Anchored to the Invisible: Why Some Places, People and Things Refuse to Let Us Go

Anchored to the Invisible: Why Some Places, People and Things Refuse to Let Us Go

There are places we leave but never quite depart from. People we meet briefly yet carry for a lifetime. Things so ordinary that the world would laugh at our sentiment, yet their loss can leave us hollow. This quiet, persistent pull—this attachment—is one of the most human experiences we know, though we rarely pause to ask why it happens.

Attachment is not weakness, as modern vocabulary sometimes suggests. Nor is it mere nostalgia. It is memory learning to breathe, emotion learning to settle, and identity learning where it belongs.

The Geography of the Heart

We often say, “This place feels like home,” even when it is not where we were born. A school corridor, a temple courtyard, a railway platform, a winding road at dusk—what makes them cling to us?

Places absorb our presence. They witness our first attempts, our failures, our quiet triumphs. The bench where we waited for exam results, the kitchen where conversations stretched beyond midnight, the town where we learned to survive with dignity—these spaces became silent companions. Philosopher Gaston Bachelard wrote that places are not inert; they are “repositories of memory.” In Indian thought, this aligns closely with sanskara—impressions left on the mind through lived experience.
We do not merely remember places; we remember who we were in those places. To revisit them is to shake hands with earlier versions of ourselves.

People as Emotional Landmarks

Our attachment to people is even more complex. Some relationships are forged by blood, others by circumstance, and a few by sheer grace. Not everyone who walks with us stays, yet some leave footprints deep enough to shape our path long after they are gone.
Why does a teacher’s encouragement echo decades later? Why does the loss of a friend feel like the loss of a language only the two of you spoke?
Because relationships are mirrors. They reflect parts of us we may never see alone. Through others, we learn courage, restraint, laughter, patience, and sometimes pain. In the Bhagavad Gita, Krishna reminds Arjuna that attachment (moha) binds, yet love (prema) liberates. The problem is not caring deeply—it is forgetting impermanence.

Still, the heart is not a courtroom of logic. It remembers warmth long after reason has ruled otherwise.

Objects That Outgrow Their Use

A pen, a book, a watch, an old harmonium, a faded photograph—why do we struggle to discard them when their practical value has long expired?
Because objects become vessels. They hold stories. A cracked mug remembers early mornings of hope. A notebook remembers ambitions written before fear learned to edit. These things were present when words failed and when silence was enough.

In a fast-discard culture, attachment to objects is often mocked as sentimentality. Yet anthropology tells us that civilisations have always revered objects—not for their price, but for their presence. They anchor time. They remind us that life is not only forward-moving but also inward-deepening.

The Science Beneath the Sentiment

Modern psychology explains attachment through neural pathways. Emotion and memory share close quarters in the brain. When strong feelings accompany an experience—joy, fear, belonging—the brain ties them together. That is why a smell can transport us decades back, and a song can unlock emotions we thought were long buried.

But science explains the how, not the meaning. The meaning lies elsewhere.

Attachment as Identity in Disguise

At its core, attachment is about identity. We attach to what helps us answer the quiet question: Who am I?
The place where we felt competent.

The person who believed in us when we did not.
The object that accompanied us through uncertainty.
To lose them feels like losing a chapter of ourselves. That is why detachment, though spiritually exalted, is emotionally demanding. True detachment does not deny love; it honours it without clinging.

Learning to Hold Without Gripping

Indian philosophy does not ask us to become cold. It asks us to become conscious. To love deeply, yet accept change. To cherish, yet not possess. To remember, yet not be imprisoned by memory.

Perhaps maturity lies not in avoiding attachment, but in refining it—learning to hold life with open palms rather than clenched fists.

A Gentle  Thought

We feel attached because we are alive, because we have dared to feel, because something once mattered enough to leave a mark. And that, in a world increasingly allergic to depth, is no small blessing.

Some places will always whisper our name.
Some people will always arrive unannounced in thought.
Some things will always outgrow their usefulness and yet remain priceless.

They stay—not to trap us in the past—but to remind us that we lived, we loved, and we belonged, if only for a while.

From Ink to Icons: How I Speak in the Digital Square

From Ink to Icons: How I Speak in the Digital Square

There was a time when communication demanded effort—ink-stained fingers, envelopes carefully addressed, and patience measured in days rather than seconds. Today, my words travel faster than my thoughts, leaping across screens and continents with the tap of a finger. Online communication has become my modern dak ghar, and like every good post office, it carries joy, misunderstanding, silence, and connection in equal measure.

The Written Word, Reborn

Emails remain my preferred instrument of clarity. They are the digital descendants of letters—structured, purposeful, and capable of carrying weight. An email allows me to pause, think, delete, rewrite, and finally press ‘send’ with a sense of responsibility. In a world addicted to haste, email still permits a moment of decorum. It is where I remain most myself—measured, reflective, and occasionally verbose.

WhatsApp: The Village Square

If emails are letters, WhatsApp is conversation over the garden fence. Short messages, forwarded wisdom (and occasional foolishness), photographs of sunsets, grandchildren, and half-eaten meals—everything finds a place here. Emojis have become emotional shorthand: a folded-hands icon replaces a paragraph of gratitude, while a smiley can soften even the sharpest remark. Yet, like any village square, it can fall silent without warning, reminding me that digital presence does not guarantee emotional availability.

Social Media: Speaking to the Invisible Crowd

Platforms like Facebook feel like addressing an unseen audience from a balcony. I share thoughts, memories, and occasional reflections, not knowing who truly listens and who merely scrolls past. Likes have replaced nods of agreement; comments have become brief footnotes to longer conversations never held. It is communication with echoes—sometimes affirming, sometimes hollow—but undeniably addictive.

Blogs: My Digital Diary with the Door Open

Blog writing is where I breathe freely. It is my chalkboard, my lectern, my confession box. Here, I mix humour with philosophy, nostalgia with social commentary. Blogs allow me to communicate without interruption, without the tyranny of character limits. They are my way of saying, “This is what I think—take it or leave it.” Strangely, writing to strangers often feels more honest than speaking to acquaintances.

Video Calls: Faces Without Presence

Video calls promise intimacy but often deliver a compromise. Faces appear, voices lag, emotions pixelate. Still, seeing familiar eyes across a screen carries comfort. These calls have taught me that presence is not merely visual—it is attentiveness. A distracted listener is distant even when visible; a thoughtful one feels near even through a screen.

The Unsaid, the Unread, the Unanswered

Online communication has also taught me the art of reading silence. A message seen but unanswered can speak volumes. Delayed replies, muted groups, and digital distancing have become part of modern etiquette. I have learnt not to knock repeatedly on closed digital doors. Silence, too, is a form of communication—often the loudest.

The Balancing Act

In all these forms, I attempt to remain human. I try not to let speed replace sensitivity or convenience eclipse compassion. Technology may deliver messages, but meaning still depends on intent. Behind every screen is a person—fragile, busy, hopeful, or tired.

I communicate online in many ways, but my aim remains singular: to connect without losing myself. Whether through carefully crafted emails, fleeting messages, or thoughtful blogs, I seek not just to be heard, but to be understood. In the end, the medium may change, but the heart still searches for the same thing it always has—a listening ear and a responding soul.
Because even in a world of Wi-Fi and passwords, the strongest connection remains human.

Crumbs of Contentment: What I Would Snack on Right Now

Crumbs of Contentment: What I Would Snack on Right Now

There are serious questions in life—about purpose, destiny, and whether the universe has a sense of humour. And then there are urgent questions, the kind that tap you on the shoulder at odd hours and whisper insistently: What snack would you eat right now?

This, I submit, is not a frivolous question. It is a philosophical one, best answered somewhere between the kettle’s first whistle and the cupboard’s last rattle.

At this precise moment, if the world were kind and my metabolism forgiving, I would begin with the humblest yet most dependable of companions: a cup of strong, adrak-laced tea. Not the fancy, latte-sipping cousin, but proper tea—dark, earnest, and capable of restoring faith in humanity. Tea, after all, is not merely a beverage; it is a pause button. It tells the mind, “Slow down, the universe can wait five minutes.”

With the tea, I would reach—without shame or apology—for two Marie biscuits. Only two, mind you. This is self-control in its most heroic form. The third biscuit is always a slippery slope, the beginning of moral decline. Marie biscuits are the monks of the snack world: plain, disciplined, and quietly judgmental of cream-filled excesses.

Once the tea has done its calming work, the mood would shift from contemplative to mischievous. Enter roasted chana or peanuts, lightly salted, preferably scooped from a steel dabba that has survived decades and several governments. They crunch like old-school wisdom—no nonsense, no airs, just honest flavour and the faint reminder that protein is, in fact, important at this age.

If the day has been particularly long—or the mind particularly dramatic—I might indulge in a samosa. Not the massive, overstuffed, oil-soaked variety that requires a post-snack nap, but a sensible one. A samosa that knows its limits. The first bite would be crisp, the second reassuring, and the third a reminder that life, though complicated, can still be triangular and satisfying.
And then comes the wildcard, the snack that raises eyebrows and cholesterol in equal measure: a small piece of dark chocolate. This is not gluttony; this is therapy. Chocolate, in moderation, is proof that God loves us and wants us to smile quietly, preferably without telling the doctor.

As I imagine this snack parade, I realise that what I am really craving is not food alone, but comfort. Snacks are emotional footnotes to our day. They appear when the heart is tired, the mind is cluttered, or the soul simply wants a gentle pat on the back. They do not demand ceremony. They do not ask difficult questions. They just sit there and say, “I’m here. Eat me slowly.”

In youth, snacks were fuel—devoured standing, running, or arguing. Now, they are punctuation marks. Commas in a long sentence of responsibility. Full stops after a tiring thought. Occasionally, an exclamation mark when the samosa is particularly good.

So, what would I snack on right now? A little tea, a little crunch, a little warmth, and a little sweetness. Nothing extravagant. Nothing Instagram-worthy. Just enough to remind me that happiness often comes wrapped not in grand achievements, but in crumbs—on the table, on the floor, and sometimes, unapologetically, on one’s shirt.

And that, I think, is a snack well worth having.

Rent-a-Grandparent™: When Wisdom Goes on Subscription

Rent-a-Grandparent™: When Wisdom Goes on Subscription

Every great business idea, they say, is born at the intersection of madness and meaning. Somewhere between “Who on earth would want this?” and “Why didn’t I think of it earlier?” lies the sweet spot of innovation. So here is my delightfully crazy business idea—one that may sound eccentric at first hearing, but quietly makes sense once the laughter dies down.

Welcome to Rent-a-Grandparent™.

Yes, you read that correctly.

The Idea That Rocked My Rocking Chair

In a world where everything is available on demand—food, transport, affection (digitally, at least)—one precious commodity is fast disappearing: unhurried human wisdom. Families are nuclear, neighbours are anonymous, and children often know more about algorithms than anecdotes. Meanwhile, thousands of retired teachers, principals, artists, musicians, storytellers and life-survivors sit at home, rich in experience and poor in opportunities to share it.

So why not connect the two?

Rent-a-Grandparent™ is a platform where individuals and families can “hire” a grandparent figure—not for labour, but for presence, conversation, mentoring, storytelling, cultural transmission and emotional grounding.

No nappies to change. No property disputes. Just good old-fashioned human connection.

What Does a Rented Grandparent Do?

Plenty—and none of it involves Wi-Fi troubleshooting (unless requested).

A rented grandparent could:

• Tell children stories that don’t begin with “Once upon a screen”
• Help teenagers prepare for exams, interviews, or life itself.
• Teach forgotten skills: letter-writing, gardening, harmonium, knitting, chess
• Share memories of history they actually lived through
• Listen—without judgement, interruption, or the urge to Google answers
• Sit silently, which is an underrated skill in modern times
  Packages could range from “Sunday Storyteller”, to “Exam-Time Elder”, to “Just Sit and Talk”.
  Why This Madness Might Actually Work
  Loneliness today is an epidemic disguised as independence. At one end are children raised by devices; at the other, elders reduced to spectators in a world they helped build. Rent-a-Grandparent™ is not a service—it is a social stitch, sewing together torn generations.
  From a business perspective (since even crazy ideas need spreadsheets):
  – Low infrastructure, high impact
  – A growing elderly population with time, talent, and trustworthiness
  – Parents desperate for alternatives to screens
  Schools, societies, and gated communities as natural partners
  – And unlike many start-ups, this one trades not in disruption, but in restoration.
• Ethics Before Earnings
  Of course, dignity is non-negotiable. Grandparents would not be “commodities” but curated mentors, carefully matched, background-verified, fairly paid, and deeply respected. The emphasis would be on consent, comfort, and compatibility.
  Think less “rental” and more “temporary adoption—with tea”.
  
• The Bigger Vision
  If successful, Rent-a-Grandparent™ could evolve into:
  – Intergenerational learning hubs
  – Memory archives and oral history projects
  – Community schools of lived wisdom
  – A quiet rebellion against disposable human relationships
  In a civilisation obsessed with speed, this business would sell slowness. In an economy addicted to youth, it would monetise maturity—not cheaply, but meaningfully.
  
• Madness with a Method
  Every era needs its share of mad ideas. Some fail loudly, some succeed quietly, and a few change the emotional climate of society. Rent-a-Grandparent™ may never become a unicorn, but it could become something rarer: a bridge.
  And if nothing else, it would prove that in a world racing towards the future, there is still excellent business in honouring the past.
  After all, wisdom may come free with age—but sometimes, it just needs better packaging.

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.