To study literature is to study humanity; this, at the risk of sounding clichéd, we know to be true. Among the multitude of ideas it introduces us to is the idea of hubris – a tragic flaw that causes the downfall of a noble, tragic character. So, as students of literature, at the risk of reducing complex and layered creations, we isolated the singular tragic flaws of the characters we met – if Macbeth’s flaw was overarching ambition and Othello’s was jealousy, what could one say about Hamlet? To me, Hamlet’s was indecisiveness – in other words, the thinker’s folly.

“To be, or not to be: that is the question / Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune/ …” Hamlet’s celebrated soliloquy (Act 3, Scene 1) may be regarded as the anthem of existential angst. I do not blaspheme when I say this, nor is it my intention to trivialise literature. I have resonated with these lines from Hamlet because they capture my lifelong wrestle with indecisiveness. Though I console myself with this reassuring, but what I suspect to be ultimately false, narrative – this is the price I pay for seeing more than one perspective (or so I want to believe) of/to any given situation.

All this sounds passably bearable until this character flaw creeps insidiously into the tiny little things that make up life and living. Picture this scenario – a dinner out with friends/family – the usual question: what will you have? Everyone else is ready with their answer, et moi, I am struggling, and what eventually emerges is anything (sometimes mercifully with caveats) as long as it is not this, that, or this. Anything??!! For those that regard food as religion (my family AND friends would then qualify as fanatics), ‘anything’ is waving the proverbial red flag, and I have now triggered a wave of eye rolls down the table.

“To be or not to be” was never written for princes alone; lesser mortals agonise over it too for the banal and the mundane.

I confess this is a trite, almost embarrassingly trivial example. In my poor defence, this was merely to prepare context for more profound weighty situations and scenarios.

I was not spared this in my professional life either; as a teacher, I find myself enmeshed in this struggle very often – I simply cannot bring myself to chastise students in harsh tones unless I am certain that the trespass committed is one I myself would never be guilty of. And if I am guilty of it, then by what rights do I scold someone else? Do not, do not be hasty and presume that a lack of meltdown moments translates to control or serenity. One would think that the passage of time and the years would be kinder. That clarity of thought and certainty of beliefs would dawn with time. Wrong. Gloriously wrong. Becoming a mother has only introduced another dimension – now I ask myself before I reproach a young student, “Am I sure that my own child would never do this?” I falter then.

Just in case of the dining out scenario – mercifully, I know what is not acceptable (under any circumstances), and try as I might, I can think of two unpardonable lapses for a student – a lack of courtesy in human interaction and a deliberate choice to attempt unfair means during exams. This is when I spew vitriol. Most other times I appear unruffled, not because I have conquered my baser instincts – but simply because the voice in my head beats incessantly: “Are you sure? Are you really sure?”

So, am I overthinking? Of course I am. Am I doubly guilty of overthinking about trivialities (in the larger scheme of things)? Maybe I am. Does this behaviour/trait imply ambiguity of convictions? I hope not.

There are many who go through life without ever having entertained a doubt of any hue, who are able to point an accusatory finger with certainty, whose lives are clearly demarcated into sharply divided worlds of black and white (and the twain shall, of course, never meet). I marvel at them. I don’t claim to understand. My imagination is, of course, unequal to this task.

I can only speak for myself; I battle with self-doubt far too often for my comfort. I wonder in doubt, and I want to believe that I live in the colourful greys. Those tiny ineffable palettes of colour that may not have a name, that do not assert their presence or superiority, but exist blissfully.

As I write this, I am fully aware that a minutiae of factors contribute to making the armour that we call ‘persona’, and that in my feeble attempts at simplifying I may be inadvertently diminishing a complex picture.

Despite everything, every ‘belief’ that the world forcefully asserts, and every lie we are fed on, Hamlet lives and strives.

What I do really want to do is to declare – Hamlets of the world, unite! We have nothing to lose except our doubts.

When T.S. Eliot wrote, “April is the cruellest month of the year…“ (The Wasteland), he certainly did not have the Indian education system in mind. With due apologies to a beloved poet, countless teachers across India, I think, would agree about the gruelling toll that April extracts.

As someone who meandered into teaching (like I did for most other aspects of my life), April is the season I turn genocidal (cautionary notices are usually declared in advance to family and friends) and find myself in the throes of professional existential angst, asking myself, “What am I doing?” and the even more dangerous, “Why am I doing this?”

So, after 31 years of teaching, I decided this April would be different; I decided to confront these particular annual lamentations in my head (I fear it will take me far longer than 31 years to confront the permanent babble that lives in chaotic residency) and attempt to find some answers.

To start with, there is a select-chosen minority who enjoy the privilege of having found their vocation in all walks of life, whatever that may be – and teaching is, of course, no exception.

Every student deserves this kind of teacher at least once in their lifetime. Most of us (I want to believe all of us) have encountered this teacher, the one who, in the classroom, believes that teaching is a calling and not merely a profession. This is the teacher who transforms the classroom and inspires learning. The alchemist of student life, whose scholarship and love for learning are worthy of emulation. Tall order? Foolish naivety? Unrealistic? Maybe all of these and more.

I confess, my worldview is through a deeply biased lens. For me, I count myself lucky; I have encountered this rare form of teachers (in the happy plural) throughout my life. Let me go further and add that some of my teachers are inextricably woven into the fabric of my life. This is no credit to me; I owe it entirely to the generosity of their hearts. While this may sound like an ode to those who cast their influence on my impressionable mind, I am merely guilty of admiration and a complete lack of objectivity.

Let me reiterate what this piece of writing is definitely NOT – it is not a rant against the many ills (and we all know that list is endless) that plague education and its related systems; it is not about the all too pervasive role of AI or the possible spectre of the redundancy of teachers in the future, near or distant. While these are of urgent relevance, I am not qualified to comment or offer a learned opinion on any of these.

Returning to April, that’s when I feel like Atlas and Sisyphus caught in Dr Strange’s infinity loop world. With this analogy, I suspect, I have come perilously close to blasphemy (of sorts).

Every single person remotely involved with education in any form would justifiably have their litany of woes (as is expected in any profession); I am no exception. Despite everything, why do I then return to the classroom with hope? Over the years I have succumbed to jaded cynicism, exasperated by systems and protocols far beyond my limited understanding, and every year finds me drifting farther away from my expected outcomes.

Overwhelmed as I then am, I frantically search for whatever may appear like a glimmer of hope. And hope has always, always, unfailingly appeared in human form, in many cases, a student.

It is, of course, common knowledge that all teachers have stories to share – from the hilarious to the inane, the profound to the inspiring, classrooms provide the entire gamut. If ever the young invite you to witness a vulnerability and you go on to share interests, then over the years some students become a part of your life (if you are lucky).

Many years ago a promise was extracted from me by a student with these sombre words, “You are never to talk about this. Ever.” Like the statute of limitations on crimes, the passage of the many, many years, I think, permits me to share the event that was presented to me shrouded in elaborate secrecy. A fellow classmate, bright with strong academic records could not afford to pay the term fees and was toying with the idea of quitting studies because he did not want to burden his family. A group of friends got together and pooled in the fees from the pocket money they received.

Pocket money. Average Indian middle-class families. Let the weight of those words sink in. Do I need to repeat these are children from ordinary families? Not affluent by any standards.

Not surprisingly, the concerned student went on to complete his studies. Successfully. Success in life too, I am told.

And this was the great oath of secrecy I was sworn to. Not to reveal this act of generous solidarity. No applause, no recognition, no fanfare for those involved in this feat. Undergraduate kids – 19-20-year-olds. I stand humbled to this day. Does not take any acumen to figure out that the student who masterminded the entire operation was destined to go places and succeed. And he did. And to this day, I revel in his success and triumphs.

Let’s be brutally frank: can any one of us as teachers stake a claim in the success stories of our students? I don’t.

Every young person that I have been privileged to know who has struggled against adversity, fought restrictive environments – the brilliant, quiet girl who cleared cut-throat competitive exams with effortless ease, the polite, soft-spoken, charming young boy who battles personal hell thanks to a dysfunctional family, the dreamer who loves literature with a rare passion and writes with soulful beauty tormented by her inability to fulfil material worldly aspirations – the seventeen-year-old first rank holder who, when asked, “What does freedom mean to you?” answered, “My life has been classes and home for as long as I can remember. For me, freedom means a day where I do what I want, when I take my single working mother to a shop and say, buy anything you want, everything you want, and don’t think about money.” – ALL of them have one common feature. They achieved inspite of and despite their circumstances. On their own. With grit. Determination. A host of other factors thrown in.

It is for them that I endure April (or atleast try valiantly to).

It is I who learn.

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When the present weighs heavily on us and the future seems nebulous, in a desperate attempt to make sense of overwhelming events, we turn to the past hoping to find patterns if not answers. Recent world events which do not need elucidation are a case in point.

So, what is the past I refer to? Not the sombre, objective discipline of History, but the mist shrouded world of myth and mythology. Mythology to me, existing as it does in other realms, is a lighthouse that spreads its arc of beam onto psychology, collective human imagination, and the eternal truths we seem to grapple with and have not found answers to. It is after all, Literature. No neat solutions, no clear answers, just a gaping void.

The Iliad, The Odyssey, The Mahabharata- to name but a few, stand as testimonies to the horror that war is. There is of course, enough scholarly discourse on these epics to fill libraries and they contain learning that is difficult to compress and comprehend in a single lifetime. That apart, most myth lovers and votaries of mythology will secretly or unabashedly confess to having a singular character or characters that dominate and colour their imaginary and emotional landscape.

With reference to the Indian epic Mahabharata- one character that overshadows all others, to me (my individual bias and taste) is Karna. To a vast majority of Indians who revere the Mahabharata as a sacred text – there is only one hero in the Mahabharata- Krishna. Mortals of course cannot be compared to Gods.

While mythology seems to be undergoing a revival (of sorts) there is always that one or two or three books that if you are lucky enough, you will encounter, that will seal your bond with mythology. For me, as regards the Mahabharata it was – Irawati Karve’s Yuganta, Pratibha Ray’s Yajnaseni and Chitra Banerjee Divakarunni’s The Palace of Illusions. I devoured these works. Undoubtedly, Draupadi is a smoldering figure (more about her in a later post) but Karna? He stayed long after the story was over. Allow me to explain myself. Allow me also, the indulgence of a personal rumination from the past.

But before I invite you to delve into the past, caveat-the characters we admire (and despise) are in all probability our mirrored selves or aspired selves. This is common knowledge.

Karna, Antigone, Cordelia- I certainly have a penchant for the underdog! That again must wait for another day, another post.

The year is 2011. As participants at a story telling workshop our assigned task is to create a story to be narrated. For reasons not known or for sheer paucity of ideas and imagination – I decide to write a story with Kurukshetra as the narrator. Cliched? Yes. Lacking in ingenuity? Yes. I plead guilty on all counts.

Bear with me, while I try to make my point, albeit, convolutedly. Here is the story I wrote almost 15 summers ago .

Let me introduce myself- I am Kurukshetra – battleground of one of the fiercest battles in human history. I was witness to the hesitation of a mortal, a prince forced to take up arms against his kinsmen. I have been drenched in blood, my unheard lament an echo of the wails of women and children. All this I have tried to exorcise.

In the midst of all this I have also seen a mortal who came to be admired by the gods themselves. This is the agony and story of a prince among men, a man wronged by the circumstances of his birth, a man who lived his life by a self-imposed code. This is the story of Karna.

Who was Karna? Why is he important ?

The palace grounds are teeming with excitement. Dronacharya, the venerable teacher of the royal princes stands proud as his royal proteges display their prowess. It was evident to all, that Arjuna, was an archer beyond parallel. As Arjuna basks in the adulation of the audience, a young lad of radiant countenance and distinguished carriage strides in and in quiet but firm tones says, “Master, I respectfully offer a challenge.” He matches Arjuna’s skills feat by feat; he is as good if not better than Arjuna. Suddenly a voice calls out, “declare your lineage young man.” The young lad crumbles and turns silent. The royal charioteer ambles towards him murmuring, “my son , my son.” The cruel sneers of, “he is no royal prince- he is a charioteer’s son!” ring in his ears. The next few moments are seared in Karna’s heart forever. Duryodhana, the eldest of the Kaurava princes walks towards him. His piercing voice declaring, “it matters not who the father of this brave, young lad is. A man should be judged by his actions, not his antecedents. I hereby proclaim him – the ruler of Anga. All hail Karna – the King of Anga, friend to Duryodhana and equal in every way.” All eyes turn towards Karna. Was it a play of light or did the onlookers imagine it? It seems as if Karna is bathed in golden sunlight, his face radiant, the sun – a halo behind him. Karna looks at Duryodhana and whispers- “for this my life and my loyalty to you, forever.”

Karna has lived his word. Even when his heart recoiled in horror and his mind was a seething tempest of misgivings, he stood stead fast by his friend. The war has battered his heart, the battlefield no longer enthuses him and Karna is a weary man. He wishes, oh how he wishes that he had never challenged the Pandava princes so many eons ago. He smiles wryly, perhaps he would have been happier as a charioteer’s son! So much for the folly of youthful vanity! He sighs, too late, too late now. He makes his tired way to the river, where he offers his daily prayers to the Sun God. He stops in his tracks. His ears have picked up muffled sounds- footsteps or someone sobbing? He turns around to face the unmistakable outline of a woman’s form and her flowing garments. She lifts her veil. Karna recoils. It is Kunti, mother of the Pandava princes. He quickly regains his composure, “You are perhaps lost and far away from the camp, please allow me to escort you back safely.” After what seems like an eternity, Kunti looks up, her eyes brimming with tears. Wait. Her eyes, what does Karna see in those eyes? Compassion? Pity? Fear strikes his heart. A sense of foreboding descends on him. Kunti speaks, her voice barely audible beneath the tremors of her sobs, “It is you I seek. I must speak now. Far too long have I held my silence. If my confession can end this carnage so be it...” She continues to speak, to Karna’s ears the words are just fragments for he cannot hear her, all he can hear is the roar of his heart… He catches fragments… “ My son…, son of the Sun God… Come away... your brothers will accept you.” Karna pleads, “stop... please stop.” His eyes are ablaze “Why ? Why now?… Where were you? Where were you when I needed you?” Each word a whiplash.

Kunti stands still. Tears streaming, her voice feeble, “Come away son. Duryodhana will never win this war. Ahead lies only death and destruction...”. Karna hears nothing. Abandon Duryodhana? Could he? Would he? His mind swirls. He turns to Kunti, his eyes devoid of any emotion. Kunti knows, she has lost him, yet again, perhaps irrevocably. She whispers, “promise me you will not kill your brothers,” her arms reaching out tremulously. He flinches but notices how frail her arms seem. He replies, “ I promise you; you will have five sons.” Brothers? What does that even mean? How strange those words sound. Images from the past flicker in quick succession. Humiliation, contempt, disgrace and in the midst of all this stands Duryodhana. His eyes are now steel. His mind is made up.

In the course of the war Karna’s chariot wheel will get stuck and as cursed by his divine teacher Prasurama - his knowledge will desert him when he needs it the most. Prophecies must be fulfilled. He turns a pleading eye to deaf heavens. Alone, unarmed as Karna is, Arjuna’s arrows find their fatal mark.

I, Kurukshetra witness to the fall of countless, will never forget the moment Karna sinks to the ground, his life breath leaving him, his eyes raised heavenwards and the hint of a smile on his face. That was the precise moment the sky turned its darkest hue, the sun blotted out completely. All eyes are raised skywards- sunset already? Confusion reigns.

For me, it’s a long, agonizing wait, before the war ends, leaving as all wars are wont to- destruction and ravage in its wake.

And Karna- what about him ? His choice – would it have been yours ?

Note – I owe an immeasurable debt of gratitude to the books, ideas and words that shaped me and have become over the years, what I can best describe as embedded thinking and feeling. Do I really know where I as an individual end and where the ideas that shaped me begin? Do any of us? Is that not one of the many triumphs of all Art/Literature?

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The “tyranny of the quantifiable” - these luminous words were a chance encounter for me, in a piece of writing by Rebecca Solnit ( The Guardian, 29 January 2026 ) – What technology takes from us and how to take it back. Environmental activist and author Chip Ward, I learnt was the one who coined this term. Like all of Solnit’s writings- this one I thought was brilliant too, but what stayed on and etched itself sharply in my heart was the expression itself .

Ordinary words? Not for me. For me, the interconnectedness of two ideas that I personally find distasteful was like finding an anthem that seemed to capture my angst of the moment.

Like love and misery (possibly a host of other things in life) tyranny comes in many forms. I wondered, when did my encounter with this brand of tyranny begin? Memory scrambled back to my battles against Mathematics/Arithmetic (call it whatever you will - for me, it continues to be the subject that shall never be named, besides, a thorn by any name, stings). The years have changed nothing - I lost the battle then, I am losing it now and I do not see any miracle unfolding in the future. As you see vividly and painfully for me – this marked my first encounter with that, which must/needs to be quantified. Let me rush to add, this is no rant against arithmetic/mathematics. While it continues to be an elusive enigma to me, I am well aware of its vital importance and sheer necessity.

My resentment is against everything that the quantifiable symbolizes (in my warped head) -living as we do in a performative world where almost EVERYTHING is subjected to quantification and EVERYONE is a statistic.

In my defense, this vitriol could possibly be blamed on middle aged angst. Admittedly, nothing that I am venting about is new. Afterall, we live in a world driven and fueled by the “quantifiable”. We are a society that worships the” quantifiable” in all forms.

All manner of things are subjected to quantification. Standardized testing in education, the deified exaltation of STEM courses, the algorithms that drive market forces, the measure of productivity and efficiency in domains where numbers should not be a deciding force. The list is nauseatingly endless.

A recent Substack post I devoured ‘Reading as a resistance to hustle culture’ highlighted that, in an “accomplishment driven culture even reading starts to feel like something to accomplish. Reading goals. Reading trackers….” Aha! See? Validation for my ranting.

A society reveals itself by what it chooses to deify and demonize. What does it tell about us as a society then – this “tyranny of the quantifiable”?

This is not to be insensitive to the multiple oppressive tyrannies that plague our world. Political tyranny in any hue and form anywhere is despicable and must be opposed to keep the flame of freedom burning. The silent tyrannies that creep into our life to overwhelm us and devour us completely – they must be paid attention to, if not resisted.

Since I have shared my first encounter with my personal “tyranny of the quantifiable” it is only befitting that I should also share my first encounter with what I view as a resistance to tyranny – that jewel of literature - Shakespeare’s King Lear. This is unapologetic bias, I realize.

When Lear famously asks of his daughters,“ Which of you shall we say doth love us most ?” and two of his daughters have made exaggerated “quantifiable” claims of their love, Cordelia’s answer is “ Nothing, my lord.”

To me, this is resistance. And while to many ,it maybe be foolish, to me, Cordelia’s words are glorious defiance. She will never submit to the “ tyranny of the quantifiable.”

Meanwhile, I comfort myself in finding the validation I so fervently seek - in words, books, literature, art - our eternal resistances to ALL tyrannies.

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Sacred wisdom of all traditions universally reminds us of the pitfalls and dangers of harboring and holding on to anger. Confucius denounces anger as the most potent of human failings, berating our inability to control anger as the root of most human misfortune.

Yet, anger remains an enigma to most of us. Anger and its all too familiar whimsical cousin – irritability manifest themselves rather early in human lives stubbornly remaining a constant. We grow from irritated babies to rebellious teenagers, from angst ridden, seething adults to cantankerous elderly individuals. No surprise then that we are a society and a species that is perpetually angry.

Stripped of the so-called grandeur of our self-declared importance as a life form, we are after all merely an inflammable cocktail of chemicals walking around for a moment in time. Vladimir Nabakov captured the ephemeral nature of human existence, “our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness.” No surprise then that anger, hatred and its corollaries - violence and despair together become the burden we are all forced to carry in some form or the other. Of these, none is darker than anger. It is in many ways the preceptor of all that is corrosive and potentially self-destructive. Medical science corroborates this eloquently.

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To those of us who flounder and attempt to navigate our way through the maze that is the twenty first century world, what do we make of this persistent prickly thorn that seems to flourish with abandon in our lives?

Like all human emotions, the function of anger is to provide a coping strategy for survival. Indeed, a cursory glance at human history reminds us that a defiant sense of anger, indignation at existing unjust social systems was the spark that ignited many revolutions. Collective anger that grows into a movement without spiralling into mob fury holds the potent power for social change.

Our concern is with the damaging effects of personal anger that we are tormented with and in turn torment others with, when words become weapons that lacerate the soul. Is anger then the cry of a pained, sorrowful heart that has momentarily forgotten the gentle salve of kindness? Is anger another word for disappointment perhaps? Gentleness, kindness are these mere words or impractical ideals in a world that worships at the altar of ruthless competition? What if we imagined an alternative world where gentleness with self and others is a practice rather than a derided idea?

As with most conundrums of human existence, the questions we grapple with usually find an answer in the gift that is art and sacred wisdom. Mystical poetry has long extolled the conquest over self as the greatest of all victories. Truly then, “Let there be peace on Earth and let it begin with me” (song by Jackson Miller, 1955)[1]