If I Could Uninvent One Thing, It Would Be the Snooze Button

If I Could Uninvent One Thing, It Would Be the Snooze Button

If I were granted one whimsical but powerful wish—to uninvent a single invention—I would not target nuclear weapons, social media algorithms, or even the cursed printer that jams only when one is in a hurry. I would go for something far smaller, far subtler, and far more treacherous: the snooze button.
Yes, that tiny, innocent-looking button perched on alarm clocks and mobile phones across the world. The one that promises mercy but delivers betrayal.
The snooze button, in theory, was invented out of compassion. “Five more minutes,” it whispers, like a well-meaning friend who doesn’t know when to stop talking. It pretends to understand our fatigue, our late nights, our ageing bones, and our romantic relationship with sleep. In reality, it is a master illusionist—offering comfort while quietly stealing time, discipline, and resolve.
The first alarm rings with honesty. It tells us the truth: It is time. The snooze button, however, negotiates with that truth. It encourages procrastination at the very start of the day, teaching us—before we have even brushed our teeth—that delay is acceptable and decisions can be deferred. It is, perhaps, the earliest lesson in self-sabotage we learn each morning.
Philosophers have long spoken about intention and action. The Bhagavad Gita speaks of karma—right action at the right time. Stoics insisted that we begin the day with purpose. Even our grandparents, without quoting philosophy, lived by a simple rule: when you wake up, you wake up. The snooze button mocks all of them.
Scientifically too, it plays foul. Interrupted sleep confuses the brain, leaving us groggy rather than refreshed. Emotionally, it creates guilt—those stolen minutes never feel as good as promised. Practically, it turns calm mornings into rushed chaos: missed prayers, cold tea, forgotten spectacles, and a day that begins already out of breath.
And yet, we keep forgiving it.
Perhaps the snooze button survives because it mirrors a deeper human tendency—the desire to postpone the difficult, the uncomfortable, the necessary. We snooze conversations, responsibilities, apologies, dreams. The button is not the problem; it is the symbol.
If I could uninvent it, mornings would be sterner but truer. We would wake up annoyed, yes—but also decisive. The day would begin with a small victory: getting up when we said we would. And sometimes, that is all the motivation a long day needs.
So if ever a museum of uninvented things comes into existence, I know what my first exhibit would be. A small rectangular button, labelled simply:
“Here lies the Snooze Button—beloved by millions, trusted by none, and responsible for more late mornings than it ever cared to admit.”
And honestly, the world might just wake up a little better without it.

Where Walls Whispered Welcome: A Place That Loved Me Back

Where Walls Whispered Welcome: A Place That Loved Me Back

There are places that impress us with their size, their design, or their reputation. And then there are places that embrace us quietly, without announcement, where the air feels kinder and even silence seems to listen. One such place in my life did not merely host me; it held me. It loved me back.
For many years, that place was a school campus where I served—not merely as a professional, but as a person. It was not the bricks and mortar that mattered, though the corridors echoed with youthful energy and the classrooms bore witness to countless dreams in formation. It was the invisible warmth that wrapped itself around me each morning as I walked in, carrying equal measures of responsibility and hope.
Love in a place is rarely loud. It reveals itself in small, almost forgettable moments.

A shy student lingering after assembly just to say, “Good morning, Sir.” A colleague leaving a cup of tea on my table without being asked. A parent waiting patiently, not with complaints, but with trust. These were not grand gestures, yet together they formed a tapestry of belonging. I was not merely working there; I was wanted there.

What made that place special was the sense of shared purpose. We disagreed at times, stumbled often, and learned constantly—but there was an unspoken assurance that we were rowing the same boat. Even on difficult days, when decisions weighed heavy and expectations ran high, the place did not turn hostile. Instead, it seemed to say, You are allowed to be human here.

There is a particular kind of love that institutions can offer when they are guided by values rather than vanity. It is the love that allows you to grow older without becoming irrelevant, to make mistakes without being diminished, and to serve without being consumed. In that space, my experience was not treated as outdated baggage but as a well-used map, still capable of guiding younger travellers.

Interestingly, I felt this love most strongly during ordinary moments—walking alone across the ground in the early morning, listening to birds rehearse their first lessons of the day; standing at the gate as students poured out, laughter spilling in all directions; sitting quietly after everyone had left, when the building seemed to exhale. In those moments, the place felt alive, almost grateful, as if it knew we had grown together.

Long after I stepped away, that feeling has stayed with me. I have learnt that when a place loves you, it leaves an imprint—not of possession, but of peace. You carry it forward, measuring new spaces against that gentle standard. You realise then that love is not confined to people alone; it can reside in environments shaped by care, consistency, and compassion.

Such places are rare, and perhaps that is why they are precious. They remind us that belonging is not always about where we are born or where we settle, but where we are seen, trusted, and allowed to become the best version of ourselves.

And if you are fortunate enough to find such a place—even once—hold it lightly, serve it sincerely, and leave it better than you found it. Because long after you go, it will still be loving you back, quietly, from afar.

Less Stuff, More Self: A Gentle Audit of Life’s Unnecessary Baggage

Less Stuff, More Self: A Gentle Audit of Life’s Unnecessary Baggage

Clutter, I have learnt, is not merely what lies scattered on tables, shelves, or hard drives; it is what occupies our mind rent-free, demands attention without permission, and quietly drains our energy. Reducing clutter, therefore, is less about ruthless disposal and more about mindful discernment—knowing what deserves a place in our life and what has overstayed its welcome.
As we journey through life, especially after decades of gathering experiences, relationships, beliefs, and belongings, clutter tends to creep in silently. Like dust, it settles where we stop paying attention.

1. Physical Spaces: The Obvious Yet Ignored Starting Point

Cupboards that refuse to close, drawers that need persuasion, and shelves that groan under the weight of “just in case” items—these are familiar sights. Many of us keep things not because we need them, but because they carry memories, guilt, or imagined future utility.
Reducing physical clutter does not mean becoming a minimalist overnight. It means asking a simple, honest question: Does this still serve a purpose in my present life? If not, it may be time to let it go. What we release often makes room not just on the shelf, but in the soul.

2. Digital Clutter: The New-Age Chaos

Unread emails, countless WhatsApp forwards, forgotten photographs, and apps we never use—digital clutter is invisible yet overwhelming. It bombards us with notifications, fragments our attention, and keeps us perpetually “busy”.
Cleaning up digital spaces—unsubscribing, deleting, muting, and organising—can feel surprisingly liberating. A quieter phone often leads to a quieter mind. In an age where information is endless, clarity becomes a conscious choice.

3. Emotional Clutter: The Heaviest Load

Unresolved hurts, unspoken resentments, unnecessary guilt, and borrowed anxieties form emotional clutter. We carry them like old luggage, dragging them into every new situation.
Letting go here is harder, but essential. Not every battle needs to be fought, and not every opinion needs to be internalised. Learning to forgive—others and ourselves—is perhaps the most powerful decluttering exercise of all.

4. Relationship Clutter: Knowing When to Step Back

Some relationships nourish us; others drain us. There are connections maintained out of habit, obligation, or fear of being misunderstood. Reducing clutter does not always mean cutting people off; sometimes it means redrawing boundaries.
Healthy distance can be an act of self-respect. Relationships should add warmth to life, not constant turbulence.

5. Mental Clutter: Thoughts on Repeat Mode

Overthinking, worrying about the past, rehearsing imaginary conversations, and predicting unlikely disasters—mental clutter keeps the mind perpetually restless.
Practices like walking, music, prayer, reflection, or simply sitting in silence help clear this inner noise. The mind, like a classroom, functions best when it is orderly and focused.

6. Commitment Clutter: Learning to Say “No”

Too many responsibilities, social expectations, and self-imposed duties can clutter our calendar and drain our enthusiasm. Saying “yes” to everything often means saying “no” to oneself.
Reducing commitment clutter requires courage—the courage to prioritise what truly matters and accept that we cannot be everywhere, nor should we be.

Decluttering is not a one-time activity; it is a way of life. It is about choosing simplicity over excess, depth over distraction, and peace over perpetual busyness. When we reduce clutter, we do not lose parts of life—we reclaim them.
In the end, a less cluttered life is not emptier; it is fuller, lighter, and infinitely more breathable.

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.