(The forthcoming book: From the Principal’s Desk – A Journey of Lessons)
Dr Arun Prakash
The room heater hummed softly, filling the small living room with warmth. Outside, the wind tapped against the windows, slipping through a tiny gap near the sill. The night was quiet, but inside, something stirred—something unspoken, something shifting.
Grandfather sat in his worn-out armchair, his shawl draped over his shoulders, his hands resting on the armrests. He wasn’t reading. He wasn’t watching television. He was simply watching. Watching the boy sprawled on the couch, fingers moving in quick, effortless taps on his tablet. Swiping, scrolling, tapping. His eyes flickered with the glow of the screen, lost in another world, yet somehow still aware of everything happening around him.
Grandfather sighed. “Let me tell you a story,” he said, his voice calm but firm.
The boy didn’t look up. “Yeah, I’m listening,” he muttered, fingers still busy, his response polite but mechanical.
Grandfather smiled. “Are you?”
The boy smirked but didn’t pause. “Of course, Dadaji. Go on.”
The old man settled into his chair, exhaling slowly. His voice lowered, softened, took on the weight of years and wisdom.
“Once, there was a king,” he began. “A great king. The most powerful ruler of his time. He had everything—wealth, knowledge, an army that followed his every command. And then, one day, he was given a magical machine.”
The boy, still glued to his game, responded almost instantly. “Like an AI assistant?”
Grandfather chuckled. “Something like that. This machine was unlike anything else. It could answer any question, solve any problem, even predict the future. There was nothing it didn’t know. The king no longer had to think. No longer needed his advisors. No longer needed books. The machine did it all for him.”
The boy, still staring at his screen, shrugged. “That sounds amazing.”
“That’s what the king thought too,” Grandfather said. “At first. But then something changed. Slowly, he stopped thinking for himself. Why bother remembering anything when the machine could recall it instantly? Why struggle with problems when the machine had all the answers? Why reflect on decisions when the machine could make them faster than he ever could?”
The boy’s fingers slowed, his focus shifting slightly. “So… he became dependent on it?”
“More than that,” Grandfather said, his voice turning softer, heavier. “He became… distracted. His mind wandered. He would start a thought but never finish it because the machine always had something new to offer. His focus flickered like a weak candle in the wind. And then, one day…”
The boy’s hands stilled. “What happened?”
Grandfather’s eyes darkened slightly. His voice dropped to a whisper.
“One day, the machine failed. It stopped working. And the king realized he no longer knew how to think. He had all the knowledge in the world… yet he was the most helpless man in his kingdom.”
The room fell into silence. The heater still hummed, the wind still whispered outside, but inside, the boy sat still. His fingers hovered over the screen. Then, slowly, he looked up and met his grandfather’s gaze.
“That’s kind of scary,” he admitted.
Grandfather nodded. “It is. Because it’s happening all around us.”
The boy swallowed. He glanced at his tablet, then back at his grandfather. He didn’t say anything. Just pressed the power button, locking the screen. He didn’t put it away completely, but he set it aside.
Grandfather smiled—not because the boy had turned off the tablet, but because, for the first time that evening, he was fully present.
The Slow Disappearance of Values
Losing values isn’t like flipping a switch. It doesn’t happen all at once. There’s no alarm, no sirens, no grand moment where we realize something has changed. It happens quietly, in the spaces between things.
A child stops saying thank you because no one reminds them.
A student copies an assignment because everyone does it.
A family sits together at dinner, but no one speaks—everyone is scrolling.
A society stops valuing patience because everything is instant.
Nothing looks broken at first. Life keeps moving. But something underneath is shifting.
We treat values like decorations—nice to have, but not essential. But what if they aren’t just moral lessons? What if they are the invisible threads holding everything together?
Think about it.
What happens to a world where honesty is optional, loyalty is weak, patience is irrelevant, and responsibility is outdated?
It sounds extreme. But is it?
Look around.
We live in a world where fake news spreads faster than truth.
Where instant pleasure outweighs real happiness.
Where people have more friends than ever, yet feel lonelier than ever.
Where knowledge is abundant, but wisdom is rare.
This isn’t just a social problem. It’s a psychological one.
When we strip away values in favor of technology and convenience, what happens to the human mind? To relationships? To identity?
The Fragile Mind
A muscle that is never used becomes weak. A skill that is never practiced is forgotten.
The mind is no different.
Patience, discipline, resilience—these aren’t just virtues. They’re mental muscles that need to be worked. When they aren’t, the mind becomes fragile. It shatters under pressure. It avoids discomfort. It refuses to struggle.
And when struggle is gone, so is growth.
Technology has made life easier, but it has also made us weaker.
In a world where everything is instant, frustration feels unbearable.
In a world where everything is personalized, compromise feels unnecessary.
In a world where everything is entertaining, boredom feels like suffering.
But boredom is where creativity is born.
Struggle is where strength is built.
Discomfort is where real growth happens.
Take these away, and we are left with a generation that is entertained but unfulfilled, connected but lonely, intelligent but lost.
The boy sat in silence, his fingers still brushing the edge of his tablet. The heater hummed on, but something had shifted.
“Dadaji,” he said after a moment, his voice quieter now, “do you think I’ll ever forget how to think?”
Grandfather’s lips curved into a smile, not amused, but understanding. “Not if you make sure to keep thinking.”
The boy frowned. “But I use my brain all the time. I play strategy games, I watch videos to learn things… that’s not bad, right?”
Grandfather nodded. “It’s not bad at all. But tell me something—when was the last time you sat with a problem, without looking for an answer on the internet?”
The boy opened his mouth, then hesitated. “I don’t know,” he admitted.
Grandfather leaned forward. “The king in my story wasn’t foolish because he had a machine. He became foolish because he stopped using his own mind. Technology isn’t the enemy, beta. But it’s like a crutch—use it too much, and you forget how to walk on your own.”
The boy nodded slowly, as if the words were sinking in. “So, what do I do?”
A soft chuckle escaped the old man. “Start small,” he said. “Read something without checking your phone every few minutes. Sit in silence sometimes. Finish a thought before jumping to another one. And most importantly—don’t let a screen replace the world in front of you.”
The boy picked up his tablet, but this time, he didn’t turn it on. He set it on the table beside him and curled up on the couch.
“Tell me another story,” he said.
Grandfather pulled his shawl closer, settled deeper into his chair, and smiled.
And as the wind howled outside and the heater hummed on, he began another tale—not from a screen, not from a machine, but from the heart of a man who knew that real wisdom lives in stories passed down from one generation to the next.
Next: Discipline vs. Punishment: Understanding the Difference