silence wraps around me like a shawl, I sometimes whisper it—PK—to myself. Not out of habit, but as a chant of belonging. For in that small, unassuming pair of letters lies the child I was, the seeker I became, and the soul I still try to understand.

Two letters, stitched in time and thread,
Echo softly where childhood fled.
Neither full name nor masked disguise,
Just whispered truths in simpler guise.

PK they called, and so I turned,
To find a world where wonder burned.
Now older, wiser, still I stay—
As PK, in my quiet way.

What’s in a name? Perhaps everything, perhaps nothing. But in a nickname—there lies poetry, philosophy, and the portrait of a life well felt.

Wellness: My Path to Harmony and Health

Wellness: My Path to Harmony and Health

Health and well-being — not just a checklist of habits, but a sacred symphony of body, mind, and soul — are quietly crafted with mindful moments, humble routines, and reverent silences. In a world spinning faster each day, I find myself choosing slowness, like the unfolding of a lotus at dawn, embracing stillness not as stagnation but as a spiritual necessity.

Let me walk you through the garden of my strategies, where each path is shaded with a different philosophy, scented with wisdom, and nurtured by nature’s lullaby.

Waking with the Whisper of Dawn

I rise with the sun — not merely out of discipline, but in alignment with the ancient rhythm that guided sages and saints. Mornings for me are sanctified — filled with stretches that greet the day like open arms, and breaths that echo the silence of the universe.

Yoga isn’t an exercise, but a conversation with my inner cosmos. The asanas become poetry in motion — soft, fluid, and free from worldly rigidity. I do not chase abs; I pursue alignment.

Eating as a Prayer

In my world, food is no fuel alone — it’s a celebration. I cook as though tending to a sacred fire, choosing seasonal, simple, and soul-satisfying meals. I listen to what my body needs, not what the world markets.

I chew slowly — as if decoding a mantra. I savour tastes as if they were sutras of wellbeing. The occasional indulgence isn’t sin; it is rasāsvāda — the tasting of joy, in moderation, without guilt.

Walking the Philosophical Mile

My feet know the softness of morning grass, the quiet roads kissed by dew, and the gravelled paths of contemplation. Walking, for me, is not escape — it’s entry into the temple of thought. I walk not to reach a destination, but to converse with silence.

Like Thoreau by Walden or Buddha beneath the Bodhi tree, I believe great revelations visit humble walkers.

Feeding the Inner Flame

Books, music, and philosophical musings are not luxuries but necessities. They are my vitamins of the soul. I dwell in Gita’s wisdom, Tagore’s vision, Rumi’s intoxication, and Vivekananda’s fire.

Mental wellness is a garden — and I choose what thoughts to water. I refuse to rent my mind to worry and envy. I journal not as a chore, but as a mirror held to the spirit.

Mindfulness: The Inner Pilgrimage

Meditation is my gentle rebellion against noise. It is where I sit, not in emptiness, but in the rich presence of now. With eyes closed, I see more. With lips sealed, I speak louder to the divine.

Silence isn’t void. It is a fertile space where healing, creativity, and grace germinate.

Rest: The Forgotten Ritual

In a world glorifying hustle, I worship rest. Sleep isn’t laziness; it is the universe pressing the reset button. I read a poem before bed, not social media. I choose lullabies of old winds and rustling trees.

I sleep early, not to follow rules — but to wake up closer to the stars.

Health and well-being are not sculpted in gyms alone, nor secured in superfoods and supplements. They are born in awareness, nourished by routine, and perfected by peace. My path is not one of perfection, but of gentle persistence — walking mindfully, laughing deeply, eating consciously, and listening endlessly to what the body and spirit whisper.

Some Verses from the Path

Each breath I take, a hymn of grace,
A silent ode in time and space.
Each step I walk, a quiet plea,
To keep my soul and body free.

The food I touch, the words I speak,
Are roots of strength when I feel weak.
Not every day is bright or kind,
But peace I nurture in my mind.

So here I dwell in simple means,
Among the stars, within my dreams,
A pilgrim on the path unseen,
Seeking joy where life has been.

Let your wellness not be a duty, but a devotion!

Wanderlust : My Future Journey into Solitude and Soul

Wanderlust : My Future Journey into Solitude and Soul

There are journeys one takes with luggage and maps—and then there are those led by longing and whispers of the soul. As I gaze ahead into the uncertain mist of days to come, a soft, restless call stirs within me. It is not the clamour of cities or the luxury of cruises that beckon me, but the silent poetry of nature—raw, untouched, and profound.

My future travel plan is neither meticulously drawn nor driven by timelines. Rather, it is a pilgrimage to stillness—towards a world untroubled by human haste. I wish to disappear for a while, not to escape life, but to let life, in its primal rhythm, reach me undisturbed.

A Drift Towards the Wild and the Wordless

I dream of walking barefoot on a lonely beach—somewhere where the wind speaks a dialect lost to the civilised ear. No resorts, no beach umbrellas. Just the salt in the air, the wet sand underfoot, and the rhythmic chant of waves writing lullabies to the moon. I will sit beside a driftwood log, sketching thoughts in the air, letting my silence speak louder than a thousand conversations.

And when the sea becomes too loud with emotion, I shall retreat to the hills. Maybe to the stoic Himalayas or the whispering ghats of the South, where clouds descend to rest in your arms like wayward birds. There, among deodar and pine, I hope to find clarity, as sages did, where each sunrise slices through fog like divine revelation.

Or perhaps a wooden hut in a dense forest, where the clock ticks only to the rhythm of bird calls and rustling leaves. I will rise with the sun, sip dew from leaf-tips, and sleep to the lull of crickets. A place where the internet is absent but intuition thrives, where solitude is not loneliness but a sacred companionship.

Philosophy on the Path

Travel, to me, has ceased being a checklist. It is now a ritual of renewal, of returning to the essence from which all meaning springs. In nature’s embrace, I feel the presence of ancient philosophers—the stoics who sought truth in simplicity, the rishis who heard the Vedas in the rustle of winds, and the wanderers who traded comfort for clarity.

There is no greater education than the journey taken alone, armed only with curiosity and conscience. These travels will not be shared on social media; they will be etched in the hollows of my heart, known only to trees, skies, and stars.

A Prayer Draped in Verse

O distant shores of dream and pine,
Where thoughts dissolve and spirits shine,
Prepare a space beneath your sky,
Where wanderers rest and worries die.

I seek no crowd, no golden dome,
But forest trails and ocean foam,
A hut, a fire, a book, a breeze,
And time that flows with ancient ease.

Let thunder roll, let wild winds blow,
My heart shall bloom where soft streams flow,
For every step, though lone and wide,
Is homeward bound, with soul as guide.

So let the world run its course, choked by calendars and careers. I shall find my refuge in the untamed corners of the Earth—where stillness breathes, where the wild welcomes, and where my spirit feels most alive.

One day, when I finally vanish into that dream, I hope not to be found—for I will have found myself!