By Robert Clements
Seventy-four.
That’s an age where most people are expected to be on a hammock somewhere, sipping something chilled, and trying to remember whether the grandchild’s name is Ria or Kia. That’s the time to finally learn the ukulele, a harmonica ( I always bring in a harmonica, because that’s the only instrument I play) or ruin a perfectly good canvas with acrylic paint and call it abstract art.
But no—what does our Vice President do? He resigns. From the second-most powerful post in the land. And not with drama, mind you. Not with a press conference and a weepy violin in the background. No, he simply cites “health reasons.”
Which, as we all know, is polite political language for:
“I’ve had it up to here. With stress. With strain. With trying to look unruffled while the nation spins like a headless chicken.”
Ah yes, stress—the silent saboteur of dreams, peace, and apparently, Vice Presidents.
Now stress, my dear reader, is not some fancy new virus that came with the smartphone generation. It’s been around since Eve decided to take a bite of that apple and realised she had to explain it to Adam. And later it became even more stressful as they had to explain the whole thing to God (Talk about a stressful conversation.)
But over the years, we’ve gone from fleeing stress to flirting with it. We whisper sweet nothings like:
“I’m swamped!”
“I haven’t slept in three days!”
“My therapist says I’m a ticking time bomb!”
And we say these things with pride—as though mental burnout is the new Michelin star.
Stress has become a status symbol. A bizarre badge of honour. And it doesn’t help that we’re constantly being told, “Sleep is for losers!” “Hustle harder!” “If you’re not tired, you’re not trying!”
But here’s the kicker—stress doesn’t care who you are. Yeah that’s a fact you know?
Whether you are a Vice President or vada pav vendor.
Cabinet minister or corner shop cashier.
It strikes with equal enthusiasm.
It creeps in during policy meetings and while counting cash at a roadside stall. It shows up during bedtime stories, boardroom battles, and even birthday parties. (Especially the ones with clowns.)
And it kills—quietly, politely, with a calmness that would make a ninja jealous.
It doesn’t raise its voice.
It just raises your blood pressure.
And before you know it, you’re not resigning from office—you’re resigning from life.
So, what’s the way out?
Stillness.
Now, I know what you’re thinking—“Stillness? Bob, are you suggesting I sit cross-legged on a yoga mat, chanting om while the world collapses around me?”
Well, not exactly. Unless that works for you.
Stillness, my friend, isn’t laziness dressed in meditation robes. It’s not about escaping life. It’s about entering it fully—with eyes open and soul anchored.
Stillness is like anchoring a boat.
On calm waters, the boat sways gently.
But when the wind howls and waves thrash, the anchored boat holds fast.
It doesn’t flee. It doesn’t fight. It just stays.
And that, I dare say, is strength.
We need anchors. Not caffeine. Not wine. Not binge-watching political debates where everyone’s shouting and no one’s listening.
Real anchors. Soul-anchors.
“Be still and know that I am God,” says the Psalmist.
Not “Be still and scroll Twitter.”
Not “Be still and update your LinkedIn.”
Just… be still.
And know.
Know that you’re held. Know that you’re not in charge of holding the whole world together or the nation, or the Rajya Sabha. Know that being quiet isn’t failure—sometimes it’s freedom. That taking your hand off the wheel doesn’t mean the car crashes; it might just mean you finally learn to breathe.
And while we’re at it, let’s also talk about another form of stress we seem addicted to—the kind that’s become a national habit, the one which comes from judging others.
We want peace, yes—but on our terms.
Peace with those who pray like us, look like us, talk like us.
The moment someone worships differently, votes differently, or speaks a language we don’t understand, we feel our “inner peace” is threatened.
So we call for bans or we start our bashing.
We build walls.
Enact laws.
We blame others for rocking our boat—when in truth, we were never anchored in the first place.
True stillness doesn’t need uniformity to feel safe.
It doesn’t demand silence from others to find peace for itself.
It allows chaos outside without letting it enter within.
And yes, I get it. I write too. I know the stress.
Of deadlines that gallop like wild horses.
Topics that burn like hot coal.
Opinions that rattle me as I try to phrase them gently.
But after each column, after each fight with the keyboard, I do what the Vice President should have done—I get anchored.
From stress.
From ego.
From the illusion that the world needs me to function.
I just drop anchor.
So if the Cabinet calls again—tell them Bob’s not available.
He’s too still right now.
He’s holding a cup of chai, not chaos.
He’s anchored, not ambitious.
He’s resting—not retiring.
Because sometimes, the most powerful move you can make in a world spinning madly… is to sit still.
And maybe, just maybe, you should too.
Stillness awaits.
And if the grandkids ask what you’re doing, just smile and say,
“I’m doing something Vice Presidential—I’m taking care of my health…!”
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