As the crimson sun kisses the fading night, every blade of grass leans in, stretching, reaching—almost as if trying to get a better view.
The breeze hums, the birds call, and together, they pose a gentle question: “So, how are you today?” Not demanding, not intrusive—just a playful nudge to start fresh.
And maybe that’s the best way to begin the day. Not with alarms and to-do lists, but with nature’s quiet company, a deep breath, and the simple joy of being asked.
How are you today?
Same Ground, Different Journeys
From my window, the small plane sits quietly on the tarmac. Side by side, yet worlds apart. Mine is bigger, his is smaller. And for a second, I almost dismiss it.
But then, I remind myself—size is just perspective.
This seat is mine for this journey. That plane is his. One isn’t better than the other, just different.
Because in the end, it’s not about the perch, it’s about the flight.
And once we take off, the sky doesn’t care how big the plane is.
Where we stand depends on where we sit. The stances we take, the identities we shape—for ourselves and for others—are built on what sits in our minds.
And our minds? They are prime real estate. Possibly the most expensive in the world.
Thoughts are tenants. Some pay rent in clarity and purpose. Others squat in doubt and fear. But once they settle in, they shape how we see, speak, and stand.
So, let’s be careful. Choose wisely who and what gets a seat in our minds. Because what sits in us will decide what stands we take.
We learn from history that we don’t learn much from history. It stuck.
At the Brandenburg Gate, once a symbol of division, the past now plays dress-up. Army gear, old flags—props for tourists. For a small fee, of course.
Once, men fought and died for these symbols. Now, they’re souvenirs. Time does that—turns battlegrounds into backdrops.
It made me think. Identity is a border of its own. What defines us, also excludes.
So, what defines you? What else could you become?
And the bigger question—what borders exist in your mind that you don’t even know are there?
(at Brandenburg Gate (Potsdam)
What are you working on? And how are you working on whatever you are working on?
The Albert Victor Bridge in Madurai was built in 1886 and was supposed to last a 100 years! It’s still standing. Being of value and use to the day. Long after the engineers went back and the river ran dry.
Good work solves problems. Great work solves problems, through time as well. The option to do both exists all the time. The choices are ours to make.
(at Madurai, India)
The gates open to a quiet courtyard, framed by four pillars. Step past them, and a ruffled mud road meanders ahead, leading into the lake, beyond which stand great trees. Keep walking, and the rolling hills stretch out, pristine and endless.
The village temple marks time through its many celebrations, but for a city dweller standing here, the past whispers through the landscape. The roads his parents walked suddenly feel clearer—long roads that were never roads at all.
Their journeys began not by asking “Is there a road?” but by stepping forward anyway. Their dreams were never limited by paths already drawn. They made their roads.
Perhaps that is the lesson these great doors hold—step through, look ahead, and go.
He sat there, unmoved by the rush of trains at Jamshedpur’s Tatanagar station. His craft lay at his feet, silent like him. His rustic look kept him company long after the train had left.
Our eyes met. His stare was vacant, words few.
But his hands had already spoken. In the carved stone pieces laid before him—each smoothed, shaped, and made to tell a tale. Stories etched in silence, held in the weight of his craft.
Some speak with words. Others let their hands do the talking.
Some people live a life that goes beyond their own lifespan and extend to generations. Paul Revere’s was one such. Imagine a life story from the 17th century that still captures attention laced with reverence.
Paul Revere was a successful silversmith who played a defining role in the American Independence struggle. A role that centred around devising a system that alerted and kept a watch on the British army. His heroics mounted a fame horse and rode away to glory, when Henry Longfellow wrote a poem called “Paul Revere’s ride”.
He wrote
“Listen, my children, and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-Five;
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year”
I stood along with a set of curious folks who had got to the Granary Burial Ground in Boston. To look him up after reading his exploits the previous day.
For a gent who was born in 1734, that is some recognition, isnt it?
(at Granary Burial Grounds- Boston, Ma)
The searing rush to the top—mirrored perfectly by the dark glass façade that reflects everything but reveals nothing.
Standing on the street below, neck craned, you can’t help but admit—it’s beautiful. Not in a warm, familiar way, but in a way that speaks of ambition, precision, and power.
The light dances, the shadows shift, and the building transforms with every passing cloud.
The interplay of light and dark always has this effect. It hides, reveals, and reminds—that beauty isn’t just in what you see, but in what you perceive.
A runner stands apart. You don’t need to look twice. The lean muscles, the poised stance, the effortless readiness—it’s all there, waiting for the next burst of speed.
And when the open space calls, they don’t just run. They glide.
Watching a greyhound take off is pure joy. The stretch, the arc, the rhythm—it’s movement at its most natural, most beautiful.
And when the sun begins to set, framing the runner in gold, it’s more than just a sight. It’s a moment.