What It Really Means to Live Beautifully: Lessons on Grace, Stillness and Inner Power

My grandmother prayed in silence. There were no accompanying bells or loud chants. There was just a quiet hum that felt like it had wrapped itself around the day comfortingly, like a soft shawl. She could be in the kitchen, cooking one of her delicacies for me, or folding a sari, and just like that, she would slip into prayer—both for herself and for the world.

I think that was the first time I truly witnessed what positive energy could look like. The fact that I grew up in a home where religion wasn’t about ritual but about being a good person, made a deep impression on me. My grandparents often repeated the philosophy tu bhala toh jag bhala—if you are good, the world is good. That phrase has stayed with me throughout life and has become my quiet inner voice. Watching my grandmother move through her day with quiet intention, I learnt that presence is power. Today, when people ask me what makes someone truly fabulous, I tend to think of stillness. For me, fabulousness is about how you carry yourself, through the highs and the lows, with a certain kind of grace.

While I was growing up in Delhi in the 1980s, my world was a beautiful contradiction. On the one hand, I was surrounded by the deeply traditional values of my grandparents, who upheld the philosophy of ‘simple living, high thinking’. On the other hand, I was a child who just couldn’t sit still. If there was a song playing, I wanted to dance. If I saw a colour, I wanted to paint with it.

I studied at Modern School, Barakhamba Road, in Delhi, which took great pride in its perfect mix of Indian ethos and modern education. It was here that my first sparks of creativity were lit. We were encouraged to take up every sport, every performance, every possibility. Participation was the culture, not the exception. You got points for being involved, and while many of us began just for the points, we stayed for the passion. There was always something happening, be it sports, theatre, annual day performances or debates. That rhythm of engagement taught me early that creativity isn’t a one-time act. It cannot be anything less than a way of life.

Importantly, at school, the arts were valued. I had the opportunity to paint, to sing, to perform, and I responded with equal enthusiasm. My art teacher, Bishamber Khanna, shaped my earliest understanding of aesthetics and detail. He saw something in me and nurtured it with care. Interestingly, he also never gave me top grades. While others received straight As, I would often get a B+. It wasn’t because I was underperforming, but because he judged me by my own potential. ‘I’m not grading you against them,’ he once explained. ‘I am grading you against what you are capable of.’ That was a life lesson. I learnt early that I didn’t have to compete with anyone else.

That same theme showed up in other incidents too. I recall an instance when the school was selecting students for the diving team. The standard process was to start small—one metre, then three, five, seven point five, and eventually progress to ten. Most kids took weeks to build the courage to move up. After I had tried a few jumps from the lower boards, one day my coach called me aside. ‘Come, I want to show you the ten-metre board,’ he said. I climbed up, assuming I was just there to observe the seniors dive. The next thing I knew, he pushed me off the ten-metre board. I remember panicking in mid-air, kicking and flailing. But something changed for me in that suspended moment. I straightened my body, aligned my arms and dove straight into the water. When I finally surfaced, shocked and breathless, I asked him why he had pushed me. ‘Because you are ready,’ came his reply. ‘I didn’t want to waste weeks waiting for you to get here when I knew you could already begin.’

That was a defining moment for me. It taught me something I have carried ever since, which is that you need not wait for the perfect prep. Sometimes you have to leap and figure it out on the way.

Another precious lesson I learnt at school is that no learning is ever wasted. It was a joy that dawned on me slowly, over many years that everything I learnt, every skill I explored, every craft I dabbled in, had a purpose. Even if it didn’t reveal itself immediately, it found its way into my life at just the right time. Whether it was art, singing, cooking or simply how to hold space for someone, each bit of learning eventually wove itself into the fabric of who I am.

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