My brother, remember those days when you went to school wearing shorts, and with just a few coins you could buy a handful of candies?
The moment the teacher entered the classroom, silence would fall instantly.
It felt as if the entire class had suddenly frozen.
The teacher would ask, “John, did you memorize the twenty meanings I gave you yesterday?”
John would reply confidently, “Yes, sir. I’ve memorized them. Please listen.”
As soon as the teacher began listening, fear spread across the classroom.
The student who knew everything perfectly would feel like the king or queen of the class, proudly showing off.
And if John couldn’t recall the meanings, the teacher’s ruler would come down on his hands.
Some of us felt scared watching this, silently worrying, “What if I forget too?”
And some of us couldn’t stop laughing at John’s misfortune.
After four periods, the recess bell finally rang.
We all rushed out to play tag, hide and seek, or whatever game our hearts desired.
I played hopscotch, while my sisters played skipping rope.
Sometimes my friend Alex would steal my lunch, eat it happily, then sneak a slice of onion into my lunchbox and return it carefully to my bag.
Alex never ate his own lunch—his mother cooked very spicy vegetables, and Alex had a serious sweet tooth.
The moment school ended, we ran out—not to go home, but to roam the streets together on one bicycle.
Remember, my sister, when you were little and a strand of mucus hung from your nose, yet you were completely happy?
What happened now, that even after becoming a respected city officer, happiness seems so far away?
Brother, remember when you played simple backyard games with just two wooden sticks, and that alone made you joyful?
What changed today, that even playing games on an expensive smartphone cannot remove your stress—so much so that you need pills just to sleep?
Sister, remember when you wore a simple dress and proudly walked back and forth in front of your brother?
What happened now, that even an expensive saree cannot give you the happiness you already had as a child?
And my dear brother—now a powerful city administrator—why do you walk around so silent?
Once, your voice echoed through the entire village.
Today, even with authority, why do others speak louder than you?
Tell me honestly—does life hit you harder now than people ever did?
Let me tell you a beautiful truth from my own childhood.
If I ever told my mother, “Mom, I want something sweet today,” she would leave everything and prepare it for me.
Today, if I ask for something as simple as food, I am given long lectures instead.
Please have some mercy, my friend… some mercy.
Brother, remember standing carefree in the fields with friends, completely free and unashamed?
What changed today, that even a small movement fills you with fear?
I feel, my friends, that we have all unknowingly gained too much so-called wisdom.
And this wisdom is eating us alive—like termites—day and night.
Come, let’s return to the fields.
Remember when you made toys from mud and rolled around in it?
Your cheeks shone naturally—no creams required.
What happened now, that you need expensive products just to feel alive?
Live life like childhood, my brother.
What are you really afraid of?
Sister, remember when you fought with a friend and slapped her hand, and she cried loudly?
What changed today, that it feels like everyone is slapping you instead?
My sister, you wounded yourself by taking yourself too seriously.
That is why this remembrance is not nostalgia.
It is the doorway.
Now, my friends, begin the practice of Swaroop Darshan and return to your original simplicity.
Live this beautiful life fully.
