The thought balcony

  Becoming, bit by bit by Nidhi Guglani  Life isn’t always made of grand decisions. More often, it’s built from quiet agreements with the present moment. To stay. To speak. To carry on. To begin. We don’t live just at the crossroads—we live in the in-between. The part where we wake up and decide, again and again, how to live with what we’ve chosen. Or what’s chosen us. There was a time I thought I’d be a doctor. That dream came from a deeply personal place—born out of a loving bond with someone who lost his vision but never his light. But life carved another path for me. I became a teacher. And with time, I’ve realized I didn’t miss the mark. I just found a different way to serve, to heal, to shape. A doctor may save lives. A teacher helps shape the ones that are saved. But even this isn’t just about choosing a profession. It’s about the countless moments that follow any choice. It’s about being awake to the life you’re living. Sometimes, we find ourselves with someo...

Smiling at Uncertainty Some encounters don’t last more than a few minutes, yet they leave you holding a truth much larger than the moment itself. Today, I met one such truth—disguised as a smiling thirteen-year-old boy and his quietly courageous father. Thirteen. That number should mark the beginning of teenage dreams and restless curiosity. But for this boy, it marks something else entirely—a miracle. Diagnosed with a rare condition, he wasn’t expected to live past eight. His story, laced with hospital visits and emergency room dashes, was supposed to end years ago. And yet, here he is. Not just surviving—living. Sitting in front of me. Smiling. His father spoke to me with a calmness that didn’t dull the gravity of their journey. “Anything can happen at any point,” he said. And it landed with a thud of truth. Isn’t that the case for all of us? It’s just that, with this child, we know the name of the uncertainty. We name it ‘illness’ and watch it carefully, stay alert for s...

  When Words Don’t Reach: Teaching in the Gaps It was the last day before summer break. Spirits were high, rules a little loose, and classrooms slightly chaotic. In the creative writing room, I tried to maintain a semblance of structure. A few students gathered sincerely, and we began discussing prompts, sharing ideas. The kind of class that fills you with hope. Then came a girl, brought along by a friend. She was new to the group. I welcomed her and began explaining the activity in the simplest English I could muster. But she looked blank. “Matlab?” she asked, again and again. “Matlab” — a word that instantly transports you to a different linguistic space, a different educational history. I kept trying to explain, but nothing seemed to register. Finally, I realized—she didn’t understand English at all. Not even the basics. I asked another student to help translate, and she did. The girl settled down. But even then, she seemed unsure of why she was there. She thought she had ...

Beyond Blame by Nidhi Guglani It’s just been a month into the new session, and already the class feels like it’s carrying so much. There’s always something happening — small fights, complaints, reactions. Sometimes, it starts with one child saying something, and before I know it, five others join in. Not all of it is serious, but it still becomes a big scene. Some children are always in the middle of it. Sometimes they act out, and sometimes the class is already waiting for a chance to blame them. Things get repeated, stories grow, and soon it becomes hard to tell what really happened and what didn’t. Last year too, there were a few difficult moments, especially around behaviour and boundaries, and they’ve left a mark — not just on the child involved, but on how others treat them now. As a teacher, I see both sides. I can tell when a complaint is genuine, and I can also sense when children are exaggerating or following the crowd. And honestly, I don’t want my class to become a plac...

  The Joy of a Teacher’s Heart If I’ve even touched one heart as a teacher… If I’ve ever helped a student grow in confidence, or contributed in some small way to their love for language, I feel the purpose of my being a teacher is fulfilled. Today, the Class 10 results were announced, and my phone was flooded with calls and messages—from students who reached out just to say thank you. And honestly, I felt elated. Humbled. Overjoyed. Words, for once, seemed too small to capture what I felt. There is a special kind of happiness that a teacher experiences—one that surpasses even personal success. When we see our students succeed, reach new heights, or simply remember us years later, it’s a joy that’s hard to describe. It’s like watching a seed you once planted bloom into something beautiful—on its own, but with a memory of your care. Today, I felt that. A child I taught in Class 8, now in Class 10, called me—just to thank me. I’m not even teaching him anymore. But he ...

 Why I Write About Darkness—and Choose to See the Light The other day, someone really close to me gave me a piece of honest feedback. He said, “Why are you always writing about suffering, about pain and war and death? Can’t you write something positive for a change?” At first, I smiled. Then I thought about it. He was right, in a way. Lately, the themes I’ve been drawn to—whether it’s loss, struggle, or the heaviness of the world—have all come from a certain place inside me. Not a dark place exactly, but a sensitive one. Because truthfully, there have been events happening around me. Things that have touched me deeply, even if I haven’t always talked about them openly. So I wrote about what I was feeling. I didn’t pick those topics because I wanted to sound heavy or dark—I chose them because they were real to me. But his question stayed with me. Why not write something positive? So today, I’m writing about happiness. What is happiness, really? Why are we always looking for it—as if...