Living the Change

Posted in response to Friday Writings #241: Change

Epigraph

Perhaps the deeper part of living an authentic life is accepting its inherent brokenness. We are constantly told that, given enough time, all pain will heal, and that we should emerge from suffering stronger and better than before. But some pains do not heal—and they do not have to. Grief, betrayal, shame and profound loss may remain permanently etched within us. Acceptance is not resignation; it is learning to live with what cannot be changed, and finding the courage to build a life around it rather than against it. Perhaps that is what it means to thrive: not returning to who we once were, but becoming fully, unmistakably our own.

Living the Change

Some pains may never heal, and that's alright;
losses that leave a silence, we must let them stay.
Grief, shame, the sting of betrayal from the past
may make a home just below the surface.

We love to believe that time will erase each scar,
that healing will return us to who we once were;
every wound must somehow make us stronger,
suffering must teach us how to live better.

We need not aim to erase what once broke,
nor make every wound a source of strength;
for acceptance of scars and grief is not giving up—
it is learning to live with what cannot change.

Keep the Window Open

 

Keep the Window Open

Despair may sneak in with a setback or bad news,
but delight always finds its way in through the smallest openings.
All that is required is acceptance.

Despair does not always knock.

Sometimes it slips in quietly,
holding hands with a setback,
and takes over my world.

It tells me to close the curtains,
to count what is missing in life,
under the pretence that it is wisdom.

But I keep the window open.

For delight to find its way in—
with the scent of fresh bread,
on a raindrop kissing thirsty earth.

In a child's carefree laughter,
or in an old photograph,
bringing back fond memories.

Delight does not ask.

If the sadness has left,
it finds the smallest opening
and slips through.

Despair may be all-dominating,
but delight is soft and sweet,
asking me to give it a chance

by keeping my window open.

A Bottle of Happiness

 writing in response to Friday Writings #239: Down to the Bone

Epigraph

When joy fills our hearts, we long to share it with others. Yet happiness, too, should unite people, not become a cause of division.

Sometimes I feel happy,
So happy that I want to share it
With someone unknown,
Someone very far away,
On the other side of the sea.

I wish I could gather that feeling,
Place it inside a bottle,
Seal it carefully,
Whisper a message of hope,
Before casting it into the sea.

Perhaps one day
It will wash upon a distant shore,
Into the hands of a stranger—
A princess or a pauper—
Who needs it more than I do.

They may uncork it with a smile,
Listen to my whisper,
Or simply feel an unexpected warmth,
And, for no reason they can name,
Be happier than I felt.


Then I wonder...
A strange thought, isn't it?
The happiness we long to share
May become the very thing
People quarrel over-
A bone of contention.

A Breakfast I Couldn't Resist

 

There are some temptations that are simply too delicious to ignore.

As I waited for my flight out of Kolkata, I spotted one of my favourite breakfast combinations on the menu— puri, bhaji and chana. Deep-fried? Absolutely. Spicy? Just the way I like it. Healthy? Let's not go there.

Needless to say, I ordered it without a second thought.

Fortunately, I remembered to take a picture before it disappeared from the plate.

Friday Metro Moments

 

Two quiet moments from last Friday—one inside the train and another at Dr. Sulaiman Habib Metro Station. Sometimes the journey itself is worth remembering.

Our Parallel World

 

Almost a decade ago, I wrote about the internet as a place where ordinary people could build a livelihood. I listed blogs, online teaching, stock photography, YouTube, e-commerce, and a handful of other possibilities.

Looking back, I realise I underestimated not the opportunity but the scale.

The internet turned out to be far bigger than I had imagined. It has quietly become a parallel world—one with its own economy, professions, marketplaces, classrooms, entertainment, friendships, and communities.

In its earliest days, the internet was little more than a vast library. We searched for information, exchanged emails, and occasionally participated in forums. It connected people, but very few imagined it as a place to build an entire career.

Then it became the world's largest marketplace, quietly transforming how goods and services were bought and sold.

Soon after came the age of creators. Almost before we realised it, the internet had evolved into a provider of knowledge, news, opinions, and entertainment.

Teachers began reaching students across continents. Professionals offered consultancy services without ever meeting their clients. YouTubers, podcasters, streamers, and influencers turned what were once hobbies into full-time professions.

For the first time in history, a young person could choose where to build a career. One path lay in the physical world—offices, factories, hospitals, construction sites. The other lay in the digital world—websites, platforms, and online communities.

Both were equally real. Both demanded discipline, effort, and consistency. But there was one important difference. The physical world changes gradually, while the internet rarely stands still. 

And now we stand at another turning point.

Artificial Intelligence has arrived as another general-purpose technology, much like electricity, the internet, or the smartphone. It is steadily becoming part of everyday life. Whether we welcome it or resist it is almost irrelevant. It is here to stay.

There was a time when one had to practise and persevere to acquire specialised skills. Today, with the help of AI, almost anyone can generate software code, edit images at near-expert levels, and prepare reports, presentations, translations, marketing copy, illustrations, music—even videos.

Yesterday's competitive advantage becomes tomorrow's minimum expectation.

Hasn't that always been the story of progress? So where should the next generation look? 

I don't think the answer lies in chasing the latest tool or the newest platform. It lies in asking a better question:

What problem needs solving?

Because the harder challenge is often not solving a problem—it is recognising that the problem exists in the first place.

Technology will keep changing.

But human needs remain remarkably consistent. We want to save time, reduce costs, improve our health, educate our children, feel safer, make better decisions, enjoy ourselves, and connect with others.

And sometimes, the most interesting opportunities appear not because technology has changed—but because the problem itself has changed.

That is why I believe we should spend less time asking, "What skill should I learn?" and more time asking, "What new problems are emerging?"

Look around. There are plenty of disruptions already shaping tomorrow's challenges.

Electric vehicles are creating entirely new ecosystems. Solar power is changing how homes and businesses consume energy. Quick commerce has reshaped our expectations of convenience. Longer life expectancy is creating needs that barely existed a generation ago—not just in healthcare, but in accessibility, companionship, and independent living.

Some of tomorrow's professions haven't even been imagined yet. Every new solution quietly creates new problems. And those problems are tomorrow's opportunities.

Some will be large enough to build companies around. Others will be small niches—but still meaningful enough to sustain a livelihood.

Don't fall in love with the tool. Fall in love with the problem.

Regardless of whether you choose to build your future in the physical world or in this parallel world, embrace AI rather than fear it. Over time, it will no longer feel like a separate technology. Like the internet itself, it will simply become part of the environment in which we work, create, and live.

The people who continue to thrive will not be those who chase every new tool, but those who keep noticing what the world needs next—and have the curiosity to act on it.

Because in the end, the tools will keep changing.

The people who notice tomorrow's problems will always have work to do.

The Soul Wears the Body: Part 2 - The Witness

Image credit: Robert Clark@pexels

In the previous part, I explored a simple but unsettling idea — that perhaps the body is merely something the soul wears, much like a garment eventually set aside. That thought, while abstract, leaves behind a more immediate and pressing question.

If the body is just the vessel, what determines how that vessel is formed in the first place?

Biology offers a compelling answer. Our structure comes from instructions passed down and reshaped over generations. It explains how life is built, and how it adapts.

And yet, something about this explanation feels incomplete.

It is rational, even elegant. But when it comes to explaining why two individuals — siblings, or even twins — can be so similar in form and yet so distinct in their experience of life, the explanation often rests on probability, on variation, on what we loosely call chance.

Is chance enough to explain the feeling of being me?

Because beyond structure and variation lies something far more immediate — the undeniable sense of self. Two people may share nearly identical biological blueprints and still encounter the world in entirely different ways. One may carry restlessness, another calm. One may feel deeply connected, another curiously detached. These are not differences in structure; they are differences in experience.

So where do we place that experience? Where do we locate the Atman — the self, the observer, the one who is aware?

Biology explains the instrument. Psychology goes a step further, showing how memory, conditioning, and environment shape what we call the ego — the narrative of "I am this."

But even that narrative is not stable. It shifts with time, with circumstance, with perspective. And yet, beneath it, there appears to be a quiet awareness that existed and observed the coding of "my" DNA, and continued to observe the changes in me without itself being altered.

Is that what we refer to as the soul?

Perhaps it is not something that constructs, but something that witnesses — not always in a passive way, but maybe monitors to some extent. Not the architect of the structure, but the presence within which the structure thrives. This does not contradict science — it simply lies outside its scope.

If that is true, then the idea from Part 1 takes on a different weight. The body does not just wear out with time — it may never have been the central story to begin with.

And that leaves us with an uncomfortable possibility.

What if everything we spend our lives trying to define — our identity, our differences, our sense of "me" — belongs only to the surface? For the moment? For this body only?

What if the deeper truth is in what quietly remains the same? What is capable of traveling out and witnessing another "me"?

And if that is so, then the real question is not:

What am I made of?

But —

What am I made for?