GyaniNani's Reading Room

Tag: Conversations

  • I Have Walked Away Too Quickly

    A GyaniNani confession about anger, regret, dhairya — and learning to stay long enough for the story to change.


    I have walked away too quickly from many things in life.

    Most often, from jobs.

    When I felt deeply hurt, angry or unfairly treated, my instinct was rarely to wait. I would react. Sometimes I would argue. Sometimes I would simply decide that I had had enough.

    And then I would resign.

    There was something almost satisfying about the decisiveness of it.

    If you don’t value me, I am leaving.

    If this is unjust, I will not tolerate it.

    If I am unhappy, why should I stay?

    At that moment, walking away often felt like courage.

    Wisdom usually arrived later.

    Sometimes much later.

    Then came the questions.

    Could I have handled that differently?

    Could I have stayed and fought instead of leaving?

    Could I have waited until the anger settled before making a decision that would affect the next several years of my life?

    Some of those decisions cost me professionally. Some brought financial insecurity. And some left me wondering whether what I had called courage was, at least partly, impatience.

    So today, when I write about धैर्य — dhairya, I am certainly not writing as someone who has mastered it.

    That would be dishonest.

    I am writing as someone who is still learning.

    Perhaps I have simply become a little better at creating a space between feeling and acting.

    And increasingly, I wonder whether that small space is where peace begins.

    Slowly, slowly…

    There is a Kabir doha I have heard countless times:

    “धीरे-धीरे रे मना, धीरे सब कुछ होय।
    माली सींचे सौ घड़ा, ऋतु आए फल होय॥”

    Slowly, slowly, O mind. Everything happens in its own time. The gardener may pour a hundred pots of water, but the fruit comes only in its season.

    I understood the words.

    I am not sure I understood the wisdom.

    As a working mother, I spent years negotiating calendars.

    School timings. Office timings. Homework. Illnesses. Meetings. Children’s activities. Travel. Deadlines.

    I had a husband who was—and remains—extraordinarily supportive.

    Yet I still wanted to do everything myself.

    I wanted to be available to my children. I wanted my work to continue. I wanted the household to function. And somewhere in all this, I think I also wanted my children to become independent quickly.

    Perhaps many working mothers will recognise this contradiction.

    We want our children to need us.

    And simultaneously, because there simply aren’t enough hours in the day, we desperately want them not to need us quite so much.

    My children did become independent.

    But not because I hurried them into becoming so.

    It happened slowly.

    They stumbled. They learnt. They managed. I really thank them for their patience with me.

    They became strong.

    They became resilient.

    And somewhere along the way, I became resilient too.

    My husband, of course, seems to have possessed that resilience long before the rest of us discovered it.

    Looking back, I understand Kabir differently.

    You can water the tree.

    You can nurture it.

    You can protect it.

    You can show up every day.

    But you cannot command the season.

    There are things in life that will simply not ripen because we are impatient for them to do so.

    When passion takes over the rudder

    Kahlil Gibran wrote in The Prophet:

    “Your reason and your passion are the rudder and the sails of your seafaring soul.”

    I wish I had listened to my parents who always tried to amke me calm. Wish my younger self had good ears.

    I had plenty of sail.

    I have always cared deeply about my work. About fairness. About women. About children. About injustice. About doing things properly.

    That passion has given me tremendous energy throughout my life.

    But passion can also make you respond very quickly when you believe something is wrong.

    At several points in my professional life, I allowed the sail to take over the boat.

    I felt wronged.

    I became angry.

    I responded.

    And sometimes, I left.

    Later, when the storm had passed, reason would quietly return and ask:

    Was resignation really the only response available to you?

    Sometimes it was.

    Leaving an unhealthy situation can be an act of courage.

    But I also know now that not every battle has to be fought by leaving the battlefield. Did Arjun leave the battlefield in Mahabharata after seeing his guru and grandfather on the other side? No, he didn’t. May be because he had the lord- Krishna as his guide.

    Sometimes staying requires greater courage.

    Sometimes negotiating requires greater courage.

    Sometimes waiting for your anger to settle requires greater courage.

    Dhairya is not submission.

    It does not mean tolerating injustice.

    It does not mean becoming so “peaceful” that other people are allowed to walk over you.

    Perhaps dhairya simply gives reason enough time to reach the rudder before passion steers the entire boat.

    Then Buddhism found me….as I didn’t have patience to look for wisdom.

    One professional experience taught me this more powerfully than anything else.

    There was a period when a senior colleague was extremely unhappy with me.

    Our relationship deteriorated badly.

    Some colleagues around us added their own stories about me—many of them untrue—and the environment became increasingly hostile.

    It seemed that every possible difficulty was being created for me.

    I wanted to leave.

    Of course I did.

    That was what I knew how to do.

    But this time I was also deeply broken. There were days when I could barely imagine how I would continue through the situation.

    And somewhere during that period, Buddhism appeared in my life.

    The Dhammapada says:

    “Hatred is never appeased by hatred in this world. By non-hatred alone is hatred appeased.”

    It sounds beautiful when printed on a page.

    It is considerably less beautiful when you are expected to practise it with someone who is making your life miserable.

    I struggled.

    Then I began trying something that initially felt almost absurd.

    I started praying for him.

    Not for his defeat.

    Not for him to receive some cosmic punishment.

    Not even for him to suddenly realise that I was right.

    I tried to pray for his happiness.

    For his wisdom.

    For something good to happen in his life.

    Initially, I probably said the words without feeling them very deeply.

    But I continued.

    And slowly, something changed.

    I cannot claim that my prayers magically transformed another human being.

    That would make a much neater story than life usually provides.

    But I know something changed inside me.

    I was no longer waking each day carrying quite the same amount of anger.

    I began seeing the situation differently.

    I stayed.

    And life moved.

    Eventually, he received a better professional opportunity and moved on.

    My own circumstances improved.

    Years passed.

    And here is the part of the story that still makes me smile:

    Today, we are on very good terms.

    Imagine if I had walked away at the height of my anger.

    Perhaps I would have carried another wound.

    Perhaps another professional relationship would have ended bitterly.

    Perhaps I would still remember him only as “the man who made my life miserable.”

    Instead, I stayed long enough to see the story change.

    That experience gave me a sentence I now believe far more deeply than any quotation I could borrow:

    Dhairya can change the ending.

    Not always.

    Some situations must be left.

    Some relationships must end.

    Some injustices must be challenged immediately and fiercely.

    Patience should never become an excuse for tolerating abuse or silencing resistance.

    But sometimes, the ending we can see from inside our anger is not the only ending available.

    We simply cannot see the others yet.

    What does this have to do with peace?

    Perhaps everything.

    Perhaps very little.

    I am careful here.

    Wars do not happen because two people simply forgot to be patient.

    Wars emerge from histories, inequalities, power, territory, ideology, political ambition, fear, oppression and competing claims to justice.

    Dhairya is not a substitute for politics, diplomacy or justice.

    And yet…

    Every large conflict is also lived through human minds.

    Someone feels threatened.

    Someone strikes.

    Someone retaliates.

    The retaliation becomes justification for another retaliation.

    Positions harden.

    Listening becomes betrayal.

    Compromise becomes weakness.

    Eventually, each side possesses a long list of reasons why it is the other side that must stop first.

    And I find myself wondering:

    At what point in that chain did we lose the capacity to pause?

    Not to surrender.

    Not to abandon justice.

    Not to tell the oppressed to wait patiently for their suffering to end.

    But to pause long enough to ask:

    Must the next response resemble the previous one?

    Have we understood what the other side fears?

    Can strength sometimes mean restraint?

    Can we remain firm without becoming consumed by hatred?

    Thich Nhat Hanh, who knew the devastation of war intimately, expressed an idea with extraordinary simplicity:

    “Peace in oneself, peace in the world.”

    I understand that sentence differently today too.

    Inner peace does not mean withdrawing from an unjust world and meditating while everything burns around us.

    Perhaps it means ensuring that when we enter the struggle, we do not carry so much unexamined anger that we reproduce the very violence we claim to oppose.

    And perhaps dhairya requires humility

    There is another uncomfortable companion to patience.

    Humility.

    Because sometimes the reason we cannot wait is not urgency.

    It is certainty.

    I know I am right.

    I know what happened.

    I know why you did it.

    I know what must happen next.

    Age has made me less certain about certainty.

    I have been right many times.

    I have also been absolutely certain—and wrong.

    So these days I am trying to learn three sentences:

    I may be wrong.

    I may not know the whole story.

    I do not have to answer today.

    That last sentence would have been almost impossible for my younger self.

    Even now, I do not always manage it.

    I still become impatient.

    I still get angry.

    I still occasionally respond and then think, Deepali, you could have waited.

    So no, this is not a GyaniNani announcing that she has finally attained wisdom.

    Far from it.

    It is a GyaniNani confessing that wisdom seems to arrive in instalments—often after we have already paid rather heavily for the lesson.

    But I am learning.

    To pause.

    To wait.

    To allow the first wave of anger to pass.

    To ask whether I need to win this argument today.

    To remember that another person may be carrying a story I cannot see.

    And perhaps most importantly, to understand that waiting is not always weakness.

    Sometimes waiting is the moment in which we recover our freedom to choose.

    Without that pause, anger chooses for us.

    Fear chooses for us.

    Ego chooses for us.

    With it, another possibility appears.

    Perhaps this is what dhairya means to me now.

    Not sitting quietly while life happens.

    Not tolerating what should never be tolerated.

    Not becoming passive.

    But developing the strength to stay inside an uncomfortable moment without immediately trying to escape it, defeat it or retaliate against it.

    I am still learning that strength.

    Slowly.

    As Kabir would probably have expected.

    And perhaps that is all right.

    The gardener can continue watering.

    The season will come when it comes.

    One question from GyaniNani

    Has there ever been a moment in your life when waiting changed the ending of the story?

    I would genuinely like to hear it.

    — GyaniNani Reflects

  • Why are women still dying behind the closed door

    https://deepalibhattacharya.substack.com/p/why-are-women-still-dying-behind?utm_source=share&utm_medium=android&r=d9hgp

  • The Prophet Dialogues- series #001

    The Prophet Dialogues
    Conversation One | The Coming of the Ship

    There were only three of us in our first Prophet Dialogue — Dr. Indu Prakash Singh, Deepali Bhattacharya and Tathagat Dwij.

    We began with The Coming of the Ship, the opening chapter of Kahlil Gibran’s The Prophet. But very soon, we were moving in and out of Gibran — into Kabir and Tennyson, Kafka and Dostoevsky, psychology and philosophy, science and spirituality, and, inevitably, our own lives.
    Maybe that is how The Prophet is meant to be read.
    Not explained. Not analysed line by line. But allowed to take us somewhere.
    We return to books as different people
    There was something deeply personal about beginning these dialogues.
    Nearly thirty years ago, Indu ji introduced Deepali to The Prophet. She has returned to it many times since. Now, after all these years, the two were sitting together again with the same book open before them — this time with Tathagat bringing another generation and another way of seeing to the conversation.
    Indu ji said something that stayed with us. He may have introduced The Prophet to many people over the years, but Deepali had carried it forward and had now brought them back together around it.
    The book was the same.
    We were not.
    And that is probably why an old book can suddenly become new again.
    What do we leave behind when we leave?
    Almustafa has waited twelve years for the ship that will finally take him home. When he sees it, he is filled with joy.
    And sorrow.
    That contradiction drew us in.
    Indu ji stopped at Gibran’s image of Almustafa leaving “fragments of the spirit” in the streets of Orphalese.
    Can we ever really leave a place where we have lived deeply? Or a relationship? Or even a particular time in our lives?
    We move on, but some part of us remains.
    And some part of what we leave behind travels with us.
    Almustafa wants to go home. His sadness does not make that desire less real. It simply tells us that departure and attachment can exist together.
    Leaving does not mean we have stopped loving.
    What happens when it becomes quiet?
    Then came Gibran’s “seeker of silences.”
    Tathagat stopped there.
    He looked at silence through psychology. When the outside noise disappears — sounds, images, conversations, distractions — the mind begins to encounter itself. Thoughts start churning. Sometimes something emerges from that silence: an insight, an understanding, even an epiphany.
    But he added a caution.
    Just because a thought feels profound does not make it true.
    We can become intoxicated by our own thinking. We can build explanations about ourselves and the world and then start treating those explanations as reality.
    That is where the seeker has to be careful.
    The conversation moved naturally from here to Kafka’s Letter to His Father, Dostoevsky and existential thought — to the uncomfortable inner territories of fear, guilt, freedom, relationships, alienation and self-deception.
    And suddenly The Prophet did not feel like a “spiritual book” at all.
    It felt like a poetic way of entering some of the hardest emotional questions of being human.
    The lantern is mine. The flame is not.
    Indu ji kept returning to Almustafa’s humility.
    After all his years of contemplation, Almustafa still does not say: I possess wisdom.
    Instead, Gibran gives us the image of the lantern.
    The lantern may be mine. The flame is not.
    That changes the meaning of knowledge.
    We may carry it. We may give it a form. But can we really claim to be its source?
    Then came another image — the harp and the flute.
    And from Gibran, the conversation travelled to Kabir.
    Deepali remembered the imagery of Kabir’s Nirgun tradition, where the human body itself becomes a dwelling, a fort, containing within it different centres of life and consciousness — awake in some places, sleeping in others. The body is not simply a physical shell. It is through this body that we experience life and seek a connection with something beyond ourselves.
    That made Gibran’s flute feel strangely familiar.
    A flute has a body. It has openings. It has form.
    But there is no music until breath passes through it.
    So what are we?
    The music?
    The flute?
    The breath?
    We did not try to settle the question.
    That was the beauty of it.
    How can a drop be boundless?
    Then Indu ji stopped us at one extraordinary phrase:
    “A boundless drop to a boundless ocean.”
    The ocean being boundless is easy enough to imagine.
    But the drop?
    How can a drop be boundless?
    Indu ji brought in the idea of purna — the whole, the complete. If the drop comes from the whole, can it ever be entirely separate from it?
    Deepali responded from science.
    Think of a single cell in the human body.
    Compared with the whole body, it is almost unimaginably small. Yet a nucleated cell carries genetic information associated with the whole organism. It is only one cell; it is certainly not the entire human being. And yet something of the blueprint of the whole is held within that tiny unit.
    That offered another way of thinking about Gibran’s drop.
    A drop does not become the ocean merely because it came from it. And yet the nature of the ocean is present in that drop.
    Maybe our smallness and our connection to something larger are not contradictions after all.
    We are the drop.
    We are part of the ocean.
    And something of the ocean is within us.
    Science and spirituality were not being used to prove each other. They simply gave us two different languages with which to wonder about the same thing.
    And then Indu ji picked up an old schoolbook…
    One of the loveliest moments of the conversation came almost casually.
    Indu ji reached for an old Class IX book — a 1975 edition — and read Tennyson to us.
    There was something wonderful about it.
    A poem sitting inside a schoolbook for more than fifty years suddenly entered a conversation in 2026 about Gibran.
    And around the same table were Kabir, Tennyson, Kafka and Dostoevsky.
    Not because we had planned an impressive list of writers to discuss.
    One thought simply led to another.
    That is what good conversations do.
    “You have given us dreams to dream”
    This was one of the lines that held Deepali.
    What an extraordinary thing to say to another human being:
    You gave us dreams to dream.
    Sometimes a person enters our life and does not give us anything tangible.
    They simply make possibility visible again.
    Their energy, ideas, questions or way of looking at life awaken something that had become quiet inside us.
    Maybe this is what mentors do too.
    They do not hand us our dreams.
    They help us discover that we can still dream.
    “Disclose us to ourselves”
    Towards the end, we came to the line that stayed with all three of us in different ways.
    The people of Orphalese do not simply ask Almustafa to tell them what he knows.
    They ask him to “disclose us to ourselves.”
    Tathagat brought us back to psychology.
    To see ourselves requires honesty. Not the version of ourselves we present to other people, but the stories we tell ourselves when nobody else is listening.
    We can deceive other people.
    The more dangerous deception begins when we start deceiving ourselves.
    And suddenly this line connected with so much of what we had already discussed.
    The seeker of silence.
    The lantern and its flame.
    The flute and the breath.
    The drop and the ocean.
    Maybe the Prophet is not there to fill people with his wisdom.
    Maybe he is there to help them recognise something that is already within them.
    And that may also explain why three people could sit with the same chapter and find three different doors opening.
    One came through philosophy and spirituality.
    One through lived experience, Kabir and science.
    One through psychology and existential thought.
    None cancelled the other.
    They made the room larger.
    That, more than anything, was our first Prophet Dialogue.
    We began with one chapter.
    We ended up talking about leaving and belonging, silence and thought, knowledge and humility, the body and the divine, the individual and the infinite, teachers, dreams and the difficult business of knowing ourselves.
    There were no conclusions as we have just arrived at the port waiting to jump in.
    In fact, there is no need to conclude too for our conversation has begun.

    The Prophet Dialogues
    Three readers. Different ways of seeing. One conversation that continues.



  • THE THOUGHT PAN CONVERSATIONS — #1

    When Does Freedom Become Agency?


    An Independence Day reflection on women, empowerment and the things we sometimes count too quickly.

    Happy Independence Day.

    Today, as we celebrate freedom, I find myself thinking about a word that we use very easily in the development sector:

    Empowerment.

    For decades, I have heard—and probably used myself—sentences such as:

    We empowered 500 women.

    The programme empowered women economically.

    Women were empowered through Self-Help Groups.

    And somewhere along the way, I began to feel uncomfortable with this language.

    Can I really empower another woman?

    Can an organisation empower her?

    Can a project?

    Or is empowerment something that happens when the conditions around a woman change sufficiently for her own agency to expand?

    That distinction may sound like semantics.

    I don’t think it is.

    Put it in the Thought Pan

    Consider a woman who has started earning ₹5,000 every month.

    Our programme data may record her as economically empowered.

    But suppose she cannot decide how that ₹5,000 will be spent.

    What exactly has changed?

    Now consider another woman who has joined a Self-Help Group. She attends every meeting. Her attendance is excellent. She participates in training programmes.

    But at home, she still cannot decide whether she can visit the health centre, travel to the market, buy something for herself or allow her daughter to continue her education.

    What exactly have we measured?

    Or consider the woman whose name appears proudly against the indicator:

    “Women with access to formal banking.”

    She has a bank account.

    But her husband keeps the passbook.

    Someone else knows the PIN.

    Someone else decides when money is withdrawn.

    She has access.

    Does she have control?

    Participation is not agency

    This is where development language sometimes gets ahead of lived reality.

    We count women who attended.

    Women who received.

    Women who enrolled.

    Women who opened accounts.

    Women who were trained.

    Women who received livelihood assets.

    Women who became members of committees.

    All of these matter. They may be important first steps.

    But they are not necessarily evidence of agency.

    Because participation is not agency.

    Access is not control.

    And an output is not necessarily a change.

    A livelihood asset may enter a household without changing who makes decisions.

    A bank account may be opened without changing financial power.

    A woman may sit on a village committee without anyone listening when she speaks.

    And sometimes a programme can improve a woman’s income while leaving her control over her time, mobility and choices almost untouched.

    This is precisely why numbers alone have never been enough for an evaluator.

    The number tells us what happened.

    We still need to ask why, how—and for whom did it actually change something?

    So what can programmes do?

    Perhaps we need to become a little more modest about our role as evaluators.

    We cannot give another human being agency.

    But we can help create the conditions in which agency becomes possible.

    We can create access.

    We can remove barriers.

    We can redistribute resources and opportunities.

    We can create safe spaces for women to organise.

    We can strengthen knowledge and skills.

    We can challenge discriminatory institutions.

    We can make systems listen.

    We can ensure that women have information, networks, resources and choices that were previously denied to them.

    And then something important can begin to happen.

    A woman decides.

    A woman negotiates.

    A woman refuses.

    A woman chooses.

    A woman speaks—and expects to be heard.

    Perhaps that is where empowerment begins.

    Freedom from. Freedom to.

    On Independence Day, this distinction feels particularly important.

    Freedom is not only freedom from something.

    It is also freedom to.

    Freedom to choose.

    Freedom to speak.

    Freedom to earn—and decide.

    Freedom to move.

    Freedom to participate—and influence.

    Freedom to aspire.

    Freedom to say yes.

    And, equally importantly, freedom to say no.

    For women, perhaps the real question is therefore not simply:

    “Has she been included?”

    But:

    “Has her universe of choices expanded?”

    And even more importantly:

    “Can she act upon those choices?”

    That is a much harder thing to measure.

    But perhaps it is also the thing most worth measuring.


    Something to keep stirring

    This Independence Day, I am leaving one question in the Thought Pan:

    «If a woman participates in development but does not gain greater control over the decisions that shape her life, can we really call it empowerment?»

    I don’t have a neat answer.

    That is precisely why it belongs here.

    Some ideas need to be cooked slowly.

    Tested carefully.

    Questioned repeatedly.

    And shared freely.

    Happy Independence Day.

    May our understanding of freedom continue to deepen—not only as independence, but as the everyday ability of every person to exercise choice, voice and agency.

    Shift in language. Shift in mindset.


    THE THOUGHT PAN CONVERSATIONS

    Cooking ideas slowly. Testing them carefully. Serving them freely.

    Every Saturday, we put one familiar idea back into the pan—and see what happens when we stir it again.

  • The Prophet Dialogues- Conversation 3

    Dialogue III — Two Shores, One Sea

    “Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls.”

    GyaniNani and TD

    TD: Nani, before we begin — I read the replies to last week’s question.

    GyaniNani: So did I. Twice.

    TD: Some comments are quite thought-provoking.

    GyaniNani: That is why we are doing this in the open and not in a book. A book would only have had the two of us in it.

    TD: Then let me start where everyone starts.

    “Let there be spaces in your togetherness.”

    It is on wedding cards. It is on wall hangings. I have heard it read aloud at three weddings.

    GyaniNani: And?

    TD: And this time a different sentence stopped me.

    “Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls.”

    Why a sea, Nani? He could have said a bridge. A bridge connects. A bridge is what we would have chosen.

    GyaniNani: That is a good question. Let me ask you one back.

    What happens if two shores become one?

    TD: (hmmm)

    The sea disappears.

    GyaniNani: Yes.

    TD: Wait.

    Then separation is not the opposite of love. Separation is what allows love to exist at all.

    GyaniNani: Not separation. Be careful with the word.

    Individuality.

    The sea does not divide the shores. It is the only reason they are in relationship. It touches both of them at once, all the time, and it asks neither of them to disappear.

    TD: So love is not the bridge.

    Love is the sea itself.

    GyaniNani: Say more.

    TD: A bridge is built. It is fixed. It has a beginning and an end, and once it is built nothing about it moves.

    A sea is alive. It has weather. It has tides. It is boundless.

    And the source and the destination remain separate — and are connected anyway. Forever.

    GyaniNani: I wrote almost exactly that in the margin, years ago. The sea is boundless, huge, endless — the source and destination remain separate — beautiful.

    TD: I would not have got there without the question you asked me.

    GyaniNani: And I would not have said it as well as you just did. We are even.

    TD: There is more in that margin, though. On the facing page you wrote two things.

    Don’t control and confine your love — let it breathe.

    And below the oak and the cypress: not to overpower.

    GyaniNani: Those two notes are twenty years apart. I can tell from the pencil.

    TD: What changed between them?

    GyaniNani: The first one is about what you do to love. The second is about what you do to a person.

    Confining love makes it stale. Overpowering a person makes them smaller. They are not the same failure, though they usually travel together.

    TD: In my work we have language for the second one. Enmeshment. Differentiation. Whether two people can stay connected without one of them dissolving.

    GyaniNani: And Gibran says: the pillars of the temple stand apart.

    TD: The oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other’s shadow.

    GyaniNani: Which is the more useful sentence to say to a couple at the end of a long argument?

    TD: (hahahah) Honestly? The trees.

    GyaniNani: I thought so.

    TD: But not because the clinical word is worse. Because the trees do not sound like a diagnosis. Nobody has to be the sick one for the trees to be true.

    GyaniNani: That is exactly it. That is what poetry can still do that our vocabulary cannot.

    TD: There is one image in the chapter I keep going back to.

    “Even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music.”

    Two strings. Never touching.

    And the music only exists because they do not touch.

    GyaniNani: Nobody quotes that line. It may be the best one in the chapter.

    (Aha!)

    TD: Nani. Can we go to the children now?

    GyaniNani: Go.

    TD: When I first read “Your children are not your children”, I thought Gibran was asking parents to be detached. It sounded cold to me. Almost cruel to the woman holding a baby who had just asked him a question.

    I do not think that any more.

    GyaniNani: What changed?

    TD: I noticed what he does not say.

    He never says do not love them.

    He says do not own them.

    GyaniNani: (quietly) Say that again.

    TD: He never says do not love them. He says do not own them.

    GyaniNani: That is the whole chapter, and I have never heard it put that plainly.

    I wrote something under that passage in my own copy. In pencil.

    Children are not our extensions. They are not our expectations.

    TD: The second half of that is the harder one.

    Because parents in India do not usually possess their children physically. Not any more. The children leave. They move cities, they move countries.

    GyaniNani: And they are still owned.

    TD: Through expectation. It travels by phone. It survives distance perfectly.

    GyaniNani: It is the quietest form of possession there is, and it does not feel like possession to the person doing it. It feels like love. It feels like ambition on someone’s behalf.

    TD: What I see most often is a parent who never asks, Who is this child?

    They ask, Why is this child not becoming the person I imagined?

    GyaniNani: And the child hears that question even when it is never spoken.

    Which is why Gibran says: they come through you, but not from you.

    TD: There is a line just before the Archer that unsettles me more than the famous one.

    “You may house their bodies but not their souls, for their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.”

    Not even in your dreams. He closes that door completely.

    GyaniNani: And then he says the thing that people skip past.

    “For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.”

    TD: Which is a sentence about grief, really.

    GyaniNani: It is. Every parent is grieving a child who no longer exists — the four-year-old, the one who needed you at midnight. That child is genuinely gone. And we are not allowed to say so, because the person standing in front of us is alive and well and asking us not to fuss.

    TD: I do not think I understood that until just now.

    GyaniNani: You will understand it properly in about twenty years. That is not a dismissal. It is the same thing we said last week about love.

    TD: Then let me end with the part nobody talks about.

    Everyone quotes “your children are not your children.”

    Hardly anyone talks about the Archer.

    GyaniNani: What did you see there?

    TD: That the Archer loves the arrow.

    But He also loves the bow.

    “For even as He loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.”

    GyaniNani: And why did that stay with you?

    TD: Because I sit with parents who are exhausted from trying to be good archers. They think the whole weight of the child’s flight is on them. Every choice, every school, every mistake.

    And the passage tells them they are not the archer at all.

    They are the bow.

    They are being held.

    GyaniNani: (after a long pause)

    We spend all our attention on where the arrow lands.

    And we forget who is holding the bow.

    TD: The bending is not something the parent chooses to do. It is something done to the parent. And Gibran asks only that it be borne with gladness.

    GyaniNani: Then parenting is an act of trust as much as an act of responsibility.

    Perhaps more.

    TD: We began with a sea that keeps two shores from becoming one.

    And we are ending with a bow that is bent by someone else’s hand.

    GyaniNani: Both of them are the same instruction, said twice.

    Hold. Do not grip.

    Reflection

    Two shores that become one shore have lost the sea between them.

    The strings of a lute make music because they never touch.

    A child can be released from a house and still be held by an expectation.

    We do not usually own our children. We own the version of them we imagined.

    And the parent who is trying hardest to be a good archer has not yet noticed that they are the bow.

    The question I am leaving with you:

    What have you been imagining on someone else’s behalf?

    A child, a partner, a parent, a student. Name the expectation — not the person. One sentence.

    And if you are the arrow rather than the bow this time: what were you expected to become?

    📖 From my copy

    A photograph of page 13 — and in the margin, in pencil:

    “Children are not our extensions. They are not our expectations.”

    Until next Friday…

    Dialogue IV — On Giving Gibran turns next to what we give and why. He has an uncomfortable question waiting: whether the giver is more blessed than the gift — and whether any of us gives without asking for something back.

  • The Prophet Dialogues- Conversation 2

    Dialogue II — When Love Finds You

    A note on how this section is split. Gibran gives us three chapters here — Love, Marriage, Children — and they belong to one arc: love arrives, love asks for space, love releases. Two conversations carry it better than one. Dialogue II stays with love itself. Dialogue III takes the sea and the arrow together, because marriage and parenting are the same lesson learned twice.

    A note on TD.

    TD is a young psychologist. He has the vocabulary — attachment, vulnerability, individuation, regulation. That vocabulary is a gift and a hazard, and the dialogues should use both. He is not GyaniNani’s student. He is her companion, and roughly half the wisdom in these two conversations is his.

    Love possesses not nor would it be possessed.”

    GyaniNani and TD

    TD: Nani, I want to confess something before we start.

    GyaniNani: Confess.

    TD: I have read this chapter many times. I can quote parts of it. And I am not sure I understand it.

    When Gibran says love threshes you, sifts you, grinds you to whiteness — I understand every word. I do not understand the experience.

    GyaniNani: Then you have understood the chapter better than most people who quote it.

    TD: That is a kind way to let me off.

    GyaniNani: It is not kindness. Some things cannot be understood by reading. They have to be lived.

    TD: That is what struck me. When he writes about being wounded by love, about standing naked before it — he is describing something that happens in the body.

    The chest tightens. The stomach drops. The hands do not stay still.

    You feel somehow smaller.

    No dictionary explains that.

    GyaniNani: Language can describe an experience. Only life decodes it.

    Perhaps that is why people return to this book at different ages. The words do not change.

    The reader changes.

    TD: There is a name for what I just described, you know. In my training we call it interoception — the sense we have of our own insides. The body registers meaning before the mind can put it into a sentence.

    GyaniNani: And does the name help?

    TD: Usually, yes.

    GyaniNani: I ask because I have watched people receive a name for what they were feeling and go quiet in a way that worried me. As though the naming had settled it. As though a word had been placed over the thing like a lid.

    TD: That happens. I have done it myself.

    But I want to argue with you a little.

    GyaniNani: Please.

    TD: Some people come to me with no words at all. Only a body that will not sleep and a chest that will not loosen. For them a name is not a lid. It is the first handhold. It is the moment they stop believing they are broken and start believing they are describing something real.

    GyaniNani: (hmmm)

    I had not thought of it that way.

    I have spent thirty years worrying that we explain feelings too quickly. I have not spent enough time with the person who cannot name a single one.

    TD: I think both are true, Nani. A name given too early closes a door. A name given at the right time opens one.

    GyaniNani: Then perhaps the question is never whether to name it, but whether we are still curious after we have.

    A question, halfway through.

    Where in your body does love live? Not what it means to you. Where you feel it. One line.

    TD: Can I tell you what this made me think about?

    Parents.

    Parents keep saying, “One day you will understand.”

    As children we dismiss it. It sounds like another lecture in a long line of lectures.

    Then one day you fall in love.

    And those same words arrive with all their weight.

    GyaniNani: (smiles) Many parents are quietly waiting for that day.

    Not because they want their children to suffer.

    Because love makes us softer, and they are waiting for the softness.

    TD: Softer how?

    GyaniNani: Have you noticed it in your friends? Someone who argued with every suggestion suddenly understands what it is to worry for another person.

    To wait for a message.

    To lose sleep.

    To forgive without keeping the account open.

    To put someone else’s happiness beside their own and not resent it.

    That is usually when children begin to hear the language their parents had been speaking all along.

    TD: So a child understands a parent’s love only after loving someone themselves. Until then it is a beautiful sentence in a language they have not learned.

    GyaniNani: Yes. And you have just said in two sentences what I have been trying to say to parents for years.

    TD: Which raises something else I keep circling.

    Gibran wrote this in 1923. No attachment theory. No emotional regulation. None of the vocabulary I use every day.

    And he is describing all of it.

    GyaniNani: Be careful how you put that.

    TD: How so?

    GyaniNani: I nearly wrote once that psychology was “not yet evolved” in his time. It was the wrong sentence. There were serious people doing serious work in those years, and it diminishes them.

    What is truer is that psychology had not yet become part of ordinary speech. Today we say attachment, vulnerability, individuation over breakfast. Gibran had no such shelf to reach for. He had images.

    TD: So science gave us the concepts.

    GyaniNani: And poetry gave us the pictures. Neither replaces the other. Science measures. Poetry usually notices first.

    TD: Then let me ask the thing that has bothered me most about this chapter.

    Why is every single image of love in it painful?

    Pruning. Threshing. Sifting. Grinding. Kneading. Fire.

    That is a description of what happens to wheat, Nani. It is violent.

    GyaniNani: Because transformation is rarely comfortable.

    Notice that he does not stop at the fire. The wheat becomes bread. But nothing in that sequence lets the grain stay a grain.

    TD: In my field we would call the whole passage a description of vulnerability.

    GyaniNani: And Gibran simply called it love.

    (silence)

    TD: There is a line I underlined and then could not stop returning to.

    “Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning.”

    Growth and pruning in one breath. Same hand.

    GyaniNani: That is the sentence that holds the chapter together, and almost nobody quotes it.

    We have made a culture that wants the growth without the pruning. We want to be expanded and never cut back.

    TD: And Gibran gives you the choice.

    GyaniNani: He does. And this is the part that frightens me.

    He says: if in your fear you would seek only love’s peace and love’s pleasure, then cover yourself and leave love’s threshing-floor —

    “Into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears.”

    TD: A seasonless world.

    GyaniNani: A safe one. Nothing dies in it because nothing grows in it.

    I wrote one thing in my margin here, in pencil, years ago.

    Fear is the enemy of love.

    TD: That is what he is saying, isn’t it. Not hatred. Not indifference.

    Fear.

    GyaniNani: Fear is what makes us reach for the safe version. And the safe version is not a smaller love. It is a different world altogether — one where you never laugh with your whole laughter again.

    TD: Nani, I have to push back on something else you wrote.

    GyaniNani: Good.

    TD: Somewhere in your notes you wrote, Love is stillness.

    I disagreed immediately. This entire chapter is motion. The sword among the pinions. The north wind laying waste to the garden. The threshing-floor. Nothing about it is still.

    GyaniNani: You are right about the chapter.

    TD: Then why stillness?

    GyaniNani: Because I was not describing what love does. I was describing what love is.

    Think about what actually makes love noisy.

    Fear makes it agitated. Possession makes it anxious. Ego makes it loud. Comparison makes it restless.

    Take those four out.

    TD: (after a moment)

    And what is left is quiet.

    GyaniNani: Love itself has never been the noise. The noise is everything we attach to it.

    TD: So the threshing is real, but it is love acting on us. The stillness is love as it is in itself.

    GyaniNani: That is better than how I put it. Use yours.

    TD: Then perhaps love is not asking us to become better people.

    It is asking us to become available.

    GyaniNani: Available to be changed.

    TD: Yes.

    GyaniNani: (after a long pause)

    Which may be why he ends where he does.

    “Love possesses not nor would it be possessed. For love is sufficient unto love.”

    The moment we try to own it, we stop letting it change us.

    And a love that cannot change us has become a possession.

    TD: We began with me admitting I did not understand this chapter.

    GyaniNani: And we are ending with me admitting the same. I have read it for thirty years. It still gets ahead of me.

    Reflection

    Some things language can point to but never hand over.

    Love does not arrive as information. It arrives as weather — in the chest, in the stomach, in the hands.

    Every image Gibran uses for it is an image of something being broken open in order to become food.

    The alternative he offers is not a lesser love. It is a seasonless world.

    And the enemy is not hatred. It is fear.

    The question I am leaving with you:

    Where are you living in the seasonless world?

    One place in your life where you have chosen the safe version of love — over the one that would have cost you something. One sentence. No explanation needed.

    Last week I asked what you were calling a garment that was actually a skin.

    📖 From my copy

    A photograph of page 10 — the underlining, and in the margin, in pencil:

    “Fear is the enemy of love.”

    Until next Friday…

    Dialogue III — Two Shores, One Sea Everyone quotes one line from the chapter on marriage. I want to talk about a different one. And then, at last, about children.

  • The Prophet Dialogues-Conversation-I

    The Day of Departure

    “Disclose us to ourselves.”

    GyaniNani and TD

    A note on TD: TD is the one who asks. Younger, unhurried, unwilling to accept a beautiful sentence until it has been tested. Every Nani needs one. TD is also, on most days, the reader.

    TD: Everyone quotes The Prophet for its chapter on children. Why are we beginning somewhere else?

    GyaniNani: Because before Almustafa speaks about children, or love, or freedom, he must first learn to leave.

    TD: Leave what?

    GyaniNani: Everything he has been. Every journey begins with a departure. Every new beginning asks us to set down something we have loved with our whole heart.

    TD: We don’t talk about it that way.

    GyaniNani: No. We celebrate beginnings. We rarely honour the courage of endings.

    TD: One line stayed with me.

    “I cannot withdraw from them without a burden and an ache.”

    Why those words? He is the wise one. Shouldn’t wisdom hurt less?

    GyaniNani: I used to think so. I thought detachment was the goal — that if I loved correctly, leaving would be light.

    I no longer think that.

    The ache is not a failure of wisdom. The ache is the receipt. It is proof that something was real.

    TD: Then what does wisdom change?

    GyaniNani: Not the pain. Only what we do with it. Then he says something more:

    “It is not a garment I cast off this day, but a skin that I tear with my own hands.”

    A garment can be changed.

    A skin has grown into us. It is our identity, our history, sometimes our whole sense of ourselves.

    Life’s deepest transformations are never superficial. They ask us to become someone new.

    TD: That reminds me of childbirth.

    Pregnancy ends. Motherhood begins.

    The ending and the beginning happen in the same moment.

    GyaniNani: And Gibran has a line for exactly that:

    “And shall it be said that my eve was in truth my dawn?”

    Perhaps birth is our first lesson in letting go — for the mother and for the child both.

    Nine months of protecting a child by holding the child within.

    Then one day love asks for the opposite.

    To let go.

    Perhaps every stage of a child’s growth is another small birth.

    The first day at school.

    The first journey alone.

    The first job.

    Marriage.

    Every milestone asks the parent to loosen the grip without loosening the love.

    A question, before we go further.

    What was the last thing you let go of that you are still, quietly, holding? Say it in one line.

    TD: Nani, I want to push back.

    GyaniNani: Please.

    TD: “Loosen the grip without loosening the love” — that is a lovely sentence. But some people let go because they are tired. Some let go and call it wisdom when it was really giving up. How do you tell the difference?

    GyaniNani: You are right, and I do not have a clean answer.

    The only difference I have found is direction. Letting go leaves you facing the other person, still wanting their good. Giving up turns you away.

    But I have not always known which one I was doing at the time. Sometimes I only knew years later.

    TD: So you can get it wrong.

    GyaniNani: Often. That is why this is a conversation and not a lesson.

    TD: Then he asks,

    “Shall the day of parting be the day of gathering?”

    How can parting become gathering?

    GyaniNani: Think of a teacher on her last day.

    People do not come only to say goodbye. They come carrying memories. Gratitude. Stories she had forgotten she was part of.

    Perhaps departures are the days when we finally see the harvest of seeds we sowed without noticing.

    “If this is my day of harvest, in what fields have I sowed the seed, and in what unremembered seasons?”

    TD: Then this one.

    “Am I a harp that the hand of the mighty may touch me, or a flute that his breath may pass through me?”

    Why call himself a harp? Or a flute?

    GyaniNani: Sit with what a flute actually is.

    A flute is a hollow thing.

    It makes music not because it is full, but because it is empty — and because it has been pierced. Every hole in it was made deliberately. Without the wounds, there is no music.

    TD: That is uncomfortable.

    GyaniNani: It is meant to be. This is the most spiritual line in the chapter and it is disguised as a modest question.

    Because it asks two things at once. Can you be emptied? And can you let the breath be someone else’s?

    The flute does not create the music. It permits the music.

    And in the moment of playing, the player and the instrument are not two. Creator and creation become one.

    TD: And that applies where?

    GyaniNani: Everywhere love is real.

    Parents to their children.

    Teachers to their students.

    Friends.

    We are not owners of life. We are lent it, and asked to keep it warm.

    The gardener does not create the seed. Yet the gardener’s love helps it become a tree.

    TD: Gibran asks that too —

    “Shall my heart become a tree heavy-laden with fruit that I may gather and give unto them?”

    GyaniNani: And notice he asks it. He does not declare it.

    He is not certain he has anything to give. On the day everyone gathers to call him wise, he is quietly asking whether he ever was.

    That is the difference between a teacher and a guru.

    TD: There is one line I keep returning to.

    “A noontide have you been in our twilight, and your youth has given us dreams to dream.”

    GyaniNani: That line undoes me a little.

    Because the elders are speaking. And they are telling the young man that he was their light.

    We assume the direction of wisdom. Old to young. Nani to grandchild.

    Gibran reverses it in a single sentence.

    TD: You are supposed to be the Nani here.

    GyaniNani: I know. And most of what I understand, I understood late, and usually because someone younger asked me a question I could not answer.

    Your noontide has fallen on my twilight more than once.

    TD: And the second half of the line?

    GyaniNani: Notice what they do not say.

    They do not say, “You gave us dreams.”

    They say, “You gave us dreams to dream.”

    No one can dream on our behalf. But someone can wake the part of us that is able to dream at all.

    Perhaps the greatest gift we offer another person is not direction.

    It is possibility.

    TD: And then, before asking about love, or children, or work, the people ask him something extraordinary.

    “Disclose us to ourselves.”

    Why that, first?

    GyaniNani: Because they are not asking for answers. They are asking to be seen — and then handed back to themselves.

    That is the whole book, in three words.

    And it is what I hope these eleven conversations become. Not explanations of Gibran.

    Quiet rooms in which we each recognise something we already knew.

    Reflection

    Every departure is an ending and a beginning wearing the same clothes.

    Every birth begins with a letting go.

    Every parent learns, usually the hard way, that love is not possession.

    Every flute is made of holes.

    And every real teacher is a little unsure whether they had anything to give.

    Gibran does not resolve this. He leaves Almustafa standing at the harbour, asking questions.

    So I will not resolve it either.

    The question I am leaving with you:

    What are you calling a garment — that is actually a skin?

    Something you have told yourself you could set down easily. A role. A grief. A version of yourself. A person.

    Answer in one sentence in the comments. Not a paragraph. One sentence is harder, and truer.

    I read every one.

    Until next Friday…

    Conversation II — They Come Through You… Not From You

    Bring the question that has been sitting in you since you first read the chapter on children. That one is going to need all of us.

  • Why The Prophet?

    11 Conversations on parenting, love and letting go

    Inspired by The Prophet by Kahlil Jibran

    A personal Journey

    From a carefree, naive wanderer

    To a lifelong seeker of questions.

    Not because life became easier, but one small book quietly changed the way I looked at the world.

    Walk with us..

    The first conversation begins this friday…

    Welcome to The Prophet Dialogues

  • Beyond the Breaking News-Part 8

    Violence, Fear, Perception and Agency

    Deepali Bhattacharya

    In conversation with TD, Clinical Psychologist  ·  An eleven-part reflection, with notes and references

    PART VIII

    When Fear Begins to Shrink Our Lives

    “The purpose of fear is to protect life—not to replace it.”

    Fear has a curious habit.

    It begins by asking us to be careful.

    Slowly, almost invisibly, it begins asking us to stop living.

    A young woman avoids evening classes.

    An elderly couple stops travelling.

    Parents no longer allow children to play outside.

    A commuter changes jobs to avoid public transport.

    Each decision appears reasonable in isolation.

    Together, they slowly reduce the size of life.

    TD introduced another important idea here—maladaptive fear. 17

    Healthy fear helps us adapt.

    It makes us alert.

    It encourages preparation.

    Maladaptive fear does something different.

    It convinces us that the safest life is the smallest life.

    Ironically, this is often strengthened by relentless exposure to dramatic news.

    Every notification.

    Every breaking alert.

    Every forwarded video.

    Our minds begin to mistake repetition for increasing danger. 18

    Yet the world is rarely as simple as our news feeds.

    Acts of extraordinary violence deserve attention.

    But they should not become the only stories we consume.

    Because while violence deserves visibility, kindness deserves memory too.

    Every day, people rescue strangers after accidents.

    Neighbours donate blood.

    Passengers intervene to protect women.

    Teachers notice silent suffering.

    Friends stay back after everyone else has left.

    These stories rarely become breaking news.

    Yet they are equally true.

    If we only remember violence, we begin believing that violence is all there is.

    It is not.

    Humanity has always contained both cruelty and compassion.

    Our emotional health depends partly on remembering both.

    A QUESTION THAT STAYED WITH ME…

    If fear becomes smaller when we act, what does action actually look like for ordinary people?

    Notes:

    16.  The concept originates with Halbwachs (1950/1992): memory is not only individual but socially framed — communities preserve, transmit and reinterpret the past together.

    17.  On how avoidance sustains fear: Foa and Kozak (1986) show that fear structures persist precisely when avoidance prevents corrective emotional processing — the avoided train can never teach the mind that it is, in fact, usually safe.

    18.  Gerbner and Gross (1976) documented the “mean world syndrome” — heavy consumers of violent media overestimate real-world danger; Thompson et al. (2019) trace a modern cycle in which distress drives further media consumption, which deepens distress.

  • Beyond the Breaking News-Part 7

    Violence, Fear, Perception and Agency

    Deepali Bhattacharya

    In conversation with TD, Clinical Psychologist  ·  An eleven-part reflection, with notes and references

    PART VII

    Why Old Wounds Never Really Leave

    “Communities remember far longer than newspapers do.”

    There are moments in history that become reference points.

    Ask people where they were during a major earthquake, a terrorist attack or a national tragedy, and many can answer almost instantly.

    Not because they were present.

    But because the event became part of their collective memory. 16

    After the recent train murder, I heard several people say the same thing.

    “It reminded me of 26/11.”

    The comparison was not about numbers.

    It was about emotion.

    When I asked TD why old tragedies return so easily, he explained the idea of collective trauma. 15

    Unlike personal trauma, collective trauma belongs to an entire community. It becomes part of the stories people tell, the fears they inherit and the way future events are interpreted.

    A new incident does not arrive alone.

    It awakens older memories.

    This is true not only for acts of terrorism.

    Communities affected by riots, displacement, recurring floods or long histories of violence often carry invisible emotional maps. A loud sound, a familiar location or even a news headline can reopen emotions that had never completely healed.

    Perhaps this is why healing requires more than time.

    Time passes.

    Memory remains.

    The challenge before society is not to erase painful memories. That is neither possible nor desirable.

    The challenge is to prevent painful memories from becoming permanent prisons.

    Collective memory can become a source of wisdom.

    Or it can become a source of perpetual fear.

    The difference lies in how societies remember.

    Do we remember only the horror?

    Or do we also remember the courage of ordinary people who helped one another?

    History offers both.

    What we choose to pass on matters.

    A QUESTION THAT STAYED WITH ME…

    When does healthy caution quietly become a life governed by fear?

    Notes:

    15.  Erikson (1976), studying the Buffalo Creek flood, first described trauma that damages the tissue of community itself; Hirschberger (2018) reviews how collective trauma becomes part of a group’s identity and meaning-making across generations.