Prof.Prema Raghavan

The Reflex

This is an episode from years ago, but some memories stay with you. They surface without warning, like a hiccup, in the most unexpected places.

We had neighbours who lived just across from us. The husband was a man of science, the wife a beautiful woman, and they had two delightful children who were friends with my daughter. Naturally, I became friendly with them, and the wife, in particular, was a warm and charming person.

As for the husband, he adored his wife. He was also, shall we say, constitutionally incapable of resisting other women. Because I was his wife’s friend, he kept a careful distance from me. Perhaps he was a little intimidated. Or perhaps, because he held his wife in such awe, he would never risk making a pass at one of her friends.

His reputation, however, was firmly established. It was often said that if you wrapped a pole in a saree, he would find a way to flirt with it. I am surprised his wife did not know, though one does not always see what is written on one’s own back. In a way, it was just as well. He was, otherwise, a dutiful husband.

We eventually moved closer to my workplace. I had a baby then, and the commute demanded it. Those were freer days at the institute. We neither signed in nor signed out. No bell tolled us into class or out of it. It was all left to our individual discretion, and, for the most part, people rose to that trust.

One day, I was riding back home on my moped. This was long before we could afford a car. And I am vain, as you know. To avoid further tanning, I had wrapped my head in a scarf, topped it with a straw hat, and added a pair of dark glasses. I must have been quite the sight, entirely unrecognisable.

As I rode along, I saw him approaching from the opposite direction on his vehicle. I nodded in passing, a casual acknowledgment.

When I reached home and turned into the driveway, I was astonished to see him right behind me.

I parked and began unwrapping the layers around my head. The moment he saw my face, he looked utterly horrified. It was as though he had come face to face with Medusa herself.

He apologised at once, almost incoherent in his haste, and begged me to forget the entire episode. He had not recognised me, he said. He had simply seen an unknown woman nod at him and, on impulse, followed her all the way home.

What, I wonder, had been his intent? I cannot say. Perhaps there was no thought behind it at all, only reflex. It seemed, in that moment, to be the essence of his being, an instinctive response rather than a considered act.

I promised I would never tell, and I kept that promise.

But years have passed, and much water has flowed under the bridge. Today, I can afford to find it amusing, and to share it, at last, with my readers.

A Slice of Delhi Life

I must say this about North Indians. A majority of them are very generous. What left a deep impression on me was what they call a bhandara, the practice of feeding the public.

These are not limited to festivals or special occasions. Where I go most Mondays, there is a regular evening bhandara. Passersby are served tea and a samosa. Not everyone who stops is poor. Sometimes it is a tired office-goer, simply hungry at the end of the day, who pauses for a moment of comfort.

What strikes me is that many who organise these are not particularly wealthy. Yet there they are, serving with sincerity those who might need it most. I often notice well-dressed women behind the counter, offering food with genuine cheer. There is dignity in both giving and receiving.

Another thing I have observed is that in times of real trouble, the neighbourhood shows up. Once, there was a fire in our building, in one of the storerooms. It felt as though everyone gathered instantly to help put it out. That kind of spontaneous solidarity is deeply heartening.

Winters bring out another form of kindness. Stray dogs are not left to shiver. People knit little coats for them. I do not know whether furry creatures truly need sweaters, but perhaps warmth, once felt, must be shared. Or perhaps it is simply love finding an outlet.

This is not to say that everything is gentle and orderly. Alongside this generosity is a curious belief that rules are optional. Road rage, I am told, is very real. I have been spared most of it because I do not drive here. My drivers, and there have been a few over time, have all been given strict instructions. No raised palms, no provocative gestures. There is a particular way of expressing annoyance here, an upturned palm thrust forward, and I want no part of it.

I also discourage overtaking. One young driver once complained that our new car, capable of great speed, was being treated like a bullock cart. I told him I was perfectly content. I happen to like bullock carts.

And yet, in plain sight, I have seen a man step out of his shop, remove another man’s helmet, and slap him without hesitation. I do not know what offence was committed, but the swiftness of the reaction stayed with me.

So there it is. A great deal of good on one hand, and a fair share of aggression on the other. You see both, almost side by side. Buddhahood and fundamental darkness coexisting in the same frame.

For all that is said about Delhi, often critically, I cannot deny that it has a certain energy. Friends back in Mysore wondered if we had lost our minds in making this shift. But Delhi has its own rhythm. Every season brings a fresh abundance of vegetables, fruits, and flowers.

I now have a friendly rapport with the plant seller, Bhutan Singh, who brings me the best plants of the season. Fresh vegetables and fruits arrive at my doorstep with ease. There is a certain convenience here, a surprising ease of living, that makes the city comfortable despite its many challenges, including the pollution.

And perhaps that is what stays with me most. This coexistence of care and chaos, generosity and impatience, all woven into everyday life. It is not perfect, but it is alive, and in its own way, deeply human.

On Faith

Another subject I have been quietly reflecting on is faith, particularly religious faith.

I was born into a Hindu family. My parents were pious, and I married a man who is equally so. In our childhood, faith came to us through stories rather than scripture. My grandfather, a natural storyteller, brought alive the worlds of the Ramayana and the Mahabharata. His attention to detail and to the motives of the characters made these epics feel immediate and human rather than distant mythology.

Around the same time, Amar Chitra Katha made these stories accessible to us in another form. Yet, despite this early exposure, there remained an unexpressed gap. The original texts were in languages I could not fully access. I did not know Malayalam, and while I had studied Sanskrit, I could not read it with enough ease to enter those texts directly. This felt like a significant lack.

Perhaps that is what led me to seek more.

My search brought me to Nichiren Buddhism. Here, I encountered ideas that resonated deeply. The belief that one does not require an intermediary, that each individual possesses the potential for Buddhahood, and that chanting can awaken compassion and wisdom within, felt both empowering and immediate. Over time, I felt that many of my spiritual questions had found some response.

At the same time, I never experienced a conflict with my own roots. If this practice helped me become a better person, then I carried that self back to my ancestral gods. There was continuity, not contradiction.

However, as time passed, I became aware that my understanding was still shaped through the interpretations of others. This did not diminish the value of what I had gained, but it did make me want to engage more directly. I have since begun reading the original Goshos to see what I might understand for myself.

Earlier this year, I visited our hometown near Thrissur, in Kodungallur. The presence of Bhagavathi, or Kali, is deeply felt there. One of the temples we visited was where my great-grandfather had once been a priest. The temple, unchanged over time, stood in quiet contrast to an otherwise shifting world.

Sitting there, simply being, I felt a deep sense of calm. It was an experience that required no language and no explanation. It was complete in itself.

I now find myself drawn to reading the Bhagavad Gita in English, through commentaries that make it accessible. I am also curious to explore other branches of Buddhism, in the hope of addressing questions that still remain.

Alongside this, I continue my association with the Art of Living. The practices taught by Sri Sri Ravi Shankar, including Sudarshan Kriya and meditation, are part of my daily routine. There is much to absorb and much to gain.

Over time, I have come to see faith and practice as the ropes used by a mountaineer. Different terrains require different supports. There is nothing wrong in exploring different spiritual paths if they help one move forward.

Ultimately, whatever brings hope, steadiness, and quiet joy is worth cultivating.

It has been ten years since I began sharing my thoughts here, almost without a plan, simply following what felt true in the moment.
Somewhere along the way, these posts became conversations, and many of you have been a part of that journey.

A suggestion has come my way, that I gather these pieces into a book.
I find myself wondering…

Would you like to see something like that?
Have these writings meant enough to you to live beyond this space?