rajathtirumangalam

Tag: InspirationalInsights

  • The Ceremony of the Bicycle Seat

    There is a quiet ceremony performed on empty streets at dusk—
    an initiation where one pair of trembling hands teaches another pair to trust the trembling.

    You hold the bicycle steady, though nothing about you is steady anymore.
    You run behind them, half-anchor, half-shadow, lending balance that you’ll never get back in return.
    It’s strange, the intimacy of it—
    your breath syncing with their panic,
    your footsteps stitching the ground so their wheels may glide.

    Every teacher of this ritual knows the secret moment when the spell shifts.
    A tiny tilt.
    A new rhythm in their legs.
    A surprising confidence that wasn’t there when they were clutching your arm like a lifeline.

    And then—
    your hand leaves the seat.

    This is where the poetry gets teeth.

    Because the very second your hand lets go,
    their memory lets go too.

    They shoot forward, not just newly balanced but newly authored.
    As if the road opened for them alone.
    As if the wind arrived specifically to applaud their brilliance.
    As if they were born pedalling.

    They do not look back.

    Not out of malice—
    no, something far more ordinary:
    the ease with which humans forget the scaffolding that held them up.

    You stay behind, a ghost with sweat on its forehead, holding nothing but the outline of where the bicycle used to be.
    The street doesn’t clap for you.
    The world does not say your name.
    You are simply the invisible angle that made their straight line possible.

    And here lies the symbolism people rarely talk about:

    Some learn to ride.
    Some learn to take flight on borrowed balance.
    Some learn to claim the journey as if the hands that steadied them were never there at all.

    But you—
    you learn a different lesson.
    A lesson older than bicycles, older than roads, older than praise:

    That some people will ride off with what grew in your palms,
    what bruised your knees,
    what cost you breath—
    and they will not even gift you a backward glance.

    And yet—
    we keep teaching.
    We keep running behind wobbling wheels.
    We keep offering balance that won’t be remembered.

    Because in some strange cosmic arithmetic,
    giving is the only act that leaves a mark
    even when the world pretends it doesn’t.

  • My Soul-Uplifting Secret Weapon: The Three-Year-Old Dynamo

    You know how sometimes, you just feel… blah? Like your soul needs a good jolt, a spiritual espresso shot? Well, I’ve found my personal defibrillator, and surprisingly, it’s under two-feet-tall, power-packed, pocket-sized dynamite-powered dynamo: my niece. Seriously, the sheer abundance of energy that emanates from this tiny human is just unmatched. It’s like she’s running on a perpetual motion machine fueled by pure joy and unadulterated curiosity. Her curiosity? Oh, it’s like the sky – unlimited heights, absolutely no ceiling in sight.
    When she first walks into a new space, it’s hilarious. She’s not charging in like a bull in a china shop. No, no. She’s like a seasoned spy, quietly sizing up the situation. Her eyes dart around, taking in the environment, the people, the furniture arrangement. It’s as if she’s downloading the entire blueprint of her new landscape. We often rush in, guns blazing, ready to conquer, but she reminds us: there’s immense wisdom in knowing thy landscape before launching your mission. It’s a masterclass in observation, really. We could all take a page out of her book before jumping headfirst into new projects or relationships.
    And then, once she’s observed, once she’s learned the lay of the land, she becomes utterly unstoppable. It’s like she hits an internal “unleash the beast” button. Her adventurous side explodes! Suddenly, she’s climbing tables twice her height – looking down at us like a tiny mountaineer conquering Everest. She’s jumping over alternate chairs like they’re Olympic hurdles, and I swear, she’s mastered the art of hanging onto a table’s edge and swaying like a human swing, all while giggling maniacally. It’s nonstop movement, exploring everything, experiencing everything. There’s no fear of failure, just a primal urge to do. When was the last time we approached a new skill or challenge with that much unbridled enthusiasm? We get so bogged down by “what ifs” and “should I’s” that we often forget the pure joy of the attempt. She teaches us to shed the inhibitions and just play.
    What truly amazes me, and what feels like a rarity in today’s screen-obsessed world, is her preference for engaging with people over gadgets. Don’t get me wrong, she knows how to navigate a tablet like a pro when necessary, but it’s always “when necessary.” Her primary mode of interaction isn’t swiping; it’s talking, laughing, demanding, and most importantly, expecting us to participate. If she’s building a tower, we better be holding the next block. If she’s dancing, we better be her backup dancers. It’s a powerful lesson in human connection: putting down our phones and truly being present. She forces us to unplug, look her in the eye, and fully engage. How often do we truly give our full, undivided attention to the people right in front of us, rather than letting our minds wander or our fingers twitch towards our devices?
    And here’s the kicker: her clarity of thought, decision-making, and sheer resilience are astonishing for someone so small. The ability to convey what she wants, to articulate her desires, and then relentlessly pursue them until she gets them? It’s a CEO-level skill packed into a pint-sized package. If she wants that specific toy, she doesn’t hint; she declares. If she falls, she cries for a second, then bounces back with a tenacity that would make a seasoned entrepreneur envious. We, as adults, often waffle, second-guess, and get easily discouraged. She reminds us to have a clear vision, to communicate our needs effectively, and to possess that unshakeable resilience to get back up, dust ourselves off, and try again.
    So, the next time your soul feels a little weary, or your energy seems to have packed its bags and left, I urge you: find your own pocket-sized dynamo. Watch them. Participate with them. Because these tiny humans aren’t just cute; they’re walking, talking, climbing, jumping masterclasses in how to live with abundant energy, boundless curiosity, unwavering resilience, and a deep, soul-uplifting connection to the world around us. They truly are the best kind of therapy.

  • The Knowledge Hoarder’s Dilemma Explained

    In the grand theater of life, we often encounter a peculiar breed of individuals, the “Knowledge Hoarders.” These are not your everyday misers clutching onto their pennies, but rather intellectual dragons guarding their gold—nuggets of wisdom, insights, and information—as if their very existence depended on it. Why this intellectual constipation, you ask? Ah, that’s a tale as old as time, woven with threads of insecurity, self-doubt, and the ever-present fear of being outshone.
    The Fear Factor: More Than Just Stage Fright
    Imagine a magnificent peacock, resplendent in its plumage, yet terrified to fan its tail lest another peacock’s feathers appear just a shade brighter. This, my friends, is the plight of the knowledge hoarder. They’ve accumulated a veritable library in their minds, but sharing it feels akin to voluntarily handing over their crown jewels. The fear isn’t just about someone else stealing their ideas; it’s a multi-headed hydra of anxieties:

    • “What if they know more than me?” This thought, like a tiny intellectual gremlin, whispers doubts into their ears. Their carefully constructed edifice of expertise, they fear, might crumble under the gaze of a more seasoned architect. It’s a classic case of “imposter syndrome” wearing a trench coat and sunglasses, constantly peeking over their shoulder.
    • “What if my knowledge isn’t good enough?” This is the low self-esteem lurking in the shadows, like a timid student in the back of the class, convinced their answer is utterly rubbish even when it’s pure gold. They’ve been taught by the illustrious Professor VT Channal, whose teachings are as profound as the deepest ocean, yet they doubt the worth of their own pearls of wisdom. It’s like having a Michelin-star chef teach you to cook, and then fearing your dish will taste like burnt toast.
    • “What if sharing diminishes my value?” This is perhaps the most ironic fear. They cling to their knowledge as a shipwrecked sailor clings to a piece of driftwood, believing it’s their only lifeline. They forget that knowledge, unlike a slice of pie, doesn’t shrink when shared; it multiplies. It’s a fountain that never runs dry, a lamp whose flame only grows brighter when used to light another. As the old adage goes, “Giving is living.” But for them, sharing feels like a zero-sum game, a constant intellectual tug-of-war where only one can win.
      The VT Channal Paradox: Learning Without Leaking
      Our hypothetical mentor, VT Channal, a visionary in the art of learning and imparting knowledge, teaches with the fluidity of a river carving through stone. Their lessons are like a well-oiled machine, each component perfectly aligned. Yet, some of their disciples, instead of becoming conduits for this wisdom, become intellectual dams, holding back the flow.
      They’ve learned the intricate dance of algorithms, the subtle art of persuasion, the profound depths of philosophy. They’ve seen the elegant simplicity of complex ideas, like a magician revealing the secret behind a dazzling trick. But instead of performing their own show, they keep the rabbit firmly in the hat, lest someone else steal the spotlight. It’s like being given the keys to a Ferrari, but only ever driving it in the garage.
      Breaking the Chains of Intellectual Stinginess
      So, how do we break free from this self-imposed intellectual incarceration? How do we encourage these knowledge dragons to share their treasure, allowing others to bask in its glow?
      Firstly, we must understand that sharing knowledge is not an act of surrender; it’s an act of empowerment. When you share, you solidify your own understanding, you open yourself to new perspectives, and you become a catalyst for growth in others. It’s like sharpening a knife; the more you use it, the sharper it becomes.
      Secondly, let’s remember that humility is the fertile ground from which true wisdom springs. No one knows everything, and the beauty of knowledge lies in its endless horizons. Embracing this humility allows us to not only share what we know but also to remain open to learning from others, creating a virtuous cycle of intellectual exchange.
      Finally, let’s collectively redefine what it means to be an “expert.” It’s not about being the sole possessor of information; it’s about being a bridge-builder, a facilitator, a spark that ignites curiosity in others. Because in the end, knowledge that remains unshared is like a lamp hidden under a bushel—it exists, but it illuminates no one. So, let’s throw open the intellectual floodgates and let the wisdom flow, for a rising tide, after all, lifts all boats.

  • The Blank Page: A Tyrant’s Canvas and a Muse’s Whisper

    There it sits, pristine and patient, a sentinel of unwritten stories, a monument to unformed ideas. The blank page. Oh, how it mocks us! It’s a silent, white abyss, daring us to fill its void, a pristine landscape that, at times, feels less like an opportunity and more like a taunt. Like a stern guruji, eyes narrowed, demanding the correct mantra, while your mind, a chaotic Bengaluru traffic jam, refuses to quiet down.
    We’ve all been there, haven’t we? Staring at that gleaming expanse, feeling our mental wellspring dry up faster than the ground in Cubbon Park after a long summer. It’s like a supermodel, impossibly perfect and utterly intimidating, looking at your dishevelled, uninspired self and scoffing, “Kya yaar, is that all you’ve got?” The audacity! It’s enough to make you want to throw your pen (or, more likely, your laptop) across the room in a fit of melodramatic frustration, perhaps even burst into an impromptu, rain-drenched dance number of despair, just as the first drops begin to form puddles on the office floor.
    The Whisper of Brilliance
    And then, just when you’re about to surrender to the siren call of a cricket match or a plate of hot pakoras, a faint stirring begins. It’s a whisper, a tremor, a mere ghost of a thought. It’s the feeble voice, hesitant at first, like a shy bride peeking from behind her veil. But then, it gains traction, gathering shades of brilliance, flashes of excellence. It’s a thought so spontaneous, so perfectly formed, that it catches you completely off guard. You find yourself blinking, almost physically recoiling, asking yourself in disbelief, “Did that just come from me? Am I channeling some ancient rishi?”
    It’s the literary equivalent of finding a crisp 2000 rupee note in an old kurta pocket just when you thought you were broke – a delightful surprise, utterly unexpected, and profoundly satisfying. This isn’t the labored, forced creativity that feels like slogging through Bengaluru traffic at rush hour; this is the effortless flow, a sudden gush from a hidden spring, like finding pure, sweet water in a desert well. It’s the intellectual equivalent of hitting a perfect cover drive without even thinking about it, or uttering a witty retort in rapid-fire Kannada that lands with the precision of a master comedian, long after the chai has gone cold and you’re alone in the shower. (Because, let’s be honest, all the best jugalbandi comebacks are shower-borne.)
    A Cruel Tease and Comical Contrasts
    This fleeting moment of genius, this unexpected epiphany, is an oxymoron in itself: a spontaneous thought that feels both alien and intimately familiar. It’s a cruel tease, this muse of ours. It offers a glimpse of what we’re capable of, a tantalizing peek into the depths of our own dormant brilliance, only to retreat into the shadows just as quickly as it appeared. It’s like that one perfect Diwali rangoli that happens when you have absolutely no guests coming over, or when a magically appearing waterfall cascades down a building in Manyata Tech Park during a sudden downpour, transforming roads into waterways for boats instead of cars.
    And the contrast! The yawning chasm between the absolute barrenness of our initial struggle and the sudden, vivid burst of inspiration is almost comical. One moment, you’re wrestling with mental tumbleweeds, the next, your mind is a grand Diwali fireworks display over the Ulsoor Lake, dazzling and vibrant. It’s a Jekyll and Hyde transformation, where the meek and mundane gives way to the magnificent and unexpected, like a quiet street suddenly erupting into a vibrant wedding procession.
    So, the next time that blank page stares you down, remember: it’s not just a tormentor, it’s a stage. And on that stage, amidst the pregnant silence, a surprising performer is waiting in the wings. It might be a feeble voice, but listen closely. For within its fragile tones lie shades of brilliance, flashes of excellence, and the exhilarating possibility of surprising yourself with something truly, unequivocally, you. And that, my friend, is a performance worth waiting for, even if it does involve a healthy dose of dramatic dramebaazi beforehand. After all, what’s creativity without a little bit of internal melodrama?

  • The Quiet Revolution: My Journey from the Shadows of “Can’t I?” to “Let’s Roll!” (Even Without Seeing It)

    Life, especially in our bustling, team-spirited, and often visually-driven offices in Bengaluru, feels like a perpetual game. A game where everyone’s rolling the dice, strategizing, and making their moves, often with a clear sight of the board. For an introvert like me, it’s often more of a quiet observation from the sidelines, a mental tally of tasks and team dynamics. And then there’s the added layer – the fact that I navigate this world not with my eyes, but with my other senses, my cane, and a healthy dose of intuition. So, the “Can I?” versus “Can’t I?” debate that rages in everyone’s mind often felt like a doubly muted question for me, amplified by the well-meaning whispers of “poor thing” or the often-limiting “just let me do it for you.”
    For years, my internal monologue was a strict, overprotective project manager, constantly reminding me of potential blunders. “You want to volunteer for that intricate craft project? Log kya kahenge? (What will people say?) And what if you mess up the pieces, especially when you can’t even see the instructions?” Or, “You want to arrange the materials for everyone? Arre, beta, it’s too fiddly! You might misplace them, or worse, get in someone’s way.” It was a constant negotiation with myself, a mental game of Snakes and Ladders where my inner voice was always landing on a snake. It felt like being offered a chance to lead a team activity, but hesitating to even touch the presentation, not just because I was shy, but also because I worried if I’d miss a visual cue or if someone would judge my unique approach. The emptiness of that “what if” felt far more frustrating than any missed opportunity.
    My turning point wasn’t a grand, game-changing move, but a series of small, often surprisingly collaborative, moments during a volunteering activity at the office. We were tasked with making tactile Ludo kits for a local school for blind children. I had a vision for contributing beyond just assembling – I wanted to be involved in the making of the board itself, something I could truly feel and understand independently. My introverted self wanted to simply offer to help with the simpler, more repetitive tasks, to remain in the background. But then, a stronger impulse, a little voice in my mind, nudged me. “You always wanted to create something truly impactful, didn’t you? What’s the worst that can happen? The squares are wonky? The pieces don’t fit perfectly? You’re already ‘blind’ to visual perfection, so what’s the difference?” Encouraged by this audacious thought, and perhaps the comforting hum of the office air conditioning, I decided to take the plunge.
    I was, predictably, a bit awkward. I couldn’t cut the cardboard perfectly straight, relying on touch to gauge the edges. I couldn’t draw the lines for the grid; instead, I used string and glue to create raised boundaries for the squares. My counting of the spaces felt slow, as I had to physically trace each one. People paused, some offered to take over (“Bhaiya, let me just draw these lines quickly for you!”), which, while helpful, also highlighted what I couldn’t perceive. But you know what else happened? Krishna, my always-reliable visual interpreter, who usually gets absorbed in troubleshooting code, turned to me with genuine curiosity. “How are you making sure the squares are even?” he asked, his voice intrigued. “Can I help you with the borders? I can tell you if they’re perfectly parallel.” He then proceeded to carefully guide my hand, helping me lay down the string for the boundaries, his voice describing the visual alignment as my fingers felt the placement.
    That afternoon, I realized a profound truth: it’s better to act and “mess up” than to avoid and remain a spectator. Failure, especially for someone creating something tangible without sight, isn’t a dead end; it’s more like a crucial sensory guide, a textured map for the next attempt. It’s the universe’s way of saying, “Alright, craftsman, that wasn’t quite the right angle. Try again, but this time, feel the pressure of the glue more evenly, or listen to the subtle shifts in the cardboard as you press down.” It’s the difference between never trying to build anything because you fear precision, and a few wonky edges leading to a deeper understanding of materials and a more confident hand.
    Think of it this way: my hands are my primary tools, my mind a sophisticated blueprint reader. If I keep them idle, fearing what they might not achieve perfectly, I’ll never build anything. I’ll just sit there, unproductive, my potential for creation untapped. When I act, even if the result isn’t visually perfect, I’m engaging those tools. I’m gathering tactile information, understanding the resistance of materials, the nuances of different textures. It’s like a chef cooking a new dish without seeing it. A dough that feels too sticky might need more flour. A spice that smells too strong might need less. Without trying, you’ll never know if your creation is a functional masterpiece or a unique, personalized delight.
    And when you “fail,” when your squares aren’t perfectly square or your pieces don’t quite stand straight, boy, do you learn. You grow. You evolve. It’s like adding new, valuable textures to your understanding, creating a richer, more robust skill set. That initially awkward Ludo-making attempt led to Krishna, and then others, joining in. My colleagues, initially hesitant, became an impromptu assembly line. Someone started helping me find different textured materials for the pieces, describing their shapes and weights as I felt them. Another colleague helped me find a textured fabric for the board itself, checking its smoothness. Each perceived “mess up” was a collaborative opportunity, a chance for others to lend their skills and for me to refine my methods. We didn’t just make a Ludo set; we created a shared experience, a tactile testament to collective effort and inclusion. The entire team rallied, turning a personal challenge into a truly accessible Ludo kit for the children.
    So, the next time that “Can I?” vs. “Can’t I?” dilemma surfaces in your office, remember this: the fear of imperfection, of doing things differently, is a fragile barrier, easily overcome with a single, brave move, especially if that move is guided by touch and a spirit of joyful experimentation. Don’t be that person who regrets not rolling the dice on a new project. Don’t be the one who whispers “someone else can do it better” when the opportunity to contribute arises, especially when your unique senses are itching to make an impact. Take that leap, even if it feels like stepping onto an unfamiliar board. Because in the grand, vibrant, and often visually-centric game of corporate life, the most enjoyable plays are often those that are felt, shaped, and experienced in ways that go beyond mere sight. As they say in Bengaluru, “Prayatna maadre, yella maadbahudu!” (If you try, you can do anything!), even if that “doing” involves making a Ludo board for the blind, one confident, if sometimes fumbling, tactical move at a time. And that, my friends, is a game worth playing.