The Rock That Became God: A Legacy of Faith and Ganesh Chaturthi

The Rock That Became God: A Legacy of Faith and Ganesh Chaturthi

In the quiet corners of our ancestral home, there stands a modest temple, no more than three feet tall, yet towering in its spiritual presence. Adjacent to our well—our lifeline in days gone by—and beside a sanctified platform of Tulsi, dwells Shri Ganesh Jee, not sculpted by human hands but revealed by nature herself.

Inside this humble shrine rests a huge rock, miraculously shaped in the very likeness of Lord Ganesha. Its contours, its trunk-like form, its divine semblance—all whispered to us that this was no ordinary stone but a manifestation of the Vighnaharta, the remover of obstacles.

Every morning, as children, we would pour water over this rock, bathing the Lord, and then smear Him with vermilion (sindoor), until He glowed with a radiance that even the rising sun seemed to envy. To us, this was not a mere ritual—it was the act of conversing with divinity, of making Him part of our daily lives, from dawn till dusk.

But the story of how He came to reside there is, perhaps, even more divine. My grandfather, a man of immense devotion and strength, once found this rock in the wilderness. Solid, weighty, and majestic, he recognised the sacred aura it carried. With unflinching determination, he carried it on his back, walking for miles through forests and mountains. His journey was not just a feat of physical endurance but an act of pure surrender—an offering of his sweat and spirit to the Lord. What a pious venture! That day, a stone became God, and faith became heritage.

Decades have passed since my grandfather left us, but his devotion breathes through this temple. On every occasion—be it joyous or sorrowful—our family bows before this Ganesha. He has become the eternal witness of our celebrations, our prayers, and our tears.

And today, as the world celebrates Ganesh Chaturthi, my heart returns to that temple beside the well, to that Tulsi platform, and to that vermilion-covered rock that became the soul of our home.

Philosophical Reflections

Lord Ganesha, the embodiment of wisdom, intellect, and auspicious beginnings, teaches us that God need not be sought in the grandiose, but often resides in the humblest of places. Our little temple, modest in size yet infinite in grace, reminds us of the Sanskrit verse:

सुखकर्ता दुःखहर्ता वार्ता विघ्नाची ।
नुरवी पूर्वी प्रेम कृपा जयाची ॥
(Sukhakarta Dukhharta Varta Vighnachi |
Nuravi Purvi Prema Krupa Jayachi ||)

Pronunciation: Sukhakarta dukhaharta varta vighnachi, nuravi purvi prema krupa jayachi.

Meaning: “O Ganesha, the one who brings joy, removes sorrow, and eradicates obstacles, you shower your boundless love and grace upon your devotees.”

How perfectly this encapsulates what our temple has meant to us—it has been the fountain of joy, the eraser of sorrows, and the anchor of grace in our lives.

Another timeless verse resonates as I reflect upon my grandfather’s sacrifice in bringing the Lord home:

वक्रतुंड महाकाय सूर्यकोटि समप्रभ ।
निर्विघ्नं कुरु मे देव सर्वकार्येषु सर्वदा ॥

Pronunciation: Vakratunda Mahakaya Surya Koti Samaprabha |
Nirvighnam Kuru Me Deva Sarvakaryeshu Sarvada ||

Meaning: “O Ganesha, the one with a curved trunk and mighty form, whose splendour equals a million suns, may you remove obstacles from all my endeavours, always.”

Is this not what my grandfather sought—that the Lord bless his family, that the coming generations may find shelter in His grace?

A Living Heritage

Ganesh Chaturthi is not just a festival of clay idols, pandals, and processions. It is a reminder that the divine is both near and far, both formless and formed. It teaches us that the truest temples are not those that touch the sky but those that touch the heart.

Our little shrine stands even today, weathered by monsoons, blessed by the sun, and perfumed by Tulsi. It continues to teach us that devotion is not measured in grandeur but in the purity of intent. The rock our grandfather carried has become our spiritual inheritance, a symbol of resilience, humility, and unending faith.

On this Ganesh Chaturthi, as millions welcome Lord Ganesha into their homes, I silently bow to that ancient rock in our temple, to my grandfather’s back that bore its weight, and to the timeless truth that when faith moves mountains, even stones become Gods.

“Faith is the well, devotion is the Tulsi, and God is the rock—eternal, steadfast, and unshakeable.”

Tracing Curiosity in the Digital Mirror

Tracing Curiosity in the Digital Mirror

The last thing I searched for online was the origin of a word. At first glance, it may appear trivial, a mere act of etymological inquiry. Yet, beneath its surface, it held a whole ocean of meanings waiting to be unravelled. Words, after all, are not just sounds or symbols etched upon a page—they are vessels of thought, carriers of culture, and echoes of time itself.

The question that led me to this search was simple: where does this word truly come from, and what journeys has it undertaken through history to rest upon my tongue today? Curiosity nudged me forward, much like a candle flickering in the quiet chambers of the mind, illuminating forgotten corridors of knowledge. The online world, often accused of breeding distraction, became in that moment a gateway to deeper reflection.

In peeling away the layers of language, I stumbled upon philosophies of life itself. Each word seemed like a seed scattered across centuries, nurtured by countless voices and reshaped by human experience. My search was not about filling a gap of ignorance but about stitching myself closer to the grand fabric of existence. In chasing a single word, I felt connected to generations past and those yet to come.

Why was I looking for it? Perhaps because words have always been my silent companions. They do not betray, they do not wither—they stand like lighthouses amidst the stormy seas of life. To know their roots is to know a little more about oneself, for we are but stories woven in letters, sentences, and verses.

In truth, every online search reflects more than curiosity—it reflects the soul’s quiet yearning. Some seek answers to practical problems, others chase fleeting entertainment, but at the heart of it lies an ancient human instinct: the desire to know. My search, though modest, was my way of listening to the whispers of time, of bending my ear to the past, and of honouring the invisible threads that hold our world together.

As I closed the digital window, I felt lighter, as though a small door had been opened in the labyrinth of the mind. And it left me pondering: perhaps every search we make online is not just about finding—but about remembering, connecting, and awakening.

When the Screen Was Silent: Childhood Beyond Television

When the Screen Was Silent: Childhood Beyond Television

When people today ask, “What TV shows did you watch as a kid?” I smile, for the answer is simple and yet profound – none at all. There was no glowing box in the corner of the room, no flickering images shaping my evenings, no jingles or commercials echoing in my head. My childhood unfolded in a world where silence was not absence, but presence; where imagination was not outsourced, but deeply owned.

Instead of remote controls, we held the reins of our own creativity. The theatre of the mind was more vibrant than any broadcast. Stories travelled through whispered folklore, the turning pages of well-worn books, or the captivating rhythm of a wandering minstrel. Every rustle of leaves in the evening wind, every constellation studded across the night sky, seemed to tell a tale. The earth itself was our storyteller.

Philosophers often remind us that true wisdom lies not in what we consume, but in what we perceive. Aristotle wrote of catharsis through drama, yet in my world, catharsis came not from staged performances but from witnessing life in its raw authenticity – the first monsoon shower kissing parched soil, the golden sunrise painting new beginnings, or the deep hush of twilight signalling closure.

It was a childhood where time stretched like an endless meadow. Play was not choreographed by channels, but by instinct – running barefoot on soft soil, chasing dragonflies, inventing games with pebbles, or gazing into clouds to sculpt castles of fancy. In those moments, the soul discovered a rhythm closer to nature than to technology.

Looking back, I realise that not having television was not a deprivation, but a liberation. The absence of a screen created a presence of thought, of dialogue, of stillness. In that quietude, we learned to listen – to the laughter of friends, to the wisdom of elders, to the murmurs of rivers and the silent counsel of stars.

Today, when entertainment is at one’s fingertips, I sometimes wonder if children miss the sheer poetry of waiting, the magic of imagination unshaped by ready-made visuals. For what is childhood if not the first draft of our philosophy of life?

The French philosopher Rousseau once said, “The world of reality has its limits; the world of imagination is boundless.” My childhood, untouched by the glow of television, was precisely that – a boundless field where the mind galloped free, unfenced by screens.

And so, to the question, “What TV shows did you watch as a kid?” my answer remains both simple and profound: none. But in that silence, I watched the greatest show of all – life itself, staged by nature, directed by time, and narrated by the soul.

When no screen flickered, the stars would shine,
The moon was the lantern, its wisdom divine.
Dreams took their wings in the still of the night,
Stories were woven in dawn’s golden light.

No jingle, no drama, no scripted applause,
Just nature’s own rhythm, with infinite cause.
A childhood unscripted, yet wondrously free,
The truest of shows, was life’s poetry.

Book Review: The Half-Pant Diaries – Chronicles of an Unforgettable Childhood

Book Review: The Half-Pant Diaries – Chronicles of an Unforgettable Childhood

The Half-Pant Diaries: Chronicles of an Unforgettable Childhood is not just a book—it is a window into a world where innocence, mischief, discovery, and wonder intertwine. With every page, the reader is transported back to the tender years of youth, where a half-pant was not just an attire but a symbol of freedom, playfulness, and life unburdened by the complexities of adulthood.

About the Book

This compelling work captures the very essence of growing up—stories that echo with the laughter of carefree days, the fragrance of childhood friendships, the sting of little failures, and the triumphs that seemed like mountains conquered. Written in a nostalgic yet relatable style, it evokes memories buried deep in every heart. Each chronicle is both personal and universal—an intimate diary that reflects the shared experiences of an entire generation.

About the Author

Prashant Kumar Lal, an acclaimed educationist and author, weaves this narrative with the wisdom of an academician and the warmth of a storyteller. Having spent decades nurturing young minds as a teacher, mentor, and principal, Lal brings an authenticity to the writing that only someone deeply connected with the children’s world could achieve. His earlier works have inspired many, but The Half-Pant Diaries is special—it is a heartfelt return to his roots, shaped by his own unforgettable childhood.

Target Readers

The book is for everyone who has ever worn a half-pant—literally or metaphorically. Parents will smile as they find shades of their children in its pages. Teachers will recognise the universality of growing-up moments. Young readers will delight in the playful spirit, while older ones will be swept away by nostalgia. It bridges generations, making it a perfect family read.

Unique Selling Proposition (USP)

Unlike many memoirs, The Half-Pant Diaries is not just about the author’s childhood—it is about our childhood. The power of its narrative lies in relatability. It offers not only nostalgia but also life lessons, sprinkled with humour, innocence, and philosophical undertones. Its universal charm makes it timeless—a book that can be read, cherished, and passed on.

“The Half-Pant Diaries remind us that childhood is not something we leave behind—it is something we carry within us, forever.”

Available now on Amazon in digital and print format!

Whispers of Dawn: My Favourite Time of Day

Whispers of Dawn: My Favourite Time of Day

There is a time of day when silence is not emptiness but a living presence, when the world stretches out of its slumber and creation seems to whisper secrets to the soul. For me, that sacred hour is dawn — the gentle unfolding of a new day. It is not merely a shift in the clock’s hands; it is the delicate dance between night and day, shadow and light, despair and hope.

When the first rays of the sun pierce the veil of darkness, the world wears a robe of innocence. The trees stand still, almost in prayer; the birds begin their hymns in unison; and the wind, cool and untainted, brushes against one’s skin with a touch that feels divine. In that moment, the universe seems to pause, as if God Himself lingers to bless the earth with another chance, another beginning.

The Spiritual Breath of Morning

Dawn has always been revered in spiritual traditions. The Upanishads speak of Brahma Muhurta, the “time of the Creator,” which falls just before sunrise, believed to be the most auspicious moment for meditation and prayer. In those quiet hours, the mind is said to be pure, free from distractions, and closest to the divine. Likewise, Christian mystics often likened the break of day to resurrection — the stone rolled away, the tomb empty, and hope alive again.

To stand before a rising sun is to experience both humility and grandeur. The universe reveals its magnitude, yet whispers that we too are part of its vast design. It is as though the Creator dips a brush into the palette of eternity and paints a new canvas for us each day.

The Philosophical Light of Dawn

Philosophers have long drawn from the imagery of morning to explain life itself. Heraclitus saw in the sunrise a metaphor for the eternal flux, the truth that “you cannot step into the same river twice.” Similarly, in Indian philosophy, the dawn mirrors maya — the fleeting, ever-changing nature of reality. Every morning is a reminder that permanence is an illusion, and that beauty lies in this very transience.

And yet, dawn does not sadden me. It fills me with courage. It teaches me that endings — whether of nights, sorrows, or seasons — are never final; they are only preludes to new beginnings.

The Poetic Charm of the Hour

Poets have always found their muse in this liminal hour. William Wordsworth saw morning as “a silent blessing,” while Rabindranath Tagore described it as “the daybreak of joy.” The dawn is a poem written in colours too subtle for ink: the lilac streak across the sky, the trembling dew on a blade of grass, the fading star that gives way to the sun.

For me, dawn is a personal companion. It is the time I sip my first cup of tea, not merely for taste, but as a ritual of stillness. It is the hour when my thoughts are uncluttered, when the body is rested, and when the mind is tender enough to dream again.

A Time for Renewal

What makes dawn my favourite is not just its beauty but its philosophy. It tells me that every day is a fresh scroll, a chance to rewrite the verses of my existence. Yesterday’s failures and follies dissolve in the quiet mist, and today offers a clean page. It is the time when my mind is uncluttered, my heart is soft, and my spirit is ready to embrace both the grandeur and the grief of the hours ahead.

To wake with dawn is to witness hope incarnate. As the horizon blushes with hues of orange, pink, and gold, one is reminded that even the sky begins each day by painting itself anew. The sacred silence of dawn is not an absence of noise but a music too profound for ears, a harmony felt only by the heart.

At dawn, the soul takes flight,
Bathed in whispers of gentle light.
Yesterday’s burdens fade from view,
For every sunrise writes life anew.

The sky bows low, the earth stands tall,
And heaven’s mercy enfolds us all.
In dawn I find my sweetest prayer
A gift of time, beyond compare.

A Symphony in a Bowl: My Favourite Recipe

A Symphony in a Bowl: My Favourite Recipe

There are recipes we inherit, recipes we stumble upon, and recipes that grow upon us like faithful friends of the soul. Amongst the many delightful dishes that my taste buds have encountered, there is one recipe that never fails to awaken both my appetite and my heart — a humble bowl of khichdi.

At first glance, it may appear as nothing more than rice and lentils cooked together. Yet, much like life itself, simplicity often hides a profound philosophy. Khichdi is not merely food — it is harmony. It is the blending of two humble ingredients that would otherwise stand alone, yet when united in warmth, they produce a melody of comfort, nourishment, and peace.

When the grains of rice soften in the company of lentils, spices whisper gently into the pot, and clarified butter (ghee) slides in like a golden blessing, the dish transforms into a symphony — soothing, soulful, and timeless. To me, it symbolises what the Upanishads often reminded seekers: truth lies not in grandeur, but in stillness, in balance, in the merging of opposites.

Philosophically, khichdi carries the essence of equanimity. It neither shouts with the fiery exuberance of exotic cuisines nor hides in blandness. Instead, it teaches us the middle path — the Buddha’s wisdom of moderation. It warms the body on rainy afternoons, comforts the soul on days of illness, and anchors the mind in moments of fatigue. In a way, this dish is the culinary version of a hymn — gentle, healing, and universal.

Cooking it is as meditative as partaking in it. Washing the rice and lentils feels like rinsing one’s worries away. As they simmer together, the rising steam curls like incense in prayer, filling the kitchen with a fragrance of homeliness. Each stir of the ladle reminds me that patience, like fire beneath the pot, transforms the raw into the refined.

This favourite recipe of mine is more than nourishment; it is a philosophy plated. It reassures me that in a world full of complexities, the simplest things often sustain us the most. It humbly whispers that life, too, can be made wholesome when diverse elements — work and rest, joy and sorrow, solitude and companionship — are blended with care and love.

And so, in the quiet company of this dish, I often discover the eternal truth: happiness lies not in feasts of extravagance, but in the soulful embrace of simplicity.

In steaming bowls my solace lies,
Where lentils meet the rice so wise.
A humble hymn, a sacred song,
Of balance kept when days feel long.

A spoonful warm, the spirit sings,
Life’s deepest joy in simplest things.

When Joy Came Knocking at My Door

When Joy Came Knocking at My Door

Excitement often visits us unannounced, like a sudden shower on a parched summer’s day. The last time my heart leapt with such delight was not for a grand achievement or a monumental occasion, but for something far more tender, almost ordinary to the world, yet extraordinary to me. It reminded me that happiness often hides in the corners of simple experiences, waiting to be discovered with an open heart.

The occasion was as humble as a countryside outing—what began as an errand turned into a cascade of surprises. Plans were made to buy fishes, but fate—always mischievous in her ways—placed quails in our basket instead. What followed was a day embroidered with laughter, dancing to forgotten melodies, and a car-o-bar under the fading skies. In those moments, the world shed its heavy robes of worry, and life became a festival of small wonders.

Philosophers have long insisted that joy lies not in possessing, but in experiencing. Aristotle believed that happiness is the activity of the soul in accordance with virtue, and perhaps virtue lies in recognising the sacred in the simple. For me, that day was not just about quails, music, or even food—it was about gratitude, about being present, about feeling alive in a fleeting hour.

Excitement is often mistaken as a burst of noise, but in truth, it is a silent hymn. It is the soul whispering, “This moment matters.” To me, the laughter of my dear ones, the twinkle of delight in a child’s eyes, and the rhythm of old songs carried more depth than the applause of any achievement. It was a reminder that life’s true treasures come not in gold or glory, but in the togetherness of hearts and the simplicity of shared joy.

And so, the last thing that excited me was not a possession but an experience, not an object but a memory. It is stored within me like a flame—gentle, glowing, and eternal.

In the folds of time, I found my song,
A fleeting hour where I belonged.
Not crowns of fame, nor treasures rare,
But laughter and love that filled the air.

Excitement bloomed, so pure, so free,
A whisper of grace, eternity’s plea.
Life’s sweetest gift is not afar—
It shines where simple wonders are.