I started a new journey with a seed cupped gently in my palm-             
an intention, not yet named, only felt,              
a whisper in the soil of self,              
longing to root, to rise, to rest.

A space where hibiscus opens like a song at sunrise,                
the Banyan stands not just as a tree,                 
but as an elder, holding the sky.                 
Everything alive, everything teaching.

Coming from the city of Mumbai, while ‘running through life’ may not be genetically coded into my DNA, I was nurtured by the city to embrace the fastest pace possible. Whether it was walking on the street, catching a local train or speaking in a meeting, pausing was never an option. And there was a thrill to it, much like an addiction. But it sure was exhausting too.

The walls of the Bhoomi buildings on the campus are pleasant to look at. The muddy brown color, with moving shadows of leaves falling on the walls, makes them look like they are one with the soil and the surroundings.

My school diary is filled with botanical pressings, a habit that caught the attention of my students one day. Their curiosity led to a session on creating botanical presses. However, many of them shared a common challenge: they did not have trees at home to explore or collect from. 

This made me wonder what a truly immersive nature experience would feel like to a child living in a semi-urban setting, especially one whose family cannot afford vacations in the wild. Often, I find myself drifting away in a sea of questions:

Almost a year and a half ago, when I first came to Dantewada (South Bastar, Chhattisgarh) in 2023, my mind was in a state of turmoil. It's not that the turmoil has completely ended now, but it was much more intense back then. While I enjoyed looking at trees, plants, and birds, I didn't feel a deep connection. It wasn't like my gaze would linger on them.

A striking opportunity came my way recently! Tentgram, an outdoor recreational center, featured me in its three-day yoga retreat program. Since the confirmation of the event, my excitement had been at its peak—not just because of the nature walk I was to lead but also because of its location: Munnar!

This is the termite mound in front of the Bhoomi office. If you have visited our Bhoomi campus, this towering 6-foot natural structure is something you definitely wouldn’t miss. The sheer magnificence sparks curiosity—after all, how often do you see a termite mound thriving in a space where humans coexist?

The space outside the Bhoomi office is always in a state of flux. Leaves flutter down, flowers bloom and wither, spiders spin delicate webs, and caterpillars munch away at the plants. Yet, amid all this constant change, there’s one thing that remains: the ants. Their trails may shift, weaving new paths around the building, but they are always there. Their presence is unmistakable, a line of life bustling across the pathways, industrious and unwavering.

For the longest time, I’ve felt that art is just about everywhere and not only in the things we create. I even see human beings as a form of art. Well, that’s just me! In my thoughts and conversations with others, I’ve noticed that we have a lens that differentiates between art and nature. It doesn’t sink in for me that there’s much of a difference between the two. To understand this concept better, I did some digging of my own and found the following: