From Slogans to Substance: How My Political Views Matured with Time

From Slogans to Substance: How My Political Views Matured with Time

Politics, like life, rarely remains static. What begins as borrowed conviction in youth often ripens—sometimes painfully—into tempered understanding with age. My own political views have not so much swung from one extreme to another as they have settled, shedding noise and acquiring nuance. The journey from idealism to realism, from slogans to substance, has been slow, reflective, and deeply human.

The Early Years: Inherited Beliefs and Loud Certainties

In my younger days, political opinions were largely inherited—absorbed from family discussions, social circles, classrooms, and the dominant narratives of the time. Like many young people, I believed that clarity lay in certainty. Issues were black or white; leaders were heroes or villains. There was a romantic attraction to grand promises, stirring speeches, and ideological purity. Politics felt like a moral contest, and choosing sides felt like choosing righteousness.
Emotion, not evidence, often guided those views. The fire of youth seeks quick answers, not complicated truths.

Middle Years: Encounters with Reality

As professional life unfolded—particularly in education and administration—the simplicity of earlier beliefs began to crack. Policies were no longer abstract ideas but living forces that shaped institutions, budgets, teachers’ morale, students’ futures, and families’ lives. I began to see how good intentions could produce poor outcomes, and how unpopular decisions were sometimes necessary.
Exposure to diversity—of regions, cultures, economic realities, and human behaviour—played a crucial role. Ideology alone could not explain why the same policy succeeded in one context and failed in another. Gradually, I became less interested in who said something and more in what was said, why it was said, and how it would be implemented.
This phase replaced political enthusiasm with political responsibility.

Later Years: From Ideology to Ethics

With age came a quieter, more inward approach to politics. I became sceptical of theatrics and wary of constant outrage. Instead of asking, “Which side is right?”, I found myself asking, “Who benefits, who pays the price, and who is left unheard?”
Philosophy and mythology offered powerful mirrors. In the Mahabharata, even righteous war brings irreversible loss. In Plato’s writings, democracy without wisdom risks becoming mob rule. The Bible repeatedly warns against leaders who serve themselves rather than their flock. These teachings reinforced a central belief: politics divorced from ethics is merely organised self-interest.
Today, my views are less about party loyalty and more about governance, accountability, compassion, and long-term thinking.

What Has Changed—and What Has Not

What has changed is my impatience with absolutism and my distrust of easy answers. I now accept that disagreement is not betrayal and compromise is not weakness. I value institutions over individuals, processes over personalities, and evidence over emotion.
What has not changed is the belief that politics matters deeply because it touches the most vulnerable first. Education, health, dignity of labour, and social harmony remain non-negotiable concerns. If anything, age has intensified my conviction that power must always be questioned, no matter who holds it.

Political maturity, I have learned, is not about becoming cynical but about becoming careful. It is the shift from shouting opinions to weighing consequences, from defending positions to examining principles.
Once I believed politics could change the world overnight. Now I believe it changes lives slowly—sometimes clumsily, sometimes unjustly—but always significantly. And that is precisely why it deserves thought, humility, and conscience.
In the end, my politics did not change direction; they changed depth.

Borrowed Comforts, Broken Legacies: A Moral Debt No Parent Can Repay

Borrowed Comforts, Broken Legacies: A Moral Debt No Parent Can Repay

Across mythologies, philosophies and civilisations, parenthood has never been treated as a casual role. It is a sacred trusteeship—where one generation holds life, values and resources in trust for the next. When parents choose self-indulgence over the grooming and upbringing of their children, they do not merely make poor choices; they violate an ancient moral law that every culture, scripture and philosophy has warned against.
In our times, this violation often hides behind modern comforts. Income is spent on personal pleasures, loans are taken casually from friends, relatives and banks, and repayment is perpetually postponed. Borrowing becomes a lifestyle rather than a necessity. Accountability is evaded, and the burden quietly shifts to children and family members. What appears outwardly as personal freedom is, in truth, a slow emotional and ethical scam.

Mythological Mirrors: Lessons Ignored

Indian mythology offers stark reminders of parental duty. In the Mahabharata, King Dhritarashtra’s blind attachment and indulgence towards his sons led not only to their moral decay but to the destruction of an entire lineage. His failure was not lack of wealth, but lack of moral restraint and guidance. Similarly, in the Ramayana, King Dasharatha’s inability to uphold balance between desire and duty resulted in lifelong regret and personal tragedy. These stories remind us that indulgence without wisdom breeds ruin.
Even Greek mythology echoes the same warning. Cronus, consumed by fear and self-preservation, devoured his own children—an extreme symbol of parents sacrificing the future to secure their present. Though metaphorical, the message is chillingly relevant: when parents consume resources meant for their children, they devour their own legacy.
Biblical philosophy reinforces this moral boundary: “A good man leaves an inheritance to his children’s children.” Inheritance here is not merely material—it is faith, discipline, character and foresight. To leave behind unpaid debts, emotional wounds and shattered trust is to leave a curse disguised as inheritance.

Philosophical Perspective: Duty Over Desire

From a philosophical lens, Confucius placed filial responsibility at the heart of social order, insisting that harmony in society begins within the family. Indian philosophy speaks of Grihastha Dharma, where householders are duty-bound to sustain not only themselves but dependents, elders and the next generation. Personal pleasure was never forbidden—but it was always secondary to responsibility.
Modern existentialism, too, holds individuals accountable for the consequences of their choices. Parents who repeatedly borrow, default and indulge cannot escape moral responsibility by blaming circumstances. Freedom without responsibility, as Sartre warned, leads to bad faith—a self-deception that corrodes character.

The Silent Scam on Children and Society

The greatest victims of such behaviour are not lenders or banks, but children. They grow up amid instability, witnessing broken promises and moral contradictions. Education becomes negotiable, emotional security fragile, and self-worth compromised. Many internalise guilt, believing they are burdens rather than blessings. Others unconsciously inherit the same habits, mistaking irresponsibility for normal adulthood.
Friends and relatives, initially compassionate, become reluctant financiers. Trust erodes, relationships fracture, and social isolation follows. The parents themselves age into loneliness—surrounded by comforts once enjoyed, but stripped of dignity and respect.

Root Causes Behind the Decline

Several forces drive this erosion of parental responsibility:
1. Consumerist Culture – The illusion that happiness lies in consumption rather than contribution.
2. Financial Illiteracy – Poor planning, impulsive borrowing and ignorance of long-term consequences.
3. Emotional Immaturity – Adults who never outgrow self-centred living.
4. Social Pretence – Maintaining false status at the cost of family welfare.
5. Enabling Networks – Repeated bailouts that reward irresponsibility.

Remedies: Returning to Moral Ground

Correction is possible, but it requires humility and courage:
– Reawakening Dharma – Recognising parenting as moral stewardship, not entitlement.
– Practising Financial Discipline – Spending within means and honouring debts.
– Investing Emotionally in Children – Time, guidance and presence over indulgence.
– Restoring Accountability – Relatives must stop enabling habitual exploitation.
– Seeking Guidance – Counselling, financial education and ethical reflection.

A Powerful Closing Reflection

A parent may borrow money, but they also borrow the future—from their children. When that future is spent on fleeting comforts, the debt cannot be repaid with interest or apologies. Civilisations collapse not when wealth is lost, but when values are squandered. True parenting is not about living well today, but ensuring that tomorrow stands on firm moral ground.

They feasted on comforts, borrowed and thin,
While children paid for the parents’ sin.
Debts grew tall, but values were small,
And duty lay crushed beneath desire’s call.

Myth and scripture, old yet wise,
Warned of futures sacrificed.
For when parents choose the self alone,
They mortgage seeds that should have grown.

Raise not heirs to unpaid dues,
Nor gift them fractured, borrowed truths.
For legacy is not what you spend or save,
But the honest life you dare to pave.

Four Wheels, One Soul: Why the Land Rover Defender Will Always Be My First Love

Four Wheels, One Soul: Why the Land Rover Defender Will Always Be My First Love

Ask a person about their all-time favourite automobile and you will rarely receive a technical answer. You will hear a story instead. Cars, after all, are not merely engineered objects; they are companions of memory, witnesses to journeys taken and dreams pursued. My own choice, shaped by admiration rather than ownership, is the Land Rover Defender—a machine that feels less like a car and more like a philosophy on wheels.
The Defender does not flirt with glamour, nor does it seek approval through polished curves or indulgent luxury. It stands upright, unapologetic, almost stern—like a seasoned explorer who has seen enough of the world to care little for appearances. Its boxy silhouette tells you instantly that this vehicle was designed with purpose, not pretence. In an age obsessed with aerodynamics and touchscreens, the Defender speaks an older, sterner language: function before fashion.
What draws me most to the Defender is its honesty. Every bolt seems visible, every panel purposeful. There is no attempt to hide its rugged intent. It was built to endure—to cross deserts, climb mountains, wade through rivers, and return home bearing the dust and scars of adventure like medals of honour. This resilience resonates deeply with me. Life, much like a long journey, demands stamina more than speed, character more than comfort.
There is also something profoundly democratic about the Defender. It has served farmers, soldiers, explorers, aid workers, and travellers alike. From the African savannahs to Himalayan passes, it has carried both cargo and conviction. Few automobiles can claim such a global legacy of service. While many cars boast horsepower and acceleration figures, the Defender boasts stories—of survival, reliability, and trust.
In a philosophical sense, the Defender reminds us that progress does not always mean replacement. Sometimes it means refinement without betrayal of core values. Even its modern reincarnations, though technologically advanced, attempt to honour that original spirit of robustness and reliability. The Defender teaches us a quiet lesson: evolution need not erase identity.
As someone who values journeys as much as destinations, the idea of a vehicle that prioritises endurance over elegance feels deeply personal. The Defender may not offer the softest ride, but it promises something far rarer—dependability. And in both machines and human relationships, that is a virtue worth celebrating.
In the end, my fondness for the Land Rover Defender is not about metal and mechanics alone. It is about what it symbolises: resilience in adversity, dignity in simplicity, and strength without arrogance. It is a reminder that the best companions in life are those who do not abandon you when the road disappears.

Some cars impress the eye, some flatter the ego,
But a rare few steady the heart.
They teach us to move forward—slowly, firmly,
When paths are broken and maps fall apart.

The Defender does not promise ease or speed,
It promises to stay.
And in a world that often gives up too soon,
That, perhaps, is the greatest luxury of all.

Footprints on My Path: The Lives That Quietly Shaped Me

Footprints on My Path: The Lives That Quietly Shaped Me

When asked about the biggest influences in my life, I realise that influence rarely arrives with a drumroll. It comes softly—through lived examples, quiet discipline, unspoken sacrifice, and enduring values. Like the steady current beneath a river’s surface, these influences have shaped my thinking, my profession, and my philosophy of life without always announcing their presence.
The earliest and most profound influence was my family, especially the values absorbed in childhood. From them I learnt that dignity does not depend on wealth, that education is a form of worship, and that integrity is non-negotiable. Life was not always comfortable, but it was always principled. Those early lessons became the moral compass by which I still navigate turbulent waters. When circumstances were harsh and resources scarce, resilience became a habit rather than a heroic act.
A towering influence on my intellectual and ethical development was my education under the Jesuit Fathers. They did not merely teach subjects; they taught life. Their insistence on discipline, clarity of thought, service before self, and excellence without arrogance left an indelible imprint on me. The Jesuit philosophy of cura personalis—care for the whole person—later guided my own journey as a teacher and Principal. From them I learnt that authority must be humane, leadership must be earned, and knowledge must walk hand in hand with compassion.
My profession in education, spanning nearly four decades, has itself been a powerful influence. Students, colleagues, parents, and countless lived situations became my teachers. Every classroom interaction, every counselling session, every success and failure refined my understanding of human behaviour. Being a Principal taught me that decision-making is rarely black and white, and that empathy is not weakness but wisdom. In shaping others, I found myself constantly being reshaped.
Another enduring influence has been spiritual and philosophical literature—from the Bible to Indian mythology, from the Bhagavad Gita to reflective poetry. These texts offered answers when logic fell silent and comfort when circumstances felt unjust. They taught me acceptance without surrender, faith without blind obedience, and action without attachment to reward. Philosophy helped me ask better questions; spirituality taught me to live with unanswered ones.
Equally significant has been music—my lifelong companion. Whether it is a soulful hymn, a classical raga, a Mukesh melody, or a simple bhajan, music has healed wounds that words could not reach. It has been my refuge in loneliness, my celebration in joy, and my anchor in moments of self-doubt. In many ways, music taught me emotional literacy long before psychology named it.
In recent years, my **family again—my wife, children, and now my grandchildren—**has become a renewed source of influence. They remind me that life moves in seasons, that relevance is not lost with age, and that love evolves but never diminishes. Watching a new generation grow restores faith in continuity and purpose.
Looking back, I see that the biggest influences in my life were not those who told me what to do, but those who showed me how to be. They did not push me forward; they walked ahead, leaving footprints I could trust.
Some lives teach by speaking,
Some by silent grace;
They light our paths, then step aside,
Leaving us stronger in our own pace.
In the end, influence is not about control—it is about inspiration. And I remain deeply grateful to all those, seen and unseen, who shaped the person I continue to become.

1961: Born at the Crossroads of Hope and History

1961: Born at the Crossroads of Hope and History

The year one is born is never just a date on a certificate; it is a quiet prologue to a life. I was born in 1961, a year standing at the threshold of change—when the old world was still catching its breath after wars and partitions, and the new world was beginning to dream aloud. To be born in 1961 was to arrive when history was restless, science ambitious, and humanity cautiously hopeful.

A World on the Move

Globally, 1961 was a year charged with tension and transformation. The Cold War was no longer a distant murmur; it was a lived anxiety. The Berlin Wall rose like a concrete scar, dividing ideologies, families, and futures. The world learned that borders could be drawn overnight, but wounds would take generations to heal.
Yet, paradoxically, 1961 was also a year when humanity looked upwards with wonder. Yuri Gagarin, a young Soviet cosmonaut, became the first human to travel into space. His single orbit around the Earth did more than defy gravity—it expanded human imagination. For a child born that year, the sky was no longer a limit; it was an invitation.

India in 1961: A Nation Finding Its Feet

In India, 1961 carried its own profound significance. It was the year Goa was liberated from Portuguese rule, completing an unfinished chapter of independence. The tricolour flying over Goa symbolised more than territorial unity—it affirmed national self-belief.
India was still young, learning governance the hard way, balancing idealism with pragmatism. Institutions were being shaped, public sector enterprises strengthened, and education slowly recognised as the true wealth of a poor but determined nation. To be born in 1961 in India was to grow up alongside the Republic itself—stumbling, learning, correcting, and persevering.

Science, Culture, and the Quiet Revolution

The early 1960s were not loud with gadgets, yet they were rich with substance. Televisions were rare, radios were companions, and books were gateways. Letters carried emotions with patience; relationships were built face-to-face, not screen-to-screen.
Music had melody and meaning. Cinema told stories with pauses, poetry with purpose, and heroes with moral struggles. Education demanded discipline, respect, and rigour. Teachers were mentors, not service providers. Life moved slowly enough to be understood and fast enough to be valued.
Growing Up with the Times
Those born in 1961 became witnesses to extraordinary transitions: from black-and-white to colour, from typewriters to keyboards, from joint families to nuclear homes, from scarcity to surplus. We learnt to adjust, not complain; to adapt, not abandon. Change did not frighten us—it trained us.
We were raised in an era where values preceded convenience, and effort preceded entitlement. Failures were lessons, not traumas. Silence had meaning, patience had dignity, and perseverance was not optional—it was survival.

A Generation Between Two Worlds

The 1961 generation stands uniquely balanced—rooted in tradition yet conversant with technology; respectful of authority yet capable of questioning it. We remember waiting, striving, and earning. Perhaps that is why resilience comes naturally to us. We have lived through enough change to know that nothing is permanent—not even hardship.

In Reflection

Looking back, being born in 1961 feels like being handed a bridge—between eras, ideologies, and identities. It was a year that did not promise ease, but it quietly guaranteed depth.

Born when walls rose high in fear,
Yet stars were touched, so far, so near.
A year of conflict, courage, creed,
Of silent strength and thoughtful deed.

We learnt to wait, to walk, to rise,
With hope held firm and watchful eyes.
1961—no borrowed light,
A steady flame through wrong and right.

If the year of birth shapes the soul, then 1961 shaped us to endure, to reflect, and above all, to believe that progress—though slow—is always possible when guided by conscience and courage.

Between Masks and Mirrors: Am I Truly a Good Judge of Character?

Between Masks and Mirrors: Am I Truly a Good Judge of Character?

Am I a good judge of character?
It is a question that tiptoes into my mind often—sometimes invited by experience, sometimes provoked by betrayal, and at times gently nudged by moments of quiet pride when my instincts stood vindicated. Like most human enquiries, the answer is neither a confident yes nor a dismissive no. It lies somewhere in between, suspended delicately between wisdom earned and errors endured.

The Early Confidence of First Impressions

In our early years, judging character appears deceptively simple. A warm smile, fluent speech, social grace, or a position of authority often masquerades as moral depth. As young learners of life, we tend to trust appearances. Psychology calls this the halo effect—our tendency to attribute goodness to someone based on one favourable trait. Experience, however, soon teaches us that eloquence does not guarantee empathy, nor does silence imply insignificance.
History is replete with examples where crowds were swayed by charisma rather than character, and societies paid a heavy price for mistaking confidence for conscience.

Experience: The Stern but Honest Teacher

With age and exposure, judgement becomes more layered. Having spent decades as an educator and school leader, I learned that character reveals itself not on ceremonial stages but in corridors, staff rooms, and moments of crisis. How one treats the powerless, how one responds to disagreement, and how one behaves when no applause is expected—these are the true litmus tests.
Yet, even seasoned observers falter. Human beings are complex, layered with fears, aspirations, insecurities, and survival instincts. Behavioural science reminds us that context often dictates conduct. A good person may act poorly under pressure, while a manipulator may perform virtue convincingly when it serves self-interest.

The Clash Between Intuition and Evidence

I have often trusted my intuition—and more often than not, it has served me well. Intuition is not mystical; it is the subconscious processing of years of observation. Still, intuition without reflection can harden into prejudice. A good judge of character must therefore balance gut feeling with grounded evidence.
In the contemporary world of social media, curated personas and digital masks further complicate this judgement. We now assess character through status updates, forwarded wisdom, and filtered smiles—often forgetting that integrity cannot be uploaded, and values cannot be edited.

Pros and Cons of Judging Characters

Pros:

1. Helps in forming trustworthy relationships
2. Protects one from manipulation and emotional harm
3. Enables better leadership and decision-making

Cons:

1. Risk of misjudgement due to bias or incomplete information
2. Can lead to unfair labelling and missed relationships
3. Overconfidence in judgement may blind self-awareness
4. True wisdom lies not in claiming accuracy, but in allowing room for revision.

A Lifelong Refinement

Today, I no longer claim to be a perfect judge of character. Instead, I aspire to be a fair one—patient, observant, and willing to admit error. I have learned that character is not a fixed portrait but a moving picture, shaped by time, trials, and transformation.
Perhaps the greatest judgement of character is not how we assess others, but how honestly we assess ourselves.

I judged by words, by gait, by face,
By borrowed light and social grace;
But time revealed, with quiet art,
That truth resides within the heart.

Not all who falter lack their worth,
Not all who shine are saints by birth;
Judge less in haste, observe in care,
For souls are deep, and life unfair.

If I must judge, let this be so—
With humble mind and ego low;
For character, like flowing streams,
Is more than what it first appears or seems.

In the end, being a good judge of character is not a destination—it is a disciplined journey, marked by empathy, awareness, and the courage to keep learning.

When Silence Smiles Back: The Quiet Hours of My Happiness

When Silence Smiles Back: The Quiet Hours of My Happiness

Happiness, I have realised over the years, is not a trumpet-blown announcement nor a firework-lit spectacle. It does not always arrive with applause, achievement, or abundance. More often than not, it tiptoes in—unannounced, unassuming—settling beside me when I least expect it. If asked when I am most happy, my honest answer would be: when life allows me to be fully present, unhurried, and meaningful—without having to prove anything to anyone.
There was a time when happiness seemed tightly tied to roles and responsibilities: being a Principal, meeting deadlines, standing on stages, shaping institutions, guiding teachers, addressing parents, motivating students. Those years were fulfilling, no doubt, but they were also noisy—crowded with expectations, comparisons, and constant motion. Happiness then was often postponed, like a reward to be claimed later.
Today, happiness visits me in quieter forms.
I am most happy when the morning greets me gently—with a cup of tea, a readable silence, and the luxury of thought. In those moments, I am not reacting to the world; I am conversing with myself. Years of physics taught me laws and logic, but age has taught me balance—between motion and rest, ambition and acceptance. The mind, like a pendulum, needs both swing and stillness.
I am most happy when words flow honestly onto paper. Writing has become my sanctuary—a space where memory, philosophy, faith, history, and lived experience sit together without hierarchy. When I write, I am neither retired nor ageing; I am simply alive. Words give dignity to my silences and shape my reflections. They remind me that usefulness does not retire with designation.
Happiness also blooms in the laughter of my grandchildren, in the warmth of family conversations that do not demand explanations, only presence. There is a unique joy in watching life begin afresh—innocent, curious, unburdened by the weight of self-doubt that adults carry so effortlessly. In such moments, happiness feels generational, almost sacred.
I am most happy when I feel needed—not out of obligation, but out of trust. A thoughtful message, a request for guidance, a shared concern—these reassure me that wisdom still has a place, even in a world dazzled by speed and novelty. Popularity may fade, but relevance rooted in sincerity endures.
Interestingly, happiness does not mean the absence of loneliness. Sometimes they coexist. But happiness teaches me to sit with loneliness without bitterness, to treat it as a season—not a sentence. Psychology tells us that acceptance is a powerful coping mechanism; philosophy tells us it is wisdom. Life confirms both.
In a world obsessed with loud success, I have learned to cherish quiet contentment. I am most happy when my conscience is light, my relationships are honest, my faith is steady, and my days—though simpler—are purposeful.
Happiness, for me, is no longer a destination.
It is a manner of travelling.
When silence smiles back at me,
When memories no longer hurt but teach,
When I give without keeping my score,
And receive without guilt—
That is when I am most happy.

Not because life is perfect,
But because I have learned
To live it—fully, faithfully,
And without pretence.