Dear Sister - You are More Than a Memory

 Today, a quiet but heavy realization hit me.

My sister passed away in 1996. I was blessed to have her in my life for 29 years, but as of this year, I have now lived without her for 30. For the very first time, the years of missing her outnumber the years we shared.

Yet, numbers lie. The math of grief doesn't match the math of the heart.

Even after three decades, I still feel her so vividly around me. I can still hear her laughter, picture her innocence, and honestly, even recall her quick anger. Her emotions were always on the extremes—there was no middle ground with her—and that raw, unfiltered authenticity is exactly what endeared her to absolutely everyone.

It made me think about how weird and beautiful human connection is. If you love deeply enough, a person you haven't seen in 30 years can remain fiercely alive, loved, and close to your heart. Meanwhile, if you fall out of love or a relationship sours, you could be living under the exact same roof with someone and constantly forget their presence altogether. Physical proximity means nothing; love is the only thing that anchors someone to your life.

Time keeps moving, but love stays completely still.

Miss you, my dear sister... Your memories are, and will always be, my greatest treasure. ✨❤️

I Need Approval as Much as a Crow Needs a Car

 

There was a time when I cared far too much about what people thought. Not because they were wiser, or because they knew me better than I knew myself, but because, like many women of my generation, I was raised to believe that approval mattered. Approval from family. Approval from relatives. Approval from society. Approval of teachers. Approval from complete strangers who somehow felt qualified to comment on how I should live my life.

Then life happened.

Cancer happened.

Motherhood happened.

Challenges happened.

And somewhere along the way, I realised something important: the people who had opinions about my life were rarely the ones living it.

After cancer, I slowly began rebuilding myself. Not with grand declarations or dramatic transformations, but through small acts of courage that accumulated over time. I started making choices based on what felt right to me rather than what looked acceptable to everyone else.

I began wearing clothes because I liked them. Not because they fit somebody else's expectations of how a woman my age should dress. It sounds simple, doesn't it? Yet many women spend years dressing for approval rather than comfort, confidence, or joy.

Then I started earning my own money. Not because I wanted to prove anything to anyone, but because earning gave me something precious—a stronger voice in my own life. Financial independence didn't just change my bank balance; it changed the way I saw myself. It gave me choices. And choices are a form of freedom.

I started travelling alone when necessary. I made decisions without consulting a committee of critics. I stopped seeking permission for things that required only my own consent. The world didn't collapse. The sky didn't fall. The neighbours survived.

In fact, life became lighter.

Some people approved. Some didn't. And that's when I discovered one of adulthood's best-kept secrets: other people's approval is optional. Helpful sometimes. Necessary almost never.

Think about a crow for a moment.

If you offered a crow the keys to a luxury car, what would happen? Absolutely nothing. The crow wouldn't be impressed. It wouldn't suddenly feel more successful. It wouldn't compare itself to other crows. It would simply fly away and continue being a crow because the car has no value in its world.

These days, that's how I feel about unnecessary approval.

If advice comes from people who genuinely care about me, I'll listen. If criticism helps me grow, I'll consider it. But random judgement, unsolicited opinions, and endless commentary about how women should dress, earn, travel, age, or dream? No, thank you.

Life has taught me that there is a difference between seeking guidance and seeking validation. Guidance can help us grow. Validation can become a cage if we depend on it too much.

I spent too many years worrying about fitting into someone else's idea of who I should be. These days, I am far more interested in becoming who I am.

The older I get, the more freedom I feel. Not because life has become easier, but because I have stopped handing other people the power to decide whether my choices are acceptable.

So wear the outfit.

Take the trip.

Learn the skill.

Earn the money.

Change direction.

Start over if you need to.

The people who disapprove will think about it for a few minutes. You will live with the consequences—or the rewards—for years.

Choose the life that feels right to you.

After all, a crow doesn't need a car.

And neither you, nor I, nor anyone else needs everyone's approval to live life fully.

— Farida

All Things Cannot Be Fixed... Some Need Healing

 When something breaks, our first instinct is to fix it. A broken chair can be repaired. A broken appliance can be replaced. But life doesn't always work that way. Some things cannot be fixed. They need healing.

It took me many years to understand the difference. There were relationships that did not become what I hoped they would be. There were words spoken that could never be taken back. There were disappointments that quietly chipped away at my confidence. There were decisions—some mine, some made for me—that changed the direction of my life forever. For a long time, I kept trying to fix everything. I wanted people to change. I wanted circumstances to improve. I wanted life to become fair. I wanted the pain to disappear. But healing taught me that not everything is meant to be fixed. Sometimes the relationship doesn't return to what it once was. Sometimes the apology never comes. Sometimes life takes away the future you had carefully planned. And sometimes, you have no choice but to stop trying to repair the past and start healing yourself instead.

One of my greatest teachers in this journey was my daughter. Raising a child with special needs was not something I had prepared for. Like many parents, I began with expectations about how life would unfold. Life had different plans. There were challenges I could not fix, struggles I could not make disappear, and days filled with worry, exhaustion, guilt, and uncertainty. Slowly, I learned that my role was not to fix everything. My role was to love, support, adapt, and grow. In that process, I discovered that healing often begins when we stop fighting reality and start embracing it.

Then cancer arrived. At 29, I was diagnosed with Stage 3 breast cancer. Once again, life presented me with something I could not simply fix. The surgery could remove a tumour. The treatment could fight the disease. But neither could instantly heal the fear, the grief, the loss of confidence, or the emotional scars that followed. Those things required patience, time, and compassion toward myself. For years, I believed strength meant pushing through pain. Today, I think strength is something gentler. Strength is allowing yourself to heal. It is understanding that healing is not forgetting what happened; it is learning how to carry what happened without letting it carry you.

Looking back, I realise I did not fix my life—I healed it. Piece by piece. I healed from disappointments, fear, self-doubt, and the belief that my worth depended on other people's approval. As I healed, something unexpected happened. Joy returned. Confidence returned. Purpose returned. Not because life became perfect, but because I stopped waiting for perfection before allowing myself to live.

Today, when I look at the woman I have become, I do not see someone whose life was fixed. I see someone who healed. Someone who learned that broken things can still be beautiful. Someone who discovered that scars do not make us weaker—they remind us of how much we survived.

Because all things cannot be fixed. Some need healing.

— Farida ❤️

I Couldn’t Stop the Rain, So I Held an Umbrella!

Cancer did not arrive alone. It came carrying fear, pain, exhaustion, and responsibilities that did not pause simply because I was sick. At 29, after my mastectomy, I still had a special needs child who needed me every single day. There were no breaks from motherhood. No pause button for caregiving. My body was weak, stitched together physically and emotionally, yet life still expected me to show up—and I did.

Some days, even lifting my arm felt painful. Yet I had to lift a child, comfort a child, care for a child. I often wondered how a body that hurt so much was still expected to carry so much love.

Then came the financial struggles. Cancer is expensive. Survival is expensive. And when you are already emotionally exhausted, financial uncertainty quietly eats away at your dignity too. There were moments I felt guilty—not because I was weak, but because illness made me feel like a burden. That guilt hurt almost as much as the surgery itself.

And then there was loneliness—the kind that exists even when people are physically around you. One of the deepest wounds during that time came from feeling emotionally unsupported by the person I expected would stand beside me through it all. Fear changes people. Sometimes it makes them kinder. Sometimes it makes them distant. There were moments when even simple human closeness disappeared because of irrational fears that illness could somehow “spread.” Imagine surviving cancer while also carrying the pain of feeling untouchable. But perhaps that is also where my transformation began.

Because slowly, I realised something important: if life was going to continue being difficult, then I had to become stronger than the difficulty itself.

I could not stop the rain.

I could not stop cancer from entering my life. I could not stop financial hardship. I could not stop disappointment. I could not stop exhaustion.

But I could hold an umbrella.

So I learned. I learned how to survive one difficult day at a time. How to mother through pain. How to smile through uncertainty. How to rebuild myself emotionally, financially, and spiritually.

And over time, something extraordinary happened.

The woman who once felt helpless became the woman others leaned on. I stopped seeing myself as broken. I started seeing myself as capable.

Today, when people see strength in me, they see the laughter, the confidence, the humour, and the resilience. But what they don’t always see is the woman walking through the storm carrying children in one hand and holding her umbrella with the other.

And maybe that is what courage truly looks like—not someone untouched by pain, but someone who keeps walking anyway. ❤️

Not Just Surviving — Soaring

 Cancer forced me to discover parts of myself I never knew existed.At first, I was simply trying to survive—trying to care for my special needs daughter while fighting for my own life at the same time. There were days I felt broken by fear, responsibility, exhaustion, and uncertainty.But somewhere along the journey from the nest to the sky, something changed.I stopped waiting for someone else to rescue me.The woman who once quietly depended on others slowly became the woman others depended on.As I learned to fly, I wasn’t flying alone—I was carrying my children with me.

Every small step I took toward strength became a safer ground for them to stand on. Every time I rebuilt myself, I was also building security, stability, and hope for my family.And over time, the same woman who once questioned her own strength began helping other women discover theirs.I found myself encouraging women to study again, work again, believe in themselves again. To stop shrinking their dreams. To stop believing they must remain trapped in unhappy nests simply because they had forgotten they were born with wings too.

My preschool became more than a workplace—it became a space built on compassion, inclusion, independence, and acceptance. A place where children felt seen, and where mothers often left feeling a little stronger too.Looking back now, I realise something beautiful:

Cancer did not merely teach me how to survive.

It taught me how to rise.

And once I discovered my wings, I spent the rest of my life helping others believe in theirs. 

Die or Dye? The Confusion That Motivated Me!

 There’s an old story about a group of frogs climbing a tall tower in the middle of a forest. Apparently, frogs are very ambitious creatures. As the frogs began climbing, crowds gathered below to watch. But instead of cheering, the audience behaved exactly like social media comment sections in human form.

“You’ll never make it!”
“That tower is impossible!”
“Turn back before you fall!”

One by one, the frogs started listening. Some fell down and died. Some got injured. And one by one, they gave up. Except for one little frog. This frog kept climbing. No matter how loud the crowd became, no matter how impossible the climb looked, the frog just kept going. Slowly. Steadily. Determined. And finally… against all odds… it reached the top. The other frogs were shocked. 

“How did you do it?” they asked. 

That’s when they discovered the truth:

The frog was deaf. 

It had no idea everyone was discouraging it. The poor thing thought they were cheering. 😄

Honestly, I think I may have been that frog.When I was diagnosed with Stage 3 breast cancer at 29, people suddenly became experts on my future.

Some spoke in whispers.
Some spoke in statistics.
Some spoke in sympathy so dramatic you’d think they were auditioning for a tragic television serial.

And then there were the people who discussed death right in front of me.

“Oh, even people with the best treatment don’t survive cancer sometimes…”
“I knew someone who had exactly this…”
“It’s very difficult…”

Thank you, motivational committee. ❤️

But somewhere between chemotherapy, surgeries, fear, and survival mode, I think my brain accidentally became selective in what it heard. Because while people kept saying “die, die,” I apparently heard “dye, dye.” 💇‍♀️

So I carried on.

Then chemotherapy took away every strand of my hair.

And I remember looking at my bald head thinking,
“Well… this is awkward. How exactly am I supposed to dye THIS?” 😄

But life, thankfully, had other plans. The hair came back. Dark. Thick. Completely black. Of course it did—I was only 29. So I made a decision. I would wait. One day, when life gave me grey hair, I would dye it. And that became my tiny, silly, secret promise to myself:

Live long enough to complain about grey hair.

Years passed.

I survived.

But more importantly, I lived.Somewhere along the way, I stopped merely surviving cancer and started fully living life.

And one day, many years later, I stood in front of a mirror with hair dye in my hand and realised something beautiful:

I had become the deaf frog.

The world may have expected me to stop climbing long ago.

But I kept going because somewhere deep inside, I chose hope over noise. I did not stop after reaching the tower. 

I studied further.
I worked and built a career.
I rebuilt my confidence.
I became emotionally and financially independent.
I started a preschool filled with children, laughter, noise, crayons, chaos, and joy.

And moreover, just like that frog reaching the top of the tower…I lived long enough to dye my hair. ❤️

Cancer at 29. Driving license at 59!

 

Cancer at 29. Driving license at 59.

That says a lot about life.

At 29, I was fighting Stage 3 breast cancer, sitting in hospital corridors wondering if I would even have a future. People spoke about cancer like it was the end. Some even spoke right in front of me about those who had “everything” and still didn’t survive.But somewhere deep inside, I decided cancer may visit my life… but it would never own it.

So I kept going.

I studied again.
I worked.

I rebuilt myself.
I learned to put myself on my own priority list for the very first time.

And at 59, I finally got my driving license, sat behind the wheel of my Windsor, and drove into a life I once thought I might never get to live.

Life tried to stop me at 29.
I hit the accelerator at 59. ❤️

The Day That Changed Everything.

 28th April. The Day That Changed Everything.

30 years ago, on this very day in 1996, I walked into an operation theatre… not knowing what my life would look like on the other side. I woke up that morning with two breasts… and went back to bed with one— losing a part of my body to cancer at just 29.There are some days that divide your life forever. This was mine. Before that morning, I believed life would go on as planned.
After that morning, I understood how fragile, unpredictable—and incredibly precious—life really is. I won’t pretend I was fearless.
I was afraid. Afraid of the pain. Afraid of the unknown. Afraid of whether I would even have a future to return to. But I walked in anyway. Because sometimes courage doesn’t look like strength. Sometimes it simply looks like taking the next step… even when you’re terrified. That surgery didn’t just remove a tumour. It removed the illusion that I had all the time in the world. And in its place, it gave me something far more powerful— a second chance at life. A chance I didn’t waste. Over the years, I didn’t just survive… I rebuilt. I grew.
And today marks something deeply meaningful— from this day onward, I will have spent more years after my diagnosis than before it. Life after that day was never the same. But here’s the truth no one tells you—It got better.
So today, I don’t look back at 28th April with fear. I look at it with gratitude. Because that was the day my life didn’t end… It began again. And 30 years later, I’m still here. Still living. Still choosing joy. Still proving that this story was never cancer’s to write. It was always mine. ❤️
#30YearsStrong #CancerSurvivor #BreastCancerSurvivor #LifeAfterCancer #CancerWarrior
#StrongerThanCancer #SurvivorStory

30 Years Later… And Cancer Still Regrets Choosing Me

 This 28th April, I celebrate 30 years of outliving Stage 3 breast cancer.

Or as I like to say—30 years of cancer regretting its life choices.

I often think back to that version of me… standing at the edge of fear, staring into the unknown.
Back then, cancer felt like a full stop.
A word that silenced rooms.
A diagnosis that made people look at me differently—sometimes with pity, sometimes with quiet doubt.And sometimes, not so quietly.

I heard the whispers.

I heard people speak—right in front of me—about how even those who could afford the best treatment didn’t survive.
As if my story had already been written.
As if the ending was decided.

But what they didn’t see… was the battle within.

The long, exhausting days.
The nights filled with questions.
The moments where strength didn’t feel heroic—it felt like survival in its rawest form.
The times I had to dig deep… deeper than I ever had before… just to find one more reason, one more ounce of strength to keep going.

And somewhere in that fight, something shifted.

I stopped just trying to survive… and slowly started choosing to live.

That’s the thing about struggles like this—
they don’t just test you, they transform you.

Life after cancer was never the same.
But not in the way people feared.

It became fuller.
More intentional.
More honest.

I began to laugh a little louder—because I knew what silence felt like.
I loved a little deeper—because I understood how fragile time can be.
I started living more consciously—because every single day felt like a gift I had fought hard for.

Cancer tried to take away my life.
Instead, it gave me a new way to live it.

So when I say I’ve spent 30 years outliving cancer, I don’t just mean time.
I mean reclaiming joy.
I mean rediscovering purpose.
I mean standing tall, stomping on every doubt, every fear—just like that little crab beneath my feet—and saying, “I’m still here.”

And if you are in the middle of your own battle right now—whatever it may be—
please remember this:

This is not the end of your story.

Hold on.
Even when it’s hard.
Even when it feels unfair.
Even when others have already made up their minds about how your story should go.

Because there is a beautiful life waiting for you on the other side of this.

Stronger.
Deeper.
More meaningful than you can imagine right now.

Trust me…
I’ve been living it for 30 years. ❤️

NIPUN BHARAT Numeracy Roadmap

An interactive guide to the Foundational Numeracy goals from Balvatika to Grade 3, as outlined in the NIPUN BHARAT mission. Explore the key competencies and their progression across different grades.

Grades at a Glance

Select a grade to see the detailed learning outcomes.

Key Learning Outcomes: Select a Grade

Click on a grade from the left to view its learning outcomes here.

Progress and Complexity

This chart shows the number of key learning competencies to be achieved at each grade level, providing a visual overview of the curriculum's progression.

Skill Progression Tree

Click on any learning outcome to see its connection to other skills. This interactive tree shows the prerequisites and where this skill leads in the learning journey.

Please select a learning outcome from the list above to view its progression.