My April, My New Year

 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, Vishu and 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?

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.

Perhaps this is not a one-off reflection. I first had this thought at a traffic stop years ago and even wrote a post about it, titled “My 2 Minutes.”

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

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.

Wabi-Sabi (侘寂) — Learning to Keep What Time Has Touched

 Gemini Generated

For many of us, calendars, diaries, and yearbooks marked the arrival of a new year. The unused one from the year before rarely went to waste — it became a scrapbook of sorts. A place for doodles, secret codes, half-formed thoughts, phone numbers, and ideas that felt important in the moment.

Handwritten notes, smudged ink, messy, uneven lines. Imperfect — but deeply personal.

Over the years, I collected a lot of those and at some point, I decided it was time to clean up my shelves. It felt practical at the time.
Old diaries were discarded, with only scanned copies of selected pages treasured.

I feel sad about that decision now. I didn’t realise then how much of me lived in those pages — they were part of growing up, maturing together. Those clumsy lines on paper were akin to the veins of a tree, irregular in shape yet proof of years of existence.

I wasn’t aware of the Japanese concept of Wabi-Sabi then, but I felt its essence.

Wabi-Sabi invites us to see beauty in imperfection.
It encourages us to embrace the imperfect, the transient, and the incomplete — a cracked teacup, a worn-out pair of jeans.

It asks us to accept every crack, wrinkle, and stain not as flaws, but as quiet markers of authenticity — like a painter’s strokes on the artwork of being alive.

Suddenly, those old diaries felt dearer, and their absence created a sense of vacuum. Life is a mosaic, a collage formed by both perfect and imperfect everyday moments. Removing traces of imperfection does not make the image perfect; it makes it unauthentic — someone else’s life.

A chipped mug that brews the morning coffee — each chip carrying the memory of a day.
A weathered wooden table — scratched by years of family dinners, marked by countless cups of tea, holding a history no polish should erase.
An old photograph, creased at the edges — imperfectly preserved, yet holding a perfect memory.

While Kaizen teaches us to keep improving, step by step, Wabi-Sabi reminds us not to discard what time has already shaped.

One urges growth; the other, acceptance.
Perhaps a meaningful life needs both —
the courage to improve,
and the wisdom to keep what already bears our marks.

When The World Lowers Its Voice

In response to Optional prompt : write about the time of day you like best, and why.

Image generated by Gemini

When The World Lowers Its Voice

Life is not for us to control.
We don’t choose
whether there will be quiet—
or company.

It isn’t easy being a man.
A caring husband.
A loving father.
A productive worker.
Sometimes,
a traveler to faraway lands.

In my homeland,
I chase the light.
I cherish each moment
that makes up the day.

When I am alone,
the night belongs to me.

Because the day—
has been sold
for a few dollars more.

At night,
thoughts arrive
without urgency.

Silence sits beside me.
It does not judge me
when—

I am the writer.
The poet.
The artist.
The philosopher too.

The world lowers its voice.
So do I.

And nothing asks me
who I am,
or what
I should become.

A Friend, a Stapler, and the Meaning of Kaizen (改善)

Image generated by Google Gemini

Kaizen (改善) always reminds me of a dear friend who introduced me to this phrase many years ago. A friend I spent time with back when we were still single—meeting often for tea or an occasional drink, and endlessly sharing anything new we learned. The word also carries a quiet sadness because of his untimely passing, but the idea itself lives on.

One afternoon, he arrived unusually animated. A consultant had visited his office, he said, and they had been introduced to a concept called Kaizen. The word was new to me, and my curiosity was immediately stirred.

He wasn’t a great storyteller, but he could recount the examples he had learned during the training—almost word for word.

What he explained was simple:

We print documents, walk to the printer to collect them, and then move again to find a stapler. If the stapler were placed next to the printer, a few seconds would be saved each time. Those seconds, multiplied across people and days, quietly added up.

It was a very simple, incremental improvement to the process—yet one with a deep and lasting impact.

Kaizen, broken down simply, comes from two words: Kai (change) and Zen (good). Together, they point to continuous improvement—not through dramatic transformations, but through small, thoughtful changes that are easy to sustain.

It asks us to resist the temptation of grand resolutions and instead focus on modest, repeatable steps.

Want to get fit?
Start with five minutes of stretching.

Trying to learn a new skill?
Ten minutes every day works better than two hours once a week—and then stopping.

Progress doesn’t need perfection, because perfection often prevents anything from getting done at all.

What Kaizen taught me, long before I realized it, is that improvement doesn’t have to be loud. It can be quiet, almost invisible, unfolding gently in the background of daily life.

And perhaps that is its greatest strength.

When Words Become Ways of Living

Eight Japanese ideas for everyday life 

Image generated by Google Gemini

Minnesota is in the news today, though not for reasons one would wish for. I have no personal connection with the place, but a few years ago I wrote about something called the Minnesota Zipper Merge—not as a traffic rule, but as a behavioural insight.

You can read it here: Minnesota-zipper-merge

It is a simple concept, given a clear name, that quietly changed how people drive. By labelling a desired action, it made people more conscious of their behaviour. Naming it made it actionable. That stayed with me, because it revealed how powerful language can be in shaping the way we respond.

Japan has long influenced the West in a similar way, particularly in manufacturing. Words like Lean, Just-In-Time, and Kaizen are no longer foreign terms; they are embedded in how industries think and function. But beyond factories and offices, the Japanese language carries ideas that shape everyday life—ideas that don’t offer instructions or shortcuts, but ways of seeing.

Over the coming days, I plan to sit with eight such Japanese concepts. They are not hacks or prescriptions. They are phrases—and with them, a way of responding, adjusting, and living a little differently.

Here are the eight I’ll be returning to:

• Shikata ga nai — accepting what cannot be helped

• Gaman — quiet endurance with dignity

• Wabi-Sabi — beauty in imperfection and impermanence

• Kaizen — small, continuous improvement

• Shinrin-Yoku — mindful immersion in nature

• Mottainai — respect for resources, time, and effort

• Oubaitori — growing without comparison

• Ikigai — a reason for being, held at the centre

I’ll begin today with the one that feels most appropriate—especially in light of recent events and our instinctive reactions to them.

Shikata ga nai (仕方がない)

“It can’t be helped.”

Everyone encounters moments of helplessness—when things simply aren’t within our control.

The train is delayed.
The rain won’t stop.
Life throws something unexpected.

Instead of tightening into frustration, shikata ga nai invites a pause—a breath.
It isn’t resignation.
It isn’t indifference.

It is grace: the strength to accept what lies beyond our control, and to move forward calmly anyway.
Like watching the rain, rather than fighting it.

Naming something doesn’t solve everything. But sometimes, it gives us a place to stand—emotionally and mentally—when solutions aren’t immediately available.

The next time you find yourself stuck—angry, helpless, or resisting what refuses to change—remember this: it isn’t a misfortune specially assigned to you. It is simply life, arriving as it does for every one of us, from time to time.

In those moments, shikata ga nai is not surrender. It is recognition.
A steady acceptance of what cannot be helped, and the quiet decision to move forward with dignity anyway.

Over the next days, I’ll sit with the remaining ideas—slowly, without rushing—letting words become ways of living.