Planting Seeds of Peace . How Classrooms Can Raise a Generation of Hope

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Planting Seeds of Peace: How Classrooms Can Raise a Generation of Hope

In a world filled with conflict and chaos, the greatest weapon against violence may be found in the hands of a teacher in a classroom.

The world today seems unrecognizable. From wars in one region to conflicts in another, from domestic shootings to the surge in nuclear weapons testing, violence fills our news. Countries race to build more weapons, and the possibility of global destruction feels closer than ever. The sense of fear and uncertainty touches every corner of the globe, leaving ordinary people anxious about the future.

Over the decades, it sometimes feels as if nations are ready to take the law into their own hands. “Might is right” seems to be the guiding principle. Treaties are signed, conferences held, promises made — yet it only takes a man or two in a moment of madness to do the unthinkable. The world feels fragile; sanity hangs by a thread, and the scale of human suffering continues to rise.

Lately, the tone of international talk is chilling. The way countries boast about new nuclear tests, advanced missiles, and deadlier arms — “anything you can do, I can do better” — is frightening. When will this madness cease? What will it take for humanity to realize that escalation only brings more grief?

And still, the victims remain the same. Children go hungry, small hands clutching empty bowls. Mothers bury their sons, faces etched with disbelief and sorrow. Families grieve for loved ones whose only crime was being born in the wrong place. Soldiers fight battles they barely understand, caught between orders and confusion. Headlines change, debates shift — but grief remains universal, persistent, and deeply human.

More violence. More senseless deaths. More innocent lives lost. The cycle seems endless, and yet, we must find a way to break it.

Anyone with an ounce of wisdom will tell you — this is not rocket science. More security, more sanctions, more armies will not solve this. The only way forward is to focus on the human mind — to teach, to nurture, to enlighten. Education is humanity’s most powerful weapon, offering a path out of the darkness.

We must catch children young. Teach them to think, to question, to see the shared humanity in every person — even those labelled as enemies. Schools and classrooms are where hope begins. Teachers shape understanding, empathy, and reason. Through education, children can learn the cost of violence, the value of life, and the meaning of peace. They learn that words, dialogue, and compassion are stronger than any missile or gun.

Imagine a classroom anywhere in the world where children from different backgrounds learn together. Lessons are not only in math and science but in dialogue, understanding, and compassion. A teacher shows that war brings grief, planting tiny seeds of hope that may one day grow. This is how we build a world beyond violence, one classroom at a time, one mind at a time.

Better schools. Better classrooms. Better teachers. Awareness programs that teach conflict resolution, compassion, and global understanding. These are not lofty ideals — they are urgent necessities. Education is the armor that shields humanity from itself, giving future generations the tools to choose peace over war.

The guns, the wars, the nuclear arms race — they will not vanish overnight. Conflicts are complex, involving many nations and interests; no single party can claim absolute blame. All sides must come to the table, all voices must be heard, and solutions must be sought with patience, wisdom, and a genuine commitment to humanity.

This is not something one man, or one country playing “Godfather,” can solve. It requires global commitment: dialogue, collaboration, and a readiness to listen. Practical steps are within reach — investing in education, promoting peace programs, supporting humanitarian aid, tackling poverty and hunger, and helping young people learn empathy, tolerance, and global citizenship.

Stop the blame game. Stop endless political debates that change nothing for the people who suffer. Instead, act where you can. Teach your children to value life and understanding. Support schools that nurture empathy and critical thinking. Demand that leaders prioritize dialogue over weapons. Encourage communities to solve conflicts peacefully. Volunteer, donate, speak, and most importantly — educate.

Education is not just a tool — it is our path to sanity, our path to peace, our path to love. If each of us — teachers, parents, citizens — commits to raising minds that think, question, and care, we can begin to change the course of history. Start today. Teach, nurture, and insist on understanding. The future depends on it.

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Lasting Memories of Those We’ve Lost

 

Shared with Friends; Except: Acquaintances

Gone Too Soon: Lasting Memories of Those We’ve Lost

I heard of the death of a former pupil I knew well, and it stopped me in my tracks. He was young, bright, full of life — a true sportsman, always laughing, always moving, always shining. I had asked about him just days ago and even seen a recent picture of him. And now, he is gone, leaving a quiet, incomprehensible absence.

Just recently, a very promising young Australian cricketer was tragically hit in the neck by a ball and died — a sudden, shocking reminder of how fragile life can be.

Such moments can turn countless lives upside down, leaving families, friends, and communities reeling in grief. Yet they also remind us how precious each day is and how deeply we are connected to one another.

It made me ask myself: what is the most unexpected thing in a human’s life?

Death is inevitable, yet it remains the visitor we never truly expect. It comes unannounced, quietly rearranging the world we thought we knew. Over the years, I have seen people live to a hundred — calm, luminous, as though time itself honoured their gentle endurance. And I have seen others — friends, relatives, former pupils — leave far too soon. Teenagers with unspoken dreams, parents in their prime, colleagues whose laughter still lingers in empty rooms.

Every year, especially when I see a picture of them on a birthday memory or death anniversary, I pause to remember those who have long gone — holding their memory close and smiling at the moments we shared. Some memories never fade; they linger quietly, returning in a photograph, a word, or a moment, reminding us that those gone too soon are, in memory, remembered forever.

We spend our lives preparing for everything except the end of it. We plan, save, and hope, believing there will always be more time — time to reconcile, to forgive, to say the words left unsaid. But life has its own rhythm, and perhaps death is not a disruption of that music, but simply its final, tender note.

Within this mystery lies something sacred. Every shared meal, every sunrise, every small act of kindness becomes precious precisely because it cannot last forever. Love, laughter, and even grief — they are all threads of the same divine tapestry, woven by hands unseen.

Perhaps the most important lesson is to live fully in each moment. We cannot know what tomorrow holds. Live fully today, and honor those gone too soon by embracing every moment. Hold your loved ones close, speak your heart, and never take a single day for granted — life’s true measure is in the moments we give and share.

As dawn breaks

 At 4.30 am.

As Dawn Breaks

On sleepless mornings, old habits, and the quiet comfort of tea

I often wake far too early—

that strange, suspended hour

when the world still sleeps

and even dreams hesitate to leave.

Eyes open, mind restless,

I wait for morning—

a dear friend who promised to come early but never does.

What a waste, I tell myself,

to lie here letting thoughts tumble and twist—

Will it rain today, or has the weatherman missed again?

What a tiring yet fulfilling day it was yesterday.

The carnivals rocked many a world.

What’s coming up next week?

Has the cat’s coughing eased?

Did that expensive plant survive the night?

And what are the neighbours dragging about

at this unholy hour?

I wonder how the day will pan out.

Should I make a to-do list—

or simply drift into another thought?

Before dawn, the mind becomes a restless bird,

flitting from weather to breakfast,

from the past to the improbable.

So perhaps it’s wiser to give up the struggle—

rise quietly, brew a cup of tea,

and see what the world’s been up to while I lay awake.

They say there are morning people and night people.

I’ve always been the former—

though my band days were quite the opposite.

We often played till dawn,

our guitars humming softly as the city yawned awake.

Funny how easily youth traded sleep for song.

My mother was the true morning soul—

up before the sun,

tidying her room,

then sitting with her tea,

dunking biscuits, rustling the newspaper—

her small ritual of peace

before the world began to call.

Perhaps that’s where I get it from—

not discipline, but affection for the hour itself.

From Allahabad to Pune to Dubai,

mornings have followed me faithfully.

In Allahabad, we slept outside under open skies,

the air thick with mango-scented warmth,

mosquito coils burning like lazy comets in the dark.

At dawn we woke fresh as daisies,

the city stretching,

the birds rehearsing their first notes.

In Pune too, we slept on the terrace in summer—

vast, starlit, full of whispers.

Sometimes we were sure we’d heard ghosts—

soft footsteps, shifting shadows,

a curtain moving when no one was there.

Perhaps it was only the wind,

but dawn always felt like deliverance.

And now in Dubai,

the same habit remains—

this quiet friendship with the hour before light.

The city sleeps, the desert holds its breath,

and I sit with my tea,

watching the pink edge of morning

slide across the sky.

“Early to bed and early to rise,” they said,

“makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.”

Two out of three will do.

The early bird catches the worm, true—

though sometimes it only catches itself awake too soon.

I remember exam mornings—

the scratch of a pen,

tea in a blue and white china mug,

the quiet pride of being awake before the world.

Now, years later,

the house is still,

the air cool and clean.

I sip my tea,

watching the first light touch the walls—

and guess what I’m thinking of, as dawn breaks?

Whether I should… perhaps…

take a nap.

Crazy isn't it ?

War by Algorithm

 

War by Algorithm: Human or Machine?

"The real danger is not that computers will begin to think like men, but that men will begin to think like computers." — Sydney J. Harris

Could the next world war start not with human anger, but with a machine? It may sound dramatic, but the risk is real. A system misreading data, reacting to false signals, or being manipulated by a reckless leader could spiral into catastrophe before anyone even notices.

AI is already reshaping military strategy. Autonomous weapons, cyber warfare, and AI-driven defense systems can process vast amounts of information and act in seconds — faster than any human. That speed may give nations an edge, but it leaves little room for reflection or restraint.

Even more dangerous is intent. Authoritarian or reckless leaders might exploit AI to provoke conflict — or hide behind it. An “unfortunate malfunction” could be blamed on the machine, while the real motive remains hidden. When human intent meets rapid AI development, the consequences could be catastrophic.

The United States, China, Russia, and more than thirty other nations are developing autonomous military systems, often without ethical guidelines. The more decisions we hand over to machines, the less meaningful human control becomes — until it might not matter at all.

Then there’s disinformation. Deepfakes and AI-generated content flood social media daily — videos and images so convincing they blur truth and falsehood. In tense political moments, one fake “attack” or fabricated statement could spark real retaliation. Reality and deception have never been so dangerously close.

Governments have countless war think tanks — planning and preparing for conflict. Yet while we build intelligent machines, we spend little time preparing for peace. Why not peace think tanks instead? Most humans prefer peace, yet we focus more on destruction than prevention. A paradox, if ever there was one.

The true test for humanity may not be how smart our machines become, but how wisely we use them — and how deeply we value peace itself. Perhaps the greatest challenge of our time is remembering that preparing for war should never outweigh preparing for peace. Because in the end, no machine can replace our choice to think, to pause, and to choose peace.

Economy class

 Economy Class: Survival of the Fittest at 30,000 Feet

Air travel is a curious mix of anticipation, hope, and barely-contained anxiety. You check in, clear immigration, grab your duty-free goodies, and finally settle into your seat, whispering the same prayer: PLEASE GOD, let the seat next to me be empty—but if it isn’t, let it be someone friendly, tidy, and considerate.

Don’t judge me—just a little wish.

This was a short, three-hour flight in economy.

As I entered, a smiling air hostess welcomed me, and I caught a glimpse of the pilot, silently hoping for a smooth ride. She pointed me to my seat as passengers filed past: a gentleman juggling three carry-ons like a circus act, a tourist snapping selfies at every overhead locker, and a teen with headphones so loud they could wake the dead. I felt a trifle suffocated as the AC was yet to take effect, and the doors were about to close. The seat beside me appeared empty, and I breathed a brief sigh of relief.

But no—a family of three arrived, shattering any hopes of a quiet journey. A burly, scruffy husband with a beard and a T-shirt boldly proclaiming “TRY ME” strode in, followed by a wife who was quite the looker and smartly turned out in contrast to him (and I wondered what she saw in him) and their two-year-old boy. Mischievous would be putting it mildly—the child was more than a handful and certainly hungry. The wife scolded the child, the husband scolded the wife, and together they were a combustible couple. The cosmos, it seemed, was decidedly against me.

Once settled, the mother juggled bags, the father hoisted the stroller overhead, and the child fidgeted endlessly. I shrank into my aisle seat, watching the commotion teeter dangerously close to my laptop and duty-free goodies. The engines hummed, announcements echoed, passengers shifted—and then came the safety demonstration. The air hostesses moved with a mix of precision and awkwardness; their rehearsed gestures were endearing, and it always made me smile.

Economy class was truly a living, breathing organism, full of motion, noise, and human idiosyncrasies.

Throughout the flight, they kept crossing over to go to the washroom, take care of the child, or summon the air hostess for freebies—turning my aisle seat into a revolving door. I always take the aisle; claustrophobic, I need the tiny illusion of escape.

Meal time arrived with its usual theatrics: plastic trays balanced precariously, elbows jostling, and passengers trying to navigate food in thirty inches of space. The husband and wife both attempted to feed the child at the same time, resulting in a comical tug-of-war with a spoon. The boy, clearly unimpressed, grabbed at their trays, flung a morsel of chicken into the aisle, and then squealed triumphantly, launching into a full-throated wail, a sound so fearless and loud it seemed to challenge the very limits of altitude.

And then came the sneezing. The husband, wearing a mask, sneezed twice—and it was like an avalanche crashing through the cabin. Memories of COVID haunted me, but I could see he was otherwise fine. I tried to maintain composure, sipping my drink and silently thanking the universe that my laptop and duty-free treasures were still intact.

I reminded myself things could have been worse. Train travel in India—the jostling crowds, vendors climbing over my seat, luggage chaos, the smell of chai and spices, passengers perched everywhere—made economy class feel almost civilized: cramped, chaotic, mildly irritating, but manageable.

And yet, amid all this, there was something wonderfully human about it—a small community suspended in the sky, pretending to be comfortable, bound by turbulence, bad coffee, and reluctant tolerance.

Economy class isn’t just air travel. It’s humanity—compressed, tested, and still somehow enduring.

When life isn't fair

 

When Life Isn’t Fair: Lessons in Patience and Perseverance

We were raised on a beautiful story — but have you ever paused to consider what that story truly promised?

We were told that the world is fair, that people are kind, and that if we worked hard and played by the rules, life would reward us in equal measure. It was comforting to believe that goodness guarantees success — that effort is always noticed, that honesty always wins. We carried that story in our hearts for decades , expecting life to mirror it, only to discover that reality is often more complex.

Life does not always follow the story we were told. The field is rarely level, quiet efforts may go unnoticed, and good intentions do not always bring immediate recognition and that is frustrating .

Like many, I have faced setbacks. I was overlooked for promotions as a young man and sometimes ignored when convenient.

I didn’t have a fairy Godmother, a Godfather  pulling strings, nor any inheritance to fall back on— I started from scratch. Yet over time, steady effort, perseverance, a commitment to growth, continuous learning, and the encouragement of those around me have shown their worth. Recognition often comes late — better late than never — and in that waiting, we learn patience, resilience, and quiet strength. Through consistent effort and dedication, I have been fortunate to reach the pinnacle of my profession and to be rewarded in ways beyond what I could have ever imagined.

We cannot control how others act or how events unfold. What we can control is our own response. Stand firm when the winds shift, and maintain balance when the path is uneven. Life is not a sprint; it is a marathon — over different terrain, with hills, valleys, and unexpected turns. True strength is not about status; it is the ability to stay composed, gracious, and hopeful, even when circumstances are challenging.

Every challenge is a chance to grow. Hard work and integrity build character, even when rewards are delayed, and that character is its own reward.

Even in a world that can disappoint, we can find grounding in gratitude — for the people who stand by us, for small victories often overlooked, for the simple wonder of a new day. Gratitude restores perspective and gives us the strength to move forward with grace and purpose.

The story we were told as children was oh so beautiful — that goodness would always be rewarded. Life offers a subtler truth: more often than not we cannot always choose what happens, but we can choose how we meet it. And in that choice lies our strength, our grace, and our peace.

And so we rise — sometimes slowly, sometimes nervously and unsurely — not because life is fair, but because giving up is never an option for most of us . We have to succeed in order to live . We rise because there is still work to do, people who believe in us, and dreams that deserve another try. Every small step, every honest effort, counts for more than we know.

And in that steady rising, we find something far greater than success — we find our strength, our peace, and our purpose.

 

The wandering Geography of the Soul

 

The Wandering Geography of the Soul

“You may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one.” — John Lennon

Do you dream — and truly remember what drifts through your mind when sleep takes you? Or do they vanish like morning mist, leaving only fragments — a colour, a sound, a fleeting feeling that seems both familiar and strange? Are they painted in vivid detail, whispered in shadow, or glimpsed in that twilight between memory and imagination? I dream often — vague, strange dreams that sometimes feel more real than waking life.

I have often found myself atop tall buildings, ledges, and hills — frozen, unsure how to descend, only to awaken in a cold sweat. I have spoken to strangers whose faces seemed half-remembered, boarded trains to nameless destinations, wandered through markets alive with colour, and soared above trees that glitter in morning light. In an hour, I have known terror and wonder, met those long departed, attended unseen meetings, and done the impossible — and it all felt real.

Sometimes, I find myself in Allahabad — wandering St. Joseph’s or The Boys’ High School, hearing bells and laughter, or strolling through Civil Lines, passing shops alive with colour and chatter. I pause, breathing in the smells and sounds, waiting to meet something lost but not forgotten. Often, these dreams bring people who have passed, their faces luminous, their presence quiet but unmistakable. The streets, the shops, the quiet stir of early morning — they pull me back. And in the same breath, they push me forward into another world.

From there, I drift to Pune. Bishop’s School rises before me, sunlight catching the windows as boys dart across the field. Even in serious moments, dreams wander into humour. I remember teaching Shakespeare, glancing at the boys — a few quietly daydreaming, one replaying a recent crush, another composing an ode to newfound love. I smiled. Even the Bard would have been amused.

Dreams are mysterious. I even have a book on dream interpretation, though it feels mostly generic. Still, the allure remains — trying to decode these nightly wanderings, knowing that the real meaning may lie only in the feeling of the dream itself.

Then, as if the world tilts, I am in Dubai — a city of glass and gold, humming with restless energy. I walk through school halls where the desert wind hums against tall windows. Familiar faces greet me — some from here, some from elsewhere. Allahabad merges with Sharjah, Pune with Dubai. Borders dissolve. Time folds. Memory and imagination entwine.

Through it all, there is movement — a quiet current carrying me from one life to another. Sometimes, I remember every detail: the sunlight on a classroom window, the laughter of a child, the scent of guavas by the river. Other times, the journey vanishes, leaving only a trace — a feeling, a sound, a whisper. Then, a song or a scent returns the dream — alive and complete.

There are dreams within dreams — layers folding inward — until I rise, uncertain of what is real. And then it occurs to me: all this wandering, these impossible journeys, these encounters, unfold in that secret realm where reason sleeps.

Perhaps dreams are the soul’s quiet pilgrimage — a nightly unbinding from the body, a silent voyage through time and memory, before returning in that single, sacred instant of morning. Dreams are not merely escapism; they are the soul’s subtle way of exploring, experimenting, and sometimes manifesting the worlds we long for.

And in that fragile moment between sleep and day, I linger — feeling the echo of all I have lived and loved, all I have feared and imagined. Perhaps both worlds are true, entwined like threads of the same tapestry. Perhaps each night, we do not merely dream — we remember, we wander, we live again, and glimpse, if only for a moment, the boundless possibilities of being