On my birthday, I gifted myself something I had been yearning for, not a material thing, but a space. A space to pause, reflect, and reconnect. It came in the form of a two-and-a-half-day residential retreat called Heart Intelligence, hosted by the volunteers of ServiceSpace. This time, it was held close to home, in Belapur, Navi Mumbai, in an old-age home.
Retreats like these are hard to put into words. Not because nothing happens, but because what happens is mostly internal. These are not events where you walk away with bullet points or takeaways. Something unravels. Quietly. Gently.
Beyond the Visiting Card
One of the things I value most in such spaces is that I get to re-examine who I am, beyond my ‘visiting card’ identity. There’s no need to start a conversation with “So, what do you do?”
Instead, we are invited to connect from a deeper place.
In our small group circles, the prompts weren’t about accomplishments or roles, but about what truly stirs the heart:
-
“Share an act of kindness you received that stayed with you.”
-
“Share a song or a poem that speaks to you.”
We explored questions about pain, forgiveness, death, love—questions that rarely make their way into our everyday conversations, even with those closest to us.
What Are We Taking In?
So much of life feels output-driven now. Even personal experiences are approached with the mindset of: “What can I take away from this?” But in another retreat, a participant once challenged that idea:
“Taking away is a colonised idea. Maybe the real question is, what am I taking in?”
That reframing stayed with me.
The Transaction Trap
I’ve been reflecting on how transactional many of our relationships have become—both personal and professional. We often evaluate people and situations based on how useful they are to us, how they serve our time, our image, and our goals. Trusting the process or even simply trusting people has become rare.
And I get it. Once bitten, twice shy.
I’ve experienced it too, from people I once considered “my own.”
But I’m learning to ask:
Just because it happened once (or many times), does it mean the world is like that?
When a colleague takes the limelight, do I want to react and play the same game?
Sure, I notice it. I feel it. But I don’t want to become it.
If competition and recognition were the goal, I’d miss out on the infinite possibilities available to me, possibilities for inner transformation, collaboration, and joy.
Practice, Fluidity, and Finding My Way
As I open myself to new ways of being, I’ve realised that having a practice help.
For some, it’s Vipassana. For others, it’s yoga, barefoot walks, journaling, breathwork, or engaging with a text and prompts. I often envy those who maintain disciplined routines. I wish I had one practice. But it has always been a mix of things.
AndI’ve come to see that my practice is more fluid. The epiphanies occur in unexpected moments, while cleaning, showering, cooking. Sometimes, an insight sneaks in when I least expect it.
And maybe, that’s okay.
That is my practice.
Holding On to Idealism
I’m often told I’m “too idealistic.”
And honestly? I take that as a compliment.
It keeps my hope alive.
It allows me to believe in generosity, kindness, and connection.
It wasn’t always like this.
I’ve spent years operating from fear—fear of failure, fear of making wrong choices, fear of not being enough.
That fear still shows up.
It makes me procrastinate. It clouds my decisions.
But when I view life through the lens of infinite possibilities, something loosens.
I became playful again.
And that’s where the joy lives.
A Story That Stayed With Me
During the retreat, I learnt about a cellist whose act of creative love became a symbol of resistance during war.
Here’s his story:
During the 1992 Bosnia-Herzegovina war, cellist Vedran Smailović witnessed a bombing that killed 22 civilians while they were standing in a breadline.
The next day, he returned to the site, now covered in flowers, and began to play his cello. Unplanned, instinctive.
He played Albinoni’s Adagio in G minor at the same spot for 22 days—one day for each life lost.
There were snipers on the hills. He could’ve been killed at any time. But he played on.
Source: Here
For the next two years, Vedran played in bombed-out buildings, wearing a white shirt and a black tailcoat, as if performing on a grand stage.
When asked why he was playing in the middle of a war zone, he responded:
“Why aren’t we asking the question the other way—if I am playing here, why isn’t the war stopping?”
Vedran didn’t seek the spotlight. He later moved to Ireland, where he continued composing music quietly.
He once said, “I am a Sarajevan. I am a cosmopolitan. I am a pacifist. I am nothing special. I am a musician. I am part of the town.”
His act of cultural resistance, of choosing beauty and harmony amid madness, has inspired books, songs, films, and more.
To me, that is the Creative Love and Ahimsa that Gandhi spoke about.
Why I Still Show Up
This is the essence of why I still show up for spaces like this.
Why I stay idealistic
Why I choose connection over strategy.
Why I continue to believe that even the quietest act of love
like music played during war
has the power to shift something.
Even if it’s just one heart at a time.
Share a Reflection
Your thoughts will be shared with the author