To April, with Love

 Today, I write in response to the prompt Friday Writings #221: April Quotes

April doesn’t arrive quietly where I come from.

It arrives through all the senses—with color, with sound, with fragrance, with life. It doesn’t shy away from announcing itself to every living creature in my world.

April is bold—it makes itself known.
April is calm—it gathers and holds.
Is it Aries, or is it Taurus, you may think.
Like someone born in April, it is both.

Across the Indian subcontinent, April is when the harvest comes home. A time when effort turns into abundance, and people pause to celebrate what the land has given back.

The celebration goes by many names—Baisakhi in the north, Puthandu in the south, Poila Boishakh in Bengal, Bihu in Assam, Gudi Padwa in the west—but the spirit remains the same. A shared moment of renewal, culturally rooted in the same rhythm of life. A fresh new year starts in all regional Hindu calendars.

I need not one to nudge me or wake me up again.
I had to wake up only once.
When I was born into it. On the new year’s day of our calendar.

Yes, there are storms—fierce and sudden, Kal Baishakhi those are called. They arrive unannounced, rattle the skies, and leave their mark on homes, on nests, on trees. But they pass. They always pass. And what follows is clearer, brighter, renewed.

I read Peggy Toney Horton saying, “Although I was born in April, I’m quite certain I was not fully awake until October,” and I find myself grinning—my April is always alive, bursting with harvest feasts and familial laughter.

I was awake, I am awake—and I will be, for as long as I am allowed to be…

April is not just a season for me; it is the beginning of my story. A journey that reminds me that beginnings are loud, flavorful, and always shared by all. They weather storms and emerge sweeter, urging us to savour the harvest of our own lives. 

There maybe no better time than now to pause, reflect and make good use of the life we have—every breath we take renews our lease on life, gives us another moment to live.

Mottainai (もったいない) — The Quiet Regret of Waste

 

Deep inside, we like to believe that we do not waste—at least not like others. We tell ourselves we only purchase what we need, that we don’t discard things while they still hold value. We reuse, recycle, restore. At times we get irritated at the irresponsible packaging as expressed in my earlier post.

When I moved to Saudi Arabia in 2025, with just two and a half suitcases, I began to see how little I actually needed to live a fulfilling life. It was a quiet contemplation that all these days I have been indulging in excess.

And it dawned on me that when I went back home, I needed to start with a clear-out. What had slowly piled up over the years—drawers, shelves, storage boxes. Things kept aside “just in case,” things replaced but never discarded, things simply forgotten.

Items still in good condition. Clothes worn once or twice. Gadgets replaced before their time. Even small things—half-used notebooks, cables I never went back to, books I meant to read but didn’t.

It wasn’t just about waste. It was neglect.

Mottainai, a Japanese term, helped bring clarity to this.

It is not just about waste in the physical sense, but a deeper feeling—a kind of respect for what we have, and a sense of regret when that respect is missing.

The following questions need to be answered.

How often do we replace instead of repair?
Order more instead of finishing what’s already there?
Hold on to things we don’t need, while someone else might?

And beyond objects—how much time slips away unnoticed? How much attention gets scattered?

It sounds simple, but we rarely think of it this way. We associate waste with excess, but not always with neglect.

Mottainai, to me, is a reminder to be more conscious. To use fully, to value quietly, and to let go responsibly.

Because sometimes, respect is not about acquiring more—it is about using what we have to the fullest.

P.S. Thanks for stopping by and I would love to hear your feedback. You might be thinking that in today's world, it is not easy to get stuff repaired and I had experienced this as documented in an earlier post the lost art of repair and reuse.

Oubaitori (桜梅桃李) — Each Tree Blooms in Its Own Time

 

At some point in our lives, we’ve all heard that everyone has their own journey. Some paths accelerate early. Some take time to gather depth. Some change direction midway. None of them are wrong—unless we insist on comparing.

Most “middle benchers” like me have endured that familiar feedback—the promise and the results don’t quite match. We knew why. There were simply too many other things we wanted to do, and studying wasn’t always at the top of the list. But in hindsight, that was also a time when we were quietly spreading our wings.

Later, once on my own, the pressure began to mount. The questions followed—am I doing okay, am I in the right profession, am I on the right path?

I was reminded of this not in a moment of failure, but in a moment of quiet comparison.

There was a phase when I found myself measuring progress more often than I would admit. Not formally, not consciously—but in small, passing ways. A colleague moving ahead faster. Someone switching paths and finding success. Another achieving something I had once set aside.

Nothing dramatic. Just enough to raise a question—am I falling behind?

It took me a while to realize that the unease wasn’t about progress—it was about comparison. I wasn’t questioning my path; I was measuring it against someone else’s timeline.

That’s when I realised the true essence of 'Oubaitori'.

Four trees—cherry, plum, peach, pear. Each blooms in its own time. None rushes. None competes. None questions its season. And yet, each fulfils its purpose completely-in its own time.

It sounds simple, but we rarely live by it. We assume growth must follow a shared calendar.

But it doesn’t.

Oubaitori, to me, is a reminder to return to my own pace—to focus on what I am building, rather than how it measures up.

Because growth is not a race. It is a rhythm.

And in the end, the only question that really matters is—am I moving forward?

Reading Between the Stripes

Today wars are raging across continents—from Europe to Asia to Africa—and there is confusion in every mind around “who is the victim.” Every conflict carries two sides—sometimes more. Between the labels of oppressor and oppressed, protector and predator, lies everyone’s own truth, built upon fear, vulnerability and greed.

That made me think about something far simpler.

The life of the humble zebra.

The zebra is one of nature’s most beautiful creations—graceful, patterned, peaceful. Yet, for generations, it has lived under constant threat from the lion, with no real strength to fight back. While the lions come in a pack, the zebras are unable to mobilize their own kind to defend themselves.

It is difficult not to feel for the zebra.

Why does it continue to endure, simply running for its life across endless plains, century after century?

If evolution is a fact, it is tempting to wonder why the zebra did not, metaphorically speaking, “invent a machine gun” to kill the lions.

Maybe it has adapted—but its progress lies in quiet resilience, in the rhythm of running, grazing, escaping, and living on. There is perhaps wisdom in this surrender to the natural order.

So the zebra lives within this reality—at peace where it can be, alert where it must be, grateful for another day.

Now, if you were the grass, enduring this endless aggression from the zebras day after day, how would you see the zebra and the lion?

Would the zebra be your monster—the one that devours you without pause—and the lion your protector, the one that keeps that hunger in check and allows you to grow back?

Think about it.

Gaman (我慢) — The Art of Holding Steady When Things Go Wrong

Gemini Generated Image

“Life has a way of testing us just when we think we’ve found steady ground.”

I was reminded of this on a short personal trip from Kolkata to Bangalore a few years back.

The work was done, the day had gone to plan, and I had timed my departure carefully—navigating the usual Bangalore traffic with just enough buffer to reach the airport without stress. It felt like one of those rare days where things were under control.

I tried to web check-in at the airport. It didn’t go through. I assumed it was just a routine glitch.

I moved to the counter. The staff tried to pull up the booking but failed.

Then the realization landed—quietly, but completely.

Same flight. Same date. Next month.

For a few minutes, the mind did what it always does—retrace steps, look for an error, hope for a workaround. But there wasn’t one. The only option was to step aside, wait, and book a new ticket for a late-night flight, eventually reaching home early the next morning.

It wasn’t a crisis, but it was enough to shake the illusion of control.

Perhaps that is how it often unfolds—nothing dramatic, just a quiet disruption that asks for more composure than reaction.

Challenges come uninvited — a setback, a disappointment, a moment that shakes our confidence. In such times, perseverance doesn’t always mean pushing harder; sometimes it means pausing, breathing, and choosing calm over chaos.

This is where the Japanese concept of Gaman (我慢) can guide us.

Gaman speaks of enduring the difficult with patience and dignity, holding oneself steady not through denial, but through quiet restraint.

When life gets hard, pause — but don’t quit. Give yourself space to feel, to think, to realign. The world often glorifies constant motion, but quiet resilience can be just as powerful.

You may not control every circumstance, but you can influence how you respond — with patience, humility, and grace. Keep moving forward, even if progress is slow or uncertain. Strength isn’t about pretending not to struggle; it is about continuing despite it, and knowing when to allow others to walk beside you.

Gaman does not ask us to be unshaken.
It asks us to remain steady, even when we are shaken.

Wall That Remembered

This is my attempt in response to Friday Writings #218: The World Is Burning, But…

Image generated by Gemini

I was bored all day sitting inside. For someone as athletic as me, confinement is torture—especially after coming all the way to the hills for a vacation.

Ron and Ana seemed perfectly happy reading, hugging, or gazing at each other. I, however, had no romantic partner here and urgently needed to move. After hours of my finest whining, they finally gave in.

The air outside tasted wild.

I sprinted through the grass toward the rocky bottom of the hill. Normally I am very stable and balanced, but today loose gravel betrayed me. I slipped and skidded down the slope—twenty feet, maybe more.

Ron shouted and rushed down to help while Ana followed more carefully, already annoyed that I had complicated the trip.

As we searched for a way back up, we noticed an opening in the hillside. No door, no sign—just darkness breathing out cool air. After a brief debate, they agreed to the adventure, and I was more than happy to take the lead.

Once inside, the light faded quickly. Ron switched on the flashlight of his phone and aimed it down the tunnel.

The beam revealed faded paintings along the walls—hands pressed flat into stone, faces leaning close together, a small figure lifted toward a circle of others. It felt as if the walls had once been a journal for people who lived here long ago.

Deeper inside, the drawings changed. The colors grew muddy, the strokes hurried. A group pressed together behind something that looked like a barricade.

Ana’s voice broke the silence.
“Ron… these aren’t celebrations.”

He moved the light slowly along the wall.
“They’re hiding.”

Further inside, charcoal figures crouched low, their lines tangled like roots gripping the earth.

Ana brushed dust away from a small inscription while Ron read softly, his voice faltering:

“The world is burning, but we want to live.”

Ana read the line below it.
“They will find us one day and stop the oxygen flow.”

Ron pointed to the corner wall.
“Look at those numbers crossed out—a countdown.”

Next to it lay a shallow pit where the bones rested in an open grave.

Ronbir and Anasua stood there a long time, holding hands.

“Will there ever be peace in this part of our world?” Anasua whispered.

Sometimes I can tell when people are remembering something they never lived.

I wondered if the people who tried to stay alive here had a few dogs with them.

Like me.

Let My Star Be Your Guide

This is my attempt in response to Friday Writings #217: Your Message to the World 

We are mere travellers here,
drifting wherever life takes us.

No one will ever earn here
the right to dictate others’ paths.

We barely see the path here
clearly beyond the next bend.

Still, for fellow travelers here
I share my guiding North Star.

People spend their lives here

just fighting their own storms.

True, we cannot always help here,

never unleash our demons on them