Fear of God? Or Love of God? – A Mind's Tug-of-War

Fear of God? Or Love of God? – A Mind's Tug-of-War

There’s an old saying—well, old enough that no one remembers who said it first—that human beings either pray out of gratitude or out of terror. The latter is particularly true when the coconut is cracked only after the doctor’s report, not before. But is the divine some cosmic landlord to whom rent must be paid in the form of prayers, lest we be evicted from grace? Or is devotion something far more organic, arising not from fear but from the dissolution of fear itself?

The question is as old as time, or at least as old as the first thunderclap that made early humans believe the heavens were displeased. And yet, our scriptures—when read without the heavy baggage of conditioning—whisper an answer so simple that the intellect recoils in horror: neither love nor fear are of any significance when it comes to That which simply is.

Shiva, the Unmoved Witness

Take Shiva, for instance—not the ash-smeared yogi of bedtime tales, but the concept that precedes even the telling of tales. When the devas and asuras churned the ocean, hoping for nectar but chancing upon poison, panic gripped the cosmos. The gods pleaded, the demons recoiled, and yet, Shiva simply drank. No hesitation. No bargaining. No promise extracted from the universe in exchange for this act of supreme grace.

The trembling gods saw an act of love, the asuras saw a fearless being, but Shiva Himself—if one dares to speculate—saw neither. He simply was. What was required, was done. No fear, no love, just an uncolored seeing.

And therein lies the secret. Love and fear are the twin masks of the mind; one embraces, the other recoils, but both arise from the same misunderstanding—that I am separate from That which I seek. And so, the seeker loves, the sinner fears, and the sage remains silent.

Bhakti: The Lure of Devotion, The Trap of Meaning

If love of God is superior to fear, as poets and saints have proclaimed, does that mean bhakti is the way? Perhaps. But here lies a trap, subtle as maya itself.

Consider Prahlad, the child-devotee of Narayana, persecuted by his own father. His unwavering faith saw him unharmed in fire, unshaken in the face of death, while his father—soaked in arrogance—was slain by the very hands of divinity. The common takeaway? Love of God triumphs over fear. But peel back the layers, and something else emerges.

Prahlad never “loved” Narayana in the emotional sense. He simply knew—not as a belief, not as an argument, but as an unshaken truth. His father feared Vishnu, but that too was a form of attachment—an engagement of the mind with the divine. Love and fear are both engagements, both distortions. Prahlad had no engagement. He simply rested in knowing. And that, not love nor fear, was his liberation.

The Unbearable Simplicity of Truth

This is where the intellect stumbles. It wants a victor, a verdict—love over fear, devotion over denial. But what if scripture was never meant to be interpreted as a debate? What if the greatest wisdom lies in their absolute simplicity? The Upanishads whisper of a state beyond both, where the mind is stilled, and the knower, knowing, and known collapse into one indivisible awareness.

Nirguna, niraakaara Brahma—the formless, uncolored awareness—is not attained by replacing fear with love, nor by choosing devotion over detachment. It is seen when all choosing ends, when love and fear are both recognized as mere colorings of perception. The mind, ever hungry for a path, a method, a conclusion, drowns in its own noise, while Truth remains silent, unmoved, like Shiva, watching.

Simply Look Up

Perhaps that is why the sages never argued over whether God should be feared or loved. They left that to the poets and priests. The wise knew that to engage in such questions was to remain entangled in the mind’s games—like a fish debating whether the ocean is benevolent or cruel, forgetting that it is the ocean itself.

When the mind paints the divine with fear, it cowers. When it paints with love, it clings. But who is the painter? Who holds the brush? That is the only inquiry that matters. Not whether we fear or love, but whether we see at all.

For that which is eternal, neither our trembling nor our adoration adds or takes away. The sky does not sigh when the bird soars, nor does it mourn when the bird falls. It simply remains. But we, in our yearning, seek to color it, to grasp it, to name it.

And yet, one does not find the sky by chasing it. One finds it by simply looking up!

So too, the seeker. One does not reach That by clinging or recoiling. One reaches when there is no reaching left to do. When the mind stops asking, and the heart no longer demands. When the ocean remembers it was never separate from the drop. Then—only then—does the question of love or fear dissolve, like mist touched by the morning sun.

-- Pradeep K (Prady)

Mind Your Automation!

(Inspired by my colleague and friend, Vinayak Bhat)


In a quaint little town, there resided three brothers with their wives, in a home that was a shining example of precision and routine. The brothers toiled away in a factory in the neighboring city, while their wives, embodying the spirit of cooperation, shared the household chores with clockwork efficiency.

Dinner operations were a spectacle of automation. The eldest wife, with the discipline of a drill sergeant, laid out the plates at exactly 7:30 PM. The second wife, with the precision of a chef, served the food at 7:40 PM sharp. The youngest, with the dexterity of a ninja, cleared the table and did the dishes by 8:20 PM. At precisely 8:25 PM, the trio exchanged a triumphant high-five, celebrating another flawlessly executed day.

Life continued this way for months, an unbroken symphony of punctuality. One evening, a wrench was thrown into their perfect machinery. The brothers were required to stay an hour late at the factory.

Undeterred, the eldest wife laid out the plates at 7:30 PM, the second wife served food at 7:40 PM, and the youngest cleared the table at 8:20 PM, all in the absence of any diners. At 8:25 PM they exchanged their routine high-five, basking in the glow of a job well done.

It mattered not that nobody had eaten that night. What was important was that the system had run flawlessly.

-- Pradeep K (Prady)

The Tower of Mirrors

Once upon a time, in the grand corporation of Verdant Horizons, there sat a Chief Operations Officer—or COO, as they liked to call him—perched high atop his glass tower. The tower, a gleaming monument to his tenure, was filled with mirrors that reflected his visage in every direction. This was not vanity, he would insist, but an exercise in perspective. “How else,” he would muse to his inner circle, “am I to ensure my decisions are always flawless?”
 
Beneath the mirrors, down in the trenches, worked an engineer named Pavan. Pavan was a man of modest habits and immodest experience, with a knack for untangling problems before they became crises. Pavan’s solutions were simple, almost criminally so—duct-tape genius, some called it, although Pavan preferred the term “elegant.”
 
One day, a peculiar problem arose in the kingdom of Verdant Horizons: the grand automation system, which ensured all the castle gates and drawbridges worked in synchrony, had begun to falter. It was a mild inconvenience, really—one bridge stuck here, one gate refusing to open there—but it was enough to catch the COO’s mirrored gaze.
 
Pavan, who had dealt with the system for years, quickly identified the issue: a corroded relay box. “A new relay box and a bit of recalibration,” he suggested, “and it’ll be good as new. Two days’ work, tops.”
 
But alas, Pavan was not among the COO’s chosen few. In the COO’s hall of mirrors, where decisions were evaluated not for their effectiveness but for their flair, Pavan’s suggestion was dull. “A relay box?” scoffed the COO. “Where’s the vision? The scale? The strategy?”
 
Enter Kartik, the COO’s deputy, a man whose talent lay not in solving problems but in magnifying them. “Sir,” Kartik began, his tone grave, “the relay box isn’t just corroded. It’s symptomatic of a deeper malaise. This entire system is obsolete. We must redesign it—nay, reimagine it—from scratch!”
 
The COO’s eyes sparkled. “Reimagine,” he echoed, the word rolling off his tongue like a fine wine. “Tell me more.”
 
Kartik, sensing his moment, launched into an elaborate vision. The new system would be cloud-enabled, blockchain-secured, AI-driven, and peppered with buzzwords Pavan didn’t even know existed. It would take two years and a fortune to build, but it would, Kartik assured them, revolutionize the gates and drawbridges industry.
 
The COO was sold. “Brilliant!” he declared, and immediately authorized the project.
 
Pavan, ever the realist, tried to interject. “Sir, while this is being built, the current system will continue to fail. What if we—”
 
“Pavan,” interrupted the COO, with the patience of a parent explaining why chocolate shouldn’t be eaten before dinner, “you must learn to think big. Kartik is showing us the future. Let’s not waste time patching the past.”
 
And so the great overhaul began. Architects were summoned, consultants flown in, and millions spent on slide decks filled with phrases like “paradigm shift” and “leveraging synergies.” The drawbridges, meanwhile, continued to falter, forcing employees to climb over walls and wade through moats. But no one dared complain, for fear of being labeled resistant to innovation.
 
Months turned into years. The grand new system was finally unveiled, a shining marvel that required twenty operators to manage what had once been automatic. It worked, though inconsistently, and only when the AI algorithms weren’t trying to calculate the square root of infinity.
 
The COO declared it a triumph. Kartik was promoted to Vice Emperor of Visionary Disruptions. Pavan, meanwhile, retired quietly, his contributions buried under layers of PowerPoint.
 
But here’s the twist: the relay box that Pavan had suggested replacing? It had never been touched. It sat there, corroded but functional, quietly bridging gaps in the grand new system’s logic. Pavan had replaced it on his last day, slipping it into the blueprint as a failsafe. It was his final act of duct-tape genius.
 
As for the COO, he spent his days gazing into his mirrors, content in the knowledge that he had overseen greatness. And the mirrors, like all good mirrors, reflected back exactly what he wanted to see.
 
-- Pradeep K (Prady)

Chaitravan Chronicles

The town of Chaitravan had always held its secrets close, like an old miser clutching a handful of gold coins. The locals had long since stopped trying to unravel the mysteries of Guilder Manor, that crumbling relic on the hill. It loomed over the town like a forgotten deity, its windows dark, its gates rusted shut. They said the last owner, one Edward Guilder, had vanished during a stormy night, leaving behind only whispers of a treasure no one had seen but everyone believed in.

Into this sleepy town came Ravi, a man who could sell a lie as if it were gospel truth. He rolled in on his battered motorcycle, the kind that growled more than it purred, and parked it outside the library with a casual confidence that didn’t quite match his threadbare jacket. He wasn’t there for books, not really. But Ravi knew that libraries held more than dusty tomes; they held people. And people—ah, people could be worked, nudged, and maneuvered into giving you exactly what you wanted.

Inside, the librarian, Meena, sat at her desk, the picture of quiet dignity in her neat cardigan and sensible shoes. She looked up as Ravi entered, her sharp eyes taking in his swagger, his too-relaxed grin. “Can I help you?” she asked, though she didn’t sound particularly eager to.

“I’m looking into local history,” Ravi said, letting his voice take on the air of someone who’d been places, seen things. “I’ve heard some interesting stories about this town.”

Meena raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Stories or legends?”

“Legends are stories, aren’t they?” he countered, flashing a grin that had gotten him out of more trouble than he cared to count. He leaned on the desk, lowering his voice. “I hear there’s treasure in this town. Guilder Manor, right?”

For a fraction of a second, her fingers froze on the page of the book she was holding. It was so brief that most wouldn’t have noticed. But Ravi wasn’t most. He saw it, and his grin widened.

Meena closed the book with deliberate calm, then stood and walked to a shelf, pulling out an old, rolled-up map. “This?” she asked, setting it on the desk. “Just a legend. Keeps the tourists entertained.”

Ravi unrolled the map, his eyes scanning the faded lines and cryptic notations. “Fascinating,” he murmured, though what he really thought was this is it.

What he didn’t know—what no one ever suspected—was that Meena wasn’t just some quiet librarian. She had spent years studying that map, deciphering its riddles, piecing together the clues. She had nearly solved it. And now, this stranger thought he could waltz in and take it? Oh, she’d play along. For now.

The game had begun.

It was later that evening, over a cup of steaming tea at the local stall, that a third player entered the fray. Rajesh, the town’s smooth-talking real estate agent, had always had a knack for overhearing the wrong conversations at the right time. He leaned against the counter, sipping his tea, pretending to scroll through his phone, while Ravi and Meena talked in low voices a few feet away.

“Treasure, eh?” Rajesh muttered to himself, his mind already racing. Debt had a way of sharpening a man’s instincts, and Rajesh was drowning in it. A treasure hunt was just the kind of gamble he needed.

By the time Ravi stepped out of the stall, Rajesh was waiting for him. “You’re looking for the Guilder treasure,” Rajesh said, his tone casual but his grin sharp.

Ravi’s eyes narrowed. “And what’s it to you?”

“I have the keys to the manor’s grounds,” Rajesh said, dangling them on his finger. “Let’s just say… I’m interested in a partnership.”

The next morning found the three of them gathered at Meena’s modest home, the map spread across her kitchen table. Ravi was all charm and confidence, Rajesh’s grin didn’t quite reach his eyes, and Meena—well, Meena sipped her tea with the air of someone watching a play unfold, knowing she was the one holding the script.

The plan was simple enough: they’d work together to solve the map’s riddles, find the treasure, and split it three ways. But if there was one thing true about Chaitravan’s newest treasure hunters, it was this: not one of them believed the others would play fair.

And so, the stage was set. Three players, one treasure, and a web of lies spun so tight that it was only a matter of time before it snapped.

The riddles on the map were maddeningly cryptic, as though old Edward Guilder had designed them with malice rather than mystery in mind. Meena’s finger hovered over a faded marking on the map—a peculiar symbol etched near the edges of the Guilder estate grounds. It resembled an hourglass but had an odd swirl where the sand should be.

“Time and tides reveal the way,” she murmured, reading the scrawled clue beside it.

Ravi, seated across from her, leaned back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head. “Sounds poetic,” he said with a smirk. “But I bet it’s simpler than that. Old men with treasure don’t overthink.”

Meena gave him a withering glance. “Says the man who didn’t even notice the hourglass until I pointed it out.”

Rajesh, leaning over the table, tapped the symbol with a calloused finger. “Hourglass. Tides. Maybe something to do with the riverbank. There’s a dried-up one near the estate, isn’t there?”

“That’s one possibility,” Meena said slowly, but her mind was already racing elsewhere. Ravi was watching her too closely, trying to gauge her thoughts. She sipped her tea, the liquid cool now but still offering her a moment’s cover. She wouldn’t reveal her theories too soon.

It was decided. They’d start with the riverbank that afternoon.

The riverbed near the Guilder estate was a graveyard of cracked earth and stubborn weeds, stretching out beneath the pale afternoon sun. The trio trudged along its length, the map in Meena’s hands, though Ravi made sure to walk just close enough to catch glimpses of it over her shoulder.

Rajesh, meanwhile, had his own priorities. His eyes scanned the terrain, not for symbols or clues, but for escape routes. It never hurt to be prepared.

“Here,” Meena said, stopping abruptly near a cluster of jagged rocks. She knelt and brushed away the dirt to reveal a faint carving on one of the stones—a small arrow pointing east.

“See? Told you it was simple,” Ravi quipped, but even he couldn’t hide the excitement creeping into his voice.

The arrow led them to an overgrown trail, and from there to the edge of the Guilder estate itself. The wrought iron gates stood before them, imposing and rusted, locked tight with a heavy chain.

Rajesh reached into his pocket and produced a set of keys, jangling them with a smug grin. “Told you I’d be useful.”

The lock creaked and groaned but gave way eventually, and the gate swung open with a loud screech. Beyond it, the grounds of the manor stretched out like a forgotten world—wild, tangled, and eerily silent.

They stepped inside, the atmosphere heavy with something unspoken. Meena clutched the map a little tighter. Ravi’s hand brushed against the hilt of the knife hidden in his jacket. Rajesh, for all his bravado, couldn’t help but glance over his shoulder every few minutes.

The path led them to the back of the estate, where an old well stood, its stones moss-covered and its rope long since rotted away. Above it, carved into the lintel, was another riddle:

“Where shadows fall and silence reigns, dig beneath the still remains.”

“What does that mean?” Rajesh asked, frowning.

“It means,” Meena said, “we dig.”

Ravi smirked. “You’re assuming this ‘remains’ nonsense is literal. Could be another trick.”

“Could be,” Meena replied, her tone as unreadable as her expression. “But then again, you’re free to sit here and theorize while the rest of us work.”

And work they did. Hours passed as they dug through the hard earth beneath the well’s shadow, the sun dipping lower in the sky. Sweat dripped down their faces, and tempers flared as exhaustion set in.

It was Rajesh who struck something first—a hollow thunk as his spade hit wood.

“Here!” he exclaimed, dropping to his knees to clear the dirt away. Ravi and Meena joined him, their movements frantic now. Together, they unearthed a wooden chest, its surface scarred and weathered but intact.

Ravi wasted no time, prying the chest open with his knife. Inside lay a strange assortment of items: gold coins, a few gemstones, and, at the very center, an artifact that seemed out of place—a small amulet, its surface etched with symbols that glimmered faintly even in the dim light.

“What is it?” Rajesh asked, his voice tinged with awe.

“A good payday,” Ravi said, reaching for the amulet. But before he could touch it, Meena’s hand shot out, stopping him.

“Wait,” she said, her eyes fixed on the artifact. “We don’t know what it is. Or what it does.”

Ravi laughed. “What it does? It’s an antique, not a bomb. Relax.”

But even as he spoke, something in the air seemed to shift—a subtle, almost imperceptible change, like the moment before a storm. None of them said anything, but each felt it.

Meena was the first to break the silence. “Let’s not do this here,” she said. “We need to divide this up properly.”

Ravi and Rajesh exchanged glances, both unwilling to be the first to back down. But eventually, they nodded. The chest was closed, and the three of them began the trek back to town, each lost in their own thoughts, each plotting their next move.

The game was no longer about finding the treasure. It was about keeping it. And in the quiet of the fading daylight, none of them noticed the faint glow emanating from the amulet inside the chest.

By the time they reached Meena’s house, the sun had sunk below the horizon, casting Chaitravan in its usual cloak of sleepy indifference. But inside Meena’s modest kitchen, the air buzzed with tension, crackling like an unspoken storm.

The chest sat on the table, its ancient wood gleaming faintly in the dim light of a single hanging bulb. Rajesh poured himself a glass of water, gulping it down as though it might drown his growing unease. Ravi leaned against the counter, his jacket still on, his eyes never leaving the chest. Meena, calm as ever, folded her hands on the table and said, “Before we do anything, let’s establish some ground rules.”

“Rules?” Ravi said, with a scoff that didn’t quite hide his impatience. “I thought the rule was simple: three ways, even split.”

Meena gave him a pointed look. “Trust isn’t exactly our strong suit, Ravi. Let’s keep this clean, or none of us gets out of this alive.”

Rajesh chuckled nervously. “You’re joking, right?”

Meena didn’t answer, and the silence was enough to make him squirm.

The first sign of trouble came when Ravi reached for the chest. “Let’s stop wasting time,” he said, flipping the latch open. “We’ll split it now and be done with it.”

But the moment he touched the amulet, he froze. For the briefest second, his hand lingered there, his eyes glazing over, as if he’d seen something no one else could. Then he jerked back, blinking hard.

“What happened?” Meena asked sharply.

“Nothing,” Ravi said quickly, too quickly. He flexed his fingers as though trying to shake off a lingering sensation. “It’s just… cold. That’s all.”

But Meena wasn’t convinced. She reached into her bag and pulled out a pair of gloves, slipping them on before picking up the amulet herself. The etchings on its surface seemed to pulse faintly in the light, a rhythm too subtle for words. For a moment, Meena felt the weight of something vast and incomprehensible pressing against her mind, like a door left ajar in a storm.

“What is it?” Rajesh asked, leaning forward, his curiosity overtaking his caution.

“It’s not just a trinket,” Meena said slowly, setting it back in the chest. Her voice was steady, but her hands trembled slightly. “This… this thing isn’t normal.”

Ravi laughed, though it sounded more like a bark. “Great. Now it’s cursed, is it? Next, you’ll tell me old Guilder’s ghost is watching us.”

“It’s not a ghost,” Meena said, her eyes narrowing. “But it’s something.”

Rajesh hesitated, his gaze darting between the chest and his companions. “Look, maybe we’re overthinking this. Let’s just divide everything now—coins, gems, and whatever that thing is. We’ll each take our share and go our separate ways.”

But Ravi wasn’t listening. His eyes had locked on the amulet again, drawn to it like a moth to flame. “You can keep the coins,” he said suddenly, his voice low and intent. “I want that.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Meena snapped. “We split everything equally, or this deal’s off.”

“I’m serious,” Ravi said, stepping closer to the table. “I don’t care about the rest. Just give me the amulet.”

And there it was—the first crack in their fragile alliance.

“You’re not thinking clearly,” Meena said, her voice firm. “That thing’s affecting you, Ravi. I can see it.”

“Don’t tell me what I’m thinking,” Ravi shot back, his tone turning sharp. “You’re just scared because you don’t know what it is.”

“I know enough to know it’s dangerous,” Meena said.

Rajesh, sensing the tension escalating, held up his hands. “Hey, hey, calm down, both of you. Let’s not lose our heads here.”

But it was too late. Ravi lunged for the chest, his hands closing around the amulet before Meena could stop him. The moment his fingers wrapped around it, the room seemed to shift. The air grew heavy, charged, as if the amulet itself were drawing energy from the very space around them.

And then—darkness.

For a brief, terrifying moment, everything disappeared: the room, the table, the chest, even the floor beneath their feet. All that remained was a void, vast and cold, swallowing them whole.

When the light returned, they were back in the kitchen, but something had changed. Ravi stood at the table, his breathing ragged, his eyes wide with something that wasn’t quite fear. Meena and Rajesh stared at him, their expressions a mix of confusion and dread.

“What just happened?” Rajesh whispered.

Ravi didn’t answer. He looked down at the amulet in his hand, and for the first time, there was no triumph in his eyes—only the shadow of something far darker.

Meena took a step back, her mind racing. The amulet wasn’t just dangerous. It was alive, in some way she couldn’t yet comprehend.

“This isn’t over,” she said, her voice trembling despite herself. “Not by a long shot.”

The uneasy truce between them had shattered. Now, it wasn’t just about the treasure—it was about survival. And as the night deepened, the game began to shift, each of them realizing that the stakes were far higher than they’d ever imagined.

The trio sat around Meena’s kitchen table, the air heavy with distrust and the weight of the amulet’s presence. The silence stretched, each of them locked in their own thoughts, plotting their next move.

“We need to divide this and be done with it,” Rajesh finally said, breaking the tension.

But before they could reach a consensus, Ravi suddenly snatched the amulet, a wild look in his eyes. “I have to get rid of it,” he muttered, backing away from the table. “This thing is cursed.”

Without another word, he bolted out of the house and jumped onto his motorcycle, revving the engine. Meena and Rajesh exchanged a glance, then hurried after him, jumping into Rajesh’s car. The chase was on.

Ravi sped through the winding streets of Chaitravan, the roar of his motorcycle echoing in the quiet night. He headed towards the old bridge over the river, his mind set on one thing: getting rid of the amulet once and for all.

Meena and Rajesh followed closely behind, their car’s headlights cutting through the darkness. “We have to stop him,” Meena said, her voice urgent. “He doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

They reached the bridge just as Ravi skidded to a stop, the motorcycle’s tires screeching on the pavement. He rushed to the edge, ready to throw the amulet into the raging waters below.

“Ravi, stop!” Rajesh shouted, leaping out of the car and running towards him.

A tussle ensued, the three of them grappling on the bridge, each trying to gain control of the amulet. They stumbled and fell, the amulet slipping from Ravi’s grasp and landing on the ground with a metallic clang.

In the dim moonlight, they found themselves in a standoff: Ravi squatting on one side, clutching the amulet tightly in his palm; Meena sitting on the other side, the chest held with both hands across her lap; and Rajesh next to her, clutching a few gold coins and jewels in both his palms.

The night seemed to stretch endlessly, the air thick with tension and the sound of the river rushing beneath them. Their eyes were locked in a silent battle, each refusing to back down.

As dawn broke, the first light of morning revealed a surreal scene on the bridge. An ambulance from the mental asylum arrived, the medics moving with practiced efficiency. They found Ravi clutching an old keychain, Meena holding a red brick, and Rajesh not willing to let go of the rough and dirty pebbles in his hands.

The medics exchanged puzzled glances but said nothing as they gently lifted the trio into the ambulance. The townspeople, waking up to another ordinary day, had no idea of the strange events that had unfolded during the night.

As the ambulance drove away, leaving the bridge and its secrets behind, the townspeople woke up to another normal day and went about their lives, unaware of the night's strange events. Chaitravan, bathed in the soft glow of dawn, held its secrets tight.

-- Pradeep K (Prady)

The Unwritten Promise - Part 2 of 2

The idea of "writing our story" simplifies a deeply complex and layered process, and I think that's what makes this kind of discussion both fascinating and necessary.

If there's one truth we all realise and accept at one point or another, it's that life is far from a clean slate where we simply get to write what we want. For one, nothing in life is absolute. It all depends. There are several known and hidden factors on which everything else is in flux. Let's examine just a few.

Nature vs. Nurture

The tension between what we’re born with (our genetic makeup) and what we experience (our environment) shapes so much of who we are. Some of us might have natural aptitudes for certain things—an inherent knack for music, athleticism, or analytical thinking—but without the right environment to nurture those talents, they might never develop. Conversely, someone without an inherent gift might excel through sheer hard work and support. But what about those who are born into environments that don’t allow growth, or worse, suppress it?

I think this tension often creates the illusion that we’re less in control of our stories than we’d like to be. In truth, control is never total—it’s a spectrum. The extent to which we can shape our lives depends on the opportunities we’ve been given, our capacity to seize them, and sometimes sheer luck.


Predestination vs. Free Will

This debate is as old as philosophy itself, and there’s no clear answer. Are we the masters of our fate, or are we following a path already laid out for us? I tend to think it’s a mix of both. Some aspects of our lives—where we’re born, who our parents are, the economic and social conditions we inherit—are predestined. But within those constraints, there’s room to exercise free will.

The problem is that free will is often limited by circumstance. It’s easy to tell someone to “write their own story,” but if they’re facing systemic oppression, poverty, or deep psychological wounds from past experiences, their ability to “write” becomes constrained. Overcoming those barriers takes extraordinary effort, and not everyone succeeds.


The Influence of Early Experiences

Our childhood and adolescence are especially crucial because that’s when our identities are being shaped. Family, friends, education, and even random events contribute to the “default settings” we carry into adulthood. By the time we reach a point where we can consciously rewrite our narratives, we’re already working within the framework those early influences have built.

Some people are fortunate enough to grow up in environments that encourage independence and resilience. Others might spend their entire lives undoing the damage of an unstable or unsupportive upbringing. Can they rewrite their story? Sure, but it’s harder, and it often requires outside help—therapy, mentorship, or simply finding the right opportunity.


It All Depends!

Yes, it absolutely does. There’s no universal blueprint for human experience. What works for one person might not work for another. Some people thrive on structure; others rebel against it. Some find meaning in hard-won success; others are content to follow a path of least resistance.

The idea that “it all depends” can feel unsatisfying because we want clear answers. But I think that’s where the beauty of being human lies—in the contradictions, the unpredictability, and the endless variability of experience. It’s why no two people’s “books” are ever the same, even if they start from similar circumstances.

So Where Does This Leave Us?

Maybe the real message isn’t that everyone gets to write their story from scratch, but that we can all try to write at least something. Even if the opening chapters were written for us, even if the world edits as we go, there’s always a moment—a paragraph, a line—where we can take control, however fleeting it may be.

-- Pradeep K (Prady)

The Unwritten Promise * - Part 1 of 2

Every morning, life hands you a blank page. What will you write on it today?

The truth is, life doesn’t come pre-written. It’s not a finished book passed down to you with a fixed story, no matter what anyone tells you. Instead, it’s a collection of empty pages, and you’re holding the pen. Yet, so many of us hesitate. We copy what others have written, afraid that our own ink might smudge, that we’ll spill something imperfect and ruin the page.

But isn’t that the point of writing your own story? It’s yours. Messy, bold, scared—it doesn’t matter.

Think back to the first time you learned to ride a bicycle. You probably wobbled and fell. You probably scraped your knees more times than you care to count. But you didn’t stop trying. The thrill of riding free, even for a few seconds, outweighed every fall. Somewhere along the way, though, we forget that. We stop pedaling for the joy of it and start avoiding risks. We become so afraid of falling that we don’t even try to move forward.

The world is a vast library. And each of us is meant to contribute a unique book to its shelves. Some people write bold adventures. Others write quiet, contemplative poetry. But the tragedy isn’t in writing badly. The real tragedy is in leaving the pages blank because of fear.

So here’s the truth: nobody is coming to write your book for you. No teacher, no boss, no parent, no guide. You hold the pen. You choose the words. And it’s okay if it’s not perfect. It’s okay if you blot the page or scribble things out. What matters is that you write.

Start small. Start scared. Start with one honest sentence. But start.

Because every blank page isn’t emptiness. It’s possibility. And the younger you start filling those pages with your truth, the thicker and richer your book becomes. So, stop copying. Stop waiting. Start writing.

No one else can write the unwritten promise of your life.

-- Pradeep K (Prady)

* Please note that this is just one side of a debate. I shall soon post a refutation to this. Playing the devil's advocate with yourself helps you clear your mind.

The Unseen Audit of a Lifetime

The Unseen Audit of a Lifetime

It was a day like any other until it wasn’t. I had just settled into my favorite corner of existential inertia—armed with a cup of lukewarm tea and vague regret—when a soft cough shattered my solitude.

Looking up, I saw a figure seated opposite me, legs crossed with the casual authority of someone who belongs, despite never being invited.

“Who are you?” I asked, unsure whether I should be alarmed or flattered by the sudden company.

“I am the Auditor,” they said, producing a ledger that seemed to shimmer between parchment and pixels. “You may call me… well, Auditor will suffice.”

“An auditor? Of what? My taxes are clean, mind you, though admittedly, I might owe the universe some karmic interest.”

The Auditor gave a dry smile, flipping the pages of their ethereal tome. “Not your taxes. Your life. I’m here to review what could have been.”

“Oh, lovely,” I muttered. “A celestial auditor of ‘what-ifs.’ Next thing you’ll tell me you’re Chitragupta, the celestial accountant himself.”

The figure paused, as though weighing their words carefully. “No,” they said finally, “I’m not he. I’m me.”

I raised an eyebrow. “How enlightening. Do you moonlight as a poet, by any chance?”

“No, but you might have,” the Auditor replied, gesturing at the ledger. “See here? In 2004, you considered writing a collection of verses inspired by your morning commutes. You never did. One could argue the muses dodged a bullet, but still—a missed opportunity.”

I felt a twinge of embarrassment. “I wasn’t inspired enough. Buses don’t exactly scream poetry, you know.”

The Auditor tilted their head, a flicker of amusement crossing their otherwise inscrutable face. “True. Buses scream other things—horns, impatience, occasional obscenities. But inspiration isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s hidden in the rust of an old handle or the rhythm of a swaying strap.”

“That’s quite profound,” I said, grudgingly impressed. “You should consider becoming a motivational speaker. But I did publish a few the very next year in my blog."

The Auditor’s smile grew sharper. “Ah, yes. The Endless Chasm. The first 18 to see the light of the world. But for such a free and open platform, they didn't reach any farther than four people.”

“Well,” I said defensively, “wonder how you can blame me for that. I did everything I could.”

“Indeed,” they replied dryly, making a note. “Though, if you’d publicised it more vehemently, it might have led to a viral blog. But no matter. Let’s move on.”

And so, the review continued, the Auditor flipping through my life’s unfulfilled possibilities with a mixture of bureaucratic efficiency and unsettling wit.

Occasionally, they’d pause to offer commentary.

“2018: You thought about taking a calligraphy class but decided it was too much work. Pity. You could have mastered the skill that could later have put you in the limelight. Fame is a strange beast.”

"Well, I had taken the class," I defended myself. "My belief that I could be good at it had stemmed from the point that my handwriting in school used to be quite oriented toward it. But I had hardly handwritten anything since I had graduated in 1997. And that had taken a toll on my handwriting. By 2018, my fingers didn't quite obey my mind. I couldn't sign my cheque book accurately, let alone continue calligraphy classes at the rate they were charging."

“2020: That brief lockdown epiphany about starting a garden? Gone with the wind. Or rather, gone with Netflix.”

Now, this was equal parts humiliating and hilarious.

At one point, I leaned back and said, “You know, for someone who’s not Chitragupta, you sure seem to have a lot of opinions.”

The Auditor smiled again. “Opinions are free. It’s the what-ifs that cost you.”

“Opinions are free,” I said, leaning forward with a smirk. “That’s because they’re like a-holes—everybody has one.”

The Auditor raised an eyebrow. “Charming. Did you come up with that gem yourself, or did it tumble out of the collective cesspool of humanity’s wit?”

I feigned offense. “I’ll have you know, that’s a classic. Timeless, even.”

“Timeless, perhaps,” the Auditor said, brushing an invisible speck off their ledger. “But not entirely untrue. Although, in your case…” They trailed off, flipping to a page that seemed to glow faintly.

“What? What about my case?”

“Well,” they said, tapping the page, “you’ve had plenty of opinions. But for someone who thrives on the limelight and relishes the stage, you’ve spent an unusual amount of time waiting for opportunities to come to you instead of chasing them down.”

“That’s not true!” I protested.

“Oh, really? Shall we revisit September 22, 2010?”

“What happened on September 22, 2010?”

The Auditor adjusted their glasses, their gaze sharp yet oddly amused. “You came across a flyer for a storytelling slam. The theme? ‘Moments of Madness.’ You were excited, inspired even. But instead of signing up, you went home and spent the evening reading online reviews about whether the venue had good parking.”

I blinked. “Well… my friend was to drive me there, so then parking was important. I couldn't tell him to just park anywhere and expect—”

“Don’t bother,” the Auditor interrupted, snapping the ledger shut for dramatic effect. “The truth is, you talked yourself out of it. And now, here we are, a decade later, with ‘what-ifs’ hanging off you like cobwebs.”

I sighed, grudgingly conceding the point. “Fine. Maybe I’ve missed a few chances here and there. But it’s not like I’ve spent my life hiding under a rock.”

“True,” they admitted, opening the ledger again. “And that brings me to another missed moment. Chess.”

My ears perked up. “Chess?”

“Yes,” the Auditor said, scanning the page. “You’ve always wanted to take formal chess lessons, haven’t you? Sharpen your skills, learn the finer strategies, maybe even compete. But no, the local chess schools have an arbitrary rule: ‘Only kids allowed.’” They looked up, their expression half-sympathetic, half-teasing. “Imagine that—a mind ready to explore Sicilian defenses and Queen’s Gambits, turned away because it doesn’t fit the age bracket.”

“Now, hold on,” I said, feeling both seen and slightly irked. “That’s not exactly my fault. I wanted to join. It’s not like I chickened out.”

“Of course not,” the Auditor agreed, their tone uncharacteristically soft. “But here’s the thing: You could have started your own chess circle. Found a private coach. Played with friends. Yet the idea of bending the rules—or creating new ones—never crossed your mind. And so, the board remains empty.”

I fell silent, not entirely sure how to respond.

The Auditor smiled faintly. “Don’t worry, I’m not here to make you feel bad. Life’s greatest games are often played without a board. But chess… well, it could have been interesting.”

“Is this supposed to inspire me to go out and buy a chess clock?” I asked dryly.

“Not necessarily,” they replied, standing up. “It’s just something to think about.”

As they turned to leave, I called out, “Wait! Aren’t you going to tell me how I did? Pass or fail?”

They glanced over their shoulder, a faint smile playing on their lips. “Life isn’t pass or fail. It’s graded on a curve—and you’re the one holding the pen.”

And with that, they were gone, leaving me alone with my now cold tea, my existential inertia, and a sudden, irrepressible urge to visit the nearest chess academy and demand an adults-only class.

-- Pradeep K (Prady)