PERSPECTIVES

Underneath the gray Tokyo sky, the city hummed with an almost inaudible vibration, a low and constant frequency that seemed to pulse from the concrete and steel. It was a place where development danced a subtle, intricate ballet with destruction. Toru Watanabe wandered the streets, his thoughts adrift in a sea of introspection. He watched as a building, once teeming with life and stories, crumbled under the force of a wrecking ball. Dust and debris filled the air, a tangible reminder that creation and annihilation were often two sides of the same coin. In the dim light of a jazz bar, where the scent of whiskey and the soft notes of a saxophone intertwined, Toru met an old friend, Naoko. She spoke of progress, of new beginnings, but her eyes betrayed a certain melancholy. "Isn't it strange," she mused, "how every new beginning necessitates an ending? We build something new, but only after tearing down what once was." Toru nodded, feeling the weight of...

In the peculiar solitude of a downpour, amid the relentless drumming of rain against the window, there’s a moment, almost ethereal, where the world seems to hush just enough for introspection. It’s in these gray, shadowed hours that our own tempests, swirling with anxieties and whispered fears, press close against the glass, fogging it with the breath of our burdens. Yet, it is precisely here, in the grip of our own storms, that the true test unfolds—not merely to endure, but to extend a hand still warm with humanity. There’s a certain quiet nobility in blessing another when our own hearts are heavy, like lighting another’s candle while our own flickers in the wind. It's not about the grand gestures seen and celebrated, but the small, almost invisible acts of kindness—a comforting word, a gentle smile—that pass silently between us, often unnoticed, yet profoundly altering the texture of our lives. It is, perhaps, our greatest challenge, and our most profound victory, to...

Swamiji Chinmayananda’s eloquence always had a peculiar allure, one that gently pulled me into the depths of Advaita Vedanta. Thus, when the chance to visit Chinmaya Tapovanam in Uttarkashi presented itself, it felt less like a coincidence and more like a predestined moment. I can still recall that evening, stepping into the ashram under a sky brushed with the colors of twilight, the world around pregnant with a calm expectation. The ashram itself, nestled by the banks of the Ganges, greeted visitors with the murmuring sounds of the river, as if whispering secrets from centuries past. Beside the reception, there stood a small, tiled house of just one room, aging yet dignified. It was here that Chinmayananda’s guru once lived, at the time young Chinmayananda became his disciple. The lineage of gurus, this unbroken chain of wisdom and enlightenment, resonated deeply within the subcontinent's spirit, its essence vital for the spread of their venerable teachings. My stay wa...

In the dimly lit corridors of Victoria College, Palakkad where the dust motes play in slants of light streaming through high, arched windows, the Latin motto "Labuntur et imputantur" is inscribed above the grand entrance, its letters carved deeply into the weathered stone. It whispers a truth, subtle yet persistent as the tick of a clock in an empty room: "The moments slip away and are laid to your account." In an enigmatic world, this phrase would unfurl like the slow, deliberate opening of a drawer in an antique desk. Inside, among the scent of old wood and hints of forgotten ink, lies a collection of watches—each stopped at different hours, minutes, and seconds, yet all silently speaking of the same irreversible passage. The students walk these halls, their footsteps echoing softly, not yet understanding how these moments are accruing silently in the ledgers of their lives. At a small café just off-campus, a retired professor—once a teacher at Victori...

  On an unforgettable day, the skies of Palakkad were pregnant with the promise of a downpour, a staggering 16 centimeters forecasted by the weatherman. It was a chapter from my youth, a time when I cruised the winding roads astride my Suzuki bike, accompanied by my cousin on a quest to visit his friend in Kollengode, nestled on the far side of the Palghat Pass, amidst the majestic Western Ghats. His abode awaited near Thamarapadam, a name whispered by the wind. Cloaked in rain gear, we embarked on our journey, a venture unaided by the guiding hand of GPS or the convenience of Google Maps. Our path unfurled before us like a secret whispered by the earth herself, revealing vistas of verdant paddy fields stretching endlessly on either side. It was a tableau of rustic charm, adorned with the bustle of buses and the bustle of rural life, where farmers transported their bounty. In the gentle light of dawn, the sun struggled to pierce through the relentless curtain of rain, rendering its...

  The wind whispered secrets of ancient continents through the Palakkad Gap, a silent scar etched upon the Indian earth. Millions of years ago, Madagascar, a spectral island adrift in the sapphire embrace of the ocean, had been part of this very landmass. Gondwana, they called it, a name that resonated with the melancholic hum of lost connections and whispered memories. Eons had passed, continents fractured like shattered dreams, their fragments scattered across the vast canvas of time. Yet, whispers of the past lingered. The Dharwar Craton, an ageless rock formation, stretched beneath both the Indian soil and the Malagasy mountains, a testament to their shared slumber within the womb of Gondwana. The Ranotsara Gap, Madagascar's own silent echo, mirrored the Palakkad Gap with an uncanny precision, a ghostly handshake across the vast ocean. Lemurs, with their soulful eyes and nimble movements, danced through Madagascar's forests, their ancestors intertwined with the Indian langu...

In the verdant heart of Kerala, where the monsoon whispers secrets to the ancient trees and the air hums with the melody of unseen realms, snake deities slither through the folklore like silken shadows. Here, in this lush corner of the world, the boundary between the mystical and the mundane is as thin as the morning mist that clings to the tea-covered hills. Among these deities, the Naga or serpent gods hold a place of reverence, their lore woven into the fabric of daily life as intricately as the patterns on a Kathakali dancer's costume. These serpents, embodying fertility, prosperity, and the very essence of life, are not mere mythic figures but the soul of Kerala's rich tapestry of beliefs. In small, shadowed groves, known as Sarpa Kavus, where the sunlight filters through the dense foliage in dappled patterns, the Nagas are worshipped. These sacred spaces, untouched corners of wild nature, serve as portals to a world where the Nagas reign supreme, guardians of ...