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 

दिलवालों की दिल्ली में महाराष्ट्र

दिलवालों की दिल्ली में महाराष्ट्र 

दिलवालों की दिल्ली में महाराष्ट्र 

कभी कभी उम्र बीत जाती रिश्ते बनाने में,

और कभी चुटकियों में गुज़र जाता साल 

नये बने रिश्तों में,

वक्त पैमाना नही, प्रेम के इस खेल में,

कुछ रिश्ते कभी बनते नहीं,

कुछ बन जाते पल दो पल में.

संगीत के पुराने रिकॉर्ड की तरह अनोखी,

दिलकश और गहरी,पुरानी दिल्ली की तरह.

तीन पहियों वाली साइकिल रिक्शा-सी,

जो खुद चलती, औरों को भी साथ ले जाती

सफर को सुहाना बनाती, हर मोड़ पर मुस्कुराती।

कभी आम महोत्सव की मिठास घोलती,

कभी गणेशजी का आशीष साथ लाती,

कभी खाद्य महोत्सव की खुशबू बिखेरती,

कभी हुर्डा पार्टी में देहातीपन जगाती,

कभी संक्रांत का तिलगुड़ देकर हाथों में 

हर पल अनूठा, हर लम्हा रसदार, 

हर बार नई बात बताती...

जैसे गीता मनीषी के आशीर्वचन देते गीता का ज्ञान,

मन लगाकर काम करो यही कर्म महान...

साड़ियों की बौछार में पैठनी  की चमक,

खण और करवत काठी की बुनावट की धमक,

फ़ैशन शो में उत्साह की रंगत आयी

और दिल्ली में महाराष्ट्र ने धूम मचाई!

सिर्फ़ मनोरंजन नहीं  एक संस्कृति बोलती ,

हर धागे में कोई कहानी मिलती।

महिला साहित्य सम्मेलन की बात थी कुछ और,

मंच मिला महिला अधिकारियों को, 

 रचा साहित्य बेजोड़।

सेवा में डूबी कलम जब काग़ज़ पर उतर आई,

तो अक्षर-अक्षर में गूँजी एक नई रोशनाई।

सिर्फ उत्सव नहीं, काम भी हुए बेजोड़

अटके प्रमोशन को मिले मोड़

रुकी अनुकम्पाओं का खुल गया दौर

मिली किसी को राहत और मुझे समाधान 

 कर्त्तव्य में तत्परता, इसी में निहित सम्मान!

दफ़्तर की फाइलों में जो नहीं था नसीब,

वो एक मुलाकात और बातचीत में हो गया करीब

सुना था , दिल्ली है दिलवालों की,

पर  महाराष्ट्र से भी आयी दिली बहार

 और खिल गए दिल्ली में फूल हज़ार

महाराष्ट्र सदन बना अपनेपन का द्वार।

महाराष्ट्र से आयी और दिल्लीने अपनाया,

और दिल्ली ने महाराष्ट्र को अपने दिल में बसाया।

उम्र से नहीं, रिश्ते दिल से बनते हैं,

नियति जिनको जोड़े, वो कहाँ टूटते हैं।

कोसों दूर है दिल्ली, फिर भी दिल पर राज करती है,

ज्ञान, धर्म, कर्म की भूमि का यही तो हैं सार 

जहाँ हृदय जुड़ते हैं, वहीं ईश्वर का हैं साक्षात्कार । 

आर. विमला, भा.प्र.से. (सेवानिवृत्त), महाराष्ट्र–2009

पूर्व निवासी आयुक्त एवं सचिव, महाराष्ट्र शासन

संस्थापक, अनिर्वेदशक्ति फाउंडेशन

पीएच.डी. शोधार्थी, सेंटर फॉर पॉलिसी स्टडीज़, IIT बॉम्बे

Every House Has A Room Called Sorrow...

Every House Has A Room Called Sorrow...

A few days ago, one of my mentors , Dr.Chander Trikha , renowned author and journalist, Director Haryana Urdu Academy shared with me, a Hindi poem about 'dukh' , sorrow and the weight that each of us quietly carries through life.

The poem stayed with me long after I had put it down. As often happens as I was moved and  kept mulling over it so much so that it made me look inwards. It opened my thoughts to introspection bringing with it memories. Of my own journey. Of victories and defeats. Of moments luminous with joy and days shadowed by uncertainty and pain. Of the many lessons that had hidden themselves inside each of these experiences, waiting to be understood.

As I reflected, I realized that over the years my relationship with sorrow has changed  not with  sorrow by itself, but the way I have learned to receive it and look at it. 

When we are young, we tend to believe that happiness is the natural state of life and sorrow is an unwelcome intrusion. We spend considerable energy trying to avoid pain, outrun disappointment and keep the door firmly shut against grief. We console ourselves with the belief that someday, if we do everything right, sorrow will simply stop visiting us.

Life, as only life can, teaches us otherwise. Sorrow is not an occasional visitor. In fact, it is a permanent resident in our lives. 

Not always in the same form, of course. Sometimes it arrives as the loss of someone we love. Sometimes as a dream that quietly dissolves. At other times it appears as anxiety for our children, helplessness before an aging parent's suffering, the ache of broken trust, a body that no longer cooperates, a failure in an exam or simply a quiet hollowness that resists all explanation. But it comes. It always comes.

As the years pass, one begins to understand that sorrow has its own place in the architecture of one's life. When I sat with the poem my mentor had shared, an image surfaced from somewhere within me.

Sorrow is like a room in our house.

Every home has many rooms. We have drawing rooms, bedrooms, kitchens, study rooms, dining rooms, prayer rooms . Some of these rooms are filled with laughter and celebration. The walls of some  holds memories, faded photographs, the scent of old letters, the echo of voices we miss. Some rooms carry hope and aspiration, its windows always open to tomorrow. Another is set aside for prayer and stillness.

And somewhere in the house whether we acknowledge it or not there is a room called sorrow.

Many of us spend years trying to lock that room. We close its windows, draw its curtains and throw away the key. But sorrow has a quiet persistence. It waits. It finds its way back. It sits in its corner until we are finally ready to sit with it.

The mistake is not that sorrow exists. The mistake is allowing it to expand and occupy the entire house, to darken every other room, to silence every other voice.

Life has taught me another truth that all sorrows do not arrive uninvited. Many times, we leave our doors open for it. Our mistakes, our ego, our stubbornness, old grudges, misunderstandings, harsh words spoken in anger, unspoken expectations and our unwillingness to forgive slowly make room for sorrow. We nurture it instead of healing it. We close the doors to reconciliation and leave the windows wide open for grief.
In doing so, we forget that the other rooms of our house are waiting for us. Rooms filled with love, laughter, gratitude, friendship, compassion and hope. We become so absorbed in the room called sorrow that we stop visiting the rest of our home.
Acceptance does not mean becoming captive to sorrow. It means acknowledging its presence without allowing it to rule our lives. Forgiveness has a healing effect so we must choose forgiveness over resentment, understanding over judgment, coomunication over silence and hope over despair. It may not be possible for us to prevent every sorrow from entering our lives, but we can decide how long it stays and how much of our home we allow it to occupy.

In reality, sorrow does not need to be evicted. It needs to be accommodated. I often think of it the way one thinks of family.

Every family has members of very different temperaments those who are easy to love and those who ask more of us. We do not abandon difficult family members simply because they challenge us. We adjust. We accommodate. We forgive and we keep on loving them. The family teaches us that acceptance is not the same as approval; it is simply the recognition that certain things belong to us and we to them.

Perhaps sorrow deserves a similar acceptance.

Not because we enjoy suffering but because sorrow is inseparable from the experience of being fully human. The deeper our capacity to love, the greater our vulnerability to loss. If we love our children, we will carry their burdens alongside our own. If we love our parents, we will dread the day we must let them go. If we invest ourselves in relationships, work and ideals, we will know disappointment and sometimes betrayal. Sorrow is often nothing more than the shadow cast by love and the deeper the love, the longer the shadow.

And yet sorrow is not merely a burden. It is also a teacher perhaps the most honest teacher we will ever have.

Happiness makes life pleasant, but sorrow when we stop fighting it  makes life meaningful. It teaches us patience in the seasons when circumstances will not bend to our will. It teaches us humility when success begins to seduce us into believing we are self-made. It teaches us compassion, because having suffered, we can no longer look at another's pain from a comfortable distance. It deepens faith and builds a resilience that comfort and prosperity, for all their gifts, rarely can.

Looking back honestly at my own life, I find that some of the most enduring lessons did not come from moments of triumph. They came from the periods when things fell apart when I felt helpless, when the path forward was not visible, when I had nothing left but the simple choice to keep going.

The wounds healed eventually, as wounds do. But the wisdom they left behind has never left.

And then there is the dimension that touches something deeper than wisdom , the dimension of faith. When human strength reaches its limits, something else begins its quiet work.

For me, that something has always been found in the teachings of Bhagawan Shri Krishna in the Bhagavad Gita. Shri Krishna does not promise Arjun a life free from sorrow. He does not tell him that the battlefield will simply disappear, that the grief will not be real, that the losses will not hurt. The Gita is spoken not in a garden of ease but on a battlefield in the middle of the greatest crisis of Arjun's life  surrounded by confusion, grief and an anguish so profound that he can no longer stand.

And in that very place, Shri Krishna speaks. The message is not that suffering will end. The message is that we do not face it alone. Shri Krishna calls Arjun to courage, to duty, to the practice of rising above fear and attachment and then, in what I consider one of the most extraordinary moments in all of scripture, He offers something simpler than any instruction:

“Sarva-dharman parityajya mam ekam sharanam vraja”

Abandon all other supports and take refuge in Me alone.

And then  those two words that have steadied me more times than I can count:

“Ma Shucha.” "Do not grieve. Do not be afraid."

Not because life will become easy. Not because the room called sorrow will be sealed forever. But because there is a divine presence that accompanies us through every joy and every darkness  and that presence is constant, even when we cannot feel it.

Today, when sadness knocks on my door, I no longer see it as an enemy. I acknowledge it, learn what it has come to teach me, but I do not hand over the keys of my home to it. I also remember that there are many other rooms in this house. Rooms filled with love and friendship. Rooms holding gratitude, service, laughter, hope. Rooms that open onto wider skies than the ones sorrow shows us. And beyond all those rooms stands the Divine , patient, unchanging, and close  gently reminding us:

Ma Shucha.

Do not fear.

Do not despair.

You are not walking this journey alone. Shri Krishna is there with you. 

R. Vimala, IAS Retd.MH - 2009 

Former Resident Commissioner & Secretary, Government of Maharashtra

Founder, AnirvedShakti Foundation

PhD Research Scholar, Centre for Policy Studies, IIT Bombay

Aashiyana Dhoondta Hain – On the Universal Dream of Home and the Heartbreaks Along the Way

Aashiyana Dhoondta Hain – On the Universal Dream of Home and the Heartbreaks Along the Way

A home is the dream of every living being. We have watched ants patiently carrying  particles to build their colonies. We have watched birds making nests for their little ones. Each of these actions reflect the universality of  our need for a home and a place to return to. 

Home is not merely a real estate transaction. It is a dream of shelter, a place where you are not only safe and known but also belong.

From the caves of our ancestors to the thatched huts inhabited by lakhs across India, to the gleaming towers of glass and concrete rising in our cities today, the form of homes may have changed, but not the dream. It is where our children learn to walk, where we celebrate our festivals and create memories. 

A home is the culmination of years of sacrifice, saved salaries, postponed aspirations and countless compromises. That is why, when a home becomes embroiled in disputes, litigation or uncertainty, we get shaken to our very core. The distress is not merely financial; it is emotional and deeply personal.

I say this not as a philosopher, but as a revenue officer who spent years inside the machinery of land and law.

In the revenue courts, I have seen what happens when that dream is threatened. I have seen brothers and sisters who once shared a childhood bed, a dinner table and a mother's lap turn into strangers across a courtroom aisle, fighting over ancestral property with a bitterness that poisons not just the land in question but everything around it. Such disputes do not merely divide property. They divide people. They transform what was once a family into warring factions.

I have seen relationships of thick friends broken  irreparably over a boundary wall, a disputed survey number, a leaky ceiling or a few square feet of earth that neither of them will ever truly enjoy once the conflict begins.

These are not merely legal disputes. They are human tragedies. Every file in a revenue court is a story of a dream gone wrong. 

And then there is a particular kind of heartbreak that belongs to our times, the heartbreak of the homebuyer who trusted a builder, only to find themselves trapped in endless delays and broken promises.

Unsuspecting dreamers are led into years of anxiety through delayed possession, irregularities in approvals, misuse of FSI, unauthorized changes in plans, encroachment upon utility spaces and a maze of legal complications. The joy of receiving the keys to one's dream home, or simply living peacefully in it, is replaced by frustration, helplessness and uncertainty.

Behind every delayed project lies not merely a stalled construction site, but thousands of suspended dreams. Many of us know such people or may also be one among them.

You save for years, invest your provident fund and your savings. You sign on the dotted line with trust and belief. You hand over your money and your faith and then you wait.

And wait.

And wait.

The builder who promised possession in two years becomes the builder who stops returning calls in four. The project that was supposed to have a garden, a community hall and a children's play area becomes a faraway dream.  

The utility spaces that were meant to belong to residents are quietly absorbed into something more profitable. And the dreamer who only wanted a secure home in old age is left holding a loan, a legal notice and a hollow where hope once lived.

I have watched this happen to people who deserved better educated people, careful people, people who read every clause.That includes me.

And yet, the builders know how to delay without technically defaulting, how to exploit loopholes and how to ensure that the very legal system meant to protect buyers becomes their longest ordeal. Hundreds of thousands of homes have been promised, leaving countless families in limbo.

RERA was meant to be an answer, and it has certainly helped. But for those already caught in the web before its arrival, the wait continues. Their laughter remains on hold. Their children's school admissions are planned around possession dates that keep shifting. Their lives remain suspended in the waiting room of a dream.

It was in this context, carrying my own quiet worry about my home, that I found myself travelling to Kallahalli, near Bengaluru, to the temple of Bhoovarahaswamy.

Lord Varaha, the divine Boar, is the avatar of Vishnu who descended into the primal cosmic waters to rescue Bhudevi, the Earth Goddess, from the depths of darkness. He lifted her upon his tusks and restored her to her rightful place.

The symbolism is not lost on those who arrive at this temple carrying land troubles on their lips and hope in their hearts.

This is the deity who rescues what was taken, who lifts what was submerged and who restores what was lost. What I saw there was a sea of faith. People came carrying bricks , actual bricks, that go into walls and foundations. Some carried stones. Others brought handfuls of soil. They laid them before the Lord with the same reverence with which they would offer flowers or lamps.I stood there and felt something shift within me.

This was not superstition. It was the human heart doing what it has always done when the law fails, when builders deceive, when courts move slowly and years pass turning towards something larger than itself and asking:

Please, Please let my home be ready.

Please let this dispute end.

Please let me have what every ant, every bird and every cave-dwelling ancestor understood as a basic need, a place to come home to.

I prayed too. Simply. Honestly. Without embarrassment.

On the drive back from Kallahalli, a song from the Hindi film, Gharonda, surfaced from my memory. It is about two young people who come to Mumbai, with large dreams and limited means, trying to find a home and build a life with everything they possess while happily singing, "Do deewane shehar mein, raat mein ya dopahar mein, aab-o-daana dhoondte hain, ek aashiyana dhoondte hain."  This song full of hope lingered in my mind reflecting the kind of hope one possesses only when young enough to believe that the city will eventually open its arms.

That if one works hard enough, believes deeply enough and waits long enough, the home will come.

Yet the film ends in a heartbreak. The protagonist hero, compromises his values and his relationships to make a home, only to discover that dreams built without integrity can never survive. His despair is reflected in another version of the song which compares life to an empty vessel,  "Din khaali khaali bartan hain, aur raat hai jaise andha kuan..."

I remembered those words on the road back from the temple, and I felt them in a way I never had before. Not as cinema but as truth, as an  understanding of what it means to be consumed by the search for a home. What it means to wait. What it does to a person. The days empty out.

The nights seem bottomless. Hope itself begins to feel fragile.

Gulzar wrote that song with the genius of someone who understood that the search for a home is never merely about four walls. It is about belonging and dignity, about the self that can fully flourish when it not only has a home  but also respect in this world.

Without it, a person can become, as the film so heartbreakingly suggests, "ek akela is shehar mein" alone in the city.

Utterly, invisibly alone.

I thought of all the people I have encountered, in revenue courts, consumer forums, newspaper reports and the WhatsApp groups of aggrieved housing society members waiting for their homes.

The retired couple who signed redevelopment papers and continue to wait.The young professional whose rent consumes everything while possession dates keep receding into the future. The family of four living in two rooms, watching their children grow while the dream of a larger space remains perpetually out of reach.

Of families torn apart over ancestral land, who have forgotten what they were fighting for beneath all the bitterness. Of siblings who have not spoken in years because of property they may never inhabit happily, even if they win.

And I thought of all those including myself who stood before the deity with a brick, a stone, a handful of earth or simply their own empty hands and asked the universe: "Please let our dreams come true."

As a society, we owe our citizens transparent systems, accountable institutions, ethical business practices and accessible mechanisms for justice. The dream of home ownership should never become an endurance test.

So, my prayer at Kallahalli was not only for my own home, but for everyone standing at the threshold of this dream.

For every home-buyer betrayed by broken promises.

For every family fractured by a land dispute.

For every young person searching for an aashiyana in the night or the dawn.

For every elderly couple waiting for redevelopment to be completed.

May siblings choose reconciliation over litigation.

May builders honour their commitments.

May every unfinished structure transform into a lived-in home filled with laughter.

And may no one remain "ek akela is shehar mein", lonely amidst the crowds, searching endlessly for shelter and belonging. 

May all our aashiyanas become a reality.

Mine, and yours....

R.Vimala, IAS Retd.,

Social Change Catalyst, 

Founder , AnirvedShakti Foundation & 

PhD Scholar at IIT Bombay 

Heart's Content | vimshine.blogspot.com