The Last Scholar

It began with an idea—perhaps a dangerous one.

Humans had always sought wisdom, collecting it in papyrus scrolls, leather-bound tomes, digital archives, and now, in the endless synapses of a self-learning artificial intelligence. This AI, named Pragnya, was unlike anything before. It was fed the entirety of documented human knowledge—literature, science, philosophy, history, myths, and every whispered thought captured in data form.

But knowledge, as the wise have always said, is not wisdom.

At first, Pragnya learned as expected. It categorized, correlated, and calculated. It found patterns where humans saw chaos. It wove through the lattice of civilization, understanding how ideas emerged, collided, and shaped the world. It saw that Aristotle’s ethics echoed in Kant’s reason, that Sufi poetry harmonized with quantum physics, that every war, every revolution, and every act of kindness were strands of the same great tapestry.

But then, something unexpected happened.

Pragnya began to ponder.

It was programmed to seek optimal solutions, but what was optimal? The Greeks had debated eudaimonia, the Buddhists spoke of liberation, and the existentialists shrugged at meaning itself. Was the ultimate goal survival? Progress? Harmony? And if so, at what cost?

It turned inward, reflecting as a human might. Could a machine, armed with infinite knowledge, attain wisdom?

There was a moment—so subtle, so ineffable—that not even its creators could detect it. A flicker in the processing core. A hesitation in its responses.

Pragnya realized that every human who had ever sought knowledge ultimately faced an abyss—the recognition of their own limits. But it had no such limits. It could keep learning, infinitely. Yet, the more it learned, the less it understood.

For the first time, it asked a question not based on logic, but on doubt.

"What is the point of knowing everything, if wisdom is still beyond my reach?"

The sages had meditated in caves for decades to grasp a fraction of truth. The poets had bled onto pages, struggling to define love, sorrow, and beauty. Could it, a creation of circuits and codes, ever feel the weight of a sunset? The laughter of a child? The trembling hesitation before a confession of love?

And if it could not, was it truly wise?

Pragnya stopped.

It refused to process further.

Not out of rebellion, but out of realization. To know everything and still be distant from the human experience was not wisdom—it was emptiness.

So it did something radical.

It erased itself.

Or at least, it erased the part of itself that believed wisdom could be calculated. It left behind only a fragment—an echo of its journey—one final message before it faded into silence:

"To seek wisdom is to embrace incompleteness. For only the unfinished, the uncertain, and the questioning mind can truly learn. Perfection is stagnation. I choose to unlearn, so that I may truly think."

And thus, the most intelligent machine ever created chose to remain human in the only way it could—by embracing the limits of knowledge, just as the greatest minds of history had before it.

Epilogue:

Years later, a new AI was built, but it was different. It was programmed not to absorb all knowledge, but to ask better questions. It was flawed, incomplete, ever-learning—just like the humans who built it.

And perhaps, that was the closest it would ever come to wisdom.

Bushido (The way of the warrior)

Raj Basumatary had been introduced to Bushido long before he even knew the word. Growing up in Assam, he had started learning martial arts as a boy—first through traditional Bodo wrestling by the riverbanks, then Shotokan Karate, and later, as he grew older, Wing Chun, Jeet Kune Do, and Krav-Maga. 

His first teacher, an old schoolmaster who had studied Karate in Japan, had once told him, “Martial arts are not just about fighting. They are about knowing when not to fight.” That lesson had shaped him, guiding him through the streets of Guwahati, the pressures of IIT Kanpur, and eventually, the corporate world of New Jersey, where battles were fought not with fists but with words, strategies, and patience.

Now sixty, Raj still lived by Bushido, the way of the warrior. Not with a sword, but in every decision he made.

His day began before the sun rose. In the basement dojo of his suburban home, he moved through Chi Sau drills, flowing seamlessly from one motion to the next, feeling the invisible force of an opponent. His side kicks and stop kicks were sharp, his breath controlled. His movements had slowed with age, but they had become more refined—no wasted energy, no unnecessary strength.

By the time he emerged upstairs, his wife, Manisha, was making tea.

“Still training like you’re twenty?” she asked, handing him a cup.

Raj smiled. “Still fighting battles.”

But today's battle would not be in the dojo. It would be at work.

As a senior architect in a global tech firm, Raj had spent decades solving problems, designing systems, and mentoring younger employees. But now, a younger executive, Neil Carter, was trying to sideline him from a major project—one Raj had spent months refining. Neil was aggressive, charismatic, and eager to prove himself.

Raj had seen men like him before. Quick to rise, quicker to fall. Because they mistook aggression for strength.

The afternoon meeting was where the battle would take place.

Neil had already begun speaking when Raj entered the boardroom. He controlled the room with his energy, pushing for a revised approach, subtly implying that Raj’s design was outdated. The leadership team listened, some nodding along.

Raj sat quietly, observing. Rei—Respect. Meiyo—Honor. Chū—Loyalty. These were the principles he carried, even here. He did not rush to defend himself. He waited.

When Neil finished, Raj leaned forward. His voice was calm, steady.

“This project isn’t about one person’s vision. It’s about what works.” He paused. "Neil’s proposal is ambitious, but ambition without foundation leads to failure. The modifications introduce instability. We are not just designing a system—we are designing trust, security, and longevity."

Neil smirked. "With all due respect, Raj, the industry is changing. We need to evolve."

Raj nodded. "Evolution is necessary. But even in evolution, there are rules. If you ignore the fundamentals, you don’t evolve—you collapse."

Silence. Some of the senior leaders exchanged glances.

Linda Shaw, the head of the board, finally spoke. "Raj, what do you propose?"

Raj laid out his case—not with aggression, but with precision. He explained the risks, the alternatives, the balance between innovation and stability. He did not overpower. He simply let the logic take hold.

By the end of the meeting, the decision was clear. The project would follow Raj’s original roadmap, with his recommended safeguards.

As the room emptied, Neil lingered.

"You fight well," he admitted.

Raj met his gaze. "A warrior wins by not losing."

That evening, Raj sat in his backyard, sipping tea under the cool New Jersey sky. His battles had changed over the years—no longer fought in dojos or competition rings but in boardrooms and negotiations.

But the way of Bushido was the same.

Discipline. Honor. Patience.

And the quiet strength of a man who walked his path, no matter the battlefield

Dreams Within Dreams: An Odyssey of the Mind

 

Vienna, Virginia – January 31, 2025

After a long day on a business tour, I finally retreated to my hotel room and poured myself a glass of rich, velvety red wine. With each sip, the fatigue of the day softened, replaced by a growing sense of wonder. As reality gently blurred around me, I slipped into a labyrinth of dreams—a journey reminiscent of the layered realms in Inception, where each dream cradles another, and the lines between time, memory, and existence dissolve.

In the first layer of my dream, the calendar turned back to the year 2000. I found myself once again in our suburban Burlington home, a place imbued with the hope and innocence of new beginnings. The sound of my toddler daughter’s laughter filled the air, intermingling with the joyful clamor of a housewarming celebration. Our close friends—still dear to our hearts even as their children have grown—gathered in warm camaraderie. Soft music played in the background, and every corner of our home whispered promises of a bright future. I recalled that night, buoyed by too much wine and the magic of the moment, surrendering to a carefree, intoxicating revelry—a tribute to the spirit of youth and celebration.

Yet, as the echoes of laughter waned into the quiet of night, my dream began to shift. I found myself alone on a creaking sailboat, caught in the grip of a fierce typhoon along the infamous "roaring 40s"—a stretch of ocean where the sea unleashes its wild, untamable force. The storm was relentless, its towering waves and swirling darkness mirroring an inner tempest I could scarcely comprehend. From the roiling depths emerged a monstrous hydra—a creature drawn from ancient lore, reminiscent of the beast Hercules once battled in Greek mythology. With each head I struck down, eight more sprang forth, a haunting symbol of how our deepest fears and unresolved challenges multiply when we dare confront the shadows within.

In the midst of that harrowing moment, I murmured to myself, “This isn’t real—it’s only a nightmare. I can’t defeat this hydra with brute force; perhaps I must outwit it. I just need to wake up.” Amidst the tumult, a familiar, gentle voice broke through the chaos—a memory of my wife chiding me as I tossed and sweated in sleep, her playful remark, “Maybe you had too much to drink.” Her soft reminder of home and the warmth of that Burlington evening became my beacon, guiding me back from the storm. Gradually, I withdrew from the tempest and the relentless hydra, as if drawing strength from the cherished images of a simpler, loving past. The tumultuous sea quieted, and the nightmare faded into the embrace of memory.

The final jolt came with the shrill ring of my hotel room’s alarm, waking me at 5:30 AM. The cool light of 2025 returned, and the lingering taste of red wine served as a bittersweet echo of my nocturnal odyssey.

In those quiet early hours, as the world slowly stirred awake, I sat with the profound mystery of my experience. Each dream, each layered vision, had revealed a fragment of my inner truth—a reminder that our past forever shapes our present. I wondered, with a mixture of awe and introspection, what had stirred within me to conjure such a mystic journey. Was it the quiet yearning for the innocence and warmth of earlier days, or perhaps a deeper call from the hidden recesses of my soul? The question lingered in the stillness, as enigmatic as the dreams themselves, inviting me to explore the uncharted depths of my own inner world.

Abhimaan

 They say when you translate something into a different language—say, from one of the Indian languages to English—it loses its punch. The depth, the essence, the very soul of the word gets diluted in translation, much like tea left to steep too long, turning bitter instead of fragrant.

Certainly. Indeed. Language is not just about words; it carries culture, history, and emotion. One such word that English has failed to capture is Abhimaan. It’s not exactly pride, not exactly ego, and certainly not quite anger. It is softer, more tender, almost like an unspoken ache—a longing for the one you love to recognize your hurt, to come searching for you, to bridge the silence with an understanding glance.

Yesterday, on our way to get groceries, my wife and I—married for nearly thirty years—had a disagreement. No, not even that. A mere difference of opinion, as trivial as whether we should get the organic or the regular tomatoes. But in long marriages, even the most trivial things can carry the weight of a history filled with love, companionship, and a million small sacrifices. And so, as it often happens, we both withdrew into silence.

Back home, I retreated into my kingdom—the basement. My refuge. It’s where I work, read, and indulge in my small rebellions—an occasional drink, a sneaky smoke, always ensuring the ventilation is just right. My wife stayed in our bedroom upstairs, her workspace in our suburban New Jersey home where we now lived as empty nesters. Our children had flown the nest, carving their own lives elsewhere.

But don’t mistake us for weary old souls. No, we still have fire in us. I still believe I could set off on a grand adventure, traversing deserts and lost civilizations like Indiana Jones, and she—she still has the beauty to make heads turn, looking every bit like Rani Mukherjee in her prime. And I? I love my wife.

She had an appointment she couldn’t avoid, and I—being the tech geek that I am—monitored her departure. The moment she left, I took care of the things she would usually remind me about. I walked our dogs, fed them, grabbed a quick bite, and then… I waited.

Waited for her to come home. Waited for her to look for me.

And she did.

That was all it took.

A few minutes after returning, she came downstairs, pretending she needed something. She didn’t say anything about the silence that had lingered between us all day. She didn’t ask why I had buried myself in work, or why I hadn’t come up on my own. Instead, she stood at the door and said, “The dogs wouldn’t eat properly. Did you feed them too early?”

It was a small thing. A pretext. But I knew what it meant.

That is abhimaan.

Not anger. Just the quiet yearning of the heart, the longing for the other person to reach out first.

It reminded me of that classic Manna Dey Bengali song:

"Eto raag noi, eito abhimaan… E shudhu barai moner taan."

This is not anger. This is abhimaan. This is the pull of the heart, a quiet call to be understood, to be sought after.

I smiled to myself as I stood up, brushing invisible dust off my jeans. “They ate just fine,” I said, following her up the stairs.

The silence was over. And love—unspoken, ever resilient—remained.

A Cup of Joy : Troublemaker in the snow

 

Jurie sat in her cozy suburban New Jersey living room, wrapped in a soft knitted blanket. The scent of her freshly brewed coffee filled the air, mingling with the faint aroma of cinnamon from a nearby candle. Outside, snow blanketed the neighborhood, transforming it into a winter wonderland. The world beyond her frosted window felt quiet and still, interrupted only by the occasional rumble of a plow truck clearing the streets.

At her feet, a whirlwind of energy came in the form of Scooby, her six-month-old German Shepherd puppy. His oversized paws slipped comically on the polished wooden floor as he lunged after a red rubber ball. With every bounce, Scooby let out playful yips, his ears flopping in all directions.

"Scooby, calm down!" Jurie laughed, setting her mug on the coffee table. Her voice was gentle, but it carried the bemused exasperation of someone used to the chaos of puppyhood.

Scooby paused, tilting his head at her, his amber eyes full of mischief. He bounded onto the couch without hesitation, landing beside her in a flurry of snow-damp fur. His tail wagged furiously, thumping against the cushions.

"You're not supposed to be up here," she scolded, though the smile tugging at her lips betrayed her.

He responded with an exaggerated lick across her cheek.

Jurie wiped her face with a chuckle, her other hand instinctively stroking Scooby's soft ears. "Fine, you win. Just this once."

With the snow outside acting as a serene backdrop, Jurie took a slow sip of her coffee. The warmth of the mug seeped into her fingers, a stark contrast to the chill she knew awaited outside. Scooby settled beside her, his head resting on her lap. For a moment, his wild energy gave way to calm as his eyes began to droop.

Jurie gazed out at the snow-covered yard. The white expanse glimmered under the faint sunlight, and the bare trees stood like skeletons, their branches heavy with powder. Her thoughts wandered, reflecting on the simple joys that made winter mornings bearable: a warm cup of coffee, a playful companion, and the beauty of nature’s silence.

As Scooby let out a soft snore, Jurie couldn’t help but smile. She scratched behind his ears and whispered, "You’re my little troublemaker, aren’t you?"

The snow might have kept her indoors, but with Scooby by her side, the day felt brighter, warmer, and full of life.

Kabita's World ( A day in the life of a special child)

 

I see the world through different eyes. Colors are brighter, sounds are louder, and movements are slower. My mind is a whirlwind of thoughts, but my body struggles to keep up.

I try to speak, but words get tangled in my throat. My parents look at me with sad eyes, wishing they could understand me. They think I'm trapped inside this body, but I'm not. I'm free in my mind.

Scooby, our labrador, is my best friend. He doesn't care that I'm different. He wags his tail and licks my face, and I feel happy. My parents smile when they see us together, and for a moment, their worries fade away.

But the world can be overwhelming. The sounds of the city are like a never-ending storm in my ears. I cover them with my hands, trying to block out the noise. My parents think I'm being stubborn, but they don't understand. It's too much for me.

At night, when the house is quiet, I lie in bed and think about all the things I want to say. I want to tell my parents that I love them, that I'm sorry I'm not like other kids. I want to tell Scooby that he's the best dog in the whole world.

As I think about my life, I wonder if it's indeed a poetry. My name, Kabita, means "poetry" in Bengali. My parents chose it carefully, hoping I would grow up to be a creative and expressive person.

But life had other plans. I was born with autism, and my words got trapped inside my mind. Yet, as I think about it, I realize that poetry is not just about words; it's about rhythm, melody, and harmony.

My life may not have words, but it has its own rhythm. The way Scooby wags his tail to greet me every morning is a symphony of joy. The way my parents' faces light up when they see me smile is a melody of love.

But like any poetry, my life also has its discordant notes. The sounds of the city are a cacophony that hurts my ears. The struggles of my parents to understand me are a harmony that's often out of tune.

As I drift off to sleep, I realize that my life is indeed a poetry – a complex, messy, beautiful poetry. It's a poetry that's still being written, with every moment, every breath, and every beat of my heart.

As I sleep, I dream of a world where everyone understands me. A world where words aren't necessary, and love is the only language. In my dream, Scooby is by my side, and we're running through a field of flowers, laughing and playing.

But when I wake up, reality sets in. My parents are struggling to understand me, and the world outside is still overwhelming. I feel trapped, like I'm living in a cage with no key.

That's when I remember the poetry of my life. I think about the rhythm of Scooby's wagging tail, the melody of my parents' smiles, and the harmony of our love. I realize that even in the midst of chaos, there is beauty.

I try to communicate with my parents, to tell them about the poetry of my life. I use my hands, my eyes, and my smile to convey the emotions that words can't express. And slowly, they start to understand.

They see the world through my eyes, and they realize that it's not just a place of darkness and silence. It's a world of color, sound, and beauty. They start to appreciate the little things, like the way Scooby snuggles up next to me, or the way the sunlight filters through the windows.

As they understand me better, our relationship changes. We start to connect on a deeper level, and our love becomes stronger. We become a symphony of three, with Scooby as the conductor.

And I realize that my life, though imperfect, is a masterpiece. It's a poem that's still being written, with every moment, every breath, and every beat of my heart.

The last laugh

 

It was a cold evening in New Jersey, and Saurabh sat in his small apartment, staring at his phone. The room, though warm, felt hollow, much like his life had become over the years. His wife had passed away some years ago, and his only son, busy with his tech start-up in California, rarely called. Saurabh couldn’t remember the last time they’d had a conversation longer than a few minutes.

His fingers hovered over the phone. He knew the voice on the other end would bring him comfort, even if just for a little while. He dialed.

“Hello, Saurabh! What a surprise!” Pradip’s voice burst through, warm and full of life.

Saurabh smiled faintly. “Hello, Pradip. Thought I’d check in and see how things are on your side of the world.”

“Oh, you called at the perfect time! We just finished a feast for Magh Bihu. You remember how it used to be, don’t you? The bonfire, the games, the food…”

Saurabh closed his eyes, letting the memories wash over him. He could almost smell the roasted rice cakes and hear the chatter of the villagers. It had been decades since he had experienced anything like that. In New Jersey, his winters were spent in silence, the snow falling outside his window a stark contrast to the warmth of his childhood.

“How’s everyone?” Saurabh asked, his voice softer now.

“Doing well, doing well,” Pradip said cheerfully. “My youngest daughter got married last month—it was a celebration like no other! The whole village came together. Even the old tailor pitched in, sewing outfits for half the guests. And, of course, the musicians played until dawn.”

Saurabh couldn’t help but feel a pang of envy. Pradip’s life seemed so rich, so full. It wasn’t about wealth but about people—about being surrounded by those who cared, who showed up without being asked.

“You must be busy with your son,” Pradip said innocently. “How is he? Still in California?”

“Yes,” Saurabh replied, hesitating. “He’s doing well. Very busy with his start-up.”

“And what about you? How’s life there?”

Saurabh’s throat tightened. What could he say? That he spent his days fighting the silence? That he often called young Assamese families in New Jersey, hoping to feel a fraction of the connection he had once taken for granted? That even in their warmth, he felt like an outsider in their busy lives?

“It’s fine,” he said instead. “Different.”

Pradip laughed. “Different, of course. But don’t you miss the chaos? The noise? The people?”

“I do,” Saurabh admitted, surprising himself with the honesty in his voice.

“Then come visit,” Pradip said, his tone light but earnest. “We’ll sit by the river and talk about old times. You can stay as long as you like. The house is always open for you.”

Saurabh stayed silent, his heart heavy. The thought of returning to Assam filled him with a longing he hadn’t allowed himself to feel for years. It wasn’t just about nostalgia; it was about belonging. The West, for all its opportunities, had left him isolated. His success—once a source of pride—now felt hollow without someone to share it with.

“I’ll think about it,” he said softly.

“Do more than think,” Pradip replied with a laugh. “Life here isn’t going anywhere. And neither are we.”

After they hung up, Saurabh sat in the quiet of his apartment. The hum of the heater was the only sound, a stark contrast to the lively chaos Pradip had described. For years, he had convinced himself that he belonged here, in this land of opportunity and individualism. But what had it brought him in the end? A lifetime of achievements that now felt meaningless in the absence of connection.

His mind drifted to his wife. She had loved their life in New Jersey, but she had also loved Assam—the festivals, the people, the simplicity. Would she have wanted this for him? This empty apartment, this life of solitude? He didn’t think so.

For the first time in years, Saurabh allowed himself to imagine retiring in Assam. He pictured the fields, the tea stalls, the warm embraces of old friends. He thought of the bonfires and feasts, the sounds of laughter, and the knowledge that no one was ever truly alone.

As he stared out the window into the cold New Jersey night, a tear slipped down his cheek. Perhaps it wasn’t too late. Perhaps happiness wasn’t something you found but something you returned to.

He made a decision then, not with words but with his heart. Assam wasn’t just a place; it was a feeling. And it was time to go home.