Life Lens

  The Mango Tree Heard and Answered In the courtyard of stone and syllable, where Latin bells lean into Kannada noon, a sapling once entered the soil without argument. One hand placed it— a hand that carried prayer in its sleeves. Another watered it— a hand that carried dust and discipline. Two minds watched it— one thinking in English rain, one dreaming in Kannada sun. The earth did not ask which language named the root. The wind did not ask which scripture blessed the seed. Years passed like quiet pages. Leaves came. Shade came. But no flower dared the branch. Silence began to grow louder than the tree. “Perhaps,” said impatience, “it has nothing more to give.” An axe, even when unraised, casts a long shadow. But the one who knelt closest to the soil whispered to time, “Wait.” And waiting— that oldest, most unfashionable virtue— stood its ground. For trees listen. They listen to footsteps of doubt. They listen to words that threaten departure. They listen ...

  LIFE GOES ON The rabbit never learns stillness, even when the world turns white. Snow asks for silence— the rabbit answers with pulse. Fur gathers winter like a thought, light, alert, unwilling to settle. Cold sharpens the eye, not the will. Where the snow says pause, the rabbit says continue. Not from defiance— from knowing that life is not meant to be proven by calm. Tracks appear, vanish. Energy leaves no monument. Only motion, briefly honest, briefly alive. The snow will keep falling. The rabbit will keep moving. Between them, life happens— without explanation.

  Art steps off the easel stand and onto the street. No doors, no thresholds — only feet that wander in. You don’t need to know how to look. You learn by standing there — asking, pausing, choosing, letting color meet curiosity. What moves most is attention — conversations begin, curiosity lingers, and art finds listeners. For Bengaluru, this is not an event. It is a civic pause. A day when art belongs to everyone, and the street becomes a shared gallery. Where art is not elevated, but shared. No spectacle. No permission. Just a city meeting itself on the street.

  Where Truth Meets God In the ashram, morning was exact. No incense of ideas, no arguments raised to win. Gora arrived without belief, only honesty sharpened by reason. Gandhi listened without defence, only attention sharpened by care. For years he had said it simply: God is Truth. A sentence worn smooth by devotion. But the atheist did not deny truth— he denied ownership. He asked nothing more than room to stand without belief and still be faithful to what is real. Gandhi paused. And in that pause, the sentence turned— not away from God, but toward everyone. Not only God is Truth , but Truth is God. And in that moment, belief loosened its grip, truth found its ground, and two men—one with God, one without— stood aligned.

  The Best Coffee in the World This is the best coffee in the world— not because it tries to be, but because it simply is, warm and unassuming, waiting without urgency. It sits in clear glass, honest about its color, a small cloud of foam resting like a thought that hasn’t decided to speak yet. The steam rises slowly, as if time itself has agreed to loosen its grip. No rush. No announcements. Behind it, a face with closed eyes— flowers growing where worries should be, cheeks blushed with quiet joy, knowing something important: that comfort doesn’t need explanation. This coffee doesn’t shout. But the taste too good !! It doesn’t promise productivity or genius or miracles. It only offers presence— a pause you can hold with both hands. And somehow, in that pause, the world feels manageable again. So yes— this is the best coffee in the world, because for a moment, nothing else is required.

  Ode to the Unwatched Wrist I hate to wear a watch, you see, It sits there smugly, watching me. A tiny tyrant, strapped in steel, Announcing things I already feel. It taps my wrist: You’re late, you’re early, As if time’s not already surly. As if my fate would gasp and stall If I forgot the watch at all. But listen— What must arrive will knock its door, With watch or without, it comes for sure. Love won’t wait ‘cause my wrist went bare, Nor will storms check if I’m aware. Destiny doesn’t read the dial, It doesn’t pause to reconcile. What has to happen bends and weaves, Unimpressed by what my wrist believes. So I choose bangles, I choose shine, Soft clinks that laugh instead of whine. Bracelets that dance, not boss, not bind, No deadlines circling my mind. Let time run wild, let moments sprawl— I’ll meet them when they choose to fall. For life, dear clock, won’t wait or freeze… And frankly? I’d rather jingle than obey

  Parenting Unboxed The morning is unfinished, stitched loosely with streetlight and mist. Cold settles into bones, but three silhouettes move anyway. A father, not carrying answers, only time. Two children, not asking for things, only hands. Parenting happens here— in shared breath, in matching pace, in the quiet agreement to keep going together. No gifts hum or glow. No screens negotiate attention. What’s offered instead is rhythm, direction, the long lesson of showing up. This is how values travel— not through boxes or upgrades, but through footsteps pressed gently into the same morning. One day the world will sell them wonders. Today, they learn something rarer: that love walks beside you, especially when it’s cold, and no one is watching

  When the Year Changed, Did Anything Else? In our village school, the year changed quietly on a classroom wall — 2025 becoming 2026, numbers rearranging themselves without sound. So the teacher paused to explain what this meant: that time is something we agree upon, that people everywhere stop together, name the year passing, and begin again. The children nodded- as if they understood A cake was cut — not because cake knows the calendar, but because joy makes meaning visible. Hands clapped. Laughter learned its cue. Elsewhere, in cities affluent- the year arrived differently. With countdowns and fireworks, with holidays and plans, where abundance makes entitlement feel natural. Here, in village schools, time had to be explained, celebration had to be learned. Not because intelligence was absent, but because access had never arrived. And the question lingers long after the cake is gone: can two children, one who inherits the world - and one who must...

  Morning had not yet decided what the year would become. The lake held its breath, mist learning how to lift itself slowly, as if even time knew this was not a moment to rush. Red against the quiet green, we  stood — not triumphant, not  performative, just  present. Ten kilometers already behind us, The body honest, The breath earned, the  heart still awake with purpose. This  is how the year began, not  with noise, but  with showing up. Muscles remembered effort, feet  remembered discipline, and  something older than resolution  settled into place — a knowing that health is not a goal but a daily vote cast with the body. There was no finish line here, only  continuity. Not  ambition, but alignment. Not  proving but choosing — again. We will keep moving. Let the months bring what they will — fatigue, delight, repetition , surprise. This morning has already said enough. And that, for a new year, is more than enthusias...