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I was listening to scientist Brian Cox, and one thing he said resonated with me: learning is about understanding. When we truly understand something, it does not need evaluation from others. It is something that happens within us. We realize it ourselves. And that moment of realization can be a kind of spiritual experience. I think this is something very basic about being human. We are not only people who collect information, get qualifications, and solve problems. We are also people who wonder. We look at nature, the universe, and our own existence, and we want to understand. The mystery itself creates a desire inside us to know more. I remember when I was standing in front of the Himalayas in Manang. 

I still cannot fully explain that feeling in words. It was not only about seeing a beautiful mountain. There was something deeper. The vastness of the Himalayas created some kind of mystery inside me. It made me want to understand more—about nature, about my own position in this world, about my relationship with others, and about myself. That experience also made me realize that some forms of understanding cannot be measured by others. Someone else can stand in the same place and see the same mountain, but the experience inside can be completely different. No one else can fully evaluate that feeling. The mystery and the understanding begin within the person who experiences them. 

But perhaps our personal experiences do not separate us from each other. They can also connect us. A forest is made of many individual trees. Every tree has its own shape, its own history, and its own way of growing. But no tree exists completely alone. Every tree is connected to the same soil, the same air, the same water, and the larger ecosystem. Perhaps human beings are also like that. We are individuals with our own experiences, identities, and journeys, but we are also part of a larger human and natural world. Maybe this is one of the most beautiful characteristics of human beings: we have the ability to wonder. 

Before knowledge comes curiosity. Before answers come questions. A child looking at the stars, a person standing in front of a mountain, or a scientist exploring the universe—all are connected by this desire to understand something bigger than themselves. But when I look at human society, I sometimes wonder: how is it possible that we have this deep ability to experience wonder and connection, yet we also create so many divisions among ourselves? 

Recently, I have been thinking about this in relation to what is happening in Nepal. It hurts me when I see people fighting and blaming each other because of religion, language, community, or different identities. People start saying “this group” and “that group,” “our people” and “their people.” Somehow, we become more aware of our differences and forget the deeper connection that we share. I do not think identity itself is the problem. Identity is important. We all need identity. It gives us a feeling of belonging and helps us understand who we are. Our language, culture, religion, and traditions are meaningful parts of human life. They carry our memories, histories, and experiences. But the question is: how do we understand our identity? For me, identity is not only about belonging to a particular group. Like a tree in a forest, my identity comes from my own experiences, but also from my relationships. 

My relationship with nature, with other people, and with myself shapes who I am. Being connected does not mean losing my individuality. It means understanding that my individuality exists within a larger whole. When identity becomes only about separation, then it can create fear and conflict. But when identity is understood as a relationship, it can bring us closer. We can be proud of our own culture and still respect others. We can belong to a particular community and still understand that we are part of a larger human family. This is something I often think about when I look at Nepal today. Nepal is a country with incredible diversity. We have many languages, cultures, traditions, and ways of life. This diversity should be our strength. But sometimes it feels that our understanding of being Nepali together is becoming weaker. 

Nepal has gone through many changes, from monarchy to a federal democratic republican system. Political systems are important, but I wonder if changes in systems alone are enough. Maybe we also need a deeper change in our understanding of ourselves and each other. A country cannot become united only through political structures. There also needs to be a feeling of connection among people. Many people blame social media for increasing divisions in society. Social media certainly has an influence. It can spread anger quickly and make people more divided. But I also wonder if social media is only showing what already exists inside us. Maybe social media is revealing our level of understanding, our ability to listen, and our ability to see beyond our own identities. 

If that is true, then the deeper question is not only about technology. It is about us. It is about how we are growing as human beings and what kind of understanding we are developing. And this brings me back to education. As teachers, we need to ask ourselves: what kind of learning are we providing for the next generation? Are we only teaching children how to pass exams, compete, and achieve success? Or are we also helping them develop curiosity, compassion, humility, and a sense of connection with the world? Children naturally have a sense of mystery. They ask questions about life, nature, and existence. They want to know why things are the way they are. But sometimes our education system focuses so much on finding the correct answer that we forget the importance of asking questions. 

Learning is not only about collecting information. It is about developing understanding. It is about learning how to think, how to listen, how to connect, and how to see the relationship between ourselves and the world around us. As teachers, perhaps our responsibility is not only to prepare children to use the world, but also to help them understand that they belong to the world. They should learn science and technology, but they should also learn wonder, respect, and responsibility. Science itself teaches us humility. The more we discover about the universe, the more we realize how much we do not know. True understanding does not make us feel superior. It makes us humbler and more connected. 

The mystery of nature and our desire to understand that mystery may be one of the deepest parts of being human. True understanding does not divide us. It connects us. Maybe the crucial question for education today is not only how much knowledge we can give to children, but what kind of human beings we help them become. Can we help them see their identity like a tree in a forest, unique and valuable in itself, but also deeply connected with nature, society, and the larger human family? Perhaps this is where true learning begins. 

In Nepal today, there is a growing feeling that things must change, and change fast. Many people are tired of corruption, political hiring and systems that do not work as they should. In such a moment, when strong and decisive actions are taken, it is natural to feel a sense of relief. Finally, something is moving. Finally, someone is acting. But at the same time, there is also unease. Not everyone is comfortable with the speed, the method or the consequences. This tension is not a weakness. It reflects the complexity of the situation we are in. There are generally two ways societies evolve.

One is gradual, where change happens slowly through learning, participation and institutional development. The other is more abrupt, where leaders try to break existing systems and introduce new rules quickly. Nepal at this moment seems to be experiencing more of the second. This is not surprising. When problems become deeply rooted, slow reform often feels insufficient. People lose patience. They begin to prefer action over discussion. Yet action without process brings its own questions. One example is the use of ordinances to pass decisions without full parliamentary debate. For some, this is necessary to avoid delays and resistance from within the system. For others, it raises concerns about legitimacy.

Debate is not just a procedural step. It is where different voices are heard, where policies are tested, and where unintended consequences can be identified early. When this space is reduced, even well intentioned policies can feel imposed rather than agreed upon. The issue of sukumbasi (informal) settlements shows how difficult this balance is. There are cases where people misuse public land, claiming to be landless when they are not. Addressing this is important. A system cannot function if rules are constantly bypassed. At the same time, there are families who genuinely have no alternative. They live on public land not by choice, but by necessity. When both groups are treated just the same, the line between justice and hardship becomes unclear.

Clearing settlements may solve a structural problem, but it creates a human one if people are left without support. Promises of rehabilitation are important, but they need to be timely, clear and trustworthy. Otherwise, people experience the policy not as reform, but as displacement. 

A similar pattern appears in everyday economic policies. New customs rules on small cross border purchases may be designed to bring discipline and reduce leakage. From a national perspective, this can make sense. But for people living near the border, or those with limited income, these small transactions are part of daily life. They are not exploiting the system. They are surviving within it. A policy that looks minor on paper can feel heavy in practice. This is where rapid change often struggles. It treats society as if it is uniform, but in reality, people experience policies very differently depending on their situation. 

What feels like progress to one group may feel like loss to another. At the same time, relying only on gradual change is not always realistic. In systems where problems are deeply embedded, slow reform can be absorbed, delayed or even quietly resisted. It can create the appearance of change without changing much at all. This is why moments of disruption emerge. They reflect accumulated frustration, not just political ambition. 

So Nepal stands between two pressures. The need to act, and the need to act carefully. In such a moment, the role of citizens also becomes complicated. There is a tendency to think that we must either fully support or strongly oppose. But reality is not so simple. Constant criticism can weaken the momentum needed for reform. It can turn every action into a controversy. At the same time, blind support can remove the checks that keep power accountable. Without questioning, even good intentions can lead to poor outcomes. The challenge is not to choose one side, but to hold both responsibilities at once: To support the need for change, while also asking how that change is being carried out. Another concern is how easily change becomes tied to individuals. When a leader or a small team becomes the symbol of reform, people begin to place their hopes in that person. This can be inspiring, but also risky. Systems should not depend on personalities. If change is not built into institutions, it may not last beyond the current leadership. What is achieved quickly can also disappear quickly. There is also a deeper layer to consider. Society is not only shaped by laws and policies. It is shaped by habits, relationships and shared understandings. These evolve slowly. 

Even the strongest policy cannot immediately change how people think or behave. If this cultural dimension is ignored, reforms may face resistance or fail to take root. Today, this complexity is amplified by the divide between online and offline spaces. Social media often presents issues in extreme terms. People are either for or against. There is little space for nuance. But on the ground, life continues in more complicated ways. People adapt, negotiate and find ways to cope, often outside the simplified narratives we see online.

I have to admit I spend a lot of time thinking about big questions. Sometimes it feels a little ridiculous. I’ll sit thinking about how human history went from fire and foraging to agriculture, industry, and the infosphere. We have even left the Earth and started exploring the Moon and Mars, searching for a parallel Earth somewhere in the multiverse. And yet we are still asking the same questions our ancestors asked: What is happiness? What is a good life? Why do we suffer? Who are we? 

It sounds abstract, but it keeps coming back to me because it connects to my own country: Nepal. Our country is at a moment of enormous possibility. Young, aspiring leaders with fire inside, citizens eager to engage, and natural resources that could change lives. Yet, like the rest of human history, we face a paradox. The same curiosity, energy, and ambition that can lift us up can also trip us up if we are not careful. Human history is fascinating and ironic at the same time. Look at what we’ve done. We learned to farm, build cities, sail oceans, split atoms, and send machines to Mars. We’ve built medicine, created art, and written literature that lasts millennia. 

Progress seems unstoppable. And yet, the same questions about meaning, happiness, and the human condition remain. We build more, learn more, control more, and still we are restless, dissatisfied, always wondering what comes next. It is a pattern that repeats. We expand, we dominate, we exploit, we destroy, and then, often too late, we start chasing what we have damaged. Think of environmental crises, social inequalities, or even personal burnout. The very intelligence and curiosity that allow us to advance also make us aware of the consequences, and then we try to fix them. Sometimes we even compete over who is happier or whose peace is deeper. Human, all too human, as Nietzsche said.

Nepal is entering that story on its own scale. Young leaders, many without decades of political experience, are stepping forward. There is energy, imagination, and ambition. They see opportunities in our rivers, forests, and mountains. They see potential in our youth. They want to harness resources, create jobs, build infrastructure, and raise living standards. And they should. We cannot shy away from progress or development. Lack of education, healthcare, and employment opportunities are urgent problems. 

But here is the catch. Progress without reflection risks repeating the same patterns humanity has experienced for thousands of years. If we only chase GDP growth or short-term gains, we might achieve development in the narrow sense, but we could end up asking again in ten or twenty years: What is happiness? What is development? What kind of society have we really built? The balance between curiosity and caution is key. Curiosity is our engine. It drives innovation, ambition, and improvement. But without grounding it can become restless, compulsive, and destructive. Ambition must be paired with awareness: awareness of social consequences, environmental limits, and ethical responsibilities. 

Nepal has an advantage. We have traditional wisdom rooted in communities, culture, and history, alongside access to global knowledge and technology. If we can blend the two, there is a chance to build something unique—a society that progresses and grows, but in a humane and sustainable way. Education is a good place to start. It is not just about literacy or technical skills. We need schools and training, but we also need education that teaches curiosity alongside responsibility. Young people should learn to ask: How does this choice affect my community, my environment, my generation, and the next? Education should cultivate reflection, not just productivity. Healthcare and employment are equally foundational. People cannot innovate or think deeply if they are hungry, sick, or unemployed. 

There is also a global lesson embedded here. The Limits to Growth, the 1970s book from the Club of Rome, warned the world that unlimited growth without considering resource limits could lead to overshoot and collapse. Many dismissed it at the time. Today, climate change, deforestation, and biodiversity loss show the warning was not exaggerated. Nepal, if it grows thoughtfully, can learn from this. We can pursue development without overshoot, but only if ambition is tempered with awareness. 

Young leaders in Nepal today are experimenting with how to combine speed, technology, and engagement. Social media allows them to connect directly with citizens, bypassing slow, cumbersome traditional structures. They are learning to act quickly, make decisions, and mobilize people. This is exciting. It shows Nepal can leap forward. But governance is slower than campaigning. Building institutions, enforcing policies, and nurturing equitable development requires patience, reflection, and care. The challenge is to match curiosity and energy with deliberate, humane action. 

I like to think of this as a microcosm of the human story. The same energy that allows us to invent AI or harness hydropower can also create environmental disasters or social inequality if not guided by reflection. Nepal has a chance to get ahead of the curve. We can be ambitious without being reckless, and we can progress without repeating humanity’s mistakes. The key is integrating traditional wisdom with modern approaches. That is a rare opportunity. From my perspective, this is Nepal’s moment. We have young people who want to act, innovate, and change the world. We have resources and opportunities. We have pressing social challenges.

And we have the chance to harness curiosity responsibly. We can integrate traditional wisdom with global knowledge, speed with reflection, and ambition with ethics. It will not be easy. Mistakes will happen, frustration will arise. That is part of the process. Yes, we will continue to ask the old questions: What is happiness, what is a good life, what is progress? That is okay. That is what makes us human. Nepal has a chance to answer them in a practical, human, and sustainable way. That is a story worth telling. Because we may not fully resolve the human paradox, but we can live with it consciously, shape our societies consciously, and create spaces where curiosity, ambition, and care coexist. Right now, Nepal has that chance.

On a long flight to Kathmandu, the man next to me said, “So, you are a professor—what do you teach?” I smiled. If only academic life were that simple. Teaching is only one part of what I do. Many imagine professors spending most of their time in classrooms. The truth is far broader: we supervise students, review research papers, write proposals, organize conferences, design new courses, serve on committees and sometimes travel across continents to share ideas. Being an academic is not just a job. It is a way of living and learning. Teaching, research and service are woven together, each influencing the others. A student’s question might spark a research idea. Writing a paper might change how I teach. Organizing a conference might lead to collaborations that last years. The philosopher Martin Heidegger called this “worldhood.” 

Our actions don’t exist as isolated tasks, but as parts of a larger, meaningful whole. Reviewing a paper, mentoring a student, preparing a lecture or attending a conference are all connected threads in the same fabric of academic life. Each gains significance from its connection to the others. Our work flows together in a daily rhythm that shapes our identity as academics. Some days are smooth; others are a blur of deadlines, meetings and rejections. But the rewards are real: a student finally grasping a difficult idea, a paper being accepted, a collaboration taking root. Guiding students is among the most satisfying parts of my job.

Watching them grow, thinking critically and discovering new things is deeply rewarding. Every discussion, assignment and piece of feedback is an investment in the next generation—not just in their knowledge, but in their ability to question, explore and contribute to the world. Research is another core pillar. Writing papers, reading others’ work and debating ideas with colleagues all feed into a global conversation. When I attend a conference—whether in Asia, Europe or Africa—I’m not just presenting my work; I’m listening, exchanging perspectives and finding new questions to explore. 

Often, the most important moments happen outside formal sessions: a conversation over coffee, a hallway debate, a chance meeting that sparks an unexpected project. Travel is not just about sightseeing, but also about connecting ideas and people. Each trip adds new threads to the academic fabric—perspectives from different cultures, insights from other disciplines and friendships that outlast any single project.

Academic life is always forward-looking: the next paper to write, the next course to design, the next student to mentor. Our work builds on the knowledge of those before us, and future scholars will build on ours. A lecture is never just a lecture; it’s part of a long chain of learning. A research paper is part of an ongoing conversation. Mentoring a student helps shape the future of our academic community.

Yes, there are challenges—funding struggles, heavy workloads, administrative tangles—but the rewards outweigh them. The freedom to explore ideas, the joy of learning continuously and the chance to inspire others make this life fulfilling. Back in Norway, I still think about my recent guest lecture at Madan Bhandari University of Science and Technology (MBUST) in Nepal.

I noticed how eager students were to explore ways to relate their research to their own community’s challenges. Seeing them connect academic concepts to real-world problems reminded me of the true purpose of teaching: helping students think critically, apply knowledge, and make a difference in the communities they care about. So, when people ask what I do, I find it hard to give a short answer. Being a professor is not a list of duties. 

It is curiosity, dedication and connection. It is the privilege of being part of a community of thinkers and learners. Each lecture, paper, and conversation add to a larger journey. Academia is not just a career. It is a calling—one that shapes how we live, think and relate to the world. For those of us who have chosen it, the journey is filled with challenges, discoveries and every so often, moments that make it all worthwhile.

My trip to Muktinath, a sacred temple in Nepal’s Mustang district, began as a spiritual  pilgrimage. I expected silence, mountains and maybe some personal clarity. What I didn’t  expect was that the road itself—the actual journey—would teach me something deeper: why nations like Nepal struggle, not because of poverty or geography, but because of  broken systems. The Himalayas were everything I hoped for. Vast, ancient, silent. The  mountains don’t speak, but they say everything. In that silence, something inside you  wakes up. You feel tiny—but not in a diminished way. You feel connected, humbled, part of  something timeless. 

And then, the road reminds you: you’re still in Nepal. 

At first, everything was smooth. Well-paved stretches give you a sense of order, of progress.  Then suddenly—no warning—dust, potholes, mud, cliffs. No signs. No explanation. Just a sharp jolt. That’s when it hit me: this road is Nepal. Not just physically, but politically and  economically. It reflects how the country moves. Or fails to move. 

Economists Daron Acemoglu and James A Robinson, in their book Why Nations Fail, say  that nations don’t collapse because they’re poor or small—they fall when their institutions  become extractive. That means systems designed not to serve everyone, but to benefit a  small elite. When power is centralized, unaccountable and unresponsive to the people,  things fall apart. Just like the road. That road had moments of beauty—and then chaos. Like  when a traffic jam would appear out of nowhere. No rules, no traffic police. Just honking,  pushing and disorder. Yet somehow, people moved. It was dysfunctional, but it  functioned. That’s Nepal. A country where people no longer expect the system to help—but  find ways to survive anyway. 

Our driver embodied that spirit. He was fearless, navigating landslides and blind turns like a local James Bond. I was terrified. “Why are you scared?” he said. “There’s nothing to be  scared of.” It wasn’t bravery, it was normal for him. Because in Nepal, danger isn’t an  emergency. It’s routine. At one point, we passed a fresh landslide where the road had  barely been cleared. No warning signs. Just a man standing in the dust, motioning to  drivers. No uniform, no authority, just someone stepping in where the state had stepped  out. That moment stuck with me. In a nation where public services falter, ordinary people fill the void. Not because they have to—but because they must. 

And this is the tragedy: people become excellent at surviving systems that should have  protected them in the first place. 

Nepal’s economy feels just like that road. It’s moving—but always at risk. You can plan but never predict. And yet, life continues. People open shops, raise families, guide tourists, offer tea to strangers. They trust not in government, but in each other. That kind of social  capital is rare—and powerful. On those roads, I saw something remarkable: trust among  strangers. No road signs. No clear rules. But still, drivers cooperated. Because they had to.  That trust wasn’t built by policy. It came from culture. From the deep understanding that if people don’t care for each other, no one else will. 

But culture isn’t enough to build a country. Why Nations Fail makes it clear: without inclusive institutions—where opportunity is open to all, leadership is accountable, and  policies are shaped by participation—no amount of individual effort can fix systemic collapse. When policies are made by people who never walk the road, they forget where it  leads. I couldn’t help but ask: how often do our leaders walk these roads themselves? Do they feel the same jolts? Do they see the villagers’ patching holes with rocks? Or the  mothers selling noodles near construction dust while their kids play in broken corners of  concrete? Or do they see only blueprints and budgets? 

Nepal’s institutions feel just like those road bumps—sudden, unexplained and dangerous.  Too often, leaders govern without grounding. They change policies without clarity. They  promise without delivery. And still, people adapt. They move forward because it’s the only direction available. 

At Muktinath, I finally reached stillness again. Cold wind, ancient stones, sacred silence. You don’t need to understand everything to feel something shift inside. You just breathe.  And for a moment, it’s enough. But when I looked back at the journey, the literal road and  the metaphor it became, I couldn’t ignore the deeper lesson. Nepal doesn’t lack potential. It doesn’t lack spirit, creativity or community. What it lacks is leadership that walks the same road the people do. Institutions that work for everyone. Roads that are built not just  to impress, but to endure. 

Acemoglu and Robinson remind us that even countries that start the same—like North and South Korea—can end up in vastly different places if one builds extractive institutions and  the other builds inclusive ones. One stagnates, the other grows. It’s not fate. It’s a choice. Still, I believe change is possible. I see it in the eyes of young Nepalis—those who question, who leave and return, who imagine something better. I see it in those who fix what isn’t  their job to fix. In communities that cooperate even when the state fails. 

So yes, the mountains healed me. But the road taught me the truth. 

Nations don’t fail because their people are weak. They fail when their systems are weak. And  unless we rebuild those systems—with inclusion, accountability, and connection—we’ll  keep driving blind, hoping to avoid the next collapse. 

And still, despite it all, Nepal moves forward. Bumpy. Risky. Beautiful. Still going.

With the rise of generative AI in research and education, a question keeps coming to mind: How is the way we understand knowledge changing as AI becomes a bigger part of our daily learning and work? This is not just a question for academics or tech experts; it affects everyone who relies on knowledge to make decisions, express ideas or contribute to their communities. We are at a point where the very act of knowing is changing—not just how we know, but who we consider to be the "knower." When a machine writes an article, summarizes a book, or helps design a curriculum, what role does the human thinker still play?

On the one hand, this technology opens up new possibilities. A student in a remote village in Nepal can now access summaries of global literature, translate complex theories into Nepali or get help writing a research paper—all at the click of a button. Generative AI can be a powerful tool for breaking down barriers of language, access and time. On the other hand, there’s also the risk that we may stop thinking for ourselves, relying too heavily on a tool that reflects patterns, not true understanding. In a world where so much is automated, what happens to reflection, to critical thought, and to the slow and sometimes uncomfortable process of finding our own insights?

As I struggled with these questions, I found some guidance in Eastern philosophy. While ancient texts didn’t predict AI or digital tools, they did take the question of knowledge very seriously. In the Eastern tradition, knowledge (jñāna) is not just about gathering facts. It’s something that transforms us, something that reveals the self, the world, and the relationship between the two. Importantly, it is always tied to ethics. One does not seek knowledge simply to win arguments or impress others; knowledge is pursued to live rightly, act responsibly and move closer to truth and liberation.

This is especially relevant now as generative AI begins to influence how we write, research and think. The Upanishads tell us that the student should not just ask, “What is this?” but also, “Who am I?” It’s a question of identity, intention and inner clarity. When I use AI to write a paragraph or generate ideas, I try to stay aware of what part of me is involved. Am I using the tool to clarify my thoughts or to avoid doing the hard work of thinking? Am I driven by curiosity or by convenience? These may seem like philosophical questions, but they have very practical implications. Imagine a college student in Kathmandu working on their assignments. With AI, they can generate drafts in minutes, find sources and even correct their grammar. But if they stop reading, stop questioning and simply copy what the machine offers, they may submit a polished assignment—but miss the point of education entirely.

The machine can assist, but it cannot reflect. It cannot care. It cannot ask, “Is this meaningful to my society, my values, or my life? Eastern philosophy offers a helpful metaphor here: the yantra or instrument. Tools are nothing new. Humans have always used tools to extend our abilities—whether it’s the plough in agriculture, the loom in weaving or the telescope in astronomy. What matters is not just the tool, but how we use it, and for what purpose.

The Bhagavad Gita reminds us that the right action must be performed without attachment to the outcome, guided by clarity and duty—dharma. In today’s world, AI is a new yantra, but it requires the same discipline. We must ask: is it helping me fulfill my role as a student, researcher or a citizen? Or is it just making things easier at the cost of meaning? This doesn’t mean we should fear technology. Far from it. Used wisely, generative AI can become a partner in learning, a bridge across educational gaps and a tool to preserve and even regenerate local knowledge.

Imagine AI trained to document indigenous languages in Nepal or to translate oral histories into written texts. Imagine teachers using AI to create personalized learning experiences for students from different backgrounds and needs. These are exciting possibilities—but they can only become a reality if we use them with care, ethics, and awareness.

 In Eastern philosophy, ethics is not separate from knowledge. Truth (satya) is not just about factual correctness; it is about aligning what we know, say and do. When we conduct research with the help of AI, it still matters that we acknowledge our sources, credit others and question the biases embedded in the tools we use.

It still matters that we ask: Does this help society? Does it deepen understanding? Or am I simply using a machine to do my work for me? This brings us back to the idea of rethinking how we understand and interpret knowledge. Perhaps the real shift is not just technological—from books to machines, from human writers to AI—but ethical.

It is a turn toward remembering that knowledge is not neutral. It shapes lives, it holds power and it demands responsibility. In this light, AI is neither a savior nor a threat. It becomes a mirror, reflecting our habits, assumptions and goals. And it asks us: What kind of knowers do we want to be?

In a country like Nepal, where tradition and modernity often walk side by side, we have a unique opportunity. We can engage with new technologies not blindly, but with the wisdom of our philosophical traditions.

We can teach students not just how to use AI, but how to think with it—critically, ethically and reflectively. We can build an academic culture that values not just output, but insight. In the end, Eastern philosophy doesn’t reject tools. It simply reminds us: We must be worthy users of them.

For a long time, I kept seeing this short phrase—TL;DR—and honestly, I thought it was some kind of mistake. I would read detailed posts, spend time with the content and at the bottom of the text, I would see this strange combination of letters. For days, I ignored it, thinking it was a typo or an inside joke. One day, though, I got curious and decided to check it out. I asked, “What does this mean?”

It stood for “Too Long; Didn’t Read”, I found out.

I smiled. At first, it was a little funny. I had been spending time with the content, reading carefully, only to find that others were saying, “This is too much. Just give me the short version.” But as I thought about it more deeply, I realized that this phrase—TL;DR—is not just a shortcut. It’s a reflection of how people think and process information today.

As someone who values technology, this is not a criticism of the tools themselves. Digital tools are powerful, they connect us, give instant access to knowledge and open new ways of learning. Technology has brought great convenience. We can access information easily, read articles, watch tutorials and learn new ideas from our devices. But as we use these tools, we must not lose the older, slower ways of thinking. Reading carefully, reflecting slowly and spending time with ideas without rushing used to be normal. There is a kind of wisdom that only comes with patience—allowing ourselves to sit with complex thoughts and reflect deeply. It’s a process that can’t be rushed. Ideas shape us when we truly engage with them, not when we skim quickly.

Deep learning is not just about collecting information. It’s about thinking carefully, challenging ourselves and reflecting. When we always look for shortcuts and quick answers, we risk missing the real depth that leads to true understanding. This connects with something Jonathan Haidt discusses in The Anxious Generation. Haidt mainly talks about how constant digital distractions hurt the mental health of young people. But the problem is bigger. Haidt describes how our attention has become fragmented. We are constantly interrupted, scrolling from one thing to another. It’s hard to stay focused for long. This doesn’t affect only young people—it affects all of us.

As a teacher, I see this every day. Students often ask for the main point, the takeaway, the summary. They want quick answers. I understand why—life moves fast, and there is too much information. But when we prioritize speed over depth, something important is lost. Quick answers can be helpful, but they do not build real understanding. Heidegger’s idea of “enframing” (or Gestell) helps explain why this happens. According to Heidegger, modern technology doesn’t just help us—it shapes how we see the world. Instead of engaging with the world, we start treating everything, including ourselves, as resources to be optimized and quickly understood. This mindset can be useful, but it also makes it harder to see the full complexity of life. Even knowledge becomes something we just consume, not something we live with.

So, when we say “Too Long; Didn’t Read,” what are we really saying? Maybe it’s not just that something is too long. Maybe we feel we don’t have the time or the focus to deal with complexity. It shows how we have become used to simple, easy answers. But life—and important ideas—are rarely simple. Our relationships, our ethics, our emotions, and our understanding of truth cannot be reduced to a few sentences. The most important parts of life—grief, love, beauty, truth—unfold slowly, and require time and reflection.

When I first learned what TL;DR stood for, it reminded me of something bigger. Are we, in our rush for quick answers, losing the ability to stay with deep thoughts and ideas? Are we trading depth for speed? Are we forgetting that the most important things cannot be captured in a quick summary? Now, whenever I see TL;DR, I feel a little conflicted. It’s helpful, of course, especially when life is busy. But it’s also a small reminder: “You might be missing something important. Something that doesn’t fit into a summary.” It reminds me that not everything in life should be shortened. Some truths demand that we slow down and stay with them. We can use digital tools to help our thinking, but we must not let them replace deep, reflective learning. We can enjoy the benefits of speed, but we must also protect the practices of slow, careful thought. Some things in life simply cannot be captured in a summary. Some truths need us to take our time. 

In the teachings of Advaita Vedanta, the importance of deep focus is central. True understanding is not something we can quickly consume or grasp with speed; it demands sustained attention, contemplation, and patience. Meditation, or dhyana, is not limited to sitting in a monastery or retreat; it is about cultivating focused awareness in our everyday lives. Real insight arises not through shortcuts, but through steady engagement, allowing the mind to become still, open and deeply attentive. As we navigate the complexities of life and knowledge, we must remember that quick answers and summaries may offer convenience, but true insight comes through concentration, reflection and the willingness to sit with complexity. The most important aspects of life, whether it’s love, truth or wisdom, unfold only when we give them the attention and time they deserve.

In the rush of the modern world, let us not forget that some things cannot be reduced to a soundbite. As Advaita Vedanta teaches, the deeper truth is often revealed only when we are willing to look beyond the surface and focus with patience. We can use digital tools to enhance our learning, but we must also protect the practices of deep, reflective thought. Some truths require us to take our time and, in doing so, we connect not just with knowledge—but with something greater.

When I look back at my education—from childhood through my master’s degree—I realize how much it was structured around rote learning: memorizing facts, repeating them and aiming for good marks. I didn’t attend a prestigious school, just a regular one like most students in Nepal. Regardless of the school, the emphasis was the same. This pattern wasn’t just my experience—it’s reflective of a broader issue in Nepal’s education system. This kind of education didn’t teach me how to think or understand the world; it only taught me how to pass the exams. 

Even today, with some changes here and there, many schools continue to follow this outdated pattern. Whether well-resourced or under-resourced, the focus remains on memorization, repetition and obedience. The result? A generation that can recite facts but struggles to think critically. Worse still, questioning is often actively discouraged. In my experience, when students ask questions, they're frequently met with responses like, “Don’t ask too many questions” or “Just focus on the syllabus.” This discourages curiosity and stifles intellectual growth. If we want to cultivate thinkers and leaders, we must create an environment where asking questions is encouraged—not seen as a sign of disrespect, but as a sign of engagement. 

I’m not advocating for baseless questions, shouting or insults, as we often see on social media; that kind of behavior doesn’t promote healthy discourse. Instead, I advocate for thoughtful, well-reasoned questions—ones that are essential for growth and understanding. We must teach students not just how to gather information, but how to question it, analyze it and think critically. Sadly, this skill remains missing in many education systems, including Nepal’s.

Rote learning and blind following 

With some exceptions, schools in Nepal—regardless of whether they are well-resourced or not—still emphasize memorization and grades over teaching students how to think. The problem is even more pronounced in under-resourced schools, where education remains largely about repeating what’s taught and passing exams. This creates students who are good at memorizing but poor at thinking critically. In some well-resourced schools, while modern methods are used, students often adopt Western ideas without questioning or developing their own perspectives. This creates a disconnect in their minds; they may learn to think in a Western way but fail to fully engage with or understand their own culture. This leads to confusion and a lack of visionary leadership, which Nepal desperately needs. One alarming trend is the focus on preparing students to migrate abroad, primarily to Western countries. From a young age, students are taught that success depends on passing exams and acquiring qualifications to settle abroad. I am not against studying abroad—global exposure is valuable—but the issue arises when studying abroad becomes the only path to success, which is not always true. This narrow view has led to a loss of vision for Nepal’s future. Instead of nurturing local leadership, we are teaching students that the best way to succeed is to leave their country behind.

Vedantic and Buddhist wisdom

This widespread focus on external validation—whether through grades or foreign degrees—has come at the cost of our own intellectual traditions. But Nepal has never lacked a tradition of deep thought. Long before modern schooling systems, our culture valued questioning, contemplation and philosophical inquiry. Nepal’s intellectual and spiritual traditions, especially Vedantic and Buddhist philosophies, have long emphasized deep, reflective questioning. These traditions encouraged individuals to explore the nature of existence, the self and the world—not to accept things blindly, but to understand truth through inquiry and reflection. 

Both Vedanta and Buddhism emphasize that knowledge is power, but only when it is understood through contemplation and personal experience. Sadly, this tradition of critical thinking and self-inquiry has been overshadowed by an increasing reliance on rote learning and unquestioned acceptance of information. This shift has steered us away from the rich intellectual tradition of inquiry and independent thought that Nepal once embraced. 

To change this, we need to reclaim the legacy of critical thinking and inquiry. My point here isn’t to discard modern science textbooks or start teaching only Sanskrit and ancient scriptures. Rather, it’s about taking the essence of those philosophical traditions—especially their emphasis on questioning and inner exploration—and weaving that spirit into today’s classrooms. By doing so, we can reshape the education system to foster freethinkers—people who question, explore, and lead with a clear vision.

Empowering the next generation 

Given these gaps, the real question is: how can we move forward? How can we improve the education system in Nepal? The solution likely lies in finding a balance. We cannot discard exams and grades entirely, but we should place more emphasis on critical thinking, problem-solving, and curiosity. Our education system must nurture free thinkers, not just exam-passing robots. The role of teachers is central to this transformation. Teachers must teach students how to ask good questions, think critically, and express ideas clearly. Classrooms should not just be places where students receive information but where they engage with it, question it, discuss, and debate. Teachers need to create an environment where curiosity and independent thinking are encouraged. While systemic change is essential, it’s important to remember that transformation starts in the classroom. And classrooms cannot change unless teachers are empowered. 

At the same time, many teachers in Nepal are working under extremely challenging circumstances, often without proper support, training, or resources. The issues I raise here are not criticisms of individual teachers but of a system that has not empowered them to innovate or think freely. Any reform must begin with supporting and valuing our educators, ensuring they have the tools they need to foster critical thinking and curiosity in the classroom.

The link to leadership

The consequences of our educational shortcomings extend beyond classrooms. Nepal’s current political crisis is not just a struggle for power—it’s a crisis of leadership. The country lacks visionary leaders capable of guiding Nepal toward a better future, and this deficit reflects deeper issues within our education system. Instead of fostering critical thinking and independent thought, we are producing followers who passively accept information. This is evident in our political landscape, where many follow empty rhetoricians rather than leaders with clear ideologies. 

To address Nepal’s political crisis, we must shift the focus from just who holds power to how we educate our people. Our education system is failing to produce the kind of visionary leaders we desperately need. A nation without an educational foundation that encourages critical thinking and nurtures leadership will remain stagnant, regardless of the political system or the individuals who rise to power. If we want to shape a brighter future, the future of the nation depends on how we educate young people today. 

Without an education system that fosters independent thought and leadership, we will continue to see a generation of followers, rather than leaders with vision. We, as educators, parents and citizens, must steer Nepal’s education system toward a future where critical thinking is valued above rote memorization. This is not just about changing curriculums—it’s about changing the very mindset with which we approach education. Only then will we truly empower our youth and ensure a better future for the country.