The art of staying afloat

Thirukkural with the Times explores real-world lessons from the classic Tamil text ‘Thirukkural’. Written by Tamil poet and philosopher Thiruvalluvar, the Kural consists of 1,330 short couplets of seven words each. This text is divided into three books with teachings on virtue, wealth, and love and is considered one of the great works ever on ethics and morality. The Kural has influenced scholars and leaders across social, political, and philosophical spheres.Motivational speaker, author and diversity champion Bharathi Bhaskar explores the masterpiece.That morning, I was still jet lagged; sleep had not yet chosen its continent. The phone rang.It was Priya—my schoolmate, gentle by temperament and scrupulous about never calling at unearthly hours. Her mother was once our beloved botany teacher, Miss Vathsala.I answered at once. Priya sounded relieved. “Amma was sobbing and very disturbed,” she said. “At her age, it is difficult to explain social media. She believes everything; thank you for picking up.”I was puzzled. Perhaps she had come across the news of a snowstorm. But then a series of calls began; polite voices, careful tones: ‘Are you alright?’ ‘We heard’, ‘We were worried’.Then Mallika Akka called from our ancestral village. As soon as she heard my voice, she burst out in relief, “Muruga! I will take paal kavadi for you!” Then anger rose. In a rolling Thirunelveli cadence she cursed the unseen wrongdoer; ‘may scorpions rain on his head’, ‘may his house be full of mud’.It landed like a thunderbolt. Somewhere, for the sake of YouTube video views, a malicious YouTuber had released a video announcing my death. He spoke about my various achievements and then went on to show photographs of various VIPs ‘visiting’ my house.The rest of the day was spent on reassurance—answering calls, calming relatives, explaining repeatedly that I was alright, lodging a cybercrime complaint.Suddenly I was in the same boat as the legendary Mark Twain. In 1897, a newspaper prematurely reported his death and even carried a moving account of his life. Twain responded with his immortal wit: “Reports of my death are greatly exaggerated.”That evening, I called Miss Vathsala again—this time understanding her distress of the previous day. She spoke softly, as though the world had grown harsher.“It must be a very tough life out there,” she said. “I don’t know how you manage.”I smiled. “Miss, you taught us how to.”She thought I was offering courtesy. But I meant it literally. “Every water flower does this,” I said. “It must keep itself above the water level or it will perish. The depth of the pond may rise or fall. But the flower adjusts the length of its stalk to the depth of the water; it’s a classic example of plasticity in plant morphology.The lesson she had once explained returned now as life’s algorithm. A lotus rooted in mud does not argue with the pond. It grows with just enough zeal to remain in light.Miss Vathsala fell silent for a moment, then laughed. Her subject had moved beyond the classroom and entered life. Botany, after all, was never only about plants.Centuries earlier, another keen observer of flora and fauna had observed the same truth. In Kural 595, Thiruvalluvar writes:Vellath Thanaya Malarneettam; MaandharthamUllath Thanayadhu UyarvuAs the water flowers shoots up to the surface of water,Man is hoisted to the level of his zealThe depth of the water—like circumstances—lies beyond command. But the inward reach, the will to rise, determines whether we bloom or drown.That day’s false rumour was not mine to choose. But something else was – the decision to stay above the waterline of fear, to return by evening to equilibrium.Zeal is that silent struggle under water, not known or seen outside. Depths may increase; shadows may gather. Still, the flower remembers the sun—and because it remembers, it rises.