The first time I heard an indie song, it wasn’t at a concert. It was in a reel someone shared during lockdown Anumita Nadesan’s “Katputli ke Dhaage.” The world was silent, but my heart hadn’t felt so full in a while.Since then, I’ve found versions of myself in indie lyrics. I’ve healed from heartbreaks, made playlists for friends, and cried for people who never even knew they broke me.Indie music didn’t just help me listen better—it helped me feel deeper.And that, perhaps, is why today’s youth is hooked.

A while ago, I noticed something strange. I’d meet certain people and feel exhausted after a 10-minute chat. Others? I’d leave the conversation lighter, inspired; more me. I started wondering, is it just personality differences? Or is there something deeper? That’s when I stumbled upon Chanakya Niti and suddenly, the emotional patterns made sense. Chanakya, the sharpest mind of ancient India, didn’t just study politics he studied people. And his teachings are a mirror to the energy dynamics we navigate even today. This article is for anyone who’s felt drained, overwhelmed or emotionally hijacked and wants to reclaim their peace.

A few years ago, someone close to me betrayed my trust in a way that still echoes in my chest. I tried journaling, therapy, even pretending I was “over it.” But the truth is, some pain doesn’t want to leave. That’s when I stumbled upon the Bhagavad Gita not while looking for peace, but while looking for perspective. And it didn’t tell me to forgive blindly. It told me to understand. This article explores what the Gita really says about forgiveness especially when you don’t feel ready to give it.

Even when life seems good, why does happiness feel out of reach? I found myself asking this late one night, feeling oddly hollow despite having everything I once wanted. That’s when the Gita found me, not with promises of joy, but with wisdom about detachment, ego, and chasing the wrong things. This article explores how the Gita flips our understanding of happiness, reminding us that real peace comes not from achieving more, but from letting go and returning to who we truly are.

Last year, I found myself at a crossroads—not a dramatic one, but the kind that quietly eats at you: a hard conversation I was avoiding, a decision that could hurt someone, a fear of getting it wrong. I wasn’t in a temple, I was in a war zone of my own thoughts. And that’s when I picked up the Bhagavad Gita—not as a religious text, but as a lifeline. What struck me was this: the Gita wasn’t delivered in a peaceful ashram, but on a battlefield, to a man drowning in doubt, fear, and guilt. That means it wasn’t written for the perfect or the calm, it was written for people like us, standing in chaos, making impossible choices, trying to live with clarity in a world that never stops pulling. This article is for anyone who feels stuck between duty and emotion, action and collapse. Because the real battlefield is never outside, it’s always within.

Last month, I stood in front of the mirror, frustrated. My career wasn’t going how I wanted. A friendship felt one-sided. I wasn’t “feeling like myself.” Naturally, I did what most of us do, I tried to fix the outside. Bought new clothes. Took a break from social media. Switched shampoos. Rewrote my to-do list. But the unrest stayed. One sleepless night, I picked up my old copy of the Bhagavad Gita, looking for anything that could still me. And then I read this line in Gita: "One who sees inaction in action and action in inaction is wise among men." I realized I was chasing shadows in the mirror. Because the Gita doesn’t tell you to fix your job, or your relationship, or even your body first. It tells you to fix the lens. Fix the eyes. Fix the way you see. And then everything outside changes, without even trying.

I’ve always been the "reliable one." The helper. The fixer. The “I’ll manage” person. Whether it was friends, family, work, or relationships—I was the one people leaned on. And I didn’t mind. In fact, I felt proud. Until… it started to hurt. When I was the only one checking in. When my needs were always second. When no one thought to ask if I was okay. I once gave so much, I forgot what it meant to receive. I wasn’t kind. I was just afraid of not being liked. And then, somewhere between heartbreak and healing, I opened the Bhagavad Gita. I expected spirituality. What I found was clarity. Krishna, with his fierce compassion, didn't ask me to stop loving others. He just asked me to stop abandoning myself in the process. This is the article I wish someone had written for me years ago. It’s for every person who gives without asking. Who shows up without being invited. Who is tired, but says “I’m fine.” Because the Gita sees you—and it has something profound to say.

I remember rushing to check my to-do list right after waking up.Emails. Deadlines. Notifications. Reels. Tea. More tea.Every hour accounted for. Every conversation half-heard.I was doing everything “right”—chasing growth, goals, the next big thing.But inside?There was a quiet discomfort. A whisper.“Why are you running so fast—and where are you even going?”I ignored it.Until burnout hit.Until I achieved what I thought I wanted, and felt… nothing.One night, in search of something real, I opened the Bhagavad Gita.That’s when it clicked:Maybe the chase itself… is the distraction.Maybe I’ve been missing life while trying to build one.

I was never taught how to deal with pain. Only how to hide it. Be strong. Be silent. Be productive. So when life threw me into a storm—when friendships cracked, dreams delayed, and everything I thought I’d built collapsed—I didn’t know where to look. Except inward. And upward. It was during one such quiet, restless night that I reopened the Bhagavad Gita—not as a scripture, but as a mirror. I stopped reading it like a text, and started living it like a truth. And I realized this: Your pain is not punishment. It’s preparation.

I once read somewhere that real intimacy is when two people see each other clearly—without armor, without performance. At the time, I brushed it off as romantic fluff. But then came heartbreak. Then came distance. Then came that painful moment where you realize you were never truly seen—only accepted as long as you fit an image. I started questioning what I thought love was: Attention? Security? Obsession? And in this spiral, a single line from the Bhagavad Gita stopped me cold:“The one who sees all beings in the Self and the Self in all beings, truly sees.” — Gita 6.29