The Pen That Knew My Secrets

The Pen That Knew My Secrets

There are objects that serve us, and then there are objects that stay with us. In my youth, one such object was not expensive, not fashionable, and certainly not worthy of a museum display. It was a simple fountain pen—black-bodied, slightly scratched, with a stubborn nib that worked only when it felt respected. Yet, to me, it was nothing short of sacred.

I received this pen during my school days, at a time when possessions were few and attachments were deep. It was gifted to me after I had done reasonably well in an examination—not brilliantly, just well enough to earn encouragement rather than applause. That pen became my silent companion through adolescence, ambition, disappointment, and discovery.

Long before passwords and privacy settings existed, that pen held my secrets with unwavering loyalty.
The pen travelled everywhere with me. It attended classes more regularly than I did. It listened patiently as I scribbled half-baked poetry, dramatic diary entries, and philosophical thoughts far beyond my age and wisdom. It also bore the burden of my mathematical sins—wrong answers, overwritten solutions, and ink blots that resembled abstract art. I was convinced that if the pen wrote well, I would think better. When it refused to cooperate, I blamed it for my poor handwriting and even poorer answers.

What made the relationship truly intimate was the ritual surrounding it. The pen was cleaned lovingly, filled carefully, and capped ceremoniously. I carried it in my shirt pocket like a badge of honour. Once, when it leaked and stained my white uniform with an inky bruise, I did not scold it. Instead, I defended it fiercely at home, claiming it was a “badge of seriousness”. My grandmother mother was unconvinced. The pen, however, remained proud.

There were humorous moments too. On more than one occasion, the pen rolled off the desk during an exam, choosing precisely the most silent moment to make its escape. Retrieving it felt like a public confession. The invigilator’s raised eyebrow said more than a thousand words. Yet, even in disgrace, the pen and I stood together—partners in crime and creativity.

As years passed, newer pens arrived—sleeker, shinier, and supposedly superior. But none felt right. They wrote too smoothly, too quickly, as if rushing my thoughts. This old pen demanded patience. It taught me that good ideas, like good ink, need time to flow.
And then, one day, it was gone.
I do not remember the exact moment of separation, which makes the loss even more poignant. Perhaps it was left behind in a classroom, or borrowed by someone who did not understand its temperament. Perhaps it simply decided that its work with me was done. Objects, after all, have their own timelines.

What became of it? Physically, I will never know. But metaphorically, it never left me. That pen shaped my relationship with words, with silence, and with thought itself. It taught me discipline, patience, and the quiet joy of expression. In many ways, every sentence I write today carries a trace of its ink.

Looking back, the attachment was never about the pen. It was about a phase of life when dreams were fragile, resources were limited, and imagination did most of the heavy lifting. The pen was a witness to becoming—to the slow, sometimes comical, sometimes painful act of growing up.

We outgrow objects, but we never outgrow what they gave us. The pen may have disappeared into anonymity, but it left behind something far more enduring: a lifelong love for writing, and the comforting belief that even the simplest things can leave the deepest impressions.

Somewhere, in some forgotten drawer or dusty corner of the world, that pen may still exist—dry, silent, and unassuming. If it does, I hope it knows this: it was never just a pen. It was a confidant, a teacher, and a quiet friend in ink.

A Long Life or a Lived Life? Reflections Beyond the Count of Years

A Long Life or a Lived Life? Reflections Beyond the Count of Years

The idea of living a very long life has fascinated humanity since time immemorial. From ancient scriptures that speak of sages living for centuries to modern laboratories racing to slow ageing, the aspiration to extend life seems almost instinctive. But beneath this desire lies a quieter, more searching question: Is a long life necessarily a good life?
In today’s world, longevity is often spoken of in terms of numbers—life expectancy, biological age, anti-ageing breakthroughs, and miracle diets. Medical science deserves its due credit; it has helped many live longer, healthier lives, easing pain and extending productivity. Yet, I often wonder whether our obsession with how long we live has overshadowed the more important question of how well we live.
A very long life, in itself, is neither a blessing nor a burden. Its value depends on what fills those added years. Longevity accompanied by purpose, dignity, curiosity, and emotional balance can be a gift. But longevity weighed down by loneliness, bitterness, physical dependence without empathy, and the absence of meaning can feel like an extended waiting room rather than a celebration of existence.
Indian philosophy offers an insightful distinction between Ayush (span of life) and Jeevan (the act of living). The scriptures seldom glorify mere length of years; instead, they emphasise Purna Jeevan—a complete life. Even the Mahabharata reminds us that life is measured not by breaths taken, but by moments that take our breath away. The West echoes this sentiment too; Seneca warned that it is not that life is short, but that we waste much of it.
Living very long also brings with it a responsibility—towards oneself and towards others. One must age gracefully, not merely biologically. Growing older should ideally mean growing kinder, wiser, and lighter in one’s emotional baggage. Sadly, we often see the opposite: years accumulating without introspection, experience without wisdom, and authority without humility. Age, when unaccompanied by growth, becomes a hollow crown.
There is also a social dimension to longevity. A long life should not become an undue emotional or financial burden on the younger generation. When elders remain mentally engaged, emotionally available, and ethically grounded, they become anchors of stability and reservoirs of lived wisdom. When they withdraw into entitlement or despair, longevity turns into silent isolation—for them and for those around them.
Personally, I believe the goal should not be to live very long at any cost, but to live deep. To remain curious, to keep learning, to stay connected with people and ideas, to contribute meaningfully even in small ways, and to accept the natural arc of life with grace. A shorter life lived with integrity and joy is far richer than a longer one lived in regret or inertia.
In the end, life is not a race against death but a dialogue with time. Whether our years are many or few, what truly matters is whether we were present, purposeful, and humane while we were here. Longevity may add pages to the book of life, but it is depth, not length, that makes it worth reading.
After all, it is not the candle that matters,
But the warmth and light it gives.
Better a steady flame with meaning,
Than a long wick that merely exists.

If I Had the Wisdom of Hindsight: What I Would Do Differently

If I Had the Wisdom of Hindsight: What I Would Do Differently

There comes a quiet hour in life—often unannounced—when reflection sits beside us like an old friend. It does not accuse, nor does it flatter. It simply asks, “What could you do differently?” Not to reopen old wounds, but to examine scars that have healed and lessons that have endured.
At this stage of life, when calendars matter less than conscience and speed yields to substance, the question feels neither regretful nor rebellious. It feels necessary.

Listening More, Speaking Slower

If I could do one thing differently, I would listen more—not to reply, but to understand. In the urgency of responsibility and leadership, especially during my years in education, I often mistook decisiveness for wisdom. I now realise that silence, when used thoughtfully, can be far more instructive than eloquence.
Time teaches us that every voice carries a story, and every pause carries meaning. Had I slowed my speech and softened my certainty, I might have learnt earlier what life taught me later—with greater effort.

Valuing Time Over Timetables

I would also do differently by valuing moments over milestones. In chasing deadlines, targets, and outcomes, I sometimes postponed joy—believing it could be scheduled later. But joy, like grace, rarely waits for permission.
The irony is unmistakable: we save time for tomorrow, only to discover tomorrow arrives lighter than expected. I would choose now more often—now with family, now with music, now with stillness.

Being Kinder to Myself

If honesty must prevail, I would be gentler with myself. Like many of my generation, I wore endurance as a badge of honour and silence as a virtue. I learnt to carry burdens without complaint, believing resilience meant never faltering.
But strength does not diminish when we acknowledge fatigue. Had I understood this earlier, I might have rested without guilt and asked for help without hesitation.

Redefining Success

Once, success meant position, recognition, and measurable achievement. Today, I would define it differently—by peace of mind, by integrity retained, by relationships preserved. Titles fade, applause disperses, but character remains, quietly keeping account.
Philosophy and mythology echo this truth. Like King Yayati, who sought endless youth only to realise its futility, we often learn too late that fulfilment lies not in acquisition, but in alignment—with values, with purpose, with the self.

Trusting the Inner Compass

Perhaps most importantly, I would trust my inner compass more. There were moments when intuition whispered caution, but convention demanded compliance. I now know that the soul often sees further than strategy.
Doing differently does not mean doing perfectly. It means acting more honestly, choosing more consciously, and living more deliberately.

If I could walk my yesterdays again,
I would tread softer, pause longer,
Carry less, forgive sooner,
And listen—to others, and to myself.

For life is not revised by erasing chapters,
But by reading them with wiser eyes,
And writing the next page
With courage earned, not borrowed.

In the end, what I would do differently is simple, though not easy:
I would live less on autopilot and more on awareness.

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.