Prof.Prema Raghavan

The Reflex

This is an episode from years ago, but some memories stay with you. They surface without warning, like a hiccup, in the most unexpected places.

We had neighbours who lived just across from us. The husband was a man of science, the wife a beautiful woman, and they had two delightful children who were friends with my daughter. Naturally, I became friendly with them, and the wife, in particular, was a warm and charming person.

As for the husband, he adored his wife. He was also, shall we say, constitutionally incapable of resisting other women. Because I was his wife’s friend, he kept a careful distance from me. Perhaps he was a little intimidated. Or perhaps, because he held his wife in such awe, he would never risk making a pass at one of her friends.

His reputation, however, was firmly established. It was often said that if you wrapped a pole in a saree, he would find a way to flirt with it. I am surprised his wife did not know, though one does not always see what is written on one’s own back. In a way, it was just as well. He was, otherwise, a dutiful husband.

We eventually moved closer to my workplace. I had a baby then, and the commute demanded it. Those were freer days at the institute. We neither signed in nor signed out. No bell tolled us into class or out of it. It was all left to our individual discretion, and, for the most part, people rose to that trust.

One day, I was riding back home on my moped. This was long before we could afford a car. And I am vain, as you know. To avoid further tanning, I had wrapped my head in a scarf, topped it with a straw hat, and added a pair of dark glasses. I must have been quite the sight, entirely unrecognisable.

As I rode along, I saw him approaching from the opposite direction on his vehicle. I nodded in passing, a casual acknowledgment.

When I reached home and turned into the driveway, I was astonished to see him right behind me.

I parked and began unwrapping the layers around my head. The moment he saw my face, he looked utterly horrified. It was as though he had come face to face with Medusa herself.

He apologised at once, almost incoherent in his haste, and begged me to forget the entire episode. He had not recognised me, he said. He had simply seen an unknown woman nod at him and, on impulse, followed her all the way home.

What, I wonder, had been his intent? I cannot say. Perhaps there was no thought behind it at all, only reflex. It seemed, in that moment, to be the essence of his being, an instinctive response rather than a considered act.

I promised I would never tell, and I kept that promise.

But years have passed, and much water has flowed under the bridge. Today, I can afford to find it amusing, and to share it, at last, with my readers.

A Slice of Delhi Life

I must say this about North Indians. A majority of them are very generous. What left a deep impression on me was what they call a bhandara, the practice of feeding the public.

These are not limited to festivals or special occasions. Where I go most Mondays, there is a regular evening bhandara. Passersby are served tea and a samosa. Not everyone who stops is poor. Sometimes it is a tired office-goer, simply hungry at the end of the day, who pauses for a moment of comfort.

What strikes me is that many who organise these are not particularly wealthy. Yet there they are, serving with sincerity those who might need it most. I often notice well-dressed women behind the counter, offering food with genuine cheer. There is dignity in both giving and receiving.

Another thing I have observed is that in times of real trouble, the neighbourhood shows up. Once, there was a fire in our building, in one of the storerooms. It felt as though everyone gathered instantly to help put it out. That kind of spontaneous solidarity is deeply heartening.

Winters bring out another form of kindness. Stray dogs are not left to shiver. People knit little coats for them. I do not know whether furry creatures truly need sweaters, but perhaps warmth, once felt, must be shared. Or perhaps it is simply love finding an outlet.

This is not to say that everything is gentle and orderly. Alongside this generosity is a curious belief that rules are optional. Road rage, I am told, is very real. I have been spared most of it because I do not drive here. My drivers, and there have been a few over time, have all been given strict instructions. No raised palms, no provocative gestures. There is a particular way of expressing annoyance here, an upturned palm thrust forward, and I want no part of it.

I also discourage overtaking. One young driver once complained that our new car, capable of great speed, was being treated like a bullock cart. I told him I was perfectly content. I happen to like bullock carts.

And yet, in plain sight, I have seen a man step out of his shop, remove another man’s helmet, and slap him without hesitation. I do not know what offence was committed, but the swiftness of the reaction stayed with me.

So there it is. A great deal of good on one hand, and a fair share of aggression on the other. You see both, almost side by side. Buddhahood and fundamental darkness coexisting in the same frame.

For all that is said about Delhi, often critically, I cannot deny that it has a certain energy. Friends back in Mysore wondered if we had lost our minds in making this shift. But Delhi has its own rhythm. Every season brings a fresh abundance of vegetables, fruits, and flowers.

I now have a friendly rapport with the plant seller, Bhutan Singh, who brings me the best plants of the season. Fresh vegetables and fruits arrive at my doorstep with ease. There is a certain convenience here, a surprising ease of living, that makes the city comfortable despite its many challenges, including the pollution.

And perhaps that is what stays with me most. This coexistence of care and chaos, generosity and impatience, all woven into everyday life. It is not perfect, but it is alive, and in its own way, deeply human.

Not Lost, Just Temporarily Elsewhere 😀

Absent-mindedness has been a lifelong companion of mine, much discussed and greatly enjoyed by my family. In fact, when I got married, my father made my husband promise, quite solemnly, that he would never allow me to drive. His concern was not only for my safety, but for that of the unsuspecting public as well.

And yet, life had other plans.

I did learn to drive. I began modestly with a moped, progressed to a bike, and eventually found myself driving a car. Thankfully, none of these experiences proved disastrous. I may have drifted past a red light once or twice and been promptly pulled up for it, but on the whole, I drive with a surprising degree of care. When I am at the wheel, my attention is firmly anchored to the road ahead.

Curiously, the moment I move to the passenger seat, that focus dissolves. Routes cease to matter. Directions blur into irrelevance. Instead, my attention wanders outward. I find myself absorbed in people, their expressions, their conversations, their small, unspoken stories. People-watching, especially at airports, remains one of my favourite indulgences.

Perhaps this tendency has a lineage. My mother’s absent-mindedness was legendary. I remember vividly the day my father returned home with a few purchases, among them cheese and an iron. My mother, with complete conviction, placed the iron in the refrigerator and the cheese in the cupboard. It remains, to this day, an act I have not managed to surpass, although I have had my own moments of distinction.

One Diwali, a few years ago, I stepped out after buying an impressive assortment of sweets. Spotting a white car, identical to ours, I got into the passenger seat and began enthusiastically recounting my purchases. I was midway through describing the variety and quality of the sweets when I heard a soft chuckle.

I turned.

It was not my husband.

It was a stranger.

There are moments when dignity must be abandoned in favour of swift action. I apologised hurriedly and exited the car with as much speed as I could gather, leaving behind both the stranger and my composure.

Then there was the memorable excursion with my daughter to Mysore Urban Haat, a delightful space where artisans gather to display their wares. She was about fourteen at the time, already possessed of a quiet wisdom. Somewhere along the journey, it became apparent that I was heading towards Coorg instead. Signboards, persistent and undeniable, revealed the truth.

We eventually reached our destination. The return journey, however, offered fresh opportunities for confusion. Lost in an industrial area, I slowed down to ask for directions. My daughter, calm and practical, advised me not to roll down the window if approached by a group of men, but that asking a single individual would be safer. I remember thinking how sensible that was, and also how gently roles had shifted in that moment.

Between her guidance and my navigation, we found our way home.

I like to believe I have improved with time. At the very least, I now pay attention to where I place my feet. There was a phase when I fancied myself a photographer, determined to capture the perfect frame at any cost. This pursuit resulted in falls in rather distinguished locations, including Vatican City and Tokyo. Fortunately, no bones were harmed. Only my ego sustained minor injuries.

In Delhi, however, I have exercised restraint. I do not drive here. The routes are unfamiliar, my sense of direction remains unreliable, and the prevailing road temperament demands a level of assertiveness I do not possess. In abstaining, I like to think I have contributed meaningfully to public safety.

More recently, I have encountered a different kind of challenge. Medication. Some must be taken daily, others multiple times a day. Remembering them requires a discipline that does not come naturally to me.

Here, modern technology has proven to be an ally. My phone, with its timely reminders, has become indispensable. If I respond immediately, all proceeds smoothly. If I delay, even briefly, the thread is often lost.

It has led me to a simple conclusion. An absent-minded person is not always the easiest companion, not even to herself.

And yet, we have managed rather well together so far, this wandering mind and I. With a little help, a measure of humour, and a willingness to adapt, I expect we will continue this companionship for many years to come.

The Moment of Breaking Away

Sometimes wisdom arrives from the most unexpected quarters.

The other day, as I was being driven to pick up a friend, the driver remarked quite simply: it takes years to build trust, and only a moment to break it. The observation stayed with me, not for its novelty, but for its truth.

At this point in my life, I find myself in the throes of stepping away from a belief system,something I had once questioned and then, over time, come to accept. Faith, after all, often asks of us a willing suspension of disbelief. Without that, perhaps nothing deeply human is possible. Not everything can be proven with the precision of a geometric theorem, neatly concluded with a QED,though I remember a time when we believed it could.

And yet, there comes a moment when what once sustained you no longer does. What once felt right begins to feel insufficient. From the outside, it may look like an epiphany, a sudden illumination. But in truth, it is rarely sudden. It is something that has been gathering quietly within, until a final trigger,the last straw,brings it into the light.

What follows is a kind of falling free.

In that moment, one must turn inward and ask difficult, essential questions:
Is this the path I want to walk?
Is this what I choose for the rest of my life?
Do I turn away from what no longer feels true?

Ibsen, in An Enemy of the People, suggests that truth itself is in a state of flux,that it is never fixed, never final. If that is so, then examining one’s life is not an indulgence but a necessity. To live authentically demands that we revisit, and sometimes relinquish, what we once held as certain.

This is not an act of self-righteousness. It is, rather, an act of honesty.

To believe one thing and outwardly profess another is a fracture no life can sustain indefinitely. And it is in our closest relationships that this fracture becomes most untenable. These are the spaces that require ethical clarity,where what we believe, what we revere, what we bow before, must align with what we truly hold within.

When that alignment is lost, and nothing meaningful remains to pursue, then perhaps it is time to walk away.

Cleanly. Swiftly.

I had briefly imagined a gentler exit, like the Cheshire Cat, fading slowly, leaving the smile behind as the last trace. But I have come to see that lingering at thresholds serves no one,not oneself, and not those who remain.

And so, if one must leave, one must leave fully.

I realise this may sound enigmatic. I am not inclined, especially in a public space, to speak in specifics. But perhaps I don’t need to. These reflections, I suspect, belong not just to me, but to many who find themselves, at some point, standing at similar crossroads.

Strangely, one of the forces that has compelled this inward turning has been the presence of war in our times. I cannot fully explain why. But it has impressed itself upon my imagination in a way that refuses to be ignored. It has demanded of me a response,one that I hope is marked by both feeling and a measure of dignity.

If this raises questions, I am willing to engage.

Some journeys, after all, begin in clarity. Others begin in questions.

On Faith

Another subject I have been quietly reflecting on is faith, particularly religious faith.

I was born into a Hindu family. My parents were pious, and I married a man who is equally so. In our childhood, faith came to us through stories rather than scripture. My grandfather, a natural storyteller, brought alive the worlds of the Ramayana and the Mahabharata. His attention to detail and to the motives of the characters made these epics feel immediate and human rather than distant mythology.

Around the same time, Amar Chitra Katha made these stories accessible to us in another form. Yet, despite this early exposure, there remained an unexpressed gap. The original texts were in languages I could not fully access. I did not know Malayalam, and while I had studied Sanskrit, I could not read it with enough ease to enter those texts directly. This felt like a significant lack.

Perhaps that is what led me to seek more.

My search brought me to Nichiren Buddhism. Here, I encountered ideas that resonated deeply. The belief that one does not require an intermediary, that each individual possesses the potential for Buddhahood, and that chanting can awaken compassion and wisdom within, felt both empowering and immediate. Over time, I felt that many of my spiritual questions had found some response.

At the same time, I never experienced a conflict with my own roots. If this practice helped me become a better person, then I carried that self back to my ancestral gods. There was continuity, not contradiction.

However, as time passed, I became aware that my understanding was still shaped through the interpretations of others. This did not diminish the value of what I had gained, but it did make me want to engage more directly. I have since begun reading the original Goshos to see what I might understand for myself.

Earlier this year, I visited our hometown near Thrissur, in Kodungallur. The presence of Bhagavathi, or Kali, is deeply felt there. One of the temples we visited was where my great-grandfather had once been a priest. The temple, unchanged over time, stood in quiet contrast to an otherwise shifting world.

Sitting there, simply being, I felt a deep sense of calm. It was an experience that required no language and no explanation. It was complete in itself.

I now find myself drawn to reading the Bhagavad Gita in English, through commentaries that make it accessible. I am also curious to explore other branches of Buddhism, in the hope of addressing questions that still remain.

Alongside this, I continue my association with the Art of Living. The practices taught by Sri Sri Ravi Shankar, including Sudarshan Kriya and meditation, are part of my daily routine. There is much to absorb and much to gain.

Over time, I have come to see faith and practice as the ropes used by a mountaineer. Different terrains require different supports. There is nothing wrong in exploring different spiritual paths if they help one move forward.

Ultimately, whatever brings hope, steadiness, and quiet joy is worth cultivating.

I Was in the Wrong Place

Most of you may think of me as a person who is apolitical. That is not entirely true. I do hold views, but I choose not to express them on social media. I have always believed that such conversations are better held in person, within the quiet safety of a room where ideas can be exchanged freely, without bias and without the fear of ridicule.

And yet, the current war we are witnessing has left me, like so many others across the world, deeply unsettled, baffled by the utter futility of it all. War serves no one. That is a belief I hold close. The scale of loss, the erosion of human dignity, the sheer devastation, it strikes somewhere deep within and leaves me gasping with a kind of quiet grief.

At moments like these, the world feels bleak. One can only hope that we find our way out of this darkness, out of this cave we seem trapped in, and back into the light of our shared humanity.

What troubles me even more is the stark contradiction we are living through. On one hand, modern medicine and scientific research strive tirelessly to preserve and improve human life, because life is precious. On the other, we continue to destroy it so carelessly. It feels regressive, as though we are slipping back into a darker, more primitive age. It is agonising because we have known a better world, and we had hoped to leave behind an even better one for those who come after us. And yet, where are we today?

It was in this state of mind that I experienced something of an epiphany last week.

I found myself in a room full of accomplished, articulate people. A discussion was underway, but the topics being explored felt strangely disconnected from the reality unfolding outside. They seemed trivial, almost banal, in the face of a world in turmoil. And suddenly, I found myself asking a simple but piercing question: what am I doing here?

This was not unfamiliar territory. I have spent years in such spaces and have often drawn inspiration from the energy of collective exchange. But this time was different. I realised, with a clarity that was both quiet and absolute, that I was in the wrong place.

It felt as though we were existing in a parallel universe, one insulated from the tremors shaking the world beyond those walls. But none of us, I thought, will emerge untouched. That illusion of separation felt deeply unsettling.

I returned home feeling disoriented and spoke to the Buddha in my life, my husband, sharing with him all that I had felt and witnessed.

Perhaps this, too, is a function of where I stand in life now. I find that I no longer seek what merely sounds right or offers comfort. I seek authenticity. I want my life, my choices, and the spaces I inhabit to resonate truthfully with who I am.

And something within me has shifted.

I say this without judgement, and certainly without the desire to diminish what once held meaning for me. There are parts of my earlier self that I continue to cherish, and those will remain. But for the rest, it is a closed chapter.

Not with drama, not with regret, but with clarity.

Because sometimes, growth is not about adding more to our lives. It is about gently, consciously, letting go.

Of those whose lives are in tumult, people like the women in my own household, who do not know how they will cook the next meal because LPG cylinders have become far too expensive, and there are three young children waiting to be fed.

If I cannot feel their anxiety, their quiet desperation, if I grow insensible to it, then I must question what value there is in the life I am currently leading.

And so, on that note, I take your leave, my readers

It has been ten years since I began sharing my thoughts here, almost without a plan, simply following what felt true in the moment.
Somewhere along the way, these posts became conversations, and many of you have been a part of that journey.

A suggestion has come my way, that I gather these pieces into a book.
I find myself wondering…

Would you like to see something like that?
Have these writings meant enough to you to live beyond this space?

It Is a Small World

It is a small world. It may sound like a cliché, a phrase worn thin with use, but life has a way of proving it true again and again.

I do not mean this in the sense of globalization or shrinking distances. I mean something quieter, more personal. The unexpected reappearance of connections. The way people, memories, and moments resurface, sometimes decades later, as if time had merely paused rather than passed.

Looking back, I see one such thread stretching all the way to my early years.

I was a young woman then, determined to make a life of my own, regardless of whether my parents agreed. Ironically, it was my father who, shaped by circumstances in the life of someone dear to him, wanted his daughters to be independent. He had seen what it meant for a woman to be left to rebuild her life, to study again, and to raise children on her own. That experience stayed with him.

Yet, at eighteen, I could not understand him at all.

Marriage proposals came, and I would not have minded an arranged marriage if it meant an end to examinations. I loved reading, but the pressure of studying for exams filled me with a deep, almost paralysing anxiety. Curiously, the moment I entered the examination hall, that anxiety would dissolve. Even today, certain things, like the scent of mango blossoms, which arrive around exam season, carry with them a faint echo of that old unease.

Eventually, I completed my graduation and teacher training, and all I wanted was to begin working. A position opened up at Campion School, and my father, in his quiet wisdom, found a way to say yes. The job allowed me to teach in the afternoons while continuing my studies. It solved both our concerns.

That is how I began teaching Grade Four.

Those years remain among the happiest of my life. The children were bright, curious, and wonderfully receptive. They absorbed everything and returned it with affection. I gave them my energy and received, in return, an abundance of love.

Then came another turning point.

My Master’s examinations were delayed. When I finally took them, I stood first in the university. To continue, I needed to complete a dissertation under a professor, which would require leaving my job. I did not want to.

Once again, my father intervened. He spoke to Fr. Joe Saldana, the principal of Campion School, a Jesuit priest whose compassion and wisdom left a deep impression on me.

Fr.Saldana had once gently pointed out something I had not noticed about myself, that I had favourites among my students. “Do not lose your heart to them,” he had said. At the time, it seemed almost impossible. I grew deeply attached to my students and knew I would miss them when they moved on. Only later did I understand the wisdom in his words.

When my father approached him, Fr. Saldana made me a promise. I was to take a year off, complete my Master’s, and return if I wished. My position at the school would remain open.

It was a generous, deeply humane assurance. On the strength of that promise, I left.

But life, as it often does, took an unexpected turn. I received a position at NCERT, and though I informed him that I would not be returning, I never went back to Campion School.

Yet, Fr. Saldana remained a presence in my life through memory. I spoke of him often to my children, of his kindness, his insight, and the quiet way in which he shaped my understanding of teaching and relationships.

And then, many years later, something remarkable happened.

My daughter met someone who offered her a sweet, a “bull’s eye.” Curious, she asked what it was. When she was told, she replied that her mother often spoke about bull’s eyes from Bhopal, though she had never seen one herself.

The woman smiled and said that these sweets used to be brought for her from Bhopal by her uncle, Fr. Joe Saldana, former principal of Campion School.

In that moment, a circle quietly closed.

A man I had known and admired decades ago, whose influence had stayed with me across the years, reappeared in my life through my daughter, through a simple sweet, through a casual exchange.

It is a small world.

Not because distances have shrunk, but because connections endure

A Time for Unlearning to Learn Again

The world which the young inhabit is not one I know very much about. I am not speaking of little children, but of the generations that followed ours. A decade ago I understood them better, because they sat in my classrooms.

The world of a child, however, is closer to where I stand now. Through watching my granddaughter, I feel I understand that world far better than I do the world of the generations that came after ours.

That generation looks at the world through a lens very different from the one we wore. When we looked at the world, we were seeking stability, and that desire was reflected in the choices we made. Many of those choices were shaped by a certain conditioning that began almost at the cradle.

I remember that my father very much wanted me to become a doctor. For a long time I went along with the idea. That is, until my zoology classes in high school required us to dissect frogs. I can still recall those wax trays with the frogs pinned down, their tiny hearts visibly thumping. The thought that I could do that and then calmly eat my lunch afterwards filled me with a profound sense of nausea. If I felt that way about frogs, I wondered how I would ever face cadavers in medical college.

That realization quietly but firmly closed the door on medicine for me.

Instead, I wandered into the world of literature, which turned out to be infinitely more enriching. Once I made that choice, I stayed close to it. My professional life unfolded around language and literature. I taught literature, certainly, but also language studies and worked with children who had learning disabilities. Most of what I did had something to do with words, their meanings, their music, and the many ways in which they shape thought.

For many of us in my generation, once we chose a direction we stayed with it. The young today do not always feel that same need. They often take up work that may not be directly connected with what they studied. Their choices are less tethered to the past.

The same was true of marriage in our time. Whether it was a choice we made ourselves or one in which our parents played a role, there was an underlying assumption that it was for keeps, unless fate or difficult circumstances intervened.

And then there was the idea of a home. Most people of my generation wanted to build a home and live in it for the rest of their lives. For more than thirty years we lived in the same city. We had a beautiful architecturally designed home and a garden where I had spent years growing plants from different parts of the world. It was a bird friendly garden, and watching the birds that visited it was one of my quiet joys.

And yet there came a time when we moved to another city and another home almost without pause. We were drawn by ties of love, and I do not regret that decision even for a moment.

Those circumstances followed the years of COVID, and that time made many of us learn and unlearn important lessons. One of them was the importance of being close to the people we love.

That is what brought us to this city, sometimes charmingly described as the city of djinns. It is a fascinating place, layered with history and stories, and there is so much here to explore. I have not even begun yet.

In many ways our generation grew up believing that the major decisions of life were for keeps. Careers, marriages and homes were choices made with the expectation that they would endure.

Today the anthem seems different. There is a strong sense that we have one life to live and that it must be lived in rhythm with our innermost desires and deepest sense of self.

I admire this generation for that. I admire their sincerity, their refusal to be hypocritical, and their determination not to live entirely within inherited conditioning. And yet I sometimes wonder whether the sense of stability that many of us experienced is something I would easily exchange for that kind of freedom.

What I am describing is not abstract. I see it among the children of my colleagues, my friends and my relatives. They inhabit a world very different from the one we knew, a world that asks to be understood on its own terms.

Perhaps the challenge for people of my generation is not to resist this new world but to learn how to understand it.

If I do not wish to become like a dinosaur quietly heading towards extinction, I must learn to adapt. I must unlearn what no longer serves me and remain open to what this changing world can teach.

It may be a little late to live life the way they do.

But it is not too late to keep learning how to understand their world.

The Quiet Work of Trust

When I think of trust, an image from a childhood textbook comes back to me. It showed a small child leaping from a rock into the waiting arms of his father.

Even then, the picture seemed to say something important: trust is a leap of faith.

Not blind faith, but the kind that grows slowly from being in relationship with someone.

Over the years I have come to feel that we trust a person when certain quiet assurances exist between us. When we can be our real selves in their presence. When we do not have to struggle for the right words or worry about how we will be understood . While respecting their sensibilities, we can say what we think, ask for what we need, and even admit what frightens us.

And as we grow older, the list of fears grows longer.

At such moments, what one longs for is someone who can say, quite simply, “It’s all right. It’s no big deal.”

Trust is knowing that you can share your joys and your anxieties without fearing that the other person will envy you, judge you harshly, or twist your words. It is the confidence that a moment of vulnerability will not be stored away and used against you later. When that happens, when something said in trust returns in a harsher form, the relationship itself becomes difficult to trust again.

Trust also means that when you need help, the person shows up. Their words match their actions. Sometimes they set aside their own convenience for your sake. You do not have to pretend that everything is fine when it is not, nor do you have to constantly gauge their moods in order to feel secure.

It is the freedom to be vulnerable. To speak of your insecurities and the quiet what-ifs that inhabit the mind and still feel respected and valued.

Now, having become a grandmother, old enough at least to recognise certain truths about life, I feel that trust is not confined only to the innermost circle of our lives. It can also appear in small, unexpected places.

Some time ago I took a fall in the compound of our building. The security guard helped me to my feet. That was, of course, part of his duty. But he did not stop there. With great gentleness he told me that I ought to be a little more careful and take better care of myself, even suggesting how I might do so.

He did not have to say any of this. But he spoke from a place of simple concern.

And in that moment, I trusted him.

Not because I imagine he will never disappoint me. But because when I needed help, he was there, and he spoke in a way that did not make me feel small or embarrassed about my fall.

Perhaps that too is a form of trust. Not always the great leap of the child in the textbook, but something quieter. The simple knowledge that, in a given moment, another human being will steady you when you stumble.

And sometimes, that is enough.