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

The Review We Don’t Write

 

Gemini generated

There would be no online shopping as we know it today if our generation hadn’t approved it. That may sound audacious, but it is largely true.

We participated in the evolution of the digital marketplace. We adapted as shopping moved from traditional markets to malls, from malls to websites, and from websites to one-click delivery at our door.

Today, before spending even 500 rupees or 50 riyals, we study ratings. We scroll through one-star warnings and five-star praise. We zoom into photos. We cross-check platforms. We depend deeply on the voices of strangers.

Yet when the product finally arrives, we rarely leave our opinion — whether it delights us or disappoints us. We trust reviews enough to make decisions with our money, but hesitate to contribute one with our words.

We resist acknowledging that in this digital world, a review is a form of voting.

When we vote, we understand that a single action feels small, but collectively it shapes direction. Online, a review does the same. It strengthens what deserves to grow and questions what needs improvement.

When most people stay silent, a small group defines the narrative. Silence feels neutral, but it rarely is.

Someone may spend hard-earned money on something we could have warned them about. A sincere business may remain invisible because appreciation was never expressed publicly.

As we shape this digital marketplace and benefit from it every day, the least we can do is leave it clearer than we found it.

Because every time we choose silence, someone else’s voice becomes the majority. In a world shaped by algorithms, reviews ensure that buyers still have access to authentic information before making a choice.

Navigating the Flamethrower

 

Gemini generated image

Dedication:

To mine and all daughters — may you face life’s lights and flames with courage, grit, and unwavering hope.

Navigating life’s narrow lanes today, takes grit.
The route is clear — education, perseverance.
Eyes fixed ahead, she charged toward the light.

The light was a flamethrower, unexpectedly.

Society favours the fair, the pretty, the wealthy.
She continued moving, step by step, unaware.
So when the light turned to fire, she was ready.

---

Prompted by Poets and Storytellers United

If It’s Just a Body, Let My Words Linger

 

Image generated by Gemini

The moment you die, your identity becomes a body. Today I came across that thought, and it felt quietly humbling.

It took me back to a cold day in February, a few decades ago — to the day I rushed home from Delhi, the wind slicing through the airport glass, my mind racing faster than the wheels beneath me. My father had suffered a stroke. The flight was delayed by Delhi’s infamous fog, and by the time I reached home, he had already left this world.

Everyone waited for him to come home. I expected to see my father — strong, tired, gentle all at once. For years he had been a husband, a father, a brother, an uncle, a friend, a colleague — many things to many people. But when he arrived, no one said his name. No one called out a relation.

They said, “The body is here.”

In that instant, language stripped love of its titles. My father — a voice, a laugh, a presence that filled rooms — was now the body.

The body we idolize, critique, measure, compare and mold is, in many ways, deeply mechanical. It takes in breath, food, admiration, comfort — all the good things life offers — and when it releases, it releases what it no longer needs. Everything that leaves the body in its natural course — even through our skin, our eyes, our breath — is something unwanted.

And yet, there is one exception.

This very body has the ability to release something that is not waste, not toxin, not discard. Through the tongue, we can offer kindness, compassion, gentleness, truth. We can speak warmth into cold moments and remind someone they matter.

Perhaps that is how we outlive ourselves — not through the body that is eventually reduced to silence, but through the words it once carried.

If it’s just a body, let my words linger.