The thought balcony

  When Tragedy Becomes a Headline, and Grief Gets Lost When the news of the plane crash broke, I was in school, conducting my classes, immersed in the ordinary rhythm of the day. The message reached us quietly, and then everything shifted. Conversations spread through the corridors, disbelief settled into faces, and routines suddenly felt hollow. One of the pilots was the youngest — a former student from our school. Most of the teachers had taught her, or at least seen her grow, walk through the halls, smile at familiar faces. I never taught her myself, yet her pleasing smile still comes vividly before my eyes. It’s strange how loss works that way — how someone you barely knew can still leave behind a deep ache. It is heartbreaking for everyone associated with her, just as it is for the families and loved ones of all the others who died in the crash. And yet, when the headlines appeared, the focus shifted quickly. A politician. A female pilot. Speculation. Analysis. Politic...

  Retirement Is Not an Ending, It’s a Redirection There comes a time in everybody’s life when the routine starts to feel heavier than usual. Waking up every morning, doing the same work, returning home, going to bed, and repeating the same cycle can slowly exhaust even the most dedicated person. What once felt meaningful begins to feel mechanical. Unless a person finds something new within their profession—something challenging, something that sparks curiosity again—the work can start to feel like a quiet burden rather than a purpose. These thoughts came to me when I saw Arijit Singh, my favorite singer, speak about retirement. Music is clearly his passion, and yet I could understand his perspective. Even singing—something so soulful and loved by millions—can become tiring after a certain point. Passion does not make a person immune to exhaustion. Repetition, even of what we love, can wear us down. I deeply love music, but I often wonder: if music became my profession, wo...

  When the Writer Notices the Reader Most of us write journals the same way we breathe—quietly, instinctively, without performance. We write not because we want to be read, but because we need to place our thoughts somewhere outside our heads. A journal is a private room. No audience. No expectations. Just us and the page. And yet, even in those pages, there are thoughts we never write. They keep circling in the mind—unfinished, unfiltered, unnamed. They exist as a constant hum in the background. The moment writing shifts from a journal to a blog, something changes. Suddenly, there are readers—real or imagined. And with them comes caution. Words still come, but they arrive dressed carefully. I find myself thinking: How will this be read? Will it be misunderstood? Will it be liked? These questions hover, making me hesitant, a little scared. But only in the beginning. Because once I write for a while, something loosens. The fear softens. There comes a point when I forget ...