When the Doors of Home Closed : Stories of Partition, Courage and New Beginnings

When the Doors of Home Closed : Stories of Partition, Courage and New Beginnings

Independence Day, is a day when the flag will be hoisted and patriotic songs will be sung to celebrate the remarkable journey our country has made since 1947.

But on the eve of Independence Day, I found myself looking at another side of freedom as I had the opportunity to visit the Partition Museum and Cultural Hub at the historic Dara Shukoh Library in Delhi for an event commemorating Partition and remembering the refugees who came to India.

As a student of history, I have been familiar with partition. We have read about the political negotiations, the Radcliffe Line, the violence, the trains crossing borders and the creation of two nations. I have also had a long career as an administrator, as a Collector and District Magistrate , as someone who has signed  on relief, rehabilitation and resettlement orders in one form or another for over three decades. I thought I understood displacement as a subject. Yet, today for the first time, in a  physical way, I understood what displacement feels like from the inside as I walked through the partition museum.

Here, history stopped being a chapter in a textbook. It became a ration card, a ledger, an old electricity meter, a newspaper, some  photographs, some post cards, a refugee tent and above all, memories.

Partition displaced more than 20 million people across the subcontinent. Such huge numbers sound impersonal but museums like this one make us look beyond the number.

During the event, my interactions with Shri.Salwan and the Luthra siblings who spoke about their experiences and memories gave me glimpses of what displacement really meant. 

Imagine being told that the town where your family had lived for generations was suddenly in another country and you had to leave your own house behind and literally flee. 

Urmila Luthra said that when their train from Pakistan reached Anritsar, India, the Muslims celebrated because their train had come safely so they too would go back safe. She had seen burning houses from their uncle's home in Jhelum where they had taken refuge. Later, during their visit to Pakistan in 2006 they could go their school in Sargotha whose whitewashed walls had Sanskrit inscribed on them.

The Partition museum is housed in a historical mughal, british and contemporary structure and has nine halls dedicated to different themes with objects, documents and photographs donated by various families who had migrated. The refugees could not bring back their immovable properties but some of them managed to get their valuable jewellery or moveable assets. 

When they lost their homes or property it was not just a physical loss but a loss of comfort of their own home and living under canvas tents in cramped spaces at Purana Qila and areas around Humayun's Tomb which became refugee camps. They had to stand in long queues for food and essential supplies with ration cards.

 I was extremely disturbed looking at a ration card in the museum imagining the plight of people who may have owned homes, farms, shops and businesses who became refugees. Their identity changed almost overnight and they were forced to encounter uncertainty in places like  Kingsway Camp, Faridabad, Ulhasnagar camp in Mumbai and other places which became makeshift shelters. Yet they survived and moved towards rebuilding their lives. 

According to the 1951 Census, refugees constituted 28.4 per cent of Delhi's population.That statistic made me look at Delhi differently. The city we know today was shaped substantially by people who arrived here after losing almost everything.

Land was acquired. New settlements came up. Barren spaces were transformed into thriving neighbourhoods such as Lajpat Nagar and Kingsway Camp. Faridabad was developed as a model township, particularly for more than 30,000 people displaced from the North-West Frontier Province.

People started businesses again. They built schools, created institutions, educated their children. They entered new professions, rebuilt families and communities.

The refugee who had stood in a queue for rations became a shopkeeper, teacher, entrepreneur, professional, artist, administrator or political leader. This transformation is one of independent India's great untold stories.

Some of the smallest exhibits told the biggest stories. I was particularly moved by an exhibit of a ledger book of Sardar Harbhajan Singh Bhatia, retrieved decades later from his former home in Okara, now in Pakistan. A ledger is an ordinary object while a business is functioning. Once that business, town and country have been left behind, it becomes evidence of an entire lost life.

There is another extraordinary story of Priyanka Mehta, who visited her maternal grandmother's home in Lahore. The family which is living there now, had preserved the old electricity meter of the house. They had kept it because they thought that someday someone from the original family might return. They gave it to her  when she went. Imagine someone preserving an old electricity meter which became priceless because of it's memories. 

The story also reflects the fact that borders divided people, politics created nations but ordinary human beings were still capable of preserving someone else's memory for them.

For the Hindu Sindhi community, partition meant something even more profound. They did not simply leave individual houses or towns. Their entire geographical homeland remained in Pakistan.The museum recreates something of the Sindh they left behind  its beautiful woodwork, carved doors, architecture, neighbourhoods and shared cultural spaces. Standing there, one begins to understand that homeland is not merely land, it is language, food, music, architecture, customs, festivals.

You can build another house but how does one recreate a homeland? And yet the Sindhi community carried Sindh  through language, enterprise, culture, food and memory wherever their people settled.

Another gallery speaks about rebuilding relationships. The Mianwali Gazette, for example, helped refugees from Mianwali scattered across India to remain connected. Places of worship became spaces where memories of lost hometowns could survive. Communities recreated social bonds that Partition had torn apart.

Many survivors rarely spoke initially about what they had endured as they simply did not have time to grieve They had to find jobs, restart businesses, build homes and feed children. They had to build a new life and found little time to grieve or speak about their loss. 

Only decades later did many begin speaking about their childhood homes, often to their grandchildren. Perhaps that generation carried its trauma quietly because it wanted its children to inherit opportunity rather than bitterness.

There is something particularly meaningful about the museum being located in the historic Dara Shukoh Library which has witnessed centuries of change. Dara Shukoh is remembered for scholarship, intellectual curiosity and his engagement with different religious and philosophical traditions.

The building passed through several lives before falling into disuse. Today, restored and adapted, it has become a place for remembering one of the most painful episodes in modern Indian history. A building that survived history now preserves history.

The first Partition Museum was established in Amritsar in 2017 by The Arts and Cultural Heritage Trust (TAACHT). The Delhi museum followed at the Dara Shukoh Library in 2023.

What impressed me greatly is that this is truly a people's museum. The objects, photographs, oral histories and personal memories come from families themselves.

There was one moment during my visit that has stayed with me. I stood before a magnificent old carved wooden door in the museum.  As I stood beside it, I suddenly wondered about the millions of people, whose doors  just closed behind them. I imagined about everything they left behind.  A courtyard where children had played. A tree planted by a grandfather. A family shop. The neighbourhood school, the familiar street. The temple or gurudwara.Neighbours who had celebrated festivals and weddings together. The sound of one's mother tongue spoken everywhere around you.

Lady Kishwar Desai deserves enormous appreciation for her vision and persistence in creating these spaces of memory. To recognise that the rapidly disappearing voices of Partition survivors needed to be recorded and then to transform that idea into institutions where future generations can encounter those voices is a remarkable contribution to preserving India's social history.

I also compliment Ms.Deepali Khanna and the team associated with the Delhi museum for creating a space that does not merely display history but allows visitors to feel it.

This is certainly not an easy history to curate. It has pain, violence and displacement. Yet the museum does not leave feelings of hatred in the visitor. Instead, its journey gradually takes us from loss and refuge to rebuilding, relationships, hope and courage. That balance is important, which is why our young people must visit the museum .

I particularly wish young Delhiites would come here. To a generation born decades after the Partition, 1947 can easily become another date or year in a history textbook which it shouldn't. Young people who shop in  Lajpat Nagar,  Khan  Market  or pass through Kingsway Camp or travel around Delhi should know something about the people who built these neighbourhoods

They should see that ration card, the refugee tents, the ledger brought back from Okara, the electricity meter preserved in Lahore because history understood through human lives teaches something textbooks cannot. It teaches us empathy and resilience. It teaches us how quickly the security we take for granted can disappear. It teaches us the dangers of hatred and division.

The people who arrived as refugees did not spend the rest of their lives looking only at the doors that had closed behind them.

They opened new ones.

The museum has a lovely concept called The Post Box of Your Dreams and Hopes. Visitors can leave messages to the past, the present or the future. So my dear young people, come and listen to these stories of history, because soon there will be no living generation that remembers 1947 firsthand.

Tomorrow, when the national flag rises, let's celebrate Independence Day a little differently. Let's remember the refugee standing in a ration queue, the mother protecting her children in a camp,  the businessman beginning again from a roadside stall. The Sindhi family carrying its homeland within its language and culture. And the millions whose names will never appear in a history book.

Independence and Partition came together in August 1947.One brought the joy of freedom. The other brought unimaginable loss. Remembering the suffering does not diminish our celebration of Independence. It deepens our understanding of what freedom means.

Every Delhiite should visit the Partition Museum at least once. And if you have children or grandchildren, take them with you.

Let them see. Let them ask questions. Let them understand that the freedom we celebrate was accompanied by an enormous human price and that the India they inherited was built not only by those who fought for freedom, but also by millions who lost their homes and still found the courage to begin again.

Perhaps that is the lesson I carried home today.

Freedom gave India a new beginning but the refugees of Partition showed us the courage it takes to begin again.

R. Vimala, IAS Retired, 

Former Resident Commissioner & Secretary, Government of Maharashtra

Founder, AnirvedShakti Foundation

PhD Research Scholar, Centre for Policy Studies, IIT Bombay

Shakti on Wheels: A Dream That Finally Began to Move...

Shakti on Wheels: A Dream That Finally Began to Move...

It is not even a week since Shakti on Wheels was inaugurated by Ms.Aditi Tatkare, Hon’ble Minister for Women and Child Development, Government of Maharashtra. The excitement of the launch is just settling, the photographs have been shared, the congratulatory messages have slowed down and the van has begun doing what it was actually created to do, move, reach people and sell products made by women Self Help Groups. In its first three days of actual business, the sales crossed ₹30,000.

For a large businesses, ₹30,000 maybe very little. For me, it brought a quiet smile. Not because of the amount itself, but because it meant that somebody had walked up to our little van, looked at a product made by a woman somewhere in Maharashtra, liked it enough to buy it and take it home. That was the dream which is much older than the van.

Years ago, when I was CEO of  UMED, Maharashtra State Rural Livelihoods Mission ,I had the privilege of working closely with women Self Help Groups. I saw women making wonderful products, spices, grains, pulses, papads, pickles, oils, ghee, jaggery, honey, textiles, handicrafts and much more. We organised exhibitions and melavas to market their products. People came, appreciated the products and bought them. The women went home happy. But an exhibition lasted for about a week or ten days  after which the ladies had to wait for the next exhibition to market their products. Could a livelihood  wait for the next exhibition ?

I often felt that the real challenge before SHG women was not their ability to produce. It was continuous access to markets.Somewhere then, the idea of a mobile marketplace entered my mind. If women cannot keep going to the market, why can't we take their products to where the customers are? I started thinking of a grocery store on wheels. But the idea remained an idea. Like many things in government, there were other priorities and constraints. My assignments changed and life moved on. But the thought travelled with me.

Then came retirement. After more than three decades in government service, everyone expected me to slow down. Some felt why I was getting into all this now? Why wasn’t I  relaxing? And some were worried that I had no experience in retail. Running a shop is not the same as running a government programme, they rightly said. 

I had never run a grocery store. I knew very little about inventory, margins, retail routes, daily sales or managing a commercial vehicle but dreams have a strange habit of ignoring practical advice.

The creation of AnirvedShakti Foundation had already given me a platform through which I could continue working for women. The name itself carries a thought close to my heart. 'Anirved'  means not to lose heart, not to become despondent and to keep going and 'Shakti' of course is strength, energy, the power within. Perhaps, without realising it, I had chosen the two words I would need most for the journey ahead.

I decided to revive my old idea and suddenly I found myself visiting automobile showrooms! After a career spent discussing and implementing  programmes, policies and administration, I was now asking questions about payload, mileage, wheelbase and vehicle dimensions.

I looked at different light commercial vehicles. I climbed into them, looked at their cargo spaces and tried to imagine shelves filled with dal, rice, spices, honey, ghee,  jaggery, textiles and eventually chose the Mahindra Veero.

Booking the vehicle was exciting. For a few days, I was innocent to believe that the job was done. But the real adventure began with fabrication. How many shelves? How wide? How high? Where would extra stock be stored? Where would billing happen? Would bottles remain secure when the vehicle moved? How could we make the interiors functional without making them cramped? There were delays and changes. Meanwhile, expenses kept mounting with the vehicle, fabrication, branding, staff, operations.Every new idea seemed to come with a new bill.

There were moments when I seriously wondered whether my friends had been right.I had just retired. Was this really the time to experiment with something about which I knew so little? The administrator in me was comfortable with plans and systems. This was different. Here I was putting my own resources, time and energy behind an idea without knowing whether customers would actually come. There were anxious days. But slowly, the vehicle began looking like the picture I had carried in my mind. The shelves came up, the branding was completed. And there it stood, SHAKTI ON WHEELS.

I was overwhelmed when  the Hon'ble Minister for Women and Child Development, Maharashtra, Ms. Aditi Tatkare, graciously agreed to  inaugurate  Shakti on Wheels on 4 August 2026,.It was an emotional moment. But what touched me most was that my husband’s elder brother and his wife, well-wishers like Rahul and Jaiprakash and all my friends stood by me.

Some came and purchased products simply to encourage our first steps. Some introduced the concept to others. Some helped us obtain permission to take the van into places where potential customers could access it. Some opened doors to housing societies and institutions.

There were friends who had earlier reprimanded me for taking on this adventure so soon after retirement. They too came among those helping me make it work! Perhaps that is the most beautiful form of friendship. They may question your madness, but when they realise that you are determined to go ahead with it anyway, they walk beside you.

The van started business soon after inauguration and did a business of over  ₹30,000 in three days. .I know enough about numbers to understand that this does not establish a successful business model. Our expenses are still high. There are operational issues to resolve. We need regular routes, better inventory planning, more customers and repeat sales. We have to understand what sells and what doesn't. Quality and supply have to remain consistent. There are many teething troubles. But those first sales mattered. They told me that the idea has a chance. And that is enough for now.

I have also been clear about one thing from the beginning. Shakti on Wheels is not about asking people to buy something out of sympathy for women. That is not empowerment. A customer should buy a SHG product because it is good and come again. 

Our role is to create the bridge to bring authentic products from women producers to consumers, to help improve presentation and market understanding, and hopefully to create a regular channel of sales beyond occasional exhibitions.

The road ahead is long. I would like to see Shakti on Wheels develop regular routes across housing societies, offices and corporate spaces. I would like customers to know when the van is coming and perhaps one day track it, pre-order their favourite products and discover new ones. And yes, somewhere in my dreams, I see a hundred Shakti on Wheels in Maharashtra, in other cities across India.Perhaps thousands of women finding a regular market through them.

But for now, there is one van. It is moving.People are buying. Women are calling. Friends are helping and I am learning. 

This little journey has also taught me something more about Shakti. We often look for strength outside ourselves, in positions, institutions, resources or people but sometimes Shakti is simply the voice inside that says, try once more.

Sometimes it is a friend who helps you get permission to park your van. Sometimes it is someone who buys the first packet from your shelf.

One week after the inauguration, I am still anxious. The expenses have not disappeared. Neither have the challenges. And then came that phone call. Nandini from a Self Help Group in Bhandara called me. She had heard about the van and wanted to know whether her products could also find a place in it? Could we sell them? When could she send them? It was not a dramatic conversation. But there was something in her voice which reminded me of the indefatigable energy in me which she said she had always known. It was as if I had remet and found  myself. I was smiling even as I had tears of joy. As I put down the phone , suddenly, the mounting expenses looked a little less frightening. Someone was waiting for this van.

Not for its colourful branding. Not for its inauguration but only because it was my  project and she trusted that I would make it possible for her and thousands like her who were dreaming of a market. 

Perhaps this is what AnirvedShakti was always meant to be. Anirved, unstoppable,  with a determination not to give up and Shakti in the heart, the courage to begin again.

R. Vimala, IAS Retired, 

Former Resident Commissioner & Secretary, Government of Maharashtra

Founder, AnirvedShakti Foundation

PhD Research Scholar, Centre for Policy Studies, IIT Bombay

The life of Munshi Premchand : A Journey of written word, values and service

The life of Munshi Premchand : A Journey of written word, values and service 

There are some people we meet in life without ever meeting them in person. The legendary Hindi and Urdu writer Munshi Premchand has been one such eternal companion in my life. 

My first acquaintance with him was not in a library or any literary gathering but in a school classroom. Like countless students across India, I read excerpts from his books, 'Godaan' and 'Gaban'. I still vividly remember 'Poos Ki Raat', the unforgettable story of Halku, the poor farmer shivering through a bitter winter night, whose suffering was described with such simplicity that it pierced the heart. At that age, I could barely grasp it's intensity.  Only much later did I understand the depth of the social reality it portrayed.

As the years passed, I returned to Premchand's writings not as a student preparing for examinations, but as a reader trying to understand India.

With every novel and short story, I realised that Premchand was not merely telling stories. He was holding a mirror before society. His characters were ordinary people, farmers, labourers, women, children, clerks, widows and the forgotten poor. Their struggles were not dramatic; they were painfully real. Their dignity was not proclaimed; it quietly shone through hardship.Perhaps Premchand remains timeless because he was not writing stories. He was building a mirror large enough to hold an entire countryside which reflected small acts of grace, grit or even little dishonesties. He wrote about the poorest of the poor not as statistics or as objects of pity, but as people with dignity, cunning, humour and an unbearable amount of endurance. He did not just write about the downtrodden. He wrote as if he had sat with them, eaten with them and understood exactly how the system was built to keep them where they were and he never romanticised poverty. Neither did he exploit it for sympathy. He portrayed human suffering with compassion while constantly reminding society of its moral responsibility. He believed that literature must awaken the conscience.

Looking back today, I realise that although I chose administration as my profession rather than literature, the ideals that guided my journey were remarkably similar.

During more than three decades in public service, whether working with women's self-help groups, improving rural livelihoods, strengthening education, implementing Jal Jeevan Mission, promoting Khadi and village industries, or working for vulnerable women facing desertion, I was constantly reminded that policies are ultimately about people. Every government file represented a human story. Every statistic concealed someone's struggle.

Perhaps this is where Premchand's influence quietly entered my life. As administrators, we often speak of efficiency, governance and implementation. Premchand reminds us that empathy is equally important. A society progresses not merely through economic growth but through justice, compassion and dignity for every individual.

Whatever little I have been able to contribute has been possible because I was blessed with values instilled by my parents, nurtured by my siblings and family, strengthened by my teachers, gurus, friends and constantly reinforced by the Bhagavad Gita and Sampradayam. They taught me that public service is not about power but about responsibility; not about authority but about accountability. If my writings today resonate with readers in little ways,  they are only a humble extension of those values.

This year, on the birth anniversary of the legendary Munshi Premchand, I feel deeply humbled to receive the Premchand Samman. It  is a recognition of distinguished literary contributions while serving the government with dedication and integrity and for carrying forward the enduring legacy of Munshi Premchand who demonstrated that public service and literary excellence can go hand in hand.    

The Premchand Samman is not just an award ceremony but a culmination of the two-day Prem Utsav, where Premchand's stories are presented by IDEA through plays in twenty-one Indian languages, including Bodo and Santhali. 

Before the award presentation, we watched two plays 'Bade Ghar Ki Beti' and 'Phan Ka Ustad'. While the first beautifully highlighted the importance of relationships, behaviour, understanding and humility, 'Phan Ka Ustad' surprised me. Like many readers, I had always associated Premchand with serious social themes. I had not realised how delightful his sense of humour was. The audience laughed throughout the play, yet the message came across effortlessly. It reminded me that humour can sometimes make us think more deeply than a serious lecture. That versatility is what makes Premchand such an enduring writer.

Receiving an award in Premchand's name also brings a quiet sense of responsibility.

Can our writing reduce someone's prejudice? Can it inspire compassion? Can it encourage one young person to choose integrity over convenience? Can it make society pause and reflect? If it can do even one of these, writing has served its purpose.

In an age dominated by social media, short attention spans and instant opinions, reading Premchand has become even more important. His stories teach us patience. They teach us to observe before judging. They help us understand lives very different from our own. They remind us that behind every social issue is a human being with dreams, fears and dignity.

Every young person in India must read Premchand not because he is part of the syllabus, but because he helps us understand the soul of India.

One cannot truly appreciate rural India without Godaan. One cannot understand middle-class aspirations and moral dilemmas without Gaban. One cannot remain untouched after reading stories like Poos Ki Raat, Idgah, Namak Ka Daroga or Kafan. They are not merely literary classics; they are lessons in humanity.

As I continue my own journey as a former civil servant, researcher, social worker and writer I hope to keep learning from the ideals that Premchand lived by, simplicity, truth, compassion and unwavering commitment to the common man.

Awards may recognise our work for a moment but values guide our work for a lifetime. That, perhaps, is the greatest lesson Munshi Premchand leaves behind. And for that, generations of Indians will continue to remain indebted to him.

R. Vimala, IAS Retired, 

Former Resident Commissioner, Maharashtra & Secretary, GoM,

Social Change Catalyst,

Founder Anirvedshakti Foundation, 

PhD Scholar at IIT Bombay 

Moments, Tme and Memories ...

Moments, Tme and Memories ...

It was around eight in the evening yesterday when cheerful voices of children from the garden below our building drifted into our home. Curious, I looked down from the window.

It was a familiar sight.

This was the very garden where I had once brought my little son on many evenings. Inside was the play area and just outside stood the merry-go-round and a few simple rides that had delighted generations of children. 

A few days ago, I had noticed the man who operated those rides. Like me, he had also aged silently while the playground remained almost unchanged, welcoming one childhood after another.

Time truly is the most fleeting element in our lives. When I think of my son's childhood, it feels as though it happened only yesterday. Yet when I look at him now tall, confident and grown into a young man, I realise how many years have quietly slipped by. Time did not announce its departure. It simply moved on while I was busy trying to cope with life in the best way possible. 

Looking back on life, my mind is overcrowded with thoughts. Should I have done things differently? Could I have been more patient? Could I have listened more? Should I have worried less and laughed more? Had I been a good parent? These include the hundred ifs and buts which keep returning to us when we look back on life. But perhaps life's nature is like that.

There is an old saying that, after the event, even a fool is wise. Hindsight does give us a clarity which seemed impossible in the middle of the moment. What we call experience is often nothing more than wisdom earned after making mistakes, carrying burdens and learning from consequences.

The challenge is that life offers no retakes.

Unlike a stage play, there are no rehearsals. Unlike a film, there are no second takes. Every conversation, every decision, every opportunity and every relationship unfolds in real time. Once a moment has passed, it can never be erased and just becomes memory.

That is why the present deserves our fullest attention. Life resembles a game of cards. Instead of regretting about yesterday or trying to  predict tomorrow, we should simply strive to play today's game with sincerity, courage and kindness.

None of us can choose the cards which are dealt to us.  Some of us are blessed with privilege; others have to face many hardships. Some enjoy good health; others have to battle illness. Some inherit opportunities; others must create them through relentless effort.

Yet the outcome will not be determined by the cards we have in our hands, but how wisely we play them. A skilled player can win with ordinary cards because of patience, judgement and resilience. Another, holding aces and every apparent advantage, can lose everything through arrogance, stubborness, haste or poor decisions.

Life follows the same principle. We cannot rewrite the past, but we can allow it to refine us rather than imprison us. Experience should be a guiding lamp that gives lights instead of becoming a chain that keeps us tied to yesterday.

As these thoughts floated through my mind, I continued to watch the children in the garden. Just like my son one child was insisting for one last ride. His mother humoured him by agreeing. Years from now, neither of them will remember whether it was the third ride or the fourth. But both may remember that evening, the laughter, the simple joy and the feeling of being together. Life is not built on extraordinary milestones but on thousands of such ordinary evenings which become extraordinary. So parents standing nearby were creating memories they may not fully observe or appreciate today. Years from now, perhaps they too would stand at a window, hear the laughter of another generation and wonder where the years disappeared.

That is the quiet rhythm of life.The playground remains. The children change. The parents grow older. Time keeps moving.

As darkness slowly settled over the garden, the children reluctantly made their way home. The merry-go-round stopped. Silence returned. I looked on from the window. The playground had given me more than memories. It had given me a perspective.

Time does not disappear in dramatic leaps but slips away quietly, disguised as ordinary evenings, familiar conversations, shared meals, bedtime stories, silent prayers and children's laughter. We rarely recognise those moments as extraordinary while we are living them. Only later do we realise they were the moments that truly mattered.

Perhaps that is the greatest lesson time teaches us. We cannot return to yesterday and play a better innings. We cannot reshuffle the cards we were dealt but we can play today's hand with greater wisdom because yesterday taught us how to play better. And isn't that enough? 

R. Vimala, IAS Retd.  

Maharashtra Cadre, 2009 Batch

Former Resident Commissioner & Secretary, Government of Maharashtra

Founder, AnirvedShakti Foundation

PhD Research Scholar, Centre for Policy Studies, IIT Bombay

The Bane of Comparison: Measuring Life with the Wrong Scale

The Bane of Comparison: Measuring Life with the Wrong Scale

"Look at him." "Look at her." "Look at X's daughter, she scored excellent marks and got admission into a premier institution. And look at you!"

These conversations have echoed through many  homes for generations. Parents often compare their children believing it will motivate them to work harder. Sometimes it does. But very often, comparison leaves behind invisible scars of inadequacy, resentment and the lifelong feeling of never being enough.

The truth is that every child is unique. We differ in temperament, talents, interests, opportunities and circumstances. Expecting identical outcomes is like expecting every seed in a garden to grow into the same tree.

I often reflect on my own childhood with gratitude. We were four siblings, raised in a simple middle-class family. Yet there was never any pressure to become like one another.

One sibling studied engineering at a premier institution and went on to become a technocrat. Another graduated in Mathematics and built a successful career in banking. A third pursued postgraduate studies in Physics and became a scientist. As for me, despite science being the the most sought after course, my heart was drawn towards the Arts. My parents respected that choice. I studied History, entered the civil services and eventually became an IAS officer.

Our journeys could not have been more different, yet each was equally meaningful. There was no race within the family, no unhealthy comparison, and no expectation that one path was superior to another. There was only one expectation that each of us should work sincerely and give our very best in the field we had chosen.

Looking back, I realise that this freedom was one of the greatest gifts our parents gave us. They did not try to create four identical success stories. They allowed four different individuals to discover their own purpose.

This does not mean comparison has no place in life. As someone rightly observed, "Comparison is useful as a point and destructive as a loop." At times a comparison can help us identify a gap in our approach or preparation. It can inspire us to improve. But when comparison becomes a permanent habit or a source of naggingp, it traps us in a cycle of envy, frustration and disappointment. Our attention shifts from what we can control to what we cannot.

The French political philosopher Montesquieu understood this centuries ago when he wrote:

"If you only wished to be happy, this could be easily accomplished; but we wish to be happier than other people, and this is always difficult, for we believe others to be happier than they are."

His words seems to be relevant even today.

Our unhappiness often arises not because we lack something, but because someone else appears to have more. We end up comparing our  struggles with someone else's visible success which often get flashed on social media leading us to a psychological crisis. Every scroll presents smiling faces, promotions, vacations, awards, perfect families and seemingly flawless lives. The sleepless nights, disappointments, financial worries, health challenges or personal struggles behind those moments are rarely seen.

Psychologists call this relative deprivation, the feeling that we are somehow falling behind simply because someone else appears to be ahead of us. We compare our ordinary days with someone else's extraordinary moments. It is hardly surprising that anxiety, low self-esteem and dissatisfaction are on the rise.

As children, many of us may remember the famous Rin detergent advertisement that asked:

"भला उसकी साड़ी मेरी साड़ी से सफ़ेद कैसी?"

As an advertisement it was clever because it was only about clothes. Detergent could probably make one sari appear whiter than another.

But life is not a sari. There is no detergent that can make one life "better" than another. Every life carries its own stains, struggles and strengths.

What we do possess, however, is something far more powerful, our own inner resources. Discipline, perseverance, resilience, honesty, compassion and continuous learning which can be the detergents of our life. They can help us to  become a better version of ourselves, not a copy of someone else.

The Bhagavad Gita offers it's timeless wisdom on this subject also. Lord Krishna tells Arjuna:

"श्रेयान् स्वधर्मो विगुणः परधर्मात् स्वनुष्ठितात्।" (Bhagavad Gita 3.35)

"It is better to perform one's own duty, even imperfectly, than to perform another's perfectly."

How important this thought is! We are not asked to imitate another's journey but to discover our own and fulfil it.

Perhaps we can all cultivate a few simple habits. Reduce exposure to people or platforms that trigger unhealthy comparison. Celebrate small personal victories. Measure your progress against your own past rather than someone else's present. At the end of each day, ask not, "Was I better than others?" but "Did I become a little better than what I was yesterday?"

Comparison will always exist. Human beings naturally observe one another. The question is whether comparison becomes a stepping stone for learning or a prison that steals our peace.

Learn from others. Admire excellence. Draw inspiration from success. But never measure the worth of your life using someone else's scale.

The greatest lesson my parents unknowingly taught us was that success is not about becoming like someone else. It is about becoming the finest version of yourself.

After all, what really matters is not whether we are better than others, but whether we have given our best to the situation in which life has placed us.

R. Vimala, IAS Retd.  

Maharashtra Cadre, 2009 Batch

Former Resident Commissioner & Secretary, Government of Maharashtra

Founder, AnirvedShakti Foundation

PhD Research Scholar, Centre for Policy Studies, IIT Bombay

The sacredness of a promise...

The sacredness of a promise...

Some lessons cannot be taught by books but can only be learnt through life. Over the past few months, I have been reflecting on a simple question: What is the value of a promise?

This question is not born is out of philosophy but from years of experience. Like many others, I too have trusted words that were spoken with conviction, assurances that inspired confidence and commitments that appeared unwavering.

Some promises were honoured with grace; others quietly remained unfulfilled. In those moments, I realised that the deepest disappointment does not arise from the inconvenience caused by an unfulfilled promise. It arises from the trust that is broken.

A broken promise leaves behind something distasteful. It makes us question not merely another person, but the very value of giving our own word. Perhaps that is why our ancestors looked upon a  promise as something sacred and coined the maxim, "प्राण जाए पर वचन न जाए।" . 

Growing up, I heard this countless times from my parents and elders. A person's word was his honour. A promise was not merely spoken; it was lived. This ideal seems extraordinary today!  More so in a modern world which unabashedly proclaims "Promises are made to be broken." How ironic!  And in between both these sayings lies the story of our civilisation.

Every relationship begins with a promise. A child trusts a parent because of an unspoken promise of protection. Friends promise to stand by each other. Marriage is built upon vows. Governments make promises to citizens. Businesses make promises to customers. Institutions  and individuals sign Memoranda of Understanding believing that both sides will honour their commitments. Builders make promises to homebuyers. For a family buying a home, these are not merely commercial assurances. They are promises around which lives are planned. Retirement savings are invested. Loans are taken. Children dream of their new rooms. Elderly parents look forward to security. When such promises are broken, the loss is measured not only in money, but also in anxiety, delayed dreams, and shattered trust.

 In every sphere of life, society functions not merely because of laws, but because people believe that words matter.

Unfortunately, somewhere along the way, promises have become casual. Words are spoken easily. Commitments are made hurriedly. Excuses are prepared in advance. But the loss is far greater than we imagine. Money lost may be earned again. A house can be rebuilt. Even a failed project may be restarted. But broken trust leaves unremovable scars.

Our epics tell us about timeless examples of upholding of the word. When Queen Kaikeyi demanded her two boons, King Dasharath was devastated. Yet he did not withdraw his promise. Shri Ram could easily have questioned the decision or mobilised the kingdom in his favour. Instead, He accepted fourteen years of exile without resentment because He believed that a father's word must remain sacred. The throne could wait; honour could not. Bhishma's terrible vow changed the course of the Mahabharata. Whether one agrees with the consequences of his vow or not, it earned him the title "Bhishma", the one who undertook a terrible and formidable pledge. King Harishchandra became immortal not because he ruled a prosperous kingdom, but because he refused to abandon truth and his word, even after losing his kingdom, his family and almost everything he possessed.

Such examples remind us that character is not built in moments of comfort but in moments of sacrifice and that greatness is often measured not by power, but by fidelity to one's word. Perhaps that is why the old saying has survived centuries. "प्राण जाए पर वचन न जाए।" And it is not asking us to sacrifice life literally but to build a life where our word has value.  Where promises are made thoughtfully. Where commitments are honoured sincerely.

Where trust is earned slowly and protected carefully. Because in the end, people may forget our achievements. They may even forget our wealth. But they rarely forget whether we kept our word. And perhaps that is the true measure of character.

Today, we often justify broken promises giving excuses like "Circumstances changed" or  "It was only a verbal understanding." "Business is business." 

"Nobody keeps promises anymore." Perhaps this is becoming the norm. Yet every time we break our word, something within us also breaks. Our credibility weakens. Relationships become cautious. People stop believing. Contracts become thicker because trust has become thinner.

This does not mean life never changes. There are genuine situations where fulfilling a promise may become impossible.

Integrity does not demand perfection. It demands honesty to acknowledge, to explain, to make amends where possible, and above all, to honour not merely the letter of a promise but its spirit. That is our karma and our dharma. Perhaps that is why our ancestors placed such extraordinary value on vachan, one's word.

A society where promises are honoured has fewer disputes, fewer lawyers, fewer safeguards and fewer suspicions. Trust is, perhaps, the greatest form of social capital any society can possess. 

During my years in public service, I realised that governance is ultimately built not merely on laws and policies, but on trust. Citizens may not remember every scheme or every decision, but they always remember whether those entrusted with public responsibility honoured their word. The same principle applies equally to families, friendships and businesses. Trust remains the invisible foundation of every enduring relationship.  In this context, the old saying, "प्राण जाए पर वचन न जाए." deserves to be rediscovered not as an impossible ideal, but as a guiding principle, not because every promise is easy to keep but because every promise faithfully kept makes us a little more worthy of the trust others place in us.And in the end, our reputation is built not by the promises we make, but by the promises we keep. 

R. Vimala, IAS Retired, 

Former Resdent Commissioner & Secretary, GoM, 

Social Change Catalyst, 

Founder Anirvedsshakti Foundation,

PhD Scholar at IIT Bombay 

From Ritual to Reverence: Rediscovering the Philosophy of Shraddha

From Ritual to Reverence: Rediscovering the Philosophy of Shraddha

A very close friend of mine lost her father and I had gone to attend the twelfth-day ceremony at her house today. India is a land with immense diversity and across it's length and breadth, the rituals of Shraddha and Pinda Daan may have minor variations in custom, but their underlying philosophy to honour our ancestors with gratitude and to recognise that our lives are built upon their sacrifices remains the same. 

Towards the end of the ceremony , the pandit sang a thoughtprovoking  bhajan on the immeasurable contribution of parents to our lives. It was a reminder that while we often celebrate our achievements, we rarely pause to acknowledge the countless sacrifices made by our parents to make those achievements possible.

Our parents give us much more than our basic needs of food, education and shelter. They instil values in us and create a foundation upon which we build our lives. Therefore their influence continues to guide us even after they pass away.

Hindu philosophy has woven this concept of gratitude through the ritual of Shraddha and Pinda Daan. Often these rituals are misunderstood as ceremonies performed merely for the departed. In reality, they are meant for us, the living. They remind us that we are not isolated individuals but are like links to an unbroken chain stretching across generations.

Our scriptures speak of the three krins, the three sacred debts with which every human being is born: Deva krin (our debt to the Divine), Rishi krin (our debt to the sages who preserved knowledge), and Pitr krin (our debt to our parents and ancestors who gave us life, nurtured us and gave us our culture). These debts are not burdens; they are reminders that life itself is a gift received from others. Shraddha is one beautiful way of expressing gratitude for that gift.

Every year, our family performs Shraddha for my parents-in-law, while my brothers perform the rites for our parents. These occasions cannot be seen merely as religious obligations. They are moments of remembrance, humility and thanksgiving. They remind us that whatever we are today has been made possible by those who walked before us.

Periyazhwaar, one of the twelve Azhwaar saints from Tamilnadu, expresses this continuity very beautifully when he links seven generations in their devotion to God. So he says, "Endai tandai tandai tandai tam muttappan... ezh paḍi kaal toḍaṅgi... vandu vazhivazhi atcheyginrom..." meaning my father, grandfather and his father that is seven generations after generation have remained devoted to the Lord. It is a moving reminder that faith, values and gratitude are inherited across generations. We are custodians of a legacy that did not begin with us and will cerainly not end with us.

Perhaps this is why it is so important to involve our children and grandchildren in these observances. If they watch rituals without understanding them, they may dismiss them as outdated customs. But if we explain that these ceremonies are expressions of gratitude, remembrance and continuity, they will begin to appreciate the profound philosophy behind them.

Every civilisation develops customs over time. Some practices may become ritualistic if their original meaning is forgotten. The answer, however, is not to abandon them, but to rediscover the wisdom that gave birth to them.

Hindu Dharma is among the world's most ancient living traditions. Its remarkable continuity lies not merely in preserving rituals but in preserving ideas, gratitude, duty, reverence for knowledge, respect for parents and care for future generations. We need not be defensive about our traditions, nor should we follow them mechanically. Instead, we should try to understand them, appreciating the timeless values they embody and share that understanding with the next generation.

When children attend the Shraddha, hear stories about their grandparents, offer flowers to them and understand why prayers are offered, they learn that a family is not defined only by those living today. It includes those who came before us and those yet to come.

The performance of Shraddha is therefore much more than a ritual. It is a reaffirmation that love does not end with physical departure. We continue to honour those who nurtured us, pray for their peace and draw inspiration from their lives.

In remembering our ancestors, we also remember our responsibility. One day, we also will become someone's ancestors. The values we live by today will become the inheritance we leave behind.

A tree does not begin with the branches we can easily see. It has roots buried deep beneath the soil . They maybe invisible but give strength to the tree and provide nourishment. 

Our ancestors are those roots.

Shraddha is therefore a way of acknowledging that our lives do not begin with ourselves. The opportunities we enjoy, the values we cherish and the lives we lead are all shaped by sacrifices made by those who came before us.

The younger generation, is certainly entitled to question every tradition. Do not follow it blindly, but do  not reject it without understanding it.

Ask questions. Seek meanings. Explore the philosophy behind the practices which have been followed for thousands of years.

You will realise that beneath the rituals lies a profound wisdom teaching us gratitude towards our parents, reverence for knowledge, respect for nature, responsibility towards society and remembrance of those who shaped our lives.

Just remember that when you participate in Shraddha, you are not merely performing a ceremony for the departed. You are remebering three generations backwards and  acknowledging a truth that none of us succeeds alone. We stand on foundations laid by countless hands before us.

Periyāḻvār speaks of this continuity when mentions seven generations united in devotion reflecting that our lives are part of a story much larger than ourselves.

In a modern era that celebrates the individual, our tradition reminds us of continuity. We receive it from those who came before us and we transmit to those who come after us.

And that exactly is the true meaning of Shraddha. Not merely remembering the dead, but strengthening the living bond between generations.

When children understand this, they no longer see these observances as rituals of the past. They see them as acts of gratitude, belonging and continuity. And when gratitude flows from one generation to the next, a civilisation remains alive.

R. Vimala, IAS Retired, MH 2009,

Former Resident Commissioner & Secretary, Government of Maharashtra,

Social Change Catalyst, 

Founder Anirvedshakti Foundation & 

PhD Scholar at IIT Bombay