Till dawn showed me the other side!!!

 The river rushed through stone and stubborn hill,

and hit a wall of rock that held its ground —

she'd moved through mountains, never once stood still,

so why was this the place she couldn't get around?

She'd given everything — her depth, her might,

had worn down harder walls on harder days.

Did worthy water not deserve its right?

Did honest rivers lose themselves in maze?

She turned — unwilling, sharp, against her way,

a detour she had never stopped to choose.

The bend felt wrong, the current went astray,

like someone else had laced up all her shoes.

But every twist was teaching her the land,

each forced turn carving valleys, soft and wide

what felt like loss was quietly being planned,

a sea she simply couldn't see inside.

She met the ocean on a still, pale dawn,

not where she'd mapped, not how she'd dreamed the end,

and realised every wall she'd beaten on

was just God's way of teaching her to bend.

Hence Proved!!!

 

There is something quietly suffocating about the moment a teacher draws a ray of light on a blackbo
ard and says — this is refraction. As if light, agreed to bend itself at precise, measurable angles just so it could be plotted on graph paper. As if the sunset bleeding orange into the horizon was waiting all this time for Snell's Law to give it permission to be beautiful.

I have always suspected that the formula arrives after the wonder. That somewhere, in the first breath of it, there was a human being who simply felt something — who looked at a stick half-submerged in water and went quiet inside. Not because they wanted to measure the bend. But because the bend meant something. Something unnameable. Something that lived just past the edges of language.

And then as we always do with things we cannot hold, we tried to cage it.

Here is what no one says aloud in the classroom:
Every great scientist was, at their core, a deeply dissatisfied mystic, in awe of a hidden truth behind reality.

Einstein did not sit down one morning and deduce relativity from existing data. He imagined himself riding alongside a beam of light. He dreamed his way into it and then, almost reluctantly, dressed it in mathematics so the world would take him seriously. The poetry came first. The proof was the apology.

Newton, they say, watched an apple fall. But who amongst us truly believes the revelation was about the apple? It was about the fall itself. The helpless, inevitable surrender of everything toward everything else. And because the world asks for evidence, he gave it equations. But the equations were never the point. They were the translation and like all translations, something gorgeous was lost.

Science, does the same. It names the rainbow so thoroughly that no one has to feel it anymore. It explains the detail of a minor chord until the detail dissolves into frequency and amplitude — tidy, measurable, and completely beside the point.

The formula is the fence. Built, perhaps, not to protect the truth but to protect the people who found it first.

Ramanujan ,that strange, luminous man from Madras, said his equations came to him in dreams. A goddess wrote them on his tongue. He felt mathematics the way a poet feels a line arriving, not constructed, but received. He had no formal proof for most of what he knew. He simply knew. And the Western academy, so in love with its Hence Proved-s, spent decades catching up to what he had already seen, barefoot, in the dark.

Perhaps the they are all artists in disguise. They just wear lab coats because society doesn’t give them any other outfit for that kind of curiosity.

The deepest freedom, maybe, is this: To look at refraction and not reach for the formula. To let the bent light simply be bent. To sit with velocity not as a quotient but as a feeling, the way your stomach lifts when a car picks up speed and for one moment you are not a body with mass but just motion itself, pure and directionless and free.

Science, at its finest, points fingers at the mystery. It is only the textbook that mistakes the pointing finger for the mysterious moon. And somewhere between the discovery of the moon and the classroom only pointing at its glow, this translation gets mistaken for the original. And the original beauty of the moon is left behind.

You are more than fair!!!

There is a moment I keep returning to — walking back to the car when it was all over. Something slipping, not just from my hands, but from the very idea that hands could hold such things at all. That hard work and a sharp mind are enough. That you can will your way through anything if you just try hard enough. I believed that. And then I didn't anymore.

I remember being numb in the way you are numb after a film ends and the lights come on and you walk out into the parking lot and the world is just — still there. Unchanged. Indifferent. And you think, maybe if I just keep moving, it will fade into the background like scenes always do.

It doesn't.

---

They tell you to find justifications and I have tried them all. He didn't suffer. He went the way he would have wanted — active, upright, himself until the end. He wouldn't have liked to be seen diminished. My mind nods along. My heart says — "are you really going to believe all of that?"

The only justification that has ever truly held me is this: he knew. Not in the way we pretend to know things. In the quiet, unhurried way of a man who had made his peace.

Since June, he was asking to get involved in things — his business passingbon little pieces of his wisdom, his worries at work. In August he told me to idealise Gagan, because there is no better friend than your partner. I distinctly remember his call from Mansarovar. 

In September came the health lecture, serious and uncharacteristic. In October he agreed to two trips he would normally have declined, and told me he was making up for all the hours of committed time he had never quite kept. He always believed in working, not in wasting — and so he worked, right until the end, at the quiet business of leaving well.

From November he reminded me of his deadline. January 15th, he said. Again in December. So that when the 16th came, I could not say I hadn't been warned. Could not say he had been unfair. He even came back strong from that last flight, as if to say — "don't pull my leg for this. I gave you no reason to."

Life may be unfair. He never was. Not once.

There is a particular kind of love that does not announce itself. It just makes sure, quietly and without fuss, that the ones it loves will be alright. That they have been told what they need to know, held when they needed holding, prepared without knowing they were being prepared.

He gave more in his years than most could give in a longer life. That is not consolation. That is just true.

The moon has no light of its own. It reflects the sun — borrows that brightness and offers it back to the world as something softer, something that can be looked at directly. I was that moon. His belief in me was the light I worked by, the reason I wanted to do things, to be things — so he would see and feel proud.

And now the sun is gone, and I am learning — slowly, bewilderingly — what it means to shine without a source. Whether the moon can find its own light, or whether it must learn that the light was never entirely borrowed to begin with.

I don't have that answer yet.

What I do have is the memory of a hug at an airport — tight, unhurried, real. And something after that which I will not try to explain, because some things lose their truth in the telling. They are meant only for you, sealed in a place where no logic can touch them.

Papa, 'I miss you' feels too small. Language was not built for this size of feeling. So I will just say, you were more than fair. You were more than most. And somewhere in the quiet, I know you know.

---

Legacy made new!!

It was quite an exhilarating day for visit to the New Parliament House with our friends last week. A truly memorable and educational tour.

On the occasion of 75th year of Independence, Modiji unveiled the new building.  Designed and constructed by Indians, it indeed is an architectural marvel encapsulating the culture, pride, and spirit of the entire nation and looks forward to fulfilling the longstanding need of Indian democracy to have more spacious parliament.

The Lok Sabha and Rajya Sabha chambers boast a digitised voting system, well-engineered acoustics, and state-of-the-art audiovisual systems. The Lok Sabha hall’s interior, inspired by India's national bird, the peacock, and the Rajya Sabha hall, representing the lotus, India's national flower, embody the rich symbolism of the nation. It also seamlessly integrates diversity of modern India - the Sangeet Gallery and the Shilp Gallery showcases distinct music, architecture and handicraft traditions of different states.

He also inaugurated and placed ‘Sengol’, a golden sceptre near the Speaker’s seat in the new Lok Sabha hall. It is known to be crafted by Vummidi Bangaru Chetty, a famous jeweller in Madras with Nandi, at the top as the beholder of “Nyaya".

The Sengol is derived from the Tamil word "Semmai" which means "Righteousness" and was carried by emperors during ceremonial occasions to represent their authority in Chola empire from the 9th to 13th century. It was a tradition to hand over from one king to another as a mark of succession and legitimacy. The same ritual was adopted at the time of Independence to symbolise transfer of power from British.

The Sengol was presented to PM Nehru by Thiruvavaduthurai Adheenam (a 500-year-old Saivaite monastery) on August 14, 1947 which was kept it at his residence in Delhi for some time before donating it to Anand Bhavan Museum in Allahabad (Prayagraj) until the government decided to revive this historical event in the new Parliament building.

The existing Parliament on the other hand , a Heritage building, built in 1927, embodies excellence in architectural style designed by Sir Edwin Lutyens and Sir Herbert Baker during British colonial rule. 

However, the building's age and limited infrastructure no longer meet the current requirements in terms of space, amenities, and technology and was never designed to accommodate a bicameral legislature for a fully-fledged democracy. So, the time's tide demands a new temple of democracy. 

Lots of things changed since a century ago-  communication structures and safety benchmarks, topographical considerations, prioritizing divyang individuals  and lifestyle conveniences.

And so with the torch of progress shining bright, we decided to adieu to the venerable old Parliament building, a witness to India's tumultuous past and hard-won freedom. However, when i entered this old structure, I could feel the weight of history, the echoes of impassioned debates, and the whispers of late-night negotiations that shaped our nation's destiny. The walls, worn by time, seemed to yearn to break free from their stoic silence, to share the tales of the giants who once walked those hallowed halls.

It reminded me of how India's story would have been woven into every stone, every crevice, and every worn step. The small hall, once the epicenter of power and decision-making, seemed to hold its breath while we found it so easy to move on, to leave behind the nostalgia and the legacy on the pretext of thee pace of modern life. Did not seem fair.

A sight of relief was the brass ceiling in the heart of the new building, that shone like a celestial canvas, capturing the essence of the sky of a momentous day – January 26, 1950- the day our constitution came into being. Below this was a majestic pendulum swinging like a time keepers Waltz, a symphony of time and tradition. Seemed like it whispered secrets to the past, present, and future, bridging eras with every rhythimic swing. It took more than 24 hours to complete a circle. While it rotated, it defied the constraints of time hinting that progress is a dance between heritage and innovation. May be! 

As the sands of time slip through the hourglass, the question lingers: Can we hold on to the essence of our heritage while embracing tomorrow's dawn? Isnt it true that in our haste, do we risk losing the fragrance of our roots in pursuit of progress? Only time will tell.

Unrolling the Thangka

 

PC- Ananya & Suhaani

The great escape! We ditched Mcleodganj's chaos for Kandbari's chill vibes and landed at Dr. Sarika's place –stumbling upon a treasure trove of Thangka art I would say! Upasna from Wah Lodge played the matchmaker, introducing us to this hidden gem. Now, we were trading mobile phones for paintbrushes and soaking up the serene vibes.This museum was a window to the 2,300 years old journey of the tradition of Buddhist paintings and the evolution of art through ages and geographies.

Dr Sarika honed her skills at Norbulingka Institute in Dharamshala and created the Museum with 45 Masterpiece Paintings depicting this journey of Buddhist Paintings after a deep research of the Ancient Styles of Ajanta Caves, Tabo and Alchi Monastery.


At the workshop sitting amidst mountains, we discovered the ancient art of painting on handmade cloth with mineral colours and learnt the timeless techniques. For the first time I used the divider – a simple tool that revealed the precision of perfection, while I drew the serene face of Buddha, circle by gentle circle. In that meditative moment, I was with the divine,  but ofcourse with my paint stained fingers.

However, what got my attention was the Thangka of Dharamsala Tara announcing the Arrival of this art to the Indian Soil. The painting depicting story of Tara's return appeared like of mystique and longing.

I was so enamoured with the thought how, lost to the sands of time, it found its way back to home, though with a new Tibetan name " Thangka" which literally means "thing that one unrolls". Teachings of Gautam Buddha, unrolled through Dalai Lama rekindling a connection that transcended borders, seeking to reclaim its cultural legacy. Talk about packing light, I hear that all that Dalai lama carried on his shoulders while seeking asssylum in India was a thangka of Palden Lhamo. By carrying this sacred artwork, may be he was also seeking guidance and blessings on his own spiritual journey, I wondered.

Hmmm..believe it or not I was compelled to ponder. Life's a wild goose chase, isn't it? We're running, striving, pushing – trying to reach that elusive 'somewhere.' But in the chaos, do we forget the cosmic GPS that's always on? Are we over-riding the divine's navigation system with our own flawed maps? The Bhagavad Gita whispers secrets of surrender, of being grounded in faith, and trusting the universe's blueprint. Maybe it's time to pause, and let the divine take the wheel. After all, who needs Google Maps when you have karma's guiding light?"

Dents in History!

   

PC- Ananya Saraogi 

As we wandered to McLeodganj, while visiting the “Siddh Peeths” of Himachal, we happened to stay at Pragpur's hidden gem - a declared heritage since 1997. This enchanting manor, once Justice Sir Jai Lal's private retreat, now a heritage hotel, whispers tales of the past. Built between 1914, its Indo-European architecture mesmerizes, with red brick detailing adorning yellow structures.

We had a long tiring day after exploring Plaksha University at Chandigarh in our drive to find just the right college for Ananya (not that we were successful.Lolz); here at Paragpur, we were welcomed by tan mud walls adorned with blue doors into a residency with vintage portraits by the fireplace of the family. 

Early in the morning, strolling through the quaint rustic ambience, time was like still. A majestic mango tree, gifted by the Maharaja of Benaras, blooming majestically; jackfruits gently grasping the tree’s bark, jungle babbler’s morning concert arguing with the sun’s warmth and how the black and white bird posed like surrendering its every profile to my lens. 

The floral whispers on chairs and table ware with soothing sound of acoustic piano that Suhaani took the liberty to indulge into blended together to create an irresistibly charming symphony in the dining room. Fresh lychees tantalized the taste buds at breakfast, while authentic Himachali dal makhani delighted the senses.

Under the camphor tree's gentle shade, wind chimes serenaded, as Ananya captured the moment's essence in her art book, while Gagan explored ancient valleys on the map, Suhaani focussed on capturing every detail in her DSLR frame, and Pallavi weaved a soothing melody, I sat down here bottling it up in a few words. As we all basked in, the fast-paced din faded away.

As I was checking out, I noticed a brass tag on the wooden fireplace in my room that read "Handcrafted in 1917," with a dent on the wooden piece. The scar added character to the vintage corner like it was deliberately preserved as a testament to history. Loved it. Is it not a reminder that imperfections are a part of our authentic selves; that life’s imperfections are brushstrokes that paint our canvas. And not all dents need to be mended, for in their depths, we find the wisdom of experience, courage of resilience and without them we would only be fragile, untampered steel. Instead, we are our own kind of master pieces stronger and wiser now.

कितना मीठा सा शब्द है नानी

 कितना मीठा  सा  शब्द  है नानी 

माँ की माँ होती है  नानी 

नानी  के  किरदारों  से  बुनी  हुई  कहानी 

पता  नहीं  कैसे  याद  रहती  थी  उनको  मुँह  जुबानी I

मम्मी की डाँट पर हमसे ज़्यादा ध्यान

चुप करादे उनको खींच के उनके कान

घर में घुसते ही तैयार रहता खाने का सामान 

चेहरा देखकर तबियत का लगा लेती अनुमान I

आती सूरजगढ़ की बहुत बहुत याद 

ताज़ा है सारी बातें इतने दिनों के भी बाद

नानी की पहली रोटी बनती गऊ माता का प्रसाद

सुबह उठकर पहले सूरज की घंटी और पूजा पाठ I

अँधेरे में cosy सी कोठरी थी खास,

न समझ आया उसमे नानी  की तिजोरी का राज़

बिल्ली को रोटी और ख़तम करके  घर के काम काज

नानी रहती lantern जलाये, गोंद के लड्डू के साथ I

बगल में थी रसोई, चूल्हे की रोटी क्या कमाल!!!

और कोयले पे सिलगती देगची की दाल

रात को छत पे हमारे लिए माचा डाल 

लपेटती हम बच्चो को ले लोई और शॉल I

राजा की तरह हमे सर पे चढ़ाना

नज़र से बचाने के लिए झाड़ा लगवाना

मिटटी से बीड़ में छोटे छोटे घर बनाना

फिर अपने पैरो से रेत को छुड़ाना I

हर त्यौहार पर सुन्दर सी मेहँदी लगवाना

नानाजी की दुकान पे 1 रुपया रोज़ लेने जाना

पित्रों के नाम से पैंडे में पानी चढ़ाना

“नानी घर आकर बिगड़ के बारा बाँट के हो गए”

ये सुन मम्मी की डाँट खाना I

याद आता है आपका मामा को आँख दिखाना

हमे परेशान करने पर उनको धमकाना

आपका वो हमे कोने में ले जाकर समझाना 

की ये बात घर जाकर दादी को मत बताना I

ये मत कहना की पानी handpump से लाये थे

Light न होने पर हाथ वाले पंखे चलाये थे 

ये भी न बताना की कहाँ कहाँ चोट खायी थी

और नानी ने कब कब कुल्फी नहीं खिलाई थी I

सच बोलू नानी सबसे प्यारी आपकी परछाई थी

तारों के नीचे AC तो नहीं था पर नींद बहुत अच्छी आयी थी

आपसे सही मायने में सादगी सिखाई थी

किताबो से बेहतर आपके संस्कारो की पढ़ाई थी

बचपन का सबसे प्यारा हिस्सा होता है  ननिहाल 

कुछ  special ही  होती  है  देखभाल 

जब  भी  मामा मामी को  करती कॉल 

कब  आओगी  बेटा सूरत  , यही  रहता  है  सवाल ?