GyaniNani's Reading Room

Tag: Founder’s Journal

  • At Last, She Is a Farmer

    Maharashtra challenges a patriarchal history of land, labour and recognition

    Deepali Bhattacharya

    —  •  —

    There are some policy decisions whose significance cannot be understood by looking only at the document they create.

    A certificate can be just a certificate.

    But sometimes, a certificate challenges centuries of social conditioning.

    As Maharashtra prepares to issue its first Women Farmer Certificates, recognising women as farmers irrespective of whether the agricultural land is registered in their names, I believe we should understand this moment in precisely that way.

    Maharashtra has done something remarkable.

    It has challenged one of the oldest equations in our agrarian society: land belongs to the man, therefore the farmer is the man.

    The woman? She works. She sows. She transplants. She weeds. She harvests. She preserves seeds. She tends livestock. She manages household food security.

    But for generations, patriarchal society found another word for her: helper.

    That one word tells us a great deal about how patriarchy works.

    The history behind the invisibility

    Women’s secondary position in agriculture did not emerge because women contributed less. It emerged from a social order in which property, inheritance, authority and lineage were overwhelmingly organised around men.

    In some of my much earlier development work in Bihar, I wrote about the continuing influence of a feudal social order, alongside deeply entrenched caste structures, on women’s position. I described the interconnected workings of patriarchy, patrilineal inheritance and patrilocal marriage: property and family identity travelled largely through men, while women moved after marriage into the husband’s household, often without corresponding claims over productive assets.¹

    That history matters to the present discussion. Because land is not merely soil. Land has historically represented wealth, lineage, security, status and authority.

    When ownership became masculine, authority over agriculture became masculine too. And gradually we created an extraordinary contradiction: women could perform agricultural labour without acquiring agricultural identity.

    The patriarchal system did not necessarily prevent women from working. It depended upon their work. What it restricted was something more consequential: their claim to ownership, decision-making and recognition.

    West Bengal: “Men are farmers. Women are helpers.”

    Years later, while working with women farmers in West Bengal as Gender Specialist under the USAID–PepsiCo Integrated Land and Resource Governance programme implemented by Tetra Tech, I encountered the same structural problem in another form.

    Our work with Gender Action Learning Systems (GALS) and Nurturing Connections looked beyond agricultural productivity to gender norms, household decision-making, unpaid care, productive resources, entitlements, voice and leadership.²

    One of the gender norms documented in the programme could hardly have stated the problem more starkly: “Men are farmers and women are their helping hand.” Alongside it were other assumptions: land belonged to men; women were not seen as property owners; men were expected to make agricultural decisions; technical agricultural knowledge was considered a male domain; and farming meetings and extension opportunities often went primarily to men.³

    Think about the circularity of that system. A woman is not considered a farmer, so she is not invited to agricultural training. Because she is not invited to training or formally engaged by agricultural institutions, the man becomes the recognised farmer. And because the man is recognised as the farmer, resources, information and institutional relationships continue to flow towards him.

    Patriarchy reproduces itself not merely through attitudes, but through systems.

    Even unpaid care becomes part of this arrangement. Women farmers carry substantial household and care responsibilities, leaving them time-poor and less able to participate in training and agricultural institutions.³

    Bihar: knowledge without ownership

    More recently, my work with women in north Bihar brought me face to face with another version of the same contradiction.

    Women involved in food sovereignty, indigenous seed conservation, kitchen gardens and sustainable agriculture possessed considerable knowledge. They could identify seed varieties, understand seasonal changes, preserve seeds, advise others about crops and manage household nutrition. Their participation in collectives expanded their confidence and their aspirations towards enterprise, markets, leadership and a stronger role in local decision-making.

    And yet, repeatedly, the conversation returned to the same place: the land was in a man’s name. Larger decisions around cultivation, sale and investment frequently remained with men. Engagement with banks or formal institutions could still require male mediation.

     

    The woman’s knowledge was visible; her authority over the asset was far less secure.

    From my work on Deconstructing Patriarchy

     

    A woman can know which seed will survive an uncertain monsoon. She can know when it should be planted. She can preserve it. She can teach other farmers. And still the land on which all this knowledge is exercised may not bear her name. This is what I have come to describe as knowledge without ownership.⁴

    Darbhanga: when livelihood begins to alter identity

    In Darbhanga, women had long participated deeply in agriculture — sowing, transplanting, weeding and harvesting — yet much of that labour remained absorbed into household responsibility rather than recognised as economic contribution.

    The introduction of makhana cultivation and more structured livelihood opportunities began to alter this relationship. Women began earning directly. They began handling money. They contributed to household expenditure. And gradually, they participated more in financial decisions.⁵

     

    “Now we earn, so we are also asked.”

    A woman participant in Darbhanga

     

    There is an entire theory of women’s empowerment contained in that one sentence. Now we earn. Therefore, we are also asked.

    But it also reveals how deeply unequal the original relationship was. Why should a woman need to demonstrate income before her opinion becomes worthy of being sought? Why should decades of agricultural labour not have been enough?

    This is precisely why recognition matters.

    Maharashtra: where something remarkable is happening

    And then I come back to Maharashtra.

    Here, my perspective comes not from implementing the programme but from evaluating the Women’s Initiative for Food Sovereignty in Sangamner and Akole. That distinction matters. As an evaluator, I had the opportunity to listen to women, field teams and partner institutions, examine what had changed over four years, and assess the evidence of change with some distance from implementation.

    The initiative reached around 400 rural and tribal women farmers. Eight community seed banks were established, conserving around 4,000 kg of indigenous grains. Women became involved in indigenous seed conservation, organic cultivation, value addition, Participatory Guarantee Systems and market linkages.⁶

    But the most significant shift I saw in the evidence was not simply agricultural. It was institutional and social.

    The community seed banks became collective spaces governed by women themselves — involving decisions about seed selection, preservation, exchange and cropping. Women who had earlier been perceived largely as agricultural helpers increasingly came to be recognised as farmers, seed custodians and decision-makers.⁷

     

    “Earlier we only worked. Now we decide.”

    A woman farmer in the Sangamner case study

     

    For me, those words connect directly with what Maharashtra is doing today. Earlier we only worked. Now we decide. And perhaps now we can add: now the state recognises us too.

    Why Maharashtra’s decision is a challenge to patriarchy

    This is why I hesitate to describe Maharashtra’s action merely as a welfare measure for women. It is potentially much more radical than that.

    Patriarchy survives partly because certain categories have been made to appear natural: the landowner is male; the head of the household is male; the farmer is male; the woman assists.

    But these categories were never natural. They were constructed through social norms, inheritance systems, property relations, institutional practices and generations of repetition.

    My work on Deconstructing Patriarchy has increasingly convinced me that patriarchy does not survive only by excluding women. It can also include women while retaining male authority. A woman may work, earn, acquire agricultural expertise, join a collective and even be celebrated for her contribution. But the crucial questions remain: Who owns? Who decides? Whose authority is recognised?

    Acceptance of women’s participation does not automatically mean acceptance of women’s authority. Development can expand women’s productive role while leaving the final location of decision-making substantially unchanged.⁸

    Maharashtra is now intervening precisely in that space between participation and recognition. That is why this matters.

    A policy recommendation becoming reality

    There is another reason this announcement feels particularly significant to me.

    In the policy document we developed for International Women’s Day 2026, after examining experiences from Maharashtra, Bihar and elsewhere, one of our recommendations to governments was remarkably straightforward: “Recognise women as farmers in official records.”⁹

    We made that recommendation because our own field evidence kept showing us the same contradiction. Women were central to agriculture but peripheral to ownership. Central to production but peripheral to recognition. Central to household food security but peripheral to agricultural institutions.

    In Sangamner, our IWD analysis explicitly noted that women were central to seed preservation, crop diversity and household nutrition management while remaining insufficiently recognised as farmers within formal and community structures.¹⁰

    And now Maharashtra is moving in exactly the direction we were asking governments to move. That deserves recognition.

    But recognition must lead towards power

    Celebration should not make us uncritical.

    A farmer certificate is not the same thing as ownership of land. Recognition cannot substitute indefinitely for inheritance rights, control over productive assets, access to finance or authority over agricultural income.

    My Bihar experience has taught me this particularly strongly. A woman may become recognised as a knowledgeable farmer, community mobiliser or seed keeper and still have limited control over the asset on which her work depends.

     

    Recognition is meaningful, but recognition without redistribution has limits.

    From my Deconstructing Patriarchy work

     

    Maharashtra therefore should not be seen as completing the journey. It has opened an important door. The next challenge is ensuring that recognition becomes entitlement, institutional access, bargaining power, decision-making authority and, increasingly, ownership.

    For today, Maharashtra deserves to be celebrated

    Women’s movements have fought for decades against the assumption that women’s work is secondary simply because it takes place inside families, on family farms or without an individual title attached to it.

    Across West Bengal, Bihar and Maharashtra, I have encountered different versions of the same woman.

    She knows the land. She knows the crop. She knows the seed. She knows when rain is late. She knows what the household will eat if the harvest fails. Often, she knows agriculture as intimately as — sometimes more intimately than — the person whose name appears on the papers.

    Yet history placed her beside the farmer rather than allowing her to be the farmer.

    Well done, Maharashtra.

    Not simply for issuing a certificate, but for confronting a patriarchal definition that should have been challenged long ago.

    For saying that ownership in a man’s name cannot make a woman’s labour disappear.

    For recognising that agricultural identity must arise from women’s contribution, knowledge and work — not only from a male-dominated history of property.

    And perhaps most importantly, for beginning to replace one of rural India’s oldest descriptions — “She helps him farm” — with one that women have earned through generations of labour:

    “She is a farmer.”

    That is not a small semantic correction. It is a redistribution of identity.

    And if Maharashtra can carry that recognition from paper into institutions, resources and decision-making, it may have done something even larger: shown India one way of challenging patriarchy from the ground beneath our feet.

    Notes and references from my own work

    1. Early Bihar development documentation: reflections on the feudal bent of rural and semi-urban society, caste, patriarchy, patrilineal inheritance and patrilocal marriage.

    2. Deepali Bhattacharya, Gender Specialist, Tetra Tech Development Services — USAID & PepsiCo / Integrated Land and Resource Governance (West Bengal), 2020–2022; work on GALS and Nurturing Connections.

    3. ILRG GALS Training Manual (West Bengal): gender norms affecting women’s recognition as farmers, land ownership, participation in agricultural decisions, extension services and unpaid care.

    4. Deepali Bhattacharya, Deconstructing Patriarchy: field vignette on “Knowledge without Ownership” and the distinction between participation and power.

    5. Darbhanga field documentation and case study: “From Invisible Labour to Recognised Farmers.”

    6. Impact Assessment Report 2025: Women’s Initiative for Food Sovereignty, Sangamner & Akole — 400 women farmers, eight community seed banks and approximately 4,000 kg of indigenous grains conserved.

    7. IWD 2026 Give to Gain policy document: Women-Led Seed Sovereignty & Agroecological Transition; Sangamner/Akole case evidence.

    8. Deepali Bhattacharya, Deconstructing Patriarchy: argument on the institutional reproduction of patriarchy and the difference between women’s participation and women’s authority.

    9. IWD 2026 Give to Gain policy document, Policy Recommendations for Governments: “Recognise women as farmers in official records.”

    10. IWD 2026 Give to Gain policy document: Sangamner evidence on women’s central role in seed preservation, crop diversity and household nutrition, alongside gaps in formal recognition.

    Author’s note: This article draws only on my own field experience, evaluation work, programme documentation, IWD 2026 policy writing and research drafts, alongside the Maharashtra announcement that prompted this reflection.

  • 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.

  • Letter to Mai on Guru Purnima

    My eternal love

    Dear Mai,

    Before the day of Guru Purnima comes to an end, I wanted to write you a letter. Strangely, this is the first letter I have ever written to you. I never really needed to write one—you were always there with me. And even when you were not physically beside me, you were just a phone call away.

    I miss you, Mai.

    You were the one I loved with all my heart. But saying “you loved me” is not enough. A mother’s love cannot be measured in words. It is eternal, unconditional, and perhaps the purest form of love that exists.

    From my childhood, I somehow always felt that I had to protect you, that I had to live for you. You were so vulnerable and so innocent at times. You were an ambitious young woman whose dreams were crushed—first by your parental family and then by your marital family.

    I often marvelled at your resilience, but I also struggled with the fact that you never stood up for yourself. Perhaps no one had ever taught you how. Yet, despite that, you taught us something even more valuable—to withstand pressure, to remain strong, and to follow our dreams.

    Today is the first Guru Purnima when I cannot touch your feet. You are my first Guru. Distance, time, and even death cannot change that.

    I still remember the last Guru Purnima in the hospital. You were so unwell. I don’t know whether I was being insensitive or simply trying to prepare myself when I said, “Mom, let me offer my last pranam to you.” And you quietly replied, “My last blessing to you. Everything comes to an end. Nothing is stagnant.”

    Mai… I have carried those words in my heart ever since.

    Did I, in some way, push you to leave this world by saying that?

    I don’t know why this thought keeps haunting me.

    I am sorry, Mom.

    I love you. And I miss you far more than words can ever express.

    I am still trying to figure out what life is without you. My life revolved around you—our countless conversations, those little phone calls every now and then, asking each other the smallest things. It has been a year now without hearing your voice. I still cannot believe that life has somehow continued.

    But believe me, a part of me left with you forever.

    However hard I try, I know I will never be the same person again.

    On this Guru Purnima, I bow my head before my first Guru—my Mai.

    Jai Guru, Mummy!!

    Your Deepu, always.

  • 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.

  • Beyond the Breaking News-Part 6

    Violence, Fear, Perception and Agency

    Deepali Bhattacharya

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

    PART VI

    “That Could Have Been Me”

    “Fear is not only about danger. It is about nearness.”

    A few days after the train murder, I found myself listening to conversations in different places. At a café. In a waiting room. During a taxi ride. People were discussing the same incident, but their reactions were strikingly different.

    One young woman who travelled daily by local train admitted that she had barely slept the night after watching the video.

    An elderly gentleman who mostly travelled by car said, “Terrible incident… but these things happen.”

    Neither response was wrong.

    They were simply different.

    When I mentioned this to TD, he smiled.

    “The mind asks only one question before it measures risk,” he said.

    “Could that have been me?”

    Psychologists call this risk perception. Interestingly, our perception of risk is rarely based on statistical probability. It is shaped by familiarity, proximity and imagination. 13

    A commuter who boards the same train every day does not see a random incident. She sees herself standing in that compartment.

    A parent watching news of violence against children imagines their own son or daughter.

    A young bride hearing of another dowry death quietly wonders about her own future.

    Fear becomes personal long before danger becomes probable.

    This is why two people watching the same news bulletin often walk away with entirely different emotions.

    The event is the same.

    The imagination is different.

    Years ago, while interacting with women in rural communities, I noticed something similar. Women routinely described walking long distances before sunrise or after sunset because they had no choice. When I asked whether they were afraid, many replied, “Yes. But we still have to go.”

    Their fear had not disappeared.

    Life had simply left them with fewer alternatives.

    Risk perception is therefore never only psychological. 14

    It is also social.

    Economic circumstances.

    Gender.

    Age.

    Disability.

    Occupation.

    All shape how close danger feels.

    Perhaps this is why public policy must listen not only to crime statistics but also to people’s lived experiences of safety.

    Because people do not live according to probability.

    They live according to perception.

    And perception shapes behaviour.

    A QUESTION THAT STAYED WITH ME…

    If fear grows through imagination, can memory make that fear last long after the event has passed?

    Notes:

    13.  The classic account is Slovic (1987): lay risk perception tracks dread, familiarity and controllability rather than probability. Loewenstein et al. (2001) formalise this as “risk as feelings” — emotional reactions to risk routinely diverge from cognitive assessments and often drive behaviour.

    14.  Kasperson et al. (1988) call this the social amplification of risk: social position, communication channels and institutional response amplify or attenuate how dangerous an event feels to different groups.

  • Beyond the Breaking News-Epilogue

    Violence, Fear, Perception and Agency

    Deepali Bhattacharya

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

    Epilogue

    As I finished writing these reflections, I realised that this series was never really about one train, one crime or one headline.

    It was about us.

    About how we respond when violence enters our lives—not always directly, but through the stories we hear, the images we carry and the memories we inherit.

    The questions in these pages do not belong to psychologists alone.

    They belong to commuters.

    Parents.

    Teachers.

    Police officers.

    Journalists.

    Policy-makers.

    Neighbours.

    And to every one of us who has ever looked at a disturbing headline and wondered,

    “What is happening to us?”

    Perhaps the better question is,

    “What are we going to do next?”

    Because, in the end, TD’s final words remain the simplest and perhaps the wisest:

    “Keep living your life. What you are going to do matters more.”

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