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.

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 Arjuna 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 Arjuna'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 Arjuna 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 enters my life, I no longer meet it as an enemy at the door. I recognize it as a room in the house of existence , a room I may enter, sit quietly in for a while, allow myself to feel what needs to be felt, and learn what it has come to teach.

But 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

Mumbai Meri Jaan & Ghanan Ghanan : Musings on Returning Home to Mumbai

Mumbai Meri Jaan & Ghanan Ghanan : Musings on Returning Home to Mumbai

दुविधा के दिन बीत गए, भैया, मल्हार सुनाओ,

काले मेघा, काले मेघा, पानी तो बरसाओ...

There are some cities you live in and then there are cities that become a part of your being...For me, Mumbai has always been that city. 

"Mumbai meri jaan", is not just a phrase or a hashtag but a lived truth written across thirty years and more of my life.

My first major encounter with this magnificent, maddening city was not as a tourist or a seeker. I arrived as a young Sales Tax Officer, Class 1, freshly selected through MPSC, heart full of ambition and nerves. My office was in Mazgaon and thanks to a friend, I found myself a room in a hostel at Vile Parle. Between Mazgaon and Vile Parle lay the great lifeline of Mumbai , the local train and between those two stations lay the beginning of my journey. 

Those who have never traveled Mumbai local in rush hour have missed one of the most extraordinary human experiences on earth. I still remember the local trains displaying time  in minutes. You learn quickly that a Mumbai minute is not like any other minute. It is calibrated with precision, soaked in urgency, and absolutely non-negotiable. Missing a train by a minute meant waiting for the next one and so one quickly learnt to respect time.

I learned to run on platforms in sarees. I learned to calculate the gap between train door and platform edge with my eyes closed. I learned the wordless grammar of the women's compartment,  the distinctive shuffle that makes space for the 'fourth seat' where there is none, the extended hand that pulls a stranger aboard, the silent solidarity of shared exhaustion. The vendors weaving through  selling hairpins, earrings, jasmine strings, vadapav became the background music of my mornings. And then there were the Bhajan mandalis, breaking into devotional songs at the end of a long commute, which was another feature that filled the compartments. 

Mumbai had a unique paradox. People minded their own business, rarely intruding into another's affairs. Yet, the moment someone faced difficulty, strangers transformed into helpers. Beneath the hurried pace lay an enduring humanity.

Soon, I had to leave Mumbai after being selected as Deputy Collector and proceed for training to Sindhudurg. But life had other plans. Marriage brought me back to Mumbai, and I returned with renewed excitement. 

My first real posting in Mumbai's administrative world was in the Collector Office of Mumbai Suburban District at Bandra as Deputy Collector.

Travel became easier with an official vehicle, but Mumbai itself remained unchanged in its spirit It was here that the city revealed its great paradox to me in the starkest possible terms.

I handled Sanjay Gandhi Niradhar Yojana , working with widows, abandoned women, the invisibles of the city , women who survived on the thinnest edges of dignity, struggling for their monthly allowances with paperwork which at times outlasted their patience. And on the other side of the same desk, in the same city, I handled Entertainment Duty , the world of discos, theatres, nightlife, people spending in one evening what those widows received in a month. And sometimes evading even that small tax. Compassion and firmness became twin necessities of administration.

My straightforward approach often came at a price. Transfers followed. At MMRDA, where I served as Land Manager, challenges continued. Yet every posting became a classroom.

From the weight of those contradictions, life took me as only Mumbai can from the serious to the surreal. 

My stint as Joint Managing Director of Filmcity, Goregaon, was nothing short of a gift from the universe to a thoroughly filmy soul like me. I had grown up on Bollywood. And now suddenly I was managing the film studios, coordinating shoots, navigating the extraordinary ecosystem that produces our cinema. To encounter Amitabh Bachchan , the Shahenshah himself in a professional context, to see Hrithik Roshan taking a casual stroll outside my humble office quarters, to be able to see Madhuri Dixit's charm and Aishwarya Rai's beauty so closely ,to meet directors like Yash Chopra, Subhash Ghai, Rakesh Roshan , Vidhu Vinod Chopra, Sanjay Leela Bhansali and breathe the air on their sets being constructed and stories being told ,was like walking into a dream while still awake.

But Filmcity also taught me that behind every glamorous frame is an army of invisible workers, light boys, spot boys, makeup dadas and didis,  junior artists whose lives were not so different from the niradhar women I had worked with. I came face to face with Mumbai's magical duality, again.

From arc lights and film sets to remote tribal villages, the transition was profound. There, amidst hardship and resilience, I encountered another India. The struggles of the tribal communities taught me lessons in humility, endurance and the true meaning of development.

Returning to Mumbai City as it's Resident Deputy Collector was stepping once again into the rhythm of metropolitan life. But by then, Mumbai had become deeply personal.

After nearly nine years of marriage, I conceived. Whether it was the blessings of Lalbaugcha Raja, divine grace, or simply life's mysterious timing, our family was blessed with a son. I took leave for a year to embrace motherhood fully.

Thereafter, many of my professional decisions were influenced by him. I moved to Thane, hoping to remain closer to home. Yet, Thane was no easy assignment. Vast constituencies, intricate administrative responsibilities and then the sudden demise of a Member of Parliament requiring the conduct of a major election in Belapur, one of the largest constituencies in the country then with thirteen lakh voters. It became a masterclass in election management.

Mumbai does not just give you a career. It gives you a life. It brought me to the apex of Maharashtra's administrative machinery when I worked as Deputy Secretary in the Planning Department in Mantralay implenting MGNREGS.   I sat at the intersection of policy and people, watching governance unfold from the inside.

And then after induction into the India Administrative Service as Chief Executive Officer  of Maharashtra State Rural Livelihoods Mission heading the UMED Mission, my world came to a full circle. I now worked with the rural woman of the state whom I had learned to see with such clarity in Jawhaar's villages.  Spreading the network of self-help groups,  undertaking their capacity building, skill training and market linkages became my passion.  Mahalakshmi Saras became our stage, a festival where the handwork of lakhs of women from remote Maharashtra arrived in the heart of Mumbai and found dignity, buyers, and recognition. To see a Nandurbar or Beed tribal woman sell her produce with confidence in the city was more than any promotion or award. So women became my sakhis,  learning from them and empowering them through livelihoods did not remain as an administrative responsibility but  became a personal mission.

Life then took me beyond Mumbai once more as Collector and District Magistrate of Nagpur during the challenging years of COVID-19. Thereafter came Pune, followed by assignments in Mumbai at the Khadi Board and Samagra Shiksha. My career culminated as Resident Commissioner and Secretary to the Government of Maharashtra at Maharashtra Sadan in Delhi.

From Nagpur to Pune to Delhi,  every city I went to after Mumbai, I carried Mumbai inside me.

People often asked: was I able to adjust in Delhi after Mumbai? I always smiled. Mumbai moulds you for everything. It gives you the skin for chaos, the eye for beauty in ugliness, the reflexes for change and the strength to face sorrow. Most importantly, Mumbai prepares you for every city. It teaches adaptability. Delhi, too, charmed me with its broad avenues, rich cultural life, abundant greenery and the grandeur of Lutyens  architecture. I grew to love the city.

Yet, returning to Mumbai carries an emotion that is difficult to articulate.

There is something about Mumbai's busy streets, the endless movement of its people, the resilience hidden behind tired faces, the aroma of chai and wada paav on it's streets, the sea breeze along Marine Drive, the gathering monsoon clouds and the first showers that transform the city.

Mumbai does not merely accommodate you.

It moulds you. It teaches you to keep moving despite adversity, to make space for another even when life itself feels crowded, to pursue dreams without apology and to remain compassionate amidst relentless ambition.

This city and this state have given me far more than I could ever repay, opportunities to serve, friendships to cherish, lessons to treasure and a life rich in experiences.

As I return once again, this time after retirement, my aspirations are different. I no longer carry official files or administrative authority. Instead of that , I now have a purpose in mind. I hope to devote my time to the empowerment of my sakhis and their families, the women of self-help groups whose courage and determination have always inspired me. 

If Mumbai has taught me anything, it is this that transformation begins with ordinary people doing extraordinary things every single day.

As the monsoon clouds gather over Marine Drive, I find myself humming the familiar lines:

दुविधा के दिन बीत गए, भैया, मल्हार सुनाओ,

काले मेघा, काले मेघा, पानी तो बरसाओ।

घनन-घनन, घिर-घिर आए बदरा,

घने, घनघोर, कारे छाए बदरा...

The rhythm of those words mirrors the rhythm of Mumbai itself, unceasing, dramatic, hopeful.

And somewhere within that symphony of rain, railway announcements, temple bells and the crashing waves of the Arabian Sea, I recognise the city that has been my constant companion.

Mumbai.

My city of dreams.

My teacher.

My home.

'Mumbai meri jaan',  you are not just the city of my postings. You are the city of my becoming. Delhi has the historic India Gate but 'Mumbai Meri Jaan' you are the Gateway of India and of course my own little world....

R.Vimala,  IAS Retired, 

Social Change Catalyst, 

Founder AnirvedShakti Foundation &

PhD Scholar at IIT Bombay 

Into the Sacred Flow : A Vanaprastha Beginning at Har Ki Pauri...

Into the Sacred Flow : A Vanaprastha Beginning at Har Ki Pauri...

The Ganga ,is a river that holds all of time and does not merely flow, she is a blessing. She carries within her currents, the prayers of ten thousand years, the ash of the departed, the tears of the seeking and the laughter of those who have discovered true living . To stand at her bank is to stand before a mirror that reflects not your face, but your soul. And it is at Har Ki Pauri, the feet of Hari, the threshold of the divine,  that this sacred mirror is held most steadily before every human heart.

On 5thJune 2026, I came to Haridwar not merely as a visitor, but as a pilgrim at a crossroads. I had crossed my sixtieth year officially,  retired from thirty-three years of government service and was standing quite literally at the gateway between two phases of a sincere life. And Haridwar, in its infinite wisdom, had arranged more for me than a holy dip. It had also arranged an encounter with a living flame of the Bhagavad Gita.

"Haridwar , is that gateway to the divine and the Ganga, is the river that flows through time itself." 

Our ancient wisdom speaks of the Chaturashrama,  the four stages that give a human life its shape, its purpose, its grace. Baalaavastha, the season of innocence and wonder, when the world is vast and learning is play. Brahmacharya, the season of discipline and formation, when the self is shaped through study and striving. Grihastha, the season of responsibility and fullness, the heart of life itself  when one tends to family, community, and the world. And finally, Vanaprastha , the forest-turning, the great stepping back.

Vanaprastha does not mean retreat into passivity. It means something far more luminous: the graduation from accumulation to offering. It is the moment when a person, having lived fully in the world, turns from acquiring to giving , from governing to guiding, from building to blessing. The Bhagavad Gita illuminates this truth with extraordinary precision. Lord Krishna, speaking to Arjuna on the battlefield of Kurukshetra, articulates what Vanaprastha embodies in its truest spirit:

"Niyatam kuru karma tvam karma jyayo hyakarmanah" (Gita 3.8)

"Perform your prescribed duty, for action is better than inaction. Even the maintenance of your body would not be possible by inaction."

Vanaprastha is not the abandonment of karma , it is its elevation. The duty changes; the devotion does not.

Long before the weight of official responsibility settled on my shoulders, I was shaped by the warmth of those who loved me first. My parents gave me a childhood that was both beautiful and secure , a foundation so steady that it allowed me to blossom, slowly and surely, into the person I became. My siblings and friends stood by me through every season in laughter and in struggle, offering the kind of loyalty that no rank or title can replicate. My teachers lit the lamp of learning and showed me that academic excellence was not merely about marks but about the discipline of a prepared mind. And my colleagues, across postings and decades, sustained me with their camaraderie, their competence and their quiet solidarity.

In marriage too, I embraced my Grihastha dharma fully  as a wife who tried to be present for the family, as a daughter-in-law who understood that a new home is also an opportunity for love and belonging. And as a mother perhaps the most profound role of all , I poured into my son Vishnu everything I had to give: not wealth or position, but values, attention, and the fierce, patient hope that he would grow into a good human being. And with God's blessings and grace, he has. My small home ,modest and full  gave me a sense of pride and belonging that no official bungalow ever quite matched. It was mine. It was us. It was enough.

I have lived my Grihastha years with all my heart.  As a District Collector of Nagpur, as the CEO of MSRLM where I walked alongside fifty lakh women building their own futures through the UMED Abhiyan, as the CEO of MSKVIB or MD of Jal Jeevan Mission or Samagra Shiksha and as Resident Commissioner at Maharashtra Sadan  I gave to public service everything I had. And it gave me back immeasurably more: a sense of purpose so deep it became my identity, and a love for this country's people so deep that it became a devotion.

But every season must honour its own calling. And now, at sixty, the time of Vanaprastha has arrived  not as an ending, but as the most significant beginning of all.

We arrived at Har Ki Pauri as the morning held its warm glow. The ghats were alive  with chanting, with incense, with the rhythmic bells of a faith that has never shaken. And there, before us, was the Ganga.

I have seen rivers. I have crossed them, administered the floods that swelled them, sat in reviews over their irrigation potential. But this was not a river to be administered. This was a sacred presence. The waters moved with a velocity that was simultaneously urgent and eternal, white-tipped and translucent, carrying the Himalayas themselves in their memory, green and cold and absolutely alive.

Standing on the bridge above Har Ki Pauri, looking down at the flowing waters, I felt something I had not anticipated; I saw my life in that current. The early years of striving. The field postings in remote talukas. The nights spent reading files, the days spent in district rounds. The women of Beed, Osmanabad, Hingoli , Nagpur ,Nandurbar and several other places who showed me what courage truly looks like. The failures that taught more than the successes. The slow, patient work of institution-building. All of it flowing, as the Ganga flows , purposeful, unceasing, and ultimately  moving toward something greater than itself.

"I could see my whole life flowing in its glory from that bridge every season of it, luminous and purposeful."

We descended the stone steps of the ghat which led us into the water's edge  slowly. The Ganga in June, fed by snow melted from the high Himalayas, is ice cold. It takes your breath not harshly, but decisively. It does not ease you in. It claims you. And in that claiming, something extraordinary happens: the cold that should be shocking becomes, within seconds, calming. Soothing. As though the body understands, even before the mind does, that this cold is healing. That this plunge is not a surrender but a purification.

As I took the holy dip ,as the sacred waters rose above my head and closed around me  I felt something ancient and new happen simultaneously. The weight of three decades of official responsibility, still clinging to me like a second skin, lifted. Not discarded, never discarded, for it had made me who I am  but transformed. Released into the current, even as I was held by it.

The Gita speaks of exactly this moment of release  not as escape from the world, but as liberation within it:

"Yogasthah kuru karmani sangam tyaktva dhananjaya" (Gita 2.48)

"Be steadfast in the performance of your duty, O Arjuna, abandoning attachment to success and failure. Such equanimity is called Yoga."

And in that moment of immersion, I felt  with a clarity I have rarely known that I was being reborn. Not into ignorance, but into wisdom. Not into retreat, but into a new and freer form of service. The water that had witnessed the prayers of sages and saints, of kings and common people, of the grieving and the grateful across centuries, was now witnessing mine.

"As I took the holy dip, I could feel myself being reborn , stepping into the service of society with a renewed and liberated heart."

Haridwar, it seems, had more in store for us than the holy waters. After our dip at the ghat, we were blessed with what I can only describe as a divine appointment , an audience with Guruji Swami Gyananandji Maharaj, the revered proponent of the Bhagavad Gita and the visionary founder of Gieo Gita Sansthanam.

To meet a true Gita scholar is to understand, in an instant, the difference between knowing words and inhabiting their meaning. Swamiji did not lecture or declaim. He spoke the way the Ganga flows  steadily, naturally, with quiet power, carrying each listener to a place of greater clarity. In his presence, the Gita ceased to be an ancient text and became a living conversation  between the divine and the human, between eternity and the present moment.

Gieo Gita Sansthanam's , 'gieo' meaning to live, to breathe life into  is not merely an institution. It is a movement with a mission as simple and as vast as the Gita itself: to bring the wisdom of Lord Krishna's teaching to every home, every heart, every corner of this nation and beyond. Swamiji's life is itself a commentary on the Gita's most radical teaching  that one can live fully in the world, engaged in all its responsibilities, and yet remain anchored in the eternal.

"Sarva-dharman parityajya mam ekam sharanam vraja" (Gita 18.66) "Abandon all varieties of religion and just surrender unto Me. I shall deliver you from all sinful reaction. Do not fear." Ma shucha.

The Bhagavad Gita is humanity's most enduring answer to its oldest question: How shall I live? Across eighteen chapters and seven hundred shlokas, it speaks to every dimension of human experience , doubt and courage, grief and joy, action and stillness. It offers not easy comfort, but something far more valuable: the tools to think clearly, act rightly and live freely.

In today's world  where young people are overwhelmed, where women still fight for their rightful place, where communities are divided , the Gita's message is not nostalgic. It is urgently alive. It reminds us that our identity is not our position or wealth, that the soul is indestructible and that every human being carries within them the capacity for something greater than themselves.

My second purpose in this Vanaprastha chapter is therefore clear: to carry the Gita's light  not as religion, but as a philosophy of living  to the women I serve, the youth I mentor, and the communities I touch. Through AnirvedShakti Foundation and in the spirit of Gieo Gita Sansthanam, I am committed to making Nishkama Karma  selfless, ego-free action  not an ancient ideal but a daily practice.

Swamiji's parting words remain with me like a lamp: "The Gita does not ask you to leave the world. It asks you to enter it fully  but as a servant, not as a master."

At the Ganga's edge I made my promise  simply, truthfully. Guided by 'Karmanyevadhikaras te' ,do your duty, release the fruit. I step forward into this new chapter: freed from position, rooted in purpose, offering whatever remains of my life not for reward, but for love.

The river flows on. The Gita sings on. And so do I. 

"Har Har Gange. Jai Shri Krishna."

R.Vimala,  IAS Retd.

Social Change Catalyst, 

Founder, AnirvedShakti Foundation 

PhD Scholar at IIT Bombay