In many Indian households, rituals are not declarations of belief so much as acts of continuity. In this excerpt from Tell My Mother I Like Boys, Suvir Saran reflects on how childhood rituals, memory, and faith shape an enduring understanding of grief and belonging.

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One of the earliest memories I have, as vivid as the sunlight piercing through the crack of a drawn curtain, is of a biscuit—a simple, sweet thing that was handed to me every morning by my grandfather, Bhagat Saran Bhatnagar. It was an unspoken ritual, a silent conversation. Before accepting the biscuit, I would always touch his feet—a small act of reverence. My tiny fingers would brush against his skin, and he would respond with a smile that was both a blessing and an embrace. The biscuit would crumble in my hands, its sweetness dissolving on my tongue, a fleeting joy that lingered far longer in my memory. That biscuit was more than a treat; it was a bridge—a bond that tied us together, a rhythm that whispered, I see you, I cherish you, you belong.

That ritual, so steady and so sure, came to an abrupt halt on a day that was to cast a long shadow over my childhood. My grandfather passed away in Agra, at the shrine of his guru. He died fulfilling what he believed to be his spiritual destiny. I was five at the time—too young to comprehend the finality of his departure—yet I understood, in the way children often do, that something monumental had shifted.

When we returned to our home in South Extension, Part 2, New Delhi, the house, usually bright with life, felt suspended in a kind of breathless quiet. My grandmother, Kamla Bhatnagar—Dadi—spent long hours in her prayer room, her hands trembling as she made her offerings. This room, her sanctuary, was filled with idols of all faiths: Krishna, Saraswati, Christ and Guru Nanak. Every morning, she would wake them with hymns, bathe them with water, adorn them with sandalwood paste and offer food at their feet. These offerings, prasad, were placed in my hands with a gentle instruction: ‘Feed the birds outside. They carry our love to the heavens.’

At first, I didn’t understand what she meant. But as I scattered the grains of rice and the pieces of bread on the ground and watched the sparrows, crows and pigeons swoop down and peck at the food, pausing only to look up, their wings beating as they soared higher and higher, something stirred in me. I imagined them carrying not just food but messages, invisible letters written in prayer, from us to those we had lost. My grandmother told me that our loved ones who had departed were always watching us, blessing us from above. The birds, she said, were the carriers of our love, our gratitude, our remembrances. ‘They take what we offer with humility, without ego, and return it to the heavens,’ she would say.

It was a rich metaphor, one that stayed with me for a long time. The act of feeding birds was not just about them. It was a way of understanding the cyclical nature of life, the seamless transition between the ephemeral and the eternal. It was about recognizing that life does not end with death; it transforms, continues, finds new forms. As I watched the birds lift into the sky, their wings glinting in the sunlight, I felt a strange kind of peace.

Years later, this memory would return to me in Bombay, when I lost a close friend to a car accident. She was young, full of life, her laughter still echoing in my ears when the news reached me. The world around me seemed to collapse in grief, but I couldn’t mourn her passing the way others did. I saw her not as gone but as living beyond that moment of impact. I imagined her soaring, like those birds I had fed as a child, lifted by the invisible threads of love and memory. Her passing did not feel like an end; it felt like the opening of a door.

In New York, I lost many more friends—friends who had shared their dreams with me, whose lives were cut short by cruel circumstances. Each loss could have broken me, but instead, they gave me strength. I became, as my mother had once been, a steady presence for others. I stepped into the spaces where grief lived, organizing, connecting, holding others while they broke. I had learnt, through those rituals of my childhood, to see death not as a void but as a continuation. Those who had departed were not gone; they lived on in the memories they left behind, in the movements they had begun, in the love they had shared.

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What happens when you spend years making decisions without knowing what truly drives you? In this excerpt from Pursuit of Purpose, Jordan Tarver examines the emotional cost of living without purpose and introduces a framework for rediscovering meaning, direction, and fulfilment.

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Trusting the direction of your life when you have no defined purpose is like trusting a compass when there is no magnetic field. In both instances, the results will waver. You may think you’re going in the right direction and making the right decisions only to find out years later that the path you’ve been walking took you away from the true essence of your being. Therefore, it’s in your best interests to dive deeply into your inner world and discover your purpose so you can live the life you desire. Otherwise, expect to continue suffering from the blocks and frustrations that hold you back.

You may feel unworthy, frustrated, unhappy, lost, and uninspired about life, all of which make you feel stuck. You have an inner knowing that you want to do something different, find a new path, or break old limiting patterns, but no matter how hard you try, you just can’t seem to find a way around the mental wall that traps you. Some days you may feel like the only solution is to give in to tears of frustration. I’ve been right where you are—living in a realm of complex confusion—so please know I understand. This is why I am devoted to helping you embark on a path in a new direction.

Unfortunately, feeling stuck is likely not the only struggle you’re experiencing on your journey. You may also lack clarity and a sense of direction. Without either of these, you may feel like you don’t know what you want or who you are as a person. This causes life to happen to you, not for you.

The tough part about not knowing what to do with your life or who you are as a person is the absence of fulfilment—feeling happiness and satisfaction. It’s not that you’re unaware that life isn’t making you feel fulfilled, it’s that you don’t know what makes you feel fulfilled. The actions you choose to take aren’t truly aligned with your authentic self nor do they align with the person you want to become.

Not only do each of these feelings play individual roles in your life, but they also feed into how meaningful your life feels, or doesn’t feel. If your life lacks meaning, it’s common to feel uninspired to get out of bed in the morning, be optimistic about your future, or experience joy. The goal is to turn the lack of meaning in your life into a never-ending reservoir full of meaning. When you live a meaningful life, you’re supported by a purpose that ignites clarity and direction, which leads toward the light at the end of the tunnel – your fulfilment.

While you may be experiencing a somewhat lackluster life right now, those feelings don’t have to define your entire existence. It’s always in your power to make small incremental changes that shift the direction of your life. You may be reading this book because you’ve had enough of your wavering life path that leaves you feeling empty, and you’re ready to write your next chapter— one defined by purpose, meaning, and a life you will genuinely cherish.

Your life purpose is not what most people think it is. It is not your job title or occupation. Your purpose is your personal mission statement. It is your “why”— the reason you do something. Your life’s purpose becomes a grounded reminder of why you were born and how to serve those around you, giving you crystal clear direction.

Your purpose is not stagnant, it is ever-evolving. It’s typically relevant to the current stage of your life. For instance, your purpose at ages 21, 35, 55, and 75 may be different because your purpose changes as you grow as an individual. Understanding this now will help you become more open to change in your purpose as it presents itself. Resisting change and instead marrying yourself to one purpose for your entire life holds you back from reaching your full potential.

In the simplest form, the purpose of life is to experience life while serving others and representing your core values—what you believe is most important to you—which you will read about in phase two of this book. Living with purpose also comes from living in alignment with your life purpose statement and using it to guide your decisions and actions. You will learn about your life purpose statement in phase four and then develop it in the workbook.

We should clear something up: Although a large part of our society uses purpose and passion interchangeably, they are not interchangeable. While your purpose is the reason you do something, your passions are the activities and hobbies that make you feel fulfilled.

Think of it this way, your passions are the vehicle that gets you from point A to point B, and your purpose is the gas that motivates you to keep moving forward. For example, my purpose is not writing; writing is one of my passions. My purpose is to heal people through my creativity. This is the reason behind why I write—the gas that moves my vehicle (writing) forward.

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