When Public Intimacy Turns Into Public Anxiety

 

When Public Intimacy Turns Into Public Anxiety

The surge in obscene public displays of affection is no longer a fringe concern—it is a social warning bell. Recent incidents, including videos of young couples indulging in explicit sexual behaviour inside the Rapid Rail in Ghaziabad, have exposed a disturbing collapse of public decency. What is being passed off as “freedom” today is, in truth, a brazen disregard for society.

Let us be clear: this is not about love. Love has always existed in India—quietly, deeply, and with dignity. This is about exhibitionism masquerading as modernity. Public transport, parks, and streets are shared civic spaces, not private bedrooms. When intimacy turns explicit in such spaces, it violates not only social norms but the comfort and psychological safety of others—especially children.

What is more alarming is the absence of shame. The current culture does not merely tolerate indecency; it rewards it with views, likes, and viral fame. The camera has become a silent accomplice. This is not rebellion—it is unabashed vulgarity. A generation raised on instant gratification has confused visibility with validation and freedom with excess.

However, placing the entire blame on Gen Z would be dishonest. Young people do not emerge from a vacuum. They are products of parenting that hesitated to discipline, schooling that avoided moral conversations, and a society that labelled every correction as “moral policing.” In our eagerness to appear progressive, we abandoned the responsibility to guide.

India has long prided itself on being a young nation—not merely in numbers, but in values. Youthfulness without restraint is not strength; it is volatility. When public spaces become scenes of discomfort and embarrassment, the collective trust that binds society begins to erode. A nation does not lose its character overnight—it loses it when boundaries are mocked and silence replaces correction.

Freedom was never meant to be lawlessness. Rights without responsibility become entitlement. No constitution, no culture, and no civilisation survives on unchecked individualism. Decency in public is not repression; it is the basic grammar of civil life.

This is not a call for surveillance squads or public shaming. It is a call for cultural introspection. Parents must reclaim their role as moral anchors, not silent spectators. Schools must stop treating value education as outdated. Society must find the courage to draw lines without apologising for them.

If we continue to romanticise public vulgarity as boldness and restraint as regressive, we will raise a generation fluent in desire but illiterate in dignity. And that is a cost far greater than momentary outrage.

The real question is no longer about youth behaviour—it is about adult failure. Have we taught our children that freedom is power, or have we forgotten to teach them that restraint is wisdom?

© Gaurav Sharma Lakhi

#PDA #nudity_in_public #vulgarity #lovemaking #genz #sexuality #sex #publicsex #trains #rapidtrain #metrotrain 

That Quarter-Pune

 That Quarter, Pune (1985–1989)

This small two-room quarter in Pune does not look like much today. Its walls have aged, the paint has dulled, and the door seems tired of opening and closing. It feels as if, after we left, it did not allow anyone else to inhabit it—as if it waited for us to return, like a sincere beloved. Yet between 1985 and 1989, this was not merely a structure; it was a universe—our universe. Those were my formative years, a crucial phase of my school life, when the foundations of who I would become were quietly being laid.

That door opened into our living room—spare in furniture but rich in life. A charpoy, two wooden chairs, a coffee table, a few flower pots (my father was fond of them), and a black-and-white television made up the space. Most evenings, the room glittered with laughter and conversation. My father’s friendly nature ensured a steady stream of visitors, and the house often felt larger than its dimensions.

The adjacent room was bigger and far more versatile. It was was our bedroom, study room, and resting place—our shared retreat. The doors of both rooms opened into a reasonably spacious veranda. On one side were the bathroom and lavatory; on the other, the kitchen—functional, familiar, and always lively with my mother’s culinary skills.

The large backyard was lovingly turned into a garden by my parents. Modest yet generous, it held four trees like four elders in a family: mango, guava, gular, and sharifa. Each had its own season, temperament, and way of enchanting us. The mango taught patience, the guava abundance, the gular silence, and the sharifa unexpected sweetness. I did not know then that I was growing alongside them, quietly building memories that would outlast seasons.

That backyard became my private stadium. I played cricket there through long afternoons—alone. No applause, no teammates, no scores to settle. Just a bat, a ball, and unending conversations with myself. Perhaps that solitude trained me early—to stay with myself, to imagine, to persist without witnesses; to prepare, to plan, to create, to introspect, and to evolve.

Those two rooms shaped more than my daily routine; they shaped my inner geography. Dreams learned to remain small yet stubborn there. Failures learned to sit quietly in corners. Even hope learned not to announce itself. Life was not dramatic in that quarter—but it was steadily, profoundly formative.

Looking at this photograph now, I realise the house did not merely give me comfort; it gave me direction. It made no promises, yet it prepared me for everything. What I am today has many addresses, but this one remains foundational. It taught a child to dream—and to work patiently toward shaping those dreams.

Some homes leave us when we leave them.

This one stayed—and perhaps, will stay forever.

©Gaurav Sharma Lakhi 

#Pune #childhood #home #memories 

Sahir Ludhiyanvi

      Sahir Ludhianvi

The Poet who still unsettles us

If Sahir Ludhianvi were to be understood in one word, that word would be refusal.

Refusal of false comfort. Refusal of decorative poetry. Refusal to be mad in love and forget everything. Refusal of a world that expected art to soothe power instead of questioning it.

Sahir’s rebellion did not begin in ideology; it began at home. His father was wealthy but tyrannical. His mother, Sardar Begum, chose dignity over material security and raised her son through instability, displacement, and social humiliation. From her, Sahir learned that prosperity without humanity is a form of violence—and that silence in the face of injustice is complicity. Those early wounds never healed but found expression in verse.

When Sahir arrived in Bombay, the film industry welcomed talent but resisted self-respect. Lyricists were expected to be obedient, grateful, and replaceable. Once, when a producer casually suggested that lyrics were secondary to music, Sahir quietly gathered his papers and walked out—despite needing the money. Later, the same industry was compelled to call him back on his terms. Sahir went on to become one of the lyricists to demand—and secure remuneration equal to top music directors. This was not arrogance, it was principle. For Sahir, words were not accessories. They were the soul of the song.

This refusal to compromise shaped his personal life as well. His love for Amrita Pritam remains one of the most poignant, unresolved relationships in modern literary history. They loved deeply, but Sahir never surrendered to permanence. Sometimes he did not arrive when expected. Sometimes he remained silent, cigarette in hand, eyes distant, emotions boiling, verses dancing in his head. Amrita later wrote that even his silence was a Nazm. Perhaps Sahir feared that emotional security might blunt his restlessness. For him, freedom, both intellectual and moral, was sacred, and even above love.

Despite fame and financial success, Sahir avoided social glamour. He disliked parties, distrusted applause, and preferred solitude. While he wrote some of Hindi cinema’s most lyrical love songs, his inner gaze remained fixed on war, hunger, exploitation, and hypocrisy. Romance, in Sahir’s hands, never became escapism. Even tenderness carried awareness.

His songs were not written merely to be remembered; they were written to unsettle. Sahir’s lyrics are the purest translation of sentiments with a strict rationality.

Songs as Moral Documents

Sahir Ludhianvi’s film songs form a parallel history of independent India—its promises, betrayals, and unanswered questions. Every song he wrote is a literary gem. His meaningful verses pierces into the heart and remain etched.  Among his most enduring works are:

“Jinhe Naaz Hai Hind Par” (Pyaasa, 1957)

 — a blistering indictment of social inequality

“Yeh Duniya Agar Mil Bhi Jaaye” (Pyaasa, 1957)

 A blatant rejection of hollow success

“Jaane Woh Kaise Log The” (Pyaasa, 1957)

 — moral loneliness turned into melody

“Aage Bhi Jaane Na Tu” (Waqt, 1965)

— a meditation on time and helplessness

“Chalo Ek Baar Phir Se” (Gumrah, 1963)

— dignity in separation and acceptance of reality

“Main Zindagi Ka Saath Nibhata Chala Gaya” (Hum Dono, 1961)

— stoic acceptance without illusion

“Tu Hindu Banega Na Musalman Banega” (Dhool Ka Phool, 1959) 

— fearless humanism

“Sansaar Se Bhaage Phirte Ho” (Chitralekha, 1964)

 — a challenge to false renunciation

“Tora Man Darpan Kehlaye” (Kaajal, 1965)

— ethics over ritual

“Kabhi Kabhi Mere Dil Mein” (Kabhi Kabhie, 1976) 

— love softened by time

Songs essential to understanding Sahir’s moral universe are:

“Allah Tero Naam”, “Eeshwar Tero Naam” (Hum Dono),

“Tang Aa Chuke Hain Kashmakash-e-Zindagi Se Hum” (Pyaasa),

“Yeh Desh Hai Veer Jawanon Ka” (Naya Daur), and

“Abhi Na Jao Chhod Kar” (Hum Dono).

These are just the songs on different moods and genre. It will be injustice to Sahir's poetic genius to pick just ten songs from his 'Deewan' and label them as his best. If we choose any ten of his songs, they will form not a playlist, but a moral archive.

An Uncomfortable Legacy

In his final years, Sahir remained intellectually restless and emotionally solitary. When asked about God, he did not sermonize. He simply observed, “If God existed, there wouldn’t be so much injustice.”

Sahir Ludhianvi died in 1980, unmarried, without heirs or institutions carrying his name. What he left behind were words that refuse comfort—songs that still interrogate society, love, and power.

Sahir is remembered not because he wrote beautifully,

But because he refused to beautify lies.

In an age eager for easy patriotism and market-friendly art, Sahir remains relevant precisely because he was inconvenient. He reminds us that poetry is not meant to decorate the world—but to question it.

Author’s Note

I have long believed that poetry is not meant to comfort us—it is meant to awaken us. Sahir Ludhianvi has always stood out to me not merely as a great lyricist, but as a moral voice who refused to make peace with injustice, hypocrisy, or convenient lies.

This article is not a biography, nor a scholarly critique. It is a literary reflection—an attempt to understand Sahir as a human being whose life, choices, silences, and songs were deeply intertwined. The songs mentioned here are not ranked by popularity, but by the ethical and emotional weight they continue to carry. If Sahir still unsettles us today, it is because the questions he asked remain unanswered.

— Gaurav Sharma Lakhi

This article is a literary interpretation based on documented accounts and critical readings of Sahir Ludhianvi’s life and work.

If you enjoyed the article, feel free to share it with readers who believe poetry must have a conscience.

#sahir #sahirludhiyanvi #poetry #shayar #indiancinema #indianfilms #bollywood #urdupoetry #urdughazal #SahirAmrita #Amritapritam #hindisongs #bollywoodsongs #gauravlakhi #gauravlakhibooks 

 कृष्ण - यशोदा 

       "मैया में बढ़ो हो गयो"

 कान्हा क्या आए, नन्द भवन मंदिर सा हो गया था। मंद मंद घंटियों के आवाज़ आती रहती थी। केसर, चंदन और मोगरे की सुगंध आती थी जिससे सुवासित होने के लिए हवा वहां से हटती ही नहीं थी। मोर बोलते थे जैसे कान्हा को आवाज़ लगा रहे हों। 

आज भी वातावरण भिन्न ना था। नन्द का आंगन कृष्ण की पैजनिया और कमरबंदी के घुंघरुओं की झनकार पर इतरा रहा था।

माखन की गंध में लिपटे नन्हें कन्हैया के कजरारे नैन नंद भवन के आंगन के हर कोने से बतिया रहे हैं। मैया यशोदा स्नान की तैयारी कर रही हैं।

मैया बोलीं —“आ जा, कान्हा, आज तो खूब माटी में लोट आयो है। तोहे नहवा दूं तब माखन खाइयो।”

कन्हैया ने होंठ फुलाए, गालों पे हथेली रखी और बोले, “अरे मैया, अब तो मैं बड़ो हो गयो हूँ। तोसे नहावे में अब लाज आवे है।”

मैया हँस पड़ीं, “तू कब बड़ो हो गयो रे लाला?”

कन्हैया छाती तान के बोले, “देखो न मैया, अब तो मैं तीन बरस को हो गयो। बाबा भी कहत रहे थे, ‘हमार कन्हा अब सयानों हो गयो।’ कान्हा की बड़ी-बड़ी पलकें तितली के पंखों की तरह नृत्य कर रही थीं।

“अब मैं खुद नहाऊँगो, तुम जाओ।”

इतना कहकर कन्हैया ने मटकी उठाई, पर दो कदम चलते ही धप्प!

पानी गिर गयो, कन्हैया खुद भी भीग गयो।

मैया बोलीं, “अरे रे! यो है खुद नहाना?”

कन्हैया आँख मिचकाते बोले —

“मैया, पानी तो शरारती है, यो खुद गिर गयो। मैं तो ठीक ही कर रहो थो।”

मैं तो ठीक ही कर रहो थो।”

मैया ने जैसे ही आगे बढ़कर कन्हैया को गोद में उठाना चाहा,

कन्हैया झट से बोले —

“ना ना मैया! अब गोद में भी न उठाओ। लाला अब बड़ा हो गयो है।”

यशोदा जी ने रीझ कर कन्हैया की बलैया ली और अन्य कार्यों में लग गई। 

कन्हैया दूसरी मटकी भर लाए। आधी भरी मटकी से जल छलक रहा था। ठुमकती चाल पर पैजनियां झनक रही थी।

मैया को दूसरे कार्यों में लगा देखा तो पहुंचे मैया के पास और

 उनके आँचल को कसकर पकड़ के बोले, “देख मैया, बड़ों तो मैं हो गयो हूं। पर मैया… तुम यहीं बैठी रहियो। अकेले नहाने में डर भी तो आवे है।”

मैया यशोदा की आँखें भर आईं। वो कन्हैया को सीने से लगाकर बोलीं, “लाला, तू जितनो भी बड़ो हो जावै, मैया के लिए तो सदा नन्हो कन्हा ही रहेगो।”

कन्हैया मुस्काए। हाथों को मैया के गले में डाल बोले, “तो फिर मैया, आज तुम ही नहवा दो। कल से मैं सच में बड़ो हो जाऊँगो।”

मैया ने कन्हैया को हृदय से चिपका लिया।

© गौरव शर्मा

#krishna #कृष्ण #यशोदा #krishnayashoda #वृंदावन #मथुरा #कृष्णलीला #krishnaleela #mathura #vrindawan #iskon #devotee #kelrishnabhakti #राधा #radha #राधारानी 

श्रीकृष्ण चले परिक्रमा कू

राधे राधे 

श्रीकृष्ण चले परिक्रमा कू

संध्या दुपहरी के द्वार खटखटा रही थी। बृज की रज आकाश को अपनी आभा में डुबो कर केसरिया करने को आतुर हो चली थी। कदम्ब की पत्तियां एक दूसरे से सट गई थीं क्योंकि उसकी छाया तले श्रीकृष्ण बैठे थे। उनके होंठ बंसी के कानों को निहाल कर रहे थे। तान ऐसी थी मानो वृंदावन की हर डाल, हर पत्ता सुनने को रुक गया हो।

राधा जी पास बैठी थीं—नेत्र अर्धमुदित, देह स्थिर, मन पूर्णतः कृष्ण में लीन।

तान थमी।

कृष्ण ने सहज भाव से कहा—

“श्रीजी, कल तो मैं गिरिराज जी की परिक्रमा लगावे जाउंगो।”

राधा जी ने नेत्र खोले। मुस्कान में लाज भी थी और अधिकार 

भी। “बृज बिना परिक्रमा कैसी?”

कृष्ण हँसे—“बृज ही तो परिक्रमा है, श्रीजी।”

“और मैं?” राधा जी ने भौहें सिकोड़ कर कहा। उत्तर तो उन्हें पता ही था।

संध्या को मधुमंगल, सुबाहु, भद्र, सुभद्र, वरूथप, श्रीदामा आदि ने सारे नंदगांव को परिक्रमा का संदेश दे दिया। बरसाने में ललिता, विशाखा, इंदुलता हरकारिन बन गईं।

बृज की गृहणियों ने छप्पन पकवान बनाने आरंभ कर दिए।

 सारे बृज ने रात से गुहार लगाई, “आज जल्दी गुजर जाओ तुम”। सूरज देवता सोए ही नहीं। बृजवासी इतने उतावले थे कि सूर्यदेव अपनी पहली किरण भेजते उससे पहले ही नन्द के द्वार पर पहुंच कर कान्हा को आवाज़ लगा दी।

सब गोवर्धन की ओर बढ़े तो देखा सारी गैयां और ग्वाले भी पीछे-पीछे आ रहे हैं। 

परिक्रमा आरंभ हुई। राधा जी, श्रीकृष्ण और उनकी टोली सबसे आगे। फिर गाय और ग्वाले। उनके पीछे बृजवासी।

दानघाटी पर पहुँचते ही बृज की चंचलता जाग उठी। गोपियाँ श्रीकृष्ण का मार्ग रोककर खड़ी हो गईं।

यह वही स्थान था जहाँ प्रेम नियम बन जाता है और नियम हँसी में बदल जाते हैं।

कृष्ण ने यहाँ गोपियों को दान में केवल माखन नहीं दिया—अपनी चितवन, अपनी मुस्कान, और बृज की आलौकिकता दे दी।

हरिदेव मंदिर की घंटियाँ धीमे-धीमे बज रही थीं। यहाँ भक्ति का स्वर ऊँचा नहीं, गहरा होता है। गोप-ग्वालों ने भजन छेड़ा, जिसमें न राग की चिंता थी, न ताल की, केवल समर्पण था। गैया अपनी गर्दन मटका कर घंटियों की झनकार उनके स्वर में मिला रही थीं।

 राधा जी की दृष्टि में भक्ति और प्रेम का भेद ही मिट गया।

भजनों पर थिरकते हुए जतीपुरा आ गया। यह वह स्थान है जहाँ पग पड़ते ही जीवन धन्य हो जाता है। मन से सारे संताप निकल भागते हैं। रोम-रोम रोमांच से भर जाता है। भाव ऐसा बनता है जैसे सर्वस्व प्राप्त हो गया हो। यहाँ चेतन और ज्ञानी भी पागलों सा व्यवहार करने लगते हैं। जतीपुरा में सेवा मौन होकर भी पूर्ण हो जाती है। यहाँ की मिट्टी में त्याग बसा है, तप का स्पर्श है।

कृष्ण ने गिरिराज जी की ओर देखकर कहा, “जो शरण में आए, उसका भार गिरिराज जी स्वयं उठा लेते हैं।”

राधा जी समझ गईं—यह वाक्य भक्त के लिए भी है।

आगे बढ़कर गिरिराज जी के मुखारविंद पर पहुँचे। यहाँ गिरिराज पर्वत का स्वरूप ऐसा था मानो स्वयं श्रीहरि का मुख हो—शांत, करुण, स्थिर।

राधा जी ने यहाँ मौन धारण कर लिया।

श्रीकृष्ण ने कहा—“श्रीजी, गिरिराज जी बोले ना हैं पर सुनें सब हैं।”

“जानूं हूँ मैं। कह दियो मन ही मन और गिरिराज जी ने सुन भी लियो है”।

भोग पधराया गया। गिरिराज जी ने बड़े चाव से अरोगा।

एक-एक करके सारे ब्रजवासियों ने गिरिराज जी को ढोग दिया। 

गैया तलहटी का प्रसाद अरोगने लगीं।

पग आगे बढ़ाए तो मानो चिपक गए हों। जो आए थे उनका जाने का मन नहीं था, जिनके पास आए थे, उनका भेजने का मन नहीं था।

जैसे तैसे गिरिराज जी की आज्ञा मिली। अब सुरभि कुंड की छटा ने सबको मोह लिया। सबकी स्मृति में इंद्रदेव के मानमर्दन की पुनरावृत्ति हो गई।

गोविंद कुंड का जल अत्यंत शीतल था। यहाँ थके चरण विश्राम पाते हैं और थका मन विश्वास। राधा जी ने जल से कृष्ण के चरण पखारे और कृष्ण ने राधा जी के। बृजवासियों को स्पष्ट संदेश था ‘सेवा ही सबसे ऊँची साधना है’।

फिर आया श्याम कुंड।

यहाँ प्रेम गाढ़ा हो जाता है, शब्द छोटे पड़ जाते हैं। हवा की ताल पर नृत्य करते जल में आकाश भी राधा-नाम सा लगता है।

कृष्ण ने धीमे स्वर में कहा—

“यह कुंड न है श्रीजी, मेरो जो प्रेम है ना, वा की पराकाष्ठा है।”

राधा जी के नेत्रों में हर्ष की आद्रता छलक आई।

पास ही था राधा कुंड। “जाओ, कान्हा, एक बार और डुबकी लगा लो”।

 राधा जी का आदेश हुआ तो श्रीकृष्ण ने पल भर की भी देर ना लगाई। अब श्रीजी के कपोलों पर अश्रु धारा बह निकली थी। कृष्ण ने कुंड में तैरते हुए अश्रुओं को कुंड में गिरने का संकेत कर दिया। राधा जी का मुख स्वत: ही आगे की ओर झुक गया। अब प्रत्येक बृजवासी कुंड में स्नान करना चाहता था। कुछ ने सारे शरीर पर कुंड के जल से छींट लगा लिए। लोटों में जल लेकर लोग स्वयं पर डाल रहे थे मानो जानते हों, ऐसा करने से जीते जी मोक्ष मिल जाएगा।

राधाकुंड और श्यामकुंड एक-दूसरे को देख कर मुस्कुरा रहे थे। दोनों अलग होकर भी अभिन्न थे। यहाँ राधा-कृष्ण का द्वैत मिट जाता है। बृज जानता है—जहाँ राधा हैं, वहीं श्याम हैं।

कान वाले गिरिराज जी को अपनी-अपनी मनोकामना की पोटली थमा कर सब अंत में पहुँच ग‌ए मानसी गंगा। 

कृष्ण के आगमन की खबर सुन ना जाने कौन मानसी गंगा के घाटों को रंग बिरंगे फूलों से सजा गया था।

जल शांत था, पर उसमें बृज की सारी कथाएँ तैर रही थीं। उसमें समाहित बृज का यश सबको निहाल करने को तैयार था।

यहाँ परिक्रमा पूर्ण हो जाती है, पर यात्रा नहीं रुकती। मन और भीतर की ओर चल पड़ता है। 

वापसी की यात्रा आरंभ हुई। संध्या अनमने मन से उतर आई थी। कृष्ण ने बंसी उठाई। तान गूँजी।

राधा जी फिर मंत्रमुग्ध हो गईं। बृज की रज ने सब ढक लिया— कथा को भी, पात्रों को भी— बस लीला रह गई।

एक प्रश्न श्रीजी के मन में था। “अचानक परिक्रमा करवे की क्यों सूझी, कान्हा?”

श्रीकृष्ण के अधरों पर मुस्कान थिरक ग‌ई। “गिरिराज जी ने कही मोसू, आपके दर्शन करावे कू”।

श्रीकृष्ण फिर से बंसी बजाने लगे। राधा जी ने नेत्र बंद किए और गिरिराज जी को धन्यवाद कहने लगीं।

                   *********************

  ©GauravSharma

#कृष्ण #krishna #radha #बृज #vrindavan #brijwasi #mathura #radhakrishna #in dresh 

   

MATHEMATICS, EGO & ME

MATHEMATICS, EGO & ME 

 It was 2006, six years after I had given up my job and was content teaching at my own institute.

I was aware that people thought I was haughty, carrying an intolerably irritating superiority complex. I, however, dismissed it as their covetousness.

One day, a good friend of mine from Pune called me. He informed me that a certain Mr. Apte, also from Pune, was conducting a Personality Development workshop in Faridabad.

“Mr. Apte is a celebrated motivational speaker and trainer,” he insisted, urging me to attend. I gave all sorts of excuses—my busy schedule, my parents’ health, and other flimsy pretexts.

Although May is comparatively relaxed for teachers, I didn’t want to go. I believed my personality needed no rectification. Finally, my friend said he was coming to Delhi to attend it and that I must accompany him. To oblige him, I reluctantly agreed.

It was a three-day workshop at a motel in Faridabad. The fee was three thousand eight hundred rupees, which I painfully parted with—only for the sake of my friend.

During the introductions, it became evident that among the eighty participants, I had the most humble social status. There were Chief Medical Officers from renowned hospitals, ACPs of Haryana and Delhi Police, CEOs, and senior government officers.

The ghost of superiority within me stepped back and waited, curious as to why such refined gentlemen had gathered there.
The post-lunch session on the very first day, however, turned out to be the moment that changed my life.

Mr. Apte drew a large square on the board and divided it with four vertical and four horizontal lines, creating smaller squares. He asked us to count how many squares were in total. Some found 16, others 17, some 20, and a few 24.

My answer was 30—the highest anyone had quoted.
Mr. Apte came to me and asked if I was sure. My ego answered for me:
“Yes, sir. Pretty sure. I’m a Mathematics teacher. This is routine work for me.”

“Oh, I see,” said Mr. Apte. “Still, I suggest you recount.”

“No, sir, I can’t be wrong. I spend ten hours a day with this subject,” I replied, smugly.

Mr. Apte smirked and called me to the podium.
“Mr. Sharma, we’ll return to the squares later. First, let’s have a fun exercise. Gentlemen,” he addressed the others, “I’ve chosen him because he is a Mathematics teacher.”

He took an A4-sized sheet of paper, held it from two opposite corners, and asked me to tear it with a punch. As I punched, he withdrew his lower hand, foiling my attempt. He asked me to try again—and once more withdrew just in time. A third attempt failed too. I stood there, exasperated and exhausted.

“No, sir, it will not tear if you keep doing this,” I said when he asked me to try again.

Smiling, he looked at me. “And you realized that only after three blows?”

I sheepishly met his eyes, pretending shame.

He continued, “Each blow was harder than the last—enough to knock me down if I had been in the way. Actually, Mr. Sharma, you realized the truth after the first attempt. But your ego stopped you from admitting failure so early. You hoped I wouldn’t trick you again.”

I wanted to run away from the hall. But he wasn’t finished.

“And now, about the squares—you counted 30. But I can prove there are more, even though mathematics is not my routine job. Count all the squares including the outer outline, and then count them excluding the outline. That doubles the number you found.”

Placing his hand on my shoulder, he concluded,
“Mr. Sharma, there will always be more to learn. Improvement has no finishing line.”

Years after that incident, I still try to keep my ego in check. I strive to be a better teacher and a better human being.
Thank you, Mr. Apte, for the invaluable lesson.

#mathematics #EGO #teachers #life #relationship #math #blogpost #bloggers

Death & Mercy

         DEATH & MERCY

                   .........A poem by Akshika Sharma

Two figures sat at the cliff, side by side

Above a forest set aflame.

The sky grew dark as fire cried,

And every ash recalled a name.

The trees, they crackled ancient cries

As bark and bone begin to fade.

The smoke curled up like whispered lies

From prayers that time itself betrayed.

Then Mercy, cloaked in grieving white,

Spoke soft as though to stir the dead:

"How does one mourn such brutal light-

A blaze where loved ones gently bled?"

Death watched the flame, yet didn't stir,

Her eyes like tombs that knew too much.

"Grief starts", she said, "When hearts confer-

I wanted all of it to touch.

To want to fall, to break in dust,

And gather ruins, one by one-

To open wide because you must

And hope beneath no sun.

He asked her then, "Why don't you begin?

Why never weep like mortal men?"

She smiled - A mask too tight and thin - 

And turned ger gaze away again.

"Grief is no stream one dares to taste -

It floods, it drowns - it doesn't ask.

To sip is folly, done in haste,

For I would lose my sacred mask.

I carry more than souls just passed -

The ones who soon will be in my arm. 

The ones long gone, whose echoes last,

In stone and soil and smoldered farm.

The fire eats the final thread

That tethered them to earth and breath.

And though they sleep, I loved the dead-

As only I could love through death.:

She rose, the shadows kissed her back

And walked beyond the cliff's embrace

While mercy watched the world turn black,

A softness sorrow could not trace.

And as the forest gave its cry,

He whispered, more to flame than friend:

"You never stopped. You just stood by-

And grieved a grief that has no end."