🌿 Surviving workplace toxicity: A Journey to Inner Calm

I needed to breathe today.

It’s been heavy at work again—layers of expectations, noise, and emotional static. The kind that doesn’t just stay in the room but follows you back home, sinks into your bones, messes with your heartbeat, and tightens your chest like a grip. The kind of stress that doesn’t show up on routine ECGs but exists—silently altering your autonomic rhythm, inflaming your thoughts, triggering low-grade fatigue that medicine can’t fix.

So I packed lightly—just me, my ektara, a small Bluetooth speaker, and drove away. I took the road upward from Bagdogra across the tea gardens, gentle and quiet, the town’s noise thinning out behind me.

I turned off from the highway, taking a narrow trail that veered into a cluster of tea workers’ huts. I knew this way by heart. Past the crumbling dispensary for tea-workers that probably hasn’t seen a patient in years, I walked a bit further, the red soil with grass under my sandals. The monsoon clouds hovered lightly above.

And then, there it was.
My place.
The gabion wall—a bench made of rocks bound in wire. Still strong. Still quiet. Still waiting.

🌿 A Place to Heal

Here at Singhia Jhora Tea Garden, the world feels different. The green here isn't just color—it’s medicine. These tea bushes have seen lifetimes. The air has a scent that’s part earth, part leaf, part forgotten stories.

As I sat, catching the wind, I felt my body easing into stillness. The noise from work felt far away. My glasses fogged up just a little with the air’s coolness, and I smiled—softly, to no one in particular.

There’s something about this spot. It doesn’t judge. It just allows.

🧠 The Medicine of Silence

From a medical point of view, I know what’s happening. My sympathetic system, usually on overdrive from the constant fight-flight signals of workplace toxicity, begins to back off. Here, parasympathetic activation kicks in—my heart rate slows, breathing becomes deeper, cortisol levels drop. No pharmaceutical intervention. Just a shift in geography. A shift in energy.

I believe that stress—especially the kind born from hostile environments—is more dangerous than we admit. It rewires you. It shrinks your joy response. And over time, it shows up in the body—gastritis, hypertension, even immune suppression. I see it in others. I feel it in myself.

But here, I begin to unfeel it.

🎵 One String. One Note. One Voice.

I leaned over, picked up my ektara. Its single string is enough. One note, one vibration—that’s all it takes to change an inner rhythm. I strummed gently, letting it hum against the gentle afternoon breeze.

The sound was earthy. Pure. No scales. No accompaniment. Just that one vibrating note against the vastness of green.

And I started with Bangla folk songs close to my heart—amar haath bandhibi, paa bandhibi, mon bandhibi kamone... The ektara strummed steady, one note circling like prayer beads, and my voice, initially tired but true, swirled gently around the tune. The breeze carried it softly, mixing with the rustle of leaves and the low murmur of distant tea workers, plucking under the sky. Somewhere between those drifting sounds and the rise and fall of melody, I could feel the pressure—the toxic load of workplace chaos—slowly untangling, breaking apart, and dissolving into the air like steam from a hot cup of chai.

Later, I connected my Bluetooth speaker to my mobile and played the tanpura in D major scale, resting in the lower octave. The soft drone settled into the air, and soon, its gentle hum blended with my own voice. At first, I was humming an old bhajan, something familiar and comforting. But gradually, the words faded. I closed my eyes. There was no rhythm, no tune—just breath, just sound. The breeze changed direction, as if guiding my tone, and I found myself humming freely, wordlessly, resonating a deep, slow 🕉️ from somewhere deep inside. It was as if the wind, the tanpura, and I were all part of the same note. It felt deeply calming, almost medicinal in its silence.

I was singing out into the open, no one to impress, no one to correct. No one to judge.

This was more than music. This was resonance therapy. My breath found a pattern. My body swayed a little. I was cleansing myself in a way that no hospital ward ever taught.

🕉️ The Spirit Within and Around

Spiritually, this space feels like a living temple. The trees, the mist, the distant hills—they all feel like part of something higher. Something that listens without interruption. Something that receives without judging.

Out here, I remember that I am more than my workplace designation. I am more than my anxieties. More than what they think of me. More than the burnout. More than the tension I carry in my trapezius muscles.

I am simply presence. Breath. Vibration. Life in its simplest, truest frequency.

🌄 After the Song

By the time the sky began to turn lavender, I had already lost track of how long I’d been here. My stress felt smaller—like a cloud heaviness was lifted off from my heart.

I didn’t find answers. I didn’t need to. What I found was peace. And in that tranquility, I found myself again.

✍️ Om Shanti 🙏🏽

If anyone were to ask how I manage the toxicity of work, I wouldn’t offer advice. I’d offer a key. A reminder:

Take the turn.
Find your gabion wall.
Bring your music.
Give your nerves the rest they deserve.
Let your soul rise.

Because sometimes, healing doesn't happen in hospitals. Sometimes, it happens in the hush and solitude of nature, with one string, and one quiet heart.

What My Patients Taught Me

A Doctor’s Reflection on Healing, Envy, and Inner Strength

I’d like to share something personal with you today—not a medical case, not a research paper, not a clinical success story.

Instead, I want to talk about something that’s harder to diagnose and even more difficult to treat: the fatigue of the soul, the burden of misunderstanding, and the quiet strength we find when we begin to understand ourselves.

As a doctor, I’ve come to realize that healing doesn’t always start with a prescription. Over the years, I’ve had patients—especially elderly ones—who would come not because they needed medicine, but simply to be near me. Some would sit quietly. Others would hold my hand. Many would leave without taking a single tablet. Yet they walked away lighter, smiling.

At first, I didn’t understand it. But over time, it became clear: they weren’t just coming to be treated—they were coming to feel safe. They were coming for a kind of unspoken reassurance. And perhaps, they were coming because of the positive energy they sensed in the room.

In the sterile language of science, we don’t often speak about energy or presence. But in the real world of suffering human beings, these things are very real.

When Presence Becomes the Medicine

This quiet, invisible connection began to be noticed. Not just by patients—but by colleagues. There was one doctor in particular, senior to me in age and rank, who couldn’t understand why patients came to me instead of him. And rather than finding inspiration in it, he responded with envy.

His reactions turned bitter—passive aggression, unfair accusations, subtle sabotage. I found myself at the center of unnecessary drama. And the most painful part? I had done nothing wrong.

I wasn’t competing with anyone. I wasn’t calling patients, I wasn’t advertising myself. People were simply coming on their own. But for some, that’s enough to ignite resentment.

The Silent Weight of Envy

At first, it hurt. To be misunderstood, maligned. But eventually, I realized—this wasn’t about me at all. This was about his own internal discontent. His own bitterness.

And here’s what I’ve come to understand: envy is a self-inflicted wound. It punishes the one who carries it far more than the one it's directed at. It is the mind’s reaction to its own perceived inadequacy.

He wasn’t suffering because of me. He was suffering because of himself. Because he had forgotten what it means to serve from the heart. Because comparison had replaced compassion.

Forgiveness as Freedom

That’s when something inside me shifted. I stopped reacting. I stopped explaining myself. And instead, I forgave.

Not because he apologized. Not because he changed. But because forgiveness is freedom. It was the only way to stop carrying a weight that wasn’t mine to begin with.

We often speak of medicine for the body. But what about medicine for the spirit? What about the inner healing we all need from time to time?

That day, I discovered a deeper truth: I’m not here just to treat symptoms. I’m here to hold space—for comfort, for humanity, for dignity. And when you serve from that space, people will come to you. Not because you’re popular, but because your presence is healing.

Let the Light Disturb the Darkness

Of course, not everyone will understand. Some will envy. Some will gossip. Some will try to dim your light.

But we are not here to be liked. We are here to be light.

And light, by its very nature, will disturb the darkness.

So let them envy. Let them misunderstand. Let them count their patients.

You—count your blessings.

Let others chase validation. You—stay rooted in your purpose. You are not competing. You are connecting. You are not reacting. You are rising.

Self-Realization Begins in Stillness

One evening, after a long and difficult day, I told myself: "From here, I will slowly begin to feel well again."

That was my turning point. Because healing doesn't begin when the world changes. It begins when our own perspective does.

True realization happens when we stop asking, “Why is this happening to me?” And instead begin asking, “What is this teaching me about myself?”

That is when we step into freedom—not as a concept, but as a lived experience.

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To Everyone Reading This

If you’ve ever been the target of jealousy, or misunderstood for simply doing your job with integrity—know this: the universe doesn’t forget.

Continue to serve. Continue to love. Continue to heal—not just through medicine, but through your presence.

Because in the end, it’s not how many prescriptions we write that defines our legacy. It’s how many hearts we touch.

That is the only medicine that never expires.

Om Shanti 🙏🏽

🌕 Guru Purnima: My Journey from Fading Traditions to Heartfelt Connections 🌕

Growing up, I still remember my mother telling me, "Today is Guru Purnima. আজকে নিজের গুরুকে প্রণাম করতে হয়". No grand celebrations, no elaborate rituals — but a gentle acknowledgment. In our village, I'd see the elders, like my mother’s aunt, visit her Guruji at the ashram, and offer sweets and bow in respect. But for me, it was just another day, a concept wrapped in the innocence of childhood that I didn’t quite grasp.

Life took its own course. My father’s transferable job meant moving from place to place, and with each new city, the roots of tradition seemed to loosen. Urban life swept in with its busy schedules and new priorities, slowly eroding the customs that once bound families and communities. The quiet reverence for elders, the small rituals that held so much meaning, the unspoken gratitude towards teachers—all slowly faded into the background.

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School and College: A Celebration That Never Came

Looking back, Guru Purnima was notably absent from my school days in the city. Instead, Teacher’s Day held significance—a day of cards, chocolates, and student performances, a festive school event. University life was a bit different. I'd observe professors calling their own mentors, checking in on retired teachers, and exchanging warm words. But once the day passed, everyone returned to their routines. The cycle repeated every year—some teachers had passed away, others were living their retired lives, and the connection, though present, remained fleeting. Importantly, it was the day when god fearing good citizens refrained from criticizing their teachers, especially the ones who had passed away.

Yet, amidst the academic stress, there was something beautiful in those brief reunions. For a day, the usual hierarchy dissolved. Professors, seniors, and juniors would sit together, sharing meals, laughter, and gossip. It was a rare moment of warmth, a reminder that learning was, at its heart, a shared journey, not just a hierarchical one.

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2018: The First Real Guru Purnima

It wasn’t until 2018 that Guru Purnima truly resonated with me. Something unexpected happened. I was working with a paramilitary hospital in Kolkata and a constable I had trained to assist me in O.T. approached me out of the blue, touched my feet, and simply said, "Today is Guru Purnima. You taught me so much. I consider you my Guruji."

That moment struck me deeply. Here was someone, unprompted and genuine, acknowledging my role in his growth—not as a spiritual guide, but as a teacher. It wasn’t about religion or rituals; it was about gratitude, respect, and the profound impact of knowledge shared. I hadn’t fully realized the extent of my role in his life until that moment.

Since then, I’ve noticed how Guru Purnima has found new life. Social media now floods with wishes and gratitude—for teachers, mentors, guides—and WhatsApp statuses fill with heartfelt tributes. It’s not the Guru Purnima my ancestors knew, but in its own way, it carries meaning, evolving with the times while preserving its essence.

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Full Circle: Yesterday’s Message

Yesterday, on Guru Purnima, I received another message from him. Overthe years, he's been posted out to various locations but, he always makes it a point to contact me, communicate and pay his respect on Guru Purnima. He's now posted in Delhi, preparing for his post-retirement life, and yet, after all these years, he still remembers the lessons I taught him in Kolkata.

That small gesture meant more than any grand celebration. It wasn’t just the message; it was the memory. The realization that something I once shared stayed with him, helped shape his life. In that moment, I understood something quietly powerful: we often don’t know when we become someone’s Guru. It’s not always formal or ceremonial. Sometimes, it’s just being there, teaching honestly, guiding without expecting acknowledgment. It reminded me that teaching isn’t just about imparting knowledge—it’s about leaving an indelible imprint on someone’s life. To be respected as a teacher, to know that your guidance truly mattered, is a humbling and fulfilling feeling.

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The Meaning I Carry Today

I’ve come a long way—from a child who didn’t notice Guru Purnima, to a student who didn’t celebrate it, to a teacher who now sees its silent beauty. Looking back, I see the journey: from a child unaware of its significance, to a student who saw it as just another day, to a teacher who now understands its true essence.

Today, I realize it’s not about elaborate rituals or official functions. It’s about pausing—just long enough to say, "Thank you."

Thank you to those who shaped our thinking, who challenged us, who believed in us when we didn’t believe in ourselves.

Traditions evolve. Maybe they look different than they did before. But as long as the feeling stays—the gratitude, the quiet acknowledgment—Guru Purnima lives on. Not in grand displays, but in quiet, heartfelt moments of respect.

Not in noise, but in stillness.
Not in ceremonies, but in connection.
Not in crowds, but in hearts.

This year, as I sit quietly with these memories, I feel deeply grateful. For all my Gurus. Known and unknown. And for the chance, perhaps, to be one for someone else.

And that, perhaps, is the real meaning of it all.

The Unseen heroes: A Doctor's Memory of Those We Failed

The year was 2014. The place, a well-respected Medical College in Kolkata. I remember the slight ache in my legs as I climbed the old staircase leading to the CTVS department – Cardiac Thoracic and Vascular Surgery. My heart thumped almost as loudly as my footsteps. It was my first day in the cardiac anaesthesia unit for my post-graduation. Everything felt huge, intimidating, frightening.

We weren’t allowed to do anything that first day. Just arrive early – by 8:30 AM sharp – observe, absorb, understand the rhythm of the cardiac suite. I made it on time, pushing open the heavy OT doors to find a scene of quiet industry. Young men, barely older than me, were already there. Not chatting, not idling, but toiling. They moved with purpose, arranging complex instruments, checking dials on towering machines, preparing silently for the life-and-death dramas about to unfold.

By 9:30 AM, the atmosphere shifted. The "big shots" arrived. Seniors from anaesthesia, senior nursing staff, and finally, the surgeons. And then it happened. A senior surgeon, barely through the door, unleashed a torrent. Not directed at a problem, not about a mistake, but just… blatant abuse. He raged at these young men who had been meticulously preparing his operating theatre. Their boss was summoned, only to receive the same verbal thrashing – harsh, loud, humiliating. It seemed utterly without reason, a storm erupting in a clear sky.

My stomach churned. I watched these youngsters, heads bowed, taking it. These very same young men were the perfusionists. Their hands would soon command the heart-lung machine, the perfusion machine. Think about that. While the surgeon cut open a living heart, while we anaesthetists held the patient in the twilight of GA, it was these young men, silently focused, who would literally keep the patient’s blood flowing, their oxygen circulating. They held life itself in their steady hands.

They were the gods behind the curtain.

Unseen. Unthanked. Holding the fragile thread of existence while the spotlight shone elsewhere. And yet, the abuse wasn’t an aberration. It became the grim soundtrack of the day. Curses, slangs, harsh words – flung at them like stones, seemingly just to break the monotony, to vent the fatigue that creeps in during long, tense hours in the OT.

Later, when the surgery was done, the patient safely shifted to the ITU, and the rest of us began to think of home and rest, I saw them gather their things.

"Where are they going?" I asked quietly.

"Back to the ITU," someone murmured. "To monitor the patient through the night."

Through the night? After that grueling day? My heart clenched. I asked their in-charge, "When do they rest?" He just shrugged, a look of weary resignation on his face. He didn't know. There was no time.

The CTVS technicians. The perfusionists. The invisible ones doing the thankless, vital work.

My rotations took me to the Critical Care Unit later. The CCU technicians there? Their treatment was perhaps slightly better than what I’d witnessed in cardiac surgery – a little less overt shouting, maybe. But their reality? Living conditions cramped, respect for their crucial profession non-existent. Everyone else on the night shift had some corner to rest their head. Except the technicians. Always moving, always monitoring, always indispensable, yet perpetually overlooked.

Underpaid. Overworked. Unseen.

Even after I finished my post-graduation and stepped into practice, the scene in private nursing homes wasn't much different. Too often, OT technicians were treated like mere servants, their expertise ignored, their humanity forgotten.

Today, July 8th, is International Paramedics Day. I write this not just as a doctor, but as a witness. I write it with a knot of shame and deep admiration in my throat. I write it for those young men on that Kolkata morning in 2014, bearing the brunt of undeserved fury while preparing to be gods behind the curtain. I write it for every paramedic, every technician, every silent guardian holding the line.

We see the surgeon’s skill. We see the anaesthetist’s vigilance. But how often do we truly see them?

They are lifesavers.

It’s time we treated them as such.

Paramedics, perfusionists, critical care technicians, and OT assistants are vital to any healthcare system. Often unseen and rarely appreciated, they keep hearts beating, lungs ventilating, and trauma patients alive under the most harrowing conditions. But behind the gloved hands lies a grim truth: they are overworked, underpaid, and routinely disrespected.

📌 Global Evidence of a Crisis

🔹 Burnout & Toxic Culture — Ambulance Victoria, Australia

A 2025 parliamentary inquiry exposed a culture of bullying and burnout at Ambulance Victoria. Delays in dispatch led to preventable deaths, including an elderly man who bled to death after waiting hours for help while paramedics were stuck outside the hospital (“ramped”). Over 10% of staff reported they were planning to quit due to stress, toxic culture, and lack of support.

Source: Herald Sun

🔹 NHS Crisis — United Kingdom

A 2022 study revealed more than half of NHS paramedics suffered from burnout, with many experiencing symptoms of emotional detachment and stress. They described working in conditions akin to a war zone—back-to-back emergencies, missed breaks, and no time for mental recovery.

Source: The Guardian

🔹 Physical Assaults on Paramedics — Australia

In Northern Territory, two violent assaults on ambulance crews in one weekend exposed the growing danger faced by paramedics. Crews were threatened, trapped, and emotionally shaken.

Source: Courier Mail

🔹 Legal & Ethical Consequences — USA

Several paramedics have faced criminal charges in recent years:

Elijah McClain (Colorado): Paramedics administered excessive ketamine, leading to fatal complications.

Earl Moore Jr. (Illinois): Paramedics were charged with murder after mishandling a mental health call, resulting in positional asphyxia.

These tragic incidents show how paramedics are thrust into ethically complex, high-risk situations—often without adequate training or systemic support.

Sources: AP News, Wikipedia

🌍 A Global Pattern: Undervalued, Overloaded, and Overlooked

🧠 Mental Health Emergency

A UNISON UK survey found:

91% of ambulance workers experience stress.

38% took sick leave due to psychological burnout.

Many considered quitting altogether.

Source: UNISON

🔥 Canadian Paramedics During COVID-19

Paramedics reported cognitive overload, moral fatigue, and challenges with PPE access. Many felt they were being sacrificed to keep the system running, developing long-term psychological trauma.

Source: International Journal of Paramedicine

📉 Alberta: Burnout Leads to Staffing Collapse

An alarming number of paramedics in Alberta shifted to part-time or early retirement due to unbearable workloads. Rising vacancies and call volumes only worsened the cycle.

Source: Calgary Herald

⚠️ Why This Matters???

These are not just support staff. Paramedics are first responders, crisis managers, and lifelines for patients in transit and in trauma. Yet, they are routinely denied basic workplace rights, mental health support, fair pay, and dignity.

Invisible in gratitude but always first in crisis, their neglect leads to systemic breakdowns, burnout, and avoidable fatalities.

✅ What Needs to Change

1. Public Respect & Professional Recognition

Paramedics deserve acknowledgement on par with physicians and nurses. Their technical expertise and emotional resilience are vital.

2. Mental Health Support

Structured debriefing, trauma counseling, and PTSD care must be mandatory—not optional.

3. Safe Scheduling & Staffing

Enforce mandatory breaks, limit excessive overtime, and ensure backup staffing to reduce exhaustion-related errors.

4. Zero-Tolerance to Abuse 

Bullying in medical culture—whether verbal, emotional, or physical—must be addressed at every level.

5. Policy-Level Reform

Governments must legislate for better working conditions, safer environments, and increased funding for pre-hospital care systems.

🎗️ On International Paramedics Day

Let this be more than a ceremonial date. Let it become a rallying cry to:

1. Elevate the status of paramedics worldwide,
2. Demand institutional reform, and
3. Express collective gratitude not just with words—but through action.

Behind every stable patient and successful surgery lies the unwavering focus, skill, and sacrifice of a paramedic. It’s time the world saw them.

📚 Further Reading & References 

1. Herald Sun. Bullying, burnout crisis at Ambulance Victoria costing lives [Internet]. Melbourne: Herald Sun; 2025 [cited 2025 Jul 10]. Available from: https://www.heraldsun.com.au/news/victoria/inquiry-hears-concerns-over-ambulance-victorias-workplace-culture/news-story/654279149410daa47aded0360999c366

2. The Guardian. More than half of NHS paramedics suffering from burnout, study finds [Internet]. London: The Guardian; 2022 Feb 6 [cited 2025 Jul 10]. Available from: https://www.theguardian.com/society/2022/feb/06/more-than-half-of-nhs-paramedics-suffering-from-burnout-study-finds

3. UNISON. UNISON survey reveals scale of secret stress among ambulance workers [Internet]. London: UNISON; 2015 Apr 24 [cited 2025 Jul 10]. Available from: https://www.unison.org.uk/news/article/2015/04/unison-survey-reveals-scale-of-secret-stress-among-ambulance-workers

4. International Journal of Paramedicine. Challenges and changes with COVID-19: Canadian paramedics' experiences [Internet]. 2022 [cited 2025 Jul 10]. Available from: https://www.internationaljpp.com/content/features/challenges-and-changes-with-covid-19-canadian-paramedics-experiences

5. Courier Mail. Paramedics assaulted in two separate incidents over the weekend [Internet]. Brisbane: Courier Mail; 2024 [cited 2025 Jul 10]. Available from: https://www.couriermail.com.au/news/paramedics-assaulted-in-two-separate-incidents-over-the-weekend/news-story/201f9d0d63052ec4e565f0c12603c134

6. AP News. Paramedics overdosed Elijah McClain with a sedative he didn’t need, prosecutor says [Internet]. New York: AP News; 2023 [cited 2025 Jul 10]. Available from: https://apnews.com/article/afc07d1d1bf6b20888c0e3511463b9c5

7. Wikipedia. Killing of Earl Moore Jr. [Internet]. 2023 [cited 2025 Jul 10]. Available from: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Killing_of_Earl_Moore_Jr.

8. Calgary Herald. Alberta paramedics facing burnout and staffing shortages [Internet]. Calgary: Calgary Herald; 2023 [cited 2025 Jul 10]. Available from: https://calgaryherald.com/news/local-news/alberta-paramedics-shortages-burnout

Alone, but not Lonely

 

There was a time when I used to visit Henry Island often. It took nearly five hours from Kolkata, including a ferry ride— back then, there was no bridge connecting the mainland to the island. The roads were rough, and the number of visitors was few. But that was part of its charm.

I spent many quiet afternoons there, watching the sea in stillness— alone, but never lonely—while the waves whispered their endless stories against the shore.

🌿 A Spring Quiet: Henry Island Memoir

The ferry pulled away slowly, its engine hum fading into the wide, salted hush. Before me, Henry Island opened up—not dramatic, but tender. Golden sands stretched gently to meet the Bay of Bengal, where the sea breathed in slow, soft waves. This wasn’t just a beach. It was a threshold—where the Sundarbans whispered to the sea.

The spring sun hovered low, warm and generous. I sat on a time-smoothed rock, its surface sunlit and quiet beneath me. That light didn’t simply shine—it moved like music. It touched the shape of my limbs, not for show, but as if life itself had drawn their lines. I felt it sink in—calm, deep, real.

Sunlight sips from sea and stone,
On skin, on silence, all alone.
I drop the city's heavy tone,
And breathe a stillness of my own.

Far behind me, Kolkata’s noise felt distant, almost imagined. Here, even the air was alive—earthy, salty, filled with secrets from the mangroves. They rustled softly, keeping rhythm with the ocean’s endless hush. I watched the blue stretch out endlessly, sky melting into sea— until a sudden burst of red caught my eye. Tiny crabs, bright like gems, scattered across the sand— their movement sharp and beautiful, like a heartbeat against the calm.

Tiny dancers on the shore,
Red and wild and nothing more,
A moment’s flare, then back to floor—
Nature’s quiet metaphor.

I sat with it all—this stillness, this spring heat, this perfect pause. Solitude, here, wasn’t lonely. It was grounding. Every sound, every shadow, every grain of sand felt connected—to each other, and to me. The rock, the breeze, the water—each had its own kind of welcome.

Rock below and wind above,
A rhythm only quiet loves.
Not apart, but part thereof—
This hush, this warmth, this endless cove.

Here, the heart forgets to race,
The world slows down to leave no trace.
Spring wraps me in its soft embrace—
And Henry gifts me peace and space.

– A memoir from spring, Henry Island

forgive and learn to move on...

like a virgin!!!

Yes, I am always reminded of this song as I travel across the greens of North Bengal ❤️

As the monsoon clouds gather over North Bengal, it feels as if Mother Nature herself has dipped her brush in emerald hues and painted the hills, valleys, and forests with renewed vigor.

North Bengal, cradled in the foothills of the Himalayas, welcomes the monsoon with open arms. The leaves shimmer, the rivers swell, and the fragrance of wet soil permeates the atmosphere. It's a symphony of life—a reminder that nature's cycles continue, undeterred by human concerns.

As I wander through tea gardens and mist-covered villages, I'm struck by the vibrant greenery. It's not just a color; it's a feeling—an embodiment of vitality. 

The raindrops fall gently, like whispered secrets. The temperature hovers in that sweet spot—neither too hot nor too cold. Each droplet seems to carry stories—the laughter of children playing in puddles, the whispered promises of lovers seeking shelter under ancient trees.

As I walk along winding paths, I contemplate life's mysteries. The monsoon mirrors my emotions—the sudden downpours of joy, the thunderstorms of sorrow, and the quiet drizzles of introspection. Perhaps North Bengal's monsoon is an invitation—to pause, reflect, and find solace in the rhythm of raindrops.

As the rain continues to fall, I realize that this journey isn't just about the external landscape; it's an inner exploration—an immersion in the beauty of both nature and self.

In the Arms of Life: The Healing Power of Embraces

In the tapestry of human interactions, few gestures are as universally understood and deeply felt as the embrace. It is a silent language spoken through the arms, a dialect of comfort that transcends words and cultures. It is a universal symbol of connection, a silent conversation between souls. As I reflect on my own life, I realize that embraces have punctuated my journey, each one a story in itself.

The act of hugging someone has often intrigued me. It is a simple gesture, yet it holds profound meaning. A hug can be a greeting or a farewell, an expression of love or a source of comfort. It is a physical manifestation of connection, a way to say without words that you are not alone in this world. 

I observed how a simple hug could transform a moment, offer solace, or celebrate joy. It was a curiosity that grew into an appreciation for the power held within the arms of another.

The way a mother's hug can soothe a child's fears, or the way a father's arms can lift a spirit—it's a testament to the strength and tenderness of familial bonds. 

In the arms of a mother, a child finds the fortress of security; in the arms of a lover, a sanctuary of affection. These moments are not merely physical interactions but emotional landmarks that define our relationships; they are the emotional anchors that hold us steady in the turbulent seas of life.

Then there is the embrace between lovers, a physical conversation filled with unspoken narratives. Romantic embraces are like fire and ice that somehow fit perfectly together. It's a reminder that in the arms of our beloved, we find a piece of ourselves that was missing.

The embrace shared during moments of intimacy is perhaps the most profound. It becomes an intimate dialogue, a fusion of desires and a celebration of connection. It is the ultimate expression of giving and receiving, a testament to the trust and bond shared between two individuals. In these moments, we are not just bodies; we are stories, dreams, and hopes entwined.

I recall a time when I was engulfed in darkness, wading through a phase of deep depression. It was around 1:00 a.m. when I sought refuge at my cousin’s doorstep. As the door opened, revealing my tear-stained face, I was welcomed not with words but with open arms. That night, I found solace in the embrace of my cousin sister, a comforting presence akin to a mother’s love. I wept in her embrace. It was a refuge, a place where my broken pieces were held together, allowing me to breathe again.

There's also a special kind of embrace, one that I've seen between a special child and my niece. Despite their age difference and lack of verbal communication, their hugs are a language of their own. Each time they embrace, it's a celebration of innocence and a testament to the fact that love needs no words. In their eyes, I see a world where the heart speaks louder than the voice; a reflection of the world as it should be—free of judgment and full of acceptance.

Embracing is more than a physical act; it's a spiritual experience. It is to accept the ebb and flow of experiences, to hold tight during the storms, and to celebrate in the sunshine. Embraces are the milestones of our emotional journeys, markers of moments when we felt loved, supported, and connected. They remind us that, in the grand scheme of things, we are all part of a larger whole, seeking comfort and understanding in each other’s arms. 

Let us then embrace not just each other, but also the myriad experiences life offers, for it is through these that we find our true selves and the essence of what it means to be human.

World environment day

3pm, 05-06-2024

I grew up in the green hills of Lower Subansiri in Arunachal Pradesh, surrounded by beautiful nature. The greenery was a big part of my life and taught me a lot about the world.

In Arunachal Pradesh, the sound of birds in the morning was like music, starting the day. The misty mornings showed me how everything in nature is connected. The big trees around me were like protectors, making me feel small but also teaching me to respect nature.

As a kid, playing outside was more than just fun. I learned about living together with plants and animals. The rivers flowing through the land taught me to keep going and to fit in with the world around me.

Today, on World Environment Day, I think back to those days. The hills of Lower Subansiri were like a big classroom without walls, where I learned to take care of the environment. Arunachal Pradesh, with all its different plants and animals, shows how amazing it is when we live in balance with nature.

Now, as we face environmental problems, what I learned as a child is very important. We need to take care of our natural world, just like the hills of Arunachal Pradesh have kept their beauty. We all have to make sure that the beauty of nature can keep inspiring and helping people, just like it did for me when I was young.

Let's promise on this World Environment Day to look after our planet, to learn from nature, and to give a healthier, more green Earth to the next people. We all come from nature, and we should look after the place that has given us so much.

Yazali was a little village hidden in the mountains of Arunachal Pradesh, where old traditions and new ways came together. It was there, in the peaceful land, that NEEPCO built its hydroelectric power project, showing that we can develop in a way that's good for nature.

Back then, only a few families lived in the village, and their lives were closely tied to nature. When NEEPCO's project started, it gently changed Yazali.

I saw the village change as I grew up. The mountains and rivers stayed the same, but the village started to grow in new ways. The power project was a sign of moving forward, but it still respected the beautiful environment.

The DPH colony was a group of homes on a hill in Arunachal Pradesh. It was named after the diesel power house on the hilltop that gave electricity to all the homes.

The homes were simple but nice. They fit well with the hill and the nature around. The people living there were like a big family, sharing and caring for each other.

For a kid like me, the hill was the best playground. There were paths around the power house that led to secret spots that only we kids knew. The power house was big and always running, making sure we had light and power.

Our homes in the colony were plain but nice. They matched the hill and the wild plants around us. We all lived like a big family, sharing and caring for each other.

For me, a kid back then, the hill was the perfect playground. There were secret paths near the power house that only us kids knew. The power house was big and always on, giving us the light and power we needed.

In the 1990s, my home state of Arunachal Pradesh was really beautiful and still quite new. It had just been made a state in 1987. At that time, many places in Northeast India didn't have enough electricity. We often used oil to run our generators.

In my village, Yazali, not having enough power was something we dealt with every day. The different areas on the hills had to share the little electricity we had. This often caused arguments. To solve this, we had load shedding, which meant we took turns having power. One night we'd have electricity, and the next night it would be the turn of the next hill.

This way of life became normal for us. When we had power, kids did their schoolwork, and families watched TV together. When it was dark, we'd see a sky full of stars. Those were the times for sharing stories and enjoying the fresh air of the mountains.

The lack of power was tough, but it taught us to be ready and do important things when we had electricity.

As a child, I loved the Milky Way and the stars. On clear nights, it looked like a bright river across the sky. I spent many hours finding the shapes of constellations and learning their stories.

These star patterns felt like friends with their own tales. Orion was like a hunter chasing something forever. The Big Dipper pointed north and helped people find their way. Looking at these stars made me feel connected to the big universe.

The stars and the Milky Way weren't just lights in the sky; they were like teachers for me. They made me want to learn and find out more about the world. I often fell asleep counting the stars outside my window.

Thinking back on these changes, I see a big difference between the green places where I grew up and the busy cities full of buildings. It's really important now to make our cities greener. We need to bring more nature into the places we live, not just to make them look nice but to keep our planet healthy for everyone in the future.

When I moved to Salt Lake, I loved walking alone in the East Kolkata wetlands. It was so quiet and peaceful there, very different from the noisy city. I could hear birds singing and leaves rustling. These walks made me forget my worries and enjoy the beauty around me. They made me feel really good.

But now, the wetlands are changing. I see buildings coming up and trash everywhere. The water is dirty, and the air is full of dust. This is bad for the plants and animals there and for the city's air and water.

Today, on World Environment Day, I think back to my days in Yazali, a small village in Arunachal Pradesh. It reminds me of the clean air and green land I grew up with. Yazali was a peaceful place that showed how we can live well with nature. It makes me think about how important it is to keep places like this safe for our Earth and for the kids who will grow up after us. 🌿🌏

Rediscovering the Written Word

Previously, my blog was a canvas for my thoughts, a daily ritual where words flowed like a river, unimpeded and free. It was a space of creation and reflection, where ideas took flight on the wings of prose. Writing regularly was not just a habit but a form of expression that chronicled the journey of my mind, capturing the essence of moments both monumental and minute.

Writing is akin to a mental exhale, a release of the myriad thoughts that crowd our inner landscape. It is an act of liberation, freeing the mind from the shackles of unspoken words and unprocessed emotions. The blank page becomes a confidant, a silent listener to the whispers and roars of our psyche, allowing us to untangle the complex web of our thoughts.

Life, in its unpredictable ebb and flow, brought with it events and circumstances that acted as barriers to my writing. Responsibilities mounted, and the once steady stream of words dwindled to a trickle, then ceased altogether. The blog, once vibrant with activity, stood still, a testament to the interruptions that life can bring.

Now, I stand at the precipice of a new beginning, the hiatus behind me. With renewed vigor, I return to my blog, to the sanctuary of sentences and paragraphs. The commitment to continue is a promise to myself—a vow to not let the silence settle again, to keep the dialogue between my inner world and the page alive.

Even if it's just two lines, the act of writing is beneficial. Those few words are a step, a small but significant stride towards clarity and understanding. They are the seeds from which vast gardens of thought can grow, a reminder that the journey of a thousand pages begins with a single sentence.