Tag: #Articles

A Celestial Experience on a Terrestrial Morning 🪷✨

˚⊱🪷⊰˚

There are mornings when one wakes up.

And then there are mornings when morning itself seems to wake up within you.

This was one such morning.

I had risen, as I often do, in that mysterious hour known in our ancient tradition as Brahma Muhurta—that hushed interval before sunrise when the world has not quite decided whether it wishes to remain in darkness or surrender itself to light.

The stars were still scattered across the sky.

The household slept.

The streets slept.

Even the birds, those tireless custodians of dawn, had not yet reported for duty.

And somewhere between the last breath of night and the first whisper of morning, I sat down to meditate.

Little did I know that the morning had prepared something for me.

Something I had not ordered.

Something no meditation manual had promised.

Something that, if narrated in a respectable gathering, might earn me either a thoughtful silence or a gentle recommendation to get some sleep.

I began with the breath.

 

🌿 Breath by Breath

I settled into Anāpāna—the simple observation of breathing.

No mantra.

No visualisation.

No celestial ambition.

Just the breath entering…

and leaving…

entering…

and leaving…

The breath, that most ordinary of miracles, became extraordinarily intimate.

The mind, which ordinarily behaves like a monkey after discovering both coffee and social media, became surprisingly quiet.

The attention gathered itself.

Almost instantaneously.

I watched the breath.

Then I began observing sensations—Vipassanā.

A sensation here.

A vibration there.

A subtle movement.

A warmth.

A coolness.

Nothing to cling to.

Nothing to resist.

Just observing.

And then something happened.

The meditation deepened.

Not gradually, as one might expect, but with an almost mischievous swiftness.

I wondered:

What is happening today?

Was this merely a particularly peaceful morning?

Or was I about to enter Dhyāna?

And then came the thought which every meditator should probably be warned against:

Am I going into Samādhi?

The moment one begins wondering whether one is entering Samādhi, of course, one is probably still very much at home.

The ego, after all, is capable of following us even into the Himalayas.

But strangely, the thought dissolved.

And I went deeper.

And deeper still.

˚⊱🪷⊰˚

🌲 And Then, Heaven Appeared

What happened next is difficult to describe because language, for all its grandeur, is a rather modest instrument.

I found myself in a landscape that seemed to belong neither entirely to earth nor entirely to imagination.

It was like a page torn from some forgotten celestial manuscript.

There were coniferous trees, tall and solemn, standing in a soft, dim light.

Between them bloomed flowers of delicate pastel shades—pink, lavender, pale yellow, soft blue—colours that seemed to have been mixed by a painter who had forgotten earthly rules.

Streams of blue water wandered through the landscape.

Not ordinary blue.

The sort of blue one imagines when a poet says blue and a painter quietly shakes his head because the word is inadequate.

And then I heard music.

A santoor.

Its notes floated through the air like tiny drops of silver.

One note.

Then another.

And another.

The sound seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once.

I thought of Kashmir.

I thought of the Himalayas.

I thought of temples hidden beyond the reach of maps.

And, inevitably, I thought:

Is this Dev Lok?

For a moment I felt that perhaps the old storytellers had not been exaggerating after all.

Perhaps heaven was not above us.

Perhaps it was merely concealed by the thickness of our ordinary perception.

Or perhaps the brain, having been deprived of its morning newspaper and worldly anxieties, had decided to stage its own production.

Shakespeare would have understood.

After all, he had already warned us:

«“We are such stuff as dreams are made on.”»

But was this a dream?

A vision?

A hallucination?

A figment of imagination?

Or simply the mind, in deep stillness, revealing its own hidden theatre?

I had no answer.

And meditation, fortunately, does not demand one.

👁️ A Little Experiment with Heaven

Curiosity got the better of me.

I gently opened my eyes.

Nothing.

No devas.

No apsaras.

No celestial musicians sitting behind the curtain waiting for the next performance.

No divine orchestra.

No heavenly welcome committee.

There was simply my familiar terrestrial world.

The furniture was where I had left it.

The walls had not turned into gold.

The ceiling remained stubbornly terrestrial.

I smiled.

Perhaps Heaven had closed its doors.

Or perhaps I had opened my eyes too soon.

So I closed them again.

And let the thoughts wane.

˚⊱🦌⊰˚

 

🌅 The World Became Enchanted

Something had changed.

There was now the faint suggestion of morning light.

The celestial landscape had become clearer.

The conifers stood in gentle mist.

The flowers seemed more luminous.

The blue streams glided silently through the trees.

And then I noticed something moving.

Deer.

A few of them wandered through the landscape with that effortless grace which belongs to creatures who have never attended a meeting.

They moved without hurry.

Without ambition.

Without checking the time.

Perhaps humanity invented clocks because we had forgotten how to live.

Far away I heard footsteps.

Soft.

Measured.

Almost ceremonial.

And then came music again.

Not merely the santoor this time.

There seemed to be an entire ensemble somewhere beyond the trees—flutes, strings, perhaps voices, perhaps something beyond the vocabulary of earthly instruments.

The music did not appear to be performed.

It appeared to be happening.

As naturally as water flowing.

As naturally as wind moving through leaves.

As naturally as silence itself.

I began to move slowly.

I do not remember deciding to move.

It was as if the landscape itself were moving me.

And then I saw it.

A vast pond.

Still.

Serene.

Reflecting the pale morning sky.

And around it—

the Apsaras.

Not one.

Not two.

But many.

A whole gathering.

˚⊱✨⊰˚

🪷 The Apsaras by the Blue Waters

They were unlike the apsaras of calendars and cinema posters.

There was nothing theatrical about them.

They were luminous rather than glamorous.

Some sat beside the water.

Some were reciting hymns.

Some chanted mantras in voices so soft that the sound seemed to rise directly from the earth.

Others moved gently in dance.

Not dance for an audience.

Dance without an audience.

Dance as prayer.

Their movements were slow, graceful and almost weightless.

It was as though the body had forgotten gravity.

The chanting mingled with the music.

The music mingled with the breeze.

The breeze mingled with the water.

And for one extraordinary moment, there seemed to be no boundary between sound and silence.

Between dancer and dance.

Between observer and observed.

Between myself and the mysterious world before me.

I was completely absorbed.

Lost.

And yet, strangely, I had never felt more found.

How long did I remain there?

I cannot say.

Five minutes?

Half an hour?

An hour?

Meditation has a curious relationship with time.

The clock counts minutes.

The mind counts memories.

Silence counts neither.

˚⊱🌄⊰˚

🧘 The Return of the Sun

Eventually, I opened my eyes.

It was bright outside.

The sun was about to rise.

The darkness had withdrawn quietly, like an old monk leaving a temple before the congregation arrived.

Across the sky were scattered clouds.

The first rays of the sun touched them with a magnificent orange glow.

For a few moments I simply stood there.

The sky seemed to be on fire.

But it was a peaceful fire.

A fire that did not destroy.

A fire that illuminated.

Perhaps every sunrise is a little miracle.

We simply become too accustomed to miracles.

I went to the kitchen and prepared my morning ginger-lemon-honey tea.

The kettle boiled.

The ginger released its fragrance.

The lemon brought its brightness.

The honey its sweetness.

And I took a sip.

Heaven, I discovered, also tastes remarkably good in a cup of tea.

˚⊱☕🍋🍯⊰˚

🚶 The Buddha Walks Again

I stepped outside.

Something in me was still altered.

I walked slowly.

Very slowly.

It was not my usual walk.

There was no destination.

No hurry.

No mental list of things to accomplish.

My eyes were gently downcast.

My steps were quiet.

For some inexplicable reason, I thought of the Buddha walking.

Not the Buddha of statues.

Not the Buddha of books.

But the Buddha who walked upon the earth—quietly, completely, without needing the earth to applaud him.

For a few moments I felt as though his spirit had somehow descended into the ordinary morning.

Or perhaps it was the other way around.

Perhaps I had briefly risen into the stillness in which he lived.

The distinction did not seem important.

I walked towards the park.

The world was waking.

People would soon begin their daily pilgrimage towards offices, schools, markets and obligations.

The great human drama would resume.

Phones would ring.

Messages would arrive.

News would disturb.

Opinions would collide.

Someone somewhere would be angry because his tea was not hot enough.

Another would be angry because someone else was happy.

Civilisation, as always, would continue its magnificent struggle.

I simply walked.

Quietly.

Gracefully.

And returned home.

˚⊱🥣⊰˚

 🌾 Heaven and Oatmeal

Back in the kitchen, I prepared breakfast.

Oatmeal.

Milk.

Banana.

Dry fruits.

Nuts.

Honey.

A meal sufficiently wholesome to make even the most rebellious of sins feel embarrassed.

As I sat down, something rather amusing occurred to me.

I had spent the early morning wandering through what appeared to be a celestial realm.

I had seen apsaras.

Heard heavenly music.

Walked among deer.

Watched blue streams beneath coniferous trees.

And now—

I was eating oatmeal.

Perhaps this is the secret of spirituality.

One may visit the heavens before breakfast, but eventually one must still wash one’s bowl.

The Buddha would probably have approved.

After all, enlightenment does not exempt one from ordinary life.

It merely changes the way one sees it.

˚⊱📜🪶⊰˚

🪶 And Then Came Saraswati

I looked towards the window.

And there, in the quiet distance of imagination—or perhaps somewhere between imagination and reality—I fancied I could see Goddess Saraswati.

She appeared to be sitting peacefully with her veena nearby.

In her hand was a feather pen.

And, to my astonishment, she seemed to be taking notes.

I wondered what she was writing.

Perhaps:

“Subject woke up before sunrise.”

“Meditated.”

“Saw celestial beings.”

“Questionable breakfast.”

Or perhaps she was writing something more profound.

Maybe:

“Today, for a few moments, he remembered that the ordinary is extraordinary.”

That seemed more likely.

For what else is poetry but the discovery of the extraordinary hidden inside the ordinary?

˚⊱🪷⊰˚

✍️ The Celestial Experience

I finally sat down to write.

Still bewildered.

Still amazed.

Still uncertain whether I had visited another realm or merely travelled deeply within my own mind.

And perhaps the distinction is less important than we imagine.

For centuries, human beings have argued about the nature of reality.

The mystic says, Look within.

The scientist says, Observe carefully.

The philosopher says, Question everything.

The poet says, Look again.

And the Buddha, perhaps smiling at all of us, simply says:

Observe.

So I observed.

I do not know whether Dev Lok exists somewhere beyond the stars.

I do not know whether apsaras inhabit some hidden dimension.

I do not know whether the santoor I heard came from an unseen celestial orchestra or from some exquisite chamber of the human mind.

And I do not know whether, for a brief while, I had crossed a boundary between worlds—or merely crossed the boundary between ordinary consciousness and deep stillness.

But I know what I experienced.

I know that the breath became still.

The mind became quiet.

The world became luminous.

The trees became sacred.

The water became music.

The deer became poetry.

The chanting became prayer.

And silence became a language.

Perhaps Samādhi is not necessarily a place one enters.

Perhaps it is a moment in which the walls between me and the world become so thin that existence seems to whisper:

“You have been looking for Heaven in the wrong direction.”

˚⊱✨⊰˚

🌌 Heaven May Be Closer Than We Think

The morning continued.

The sun rose.

The world resumed its ordinary business.

My oatmeal disappeared.

The tea cup became empty.

The celestial music faded.

The apsaras vanished.

The blue streams returned to wherever blue streams in meditation go.

And Saraswati, having apparently completed her notes, disappeared behind the veil of daylight.

Yet something remained.

A quietness.

A wonder.

A smile.

Perhaps that is all a mystical experience is required to leave behind.

Not a certificate.

Not a miracle to display.

Not a story to prove.

Only a little more wonder in the heart.

A little less noise in the mind.

A little more reverence for the breath.

And perhaps, when we next see an ordinary morning, we may pause before calling it ordinary.

For who knows?

Perhaps the devas are still there.

Perhaps the apsaras are still singing beside the blue waters.

Perhaps the santoor is still playing among the conifers.

Perhaps Saraswati is still taking notes.

Perhaps Heaven has never really disappeared.

Perhaps—

we simply opened our eyes.

🪷🌌✨

And so I wrote down what I had seen, while the memory was still warm, the tea still fragrant, and the boundary between the celestial and the terrestrial still delightfully uncertain.

˚⊱🪷⊰˚

A birthday without much noise, but with a great deal of gratitude 🎂🙏

Birthdays come and birthdays go. The candles grow in number, the cake 🎂 somehow becomes smaller, and the birthday boy—if he is fortunate—remains a thing of beauty and joy forever! 😄

And so, here I am, quietly marking seventy-three.

No grand celebration. No ceremonial trumpet. No attempt to convince the world that seventy-three is the new forty-three. At seventy-three, one has acquired enough wisdom to know that arithmetic is not easily fooled. 😄

Perhaps a birthday at this age is less about counting the years that have passed and more about looking at what those years have quietly made of us.

🌼 The road began in Jabalpur, the cultural capital of Madhya Pradesh—a city that has given India some remarkable minds and voices. Harishankar Parsai, Maharishi Mahesh Yogi and Osho Rajneesh all belonged to this fascinating place.

To have been born there is, perhaps, to have received a small inheritance of eccentricity, enquiry and an irreverent curiosity about life.

And then life brought me to Indore—the Mini-Mumbai of India, and the city that has repeatedly earned the distinction of being India’s cleanest city. Somewhere between Jabalpur’s cultural soil and Indore’s energetic spirit, the journey unfolded.

🎬 There is another amusing coincidence.

I share my birthday with Amitabh Bachchan.

The difference, however, is that while Amitabh has had an entire film industry to celebrate his birthday, I have had to make do with friends, family and Facebook. And, most importantly, Rekha is nowhere in sight! 😄

Perhaps that is just as well. At seventy-three, one should avoid unnecessary complications in the plot.

🌱 A few milestones along the way

Looking backwards, there are a few milestones that make me smile—not because they make me important, but because each represents a little chapter of a life that somehow acquired a direction of its own.

🏅 1971 — National Science Talent Scholar

📚 1979 — Probationary Officer, State Bank of India

🧠 2000 — Behavioural Science Trainer

😂 2010 — Laughter Yoga Master Trainer

And somewhere along the way came another adventure—the adventure of putting thoughts into words.

📖 Eight books in English, largely on happiness and well-being.

📕 Four books in Hindi, devoted largely to humour and satire.

✍️ Hundreds of blogs, written whenever an idea refused to leave me alone.

Looking at this list, I am reminded of a wonderfully mischievous couplet by the great Urdu poet Akbar Allahabadi:

«Hum kya kahen ahbaab kya kaar-e-numayaan kar gaye,

B.A. huay, naukar huay, pension mili, phir mar gaye.»

In simple English:

«What shall I tell my friends of the great feat they achieved?

They got a degree, found a job, drew a pension—and then died.»

Akbar Allahabadi wrote it as a satire on the predictable ambitions of the colonial middle class. Yet, more than a century later, the joke has lost none of its sting.

Get educated.

Get a job.

Earn.

Retire.

Collect the pension.

And finally, exit the stage.

What a magnificently efficient way of spending a human life! 😄

But beneath the laughter lies a serious question:

Is that all there is to life?

Perhaps the real measure of a life is not how successfully we completed the checklist, but whether, somewhere along the way, we managed to make another person’s journey a little lighter.

Whether we taught something.

Whether we brought a smile.

Whether we helped someone discover hope.

Whether we left behind a few words that made somebody pause and think.

Whether our presence, however modest, added a little warmth to the world.

🌿 That, perhaps, is the real accomplishment.

🕯️ From achievement to awakening

At seventy-three, I find myself less interested in looking at the mountain already climbed and more interested in the light that seems to appear at the end of the tunnel.

The old mind asks:

“What more can I achieve?”

The quieter mind asks:

“What can I let go of?”

There is a subtle difference.

For much of life, we gather—degrees, positions, experiences, possessions, recognition, relationships, opinions, books, photographs and stories.

Then comes a time when wisdom whispers:

Perhaps it is time to travel light.

Not because life has become less beautiful, but because one has begun to see what is truly beautiful.

🌸 The smile of someone we love.

🌸 The kindness of an old friend.

🌸 The morning sun entering the room.

🌸 A bird calling from a tree.

🌸 A quiet cup of tea.

🌸 A page of a good book.

🌸 A moment when the mind becomes still.

These are not milestones that appear on a CV.

Yet these may be the milestones that matter most.

🙏 Gratitude—the finest birthday gift

If I have reached seventy-three with some measure of contentment, it is certainly not because I travelled alone.

I have been carried, in countless visible and invisible ways, by the love and affection of my family, and by the friendship, goodwill and blessings of friends and well-wishers—some of whom have walked beside me for decades.

To all of you who have shared a laugh, a conversation, a cup of tea, a difficult moment, a celebration, a book, a thought, or simply your affection—

thank you. 🙏

Some people enter our lives for a season.

Some remain for a reason.

And some become so much a part of our journey that we can no longer remember the road without them.

My gratitude to all of you is deeper than a birthday message can express.

🪷 And now, towards the Buddha

There is one influence that has gradually become deeper than all the others—the teachings of the Buddha.

Not as a matter of ritual, but as a way of looking at life.

To observe rather than immediately react.

To understand rather than condemn.

To cultivate compassion.

To recognise impermanence.

To quieten the restless mind.

To loosen the grip of the ego.

And to discover that happiness is not always something to be acquired; sometimes it is something to be uncovered.

Perhaps, therefore, seventy-three is not an ending at all.

Perhaps it is a doorway.

A quieter chapter.

A turning inward.

A time to listen more deeply to the silence from which all meaningful words arise.

So, instead of a loud birthday proclamation, let this birthday be a small bow to life.

🙏 A bow to my parents and ancestors.

🙏 A bow to my family.

🙏 A bow to friends and well-wishers.

🙏 A bow to every teacher and every experience that shaped me.

🙏 And, above all, a bow to the Buddha, whose simple yet profound teachings have increasingly illuminated the path.

The journey behind me is long enough to make me grateful.

The road ahead is short enough to make every step precious.

And perhaps the most appropriate birthday resolution at seventy-three is not—

“I will become more.”

but—

“I will become less of what I need not be.”

Less ego.

Less noise.

Less hurry.

Less judgement.

Less attachment.

 

And, hopefully—

More awareness.

More compassion.

More laughter.

More kindness.

More peace.

🌿 The birthday cake may disappear.

🎂 The candles may grow.

😄 The hair may become philosophical.

But the journey continues.

And as I quietly look towards the light at the end of the tunnel, I know where I would like to place my feet.

🪷 Buddham Sharanam Gachhami.

Dhammam Sharanam Gachhami.

Sangham Sharanam Gachhami.

🙏 May the remaining journey be inward, awake and grateful.

And may there always be enough laughter along the way.

🌸 Seventy-three—and still learning how to live. 🌸

#SeventyThree #BirthdayReflections #Gratitude #LifeAndWisdom #HappinessAndWellBeing #Buddha #Mindfulness #LifeJourney #Laughter #InnerJourney

🌿 The Bonds That Hold the World Together

✨ English

«Generosity, kind words,

doing a good turn for others,

and treating all people alike:

these bonds of sympathy are to the world

what the linchpin is to the chariot wheel.»

— Jātaka 20

🇮🇳 हिन्दी

«दानशीलता, मधुर वचन,

दूसरों के लिए उपकार करना,

और सभी के प्रति समान व्यवहार रखना—

ये लोक में मैत्री के वे बन्धन हैं

जो रथ के पहिए को थामे रखने वाली कील के समान हैं।»

 

📜 Pāli

«Dānañca peyyavajjañca,

atthacariyā ca yā idha;

samānattatā ca dhammesu,

tattha tattha yathārahaṃ.»

— Jātaka 20

—

🌸 The Essence of the Teaching

A chariot may have a strong body, beautiful wheels and powerful horses, but without a small linchpin holding the wheel firmly in place, the entire vehicle cannot move safely.

Human society is much the same.

Generosity makes us willing to share.

Kind words soften hearts.

Doing good for others turns sympathy into action.

And treating people with fairness and equality gives relationships dignity and trust.

None of these acts, by themselves, may appear grand. Yet together they hold families, friendships, communities and societies together.

The Buddha’s wisdom here is wonderfully practical: the world is not held together merely by laws and institutions, but by the everyday goodness that people extend to one another.

A little generosity.

A kind word.

A helping hand.

A heart that does not discriminate.

These may seem like small things—but, like the humble linchpin of a chariot, they keep the wheel of human life turning. 🪷

🌼 बुद्ध का संदेश

हम प्रायः संसार को बड़ी शक्तियों से चलता हुआ देखते हैं—धन, सत्ता, नियम और संस्थाएँ। बुद्ध हमें उसकी एक अधिक सूक्ष्म सच्चाई दिखाते हैं।

समाज को जोड़कर रखने वाली शक्ति मनुष्य की मनुष्यता है।

जब हम देते हैं, तो दूरी घटती है।

जब हम मधुर बोलते हैं, तो कठोरता पिघलती है।

जब हम किसी के काम आते हैं, तो करुणा कर्म बन जाती है।

और जब हम सबके साथ समान व्यवहार करते हैं, तो सम्मान और विश्वास जन्म लेते हैं।

रथ का पहिया जिस छोटी-सी कील से अपनी जगह टिका रहता है, वह दिखाई भी नहीं देती; फिर भी उसके बिना यात्रा सम्भव नहीं।

ठीक वैसे ही, संसार की स्थिरता अनेक छोटी-छोटी सद्भावनाओं पर टिकी है।

इसलिए किसी बड़े अवसर की प्रतीक्षा मत कीजिए।

आज किसी के लिए कुछ बाँटिए।

किसी से प्रेमपूर्वक बोलिए।

किसी के काम आइए।

और हर मनुष्य को उसी सम्मान से देखिए, जिसकी अपेक्षा आप अपने लिए रखते हैं।

🌿 छोटे-छोटे सद्कर्म ही मिलकर मानवता का रथ आगे बढ़ाते हैं। 🪷🙏

#WordsOfTheBuddha #Buddha #Dhamma #Jataka #Generosity #Kindness #Compassion #Humanity #Wisdom #Goodness #मैत्री #करुणा #मानवता #बुद्धवाणी

An affectionate journey through the seasons of life, from a royal residence to a home of our own

🌿 Some houses shelter us from the elements. Others become part of our very existence, silently gathering our laughter, our dreams, our sorrows, and the countless little moments that make a lifetime.

🦚 I. When Peacocks Came Calling

There was a time when peacocks visited our kitchen balcony, and the morning sun, filtering through the dense foliage of ancient mango trees, awakened us to the melodious conversation of birds. Our home stood amidst sprawling grounds, where nature appeared to have been granted permanent residence and civilisation was permitted to enter only on the condition that it did not disturb the peace.

We lived in an old, palatial estate in Indore, a legacy of the Holkar dynasty. Once a royal guest house, it stood across the road from the magnificent Manik Bagh Palace, retaining something of the dignity and leisurely grandeur of an age when men built houses not merely to live in, but to leave behind.

The State Bank of India had provided us with this official residence. The historic estate, now serving as a training centre and institutional facility, was then our little kingdom.

And what a kingdom it was!

The peacocks came and went with the air of hereditary landlords inspecting their ancestral property. The birds held their morning assemblies in the mango trees, apparently discussing matters of considerable importance. Occasionally, a squirrel would dart across the balcony, seemingly late for an appointment of which nobody else had been informed.

Nature, in her infinite generosity, had bestowed upon us a home where the changing seasons announced themselves not through calendars but through flowers, foliage, birdsong and the fragrance of the earth.

Yet, for all its splendour, it was not our own.

An official residence, however magnificent, is rather like a borrowed crown. One may wear it with considerable pleasure, but sooner or later, one must return it to its rightful owner.

And the time had come for us to look beyond those stately walls.

🌸 II. The Search for a Little Kingdom

It was twenty-five years ago, around this very season, when Lord Ganesha was being welcomed into homes and preparations for Navratri were filling the air with devotion and festivity.

Our son was growing up. The years of childhood were giving way to the more demanding years of higher education. He needed a good educational centre, and his mother needed to be with him.

As for me, I belonged to that wandering tribe known as bank officers with transferable jobs. Our employers, in their infinite wisdom, believed that periodic geographical displacement was essential for our professional development.

A permanent home had therefore become something more than a pleasant idea. It was a necessity.

And where better to put down our roots than Indore?

The city had already won our affection with its rich heritage, pleasant weather, excellent educational institutions, medical facilities and, not least, its extraordinary devotion to the culinary arts.

Indore is a city where food is not merely consumed; it is celebrated. A man may come here seeking education, employment or medical treatment, but he is quite likely to stay for the poha, jalebi, kachori and the irresistible temptations of Sarafa.

We imagined our son pursuing his studies, his mother presiding over a peaceful household, and myself returning from my occasional professional wanderings to a place that would always be ours.

A little kingdom, perhaps, without peacocks or royal connections, but with a front door to which we alone would hold the key.

There is something profoundly reassuring about the thought of having one’s own home.

The Buddha taught that all conditioned things are impermanent. Yet, we ordinary mortals continue to seek a little permanence amidst the ceaseless flow of existence.

Perhaps a home is our gentle rebellion against impermanence.

Or perhaps it is simply a place where we can leave our slippers without worrying that somebody will transfer us the following morning!

🏡 III. Suniket: A Beautiful Name, A Beautiful Dream

Our search eventually brought us to a modern residential complex still under construction.

Only two buildings were approaching completion. Three more were destined to rise in the years ahead. The surroundings were rather desolate, with construction materials scattered about and the promise of future splendour still largely entrusted to the imagination.

But we saw possibilities.

There was a small, aesthetically designed swimming pool, a charming waterfall cascading against a marble backdrop, and a picturesque little park in front of the apartments.

The three together lent the place an almost idyllic appearance.

The waterfall whispered of distant mountains, the swimming pool reflected the heavens, and the little park seemed to promise pleasant evenings beneath the open sky.

We fell in love with the place.

The apartment we chose was on the fourth floor, neither too close to the earth nor unreasonably near the heavens.

A well-wisher, evidently unimpressed by our architectural ambitions, remarked that we were destined to live like Trishanku, suspended between heaven and earth.

“Neither the ground belongs to you, nor the rooftop!”

There was considerable truth in his observation. But then, who among us really owns the earth beneath our feet or the sky above our heads?

We are all, in a sense, Trishankus, suspended between our earthly attachments and our heavenly aspirations.

Our apartment complex bore the beautiful name Suniket.

In Sanskrit, su signifies goodness, beauty and auspiciousness, while niket means a home or dwelling.

A beautiful home. An auspicious abode.

What more could one desire?

We imagined a harmonious little community where neighbours would become friends, children would grow up together, festivals would be celebrated with affection, and the passage of time would only deepen our bonds.

It was, perhaps, a utopian dream.

But every home begins with a dream, and every dream deserves its little measure of innocence.

Towards the end of that year, we finally moved into our new abode.

🪔 IV. The First Inhabitants of Our Little Paradise

We were the only family in the entire building.

Imagine that!

An entire apartment block, with its corridors, staircases and silent doorways, all to ourselves.

The building stood like a grand hotel that had opened its doors before the guests had arrived.

In the adjacent building, another family had moved in almost simultaneously. Thus began our little civilisation.

There was no crowd, no clamour, and certainly no difficulty remembering the names of our neighbours.

Gradually, more families arrived.

A new household here, another there. A child appeared on a balcony. A familiar face greeted us in the lift. The evening air began to carry the cheerful sounds of children playing.

Within a short time, we had grown into a little community of eight or ten families.

We visited one another on weekends. Conversations flowed over cups of tea, friendships blossomed without formal introductions, and children moved freely from one home to another.

There was a delightful informality about everything.

Nobody needed an appointment to visit a neighbour. Nobody was required to submit an application to organise a festival. And nobody, as far as I remember, considered it necessary to establish a committee to decide whether children should be allowed to laugh.

We were neighbours by circumstance and friends by choice.

Looking back, I realise that our greatest luxury was not the swimming pool, the waterfall or even the spacious surroundings.

It was the ease with which we belonged to one another.

🎨 V. The Festivals of Innocence

If there is one treasure that remains untouched by the passage of these twenty-five years, it is the memory of our early festivals.

We were a small community, but our enthusiasm could have put a considerably larger congregation to shame.

The children were our chief organisers, creative directors, decorators and, occasionally, our self-appointed disciplinary authorities.

The parents were assigned the relatively modest responsibilities of providing funds, refreshments, encouragement and unconditional approval.

And what glorious celebrations they were!

🌈 Holi: When Mischief Was a Virtue

Holi arrived with clouds of colour, shrieks of laughter and the occasional conspiracy involving buckets of water.

The children took their responsibilities seriously. No unsuspecting parent was permitted to remain dry, and no respectable white kurta was allowed to retain its original colour.

There was innocent mischief, spontaneous laughter and that delightful abandonment of social formality which only Holi can inspire.

By the end of the day, everyone looked remarkably alike, proving that equality can sometimes be achieved more effectively with gulal than with philosophical discourse.

🌺 Ganesh Chaturthi: The Divine Guest

Lord Ganesha arrived amidst flowers, devotion and the irresistible fragrance of modaks and laddoos.

Our celebrations were simple, graceful and deeply affectionate.

The children arranged the decorations and participated in the prayers with an earnestness that would have delighted the gods themselves.

There was something profoundly moving about those little hands folded before the deity, those innocent faces illuminated by the lamps, and the collective voices rising in prayer.

One felt that Lord Ganesha, who is particularly fond of children and sweets, must have been rather pleased with our arrangements.

💃 Navratri: Nine Nights of Joy

Navratri brought with it music, devotion, colourful attire and the irresistible rhythm of garba.

Our modest campus became a little festival ground.

The children danced with boundless energy, while the elders attempted to match their enthusiasm, occasionally discovering that their knees entertained rather different opinions.

Yet nobody cared about perfect steps or flawless performances.

The joy lay in dancing together, in the laughter that followed an unexpected turn, and in the beautiful feeling that the entire community was one extended family.

🏹 Dussehra: Our Very Own Ravana

Dussehra was an occasion for extraordinary enterprise.

The children joined hands to construct their very own Ravana.

There were consultations, disagreements, ingenious improvisations and occasional disputes about the appropriate dimensions of the demon king.

Ravana, who had once ruled the mighty kingdom of Lanka, now found himself at the mercy of a committee of schoolchildren.

His ten heads were assembled with great enthusiasm, though their proportions sometimes suggested that the royal sculptor had been distracted.

But our little Ravana stood proudly, and his eventual destruction was greeted with thunderous applause.

The triumph of good over evil had seldom been celebrated with such innocent delight.

🪔 Diwali: A Thousand Little Lights

And then came Diwali, the grandest celebration of all.

Our little world sparkled with lamps and colourful lights. Children appeared in their finest kurta-pyjamas, looking like miniature princes and princesses.

Diyas glowed along the balconies and doorways. Crackers announced the festivities, and the irresistible fragrance of besan chakki and kaju katli drifted from one household to another.

We exchanged sweets, greetings and affectionate visits.

There was no competition to produce the most elaborate decorations or the most extravagant celebrations.

Each household contributed its little share of light, and together we created something infinitely more beautiful than any one family could have achieved alone.

Those were the days when festivals were not events to be managed but occasions to be lived.

We had little in the way of elaborate infrastructure, but an abundance of affection.

We were few, but our hearts were full.

🌳 VI. When Wisdom Arrived with a Committee

For several years, our little community flourished without the blessings of a formal residents’ welfare society.

We looked after our own welfare, contributed our own money, made our own arrangements and settled our occasional differences with a little conversation and, when necessary, an additional cup of tea.

Life was uncomplicated.

Then, as all civilisations must eventually discover, the age of administration dawned upon us.

A residents’ welfare society was constituted.

The money remained ours, of course. The only difference was that somebody else now looked after our welfare with it!

In the fullness of time, we also discovered the remarkable wisdom of George Orwell’s observation in Animal Farm:

“All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others.”

Our charming little swimming pool disappeared.

The beautiful waterfall, which had once cascaded against its marble backdrop, fell silent forever.

And the picturesque park, where we had imagined generations of children playing beneath the evening sky, also vanished.

All three had succumbed to the collective wisdom of those entrusted with our welfare.

One must admire the extraordinary powers of modern administration. It can make a waterfall disappear without a drought, eliminate a swimming pool without an earthquake, and transform a garden without waiting for the changing seasons.

Perhaps the great philosophers were right when they warned us against excessive attachment to worldly possessions.

Our swimming pool, waterfall and park have certainly provided us with practical lessons in impermanence.

Still, I confess that my spiritual advancement has not yet reached the stage where I can contemplate their disappearance without an occasional sigh!

🍂 VII. The Children Who Grew Up and Flew Away

Meanwhile, life continued its quiet, inexorable journey.

The little children who had once chased one another through the campus began to grow taller.

Their bicycles gave way to scooters, their schoolbags to college books, and their innocent conversations to the increasingly mysterious language of adolescence.

The boys who had once constructed Ravana began constructing their own futures. The girls who had danced through the nights of Navratri set out to discover the wider world.

One by one, they left their childhood homes.

Some departed for higher education, others for employment, and still others to establish homes and families of their own.

Our son, too, grew up and followed the path that life had prepared for him.

The children who had once filled our evenings with laughter were now scattered across distant cities and countries, pursuing their dreams beneath unfamiliar skies.

Such is the beautiful and painful privilege of parenthood.

We spend years teaching our children to stand on their own feet, and when they finally walk away, we find ourselves gazing after them with a strange mixture of pride and longing.

The nest must eventually grow quiet so that the birds may learn to fly.

Yet, in the mysterious geography of memory, those children have never really left.

They are still there, racing through the corridors, planning their next celebration, arguing over the height of Ravana, and laughing beneath the Diwali lights.

Sometimes, in the stillness of an evening, I can almost hear them.

Memory is a strange magician. It can summon an entire generation of children into an empty courtyard and restore, for one fleeting moment, the vanished music of a bygone age.

🌅 VIII. Twenty-Five Years Later

A quarter of a century has passed.

Our little residential colony, once inhabited by a handful of adventurous families, has grown into a thriving community of more than a hundred households spread across five buildings.

The once-deserted corridors are alive with activity. New generations of children have arrived, bringing with them fresh laughter, new friendships and their own delightful mischief.

The festivals have grown grander. The celebrations are more elaborate, the gatherings larger, and the enthusiasm no less infectious.

“More the merrier,” one might say.

And there is much to be said for it.

A flourishing community is a living organism. It grows, changes, renews itself and finds fresh expressions of collective happiness.

Yet, as the years have passed, we have gradually withdrawn a little from the bustle.

Age has its own preferences.

There was a time when we could spend an entire evening visiting friends, organising celebrations and participating in every conceivable social activity.

Now, a quiet morning of yoga, a little meditation, an absorbing book and a peaceful evening together often hold greater appeal.

We still enjoy meeting people, exchanging pleasantries and participating in the life of our community.

But we have discovered that being sociable and being perpetually social are two entirely different occupations.

The former enriches life; the latter can occasionally exhaust it.

The years have also taught us to appreciate the gentle companionship of silence.

A quiet cup of tea shared with one’s life partner, a favourite passage from an old book, the soft glow of the morning sun, or a few moments spent in meditation can contain a happiness that no grand celebration can quite reproduce.

Perhaps this is the natural progression of life.

In youth, we seek happiness in the world around us. As the years advance, we begin to discover it in the world within.

🕊️ IX. The Golden Arithmetic of Life

When I look back upon our twenty-five years at Suniket, I am reminded of a simple truth that has become increasingly precious to me.

Less is more.

Our earliest years here were not marked by extravagant celebrations, elaborate arrangements or an abundance of facilities.

We had a handful of neighbours, a few enthusiastic children, a modest little park, a swimming pool, a waterfall and a shared willingness to make life beautiful.

That was enough.

Our friendships were not measured by the number of people attending our gatherings, nor was our happiness determined by the grandeur of our celebrations.

We belonged to one another without possessing one another.

We celebrated without competing.

We contributed without calculating.

And we enjoyed the simple pleasures of community life without needing elaborate rules to govern every little expression of joy.

The passage of time has taught me that happiness has very little to do with the number of things we possess and a great deal to do with the affection with which we share them.

A few genuine friendships may enrich our lives more than a hundred acquaintances.

A simple celebration filled with love may leave behind more enduring memories than the most magnificent spectacle.

And a quiet evening spent in contentment may be worth more than an entire calendar crowded with social engagements.

The ancient Indian sages understood this long before modern civilisation discovered the vocabulary of minimalism.

Contentment is not the absence of ambition or the rejection of life’s pleasures. It is the wisdom to recognise when we have enough.

And enough, I have discovered, is a wonderfully liberating word.

🌺 X. The Home That Time Built

Sometimes, I close my eyes and travel back to that auspicious season twenty-five years ago.

I see our little family standing before an unfinished apartment building, imagining a future that had not yet taken shape.

I see the sparkling swimming pool, the waterfall tumbling against its marble background, and the little park waiting patiently for the arrival of children.

I see our first neighbours, our first celebrations, our little Ravana, the colourful clouds of Holi, and the countless diyas illuminating our first Diwali together.

And then, somewhere in that procession of memories, I see the peacocks of our old royal residence.

They are still wandering through the mango trees, calling out from a distant balcony, as though inviting us to return to a world that exists now only in memory.

The river of life has carried us a long way from those enchanted mornings.

It has flowed past palaces and apartments, through the valleys of parenthood, across the plains of friendship, and into the quieter landscapes of advancing years.

Along the way, it has gathered laughter and tears, companionship and separation, fulfilment and longing.

And it continues to flow.

Our home, which began as a dream in an unfinished building, has become the repository of a quarter-century of living.

Its walls have witnessed our son’s growing years, our family celebrations, our little triumphs and our private sorrows. Its windows have opened upon countless sunrises, and its rooms have sheltered the changing seasons of our lives.

Suniket has lived up to its beautiful name.

It has been our auspicious abode.

And although the waterfall has fallen silent, the swimming pool has disappeared, and the little park survives only in our memories, the happiness they once brought us remains.

For the loveliest things in life do not always endure in their physical form.

They live on in the heart.

And when nostalgia comes calling, as it invariably does at this time of the year, I find myself humming that immortal melody:

🎶 “Koi lauta de mere beete hue din…”

Who will bring back those bygone days?

Nobody, of course.

Nor, perhaps, should anybody.

For life must move forward, children must grow up, communities must evolve, and the river must continue its journey towards the vast ocean.

But if I were granted one little wish, I would ask to return, just for an evening, to our little Suniket of twenty-five years ago.

To sit beside the waterfall, watch the children playing in the park, exchange a few words with our neighbours, and wait for the lamps to be lit as dusk gently settles upon our little world.

No grand celebrations. No elaborate arrangements. No committees.

Just a few families, a handful of children, and an abundance of happiness.

Less was more.

And what a beautiful abundance that little less contained!

🌿🪷🌿

🌿Words of the Buddha 🪷

[A deva:]🤔

With what is the world tied down?

With the subduing of what is it freed?

With the abandoning of what

are all bonds cut through?

 

​[The Buddha:]☺️

With desire the world is tied down.

With the subduing of desire it’s freed.

With the abandoning of desire

all bonds are cut through.

 

[एक देवता:]🤔

संसार किस चीज़ से बँधा है? किसके दमन से मुक्त होता है? किस चीज़ के त्याग से सभी बंधन कट जाते हैं?

 

[बुद्ध:]☺️

इच्छा से संसार बँधा है। इच्छा के दमन से मुक्त होता है। इच्छा के परित्याग से सभी बंधन कट जाते हैं।

 

​[Devatā:]🤔

Kena baddho loko, kassa vinayāya muccati?

Kassassu pahaṇena, sabbāni bandhanāni cutāni?

 

​[Bhagavā:]☺️

Icchāya baddho loko, icchāya vinayāya muccati.

Icchāya pahānena, sabbāni bandhanāni cutāni.

 

#Buddha 🪷

(From the Icchā Sutta (“Desire Sutta”), found in the Saṃyutta Nikāya (SN 1.69 / S i 40) of the Pāli Canon.)

 

A Father, a Son, and the River of Life

 ˚⊱🪷⊰˚

Prologue — The Blue Machine in the Corner

There is an old motorcycle standing quietly in a corner of our parking space.

It is not the most beautiful motorcycle one could see today. It has none of the sleekness of the machines that now glide along our highways, nor the thunderous authority of their engines. Its glory belongs to another time.

It is a modest CBZ—blue, slightly weathered, carefully covered, and strangely alive.

Every now and then, when my son comes home, he lifts the cover and looks at it.

He does not merely look at it.

He looks back.

And perhaps the old motorcycle looks back at him too.

For a moment, the years disappear. The grown man standing there seems to become the young boy who once came to me with a request that sounded innocent enough.

“Papa, I need a bike.”

That was how it began.

Or perhaps it had begun much earlier—with a boy who loved the outdoors, games, friends, speed and the sheer exhilaration of being alive.

We had moved from town to town with the transfers that were part of my working life. But by then we had arrived at a place where, perhaps for the first time, we thought we might stay for a while.

My son had just passed out of school.

College awaited him.

And, as it turned out, so did the open road.

—

 🏍️ Chapter One — CBZ: Wheelies, Stoppies and the First Taste of Freedom

 My son placed his request before me with the solemnity of a young man presenting a matter of national importance.

 He would not go to college by bus.

 He needed a bike.

 And not just any bike.

 A CBZ.

 And it had to be blue.

 The colour, apparently, was not negotiable.

So began our little pilgrimage.

We visited motorcycle showrooms in every nook and corner of the town. One had every colour except blue. Another had blue, but not the model. Yet another promised that the blue one would arrive “soon”—a word whose meaning in the world of automobile dealers is sometimes considerably longer than the word itself.

Still, we searched.

There was something almost comic about a father and son wandering through the hot streets of the town in pursuit of a particular shade of blue.

And then, one sweltering afternoon, came the news.

A distant dealer had one.

A blue CBZ.

We did not stop to consider whether the afternoon heat was suitable for such an expedition. We simply went.

Perhaps the gods of youthful dreams had been waiting for us.

There it stood.

Blue.

Beautiful.

Waiting.

My son looked at it, and I knew that the matter was settled.

Some purchases are made with money.

Others are made with the heart.

This one was certainly the latter.

Soon the blue CBZ began its daily journey to college, usually carrying my son and, on occasion, one of his equally adventurous friends.

But I gradually began to suspect that college was not the principal reason for which the motorcycle had entered our lives.

One day, I heard him telling someone:

«“I have always wanted to be a biker, but Papa insists that I become an engineer.”»

I smiled when I heard it.

A father often believes he is raising a son.

The son, meanwhile, is quietly raising a completely different future for himself.

Studies, engineering, career—all these were my plans.

For him, perhaps, the road itself was a syllabus.

Sunday mornings revealed the truth.

While respectable fathers and sons were still asleep, my son and his friends were already heading towards the outskirts of town. They had given their group a suitably formidable name:

Throttle Xtreme.

There, on quiet stretches of road, they practised the sacred arts of youthful foolishness—wheelies, stoppies and burn-outs.

The CBZ, which I had imagined would merely carry him to college, had apparently discovered a second profession.

It had become a performer.

Sometimes, from the safe distance that fathers instinctively maintain from their sons’ adventures, I watched with a curious mixture of pride and apprehension.

The boy was growing.

The motorcycle seemed to know it.

And perhaps, in those early mornings, while the tyres whispered against the road and the engine sang its youthful song, the boy and the machine were teaching each other something about freedom.

I only hoped that both would eventually learn about brakes.

—

 🏔️ Chapter Two — Pulsar: The Road to the Land of High Passes

 Years passed.

 By God’s grace, my son graduated and entered the world of work.

 The boy who had once performed wheelies on the outskirts of town was now a young professional.

 But the road had not forgotten him.

 Nor had he forgotten the road.

 Soon there appeared another blue machine in his life—a Pulsar.

 And this time the road was no longer merely the road outside town.

 It was Ladakh.

 The Mecca of bikers.

 The land of high passes.

 The place where mountains rise like ancient walls and the sky seems to begin almost at one’s feet.

 In those days, the Atal Tunnel had not yet been built. The journey to Ladakh via Manali was therefore an adventure in the truest sense—a long negotiation with mountains, weather, altitude and one’s own courage.

 They rode upwards, towards a world where the air grew thinner and the mountains grew larger.

 And then came Khardung La.

 There are places one visits.

 And there are places one remembers for life.

 Khardung La was one of the latter.

 Somewhere among those immense mountains, my son must have felt that peculiar exhilaration which only a biker knows—the sensation that the road is no longer something beneath the wheels but something flowing through one’s veins.

 And then there was Pangong Tso.

 The lake seemed to stretch beyond geography and into imagination. Its vastness, its changing hues, the barren mountains standing around it in solemn silence—all combined to produce the sort of beauty before which even a restless biker becomes quiet.

 They came back.

 But Ladakh had evidently left a door open behind them.

 Because once was not enough.

 They went again.

 This time, the return journey took them through the magnificent Kashmir Valley.

 The road changed.

 The landscape changed.

 The mountains changed.

 But perhaps the rider remained the same—still carrying within him that old boy who had once looked at a blue CBZ and thought of nothing but the road ahead.

 I sometimes wondered whether, while travelling through those vast Himalayan landscapes, he ever remembered the father who had taken him to a distant dealer on a scorching afternoon to buy his first blue motorcycle.

 Perhaps he did.

 Perhaps the mountains reminded him.

 For memories, like mountains, have a curious habit of appearing when one least expects them.

 —

 🇳🇿 Chapter Three — Ducati: Wandering in the Land of the Long White Cloud

 Then came another turning in the river of life.

 Higher studies beckoned.

 And the destination was far away—almost at the other end of the world.

 Aotearoa—New Zealand.

 The Māori name itself has a poetry of its own: the Land of the Long White Cloud.

 I sometimes wonder whether my son went there principally for higher studies.

 Or whether the possibilities of adventure sports had something to do with it.

 There was, after all, bungee jumping.

 And there was an entire country waiting to be explored.

 A young man does not always distinguish very carefully between education and adventure.

 Perhaps he considers both forms of learning.

 And somewhere in that beautiful country of mountains, lakes, green valleys and endless roads, another motorcycle entered the story.

 A Ducati.

 The very name has the elegance of a whispered promise.

 The Ducati is not merely a means of transport. It carries a certain style—a certain confidence, a certain European flourish.

 I do not even remember its exact colour now.

 But knowing my son, I suspect it must have been blue.

 Why should it not have been?

 There is something about blue and him that has persisted through the years.

 Perhaps blue was never merely a colour.

 Perhaps it was the colour of freedom.

 So he rode through the Land of the Long White Cloud, amidst scenery that looked as though some generous painter had been given an entire continent and told to use his imagination.

 The young biker from India had travelled a very long way.

 The boy who once rode a blue CBZ to college was now riding a Ducati beneath distant skies.

 And somewhere, quietly, a father was smiling.

 —

 ❤️ Chapter Four — First Love Never Really Leaves

 The Pulsar is gone now.

 The Ducati too.

 Both have travelled onwards into other lives, as all possessions eventually do.

 But the old CBZ remains.

 It stands quietly in our home, wrapped in its cover.

 Today, it was taken out, washed and polished, and given a new cover.

 There are clear instructions regarding it.

 It must be kept spic and span.

 It must be preserved.

 It must not be treated as an old motorcycle.

 Because it is not an old motorcycle.

 It is My First Love.

 Whenever my son comes home, he looks at it fondly.

 And I have often wondered why.

 After all, he has ridden machines far more powerful, travelled roads far more spectacular and seen landscapes far more magnificent.

 Yet this modest blue CBZ still possesses something that no expensive motorcycle can ever acquire.

 It possesses memory.

 It carries the dust of college roads.

 The laughter of friends.

 The thrill of wheelies and stoppies.

 The impatience of youth.

 The dreams of a young man.

 And perhaps, tucked somewhere beneath its old seat and inside the quiet machinery of its engine, it carries the laughter of a father and son who once went searching through the town on a hot afternoon for a blue motorcycle.

 —

 🌊 Epilogue — The Games Have Changed

 A lot of water has flowed down the river of life since that day.

 The little stream that once began among the hills of childhood has gathered strength, passed through bends and valleys, crossed many bridges, and travelled a considerable distance towards the ocean.

The boy has grown into a man.

The biker has grown older.

The roads have become different.

The motorcycles have changed.

Life, too, has changed.

But perhaps growing older does not mean that we leave childhood behind.

Perhaps we merely carry it more quietly.

There was a time when happiness meant a blue CBZ.

Then it meant a Pulsar and the road to Ladakh.

Then a Ducati beneath the skies of New Zealand.

Today, happiness may wear a different face.

But the heart remembers.

And that is perhaps the most beautiful mystery of growing older: our first loves remain young even when we do not.

The old CBZ knows nothing about age.

It does not know that its rider has grown older.

It remembers only the boy.

The boy who wanted a blue motorcycle.

The boy who rode into college with dreams larger than the classroom.

The boy who went searching for mountains.

The boy who travelled to the other side of the world.

The boy who once believed that the road went on forever.

And perhaps, when my son looks at that covered motorcycle, some small part of him becomes that boy again.

That is the quiet magic of memory.

A father may spend his life trying to give his son a future.

But, in the end, it is often the son who gives his father something far more precious—a past filled with moments worth remembering.

I look at the old motorcycle and smile.

The engine is silent now.

The wheels are still.

The road is elsewhere.

Yet, in some mysterious corner of the heart, I can still hear it.

The faint roar of a young man’s motorcycle.

The laughter of friends.

The sound of tyres on an empty Sunday road.

And above it all, the laughter of a father watching his son grow—not quite knowing where the road would take him, but secretly hoping that wherever it did, he would always find his way home.

For life is still fun.

Life is still marvellous.

It is only the games that have changed.

🏍️❤️🌄🌊

A Universal Wish for the Welfare of All Beings 🪷

> “May all creatures, all living things,

all beings one and all,

experience good fortune only.

May they not fall into harm.”

🇮🇳 हिन्दी भावानुवाद

> “सभी प्राणी, सभी जीवित प्राणी,

सभी प्रकार के समस्त जीव,

केवल मंगल और कल्याण का अनुभव करें।

किसी भी प्राणी को कोई दुःख या हानि न पहुँचे।”

🪷 Pāli

> Sabbe sattā, sabbe pāṇā,

sabbe bhūtā ca kevalā,

sabbe bhadrāni passantu.

Mā kañci pāpamāgamā.

This verse is found in the Khandha Paritta tradition and is also preserved in the Khandha Jātaka. Its central message is the cultivation of mettā—loving-kindness extended without distinction to all living beings.

💫 The Buddha’s Message

The Buddha’s compassion knows no boundaries—not of species, status, relationship or familiarity.

We naturally wish happiness for ourselves and for those we love. Mettā takes this wish a step further: may every being be safe, well and free from harm.

It is a beautiful practice because, as we sincerely wish well for others, the mind itself becomes gentler, less fearful and less hostile. The boundary between “me” and “others” begins to soften.

🌸 May all beings be happy.

🌸 May all beings be free from suffering.

🌸 May no harm come to anyone.

That is not merely a prayer for the world.

It is also a way of transforming the heart. 🪷🙏

♥ ♥ ♥ ♥

#WordsOfTheBuddha #Buddha #Dhamma #Mettā #LovingKindness #Compassion #Mindfulness #BuddhistWisdom #Peace #Happiness #WellBeing

Dhammapada 14.183

> “The entire teaching of the Buddha can be distilled into three simple movements: refrain from what is harmful, cultivate what is wholesome, and purify the mind.”

🪷 English

Abstain from all unwholesome deeds,

perform wholesome ones,

purify your mind —

this is the teaching of the Buddhas.

Dhammapada 14.183

💫 The message:

Spiritual life is not complicated. First, stop doing what causes harm. Then, consciously cultivate goodness, kindness and compassion. Finally, turn inward and purify the mind, for our actions and words ultimately arise from the mind.

—

🌿 हिन्दी

सभी अकुशल कर्मों से विरत रहो,

कुशल कर्मों का आचरण करो,

अपने चित्त को शुद्ध करो—

यही बुद्धों की शिक्षा है।

धम्मपद 14.183

🪷 संदेश:

बुद्ध की शिक्षा का सार बहुत सरल है—बुराई से बचें, अच्छाई को अपनाएँ और अपने मन को निर्मल करें। केवल बाहरी आचरण को बदलना पर्याप्त नहीं; वास्तविक परिवर्तन तब होता है जब मन शुद्ध, करुणामय और जागरूक होता है।—

 

🕉️ Pāli

Sabbapāpassa akaraṇaṃ,

kusalassa upasampadā,

sacittapariyodapanaṃ —

etaṃ buddhāna sāsanaṃ.

 

🌸 In essence:

Do no harm. Do good. Purify the mind.

Three simple steps — and a whole path to awakening.

🙏 May our thoughts become pure,

🙏 our words become gentle,

🙏 and our actions become wholesome.

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