A Few Words at Full Speed: If My Life Were a Billboard

A Few Words at Full Speed: If My Life Were a Billboard

There is something deeply paradoxical about a freeway billboard. It stands still while the world rushes past it. Cars speed by, minds preoccupied, hearts burdened, ambitions racing ahead of reason. And yet, in those fleeting seconds, a single sentence can lodge itself into a traveller’s consciousness like a seed dropped on fertile soil. If I were given such a billboard—just one, towering over the relentless flow of life—what would it say?

After much reflection, I believe my billboard would read:
“Slow down. Not everything precious is meant to be chased.”

In an age where speed has become a virtue and busyness a badge of honour, we have quietly forgotten the art of pausing. We race against clocks, compete with calendars, and measure our worth in deadlines met and targets crossed.

Somewhere along this high-speed journey, we misplace the very things that make life meaningful—peace, relationships, gratitude, and inner balance. The billboard’s message would not be a reprimand, but a gentle nudge, an invitation to breathe.

Freeways are symbols of modern existence—efficient, directional, and unforgiving of hesitation. Life, however, is not always meant to be lived in the fast lane. Some lessons reveal themselves only when we slow our pace: the quiet wisdom of ageing, the innocence in a child’s laughter, the solace of music in solitude, or the grace of faith that sustains us when logic fails. As someone who has walked through classrooms, corridors of responsibility, and the quieter halls of retirement, I have learnt that speed impresses the world, but stillness heals the soul.

Philosophers across cultures have echoed this truth. The Bhagavad Gita speaks of sthita-prajna—the person of steady wisdom, unmoved by frenzy. The Bible reminds us, “Be still, and know that I am God.” Even the Stoics believed that mastery over one’s inner tempo was the highest form of freedom. My billboard would, therefore, carry not just a personal reflection, but a timeless counsel drawn from humanity’s collective wisdom.
It would also speak to the young driver, eyes fixed on the horizon of ambition, and to the weary commuter, weighed down by unspoken worries. It would whisper that life is not a race to be won, but a journey to be understood. That success without serenity is a hollow triumph, and progress without purpose is merely motion.

If words could function like a speed breaker for the mind, this would be mine. A sentence that asks nothing, sells nothing, demands nothing—except a moment of awareness. For sometimes, all a tired soul needs is not another destination, but a reminder to look within.

Because not everything precious is meant to be chased—
some things are meant to be held,
some felt in silence,
and some discovered only
when we dare to slow down.

Between Yesterday’s Echo and Tomorrow’s Whisper

Between Yesterday’s Echo and Tomorrow’s Whisper

Do I spend more time thinking about the past or the future? If I am honest with myself, the answer is not a straight line but a gentle curve, bending back and forth between remembrance and anticipation. Life, after all, is rarely lived at the exact point we call the present; it is more often revisited in memory or rehearsed in hope.

The past, for me, is not a dusty archive. It is a living classroom. Each memory carries the weight of lessons learnt—sometimes gently, sometimes the hard way. Growing up across cultures, shaped by faith, discipline, and circumstance, I often find myself leafing through old chapters of life. The past explains who I am: the struggles that toughened my resolve, the mentors who refined my thinking, the failures that humbled me, and the small victories that quietly built confidence. To look back is not to dwell in regret but to acknowledge the shoulders on which I stand. As the old saying goes, we do not see far unless we stand on the vantage point of yesterday.

Yet, it would be unfair to say I live in the past. Nostalgia can be a warm blanket, but if wrapped too tightly, it restricts movement. I have learnt that excessive backward glances can turn wisdom into wistfulness. The past must inform, not imprison. Like the rear-view mirror in a car, it is essential—but dangerous if stared at for too long.

The future, on the other hand, arrives dressed in questions. It invites planning, dreaming, and sometimes anxiety. In this phase of life, the future is no longer a long, unbroken highway; it is a thoughtfully mapped path. I think of the future not in terms of ambition alone, but in purpose—how to remain useful, relevant, and rooted. What more can I contribute? Whom can I guide? What unfinished work still waits for my attention? These questions keep the mind alert and the spirit young.

Thinking about the future gives direction to my present actions. It encourages discipline, learning, and adaptability. Hope, after all, is a forward-facing emotion.

Philosophically speaking, the future is faith in motion—belief that tomorrow can still be shaped by today’s choices.

So where does my mind truly spend more time? Perhaps at a crossroads—drawing wisdom from the past and courage from the future. The present becomes meaningful only when it balances both. Too much past leads to stagnation; too much future breeds restlessness. The art of living lies in using yesterday as a teacher and tomorrow as a motivator, while remaining fully awake today.

In the end, I do not belong exclusively to either the past or the future. I walk with both—one hand holding memory, the other holding hope—while my feet stay firmly planted in the now. That, I believe, is where life is most honestly lived.

The Serious Business of Play: Finding Joy Between the Lines of Life

The Serious Business of Play: Finding Joy Between the Lines of Life

Do I play in my daily life? The honest answer is—yes, though not always in ways that announce themselves with whistles, scoreboards, or applause. Play, to me, is no longer confined to playgrounds or board games; it has quietly evolved, slipping into the crevices of routine, disguising itself as simplicity, and often arriving uninvited yet most welcome.
In childhood, playtime was a declared hour—sunlight on dusty grounds, scraped knees worn like medals, and laughter that rose without self-consciousness. As adults, we allow that hour to be swallowed by duty, deadlines, and the solemn belief that seriousness is a sign of maturity. Somewhere along the way, play was demoted from a necessity to a luxury. Yet life, I have learned, becomes unbearably heavy when play is packed away like an old toy deemed childish.
Today, playtime speaks to me in quieter dialects. It is the unplanned conversation that wanders from the profound to the absurd. It is humming an old Mukesh song while fingers absent-mindedly find their way across a harmonium or keyboard. It is the gentle teasing exchanged within the family, the shared smile with a grandchild who sees magic where adults see mundanity. In those moments, time loosens its grip, and the soul stretches its legs.
Play, for me, is also intellectual and emotional. It lives in words—when I toy with metaphors, juggle idioms, or let history and mythology dance with present-day realities on the page. Writing, when freed from expectation, becomes play. Reading without an agenda, revisiting a familiar book, or allowing the mind to wander through philosophy without the burden of conclusions—all these are forms of play that nourish rather than exhaust.
There is a philosophical truth echoed across cultures: the child within never truly leaves; it merely waits to be acknowledged. Indian thought speaks of lila—the divine play of the universe—suggesting that creation itself is an act of joyful expression. When life is seen only as struggle, we reduce existence to survival. When play is allowed back in, life regains balance, rhythm, and grace.
Playtime, therefore, is not an escape from responsibility but a companion to it. It restores proportion, softens edges, and reminds us that not every moment needs to justify itself with productivity. A walk taken without counting steps, music listened to without analysis, laughter shared without reason—these are quiet rebellions against a life overburdened with purpose.
In my daily life, play says this to me: Pause. Breathe. Delight is not a distraction; it is a sustenance.
And so, even now, amid responsibilities and reflections, I choose to play—not loudly, not always visibly, but sincerely. For a life without play may continue to move forward, but it forgets how to dance.

Mountains Within: The Quiet Battles That Shape Me

Mountains Within: The Quiet Battles That Shape Me

When people ask about my biggest challenges, they often expect a list shaped by circumstances — age, health, finances, or the changing pace of the world. Those challenges do exist, standing tall like familiar milestones along the road of life. Yet, if I listen carefully, the truest challenges speak in a quieter voice. They are not always visible, but they are deeply felt. They are the mountains within.
One of my greatest challenges has been remaining relevant in a world obsessed with novelty. Experience, once revered, now competes with speed, youth, and instant visibility. After decades in education — years spent shaping minds, building institutions, mentoring teachers and students — retirement did not end my desire to contribute. What it changed was the platform. To continue offering wisdom while being subtly told that age is a liability rather than an asset requires resilience, humility, and an unshaken belief in one’s worth.
Another enduring challenge is learning to live with unanswered expectations. Life does not always reward sincerity immediately, nor does it always reciprocate effort in equal measure. There have been moments when dedication went unnoticed, when trust was misplaced, and when silence followed genuine outreach. Accepting this without bitterness — without allowing disappointment to harden into cynicism — has been a slow and conscious discipline.
Loneliness, too, presents itself as a silent test. It is not merely the absence of people, but the absence of being needed as one once was. Social circles shrink, conversations become brief, and digital acknowledgements replace human presence. Yet, this challenge has also been a teacher. It has nudged me towards introspection, towards music, prayer, writing, and a deeper companionship with my own thoughts. In solitude, I have discovered that loneliness can either imprison or illuminate — the choice lies within.
There is also the challenge of balancing dignity with dependence. Advancing years bring wisdom, but they also demand adjustments — emotional, physical, and financial. Accepting support without feeling diminished, contributing without overstepping, and remaining grateful without feeling burdensome is a delicate equilibrium. It requires grace — towards oneself and towards others.
Perhaps the most persistent challenge is remaining hopeful without being naïve. The world is fractured by conflict, intolerance, and moral fatigue. Institutions falter, values blur, and compassion often struggles for space. Yet, surrendering hope would be the greatest defeat. To continue believing in goodness, in learning, in kindness — despite evidence to the contrary — is not ignorance; it is courage.
Challenges, I have realised, are not roadblocks meant to stop us. They are mirrors meant to refine us. Each one asks a quiet question: Who are you becoming because of this?
And so, I walk on — not without weariness, but with willingness; not without scars, but with stories.

Some battles shout, some battles sigh,
Some test the strength we keep inside.
The greatest wars are rarely seen,
They shape the soul — the space between.

If I still rise, if I still care,
If hope survives my whispered prayer,
Then every challenge, faced and known,
Has gently led me closer home.

When Yesterday Knocks Softly at the Door

When Yesterday Knocks Softly at the Door

Nostalgia is a gentle but persistent visitor. It does not announce its arrival with fanfare; instead, it slips in quietly—through a familiar tune, the smell of wet earth after the first monsoon shower, or the sight of an old photograph whose edges have curled with time. What makes me nostalgic is not merely the past itself, but the emotions the past still carries, like echoes that refuse to fade.
Music is perhaps my most faithful time machine. A Mukesh song from the 1960s, a hymn once sung in a school assembly, or a raga flowing tenderly from a flute can transport me instantly to another era. In those moments, I am no longer bound by the present. I am a young boy again—listening, learning, hoping. Music does not age; it only deepens, much like memory itself. Each note seems to carry the warmth of voices long gone and the comfort of silences once shared.
Places, too, awaken nostalgia with startling ease. A quiet school corridor, a playground at dusk, or a hill road winding into the unknown brings back the discipline, laughter, and innocence of my formative years. Having lived across cultures and geographies—Odisha, Nepal, boarding schools with English traditions—my nostalgia is layered. Each place has left its imprint, shaping my worldview and reminding me that identity is often a mosaic of many homes.
Relationships form the heart of nostalgic longing. Teachers who believed before I did, students whose curious eyes once looked up with trust, colleagues who shared both burdens and breakthroughs—all return uninvited yet warmly welcomed. Now, as a grandfather watching my grandchildren grow, I often find myself comparing generations, smiling at how time moves forward even as memory pulls us back. Nostalgia, then, becomes a bridge between who I was and who I am.
Even objects have a quiet way of stirring the soul. Old books with underlined passages, a harmonium resting patiently in the corner, handwritten notes from another lifetime—these are not mere things. They are witnesses. They remind me of effort, aspiration, and a slower rhythm of life where patience was a virtue, not an inconvenience.
Philosophically, nostalgia is a reminder of impermanence. Indian thought speaks of smriti—memory—as both a blessing and a burden. It teaches us gratitude for what has been, without imprisoning us in what can no longer be. In this sense, nostalgia is not an escape but a gentle teacher. It urges us to live the present more fully, knowing that today, too, will one day be remembered with longing.
Ultimately, what makes me nostalgic is the realisation that life, in all its fragility and beauty, has been kind in ways I only understand in retrospect. Nostalgia does not make me sad; it makes me reflective. It whispers that I have lived, loved, learned—and that in itself is a quiet triumph.
And so I end with these stanzas:

Yesterday walks beside me, not to bind my feet,
But to remind my heart of roads once sweet.
In every memory, a lesson lies,
In every tear, a truth disguised.

If time must pass, let it pass with grace,
Leaving gentle footprints, not a vacant space.
For when nostalgia softly calls my name,
I smile—life, it seems, was worth the flame.

More Than a Jersey: How Colours and Mascots Shape the Soul of a Sports Team

More Than a Jersey: How Colours and Mascots Shape the Soul of a Sports Team

In the theatre of sport, where passion often runs higher than reason and loyalty lasts longer than logic, two silent yet powerful actors command enduring influence — colours and mascots. Long before a ball is kicked, a bat is swung, or a whistle is blown, these symbols begin to speak. They whisper identity, shout intent, and quietly stitch individuals into a collective spirit. A sports team may be built with players and strategies, but it is sustained by symbols that endure far beyond any season.

The Power of Colours: Emotion in Visible Form

Colours are not mere aesthetic choices; they are psychological triggers. Science, culture, and history converge in the way colours influence human behaviour. Red ignites aggression and urgency, blue calms and commands trust, green signifies growth and balance, black denotes authority and resilience, while gold symbolises excellence and achievement.
In sport, colours become emotional uniforms. They create instant recognition, forge belonging, and often intimidate opponents. A fan does not merely wear a colour; he or she inhabits it. Stadiums turn into seas of shared emotion, where colour becomes language and loyalty becomes visible.
Historically too, colours have held symbolic meaning — from the banners of Roman legions to the flags of freedom movements. In Indian philosophy, colours correspond to the gunas:
– Sattva (white) for balance and wisdom,
– Rajas (red) for action and ambition,
– Tamas (black) for stability and endurance.
A wise team draws not from excess, but from harmony.

Mascots: The Living Metaphor

If colours form the skin of a team, the mascot becomes its soul in motion. Mascots personify values — courage, speed, intelligence, resilience, unity. From lions and eagles to mythical creatures, mascots translate abstract ideals into relatable symbols.
Anthropologically, humans have always relied on totems — animals or symbols representing tribal identity and protection. In the Mahabharata, banners bore emblems that reflected a warrior’s temperament. Arjuna’s flag bore Hanuman, symbolising strength guided by wisdom. The message was clear: power must walk hand in hand with purpose.
A good mascot does not frighten alone; it inspires. It becomes a rallying point for children, a badge of pride for supporters, and a psychological anchor for players under pressure.

If I Were to Have a Sports Team…

If I were to found a sports team, my choices would not be impulsive or ornamental; they would be philosophical and purposeful.
– Team Colours: Deep Blue and Burnished Gold
Deep Blue would represent depth, discipline, trust, and calm under pressure — qualities essential for sustained excellence. Blue is the colour of the infinite sky and the unfathomable ocean; it reminds players to remain composed, reflective, and steady even when storms rage.
– Burnished Gold would signify aspiration, dignity, and earned success — not flashy victory, but excellence achieved through perseverance. Gold does not shout; it glows.
Together, blue and gold speak of wisdom allied with ambition, a balance of head and heart.
– Mascot: The Elephant
I would choose the Elephant as the mascot — a symbol deeply rooted in Indian ethos and universally respected.
The elephant stands for:
1. Strength without arrogance
2. Memory and learning
3. Teamwork and loyalty
4. Quiet authority rather than noisy aggression

In Indian mythology, Lord Ganesha embodies intellect, foresight, and the removal of obstacles — precisely what a team needs in moments of crisis. The elephant moves steadily, protects its own, and never charges without reason. It teaches that true power lies not in speed alone, but in purposeful movement.
In a sporting world obsessed with instant results, the elephant reminds us that endurance outlasts excitement.

Beyond Branding: Building a Legacy

Colours and mascots are not marketing accessories; they are moral compasses. They remind players who they are meant to be, even when no one is watching. They create continuity when teams change, and identity when circumstances falter.
A team that understands its symbol plays not just to win, but to represent. As the saying goes, “You can change the players, but not the colours they sweat for.”

In the end, a sports team is a microcosm of life itself — conflict, cooperation, failure, hope, and renewal. Colours give it emotion; mascots give it meaning. Chosen wisely, they transform a group of athletes into a living idea.
And when the final whistle blows, trophies may tarnish, but symbols endure — quietly reminding generations that once, a team stood for something more than just victory.
Because in sport, as in life, what you stand for matters as much as how you play.

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.