It is based on my Last Mughal: The Fall of a Dynasty, Delhi 1857

So good to see our literary initiative @thanelitfest organized in collaboration with @NCPAMumbai is covered in the latest Dec. 2025 issue of @Rotary News India, an official Regional Magazine of @Rotary Thank you Publisher P T Prabhakar, editor @rushbl @JohnHewko @bachikarkaria

T 5575 - ... another valiant Giant has left us .. left the arena .. leaving behind a silence with an unbearable sound .. Dharam ji .. 🙏 🙏🙏 .. the epitome of greatness, ever linked not only for his renowned physical presence, but for the largeness of his heart , and its most endearing simplicity .. .. he brought with him the earthiness of the village in Punjab he came from , and remained true to its temperament .. un soiled throughout his glorious career , in a fraternity that witnessed changes every decade .. ... the fraternity underwent changes .. not him .. his smile, his charm and his warmth , extending to all that came in his vicinity .. a rarity in the profession .. .. the air about us swings vacant .. .. a vacuum that shall ever remain vacuus .. .. prayers 🛕 🙏

"I’m 79. My name’s Agnes. I walk to Oakwood Elementary every Tuesday and Thursday at 2:45 p.m. Not for my grandkids, I don’t have any. I go for them. The kids waiting for parents who are late. Again. It started three years ago. I saw Miguel sitting alone on the school’s concrete steps, tracing math problems in the dirt with a stick. His mom worked double shifts at the canning factory. His homework was smudged with tears. I didn’t say much. Just pulled a folding chair from my tote bag (I carry it everywhere, bad knees) and sat beside him. "Show me where you’re stuck, mijo," I said. He flinched like I’d startled a bird. But he showed me. I was a teacher for 42 years. Fractions, state capitals, how to hold a pencil, I know them like my own heartbeat. That day, we solved 3 problems in the dirt. When his mom finally rushed up, breathless and apologizing, I just nodded. "He’s got a good mind," I told her. Her eyes got wet. Not from sadness. From being seen. Next week, I brought my old teacher’s stool and a clipboard. Set up under the oak tree across from the school gates. No sign. No fanfare. Just me, my red pen, and a jar of butterscotch candies. Kids started coming. Not all at once. First Miguel. Then Aisha, whose dad’s truck broke down again. Jamal, who whispered, "My grandma’s sick." I never asked why parents were late. I just opened my clipboard. Some days, I only helped one child. Other days, five crowded around my stool. I taught multiplication tables while braiding Maya’s hair. Showed Leo how to write his name in cursive on a foggy window. Never took money. Never called the school. This wasn’t their job. It was ours. Then came Mrs. Chen. She stood at the edge of the sidewalk for weeks, watching her daughter Linh hover near my bench but never approach. One rainy Thursday, Mrs. Chen finally walked over. Her hands shook. "I failed school," she admitted in broken English. "I can’t help her." I slid my stool aside. "Sit," I said. "Today, you do the math. I’ll hold the umbrella." Last month, the principal found me packing up in the rain. "We’ve had complaints," he said gently. "About ‘unauthorized tutoring.’" I braced for the end. But then Linh ran over, dragging her mother. Aisha brought her little brother. Miguel stood tall beside his mom, the one who once cried on the steps. Twelve parents and kids formed a circle around my soggy stool. "This bench stays," Miguel told the principal. "Or we all leave." Today, the PTA provides the folding chairs. Retired nurses check kids’ ears for infections. A barber gives free trims. But the homework bench? That’s still mine. Last Tuesday, Linh placed a college acceptance letter on my clipboard. "You taught me numbers," she said. "But you taught Mama something bigger." She pointed to Mrs. Chen, now helping a boy sound out words. "You taught us we’re not broken." I packed up my red pen that night, my hands steady for the first time in years. Here’s what nobody tells you about growing old, The world doesn’t need your savings or your spare room. It needs your stubborn, ordinary love. Show up. Sit down. Make space. The rest will grow around you like wildflowers through concrete.” Let this story reach more hearts.... By Mary Nelson

When I started competing, I had a small dream - to one day compete alongside the able-bodied and win medals ♥️ I didn’t make it at first, but I kept going, learning from every setback. Now, that dream is one step closer. 🌟 In the Asia Cup trials, I secured Rank 3 and will now represent India in the Asia Cup - in the able-bodied category. 🇮🇳 Dreams take time. Work. Believe. Repeat. 💫

She’s told stories that mattered. Reported truths that inspired change and continues to write with purpose. Meet @rushbl one of India’s distinguished journalist and editor of @Rotary's official Regional Magazine 'Rotary News' at Thane Literature Festival instagram.com/p/DQLjbGojIOR/…

A message from a Kindergarten teacher: After forty years in the classroom, my career ended with one small sentence from a six-year-old: “My dad says people like you don’t matter anymore.” No sneer. No malice. Just quiet honesty — the kind that cuts deeper because it’s innocent. He blinked, then added, “You don’t even have a TikTok.” My name is Mrs. Clara Holt, and for four decades, I taught kindergarten in a small Denver suburb. Today, I stacked the last box on my desk and locked the door behind me. When I started teaching in the early 1980s, it felt like a promise — a shared belief that what we did mattered. We weren’t rich, but we were valued. Parents brought warm cookies to parent nights. Kids gave you handmade cards with hearts that didn’t quite line up. Watching a child sound out their first sentence felt like magic. But that world slowly slipped away. The job I once knew has been replaced by exhaustion, red tape, and a kind of loneliness I can’t quite describe. My evenings used to be filled with construction paper, glitter, and glue sticks. Now they’re spent filling out digital reports to protect myself from angry emails or lawsuits. I’ve been yelled at by parents in front of twenty-five children — one filming me with his phone while I tried to calm another child mid-meltdown. And the kids… they’ve changed too. Not by choice. They arrive tired, anxious, overstimulated. Their tiny fingers know how to swipe a screen before they can hold a crayon. Some can’t make eye contact or wait in line. We’re expected to fix all of it — to patch the gaps, heal the trauma, teach the curriculum, and document every move — in six hours a day, with resources that barely fill a drawer. The little reading corner I once built, full of soft beanbags and paper stars, was replaced by data charts and “learning metrics.” A young principal once told me, “Clara, maybe you’re too nurturing. The district wants measurable results.” As if kindness were a weakness. Still, I stayed. Because of the small, holy moments that no spreadsheet could measure — a whisper of, “You remind me of my grandma.” a shaky note that read, “I feel safe here.” a quiet boy finally meeting my eyes and saying, “I read the whole page.” Those tiny sparks were my reason to keep showing up. But this last year broke something in me. The aggression grew sharper. The laughter in the staff room turned to silence. The light went out of so many eyes. I watched brilliant teachers — my friends — vanish under the weight of burnout, their joy replaced by survival. I felt myself fading too, like chalk on a board that’s been wiped one too many times. So today, I began my goodbye. I pulled faded art off the walls and tucked thirty years of handmade cards into a single box. In the back of a drawer, I found a letter from a student from 1998: “Thank you for loving me when I was hard to love.” I sat on the floor and cried. No party. No applause. Just a handshake from a young principal who called me “Ma’am” while checking his notifications. I left my rocking chair behind, and my sticker box too. What I carried with me were the memories — the faces of hundreds of children who once trusted me enough to reach out their hands and learn. That can’t be uploaded. It can’t be measured. It can’t be replaced. I miss when teachers were partners, not targets. When parents and educators worked side by side, not in opposition. When schools cared more about wonder than numbers. So if you know a teacher — any teacher — thank them. Not with a mug or a gift card, but with your words. With your respect. With your understanding that behind every test score is a heart that cared enough to try. Because in a world that often overlooks them, teachers are the ones who never forget our children.

In Pune, a daily wage worker admitted his wife to the hospital for delivery. It turned out to be a cesarean section. He didn’t know how much the fee would be and thought he might have to mortgage his house. “Doctor, what child is it?” “You have been blessed with an angel (a baby girl),” the doctor replied. “How much is the fee?” “When angels are born, I don’t charge any fee,” said the doctor. The man fell at his feet saying, “Sir, you are God.” Dr. Ganesh Rakh in Pune has been doing this for 10 years—he does not take even a single paisa if a baby girl is born. So far, he has delivered over 1,000 babies for free. His mother told him once, ‘Become a doctor and protect these angel girls,’” he proudly says. Dr. Rakh’s Save the Girl Child initiative has transcended borders and inspired change globally. Stay blessed, Doctor!

What a joy it always is to fly @airindia ! The service is outstanding. And the team on my flight to Kochi today not only surprised me with this wonderful note but asked for a photo too! (Thanks, too, to the pilots for the smooth takeoff and landing, marvellous handling in monsoon weather and a ten-minutes early arrival on a wet runway… Shabash to my favourite airline!)