Life Lens

  It’s the clock, the gentle light, the first notes of birds— and the scent of coffee as the day begins. The decoction brews quietly, its aroma curling through every room, arriving before our eyes even open. It brings warmth, a sense of being known without needing to ask. You don’t wake up for coffee. You wake up because of it. And the house— it doesn’t stir. It exhales, wrapped in the quiet certainty that something good has already begun.

  Nothing Fancy, Just Us Alarm says go , the stars say stay , But we’re up by five, come what may. Track pants on, and off we glide, No rush, no roar — just out we go The park yawns wide, we hit our stride, Moving with meaning, not with might A squirrel stares, a pigeon scoffs, We stay the path, one step at a time Some reps, a plank, a squats are plenty, Muscles grumble philosophically— Why must strength be earned each day? Because the biscuit comes after, we say. Ah, the biscuit! Protein-rich and neat, A rose tea chaser, warm and aromatic. No sugar—virtue in a cup— Our smug metabolism perks right up. Then comes the hum, the friendly drone, The radio feels like coming home. Songs we didn’t ask to play Somehow charm the gloom away. The papers arrive—one stiff, one soft, The headlines shout, we skim aloft. What we seek? Not weighty prose, But “Did you read this?” highs and lows. So begins the sacred art Of waking body, mind, and heart. Not to conquer, not t...

  Tuning In- the rest is learning how to listen We do not know what will play next. And yet, we tune in. A flicker of static, a brief silence, and then— a song. Not ours, but offered. In a world obsessed with control, the radio is an act of faith. A surrender to the unseen hand that selects the next note without asking us. Unlike the playlist, where each song is a known echo, the radio teaches us to wait in not-knowing— to trust a thread we cannot weave. Somewhere, a stranger requests a melody for someone they miss. Somewhere, a voice breaks into laughter between two songs. We do not know their names— but they find their way to our ears, and to something even deeper. Isn’t life just this? A broadcast of moments we did not plan, of emotions cued without warning, of memories set to music we didn’t choose? The beauty lies not in certainty, but in anticipation— not in repetition, but revelation. To listen is to let go. To let go is to open. And in that...

  The Buddha Beside the Screen He lies beneath the flickering light, a sleeping Buddha on the shelf, serene in bronze, resting where the images never sleep Placed near the screen — that restless oracle of our time — he keeps no distance from the world, yet remains untouched by it. One day, while cleaning, I noticed droplets on his brow. Water, surely — nothing more. And yet, they lingered. Too fine to ignore, too quiet to dismiss. They held the weight of witness, the ache of awareness. Had he seen what I had streamed? The noise parading as news, grief edited into segments, and laughter sold by the minute? Children running from smoke, leaders loud in voice, hollow in vision love reduced to tropes, truth traded for trend. Perhaps he did not sweat — he reflected. Perhaps it was not moisture — but a mirror to my gaze. In his stillness, he absorbed it all— without recoil, without refusal. And in that moment, I saw it plain: it was not he who trembled, ...

  Guru Purnima holds a deep, multilayered significance in the Indian tradition — not merely as a day of ritual reverence, but as a profound recognition of the guru principle — the one who dispels darkness ( gu = darkness, ru = remover). It is a celebration of inner illumination: along with offering gratitude to a teacher- Guru About acknowledging the force that awakens jnāna — with wisdom that liberates. It’s a reminder that the highest relationship is not one of dependence, but of guidance toward freedom. It honours lineage and continuity: in Advaita Vedanta, Yoga, Buddhism, and Bhakti paths — this day marks respect to one’s parampara , a tribute to the transmission of knowledge across time. It invites surrender and self-inquiry: not blind obedience, but inner humility — the ability to recognize ignorance, and the courage to walk toward clarity. It resets the seeker. It is a celebration and a resolve — a return to sādhanā . It reveals the universal teacher ...

The Flowers or the Fire Two days before, the temples begin— polished brass, festive cloth, the air thick with preparation. They lay out the branding irons: Shankha ,  Chakra — sacred weapons , or so they believe, promising  moksha at the end of this life. With this false assurance and uncommon common sense, they queue in silence for  Mudra Dhāraṇa — hot seals pressed into skin as public declarations of devotion. Proof of what? Belonging? Belief? But the soul bears no scar. Only the body remembers pain. The truest offering is quieter. Eight flowers—never plucked, never wilted— offered not once a year, but simply- but always: Ahimsa. Indriya Nigraha. Daya. Kṣamā. Jñāna. Tapas. Dhyāna. Satya. These are not rituals. They do not announce themselves. No audience. No applause. But if even one is truly offered, the gods are already near . And if none are— no  mudra , no  burn , no  badge , no  hymn will bring them closer. To the Lord, To liberation, To what al...

  I, who cradle morning’s hush and the daily rush Cradle footfalls slow with thought— Watched as he stood, a hundred years, In stillness vast, in battles fought. Through summer’s blaze and monsoon’s hymn, Through children’s laughter, lover’s pause— He stood not just in root and limb, But held within him deeper laws. He knew what men forget to seek— That strength is silent, not severe. He bore the decades leaf by leaf, A testament the wise revere. Then came the rain—not cruel, not wrong— But steady in its sacred rite. And in that softened, sacred hour, He leaned, and yielded to the night. Not fallen—no—he simply bowed, A monk returning to the ground. The wind stood still, the soil aware, As if the Earth had kissed a crown. I did grieve, But trees like him do not just die. They pour themselves into the world— Their breath becomes the open sky. You’ll find him now in quiet ways— In saplings born of loosened seed, In roots that feel, in stones that warm, In sil...