The Keepers of the Light

The Keepers of the Light

Prologue — “When the World Was Still Young”

When the world was still young, and the mountains were yet to find their final form,
humans sat by the embers of fire,
telling stories to one another in the hush of night.
One soul among them spoke not to entertain alone,
but to guide—to shape thought from the clay of wonder.
That was the first teacher.

From that moment onward, civilisation moved forward not merely on legs and wheels,
but on the wings of shared wisdom.
It was not the strength of arms that built the first cities,
but the passing of knowledge from heart to heart,
like a flame carried in a clay lamp through the darkness.

Every era has had its keepers of this flame.
In forest hermitages and marble halls,
in village courtyards and crowded city schools,
they have stood between the known and the unknown,
bridging the chasm with patience, truth, and love.

A teacher is more than a profession— they are the quiet river in whose current drift the dreams of a thousand generations.
Their words, though soft,
outlast the clangour of armies and the decrees of kings.
For kingdoms fall, but a single idea, planted well, can outlive the stars themselves.

There are countless professions that stitch the fabric of our civilisation—some build our homes, some defend our lands, some heal our wounds, and some craft wonders of art and science. Yet, among them all, there stands one that does not merely work upon the material world, but shapes the invisible architecture of the human spirit: the profession of teaching.

A teacher’s work is not always bathed in the applause of the world. Often, it is carried out in modest rooms, where chalk dust floats in the slanting rays of morning light and the sound of turning pages fills the air like the rustling of leaves in a sacred grove. Here, minds awaken not with clamour, but with the gentle spark of understanding—a spark that can ignite a lifetime of discovery.

From the dawn of history, teachers have been the quiet architects of civilisations. In the gurukuls of ancient India, the acharya did not merely impart lessons in scriptures and sciences but also cultivated discipline, humility, and dharma. In the agora of Athens, Socrates led his disciples to wisdom not by giving them answers, but by leading them into questions deep enough to stir their very being. In the monasteries of Europe, monks copied manuscripts by candlelight, ensuring that knowledge did not perish in the dark.

Philosophy reminds us that every human being is both a seeker and a potential teacher. The Buddha taught under the Bodhi tree not with power, but with compassion. Confucius wandered through kingdoms, sowing seeds of virtue, sometimes rejected by kings but never abandoning his mission. A true teacher sees the invisible scaffolding within a student’s heart, and helps build it strong enough to hold dreams.

The teacher’s influence is profound because it flows through generations. One inspired pupil may one day lead a nation, heal thousands, or compose music that soothes souls yet unborn. And yet, the teacher rarely claims ownership of these triumphs; their reward lies in knowing that the torch they lit has travelled far beyond their sight.

There is also a rare humility in this calling. The world today runs on speed, spectacle, and instant gratification, but teaching remains an art of patience. It does not harvest overnight; it tends the soil, season after season, trusting that roots will take hold. This is perhaps its greatest nobility—it is a profession built on hope, not haste.

In truth, teachers are like lighthouses on the shore of the vast ocean of life. They do not sail the ships themselves, but their presence ensures that countless vessels reach their destination safely. Their light does not diminish by sharing—it grows brighter with every life it touches.

And so, I admire teachers not only for what they teach, but for what they embody: the grace to guide without control, the courage to nurture without expectation, and the wisdom to understand that the truest legacies are not carved in stone, but in the conscience of humanity.

They plant their seeds in furrows deep,
Beneath the watch of patient skies,
And though the storms may lash the field,
Their harvest blooms in other eyes.

They speak in tones the heart can hear,
Not bound by parchment, ink, or pen,
Their lessons flow like quiet streams,
That shape the valleys, time, and men.

O keepers of the eternal flame,
Your silent watch will never cease,
For in each mind you dare to wake,
You write the hymn of lasting peace.

The Little Shop of Timeless Whispers

The Little Shop of Timeless Whispers

If I were to open a shop, it would not be just a marketplace for goods; it would be a sanctuary for souls. Its shelves would not groan under the weight of commodities, but sigh softly under the fragrance of dreams. The air would carry the delicate perfume of memory, and the walls would hum with the unspoken verses of life.

I would sell moments—carefully wrapped in brown paper, tied with a ribbon of starlight. You could buy the taste of the first monsoon rain on your lips, or the warmth of a winter morning when the sun slips in like a polite guest through the curtains. You could take home the laughter of a long-lost friend, bottled in crystal jars, or the music of a gentle brook playing its ageless lullaby.

There would be romance for sale too, but not the fleeting kind that fades with seasons. My shelves would offer the slow-burning love of handwritten letters, ink slightly smudged where the heart hesitated, and the sweetness of a gaze that lingers just a fraction longer than it should. In the quiet corner, I’d stock moonlight in jars—so that lonely hearts could pour it into their teacups on sleepless nights.

And for those who wander in search of meaning, I’d sell philosophy in packets—tiny scrolls with words that remind you that life is both a question and its answer. You’d find Seneca’s calm, Rumi’s fire, and Tagore’s breeze waiting for you to unwrap them.

The currency here would not be coins but kindness. A smile would buy you a sunrise; a tear would earn you the comfort of a sunset. No customer would leave empty-handed, for everyone who entered would walk away with a little more light than they came with.

Because this shop would not trade in the ordinary—it would deal only in the rare, the fragile, and the eternal.

Beneath my shop’s old wooden sign,
You’d find the stars in a patient line,
Waiting to drop in a human palm,
A spark of wonder, a drop of calm.

Here, time is folded like silken thread,
The past and future quietly wed,
And every soul, when they depart,
Carries a candle lit in the heart.

The Invisible Companion We Must Always Carry

The Invisible Companion We Must Always Carry

We live in a world where our pockets jingle with keys, our bags bulge with devices, and our diaries overflow with appointments. We double-check for our wallet, spectacles, phone, and perhaps an umbrella if the sky has that sullen grey look. Yet, the most essential possession, the one that guards our dignity and guides our steps, is often left behind — our inner light.

This is not a thing you can buy in a marketplace, nor can it be borrowed from another soul. It is the amalgam of self-respect, kindness, courage, and hope — the very fabric of our inner being. It is the silent, steadfast presence that whispers reassurance when the world seems deaf to our cries, and steadies our hands when life’s bridge sways over an abyss.

From the golden pages of philosophy to the delicate verses of poetry, the message is unchanging. The Bhagavad Gita proclaims yogastha kuru karmani — remain rooted in your inner balance and then act. Marcus Aurelius in his Meditations urges, “You have power over your mind — not outside events. Realise this, and you will find strength.” And the Sufi poets, with their gentle mysticism, remind us that the lamp within is the only true guide in the darkening of the night.

The world will demand that you carry many things — wealth to secure your needs, wit to survive its sharp corners, knowledge to navigate its complexities. But none of these alone can save you when your ship is caught in the high tide. Only that inner companion — call it faith, self-belief, equanimity, or moral compass — can steady the rudder and keep your course true.

It is like a secret fragrance that clings to you no matter where you wander. People may not see it, but they will feel it — in the warmth of your handshake, the patience in your listening, the sincerity in your words. It turns ordinary interactions into moments of grace and transforms burdens into stepping stones.

In the deserts of uncertainty, it becomes a flask of cool water. In the crowded chaos of life, it becomes a quiet garden where you can breathe. In the sleepless nights of worry, it becomes the lullaby that silences the restless mind. Without it, no journey feels safe; with it, every journey becomes an adventure worth taking.

So as you step into each day, before you reach for your watch or your keys, ask yourself: Am I carrying my inner light? For in the end, the measure of a life well-lived is not in how much we have gathered, but in how much light we have carried — and how much we have passed on.

Carry with you the candle of calm,
Through tempests fierce and skies that harm;
For in its glow, the night will flee,
And show the path you’re meant to see.

Carry with you the seed of grace,
Plant it gently in each place;
Though time may test and winds may sway,
Its flowers will guide another’s way.

Carry with you the heart’s soft flame,
Through all the praise, through all the blame;
For when your hands hold light so true,
The world will always shine for you.

Carry with you the soul’s clear song,
It makes the weak in spirit strong;
And in its music, pure and deep,
Even broken dreams may sleep.

One Word, One World: The Change I Seek Through My Blog

One Word, One World: The Change I Seek Through My Blog

In the quiet corners of the internet, amidst the clamour of commercialised clicks and viral spectacles, there exists a humble space — my blog. Not designed to disrupt the world in grandeur nor to stir revolutions with thunderous roars, but to softly sow seeds of thought, one reader, one reflection at a time. If ever a change I dare dream my blog could bring, it is this: to awaken the forgotten art of feeling, thinking, and being.

A World Numb with Noise

We live in an age of fast swipes and fleeting glances, where depth drowns in distraction and silence has become suspicious. Empathy is outsourced to emojis, and contemplation is often mistaken for procrastination. The human heart, once a fertile field of emotions, seems paved over with apathy — not by cruelty, but by indifference.

In this atmosphere, I wish my blog to act like a drop of rain on parched earth, reviving what is within rather than pointing fingers at what lies without.

The Change I Yearn For

Not everyone must become an activist or philosopher — but everyone must be reminded that they are alive not just to exist, but to experience, to express, and to evolve. Through stories, stanzas, silent screams between the lines — my writing seeks to:

1. Stir a heart dulled by routine into awe again

2. Remind a reader that they are not alone in their silent suffering

3. Encourage the old soul hiding in youth, and the youth forgotten in age

4. Celebrate the sacredness of small things — a dandelion, a drizzle, a detour

I do not promise to cure pain, but if a sentence of mine acts like a balm to someone’s bruised evening, my purpose finds its pulse.

A Quill Touched by Philosophy

Philosophers, from Heraclitus to Adi Shankaracharya, remind us of change — that everything flows, and yet nothing truly changes unless the soul does. My words are not new rivers, but perhaps they remind someone that they are not drowning alone. If I can mirror to someone their own reflection — clearer, kinder, and less cluttered — the ripple will be worth it.

Let the blog be not a monologue, but a communion. Not a broadcast, but a bridge. Poetic Whispers to the World

Poetic Whispers to the World

If you wander into my words with weariness,
May you wander out with wings.
If you enter with echoes of emptiness,
May you exit with embered beginnings.

I do not write to be remembered,
But to awaken what others forget.
Not to be a lighthouse on the shore,
But a flickering candle where none has yet been lit.

The Gentle Revolution

The change I desire is neither thunderous nor viral. I wish my blog to inspire quiet revolutions — the kind that make someone pause at the sunset, forgive without needing apology, read old poetry aloud, or smile at a stranger for no reason at all.

Perhaps, in a world rushing nowhere,
a pause — a mere pause — is enough of a protest.

In the tapestry of existence, my blog is but a single thread. Yet, as Rumi once said, “You are not a drop in the ocean. You are the entire ocean in a drop.”

So I write —
not to change the world,
but to help someone change their own.

And that, I believe, is the most honest change one can ever make.

Let the blog breathe where the world holds its breath!

When Stars Chose Another Path: My Life in an Alternate Universe

When Stars Chose Another Path: My Life in an Alternate Universe

In some forgotten fold of the cosmic fabric, beyond the tethers of this reality, there exists a version of me—eerily familiar, yet astonishingly divergent. There, amidst the stellar symphony of another universe, I was not bound by the definitions of time and space that hem in this earthly life. In that strange and shimmering dimension, the equations of my existence danced to a rhythm the cosmos alone comprehended.

A Different Dawn

In that alternate realm, I was not born of flesh and bone, but of thought and flame. My soul arrived not through the cries of infancy but the silence of comprehension. I was not a teacher by profession, but a custodian of cosmic knowledge—a philosopher-scientist, wandering among rings of Saturn, decoding dreams hidden in black holes, sipping solar flares as casually as tea in the afternoon.

There were no schools with chalk and talk. Instead, I taught by lighting up minds with stardust—my lectures streamed on nebular winds, received telepathically by sentient beings on moons yet to be named. Here, knowledge wasn’t earned; it was remembered—drawn from the deep wells of an eternal consciousness we often mistake for imagination in this world.

The Ethereal Balance

This other version of life wasn’t without struggle. But the battles weren’t for wealth or power—they were for equilibrium. We weren’t racing against time; we were trying to slow it down, to honour the present moment, to understand entropy not as an enemy but a teacher.

Philosophy met physics in every corner. Heraclitus walked hand-in-hand with Heisenberg; the constant flux of reality finally embraced the uncertainty of measurement. I, a mere speck in this vast universal experiment, lived in awe of paradoxes.

No Calendar, Just Cosmos

There were no Mondays, no Fridays—only phases of Jupiter’s moons and solar tides. The seasons didn’t change by the Earth’s tilt but by emotional frequencies shared collectively. Trees communicated in verses; oceans replied in riddles. It was a poetic-scientific world—a reverent blend of Newton and Neruda.

My home was a floating islet on an anti-gravitational sea. I painted with photons, composed symphonies with neutrino beats, and sent my dreams into the universe coded in the molecular language of hydrogen.

Loneliness? A Choice. Silence? A Song.

Loneliness wasn’t a punishment but a pilgrimage. Silence wasn’t an absence but a presence too deep for words. Even sadness had a purpose—it distilled joy into its purest form, much like how pressure turns carbon into diamond.

In this other universe, I had mastered the alchemy of contentment. I needed no applause, no medals. My soul was my only certificate.

Return to Now

And yet, like a comet circling back to the sun, I often glance towards this life, this Earth, this body and time. And I smile.

Because in knowing who I could be, I begin to better appreciate who I am. This earthly self—flawed, aging, dreaming—still carries the echoes of that celestial life. My thirst for understanding, my love for words, my pursuit of inner peace… perhaps these are residual memories of a cosmic version of me.

Quotes to Stir the Soul

1. “Somewhere, something incredible is waiting to be known.” – Carl Sagan
2. “You are not a drop in the ocean. You are the entire ocean in a drop.” – Rumi
3. “I am made of stardust and solitude, stitched with the science of survival.” – Unknown
4. “In an alternate universe, even the shadows dream of light.” – Prashant Kumar Lal

I flew on wings of distant thought,
Where science and soul collide,
The stars, they whispered truths I sought,
From the quantum’s trembling tide.

No name, no age, no ticking clock,
Just echoes of what I knew,
A life unlived, yet carved in rock,
On planets bathed in dew.

But here I sit, with pen in hand,
A pilgrim of the now,
Still hearing whispers from that land,
That kissed my mortal brow.

In some ways, perhaps we all live many lives—in choices not taken, in dreams left behind, and in the quiet universes we carry within. For me, that alternate life is not a fantasy. It’s a poetic reminder that I am more than this moment—and yet entirely made by it.

Let the stars keep their secrets. I have enough wonder here!

A Taste of Gold: The Meal That Cost More Than Money

A Taste of Gold: The Meal That Cost More Than Money

In the tapestry of life, there are moments stitched in silk and others in jute — each adding its own weight and worth. One such moment glistens still in the folds of my memory, not because of its extravagance alone, but because of the unexpected revelation it brought along. The most money I ever spent on a meal did not merely empty my wallet — it quietly questioned the balance between taste, value, and meaning.

It was a dinner at a renowned fine-dining establishment nestled atop a gleaming tower in a city that never truly slept. The setting was opulent — candlelit tables with ivory linen, a panoramic view of glittering lights stretched like a necklace of stars below, and waiters moving about like silent actors on a stage. The menu read more like a poetic scroll than a list of food: “Compressed melon with rosewater foam”, “saffron-infused sea bass on a bed of whispering quinoa“, and desserts adorned with edible gold leaf.

The bill? Astronomical. Enough to fund a week of simple living, or a modest donation to a child’s education. Yet, I paid it with a sense of wonder — not pride. Was it worth it?

The answer lives in the shadow of the question.

For what I tasted that night was not merely cuisine but craftsmanship — art born of patience, discipline, and the timeless quest to elevate necessity into celebration. Every bite was a testament to someone’s dream, someone’s passion plated with perfection. But was I full? Not entirely.

Philosophically, it reminded me of the Stoics — who believed the soul is fed not by abundance but by moderation. That richness without simplicity is mere noise. I realised that while I relished the textures and techniques, what I truly hungered for was warmth — the aroma of mustard seeds crackling in a humble kitchen, the crisp bite of a street vendor’s fritter on a rainy day, the laughter echoing in between morsels shared in silence with dear companions.

The most expensive meal, then, became a mirror — reflecting not indulgence but introspection.

We dine not only to survive but to savour. Yet, when the pursuit of the exotic overshadows the essence, we may find ourselves lost amidst gold dust, longing for the fragrance of home.

The silver spoon fed more than taste,
A fleeting joy, a lavish waste,
Yet in that hush, I saw so clear,
The meals that mattered linger near.

A bowl of broth, a loaf of bread,
With soulful tales quietly said,
Outshone the glint of gilded dish,
And served far more than one could wish.

So eat with heart, not hungry pride,
For meals are more when love’s inside;
And though I paid with notes that night,
I learned that warmth gives true delight.

In retrospect, the priciest meal I ever had was worth it — not for the flavours alone, but for the reflection it served. It was a reminder that sometimes, the richest tastes are not the rarest, but the most remembered.

Would I do it again? Perhaps. But I would always return to the simple plate — seasoned with love, humility, and soul.

The Beauty of a Pothole Dispute: Small‑Scale News, Big‑Hearted Reflections

The Beauty of a Pothole Dispute: Small‑Scale News, Big‑Hearted Reflections

In the midst of earth‑shaking headlines, I found solace in something thoroughly unremarkable: the UK’s longest‑running 70‑year pothole dispute on Whitebarns Lane in Hertfordshire  .

A motorist and carer named Sarah Wright has spent eight relentless years petitioning her council to fix a road that connects residents to local shops and services. The cause? The county council insists it’s merely a footpath, not subject to resurfacing obligations. Meanwhile, drivers—and at least one partially sighted resident—navigate a crumbling lane, one pothole at a time  .

A Blog on the Banality That Speaks

1. The Uninteresting Core

At first glance, this story is devoid of spice: no scandal, no conflict, no politics—just tarmac, council bureaucracy and slow‑motion civic inertia. It’s unexciting by design—a familiar fixture in local papers, destined to be ignored by national headlines.

2. How It Ties to My Life

I once lived in a quiet suburban street where a single week of resident complaints persuaded the council to repaint faded white road markings. Observing how small, mundane civic acts can ripple through a neighbourhood felt akin to Sarah Wright’s quiet persistence. In my case, a few emails led to clarity on parking lines—hardly earth‑shattering, yet deeply satisfying.

3. A Philosophical Lens

This is a tale of Sisyphean perseverance in miniature. Unlike the tragic absurdity of Tantalus or Sisyphus, Sarah’s aim is narrow yet noble: a safe access road. Her efforts echo Camus’s reflections on revolt—steadfast even when the odds are small and the audience smaller.

The pothole dispute becomes symbolic: the path we inhabit, whether literal or metaphorical, may deteriorate over time. We might patch things with letters, calls, or quiet civic engagement—but often the change is glacial, and yet meaningful.

4. Poetic Imagination

Picture the lane as a scar across a quiet cul-de-sac. Each pothole, a bruise on the skin of everyday life. Sarah’s letters are gentle stitches—one after another, imperfect, sometimes invisible—but persistent.

In my imagination, cars bounce down this lane like softly tumbling stones, reluctant participants in a slow dance over rough asphalt. Streetlights cast elongated shadows at dusk, accentuating each crater, each crack, as if punctuating the passage of small, uncelebrated time.

5. Sensitive Orientation

This is not just about potholes—it’s about accessibility, dignity, and small community members whose voices often go unheard. The partially sighted resident, the social‑housing tenants, even the kindly carer—they live daily with each bump. Sarah’s fight is theirs too, and perhaps mine.

Why Celebrate the Uninteresting?

It invites slow reflection. In a world hungry for sensationalism, noticing the mundane can slow our pace, centre our thoughts, and help us reconnect with everyday challenges.

It affirms quiet agency. A single person’s persistence—Sarah’s eight‑year journey—reminds us that change isn’t always sweeping; often it’s stitch‑by‑stitch.

It nurtures empathy. We may never meet those affected by Whitebarns Lane, but their struggle is a mirror—for anyone who’s ever felt ignored by bureaucracy, or small in the larger tapestry.

This quiet dispute over road status doesn’t threaten the pillars of society—but it holds space for reflection. So I raise a glass to the uninteresting, knowing it is precisely there that small lives continue, that voices persist, and that meaning may whisper rather than roar.

In a way, our lives are full of these potholes—small obstacles, minor irritants. Yet each time we write, speak up, push for clarity, we perform our own gentle revolt. In that sense, the uninteresting becomes quietly profound.