From Parchment to Practice: Republic Day 1950–2026 — Aspirations, Achievements, and the Road Ahead

From Parchment to Practice: Republic Day 1950–2026 — Aspirations, Achievements, and the Road Ahead

Every 26th of January, India pauses—not merely to celebrate a date, but to remember a decision. In 1950, the Republic of India was born, not through conquest or decree, but through conscience, debate, and democratic resolve.

Republic Day is therefore not just a ceremonial parade down Rajpath (now Kartavya Path); it is a moral checkpoint in our national journey. As we stand in 2026, looking back at 1950, the contrast between aspirations and achievements invites both pride and introspection.

1950: The Republic of Hope and Promise

When the Constitution of India came into force on 26 January 1950, the country was young, fragile, and immensely diverse. The aspirations of that moment were lofty, perhaps audacious:
– Justice — social, economic, and political
– Liberty — of thought, expression, belief, faith, and worship
– Equality — of status and opportunity
– Fraternity — assuring the dignity of the individual and unity of the nation

The makers of the Constitution, led by Dr B. R. Ambedkar, were acutely aware that they were drafting not merely a legal document, but a social covenant. Universal adult franchise was granted in a nation with widespread illiteracy—a leap of faith in the wisdom of the common citizen. Federalism was adopted to balance unity with diversity. Fundamental Rights were enshrined to protect the individual from the excesses of the State.

In 1950, the aspiration was simple yet profound: to transform subjects into citizens.

The Long March: Achievements Over 76 Years

By 2026, India’s Republic has weathered wars, emergencies, political churn, economic upheavals, and social movements. The achievements, while uneven, are undeniable.
1. Democratic Continuity: India remains one of the world’s longest-functioning democracies. Governments have changed peacefully, power has transferred through ballots, not bullets.

2. Judicial Independence: Despite criticism and pressure, the judiciary has often acted as the sentinel of the Constitution, expanding rights through progressive interpretations.

3. Social Mobility: Affirmative action, expansion of education, and economic growth have enabled millions to rise above inherited disadvantages.

4. Economic Transformation: From a primarily agrarian economy in 1950 to a global player in technology, space research, pharmaceuticals, and services by 2026.

5. National Integration: Linguistic reorganisation of states, though contentious, strengthened rather than weakened the Union.

The Republic has not merely survived; it has adapted.

The Unfinished Agenda: Gaps Between Ideal and Reality

Yet, Republic Day is not an exercise in self-congratulation alone. Dr Ambedkar’s warning echoes even today—that political equality cannot long coexist with social and economic inequality.

1. Social Justice remains incomplete, with caste, gender, and regional disparities persisting.
2. Liberty of Expression often walks a tightrope between dissent and discomfort.
3.Equality before Law is sometimes compromised by power, privilege, or prolonged delays.
4.Fraternity, perhaps the most fragile ideal, is tested by polarisation, intolerance, and shrinking civic spaces.

The Constitution gave us the map; the journey depends on our collective will.

2026: Republic as Responsibility

Republic Day in 2026 must be seen less as a commemoration of the past and more as a renewal of commitment. The Republic does not reside only in institutions—it lives in classrooms, courtrooms, village councils, digital platforms, and dinner-table conversations.
For students, it is the freedom to question.
For citizens, it is the duty to participate responsibly.
For leaders, it is the obligation to govern with humility and constitutional morality.

A Republic endures not because it is written in ink, but because it is practised in spirit.

Beyond the Parade

From the inked signatures of 1950 to the lived realities of 2026, India’s Republic is a work in progress—imperfect, resilient, and deeply human. The tricolour still rises each January, but its true elevation lies in how faithfully we uphold the values it represents.

Republic Day, then, is not merely a memory of what we became in 1950, but a reminder of what we must continue to become.
Jai Hind.

One Small Demand for a Noisy World

One Small Demand for a Noisy World

If I were granted the rare privilege of making just one demand of the world, I would not ask for wealth, power, or applause. I would ask for something far more modest and yet profoundly scarce: a little more kindness wrapped in understanding. Not the performative kind that appears on special days or social media posts, but the quiet, everyday kindness that expects nothing in return.
We live in a world that is forever in a hurry. Speed has become a virtue, impatience a habit, and judgment a pastime. Opinions are fired like arrows before facts are gathered, and labels are pasted long before stories are heard. In such a climate, kindness is often mistaken for weakness and understanding for indecision. Yet, in reality, they are acts of courage.
My single demand would be this: pause before you judge. Behind every face is a life battling its own storms. The man who snaps in a queue, the woman who withdraws into silence, the child who struggles to keep up—each is carrying an invisible weight. We see the tip of the iceberg and assume we know the whole ocean. If the world could learn to pause, even briefly, many harsh words would remain unspoken and many wounds would be spared.
Understanding does not mean agreement. It simply means acknowledging that another person’s truth may be shaped by experiences we have never lived. As the old saying goes, “Walk a mile in my shoes before you judge me.” Sadly, most of us are too busy measuring shoes to start walking. A little empathy could turn confrontations into conversations and conflicts into compromises.
In my years of observing people—young and old, privileged and struggling—I have learnt one thing clearly: everyone is fighting a battle that does not appear on their résumé or social profile. Success often hides sorrow; silence often masks wisdom; smiles sometimes conceal survival. If kindness were our default response, the world would not necessarily become perfect, but it would certainly become more humane.
This demand is not addressed to governments or institutions alone; it is directed at each one of us. Systems change when mindsets change. Policies soften when hearts do. Even at home, in classrooms, workplaces, and neighbourhoods, a little understanding can prevent relationships from becoming collateral damage.
If I could demand one thing from the world, it would be this gentle revolution of kindness and understanding. No grand speeches, no dramatic gestures—just the daily discipline of being a little less harsh and a little more human. After all, the world does not always need louder voices; sometimes, it simply needs softer hearts.

The Sacred Pause: Why Silence and Solitude Call Us Back

The Sacred Pause: Why Silence and Solitude Call Us Back

In a world that never seems to lower its volume, the desire to remain quiet and alone for a while may appear strange, even antisocial. Yet, paradoxically, this urge is one of the most human instincts we possess. Silence and solitude are not signs of withdrawal from life; they are often a gentle return to it.
From dawn alarms to digital notifications, our senses are constantly under siege. Words, opinions, expectations and comparisons flood our minds until thought itself feels overcrowded. In such moments, silence becomes not emptiness but relief. It is the deep breath the mind takes when it can finally loosen its collar.

Silence as Mental Hygiene

Just as the body needs rest after labour, the mind too requires intervals of stillness. Continuous engagement—conversations, decisions, responsibilities—creates mental clutter. Solitude helps us declutter. In quiet moments, thoughts settle like dust after a storm, revealing clarity beneath the chaos. We begin to hear our own voice again, not the echo of others’ expectations.
Psychologically, solitude restores balance. It allows reflection without judgement and thought without interruption. Many of our best ideas, most honest realisations and boldest decisions are born not in noise, but in silence.

The Emotional Repair Shop

There are times when emotions run high and words fail us. Silence then becomes a refuge. Being alone allows us to process grief, disappointment, joy or confusion without performing for an audience. It is a space where we do not need to explain ourselves.
In solitude, we stitch together emotional frays. We make peace with memories, forgive quietly, and sometimes simply allow feelings to pass without naming them. It is here that healing often begins—not with advice, but with acceptance.

A Spiritual and Philosophical Need

Across cultures and civilisations, silence has been revered. Indian philosophy speaks of mauna—intentional silence—as a path to inner wisdom. Biblical narratives show prophets retreating into wilderness before moments of revelation. Even Socrates warned that an unexamined life is not worth living, and examination rarely thrives in noise.
Silence turns our gaze inward. It reminds us that beneath our roles and routines lies a core self that needs acknowledgment. Alone with ourselves, we reconnect with values, beliefs and purpose—things easily drowned out by daily hustle.

Creativity’s Quiet Companion

Artists, writers, thinkers and teachers have long sought solitude not out of arrogance, but necessity. Creativity does not shout; it whispers. Silence provides the mental white space where imagination stretches its limbs. In quiet moments, ideas knock softly, waiting to be invited in.
Solitude sharpens observation. We notice details we would otherwise miss—the rhythm of our breath, the weight of a thought, the beauty of an ordinary moment. These are the seeds from which creativity grows.

Not Loneliness, But Choice

It is important to distinguish solitude from loneliness. Loneliness is an ache imposed upon us; solitude is a choice we make. One drains, the other replenishes. Wanting to be alone for a while does not mean we dislike people; it means we respect ourselves enough to recharge.
In fact, healthy solitude often improves relationships. When we return from silence, we listen better, speak with intention and engage more meaningfully. We show up whole, not exhausted.

The Quiet That Keeps Us Whole

Our love for silence and solitude is not an escape from responsibility but a return to equilibrium. It is life’s way of reminding us to pause, reflect and realign. In embracing these quiet interludes, we honour a timeless truth: that stillness is not the absence of life, but its quiet foundation.
In the end, silence does not isolate us. It introduces us—to ourselves.

Still Teaching, Just Without a Bell: My Dream Job

Still Teaching, Just Without a Bell: My Dream Job

If someone were to ask me, “What is your dream job?” I would not point to a corner office, a fat pay cheque, or a designation that needs a visiting card to explain itself. My dream job is far quieter, far humbler, and far more demanding. It is a job where I continue to teach, guide, listen, and learn—without the tyranny of timetables, the anxiety of inspections, or the pressure of pleasing systems that often forget people.
In my imagination, my dream job begins early in the morning, not with an alarm clock barking orders, but with purpose gently nudging me awake. The day starts with reading—sometimes a book, sometimes the newspaper, sometimes a line of poetry that refuses to leave my mind. Then comes writing: reflections on life, education, faith, science, leadership, or simply the small ironies of daily living that make us smile and think at the same time. Words, after all, are my preferred tools; they heal, question, and connect.
At the heart of this dream job is mentoring. Not the kind that happens in air-conditioned boardrooms with PowerPoint slides and jargon, but the kind that happens over a cup of tea, a slow walk, or a patient conversation. I see myself working with young teachers who are enthusiastic but unsure, principals who are capable but exhausted, parents who are anxious about their children’s future, and students who are bright yet burdened by expectations. No marks, no ranks—just clarity, courage, and common sense.
What makes this job “dream-like” is freedom: the freedom to speak honestly without fear of offending a policy, the freedom to suggest without imposing, and the freedom to walk away when my work is done. There is dignity in being useful without being indispensable. In this role, experience is not dismissed as “outdated” but respected as distilled wisdom—earned through mistakes, failures, recoveries, and resilience.
My dream job also has a strong human element. It allows me to listen more than I speak and to ask better questions rather than offer ready-made answers. In today’s noisy world, where everyone is broadcasting and very few are receiving, listening itself has become a rare skill. I would like my work to restore that balance—to remind people that silence is not emptiness and patience is not weakness.
There is, of course, a spiritual undertone to this dream. Not loud, not preachy, but quietly anchored. A belief that work should nourish the soul as much as it feeds the body. A belief that mercy, gratitude, and humility still have a place in professional life. Whether one draws strength from scripture, philosophy, or simple kindness, my dream job allows space for inner growth alongside outer contribution.
Unlike conventional employment, this job does not retire me at a certain age. It matures me. Each year adds depth rather than redundancy. Each interaction becomes a shared journey rather than a transaction. Payment, if it comes, is fair and sufficient—but not the sole measure of worth. The real salary is relevance, respect, and the satisfaction of having made someone’s path a little clearer.
Importantly, my dream job has room for joy. There is laughter, gentle humour, and the ability to see life’s absurdities without bitterness. It allows me to travel occasionally, to meet people from different cultures and contexts, to keep learning new ideas while unlearning old prejudices. It also leaves me enough time to be a husband, a grandfather, a reader, a music lover, and a quiet observer of life’s passing seasons.
Some may say this is not a “job” at all, but a calling disguised as work. Perhaps they are right. But if a job is something you would happily do even if no one forced you to, then this surely qualifies. It is work that feels less like labour and more like legacy.
So, my dream job is not about climbing ladders; it is about extending hands. It is not about building empires; it is about building people. And if, at the end of the day, I can sleep with a clear conscience, a tired body, and a grateful heart, I will know that I have been perfectly employed—even without a bell to signal the end of the period.

Leadership Without a Podium: Lessons from Home and Beyond

Leadership Without a Podium: Lessons from Home and Beyond

Leadership is often imagined with a microphone, a title, or a corner office. Yet, the most influential leadership rarely announces itself. It happens quietly—at the dining table, in moments of disagreement, in the way one responds to failure, and in how one treats people who have nothing to offer in return. A good leader is not manufactured by position; he or she is revealed by conduct, whether at home or elsewhere.

Leadership Begins Where the Shoes Are Left Outside

Home is the first classroom of leadership. Long before we learn organisational charts, we learn values by watching those who raise us. A good leader at home listens more than he lectures. He understands that authority does not grow by volume but by consistency. Children and family members do not remember instructions as much as they remember behaviour.
A leader at home leads by example—showing respect in disagreement, patience in pressure, and humility in error. Apologies spoken sincerely at home often carry more weight than commands issued elsewhere. Leadership here is less about control and more about care; less about being right and more about being fair.

The Courage to Be Calm

One of the most underrated leadership traits is calmness. At home or at work, storms are inevitable. A good leader does not add thunder to the rain. He becomes the anchor when emotions run high. Calm leadership reassures others that problems can be faced without panic and disagreements resolved without damage.
In Indian philosophy, sthita-prajna—the person of steady wisdom—is admired not for avoiding chaos but for remaining composed within it. Such composure at home teaches emotional intelligence better than any sermon.

Listening: The Silent Superpower

Whether managing a household or an institution, leadership fails the moment listening stops. A good leader listens not to reply, but to understand. At home, this means giving space to younger voices and respecting older wisdom. Outside, it means valuing dissent as much as agreement.
Listening communicates dignity. It says, “You matter.” And when people feel heard, half the leadership battle is already won.

Consistency Over Charisma

Charisma may attract followers, but consistency retains trust. A good leader is predictable in values, even if flexible in methods. Children, colleagues, and communities feel safe when they know what a leader stands for.
At home, consistency builds security. Outside, it builds credibility. A leader who changes principles with convenience soon loses moral authority, even if he retains power.

Leading by Serving

True leadership turns the hierarchy upside down. The best leaders ask, “How can I help?” rather than “Who is in charge?” At home, this may mean sharing responsibilities without being asked. Outside, it may mean protecting one’s team during adversity.
The idea of servant leadership, echoed in both Biblical teachings and Indian scriptures, reminds us that leadership is not about elevation but about responsibility. The higher the role, the heavier the obligation.

The Grace to Let Others Grow

A good leader is not threatened by the growth of others. At home, this means allowing children to think differently, fail safely, and find their own paths. Outside, it means mentoring without controlling and delegating without insecurity.
Leadership is successful not when people depend on you, but when they become capable without you.

Integrity: The Non-Negotiable Core

All leadership, whether domestic or professional, rests on integrity. What one does in private eventually defines one’s public influence. A leader who is honest at home but manipulative outside—or vice versa—lives a divided life. Such fractures eventually surface.
Integrity is doing the right thing even when no applause follows. It is the quiet alignment between words and actions.

Leadership Is a Way of Living

A good leader does not switch roles between home and the world. He carries the same values everywhere—kindness without weakness, firmness without cruelty, and authority without arrogance. Leadership is not an event; it is a habit formed daily in small, unseen choices.
In the end, the greatest compliment for any leader is not “He was powerful” but “Life felt better around him.” And that, perhaps, is leadership in its purest form.

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.