Sadhika Pant
December 08 2024
Just the other day, I ran into an acquaintance who gave me a disturbing bit of news. He was an auto rickshaw driver, a man I’d known for nearly a year and often relied upon to drive me places. It had been a couple of weeks since we’d last met, so I asked after him, after his life and his family. His wife had been expecting their second child, due last month, so I inquired about the baby. He told me that his child had not lived for more than a few days after being born. I stood there, listening, as he told me of hospital runs that blurred into sleepless nights, of a wife worn thin with grief and sickness, and of money—more money than a man of his means could fathom—poured out in the hope of saving his baby. Three lakh rupees, gone, and still, the child was gone too. And yet, as he spoke, there was no quiver in his voice, no tears in his eyes. His calmness wasn’t the absence of pain but the bearing of it. Before he left, he asked me how I was, as if his world hadn’t crumbled just weeks before. I told him, but the words felt hollow against the weight of his own. Then he nodded, the way people do when there’s nothing more to say, and drove away. His words got me thinking. There is great strength that goes unnoticed in ordinary people. The majority of people carry burdens of almost unfathomable weight — a serious illness, the death of a family member, financial ruin looming on the horizon, a failed marriage, or the dread of unpaid bills and their kid’s school fees. And yet, despite the privations and indignities that life inflicts, they conduct themselves with remarkable steadiness. It is one of the more curious and admirable features of human nature that most people, even while labouring under such private anguish, maintain an outward appearance of civility. They do not scream, wail, or weep openly in public. They do not disturb the equilibrium of the social order with dramatic displays of their misfortune. Instead, they they engage with life’s demands with quiet resolve, exchanging pleasantries, offering polite nods, and maintaining a semblance of normalcy. They set aside their sorrows to attend to the tasks that keep the machinery of society running—fixing telephone poles, scrubbing public washrooms, repairing railway tracks, mending leaky taps in strangers’ homes, or collecting trash each morning with clockwork regularity. These are jobs that demand focus and physical labour, performed with a diligence that borders on perfection, so that the world as we know it continues to function smoothly. It is this restraint—this unspoken agreement to confine personal suffering to the private realm—that lends society its predictability, its reassuring sense of order. Without it, the world would be a far more chaotic and less bearable place. In stark contrast to this admirable restraint is the growing phenomenon of what Theodore Dalrymple famously calls “emotional incontinence”— a condition now celebrated in certain quarters as the pinnacle of authenticity. To many, the notion that one might temper or suppress one’s emotions, even momentarily, is seen as a betrayal of the self, a kind of moral cowardice. This modern creed insists that every feeling, no matter how trivial, base, or disruptive, must be expressed in its rawest form, regardless of time, place, or audience. To do otherwise is, it is claimed, to deny one’s own truth. This ideology has turned emotional exhibitionism into a virtue, casting those who keep their feelings private as inauthentic or, worse, repressed. The notion that restraint might be an act of generosity—a way of sparing others from the weight of one’s troubles—is dismissed as old-fashioned, even harmful. It is a peculiar kind of narcissism masquerading as courage. This relentless insistence on self-expression introduces an element of unpredictability into daily life, as one can no longer rely on the tacit agreement that public spaces are shared, not claimed by any individual’s private drama. The man who wails in the street because his feelings compel him to do so has made a public spectacle of what ought to be private, imposing his anguish upon strangers who neither caused it nor can alleviate it. The colleague who erupts in anger over a minor slight demands that everyone else accommodate their outburst, as if their emotional immediacy were a trump card against reason and decorum. The resulting chaos erode the boundaries that make civilised life possible. Worse still, this celebration of emotional abandon undermines the very essence of maturity. The ability to regulate one's emotions, to choose when and where they are expressed, is not a betrayal of authenticity but a mark of self-mastery and respect for others. It acknowledges the reality that life is shared and that one’s emotional weather should not dominate the horizon of everyone around them. To lose this understanding is to regress into a state of infantile self-absorption, where every whim and impulse is indulged without regard for consequence. This indulgence fosters a sense of entitlement that borders on the tyrannical. Those who refuse to regulate their emotions often expect the world to conform to their whims, mistaking their unfiltered outbursts for strength of character rather than an abdication of personal responsibility. Yet such expectations are not sustainable. A society cannot function if its members are perpetually walking on eggshells, fearful of provoking the next unrestrained display. Nor should it have to. The onus is on the individual to adjust to the social order, not the other way around. This kind of unhinged behavior, of course, is not without its consequences. One may indulge in the full expression of every impulse and emotion, but such indulgence comes at a cost—primarily borne by the individual who practices it. If one refuses to regulate one’s emotions, moderate one’s impulses or present a well-adjusted front, it is hardly surprising when others, especially those who are productive and conscientious, choose to distance themselves. People may be reluctant to hire someone whose emotional volatility disrupts the workplace or whose inability to contain their impulses renders them unreliable. Homeowners may hesitate to rent their property to someone who exhibits no regard for the peace and stability of their neighbours. Even friendships can wear thin when one party doesn’t care in the least for social harmony. The truth is, emotional incontinence breeds a form of social isolation. People may tolerate such behavior out of necessity, but they will not embrace it. In the end, society, for its part, moves on without these people. Our burdens, it seems, are thrust on us. Yet, the one freedom left to us—the singular choice that marks the civilised man—is how we choose to bear them. Image source: Christ Carrying the Cross by El Greco.
Sadhika Pant
October 21 2024
It’s a curious thing, this debate between man and the bear that sprung up on social media a few months ago. The gist of it is simple enough—women are asked to choose: would they rather find themselves alone in a forest with a bear or a man? In the original TikTok video that sparked it all, eight women were asked the question, and seven of them picked the bear. When the post went viral, women from all over chimed in online, and, overwhelmingly, they echoed the same choice. The reason cited behind the choice of the bear was associated with the widespread violence and sexual assault committed by men towards women. It didn’t stop there. On came a tirade with arguments stretched to all proportions, some, admittedly understandable, while others ridiculously far-fetched. But the underlying message was clear: women claimed having felt unsafe around men for much of their lives, and were now saying they'd rather take their chances with a bear. I don’t deny for a second that most, if not all, women have, at some point, felt their physical safety threatened by a man. That’s a reality we can’t ignore. But what baffles me is how so many women seem to have overlooked the flip side of this. Haven’t we also found ourselves feeling safer in dangerous situations because of a man? Whether it was a father, a husband, or a brother we turned to when things got rough—or even the police, when the danger loomed too large. When war came knocking, it was men in the army we relied on to stand between us and harm. These were all men. It’s astonishing how women overlooked this tiny detail. We felt physically threatened because of violent men. We also felt safer because some men were willing to commit violence to protect us. And even if you happen to be one of the fortunate women who’s never had to worry about her physical safety, chances are you live in a safe neighbourhood in a country where laws exist to protect you—and where those laws are actually enforced. And who’s doing that enforcing? Men! Most of us have never come face to face with a bear. I know I haven’t—unless you count the one caged behind bars at the zoo. So how is it that we’ve gone our entire lives without a single bear encounter? By living behind walls built by men (after all, over 90% of construction workers are men). By living in cities designed and constructed by men. By relying on strong men risking their lives in wildlife management to keep us safe from ever running into a bear in the wild. And now, after enjoying all the safety and security of our developed, urban worlds—where bears are a distant thought, and where we’re so far removed from the actual fear of encountering one—we go and pick the bear over the man? If that’s not a facepalm moment, I don’t know what is! If this were just a joke, I’d laugh along with everyone else. But the problem is, these women sounded like they really meant it. The second issue I have with choosing the bear over the man is that it’s a blatant lie. These women think they’d choose the bear—but only because it makes for a strong political statement. In reality, if they ever found themselves face-to-face with a bear and saw a man nearby, especially one with a gun, they’d do whatever it took to get his attention and beg him to help. And if that man turned out to be a rapist or a murderer? Well, they'd cross that bridge once the bear was no longer a threat. That’s just how we behave in life-threatening situations. You deal with the immediate danger first, and worry about the "what-ifs" later. In the end, what we see here isn’t really a question of whether a bear is less dangerous than a man—it’s a reflection of a deeper frustration. Women, having faced harm and fear, are expressing their distrust in a society that they think hasn’t done enough to make them feel safe. But by choosing the bear, they risk oversimplifying a much more complex issue. When push comes to shove, survival instincts don’t leave room for political statements. Extreme statements like choosing a bear over a man, while emotionally charged, oversimplify the nuanced relationships between men and women, particularly in moments of crisis. Yes, men can be threats, but they are also protectors, and much of the safety we enjoy in our modern lives comes from their efforts. Image source: The Waltons (1972-1981), Season 1, Ep. 4 - The Hunt
Sadhika Pant
March 11 2025
This new year, a friend managed to wring a resolution out of me, which is something of a miracle. I don’t usually do resolutions. It isn’t that I think resolutions are futile—rather, if I want to do new things, I like to throw myself into them without the burden of a plan weighing me down. But I made one anyway. “Crawl out of your creative hole this year,” my friend said. I promised I would. It meant, in other words, that I’d finally send in some of my writing for publication, put my work out there on more platforms. But like most resolutions, this one will likely gather dust, sitting unkept in some quiet corner of my mind. When people ask how long I’ve been writing, I never know what to say. It wasn’t something I started doing so much as something I found myself doing, like stepping outside one day and realising you’d been walking for miles without noticing. If I had to put a number on it, I suppose I started taking writing seriously about five years ago. I do not write for a living. I write for sheer pleasure. But bills must be paid, and so I have a job. I never gave much thought to why I have a job until recently. Whoever asks such questions? I work for a company that helps students prepare for competitive exams. In India, exams are an industry of their own. We have them for everything—government and administrative posts, banking, insurance, railways, police, the army, engineering, management. Every other young person is studying for one, chasing that elusive thing called stability. A stable job earns you the admiration of your neighbours, the pride of your family, and better prospects in the arranged marriage market. But the catch, besides the cutthroat competition in a country bursting at the seams, is that English proficiency accounts for a quarter or a third of the marks in nearly every exam. And in a place where English is not a native language, this creates an uneasy dependence. I won’t go too deep into the old debate about English in India, about whether it is a colonial relic or a necessary standardisation tool in a country where every state has its own language, but I will say this: there is a deep, lived anxiety surrounding the language in the minds of ordinary people. In the U.S., they talk about “math anxiety,” but in India, it is English that grips people by the throat. The further one moves from the cities, the more palpable the fear becomes. Many of the aspirants of these competitive exams never studied in a school where English was the medium of instruction. Most grew up with English as something distant, something foreign, something that belonged to other people. And yet, the world tells them they need it to succeed. And because English has become a shorthand for social status—education, refinement, exposure to international media—their fear is not just about failing an exam. It is about being seen as lesser. Which brings me back to my question: why do I have a job? The answer is simple. I know English. Not just well enough to read and write it, but well enough to teach it to those whose futures depend on mastering it. And here lies my unease. Is it right to make a living off of people's anxieties? Off their fears of inadequacy? Even off their ambitions? They want what anyone wants—to move forward, to build a life, to provide for their families, to take care of their parents in old age, to pay off debts, to stand on their own two feet. These are noble aspirations, and yet here I stand, a middleman profiting off the gap between them and their goals. Do I have a job because the British made their language inescapable? Because my parents sent me to an English-medium school built by those same British? Because my parents filled the house with books? Because my childhood love of reading granted me fluency as a byproduct? Because the school education system failed its students so thoroughly that they must now come to me? Because so many lacked the means to access English-medium schools that may have done a better job? Because India reveres government jobs above all else? I could go on. But the real question is: how do I put these qualms to rest? There are ways. I have worked long enough in the private sector to understand the way the market functions. Why does a programmer earn more than a labourer? Because salaries go up when a skill is scarce AND wanted. So I can always invoke the let-the-market-handle-it dictum. Or I can tell myself that it is not just my grasp of English that makes me employable, but my understanding of these exams. English is a deceptive thing; for every rule, there are ten exceptions. Those who come from the logic of structured, Sanskrit-derived Indic languages find themselves bewildered by it. Teaching English for an exam requires precision—knowing what to teach and what can be left out. And in the end, knowing English may get a person a job, but keeping that job depends on discipline, experience, reliability, success rate, market feedback and a thousand other things. I have yet to rise above the accident of my birth and education, having followed in my parents’ footsteps in more ways than one. Like my mother, I earn my keep in education. Like my father, I sit with words in the quiet hours, shaping them, letting them shape me. And like both of them, I have learned the trick of splitting myself in two—one half working, the other dreaming. I am only as devoted to writing as a full stomach allows, and only as faithful to my profession as it grants me time enough to wander in my thoughts. I have carved out a place for myself. And each morning, I wake knowing that my work matters just enough to someone. How do I know this? Because they are willing to pay me their hard-earned money for it. Of course, working the way I do, where I do, has its perks. I get to work from home. I get to read scholarly articles (to mine them for teaching material, but still). And I get the comfort of seeing people change the course of their life, and being a small part of it. But then there are the frustrations—deadlines, team conflicts, disappointed customers and occasional unpleasant debates over politically correct grammar. I think of all this, and then I think of Firoz bhai. He is my tailor. Not a blood relative, but I call him bhai (brother) out of respect. Every few months, I go to him with fabric in hand, asking him to stitch a sari blouse or a salwar suit. Here, most people still prefer tailored Indian clothes over store-bought ones. The fit is better. The craftsmanship shows. And Firoz bhai is a master of his craft. I hardly have to give instructions anymore. I show him a picture from Pinterest, leave him the fabric, and in a couple of weeks, he hands me something perfect. Firoz bhai does not lose sleep over the necessity of his work. He does not sit hunched at his sewing machine, squinting at the fabric, and wonder whether the world still needs tailors. He does not pause with a half-cut sleeve in hand and agonize over whether he is complicit in an economy that prizes appearance over essence. He measures, he cuts, he stitches. The cloth comes together where it must, and when he is done, there is proof of his labour — a garment where before there was only fabric. A customer leaves satisfied, and the world has one more well-made thing in it than it did before. I do not have that pleasure. My work is not something you can fold and pack away, nor can it be draped over a body to see how well it fits. I do not see the moment when a student’s tongue stops tripping over English, when they no longer grope for words but find them waiting, ready to be used. I like to think it happens, but I have no proof. There are no straight seams, just a slow and invisible accumulation—of language, of competence, of confidence. Perhaps that is the fate of those of us whose work is not tangible, whose efforts do not leave behind something to touch or admire. We are doomed to wonder whether the work we do has any value at all, to second-guess the money we earn. And maybe that is why we envy people like Firoz bhai, who can hold their craft in their hands and say, ‘Here. Here is what I have done.’ Firoz bhai works at his own pace. More than once, I’ve gone to pick up my clothes only for him to ask for another day because he wanted to perfect the detailing. That’s how it is with men who take pride in their work. There’s no use showing up unannounced at his shop. He comes in when he pleases, and some days, he prefers to work from home, where the light is better and the distractions fewer. Once, I waited nearly an hour for him. “The evening azaan has started,” he explained over the phone. “Prayer cannot be rushed, you know,” he said matter of factly. There was no apology in his voice, no excuse, just the quiet certainty of a man whose time is his own. I didn’t mind the wait. But I did wonder what my boss might say if I ever missed a meeting and, when asked, replied with the same quiet finality—Prayer cannot be rushed. In a corporate job, punctuality is a virtue, and professionalism is currency. In a trade, all that matters is the work itself, and the reputation of the man who does it. When he finally turned up, he handed me my finished garments with a wide grin. I marveled, as I always did, at the magic in his hands. And for a moment, I envied him—the slow pace of his days, the hum of his sewing machine, the freedom to close up shop to attend the evening prayer, the satisfaction of creating something tangible and beautiful. But if I told him about my job, about my ability to work from home, about the books I get to read, the security of a paycheck that arrived on time no matter how fast or slow I worked, perhaps he would find the grass on my turf greener. Indeed, one must imagine Sisyphus happy.
Sadhika Pant
April 12 2025
There are those who fit, who slip into the room like a hand into a well-worn glove. Then there are others. I have been the other. I have spent years pressing myself into shapes I believed the world required. Sometimes I tried to dissolve into the crowd like sugar in tea. Other times, I styled myself a singularity—daring to be something different, to “be myself” (whoever that is). Both efforts felt like a borrowed coat: always slightly too large in the shoulders, never quite warm enough. Sometimes, in social groups, I watch. It is not surprising when they say it is the watchers who tell the stories. For as long as men have scribbled words onto paper, they have written from the point of view of the ones who stand at the edge of the firelight, always reluctant to step close enough to warm their hands. T.S. Eliot’s Prufrock, shuffling through his measured life in coffee spoons, knew it. Fitzgerald’s Gatsby knew it, even as his shirts, fine enough to make a woman weep, fluttered in the breeze of a dream he could never quite possess. And now, in this new world of glass towers and city lights, where the rituals are conducted over quarterly forecasts and PowerPoint decks, I know what it is to be one of them—watching. The corporate world is a world of joiners, of men and women who have learned to slide into its rhythm with the ease of a practiced hand signing a deal. Their words come out smooth and predictable, a language built on a repetition so careful that it sometimes sounds like a chant. "Synergy," they say, and nod. "Scalability." "Leverage." One can pass through these rooms without ever truly speaking, without ever truly saying anything. Every sentence said here has already been spoken a thousand times before. I walk among them everyday. Power here is not shown through brute force. It is suggested, woven into casual asides and fleeting glances. A promotion is not just a title—it is a shift in how a name is said in a meeting, in who gets called into the right rooms, in the subtle way backs straighten when someone speaks. A man will mention, in passing, a recent chat with the VP. Or offer a firmer handshake at the off-site meeting. And there it is—that small flicker of status, carefully snuck in, never forced. It is an art, this thing they do, and I watch them perfect it. And when the workday ends, the performance does not. It flows into the evenings, into the brunches and the beers, into the subtle hierarchy of toasts and travel stories. A man orders another round, leans back in his chair, and the one-upping begins—not in a way you can call outright competition, no, that would be too crude. Houses, cars, stocks, promotions, goals. “Thinking of upgrading to a bigger place,” one says, and another nods as if to say, naturally, that’s the next step. A third casually mentions a new place—three balconies this time. The others pause, just briefly, recalculating. Confidence up. Confidence down. The night goes on, and some men sit a little taller. It may not even be cruel or deliberate, but it happens all the same. A raise is mentioned. Someone else already knows. A house is bought. Someone else has a bigger garden. The air thickens with things unsaid. Someone goes home feeling lighter, shoulders squared, and someone else turns the key in their front door with a weight pressing against their ribs. From where, I wonder, does a man draw his confidence? Is it his income bracket? His passport stamps? His bookshelf? The things we cherish privately morph into public currency. You must love the right things, with the right fervor, in the right tone. It is not self-expression. It is self-positioning. A man does not simply enjoy a book anymore; he must mention, in passing, how many he has read this year, and they must be the right kind—literary, weighty, meaningful. Another speaks of music, but it is not enough to like a song; it must be an obscure artist, something critically acclaimed, a name that makes others nod in approval. The movies? Oscar winners, of course, always Oscar winners. And why? Why this endless parade of curated lives and careful disclosures? It is too much like wearing all the jewelry you own to a single event, layering necklace over necklace, ring over ring, until the weight of it becomes absurd. Maybe we are all just trying to prove we are worth something. But the trouble with measuring worth in this way is that it is a game without end. There is always another man with a bigger house, a fancier car, a rarer first edition on his shelf. And so the game continues, quiet and relentless, confidence shifting like sand underfoot. No one ever really wins, but no one wants to stop playing either. And I—I am still watching these shiny happy people. Sometimes, I stop watching the play out there, and turn inward instead — why do I not enter the arena? Is it because I believe their game unworthy of me—or is that merely the gentle fiction I whisper to myself, a cushion against the sharper truth that I may not have what it takes to win? A man picks his battles, sure, but only the ones where he figures he might come out ahead. Surely only writers can toe this line between vanity and self-deprecation. But perhaps I’ve been playing a different game all along. I tell people that writing is something I do on the side, a dalliance from my true profession. But maybe—just maybe—it was always the other way around. Perhaps writing was my true calling, and work, the dalliance. And so, I’ve taken to lingering in the corners. It is no accident that Prufrock hesitated at the door, that Gatsby stood at the edge of his own parties. Not because they did not wish to speak, but because they wondered if there was anything left to say. I watch the way a man adjusts his tie before he speaks, the way a woman shifts her posture before she delivers a point she knows must land. They don’t see me. Or rather, they see a suit, a nodding head, another face in the sea. But that is the way of things. In the room the women come and go, talking of Michelangelo. Meanwhile the outsider is invisible in plain sight. Image source: The Son of Man by René Magritte.
Sadhika Pant
December 24 2024
Life sometimes presents us with strange choices. We might find ourselves deciding whether to act solely out of self-interest or to risk something dear for someone else’s sake. It’s the choice between leaving a game while we’re ahead or choosing to stay a little longer, braving the unknown to see how things might unfold. It’s the choice between pulling away from a friend or family member who seems to offer little immediate value and, instead, sticking by them through their darkest times, even if it costs us a measure of peace or personal growth. Prioritising oneself certainly has its merits, and rational calculation often seems the straightest path to a life of security and success. But I’ve learned, time and again, that my richest rewards—emotional and even financial—have come from taking a risk on another person. It could be a romantic partner, a family member with whom relations have been strained, or a friend whose struggles threaten to spill into your own life. To a person with a calculating mind, it might seem “practical” to cut people loose the instant they no longer bring value, or when keeping them close feels like a net loss. This approach may seem selfish, but over time, it is hardly self-serving. After all, it is in life’s roughest patches that you come to know the people around you. You see, with clear eyes, who’s on your side. Some of those you thought would stand by you were merely basking in your success, feeding off your shine while your life was at its peak. Others stay close only for the benefits of your wealth, reputation, or influence, always hedging their bets in the hope that you might someday be useful to them. These are often the first to disappear when things take a turn for the worse. And some go further still, delighting in your downfall and picking at the remains when you’re too weakened to hold them at bay. Yet there are others who never made grand gestures, who never sought recognition but instead quietly come forward, offering support when it’s needed most. Strangers, sometimes mere background figures in your life, unexpectedly step forward to become mainstays through their kindness. This pattern isn’t unique to you or me—it’s universal. People don’t expect others to save them or lift them out of darkness. Often, all they seek is someone willing to sit with them through it. The power of sticking around, of simply being there, is immense. Many of these people, written off by others, possess extraordinary potential: they’re intelligent, capable, and deeply kind. Even from a calculating point of view, to cut them out based solely on present value is, at best, shortsighted. Then there’s the arrogance that often follows this utilitarian mindset. Those who think a life built on cold calculations will yield the best outcomes look down on anyone unwilling to “cut their losses.” They see the ones who persist—those still emotionally invested in relationships or systems—as foolish, as naïve. But time has shown that these so-called emotional fools, the ones who refuse to turn their backs on others, often find success in unexpected places. It’s often these very “fools” who generate wealth, and it’s they who share it most freely with those who stayed by their side. These "emotional fools" recognize that life is not a ledger of gains and losses but a complex web of connections, each one building on the next. They understand that the person you help in their time of need may one day be the one to lift you up when you find yourself in a similar darkness. Relationships, built over time and hardship, become a kind of insurance against life’s uncertainties—a form of wealth no bank can hold. Those who cultivate this wealth know that loyalty and shared history are worth far more than the fleeting benefits of one-sided exchanges. They realise that, at the heart of a truly rich life, lies an interdependence that makes you stronger than the brazen independence of doing everything on your own. More than wealth, the social currency we trade in is trust. Trust is the invisible force that keeps our systems from unravelling. It is trust that keeps us confident our laws will protect us and that law enforcement will uphold justice. It’s trust that lets us go to sleep at night believing our money will not be worthless come morning. We trust our governments and institutions to act in good faith, despite the times they might falter, and we trust in the loyalty of our life partners. Our children place their wholehearted trust in us. And we extend trust whenever we lend or borrow, counting on the other party’s commitment to repay. We trust the hands that built our homes, though we likely never met the labourers who laid each brick or assembled the beams. We trust, too, in the community we live among—that society at large will uphold unspoken rules of decency. Without this trust, our world would be a fractured and fearful place, each of us living in guarded isolation, fearing the very systems and people who surround us. Trust, in the end, is what holds everything together—far more precious than gold, and often far more fragile. It builds reputation, and reputation, in turn, opens doors to life’s many opportunities and ventures. The more trust you earn, the more people want to align with you, work with you, and share in what you create. Companies that lose trust crumble swiftly, becoming irrelevant in the blink of an eye. The same is true for individuals. We often believe that the quality of what we buy affects our well-being and, by extension, our character. But it also works the other way. The structural integrity of a home is only as sound as the integrity of those who built it. A life is not self-made; it is shaped by the hands and hearts of others. I owe who I am to my family, my friends, and the countless acquaintances who have gambled on me, just as I have gambled on them. When your family trusts you to be a good son, husband, or brother, when your employer trusts you to work with honesty, and when your neighbour sees you as someone worth having around, people want to enter into partnerships and relationships with you. Are you trustworthy? If the answer is yes, the world will reward you. If the answer is no, what value do you truly have? What would the emotional fool say? Take a chance on someone, especially if they stood by you during your own turbulent times. Yes, it might cost you—time, peace of mind, or even money—to support a friend staring down bankruptcy or a family member battling depression. But life isn’t about winning the game and walking away with the biggest prize. It’s about earning trust that ensures you’re invited to keep playing, again and again. Each time you’re welcomed back to the table, you gain another chance to win. And whether you choose to stay or turn away, people don’t forget. How many people still want you at their table? What do you bring to it? Image source: The Last Supper by Leonardo da Vinci.
Profanity: lit
Of late, there has been a feeling settling in my chest like dust in an empty room—soft, silent, and certain. It is the quiet realization that my memories are not permanent things. Not chiseled into stone or sealed up in iron-bound books, but written in pencil, the graphite growing faint with each passing season. I am aware, now more than ever, that what I remember will not be remembered for long. I think of my parents often. I remember my mother in her early sarees—floral, soft, like the curtains of a spring house. As the years passed, her colours dulled. Maybe they matched her age better, or maybe they just matched her mood. I see her now in my mind, young, barefoot and newly married, in a kitchen not yet hers, lifting a spoon to her mother’s lips and asking if the peas were soft enough. What was her scent like? Turmeric? Talcum powder? Or those white rajnigandha flowers she loved so much? I don’t remember. I think of my father and the way he used to hum when he shaved, a low tune without name or language. But he never hummed outside the bathroom. Strange, that. And as he grew older, he stopped humming altogether. And if he did, I did not hear it. He used to sit before the little temple shelf every morning before work, eyes closed like a man listening for something. That stopped too. He drank his tea from a steel glass, not a cup. Said it stayed hot longer that way. And he would stretch out the mornings for hours reading his newspaper. I remember my grandparents. My mother’s father, who sat shirtless in the backyard under the guava tree, reading his newspaper intently with a magnifying glass to make up for his failing eyes. He’d stagger about the house, sneaking sweets into his kurta pocket like a schoolboy, always bumping into furniture and blaming the chair for being in the way. And my grandmother—she cooked her paayesh without measuring a thing, and it tasted the same every single time. She never looked at a clock but always knew when it was time to light the lamp in the dining room. And the sound of her bangles as she moved, and how she always carried a safety pin or two on her person, convinced—as all grandmothers are— that safety pins could hold the world together if it were falling apart. These people are whole in my mind still—but I can feel them dimming, as though someone is turning down the wick. There is the house too, the one I grew up in, parts of which have a lean to them, like an old man who didn’t mind carrying his weight a little unevenly. I remember the flaming red gulmohar trees lining the streets in the neighbourhoods of Lucknow. I remember the amaltas trees in full bloom and how their yellow flowers carpeted the streets like spilled celebration. Oh yes, I remember the springs of my childhood very well. I would dig in the garden, not for roots but for treasure, after reading many an Enid Blyton book, sure that something long forgotten waited just beneath the surface. Anything that might prove the world had magic buried in it. That’s where I spent my childhood, among bricks warm from the sun and the smell of damp earth. A life as vivid as marigold garlands strung on festival mornings. But I know now—these things do not last. Not the bricks, not the pits of the mangoes I ate from the tree in my yard, and certainly not the memories. And I wonder now about the ones I never knew. My great-grandmother, for one. I do not know the timbre of her voice or the way she took her tea. I do not know what jokes she told or whether she feared the monsoon lightning. She is a name on the tongue, a sepia photograph someone kept in the bottom drawer of a teak cupboard. But she must have mattered once. To my grandmother and my mother, certainly. Perhaps her essence still lived on in the way my grandmother stirred tea or reprimanded a child. But who remembers her laugh? Her scent? Her griefs? She must have lit lamps too. She must have wept for her dead and told her children stories in the dark. She must have been real once, the way I am real now, and the way I, too, will become only faint stories told in the dark—if I am lucky. The truth is, I am the last keeper of many things small and mighty. And when I go, so will they. A whole generation of smells and songs and garden dirt, all folded neatly into the great quiet of forgetting. The next ones— my children, my nieces and nephews, the children of neighbours who call me “aunty” and do not know why—they will build their own mythologies, their own summers, their own kitchen smells. Already their toys lie scattered across the same floors where I once tiptoed in fear of waking the elders. That’s all right. That is the way of things. That memory is not a monument but a river. That it carries what it can and lets the rest fall away—softly, tenderly, and without cruelty. But still, tonight, I sit here with the weight of it pressing in. Perhaps the most we can hope for is not to be remembered forever, but to have mattered deeply while we were here. To have held someone close, cooked for them, made them laugh. To have filled a childhood with warmth and wonder, so that even when the names are gone, something of the feeling remains, like heat held in stone long after the sun has gone. And if that is all, then it is still everything.