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Ghosts, gods, and the grain fields.

🌾 The Harbinger of the Harvest

Naadi came home every year, almost unfailingly, when the paddy fields ripened and bent low with grain. It was always the season of Chingam, just before Onam, when the air itself seemed to carry the fragrance of harvest. Where he came from, I never knew—only that it was “far away.” To my six‑year‑old mind, “far away” was a magical place, a land beyond rivers and forests, where stories were born and carried on the shoulders of wanderers like him.

Naadi was a Cheruman, descended from tribes who had lived in the northern jungles of Kerala for centuries, long before the forests gave way to villages and fields. He was not just a worker who bent his back to the harvest; he was a keeper of memory, a storehouse of songs and tales. And to me, he was the most precious visitor of childhood—the man who arrived with the scent of paddy and the gift of stories.

He stayed in a temporary thatched shed near our home, a humble shelter that seemed to belong to another age. Outside, he built his viragu aduppu—three stones arranged in a triangle, cradling his blackened kanji pot. That was his kitchen, his hearth, his world. Each evening, after the day’s toil, he bathed in the stream that ran beside the fields, its waters carrying away the dust of harvest. Then he returned, lit his firewood, and waited for kanji, the rice gruel, to boil.

In those waiting hours, magic unfolded. As the kanji bubbled and the firewood crackled, Naadi sang. His voice was low, almost hypnotic, weaving ballads of Malabar warriors. His favourite was Attummanammel Unniyarcha—the legendary woman warrior, beautiful and fierce, who fought with sword and valour. In his monotone chants, punctuated by the hiss of boiling rice and the crackle of the firewood, Unniyarcha came alive. I saw her eyes flash, her blade gleam, and her son, Aromalunni, stand beside her. I believed Naadi was of their bloodline, a descendant of heroes. And each night, I promised myself that one day I would learn Kalarippayattu, like them, fight injustice, and carve my own legend.

🔥 As the Firewood Crackles, the Tales Awaken

But Naadi’s world was not only of warriors. He spoke of jungle gods, Bhoothams, Odiyans, and Chathans. His stories painted the forest as a place of mystery and menace. Odiyans, he warned, were the most dangerous—shape‑shifters who prowled as cats or dogs, waiting to harm women and children. After hearing him, I eyed every stray animal with suspicion, half‑convinced it might be an Odiyan in disguise.

Bhoothams were hoarders, greedy for gold and children alike. They stole little ones from their mothers, hiding them in caves deep in the jungle. I listened wide‑eyed, clutching my own safety in the folds of his words. Chathans, though mischievous, were kinder. With the right mantras, they could protect you, even bring wealth. I begged Naadi to teach me those mantras, but he laughed softly and said I was too young. “Eight years,” he promised, “and you will be ready.” Each year, I renewed my plea, and each year he reassured me that my time was coming.

The nights with Naadi were a theatre of imagination. Kings, warriors, gods, birds, beasts, and ghosts mingled freely in his tales. They did not always live happily, but they lived vividly, and through his voice, they lived in me.

🌸 Scents That Guard Childhood

I cannot recall Naadi’s face now—it has blurred with time. But I can still smell him. The scent of ripened paddy clung to his skin; the fragrance of boiling kanji rose from his pot; the sharp sting of kanthari mulaku accompanied his meals; and the smoky aroma of damp firewood lingered in the air. These scents are the true relics of my childhood, inseparable from the stories he told.

Naadi came faithfully until I turned eight. Then he stopped. The elders said he was too ill to work, or perhaps he had gone to join his jungle gods. I never knew. But I waited, secretly, year after year, hoping he would return, hoping he would teach me those mantras that would make me a manthravadi, strong enough to silence my school bullies and brave enough to walk with Unniyarcha.

He never came back. Yet even now, when the scent of boiling rice or burning firewood drifts through the air, I feel his presence. Naadi lives on in those smells, in those stories, in the twilight of memory. And in that lingering fragrance, I am once again a child—listening, believing, dreaming.

On sticks and the endless chase for more

Dogs love to fetch. You throw a stick, and your dog runs after it with uncontainable excitement—tail wagging, eyes gleaming, heart alive. He would do it a hundred times, each return as enthusiastic as the first. For him, the very act of running is the reward.

But does this make us humans the throwers and dogs the fetchers? Not quite. In truth, humans are the greater fetchers. Our drill is far more elaborate, far more exhausting. Once the primal chase for food, shelter, and safety is over, we invent new sticks to pursue: wealth, power, fame, happiness, fulfilment, enlightenment. The game never ends. Unlike the dog, we are rarely satisfied with what we have fetched. The stick we hold quickly loses its charm, and we hurl ourselves toward the next one.

The dog finds happiness instantaneously. He does not fetch for tomorrow, nor does he hoard sticks. He fetches because fetching is the game of life he enjoys. Nothing else matters. We, on the other hand, fetch for accumulation, for security, for distant promises—always far-fetching. Our sticks vary, and our satisfaction is fleeting. And so, we continue in an endless chase of things—both material and illusory.

Shouldn’t we envy the carefree dog chewing his twig, content in the moment, while we run endlessly, fetching and far-fetching? The dog seems to know what we forget: that happiness is not in the stick itself, but in the chase lived fully, in the joy of play rather than the burden of possession.

The humble dog seems to understand timeless wisdom better than we do. The Buddhist doctrine reminds us that desire is the root of suffering, and craving is always about the next stick. The Bhagavad Gita teaches us to act without clinging to results—to fetch without attachment. The Bible, too, urges us to become like little children, living without calculation or expectation. In his simplicity, the dog is already closer to these teachings than the restless human.

Perhaps the so‑called “dog’s life” is a misnomer. It is not the dog who is miserable; it is man who lives the dog’s life more than the dog. The dog embodies peace, simplicity, and joy. We embody striving, dissatisfaction, and endless pursuit. To live like a dog, in truth, would be liberation: to fetch without burden, to play without purpose, to rest without regret.

The lesson is simple yet elusive: stop far-fetching. Fetch what is necessary, chew on it, savour it. Life, like the dog’s game, is meant to be lived in joy—not in weary pursuit of endless goals.

Regret is a shadow; happiness is a choice.

Bronnie Ware, in her book The Top Five Regrets of the Dying, distilled the wisdom of those at life’s edge into five common laments. They are sobering reminders of how easily we can miss the essence of living. Yet, when I hold them up against my own life, I find myself smiling: none of them applies to me.

The first regret—not living a life true to oneself—arises when we crave others’ validation. But once you realise that what others think is their problem, not yours, you are free. Freedom begins the moment you stop outsourcing your happiness to someone else’s opinion. Freedom from others’ opinions is not indifference but alignment with one’s inner compass. As the Stoics would say, “It is not things that disturb us, but our judgments about things.”

The second regret—working too hard—is foreign to me. I worked, yes, for donkey’s years, but never felt it hard. Work was not a burden but a rhythm, sometimes even a joy. The Bhagavad Gita reminds us: “Yoga is skill in action.” When work becomes an offering rather than a compulsion, regret has no place.

The third regret—not expressing feelings—is more nuanced. I did not always express my feelings, and that restraint has saved friendships. Sometimes silence is not suppression but wisdom. As Rumi said, “The quieter you become, the more you can hear.” In Buddhist thought, silence is often the highest form of speech, because it allows truth to arise without distortion.

The fourth regret—losing touch with friends—naturally follows. In my case, the balance of expression and silence has kept bonds intact. Friendship is not measured by constant chatter but by enduring presence.

The fifth regret—not allowing oneself to be happier—is perhaps the most poignant. Happiness, I have learned, is not a grand achievement but a daily choice. Gratitude for small mercies—the bird song, the morning tea, the smile of a passerby—creates a reservoir of joy. Epicurus taught that simple pleasures are the highest form of happiness, and I couldn’t agree more.

So, regret or happiness is a matter of choice. Regret looks backwards; happiness looks around. Regret counts what is missing; happiness counts what is present. To live without regret is not to deny sorrow but to refuse its dominion. As the sages remind us, life is not measured by length but by depth, not by accumulation but by awareness.

I have no time to regret—now or when it’s time to go. Life is too short for rehearsing sorrows. Better to live with a smile, knowing that when the curtain falls, I will not whisper “I wish,” but say, “I lived.”

     Beyond idols, into the sanctum of the soul.

Sacredness is not something that exists “out there.” A stone in a temple or a statue in a church is not inherently sacred. At its core, it is simply a piece of rock or clay shaped into an artefact. The sanctity does not lie within the material itself; it is human consciousness that projects sacredness onto it. Just as beauty resides in the eye of the beholder, sacredness lives in the mind of the worshipper.

It is devotion and belief that transform an ordinary object into a sacred one. In this sense, the devotee creates his own concept of God. Yet despite the vast spiritual possibilities, most of us remain bound by conditioning—our upbringing and early indoctrination—and locked into conventional forms of worship.

At best, a statue or idol serves as a focal point. It is a medium that helps direct attention toward inner sacredness. A truly evolved mind transcends these material limitations and carries sacredness within. At that stage, one begins to perceive the sacred everywhere—in a blade of grass bending to the wind, in flowers opening to the sun, in rain that cleanses, in moonlight that whispers silence.

Everything becomes sacred. Yet the most sacred of all is the person standing right next to you. The divine spark within him is the same as the one within you. Once this realisation dawns, external statues and idols lose their necessity, and worship transforms into compassion.

This intrinsic sacredness—untangled from man-made constructs—is the ultimate reality. The rest are illusions. It is here that Christian mystics, Western transcendentalists, and Advaita Vedanta converge. Meister Eckhart spoke of finding God in the “ground of the soul”; Emerson saw the Over-Soul reflected in nature and human fellowship; and Shankara taught that Brahman alone is real, the world a projection of consciousness.

Sacredness, then, is not a property of objects but a mode of perception. It is the awakened gaze that sees unity beneath diversity, permanence beneath change. The Upanishads declare tat tvam asi—“thou art that”—reminding us that the divine is not distant but immanent. The Sufi mystics echo this when they say, “Wherever you turn, there is the face of God.”

To live in this awareness is to dissolve the boundary between the sacred and the profane. Washing dishes, walking in the rain, speaking to a stranger—all become acts of reverence. Sacredness ceases to be confined to ritual and becomes the rhythm of daily life.

Ultimately, sacredness is the recognition of interconnectedness: that the breath sustaining me is the same breath moving through the trees, the rivers, and the person beside me. To honour this truth is to live compassionately, without expectation of reward, seeing every moment as godly and every encounter as prayer.

Peace lies not in control, but in surrender.

After following a rigid schedule for many years, I have moved away from the busy highway of life onto the slower side roads where the pace is gentler, the view broader, and the air lighter. Stress has loosened its grip, and urgency no longer dictates my steps. I have already walked a long path and seen enough; there is no need to rush.

Time, I realise, is not a commodity to be spent but a presence to be inhabited. The clock may measure hours, but the soul measures moments. To live slowly is not to waste time—it is to honour it.

I have stopped imposing a strict structure on my days. Sleep and waking arrive when they will, and I welcome them without resistance, though I generally maintain a consistent rhythm. I am happy with that—enough routine to feel anchored, but enough flexibility to breathe.

The river does not argue with its banks, nor does the tree argue with the wind. Why should I? To resist the natural flow of life creates turbulence where none is needed. Flexibility is not weakness; it is wisdom—the wisdom of water that shapes stone by yielding.

I no longer desire to control things, nor do I engage in arguments, even when I feel the other person is wrong. Why fight imaginary battles? Why try to convince someone? The truth needs no defender, and peace requires no victory.

Victory itself is a mirage. To win often leads to losing—the quiet of the heart, the gentleness of friendship, the serenity of silence. What is gained by proving oneself right if it costs harmony? The deeper truth lies not in triumph but in transcendence.

The garden has become my companion. Flowers bloom without hurry, and tiny birds trust my trees enough to build their nests. Watching them, I realise that happiness is not found in achievement but in witnessing life unfold.

The rose does not bloom to be admired; it blooms because blooming is its nature. Likewise, the bird does not sing to be heard; it sings because song is its essence. Perhaps happiness is not something to be pursued but something to be allowed—like the fragrance released when a flower blooms.

Acceptance has become my philosophy. Things are as they are, and in that simple recognition lies serenity. It is okay as it is, and in this quiet surrender, I find peace.

To accept is not to resign; it is to align. Resignation is defeat, but acceptance is harmony. The mountain does not resist the storm; it simply remains. The ocean does not fight against the tide; it endures. In acceptance, I discover a strength deeper than resistance.

Each day arrives as a gift, unwrapped slowly and savoured fully—no struggle, only a gentle road and the joy of walking it. Life, I have learned, does not need to be managed; it needs to be witnessed. In that witnessing, I find a serenity deeper than any achievement.

It is enough.