The Screen and the Self: A Lesson for One, a Reminder for All

-Rajeeva Nayan Pathak

It was one of those afternoons that seemed stitched together with the rhythm of rain. The sky had been heavy since morning, the kind of grey that feels like it has a story to tell but prefers to speak slowly. The drizzle had grown into a steady downpour by lunchtime. The school grounds, freshly washed by the clouds, had taken on a deep green—like a new carpet laid out by nature herself. Raindrops danced on the leaves, and the air carried that unmistakable fragrance of wet earth, a smell that can bring even the most distracted mind back to the present moment.

Inside the building, the corridors felt quieter than usual. There was no rush of feet, no bursts of laughter bouncing off the walls. The sound of rain against the tin shed roof above the cycle stand was like a steady drumbeat, keeping time for the afternoon.

I decided to take a slow walk to the library. In a school, a library in the rain is a special place—it gathers both the sound of pages turning and the sound of raindrops falling. I stepped in and was greeted by the soft murmur of students at the tables, some writing notes, some bent over their books. The librarian looked up briefly, smiled, and returned to stamping a stack of returns.

That’s when I noticed him.

Rohan.

He was in the far corner, half-hidden behind a shelf. His body leaned over a thick book, but something about his posture didn’t speak of curiosity or concentration. His left hand supported his head, his elbow pressing into the table, while his right hand idly turned the pages without actually reading them. His eyes weren’t moving across the lines—they were fixed somewhere in the middle of the page, but not on the words.

In that moment, I could sense it—he wasn’t really here. His mind was wandering in some other world.

I walked up to him slowly and pulled out the chair next to his. He looked up instantly, surprised. His face had that look people wear when they’re caught doing something they shouldn’t—not fear, not guilt exactly, but a mild shock.

“Lost in a story?” I asked lightly, keeping my voice casual.

He gave a small smile, but it was a hesitant one, like a curtain half-pulled. There was a silence between us, the kind where you can almost hear thoughts forming. I didn’t press him. I’ve learned over the years that some silences are invitations—they give the other person space to walk in with their truth.

After a while, he sighed and spoke. “Sir… at home, I’ve been spending too much time on those OTT shows. I start with one episode… thinking I’ll stop. But then it’s two, three, sometimes five. Before I know it, it’s past midnight. I feel guilty the next morning, but somehow I just… keep going.”

His voice carried a mix of frustration and helplessness. There was no trace of arrogance or defiance—only the quiet admission of someone who had realised they were slipping but hadn’t yet found a way to climb back.

I nodded slowly. “And the homework?”

He looked down. “I do it… but not as well as before.”

“And sleep?”

“Less.”

“And energy?”

He shrugged. That shrug said enough.

I leaned back in my chair and let the moment breathe. Then I said, “Rohan, let me tell you a story. Not from Netflix, not from any OTT platform—but from our own treasure chest of wisdom.”

The rain outside seemed to hush a little, as though it wanted to listen too.

“In the Katha Upanishad,” I began, “there was a boy named Nachiketa. He was young, curious, and unafraid of difficult questions. One day, through a strange twist of events, he found himself before Yama—the Lord of Death. Instead of fear, Nachiketa felt a deep hunger to understand the truth of life and death. And so he asked Yama to teach him.”

I could see Rohan’s eyes sharpening a little—stories have that effect.

“Yama told him that our body is like a chariot. The senses are the horses—restless, strong, and always eager to run towards things that attract them. The mind is the reins, controlling these horses. The Self—the real you—is the passenger inside the chariot. But here’s the key—the intellect, or buddhi, is the charioteer, the driver. If the charioteer is awake and skilled, the horses run straight on the right road, and the passenger reaches the destination. But if the charioteer is sleepy or careless, the horses will pull the chariot in all directions—into ditches, into forests, away from the road—and the passenger will be lost.”

I paused, letting the picture form in his mind.

“These OTT shows you watch,” I continued, “are like colourful bazaars on the roadside of life. There’s music, jokes, glitter, excitement—everything designed to make you stop. If your charioteer is awake, you might stop for a short while, enjoy something worthwhile, and then move on. But if the charioteer is sleeping, your senses—the horses—will keep stopping at every stall. You’ll forget where you were going. You might even forget that you had a destination at all.”

Rohan smiled faintly, but it was the kind of smile that hides an ache. “Sir, what if I fail to control myself? What if I try and… fail?”

I leaned forward. “Then fail today, but rise tomorrow. The Bhagavad Gita says—Uddhared atmanatmanam—let a person lift themselves by their own effort. No one else can do it for them. Self-control is not about locking away the device. It’s about unlocking your own wisdom. If you remember your true goal—your swadharma—you will naturally choose what supports it. But you have to remember it every single day.”

I told him about my own student days, how distractions were fewer but still powerful—idling with friends, wandering aimlessly in the market, wasting hours in gossip. The form of distraction changes with time, but the root is the same—the charioteer dozing off while the horses pull where they please.

Then I gave him a small exercise. “Before you watch anything, pause for ten seconds. Ask yourself two questions: Will this make me better in thought, word, and action? Will I be happy I spent my time here? If both answers are yes, then go ahead. If not, let it go. That pause is your charioteer pulling the reins.”

His eyes dropped for a moment, then lifted again with a certain seriousness. “I’ll try,” he said.

A week later, I saw him again. This time, he was walking across the courtyard under a patch of sunlight that had broken through the clouds. His step had a little bounce, his eyes a little more life. He came up to me with a smile—not the hesitant one from the library, but the kind that carries pride.

“Sir,” he said, “I still watch, but now I choose. I don’t feel trapped anymore. I feel… lighter.”

That one line was worth more to me than a hundred exam marks. In that moment, I knew something had shifted—not just in his schedule, but in his understanding of himself.

We speak so often about protecting children from harm—physical harm, bad company, wrong habits—but the most subtle and dangerous harm is the slow erosion of self-mastery. If even one student learns to guard their mind, we have done more than educate them; we have empowered them to navigate life itself.

Our sages said long ago—Aatmanam viddhi—“Know yourself.” In knowing yourself, you also know your weaknesses, your strengths, and the tricks the world will play to make you forget your path. OTT platforms, like many things in life, are neither wholly good nor wholly bad—they are tools. A hammer can build a home or break a wall. The difference lies in the hand that holds it.

Rohan’s journey reminded me that the real work of education is not just filling the mind with facts, but sharpening the charioteer—making sure the driver of the mind is awake, alert, and wise. Because the roads of life are full of colourful bazaars, and the horses of our senses will always want to wander.

But the charioteer, if well-trained, will smile, hold the reins steady, and say, “Not today. We have somewhere important to go.”

As the ancient saying goes:

"बुद्धिर्यस्य बलं तस्य, संयमः स्याद् जयः सदा।

इन्द्रियाणि वशे यस्य, स गच्छति परं पदम्॥"

He whose intellect is strong gains victory through self-control.

The one who keeps his senses in check reaches the highest goal.

Hold your reins before the horses run—your mind will take you where you choose, not where the world pulls. The bazaar will always be there. The rain will fall, the stalls will shine, but you will still reach where you are meant to go.

****
Jai Hind !