Memoir

The Gentle Art of Living the Mystery

I wanted to witness a lotus bloom at sunrise.

So, for several days, I had been returning to the same quiet lake—sitting in still anticipation, just before dawn, wrapped in silence and a bit of childlike hope. There was something about the idea—a flower opening itself to light, not with force, but with grace—that called to me. On one of those mornings, as mist curled over the surface of the water like a secret unfolding, I saw it happen—not in an explosion, but in a gentle yielding. And in that hushed moment, something inside me softened.

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When the Wind Returns to the Sail

A few months ago, I caught myself staring at a flickering cursor on an empty screen. No deadline. No urgency. Just an unsettling stillness. It wasn’t quite sadness, and it wasn’t burnout.

It was languishing—that quiet fog that dims even the good days, where presence is replaced by mere persistence, and joy becomes a distant visitor.

Oddly, I wasn’t alone in it.

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What Time Left Unfinished

It was a quiet afternoon in Hampi. The sun fell gently across the ruins, casting long shadows on carved stones that had outlived kings and dynasties. I was walking with my guru—an architect by training, an excavator by passion, and a quiet philosopher when you least expect it.

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