Mr Prashant is a seasoned educator and author with years of experience in school administration and classroom teaching. Having served as a Principal, he brings a wealth of knowledge on effective teaching practices and classroom management. He is also the author of several books, including "Image of my Experiences - a book of poetry," "Speeches from the Desk of the Principal," and "The Legend of Inara Wali." Now retired and residing in Bangalore, he
continues blogging etc
The Harder Path: Living Beyond the Shadow of Death
To live is to bear the weight of the skies, To wake each dawn with weary eyes. Death seems a whisper, soft and kind, A quiet release from the restless mind.
Philosophers spoke of this fleeting breath, Socrates smiled at approaching death. The saints have said life’s fire refines, A forge of faith through hidden signs.
Struggles storm like relentless seas, Worries gnaw with no reprieve. Pleasures sparkle, yet swiftly fade, Like morning dew in the sun-lit glade.
Yet beauty hides in fleeting days, In tender touch, in whispered praise. In pain we learn what hope can mean, In night we dream of fields unseen.
To die requires a yielding sigh, But living asks us to daily try. To bear the weight, to walk the road, To carve out meaning where none is showed.
The Gita whispers: “Perform thy deed, Detach from fruit, yet sow the seed.” In duty’s path, though shadows lie, The soul finds wings to reach the sky.
The Psalms declare: “Though I walk in shade, No fear shall rule, for Thou hast stayed.” In valleys dark, God’s staff shall guide, Till weary hearts in Him abide.
Buddha once taught, through mindful breath, That life’s great truth is bound to death. Yet freedom blooms where craving dies, And peace is found in opened eyes.
So life becomes the braver art, A ceaseless prayer, a beating heart. For though its burden makes us cry, It takes more courage to live than die.
Evening has always carried a charm unlike any other part of the day. It arrives not with the harshness of noon or the haste of dawn, but with a certain poise—a quiet invitation to pause. As the sun dips low and the horizon blazes in hues of crimson, amber, and fading gold, one feels an almost mystical transition, where the temporal world shakes hands with eternity.
What am I doing this evening? Perhaps the answer lies not in grand events or crowded calendars, but in the art of being still, of watching the subtle theatre of the skies. The evening is less about doing and more about being—about surrendering to the soft symphony of nature, about reflecting on the day’s footprints, and about preparing the heart for the silent voyage of the night.
The philosophers of old often spoke of twilight as a threshold—a liminal hour where reality seems veiled, yet more profound. Plato might have seen in it the allegory of the cave, where the shadows lengthen and truth stands waiting in the distance. The mystics, too, saw in the evening a symbol of inward turning, a time when the clamour of the world yields to the murmur of the soul.
An evening may be spent with a cup of tea in hand, not as a beverage but as a ritual of grounding. It may be spent in the quiet companionship of books, where words whisper and pages breathe. It may be spent simply walking beneath a sky laced with stars-to-come, each step harmonising with the earth’s heartbeat. And sometimes, it may be nothing more than a contemplation—the realisation that life is not a sprint, but a rhythm; not an argument, but a poem.
Evenings are reminders that endings, too, are beautiful. They whisper: the day is done, but the story continues. They teach us that every sunset is both a conclusion and a promise, and that in the silence of fading light, tomorrow is quietly being born.
When twilight folds her amber veil, And whispers drift on evening’s gale, The weary heart forgets its pace, And finds in dusk a soft embrace.
The stars arise, the silence deep, The earth prepares her soul for sleep, Yet in the hush, a truth is clear— Each end is just a dawn drawn near.
When Smiles Wear Masks: Traits That Raise Red Flags
In the theatre of life, where each soul carries both melody and dissonance, we are often compelled to judge not the outward attire but the hidden chords of character. Human beings, like books, cannot always be read by their covers; yet, there are subtle signs—red flags—that whisper of shadows lurking beneath apparent brightness.
One of the first alarms is dishonesty. Lies, whether dressed in silk or stitched in tatters, erode trust like a slow poison. A person who bends truth casually betrays the very essence of human bonding. Philosophy reminds us, as Aristotle once wrote, that truth is the soul of wisdom; without it, all discourse crumbles into dust.
Equally unsettling is manipulation cloaked in charm. The smile that dazzles but ensnares, the words that flatter but conceal intent—these weave a web around the unsuspecting. Such traits echo the paradox of Maya in Indian thought, where illusion can veil reality, urging us to look deeper.
Then there is the trait of arrogance. Confidence is a flame that lights the path, but arrogance is a wildfire that scorches all it touches. The proud heart often forgets the fragility of existence, mistaking the transient for the eternal. The Bhagavad Gita cautions against such ego, reminding us that humility is the truest strength.
Another cautionary sign is inconsistency of character—the shifting sands of behaviour that make one impossible to rely upon. A person who wears a different mask for every occasion leaves you stranded in uncertainty. Like a broken compass, they misguide even when the destination seems near.
Perhaps the most disquieting trait is a lack of empathy. A heart that cannot feel another’s pain is like a barren land where no flower of compassion can bloom. To live without empathy is to live in isolation, even when surrounded by crowds. As the poet John Donne reminded us, “No man is an island.”
Yet, in acknowledging these red flags, one must not become cynical. Awareness should guide us towards discernment, not despair. Every individual is a tapestry of light and shadow, and while some threads warn us to step back, others invite us to hold on. The wisdom lies in knowing the difference.
Beware the smile that hides the snare, The word that glitters but floats on air, The pride that blinds, the heart turned cold, For such are tales the ages told.
Seek the truth where silence dwells, Where kindness lives and mercy swells, For red flags rise to guide, not bind, The watchful heart, the mindful mind.
An ideal week, for me, is not a mere arrangement of hours and duties but a carefully orchestrated symphony of experiences where silence, sound, thought, and action blend into one harmonious whole. It is not the feverish ticking of the clock that defines it, but the unhurried rhythm of life – a rhythm that resonates with nature, philosophy, and the gentle artistry of living well.
Each morning should dawn like a whispered promise, where the first light unfurls its golden fingers across the sky and I awaken not to burden but to possibility. To walk amidst the fresh breath of dawn, when even the grass holds its sermon in dew, is to feel what Wordsworth called “the bliss of solitude” – not loneliness, but companionship with creation itself.
In such a week, learning would remain a constant thread – for the mind is never truly retired, it is merely reoriented. To read, to listen, to reflect – these are the nutrients of the intellect. A book is not just a silent companion; it is, as Francis Bacon once said, “a ship of thought, voyaging through seas of time.” Discussions, whether with thinkers of the past through their writings or with the present world through observation, would fill my hours with vigour and curiosity.
But an ideal week cannot be made of intellect alone; the soul demands music and the heart, movement. To play upon an instrument, to let the fingers release emotions that words cannot hold, is to drink deeply from the cup of eternity. To walk under a canopy of trees or to cycle along a forgotten path is to remind the body that it too is a temple, deserving care, deserving joy.
Evenings in my ideal week would not be rushed but reflective. A sunset is not merely the dying of a day but the poetry of closure – an orange flame dissolving into a tender purple hush. To sit quietly, perhaps with pen and paper, is to converse with one’s own spirit, to let thoughts take shape like rivers meandering into the sea.
And then, above all, the week would not be enslaved by routine but liberated by balance. Work, rest, reflection, prayer, play – each would find its rightful place, like pearls strung together not in symmetry but in a meaningful sequence. Such a week would not be an escape from life, but the very essence of it – where living is not merely surviving, but flowering.
O days that dawn with gentle grace, Unfolding dreams in time’s embrace, Let wisdom walk where silence stays, And beauty crown my fleeting days.
The morning sun, the twilight’s song, Teach me where my soul belongs, In pages turned, in steps unplanned, In music played by heart, not hand.
If weeks could speak, let mine declare, A life well-lived is lived in prayer, In thought, in art, in moments still, A symphony shaped by human will.
When we speak of athletes, we often think of strength, agility, and records that dazzle the eye. Yet, what lingers far beyond medals and trophies is the character of an athlete – the silent resilience, the philosophy of perseverance, and the humility that breathes life into their fame. Among all the professional athletes I have observed and admired, one figure shines brightest for me: Roger Federer.
Federer, with his racquet in hand, did not merely play tennis – he sculpted poetry on grass, clay, and hard courts. His game was a blend of art and science, fluid yet calculated, graceful yet fierce. To watch him glide across the court was to watch a dancer pirouette with precision, every stroke echoing the philosophy of balance and harmony. His sport became a metaphor for life itself: the ability to rise after a fall, to smile after defeat, and to remain grounded when standing tall at the peak.
What draws my respect is not just his astounding tally of titles, but the manner in which he carried his victories and defeats. In a world intoxicated by applause, Federer’s humility was like a quiet hymn sung in the temple of humanity. He bowed to opponents with dignity, embraced losses with grace, and spoke with a gentleness that revealed the philosopher within the athlete. In him, I see the essence of the Bhagavad Gita’s wisdom: “Karmanye vadhikaraste, ma phaleshu kadachana” – perform your duty, without being attached to the fruits. Federer embodied this truth, for his joy seemed to lie in playing the game itself, rather than in the tally of conquests.
From a philosophical standpoint, he reminds me of Marcus Aurelius’ stoic strength – unwavering in turbulence, measured in triumph. His career was not merely a saga of forehands and backhands but a journey of resilience. Injuries, age, and doubts did not deter him; rather, they shaped his legacy into something more enduring than numbers – the legacy of endurance with elegance.
In a time where the world clamours for quick glory, Federer’s journey whispers an eternal lesson: greatness is not in the roar of a moment but in the echo of a lifetime lived with grace. His career is a testimony that life, much like tennis, is a game of rallies – a series of returns, each demanding focus, patience, and belief.
And so, whenever I think of respect, my mind does not rush to the dazzling scoreboard but to the man who stood at the centre of the court with serenity in his eyes and a smile that spoke of contentment. For me, Roger Federer is more than an athlete; he is a sage in sporting attire, a reminder that victory and defeat are but two passing clouds, and what remains is the soul that faces them both with equal calm.
In courts of grass, in clay, in light, He danced with grace, both day and night. A game, a life, a hymn so pure, A spirit eternal, to ever endure.
Relaxation is not merely the absence of work or the end of toil; it is an art, a science, and above all, a philosophy of living. To relax is to return home — not to a physical abode, but to that inner sanctuary where thoughts slow down, the heart softens, and the soul breathes freely.
In a world that glorifies busyness, the act of relaxation becomes a silent rebellion. It is a conscious choice to step aside from the relentless traffic of obligations, and to allow serenity to seep into the pores of life. The philosopher Seneca once wrote, “True happiness is to enjoy the present, without anxious dependence upon the future.” Relaxation, therefore, is not an escape; it is an embrace of the present moment, pure and unadulterated.
For me, relaxation finds its form in the rhythm of simple acts. Sometimes it is a quiet walk where the breeze composes a song only the attentive can hear. Sometimes it is the play of light and shadow across the evening sky, where clouds form stories that poets have long tried to capture. At times, it is the turning of a page, where words act as bridges between the mundane and the eternal.
Relaxation also demands a withdrawal from noise — not just the external clamour of machines and voices, but the inner rustle of worries, regrets, and ambitions. It is in such silences that wisdom often whispers, and the heart gathers courage to continue its journey. Philosophically, one may see relaxation as the balancing point between being and doing — the sacred pause that nourishes both.
When I relax, I do not measure time, nor do I seek productivity. I allow myself to be carried, like a leaf in a river, trusting the current of existence. Relaxation is, in essence, surrender — not of strength, but of restlessness.
When the day is heavy with sighs, I rest beneath untroubled skies; A gentle hush, a sacred pause, That heals the soul without a cause.
The breeze becomes my counsellor, The dusk my soft philosopher; And in that calm, I come to know, The sweetest art is to let go.
So when the world demands its due, I step aside to find what’s true; Relaxation, tender, deep, Is where the heart learns how to sleep.
Torchbearers of Eternity – A Teacher’s Day Reflection
The fifth of September in India is more than a date etched on the calendar; it is a day when the nation bows to its true architects—the teachers. The festival owes its roots to Dr. Sarvepalli Radhakrishnan, a philosopher-President whose very life embodied the nobility of education. Yet beyond rituals and greetings, Teacher’s Day is a solemn reminder that the vocation of teaching is not merely a profession but a calling—an act of shaping eternity with chalk and compassion.
Having served in the realm of education for nearly four decades, with twenty of those years as a Principal, I see Teacher’s Day not as a ceremonial formality but as a mirror to my life’s work. It reminds me of the blackboards that became canvases of imagination, of staffrooms that were not mere chambers but incubators of ideas, and of classrooms that echoed not only lessons but also laughter, discipline, and dreams. My journey through the corridors of schools was never a solitary march; it was a procession of shared faith in knowledge, discipline, and the sanctity of human growth.
Philosophically, a teacher stands at the confluence of two streams—the past and the future. From the past flows wisdom, culture, and tradition; from the future gushes curiosity, innovation, and change. A teacher’s responsibility is to bridge these streams, ensuring that learners neither lose their roots nor forfeit their wings. In this sense, every classroom becomes a miniature cosmos where heritage meets hope, and where the teacher, like an eternal sentinel, guards the flame of learning against the winds of ignorance.
Teaching is often called the “mother of all professions,” yet it is also the most silently revolutionary. What other field allows one to craft minds, mould morals, and ignite revolutions of thought without lifting a sword or commanding an army? When I reflect upon my career, I see it as a battlefield where the victories were not measured in medals but in the smiles of students who conquered their fears, the confidence of parents who entrusted their children, and the growth of teachers who discovered new strengths under my stewardship.
This day, therefore, is not merely a celebration but an awakening. It reminds us that the chalk we hold is not fragile dust, but the script of tomorrow. The books we assign are not pages bound in leather, but wings that allow minds to soar. The school bell is not a hollow clang, but a resonant call to discipline, discovery, and duty.
Yet, like the sages of old—whether Aristotle who moulded Alexander, or Chanakya who trained Chandragupta—a true teacher never claims ownership of success. Instead, he or she remains content with the unseen, like the roots that hold the tree firm while the flowers and fruits receive the applause.
On this Teacher’s Day, I stand not merely as a retired Principal but as a grateful pilgrim of the temple of learning. My career was a river, at times calm, at times turbulent, yet always flowing with purpose—to quench the thirst of young minds. And though the formal journey may have concluded, the echoes of those years remain immortal in the lessons shared, the virtues instilled, and the lives touched.
A teacher is a lamp in the darkest night, A humble flame, yet a boundless light. Not seeking crowns, nor worldly praise, But sowing seeds for brighter days.
The chalk may fade, the board grow bare, Yet wisdom lives in the breath of prayer. For every heart once taught with care, Becomes a torch the world will share.
So let us honour, with thought profound, The guardians of truth where they are found. For in their silence, revolutions start They shape the mind, they heal the heart.
