philosophy

Forgiveness – The hardest form of courage

Forgiveness is not the absence of hurt. It is the quiet courage to release it.

I was just talking to my parents about Jainism. I told them that though I abhor the hypocrisy that often surrounds religious practice, I do not dislike the faith itself. The food restrictions are tough to follow, yes, but I have always loved its principles:
the simplicity of Aparigraha (non-attachment),
the compassion of Kshama (forgiveness),
and the quiet logic of the theory of Karma, the idea that every thought, word, and deed ties a subtle knot around the soul.

Over time, these knots weigh us down, and the only way to untie them is through awareness, compassion, and restraint.

Among all Jain principles, Ahimsa or non-violence is the most profound. But it goes beyond abstaining from physical harm. True Ahimsa includes our words and thoughts. To hurt another being through anger, jealousy, or resentment is to create ripples of violence within ourselves.

And yet, we are human. The mind is like a river. Thoughts will arise, swirl, and settle. The presence of a harsh or vengeful thought is not a moral failure. What matters is what we do with it. When we notice anger, when we feel the sting of injustice and still choose not to act on it, we are practicing spiritual discipline in action.

Even Jainism acknowledges this gradual inner work. Through the Gunasthanas or stages of spiritual development, one slowly purifies passions and attachments. Until liberation, moments of hurt or resentment will flicker. The practice is not to suppress them, but to witness them and let them dissolve.

I remind myself of this often. Because despite believing deeply in forgiveness, I am not immune to hurt.

Over the years, I have forgiven people, sometimes for wounds that cut deep. Often, I do not even remember the wrong later. It is as if life quietly dusts off the pain and moves on.

But sometimes, something stirs inside. A part of me wants life to be tit for tat, for karma to arrive right on schedule. When someone who hurt you seems to thrive instead of face consequences, it can feel unfair. You do not want revenge, but you do crave balance. And in those moments, forgiveness feels naïve.

Then, after wrestling with that helplessness, something softer emerges. You remember your philosophy, to forgive, to forget, to free yourself from the cycle of hurt. And you breathe again.

No, I am not a bad person for feeling that way. None of us are.

Because spiritual growth is not about never feeling anger. It is about not becoming it. It is about noticing the storm and still choosing calm. Every time you forgive when you could have cursed, every time you let go when you could have clung to bitterness, you rise a little higher on that invisible ladder of peace.

Maybe forgiveness is not a one-time act after all. Maybe it is a quiet, lifelong practice of remembering who we want to be, even when the world forgets.

Rain Or Shine?

Long ago, I read a Gujarati novel whose name I don’t remember, but the ending stayed with me.

It was a story about rains, drought, and the fragile balance between faith and superstition. In the end, when the sky poured and the sun shone at the same time, someone asked the village chief, “Is it raining or is it sunny?” Blinded by the sunlight, he said, “Sunny.” And the rains stopped.

That moment stayed in my heart. I learned something from it that I have never forgotten. Whenever someone asks if it is sunny or raining, always say it is raining.

I never knew why it touched me so deeply. Maybe because I grew up in a land where rain means life. Or maybe because I simply love the rain. I have always felt calm and alive when the sky is heavy with clouds.

But maybe it means more.

Maybe it is a story about faith and ego. The chief, blinded by the sun, chose pride over trust. Sometimes we do that too. When we try to control everything, we stop the very blessings that could have healed us.

Or maybe it is about emotion and reason. The sun shines bright, but rain nourishes. We often chase clarity and success, but forget to make space for our feelings. To say “raining” is to accept our softness, our humanity.

It could also be about duality. Life is not only sunshine or only rain. Joy and pain often come together, and when they do, something beautiful, like a rainbow, appears.

Or maybe it is about how we see things. The chief could not see the rain because his eyes were full of light. We too sometimes get blinded by our own certainty, forgetting that truth is often felt, not seen.

Or maybe, it is simply about gratitude. To be thankful for the rain even when the sun shines. To remember that rain feeds the earth.

Whatever it means, it stayed with me. Today, when my father said, “It’s sunny and raining,” the words slipped out of me without thought. “Always say it’s raining,” I said.

And maybe that has become my quiet life philosophy.

When faced with both joy and sorrow, choose to honor the one that sustains life, not just the one that dazzles the eyes.

When you have to pick between being right and being kind, choose to rain.

When things are uncertain, respond as if nourishment is possible. That is faith.

Always choose the response that brings life, not the one that dries it out.

Because sometimes, when both light and darkness visit together, when life gives you both comfort and challenge, the only wise thing to do is to welcome the rain.

Always say it’s raining. It is a philosophy of faith — to choose nourishment over illusion, humility over control, and gratitude over pride.

Exit Stage Left

One of my most favourite movie is Anand. It is about a young man, who is suffering from blood cancer, has lost the love of his life, and doctors have given him only six months to live. Inspite of all this, he is filled with joie de vivre. He is cheerful himself and goes around spreading happiness. This movie has been such an inspiration!

There are two dialogues of the movie that really hit home. One is, “’Babumoshai, zindagi aur maut uparwale ke haath hai jahanpanah. Usse na toh aap badal sakte hain na main. Hum sab toh rangmanch ki kathputhliyan hain jinki dor uparwale ki ungliyon main bandhi hain. Kab, kaun, kaise uthega yeh koi nahi bata sakta hai. Ha, ha, ha.” It means life and death is in God’s hands. No one can change when we are born and when we will die. We are all puppets in the world stage (as also said by Shakespeare) No one can say when our role will end.

Another one is “Zindagi badi honi chahiye, lambi nahin” It means the length of life does not matter, how you live your life matters”

Human beings are inherently afraid of death. Even if their life is full of misery, they will want to continue being alive. Even in vegetative state, they would want to continue to live. However, death not only means loss of life. It also means losing your loved ones. The fear of not being with your loved ones anymore, the fear of not getting to enjoy the pleasures of life anymore, the fear of leaving unfinished business, all contribute to fear of death.

Death is also not about death of the body. Sometimes death is of relationships, of jobs, of career, of your current life. It is difficult to let go. It is difficult to let go of things you love, the places you love, the people you love. But just like where there is life, there is death, there is a new life after death. When a door closes, it is because you are now ready to open a new door. Embark on a new adventure, have a new life, maybe with your old experiences guiding you.

You cannot control death but you can control how you live your life. Enjoy every moment of your life. Life will throw you curveballs when you least expect. Think of the curveballs as lessons you need to learn. When a river comes across hurdles, it carves a new path for itself. And as the great Phil Dunphy says, when life gives you lemonade, make lemons 😉