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)

Between the Tick and the Tock

The day began with an unusual silence. Much of what remained was rubbish, but for him, it was useful rubbish. There were no guarantees about what he would get out of this exercise. Perhaps nothing in the worst case. He was okay with that, as he knew there are hardly any guarantees in life. His main concerns were: a gnawing doubt about the nature of the peculiar silence; about how to express it; about what he should do if it tried to engulf his entire being.

The most difficult aspect he was grappling with was about how it had so naturally come to bear upon him that morning. It was there when he woke up, hung around as he brushed his teeth, stuck with him as he went through the morning chores, and remained comfortably nestled within his mind, so to speak, ever since. All the outwardly noise on one side, and his awkward silence on the other. And they seemed to balance each other.

Wherever did it come from, this weird silence? Had it a purpose? A motive? Had it a reason to acquire his mind that morning? Would something change? Had something changed? Was he slave to it? Was it his slave? He wanted to talk about it, but it had caught his tongue. After all, it was the eerie silence in itself.

It was formless. Like water. But it took any form when required. Also like water. The distant horn of the morning locomotive train: the silence bracketed it's ends. The constant ticking of the wall clock: the profound silence ruled the time between the tick and the tock. The shrill shriek of an ambulance siren on the road: enough to stop lively hearts into a grave silence. It was everywhere, from the bed to the toilet to the bathroom to the kitchen; to the unfolding of the yoga mat and to it's ultimate rolling away; to the calls and honks of the vegetable and fish vendors  on their regular morning rounds on bikes around residential apartments; to the angry shout of the bus conductor and the equally angry retort by the passenger. It took all forms, but remained untouched by them. It remained... Silent.

He took a deep breath in. Held it for two seconds. Let it out. Again. What was this? What was going on? Was the stress of life getting to him? Was he finally beginning to lose it? Or was it something else -- an answer to his prayers perhaps? He knew it was other than normal. But was it abnormal, subnormal, or supernormal? How would be know? Would he know? Did he want to know? What he badly wanted to know now was what he should do.

He stood in his tiny balcony, peering out at the world beyond the iron grill. The sun was almost overhead now, glaring down at the parked cars, the dusty road, and the occasional stragglers walking with deliberate slowness under the burden of heat. A crow sat on the edge of a streetlight, picking at something unidentifiable and no doubt unpleasant. Life, in its cacophonic, bustling way, continued. And yet, the silence within him persisted, untouched by the clamor of the city.

He leaned on the railing, his fingers gripping the cool iron bars. The questions came again, louder now. What was he supposed to do? His thoughts, usually chaotic and varied, were unusually sharp today, focused on this one enigma. The silence wasn’t just present—it was present with intent. He could feel its weight, its steady gaze. It was waiting for him to... respond? Engage? Surrender?

Something stirred in him, a flicker of something old and buried. A memory, not sharp, but vivid enough to draw him away from the present moment. A younger version of himself stood in a classroom, staring at a question paper. The final question had been unusual, one that required more than rote knowledge to answer. The teacher, a stern-faced man with a love for riddles, had said something then.

"Sometimes, the question isn’t there to be answered. It’s there to make you think. To make you pause. To make you... listen."

He shook his head. Listen to what? There was nothing but the silence. And then it hit him.

He wasn’t listening to the silence. He was trying to fight it, analyze it, assign it a purpose. But what if... what if it didn’t need one? What if it was simply there, waiting for him to step back and let it be?

He stood straighter, suddenly more alert. Closing his eyes, he let the world fade away. He didn’t try to name the silence or break it. He let it sink in, filling the cracks in his thoughts, wrapping itself around the doubts and worries that usually clamored for space. And in that moment, he realized something startling. The silence wasn’t an intruder. It was his.

For years, he had drowned it out—through work, through distractions, through the noise of a life that demanded constant action and validation. But now, it had crept back in, uninvited but not unwelcome. And it had a message, one he could hear clearly now.

"You’ve been running. Stop. Stay. Be."

It was the simplest thing, yet the hardest thing. He opened his eyes, a strange calm settling over him. The silence hadn’t disappeared—it was still there, as steady as the breath moving through his lungs. But now, it was no longer an enemy. It was a companion.

He smiled faintly. It wasn’t a resolution, not entirely. The questions still lingered, and he knew they would return. But for the first time, he felt equipped to face them—not with answers, but with acceptance.

The day unfolded as days do, indifferent to personal revelations. But something had changed within him. And as he sat down with his tea that evening, watching the same crow hop on the same streetlight, he realized he wasn’t afraid of the silence anymore.

It was his.

-- Pradeep K (Prady)

The Forest in Every Seed

I cannot call it when I see it,
For the seed is beyond my ken;
Every time I call it, all you see are
Hundreds of leaves and my pen.
---

Quite frankly, that's about the crux of what I want to present today. Whether I'll make sense or not remains to be seen. Trying to put words to something as subtle as a seed—the potential, not yet realized, the idea not yet shaped—is like trying to capture the whole of a forest by sketching a single leaf. The more I try to explain it, to give shape and form to what is, by nature, formless potential, the more the words sprout and stretch, reaching for something vast, complex. Each sentence I write seems to demand a root system of its own, branching off into meanings that multiply and deepen, growing beyond my control.

It’s as though every time I try to hand you the seed, what you grasp is a sprawling woodland: trees fully grown, leaves fluttering in the breeze, shadows cast on the forest floor. The richness and expanse of this imagined landscape seem to stand in for the seed itself, masking that quiet, still potential I had meant to share.

In truth, the power of a seed lies in its silence, its humility. It doesn't shout to the world, “I will be an oak!” or “Here stands a forest-in-waiting!” No, the seed simply is. It holds its possibilities tightly, quietly, so quietly that words can barely trace its shape. And yet, in attempting to describe it, I feel like I’m dragging the whole forest into view, pulling down branch after branch, obscuring the very thing I wished to reveal.

I appreciate that simplicity is the most complex idea to grasp, because it defeats the intellect, and we need the intellect to grasp ideas. But it is only simplicity that truly matters, from which everything else—including the intellect—is born.

Perhaps that is the irony of expression—each time I name the seed, it blooms in the mind of the reader, and soon enough, there’s a wilderness where there was once only a thought, a tiny spark, a quiet kernel of potential. Consequently when I want to show you the seed, all you see are the rustling leaves and my silent pen.

-- Pradeep K (Prady)

We Used to Wear Clothes; Now We Wear AI

For several decades, life had been simple: we dressed up, threw on clothes, and stepped out the door. Our only concern then used to be the weather. Now, here we are, wrapped in something that’s not quite fabric but seems to cling to us just the same—something woven with data and machine code, tighter than the coziest sweater. We’ve stopped just wearing clothes; now, we’re wearing AI.

This invisible “outfit” fits snugger than we might like, doesn’t it? It picks our playlists, finishes our sentences, and nudges us about our next meeting before we’ve even started our coffee. Some days, it feels like having a very keen assistant—and on others, a nosy aunt who won’t let us forget our step count or calorie intake.

And just like with any fashion, some folks wear it differently. You see them scrolling confidently, every choice fine-tuned by an algorithm that seems to know them better than they know themselves. They’ve got AI like a custom-tailored suit, all smooth lines and perfect fits. Then there are those of us in “one-size-fits-all” AI, shuffling around with suggestions that don’t quite fit, feeling a bit overstuffed as it yanks us toward online deals we didn’t ask for.

But here’s the funny thing: no matter how it’s dressed up, AI can’t quite mimic us. Sure, it can help us choose a movie or suggest a new restaurant, but can it remind us of that time we laughed so hard when milk came out of our nose?

As we continue strapping on our AI each day like the newest accessory, maybe it’s worth remembering that no machine can mimic the spark of choosing the unexpected. AI might be brilliant at spotting trends, but it doesn’t know what it feels like to break them. It hasn’t yet mastered the magic of being delightfully, imperfectly human.

I don't wear AI, but if I did, it would never be without that most essential layer—the one that lets me be my unpredictable, overly sentimental, occasionally clumsy self.

— Pradeep K (Prady)

The Parable of the Not-So-Wise Tortoise

In a forest not so far away, there once lived a tortoise named Tito, who was quite tired of being told he was slow. Not that it bothered him at first — he enjoyed the unhurried pace of his life. But lately, it seemed everyone around him was chanting the same advice.

“Pick up the pace, Tito! Life is a race!”

The hares especially made it their mission to remind him of the obvious. “Look at us, Tito,” they’d say, whiskers twitching. “It’s speed that gets you places. No one ever won a race by crawling!”

Now, Tito knew the tale of the tortoise and the hare — didn’t everyone? He knew he could win a race his way, by plodding along steadily. But as days passed, that confidence started to wane. Perhaps, he thought, times had changed. Perhaps the only way to win in today’s world was to keep up with the hares, even if it meant going against his nature.

So, one morning, Tito made a choice. “I’m going to be fast,” he declared, puffing himself up in front of his reflection in a still pond. “Fast and fierce.”

He kicked off his training the very next day. First, he tied tiny sticks to his feet in the hopes they’d make him glide. All that did was make him wobble. Then, he tried jumping to cover more ground. It was exhausting and, frankly, embarrassing. And as if the universe itself had sensed his folly, he tripped over a rock, his shell spinning him around like an overturned bowl. Somewhere, a giggle came from behind a bush — surely one of the hares.

Despite the struggles, Tito pushed on. “Just a few more leaps,” he told himself. “I can be fast. I just need to try harder.” But each time he strained and stumbled, each fall and slip-up made him feel less like himself. This wasn’t his race anymore; he was running someone else’s.

At last, bruised and weary, Tito collapsed under a shady tree. He peered up, squinting at the world that had suddenly become so blurry, so unfamiliar. “Is this really winning?” he muttered to no one in particular.

Just then, an old tortoise ambled by, looking at Tito with knowing eyes. “What happened to the wise, steady Tito I used to know?”

“I thought… I thought if I could move faster, I’d finally be seen as a winner,” Tito replied, feeling the weight of his words.

The old tortoise chuckled softly. “A winner? Tito, my friend, you were born to be wise, not to be quick. The world has enough hares already.”

Tito nodded, understanding at last. Winning, he realized, wasn’t about becoming what he wasn’t. It was about embracing what he was. The forest didn’t need another hare. It needed a tortoise who could show others that sometimes, the slow and steady way is just as powerful — if not more so — than the quick dash to the finish.

So, Tito decided he would no longer chase speed. He would return to his steady ways, showing others that there was strength in patience, wisdom in being himself.

And as he plodded home, he felt, for the first time, like he’d truly won.

-- Pradeep K (Prady)

The Day the Mirror Was Late

Introduction

It was a regular Tuesday morning, the kind where nothing really happens until you’ve had your first cup of coffee. I shuffled into the bathroom, still half asleep, and flicked on the light. Everything was where it was supposed to be—towel on the hook, toothpaste cap forgotten as usual, and my trusty old mirror hanging there, waiting to deliver its daily verdict.

Except today, it didn’t.

I stood there, blinking a couple of times, waiting for my reflection to catch up. Nothing. No face staring back at me, no reassuring nod from my sleep-deprived self. Just...blank glass. It was like the mirror had decided to take a break.

I leaned in a bit, waved my hand in front of it, checked the back for any signs of tampering—nothing. Maybe I’d overslept and crossed into some alternate reality where mirrors don’t work. Or maybe, just maybe, my mirror was running late.

I could feel the absurdity of the thought creeping in. “Come on, you’re going to be late. Show up already.” No response. The mirror remained stubbornly silent, offering no reflection of the sarcastic grin I was sure I had on my face.

The Self-Reflection Dance

After a minute of this standoff, I tried another approach. Maybe it was the lighting. I flicked the bathroom switch a few times, bathing the room in flashes of light and shadow. Still nothing. Maybe I needed to go more high-tech. I pulled out my phone, opened the camera, and there it was—my reflection, alive and well. “Good to know I still exist,” I muttered, tapping my phone screen as if to prove something.

At this point, I was halfway between laughing at myself and wondering if this was some kind of cosmic joke. But what was it they said about vampires? No reflection, no soul? Surely not... But still, the longer I stood there, the more my mind began to wander. What if the mirror was trying to tell me something?

The Realization

Suddenly, the absence of my reflection felt less like an inconvenience and more like... an opportunity. Without the mirror, there was no face to check, no hair to fix, no judgment staring back at me. I was free from the routine, the daily inspection I didn’t even realize I relied on so much.

And there it was—the question I’d been avoiding. Who am I when there’s no mirror to tell me?

Every day, I’d stand here and let the mirror reflect who I was, or at least who I thought I was. Messy hair, dark circles, maybe a decent jawline on a good day. But today, with the mirror gone silent, I started thinking about how much I depend on that reflection. How much we all do. Mirrors, in one form or another, are everywhere. People’s opinions, the way the world sees you, the things you think you’re supposed to be. What happens when all those mirrors stop working?

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Without the reflection, there was no criticism, no standard to measure up to. I was still standing here, just as real, just as present. Maybe even more so.

The Return

Just as I was getting comfortable with this revelation, the mirror blinked back to life. There I was, staring at myself like nothing unusual had happened. I half-expected my reflection to shrug, as if to say, “What? I was just taking a break.” I couldn’t help but laugh.

“Thanks for showing up. But I think I’m good now.”

I took one last look and turned away. Perhaps the mirror had needed a break so that I could stop relying on it to tell me who I was. And for the first time in a while, I wasn’t so worried about what it showed me.

-- Pradeep K (Prady)

Bashing the Cliche: What Doesn’t Kill You Makes You Stronger

"What Doesn’t Kill You Makes You Stronger"

Really? Or perhaps it just makes you tired?

Tell me you've seen it—boldly printed on everything from gym walls to motivational memes—the line that’s supposed to comfort us when life hits a rough patch: “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” It’s been around for so long, we’ve stopped questioning it. But today, let’s question it, shall we?

Honestly, if everything that didn’t kill us made us stronger, wouldn't we all be superheroes by now? Most of us are just trying to make it through another Monday without needing an extra coffee (or three).

Take the professional world, for example. After being on the edge of a layoff for the fifth time in your career, are you really stronger—or just better at pretending you’re okay with uncertainty while secretly Googling “career switch to chicken farming”? That corporate resilience everyone talks about feels more like a survival instinct at this point, right?

How about the gym: the place where they take “What doesn’t kill you” a bit too literally. Sure, you thought lifting that extra weight would make you stronger... until your back decided to teach you otherwise. So now you’re not stronger—you’re just a little more familiar with your orthopedist's number than you'd like to be.

Then there’s the personal side of things. Like that breakup. We’ve all been there—wallowing in the idea that we’re going to come out the other side of heartache as some kind of enlightened, emotionally armored warrior. Spoiler alert: more often than not, it just turns into a three-month stint on awkward dating apps, and a newfound dislike of small talk over overpriced coffee.

What about the daily commute? You'd think that after years of sitting in traffic jams, you’d emerge with the patience of a Zen monk. But no, what doesn’t kill you—like that bumper-to-bumper grind—just makes you more likely to mutter choice words under your breath at the guy who cut you off. Strength? Maybe. Or maybe it’s just a new kind of exhaustion.

But here’s the kicker: What if life isn’t about coming out of every struggle with a new superpower? Maybe, just maybe, we can admit that sometimes the goal is to simply survive the tough stuff with our sanity intact. Strength doesn’t always mean emerging with chiselled abs or a fortified spirit. Sometimes, it looks like making it through without throwing your phone at the wall during another pointless Zoom meeting.

So, what doesn’t kill you doesn’t always make you stronger. Sometimes, it just gives you a good reason to take a nap. Or a vacation. Or an extra slice of cake. And that, my friends, is a strength in itself.

Real strength isn’t about never getting knocked down. It’s about knowing that when life gives you chaos, you don’t always have to turn it into a life lesson. Sometimes, you can just laugh, shrug, and move on. And maybe that’s the strongest thing of all.

-- Pradeep K (Prady)

The Paradox of Creating Your Own Reality

Ever feel like you're steering a shopping cart with a mind of its own, wobbling down the supermarket aisle? One wheel spins freely, while the others seem dead set on dragging you into the potato chips. This, dear readers, is what “creating your own reality” can feel like. Sure, we try to steer our cart toward the organic produce, but no amount of positive thinking will keep it from veering occasionally into the snack section.

Now, the idea of shaping reality with your mind has become a cliche, and it's tempting to imagine that thinking hard enough about rainbows could halt a hailstorm. But let’s be honest: life doesn’t come with a manual on mind-over-matter mechanics. However, there is some truth to it, and like most truths, it lies somewhere between the mystical and the mundane.

Case Study #1: The CBT Party Trick

Take, for instance, Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT), which essentially says, “Change your thoughts, change your world.” Imagine a socially anxious chap at a party, convinced he's the dullest person there. Now, if he starts repeating affirmations like “I’m the life of this party,” he may begin to stand a little straighter, crack a joke, or actually look someone in the eye. The trick? He’s rewiring his mental circuitry, training his brain to behave differently, like nudging that wayward shopping cart onto the right track. Sure, he didn’t transform into a rockstar overnight, but the atmosphere shifted in response to his change in attitude.

Case Study #2: Sugar Pills and “Miracles”

Now, picture a slightly kooky aunt who swears by her “miracle crystals.” She keeps a chunk of what she calls “positive energy quartz” in her bag, and swears it cures her headaches. You find out later it’s just a chunk of fancy table salt, but there she is, living headache-free. It’s the placebo effect in action—a testament to how belief can indeed shape experience. The placebo’s power isn’t in the salt but in the mind’s expectation that it’ll work. Now, if we could only get that same effect with paying taxes…

Case Study #3: Self-Fulfilling Prophecies

Now, let's look at self-fulfilling prophecies, where expectations shape outcomes. Picture a student who believes he's terrible at math. He avoids practice because “what’s the point?” – leading him to fail his exams, thereby confirming his original belief. Conversely, a student who assumes they can get better at math puts in the effort, sees some improvement, and before long is solving equations like it’s second nature. It’s not magic, it’s mindset—but sometimes it feels like magic when it works, and like a scam when it doesn’t.

The Middle Path: Embracing Paradox

So, what’s the verdict? Can you create your own reality, or is it all just fluff? Here’s where we tread the middle ground. The mind can indeed shape the way we perceive, react to, and influence events. But it’s not as simple as thinking yourself into a better job, perfect health, or a stress-free commute. Life will toss its curveballs and, at times, feel more like an out-of-control shopping cart than a perfectly orchestrated manifestation.

You can change your lens on reality—like adjusting the prism’s angle so the light refracts differently—but you’re still dealing with the same beam of light. The “many” realities people speak of are often just variations of the same truth, viewed through different perspectives. Some situations will defy any mindset shift, like trying to meditate away a hurricane. That’s where we acknowledge the randomness and chaos that coexist with our inner world’s attempts at order.

Wrapping it Up – Reality, As It Is

So, when it comes to “creating your own reality,” perhaps it's best to treat it like navigating that wayward shopping cart. Yes, steer as best as you can, align your thoughts with your actions, and trust in the subtle influence of your mind. But remember: some forces are just outside your control. And that’s okay. Because the real trick isn’t in bending reality to your will, but in learning to dance with it as it wobbles toward the potato chips.

-- Pradeep K (Prady)

The Many Faces of The One

"Ekam Sat Vipraa Bahudaa Vadanti"

(Truth is One; Sages Call it by Many Names)

-- Rigveda

Imagine a prism held up to the light. The pure, white beam passes through, and on the other side, a spectrum of colors bursts forth—each one distinct, yet each a part of the same light. The colors didn’t come from nowhere; they were always contained within that one beam, waiting to be seen. Likewise, the prism doesn’t create the diversity, it simply reveals what was already there, hidden in plain sight. This is the dance of the “one” and the “many,” an interplay that spans across philosophies, faiths, and worldviews.

We often spend our lives focused on just one color, convinced it holds the entire truth. The devout believer may see only a bright red—passionate, singular, and absolute—claiming the truth of one God. The seeker of wisdom might contemplate the many hues in deep blue, each color a different path towards understanding, like the gods of polytheism. The mystic, bathed in indigo, claims there is no separation at all, that it’s all just different shades of the same thing: the oneness of Advaita. Then there’s the skeptic, whose lens shows no light or color, but perhaps a transparency, an openness to question if the colors were ever there to begin with.

But all these perspectives are still part of that same light. They are refracted truths.

The colors, in all their variety, don’t betray the oneness of the light; they are its expressions. The red is not more “right” than the blue, nor is the green closer to the truth than the yellow. Each one allows us to glimpse a different side of what it means to exist and search for meaning. The prism didn’t break the light; it showed us just how expansive that light is. The seeming conflict between dualism and non-dualism, between monotheism and polytheism, even between belief and skepticism, becomes a question of where we choose to look, not whether the light itself is real.

Yet, there’s a curious paradox here: To say “all is one” is not to flatten out the diversity into a bland sameness. Instead, it’s to recognize that the colors are not separate from the light but are one with it. They are inseparable expressions of the same source. Even the skeptic, who sees no light, may inadvertently reveal another dimension of the prism’s magic—one where the “nothingness” becomes an unspoken color of its own, an empty space that somehow gives shape to the others.

In Dvaita, the world appears as dual: the divine and the individual seem separate. It’s like seeing the prism from one angle where red and blue appear as distinct beams. But as we shift our perspective towards Advaita, we realize that these colors were never truly separate; they were all part of the light from the beginning, just different expressions emerging from how the prism bends and refracts the beam. The many can be seen as paths, not as ends. They guide us back to the singular light that’s always there—often unnoticed in its simplicity.

Even when it comes to monotheism, the idea of a singular deity, it’s not that far removed from recognizing the oneness beyond form. The idea of “one God” can be seen as the pure white light itself, while the many deities of polytheism are the spectrum that unfolds when that light passes through the prism. The divine expresses itself in countless ways, but the origin remains singular and unified. Thus, to speak of the "one" or the "many" is just to change the angle at which we look at the same light source.

And what of atheism, you might ask? Isn’t atheism a rejection of this entire picture, denying the light’s very existence? Not necessarily. If anything, atheism can be viewed as the act of dismantling the prism, stripping away the filters that make the colors appear at all. The irony is, in doing so, it may end up revealing the same pure, formless light—without the distraction of colors, without the need for any distinctions. The search for truth, even in atheism, might lead to that same realization: that there’s something fundamentally unbroken about the universe. The colors were interpretations, perceptions, but not illusions; they were the prism’s offering, not an indication that the light was ever divided.

So, what does all this mean for us as we try to live meaningful lives, amidst differing beliefs and worldviews? It means that to appreciate the whole light, we don’t need to deny any color. We can explore the red and the blue, engage with the deep greens, question the transparency, and accept that each viewpoint, while partial, belongs to a greater whole. The point isn’t to choose between Dvaita and Advaita, monotheism or atheism, but to recognize that they’re all different paths around the same mountain, different angles through which we experience the fullness of being.

By embracing the dance between “one” and “many,” we begin to see that our paths needn’t be limited by dogma or rigid thought. Instead, they can be expressions of the freedom that comes from recognizing that the entire spectrum belongs to us, not just one shade. We don’t need to strip away the colors to see the light, nor do we need to ignore the light to appreciate the depth of each color. We can hold the paradox, walk the contradictions, and understand that life, in all its varied hues, is pointing us back to the same truth: that all is one, and yet, within that oneness, there is space for endless diversity.

The prism has always been there. The light has always been there. And as long as we live in this world of forms and perceptions, the colors will be there too. We can look at them with a fresh gaze, not as opposing truths, but as complementary expressions of the same light that illuminates us all.

-- Pradeep K (Prady)

The Allure of the Cliche

1. The Journey and the Destination

It's astonishing how often the phrase, “The journey is more important than the destination,” is served up as wisdom in motivational talks, books, and social media posts. It rolls off the tongue smoothly, doesn’t it? It fits into the cultural lexicon so neatly that people rarely stop to question it. But when you actually pause to reflect, you begin to wonder: who are these sages who profess such neat little truths? Have they ever experienced either the journey or the destination? And if they have, how did they land on this one-size-fits-all philosophy?

The truth is, most of them haven’t. In fact, they are the opportunists who have learned to capitalize on the most basic human anxieties—disappointment, failure, and the fear of an uncertain future. They don’t sell insights; they sell comfort. They package life’s chaos into digestible sound bites and present them as universal truths. And who doesn’t want comfort in a world that constantly feels like it's on the brink of unraveling?

But life is far too complex, far too nuanced to be reduced to such platitudes. The "journey" isn't always meaningful, and the "destination" isn't always fulfilling. Sometimes, the reverse is true, and most of the time, both are utterly indifferent to your expectations.

Let’s think about the people who would, quite frankly, disagree with this popular cliché. Imagine the person who endured a miserable journey—a slog through difficulty, frustration, and perhaps even despair—only to arrive at a beautiful, fulfilling destination. For them, the destination is everything. The journey? A necessary evil.

On the other hand, take someone who experienced a magnificent, life-affirming journey—a period of learning, growth, and joy—only to arrive at a disastrous, soul-crushing destination. For them, the destination nullifies the beauty of the journey. They would much rather have stayed on that golden path, never arriving at all.

In fact, the journey-destination binary assumes that these experiences are static, singular events. But in reality, the journey is often fragmented, punctuated by micro-destinations along the way. And the destination is never final—it’s just another stop on an ever-evolving path. Who are these opportunists, then, that profit from distilling such complexity into bite-sized wisdom for the masses? More importantly, why are we so eager to believe them?

2. Crafting Illusions for the Masses

Opportunists thrive on ambiguity. They know that the majority of people are uncomfortable with uncertainty, with the open-ended nature of life’s questions. The need for answers—for meaning—is a fundamental human trait. So, these opportunists, whether they’re authors, motivational speakers, or so-called life coaches, manufacture meaning from vapid clichés. They offer quick fixes and market them as deep insights.

And here's the kicker—they don't just sell you ideas; they sell you identity. When you adopt their phrases, you’re not just buying into a thought, you’re buying into a way of seeing the world. You become the person who believes “the journey is more important than the destination.” You become someone who looks for “life lessons” in every misstep and setback, all the while missing the larger point: not every journey is a lesson, and not every destination is worth the struggle.

In this way, these opportunists aren't just profiting off your vulnerability; they’re actively reshaping your perception of reality, urging you to view life through a lens of shallow wisdom, which obscures more than it illuminates.

3. Where Does Meaning Truly Reside?

This brings us to a more metaphysical question: Where does meaning reside? Is it in the journey, the destination, or somewhere beyond both? The journey and destination are simply coordinates in the space-time fabric of our lives, but meaning transcends those points. It’s neither confined to the steps you take nor to the place you arrive. Meaning, like Turiya, the fourth state of consciousness in Vedantic philosophy, exists in a space beyond waking, dreaming, and deep sleep. It lies in the space between—the interstices where human experience intersects with the ineffable.

What if the journey and destination are both illusions, both mere artifacts of a linear perception of time? In this view, neither is inherently more valuable than the other. They are constructs we use to make sense of an existence that is, at its core, fluid and non-linear. We impose meaning onto events, paths, and outcomes, but those meanings are subjective and mutable. They are reflections of our internal states more than they are truths about the external world.

In parapsychological terms, this could be likened to the idea of thought-forms or tulpas—mental constructs that take on a life of their own. The journey and destination, as concepts, are thought-forms we project onto the vastness of existence. And just like thought-forms, they can be empowering or limiting, depending on how much credence we give them.

4. Are We Creating Our Own Realities?

Taking this a step further, consider the parapsychological implications: Are we, in essence, creating the very realities we experience by subscribing to certain beliefs about journeys and destinations? The mind is a powerful architect of reality. If we believe the journey is all-important, we will emphasize every struggle, every challenge, and every setback as part of a necessary growth process. If we believe the destination is paramount, we will fixate on outcomes, perhaps to the detriment of enjoying the present moment.

But what if both are simply illusions? What if life is more like a Möbius strip, where journey and destination are one continuous flow, indistinguishable from each other? In such a worldview, the act of problem-solving, of navigating life’s complexities, is itself the destination. The solution is not a point you arrive at but a process you inhabit. The question then becomes not "How do I get there?" but "How am I experiencing this moment?"

Here, we enter a territory that many opportunists would shy away from—because it’s messy, it’s uncertain, and it doesn’t sell as well as neat phrases. But this is where the true richness of human experience lies—in the ambiguity, in the spaces between certainty and doubt, between progress and setback, between journey and destination.

5. Life as an Endless Loop of Non-Lessons

Here’s the satirical twist: What if life is not about lessons at all? What if the very idea that every struggle teaches you something is just another thought-form we’ve been conditioned to believe? Think about it. How many times have you gone through an experience only to realize there was no deep lesson at all—just randomness, chaos, or sheer dumb luck?

This isn’t to say that learning doesn’t happen, but rather that not every experience is designed to teach. Sometimes things just happen, and we scramble to impose meaning on them after the fact. The opportunists want us to believe otherwise because a world where every journey teaches something is a world that feels safer, more controlled. But life isn’t controlled. It’s messy, unpredictable, and, most of the time, indifferent to our desires for neat conclusions.

And yet, it’s precisely in this messiness that life becomes so deeply, richly human. The lack of inherent meaning gives us the freedom to create our own. The absence of fixed lessons allows us to interpret our experiences however we choose—or not at all.

6. In Search of the Unmanufactured Truth

Where does that leave us? If the journey and destination are constructs, if the lessons are not guaranteed, and if meaning is as fluid as water, what is left? The answer might be unsettling: uncertainty. But uncertainty doesn’t have to be terrifying. It can be liberating.

By rejecting the opportunists’ neatly packaged truths, we free ourselves to engage with life on our own terms. We can stop looking for meaning in every corner and start living for the sheer experience of it. And in that experience, we might just find something deeper than any cliché could ever offer—an authentic connection to ourselves and the world around us, unfiltered by the need to impose meaning.

The next time someone tells you that "the journey is more important than the destination," feel free to question them. Perhaps neither matters. Or perhaps, both do. The beauty lies in the ambiguity.

-- Pradeep K (Prady)

The Creator is The Child of Her Creation

Author's Note:

This post has been brewing in my mind for years. My first attempt to capture these thoughts dates back to 1997, but after just five paragraphs, I realized something important: no matter how well I might articulate it, human language can never fully express the simplicity behind these ideas.

That realization nudged me toward poetry. It was through poetry that I began to explore these concepts, which culminated in some of my best works under the title "The Endless Chasm." A few of those poems have already made their way onto this platform. Interestingly, I used the same title when I launched my blog in 2005.

But prose, somehow, kept calling me back. I wanted to express these ideas in a way that felt comprehensive and true. Every time I found a gap in my expression, I'd take a break, only to return again later. I often felt like I was close, but not quite there. Still, bit by bit, I gathered my thoughts and gradually shaped them into what you’re about to read.

Now, at the milestone of turning 50, and nearly 27 years after my first attempt to put these ideas into words, I’ve decided it’s time to stop chasing perfection. Instead, I’m sharing this compilation as it naturally unfolded in my understanding. It reflects my thoughts on:

• The idea that the creator is born from creation itself

• The concept of Turiya and its profound implications through the Trilokesh lens

• The cyclical connection between Turiya, Shiva, and Shakti

• An exploration of the Swayambhu concept and its role in our experience

• How Yoganidra can help us experience the Swayambhu within

This is not perfect, nor final. But it’s honest and complete in its own way, and I’m excited to finally share it with you.

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Divine Pair—Born of Each Other

We often perceive creation as something that flows from the creator, a one-way street where the act of bringing forth something new shapes the external world. But what if this process of creation doesn’t just affect the external? What if the act of creation redefines the creator themselves?

This isn’t merely philosophical speculation; it’s something deeply spiritual, something we see in the most profound aspects of existence. Take Shiva, for instance. Known as Swayambhu—self-born. Yet the paradox is striking: Shakti, his cohort, is both the force that gives birth to him and remains his constant companion. Together, they represent the inseparable unity of energy and consciousness. But this isn’t just a symbolic relationship—it's the very fabric of life itself.

In the same way, Vishnu and Lakshmi, or even the relationship between Shiva and Vishnu, echo this idea. Each divine pair, while distinct, is intertwined so deeply that one cannot truly exist without the other. One gives rise to the other, and yet the other completes the cycle by nurturing the first.

And here is where the profound idea emerges: the creator is the child of her creation. This isn't a metaphorical thought, but an actual process of transformation. As the creator brings forth something into existence, she is changed, reshaped, and redefined by what she has created. The act of creation rewires the mind, reshapes emotions, and even shifts the spirit of the creator, making her the product of the very thing she has manifested.

The Turiya

This takes us to a deeper truth—the Turiya, the fourth state of consciousness. In Yoganidra, this state of awareness exists beyond the waking, dreaming, and deep sleep states. It's the eternal awareness, the source from which all experiences arise. The waking state, like the physical world, is what we see most clearly, but it’s only one layer. Beneath it lies the dream state, filled with visions and emotions, and deeper still is the state of deep sleep, where thoughts lie dormant, unmanifested.

Yet the Turiya—the ever-present awareness—remains untouched, watching over all three states, giving birth to them, yet transcending them entirely. It is the Trilokesh, the ruler of the three worlds, and in this context, Shiva's declaration makes perfect sense: “I am not that which is; I am that which is not.” 

Shiva's statement captures the essence of this transcendent reality. He is not the form but the formless; not the creation, but the canvas upon which creation unfolds. The idea here is that every form, every thought, every creation arises from a state of no-thingness. This is the Turiya—the space from which all things emerge and to which all things return.

Think about the process of creation itself. Every painting springs from an empty canvas. Every thought rises from the silence of the mind. The canvas, the silence, the deep sleep state—they are not mere voids, but potent spaces teeming with potential. They hold the capacity for all forms, all thoughts, all dreams, and yet they themselves remain untouched by what arises within them.

Shiva is this eternal canvas, this formless foundation. Creation flows from him, just as thoughts rise from the deep sleep state. But in the very act of creation, something remarkable happens—the creator, too, is transformed by what has been created. The process of creation isn’t one-directional. It loops back, reshaping and redefining the creator.

Shiva, Shakti, Turiya—The Cyclic Interconnection

This is why the concept of Shiva and Shakti is so powerful. Shakti, as the creative force, brings the universe into being. She is the energy that manifests, while Shiva is the consciousness that holds space for it. And yet, as she creates, she changes Shiva. The two are eternally bound in this dance of creation and transformation, where the creator and the created are inextricably linked. It is through creation that the creator, too, evolves.

In this way, the creator becomes the child of her creation. The creation influences, transforms, and redefines her. This isn’t limited to divine figures—it happens with artists, thinkers, and anyone who brings something into the world. Every time we create, we give birth to something new, and in doing so, we birth a new version of ourselves.

And then, just like the creator, we return to that empty space—the Turiya, the blank canvas, the silence from which all arises and all returns. Creation, like life, is cyclical. We are both the painters and the paintings, both the dreamers and the dreams.

This cyclic nature of creation and transformation is reflected in the very essence of the Turiya state. The Turiya is not merely a higher state of consciousness but the substratum of all states. It is the trilokesh—the lord of the three worlds of wakefulness, dreaming, and deep sleep. These three states correspond to the physical, mental, and emotional planes of existence, just as the Sattvik, Rajasic, and Tamasic moods represent purity, activity, and inertia, respectively.

Yet, Turiya itself is beyond all of these. It is free of the shifting tides of consciousness that ebb and flow through different states and experiences. Just as Shiva remains unmoved while Shakti dances, Turiya remains untouched by the worlds it holds within. It is the ultimate freedom, the ground from which all creation springs but is not bound by any of it.

We see this concept mirrored in Vishnu and Lakshmi, where Vishnu sustains the cosmos while Lakshmi provides the energy for that sustenance. It is the same dance—two forces in perfect harmony, feeding each other, transforming and being transformed. And yet, they exist in a state that transcends their individual roles, much like Shiva and Shakti, each giving birth to the other through the act of creation.

To bring this into a more relatable human experience: when you say, "Thoughts just flow through your mind, and if you're observant, you can pick up on them," you are speaking to the process of creation. But thoughts don’t arise in isolation. They come from somewhere deeper, a space that is free of thought but full of potential. In many ways, thoughts are like waves, and the Turiya is the depth of the ocean. The waves rise and fall, but the depth of the ocean remains still. It is vast, untouched by the turbulence of the surface.

In the same way, every form comes from the formless. Every thought, every creation, springs from the silent, infinite space of potential. We return to this space in deep sleep, where all thoughts dissolve and the self is reabsorbed into the Turiya. From this state of deep stillness, the mind awakens into the dream state, and finally into wakefulness, where we engage with the world again.

This cyclical movement mirrors our relationship with creation. We create, we engage with our creation, and we return to the stillness of our inner canvas. The creation, in turn, reshapes us. And then the cycle begins again.

Creation Itself is Enough

The Bhagavad Gita touches on this when it speaks of Nishkama Karma—action without attachment to the fruits of the action. The action itself is enough. The creation itself is enough. It changes the creator, not because of the outcome, but because of the act of creation itself. Just as a painter is changed by painting, a thinker is changed by thought, and the universe changes as it unfolds.

The Turiya, then, is not an isolated state. It is present in all things, in all acts of creation and transformation. Just as Shiva is not only the formless but the form, just as Vishnu is both the sustainer and the creation, so too are we both creators and the created.

And this is why, in truth, the creator is the child of her creation. Through the act of bringing something into existence, she is reshaped, redefined, and reborn.

Swayambhu

This brings us to the true essence of Shiva being Swayambhu (self-born). The idea is not merely a literal birth without parents, but a deeper understanding that the act of creation itself is a form of self-birth. Just as Shiva is called Swayambhu not because he exists without cause, but because he continually arises out of his own being. His birth, his existence, is not separate from his own nature—it is the constant act of renewal and transformation.

In this sense, Swayambhu signifies a being who, through the endless cycles of creation and dissolution, continually gives birth to themselves. They are self-sustaining, self-evolving, just as the creator is constantly reborn through their own creation. The creator, like Shiva, is both the origin and the outcome, forever emerging from the essence of their own being.

Thus, Swayambhu is the perfect realization of the Turiya state—the unchanging ground from which all change arises. The creator, whether in the act of thought, art, or cosmic transformation, is self-born in every moment, forever renewed by the process of creation.

Swayambhu Interplay in Practice

As we step back from the metaphysical canvas we've painted, let's explore the idea of Swayambhu in a more intimate and personal way.

In every moment of self-reflection, whether through our creative endeavors or our interactions with others, we act as both the creator and the created. We shape our understanding, our character, and even our destiny—while being simultaneously reshaped by these very acts of creation.

For instance, think of a moment when you've been deeply absorbed in a creative project. The more you pour yourself into it, the more it transforms you in return. You start as one version of yourself, but by the time the work is complete, you find yourself subtly changed, perhaps more attuned, more aware, or even entirely different in perspective.

This is Swayambhu in action—creation as both process and transformation. And it extends beyond the individual: entire societies, cultures, and even the world itself are constantly recreated through the collective act of living.

The process changes the creator, but the creator also defines the process. This interplay is what makes the idea of Swayambhu so potent.

Perhaps there's no better example for swayambhu than a thought. Sitting with the stillness of the Turiya. In this moment of stillness, nothing has been born yet. Creation hovers like a breath held too long—pregnant with possibility but without shape or direction. The formless state, or Turiya, is the primal void from which every thought, every form, every emotion arises. It is not the void of absence but of boundless potential, where everything exists as a latent possibility.

The stillness here isn't emptiness; it's the pause before a thought becomes manifest, before the painter dips their brush into the empty canvas. It is in this deep quiet that Shiva, the Swayambhu, is truly understood—not as a figure, not as a deity confined to image, but as the eternal force that births himself from within, from the womb of the formless.

Just as every painting arises from an empty canvas, every form must return to the formless. Here, we encounter the true meaning of Swayambhu—the creator born of herself, an energy that draws its existence from a space beyond creation, untouched by time, mood, or movement. 

Yoganidra: Realising The Swayambhu Within

In daily life, the notion of Swayambhu—the self-born—echoes a timeless truth: every thought, every action we take, is both a product of what we are and a force that reshapes us. This cyclical process of becoming, much like Shiva’s self-renewal through creation, reflects a universal pattern that we can tap into with conscious awareness. Through Yoganidra—a practice that brings us closer to the Turiya state—we learn to observe this dance of creation and transformation from a space of stillness.

When we allow ourselves to settle into the deep quiet of Yoganidra, we enter that same canvas of potentiality from which everything emerges. Here, we can witness how our experiences, actions, and even our thoughts come from the formless and return to it. This helps us realize that we, too, are constantly birthing ourselves through our choices, responses, and reflections.

But Yoganidra offers more than just an understanding of the process—it offers the power to direct it. By observing the patterns of the mind, by watching the creation of thoughts and emotions, we begin to understand that just like Shiva, we are not bound by what is. We are the space from which everything arises, the Swayambhu within.

-- Pradeep K (Prady)

The Almighty and the Wall: A Paradox of Power and Possibility

Author's Note:
As a reader, your judgement is always right. However, this post isn't what it may initially seem. Therefore, do not judge it by the first few paragraphs; read it entirely before reacting. Many thanks.
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There’s a question as old as time, one that whispers through the corridors of human thought. It’s a question that lingers, not on the tongues of the devout nor the lips of the skeptical, but somewhere between—where belief and doubt quietly observe one another.

If the Almighty, in His boundless power, can do all things, then could He build a wall so tall, so impenetrable, that even He cannot climb it?

It’s a simple question. And yet, it opens a door to a mystery far deeper than we might first realize. If He can build such a wall, does that not make Him powerless before it? If He cannot, then perhaps His power has limits after all?

This is not just a riddle for the scholars or a puzzle for the philosophers. It is a reflection of the human condition itself—a mirror held up to our understanding of power, control, and the nature of creation. Because at its heart, this paradox is about more than walls or omnipotence. It is about the boundaries we all face, even in our moments of greatest strength.

We, too, build walls, don’t we? Not of stone or brick, but of decisions and desires. We create, in our own lives, situations and choices that sometimes grow larger than we can handle, outcomes that outstrip our own intentions. In many ways, the question of the Almighty’s wall is our question—whether we believe in a higher power or not. It asks us to look at the nature of creation and control.

What happens when what we’ve brought into existence—our own walls, our own choices—begin to limit us? When they rise so high, we can no longer see over them? Are we still in control? Are we, like the Almighty in the paradox, suddenly powerless before what we have made?

Perhaps the deepest lesson of this paradox is not about divinity at all. Perhaps it is about humility. For the very act of creation—whether by a god or by a human—carries within it the risk that what we create might surpass us. That it might defy us. In building the wall, the Almighty doesn’t lose power. He simply becomes a participant in the unfolding story of His creation, just as we do.

And isn’t that the most human thing of all? The realization that power is not about dominance or control, but about the willingness to face what we’ve created, to stand before it and know that sometimes, true strength lies not in climbing over the wall, but in acknowledging that it exists at all.

Here, the theist may find a god who is more than just a figure of infinite power—He is a being who understands the limits that even He cannot escape. And the atheist may see in this question a reflection of humanity’s own journey—how we, too, are bound by the walls we build, yet are defined by how we respond to them.

The paradox remains: Can the Almighty build a wall He cannot scale? Perhaps the answer is not in whether He can or cannot, but in the simple, profound truth that even the limitless are shaped by the things they create. Power is not diminished by the existence of boundaries—it is defined by how we understand and embrace them.

-- Pradeep K (Prady)

The Evolution of Choosing the "Right" Life Partner: 1990 to Beyond*

Choosing a life partner probably has always felt like trying to navigate through a foggy road with a map that's missing half the directions. Over the years, from the early 90s to today, our methods of choosing that special someone have evolved—perhaps even mutated—thanks to technology, social norms, and a hefty dose of confusion. Let’s take a light-hearted stroll through these decades, where you might find that love, in all its forms, has only gotten stranger, but no less fascinating.

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1990s: The Age of “Family First”

In the 90s everything seemed so much simpler. Well, sort of. In Britain, chances were high that you’d meet your future spouse in a cozy pub, perhaps over a pint while arguing about which football club had the best shot at the Premier League. Across the Atlantic, Americans were falling in love over coffee and pie in diners, all while channeling their inner 'When Harry Met Sally' fantasies. Life was straightforward; so was love, or at least that's what people told themselves.

In Latin America, romance came with a side of family. Courtship, or El Noviazgo, involved entire households. Sly glances, subtle gestures—always under the watchful eye of parents and relatives—kept things proper, or at least publicly so.

India, meanwhile, was still dominated by arranged marriages. Matrimonial ads in the newspapers read like shopping lists: “Wanted: Educated, fair-skinned bride from a respectable family. Must know how to cook.” And thus, the great Indian matchmaking machine kept churning, parents at the helm.

Over in China, where respect for elders and family was paramount, love followed a predictable, arranged path. Matchmakers still held the reins, and woe betide anyone who dared to veer from tradition. Meanwhile, in Japan, Omiai meetings (formal introductions for marriage) were a regular feature, though hints of rebellion toward love marriages were beginning to stir.

Metaphor of the Era: Choosing a partner in the 90s was like ordering a meal from a set menu—limited options, but you trusted it to be good for you. Your parents did, anyway.

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2000s: The Dawn of Digital Romance

Welcome to the 2000s, where technology awkwardly knocked on the doors of courtship. In the UK and US, Match.com made its debut, where suddenly, browsing potential partners online felt as groundbreaking as the invention of sliced bread. Pubs and bars still held strong, but if you had a dial-up connection, you were possibly flirting through email.

In the Hispanic world, the rise of online communities was starting, though Telenovelas still had an unshakable grip on people’s notions of love—passionate, dramatic, and full of unspoken family feuds. Family remained a steady influence, but digital flirtations began to creep into courtships.

In India, websites like Shaadi.com and BharatMatrimony opened the floodgates for matrimonial match-making. Families clung to their tried-and-true criteria of caste and education, but now with the exciting addition of “online profiles.” The phone call with potential in-laws began with, “I saw your profile online,” which was both terrifying and thrilling.

China, though dipping its toes into the online pool, held firm to the matchmaking tradition. Even so, a few brave souls dared to venture into chat rooms to find love. In Japan, the rise of gōkon (group dating parties) and dating cafes ushered in a slightly more relaxed approach. Dating websites quietly began to emerge like timid cherry blossoms.

Metaphor of the Era: Dating in the 2000s was like upgrading to an early-model smartphone: a few new features, but you still couldn’t shake the old habits.

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2010s: Swipe Right and Step into Chaos

The 2010s will forever be known as the “Swipe Right” decade. Tinder, Bumble, Hinge—you name it, they took the romantic wheel and drove it straight into a world where “the one” was a mere swipe away. In the UK and US, casual dating turned into a well-oiled machine, where pub meetups were swiftly replaced by app notifications: You’ve got a match!

Across Latin America, mobile dating apps made their way into daily life, though the backdrop of traditional values remained. Couples juggled between tradition and modernity, with a quick prayer for Telenovela-worthy love sprinkled in.

India was now juggling between parental pressure and the growing independence of the Tinder generation. By this time, Shaadi.com had found itself competing with Bumble, and “modern” Indian parents started using matrimonial apps with the same fervor as their children used dating apps.

China saw the explosion of dating apps, but also the rise of “marriage markets,” where parents advertised their children’s eligibility in parks—because nothing says modern love like your mom waving a sign that reads: PhD. Seeks wife. In Japan, career-driven singles embraced online dating with open arms, blending tradition with efficiency, as is the Japanese way.

Metaphor of the Era: Dating became like ordering sushi from a conveyor belt—you just hoped your choice wasn’t already taken by the next swipe.

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2020s: Welcome to Algorithmic Love

By the 2020s, love was no longer in the hands of Cupid but rather the hands of an algorithm. Apps claimed they knew what you wanted in a partner better than you did. Compatibility tests, swipe patterns, and even your music playlist were all fed into the digital matchmaking beast.

In Britain and America, couples joked that their dating profiles were now more comprehensive than their CVs. In Latin America, the Catholic Church still blessed relationships, but a swipe to the left was far easier than finding a confession booth.

In India, families started to accept the digital revolution. Tinder profiles that mentioned “family values” were trending, and Shaadi.com now featured sections like “Lifestyle and Horoscope,” to balance millennial independence with ancestral wisdom.

China, ever pragmatic, perfected the art of digital love, while still holding fast to marriage markets and familial involvement. And in Japan, “solo weddings” (where women marry themselves) were on the rise—a testament to the complexity of modern relationships.

Metaphor of the Era: Finding a partner in the 2020s was like asking Google for restaurant recommendations—you didn’t always know what you wanted, but you trusted the algorithm to figure it out.

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2030s and Beyond: The Future of Love

The unpredictable future. But we can always extrapolate. Financial advisers do it all the time, so who can stop me? Here's what I think may happen.

In 2030, selecting a partner will likely involve virtual reality dates where you and your potential mate are AI-curated based on everything from genetic compatibility to shared Netflix preferences.

In the UK and US, holographic dates over dinner will be all the rage, where the awkward first-date silence is filled by an AI assistant whispering fun facts into your ear about your partner's favorite hobbies.

Latin America might see AI matchmakers who analyze your family tree for compatible marriages, ensuring both love and family approval.

In India, matrimonial apps may partner with astrologers, offering real-time horoscope updates based on planetary shifts during your chat.

China, with its obsession for efficiency, might introduce state-sponsored AI matchmaking services—where romance meets bureaucracy. And Japan? Expect robot companions in the dating market, where they’ll make ideal partners for the workaholic crowd.

Metaphor of the Future: Dating in 2030 will be like selecting a partner via Amazon Prime—complete with one-day shipping and easy returns.

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There you have it, from arranged marriages to algorithmic matches and beyond. Yes, we’ve come a long way, but no matter how much technology advances, the real challenge remains the same: love, like life, still remains unpredictable.

-- Pradeep K (Prady)

* This post is based on my own observations, but other people's experiences ;-)

The Dam of Shamelessness

"The rivers of shame can only be blocked by the dam of shamelessness!"

—Pradeep K (Prady)

Yes, I quoted myself. That's how shameless I am.

Shame: a word that sends shivers down the spine of anyone who's ever encountered a nosey neighbor, a judgmental aunt, or even a slightly overenthusiastic colleague. Whether it's something as simple as forgetting to mute yourself during an important Zoom meeting or as profound as being caught in a public embarrassment, shame has always had its way with us. But what if I told you that there's a secret weapon against shame, a hidden treasure of human resilience that has been passed down, albeit quietly, through the generations?

The answer lies in shamelessness—not just any shamelessness, mind you, but a refined, dignified shamelessness that helps you weather the raging floods of societal judgment. It’s a strategy, nay, an art form that few have mastered, and fewer still have recognized for its true value.

Think of the average Indian wedding, as a case in point. It’s not just a marriage between two people; it’s a celebration where everyone’s insecurities and embarrassments come to light. Aunties will shamelessly ask newlyweds the question that has plagued the ages: "When will you give us good news?" Well, obviously this is not a request for a weather update.

Yet, the veteran bride or groom knows this: the only way to survive such moments is to build your own dam of shamelessness. Smile, deflect, move on. Without it, you’d drown in the rivers of shame, with every awkward laugh or uncomfortable question adding to the tide.

Of course, a bigger monster looming in our lives since time immemorial—a particularly Indian affliction—is the eternal question: "What will people say?" Uncle Ramesh buys a bright yellow car? "What will people say?" A cousin takes up pottery instead of engineering? "What will people say?" You're still single at 30? "What will people say?!"

Let me tell you, people will always say something. If you keep trying to control the flow of their opinions, you'll be flooded with shame until you can barely keep your head above water.

Enter the dam of shamelessness. In this case, it takes the form of proudly showing off your yellow car, inviting the whole extended family to your pottery class, or even announcing your singlehood as if it were a personal badge of honor.

No river can erode a dam built of confidence, humor, and a generous dose of "I don’t care."

But it’s not just in India where the power of shamelessness shines. Whether you're in Mumbai or Manhattan, shame takes on many forms, but the key to blocking it remains the same. Take any celebrity scandal—there’s a scandal, a social media uproar and then, like clockwork, comes the strategic post: "I’m learning and growing, thank you for your patience." You see, while ordinary folk like us might retreat into hiding after a public misstep, celebrities have their own blueprint: construct a dam. Let the criticisms flow around it, while you sit, dry as a bone, sipping coffee and waiting for the tide to recede.

Jokes apart, shamelessness is, in some ways, a survival mechanism in today’s hyper-connected, hyper-judgmental world. With social media platforms turning everyone into instant judges, the rivers of shame flow faster and heavier than ever before. A poorly worded tweet, a fashion embarrassment at the wrong event, a harmless mistake blown out of proportion—all are common causes for public shaming. But the secret to surviving it? Learn the fine art of laughing at yourself before anyone else gets the chance.

Imagine you post an ill-advised picture of yourself in mismatched clothes, and the comments section starts to fill up with merciless ridicule. Now, you have two choices—either let the river sweep you away or construct the dam of shamelessness by replying, "I was clearly too ahead of fashion trends. You'll catch up someday!" The tide recedes, the critics move on, and you, my friend, have blocked the river like a pro.

Whether it's nosy relatives, social media mobs, or the inner critic that lives rent-free in your head, remember: you control the dam. Sometimes, the best thing to do is to simply let the waters flow, unbothered, around the fortress you've built.

And when people ask you how you stay so dry amid the floods of judgment and shame, you can always smile, nod knowingly, and say, "Oh, it’s simple. I just built a dam."

-- Pradeep K (Prady)

Earth Isn't a Place for Humans

Step right up to the Human Zoo, where the admission is free, but the exit fee might just be your sanity! Here, on display in their natural habitat, we have the most peculiar species on Earth: humans. Forget exotic animals—these creatures are endlessly fascinating. From their bizarre mating rituals (ever heard of dating apps?) to their survival instincts that involve ignoring the expiry dates on yogurt, humans are nature’s finest comedians.

Take, for example, the grocery store safari. What was meant to be a five-minute milk run quickly escalates into an endurance race, complete with shopping cart jousting and the eternal struggle to find the perfectly ripe avocado—only to give up and grab a bag of chips instead. And don’t even get me started on group projects, where teamwork often resembles a chaotic game of “Who Can Do the Least.”

So, buckle up and grab some popcorn, because navigating the absurdities of human life is always a wild ride. You won’t find this level of comedy on Netflix, I promise.

While humans do excel at inventing things to make life easier, sometimes these innovations lead us straight into a comedy of errors. We've all seen those inventions that seem brilliant at first, only to leave us scratching our heads. Take, for example, the electric shoe polishers you see in hotels. They seem like a great idea until you realize that most people still prefer the old-school method with a brush and polish tin.

Then there are the tech gadgets that make you question whether anyone bothered to test them before selling them to the public. Who can forget that infamous "smart" water purifier that kept sending alerts to your phone every time someone drank water? Yes, because in a country where water scarcity is a real issue, what we really need is a daily reminder of how often we sip from our own bottles.

And let’s not forget the hilarious product reviews on shopping sites. You know the ones—where enthusiastic customers rave about their new "automatic chapati maker," only to find out it produces something closer to frisbees than fluffy rotis. Human creativity is boundless, but practicality sometimes takes the scenic route.

Speaking of the scenic route, our outdoor adventures often become tales of comedic disaster. For example, camping should come with a giant disclaimer—“Proceed with caution: May result in unexpected disasters and regretful memories.” Sure, we all love the romantic idea of sitting by a campfire, roasting marshmallows, and gazing at the stars, but reality often turns that dream into a comedy of errors.

Consider the case of Rajesh, who confidently went camping with his friends, only to realize he had no idea how to pitch a tent. Spoiler alert: by the end of the night, his tent resembled more of a collapsed lung than a cozy shelter, and he found himself huddled under a tree, shivering through the night. Then there’s Priya, who decided to bring her culinary skills to the great outdoors—only to discover that neither wild animals nor her fellow campers were particularly fond of her gourmet paneer tikka that got scorched over an uneven campfire.

And let’s not forget the endless debate between traditional camping and its luxurious cousin, glamping. Glamping is essentially for those who enjoy the idea of being in nature—as long as nature includes Wi-Fi, air conditioning, and a plush bed. Why rough it in the wild when you can experience the great outdoors from the comfort of an air-conditioned tent with all the amenities of a 5-star hotel?

Maybe it’s time we reconsider traditional camping altogether for the safety of everyone involved—or at least require a crash course on how not to trip over your own tent stakes while trying to show off your "survival skills." After all, nature is stunning on its own; it doesn’t need our slapstick comedy routines to make it more entertaining.

And as we bumble through our everyday human experiences, Mother Nature seems to be laughing along with us. When it comes to nature, humans are about as competent as that friend who adopts a pet, only to realize they can’t even keep a cactus alive. You know the type—excited about the idea of turning their desk into a lush jungle, but panicking when the office plant starts to droop. Spoiler alert: it’s usually because they forgot plants need water.

Take the office plant saga, for example. We bring these poor things into our fluorescent-lit cubicles with dreams of creating a mini rainforest, only to watch as they slowly wither away, probably from boredom. It's not that we lack good intentions—just the skill set to match. And then there’s that one time you got ambitious and tried growing herbs on your windowsill. Remember the hopeful basil that turned into a crispy relic of your gardening ambitions? Yeah, that didn’t end well.

And weekends? Oh, they’re our chance to tackle the wilds of our backyards. Armed with optimism and a rusty trowel from last year’s garage sale, we march into battle with Mother Nature. A few hours later, we stagger back inside, covered in dirt, sweat, and a deep sense of regret, realizing that planting isn’t just tossing seeds around and waiting for magic.

So, while our thumbs may not be as green as we’d like, at least we can laugh about our gardening disasters. And hey, if that office plant is still hanging in there despite us, maybe there’s hope after all.

But then, welcome to the comedy club of climate change, where Mother Nature has decided to showcase her own stand-up routine with every unexpected weather twist! While we humans fret over melting glaciers and rising pollution levels, the Earth seems to be sitting back with a grin, saying, "Oh, you thought you were in control? Watch this!"

Take India's infamous monsoon season, for example. Ever noticed how it rains exactly when you least expect it—right in the middle of a hockey match or just when you’ve left home without an umbrella? It’s as if nature is playfully reminding us, “Nice try planning your day around the weather, but I’m still in charge!”

And what about those random weather surprises? One moment, you’re basking in cool winter mornings, and the next, you're sweating through an unexpected heatwave in December. Or better yet, that bizarre summer hailstorm that turns your front yard into a mini snowfield, leaving everyone scratching their heads. It's as if the environment is playing its own prank on us, just to keep things interesting.

But perhaps Mother Nature's favorite joke is when she throws in those unpredictable twists—like flooding the streets the minute after you've washed your car, or sending a gust of wind just as you hang your freshly laundered clothes out to dry. So, the next time you find yourself grumbling about the erratic weather or unexpected climate events, remember—nature’s just having a laugh. Maybe it's time we joined in on the fun too!

Well, as we fumble through our misadventures, there’s another species that might be observing us from afar—aliens. If they exist, they’re probably steering clear of Earth, and who can blame them? After all, have you seen our reality shows and social media challenges? If I were an alien cruising through the galaxy in my high-tech spaceship, I'd hit the warp drive the moment I picked up signals from Bigg Boss or the latest bizarre trend on Instagram.

Imagine this: a group of aliens gathered around their galactic travel guide. They flip to the section on Earth and see a chapter titled, "UFO Sightings and Other Human Oddities." The first line reads, "Humans claim they've spotted us—what they actually saw was their neighbor flying a kite too close to a drone." Cue the extraterrestrial laughter! Alien humor must really be out of this world, but they’d probably get a kick out of our confusion.

Add I that the general chaos on our planet. From climate debates that resemble a poorly written soap opera to viral challenges that involve people doing dangerous stunts for likes, it’s no wonder the aliens are giving us a hard pass. They’re probably thinking, “Why risk landing on a planet where people willingly eat chili powder just for views?” So the next time you spot a suspicious light in the sky or think you've seen a UFO, it might just be an alien making a swift exit from our global circus!

At the cosmic level, it's clear that Earth isn’t exactly the poster child for harmonious living. From our hilarious misadventures with nature to our questionable innovations and cringe-worthy reality shows, we humans seem to have perfected the art of chaos. But hey, that’s what makes life on this little blue planet so entertaining, right?

Let’s wholeheartedly accept our cosmic misplacement and learn to laugh at the absurdity of it all. After all, humor is the one thing that keeps us grounded—or at least stops us from pulling our hair out when nature strikes back or when our camping trips go hilariously wrong. And who knows? If things get too wild, there’s always Nebulon-5*, a place where the grass might actually be greener, and the aliens might just welcome us with open tentacles.



* Nebulon-5: A peaceful, civilized haven in the Milky Way, home to three distinct planetary life forms, and now offering open tickets for earthlings. Cosmic coordinates available upon request—just ask in the comments.


-- Pradeep K (Prady)