Observed

Now don’t get me wrong—I understand emotion. We are a nation that bleeds sentiment, and sometimes it feels good to wear it. But I worry that we are not yet a mature society, one that chooses long-term value over instant validation.

The thunder may roar, but it is the quiet rain of truth and statesmanship that will sustain India’s growth. Let us move forward with clarity, unity, and pride in our nation’s strength

If you’re reading this, I hope you’ll join me in seeking shade—not just from the summer heat, but from the divisiveness that threatens to burn us all. Let’s water the roots of compassion, together, and wait for cooler, kinder days.

By - Raghunandan S This weekend, my office hosted an indoor game competitions - TT, Carrom and Chess. I participated in Carrom and Chess....

I didn’t take offense. Instead, I saw the rhythm of life unfolding—a cycle as old as the earth itself. My son’s plea was nature’s own demand, a reminder that just as the seasons shift, so must we. Spring blossoms fade to summer’s verdant embrace, then yield to autumn’s fiery hues before winter’s quiet renewal.

There’s a distinguished architect on our team—someone I’ve known for five years, whose expertise is undeniable. His command of our product and its underlying concepts is remarkable, and he carries a well-earned pride in his craft. But I’ve noticed something over time: that same expertise sometimes becomes a barrier rather than a bridge.

Yet history shows that progress often comes from those who dare to disturb. Take the example of India’s Green Revolution in the 1960s. At the time, the country teetered on the edge of famine, its agricultural system “working” just enough to keep people fed—barely. Scientists like M.S. Swaminathan and policymakers like C. Subramaniam took a gamble, introducing high-yield crops and modern farming techniques.

True, they don’t govern, but the mindset’s what bugs me. RSS’s Mohan Bhagwat bragged in 2023 they could rally 2 million volunteers in days—sounds paramilitary to me. And Bajrang Dal’s Christmas bust-ups in Assam last year? Screaming about “forced conversions”? That’s not just thuggery—it’s saying, “You don’t belong unless you’re us.” Taliban bans non-Islamic life; these guys pressure non-Hindu life. Same exclusionary root, different branches.

My dog became a mirror for the poor, the voiceless, the ones who eat what’s shoveled onto their plates because they have no choice. My wife, unwittingly, played the role of authority—well-intentioned perhaps, but blind to the cost of her actions. And as I sat with this thought, I couldn’t help but see parallels in the world around us, especially in places like India and beyond, where inequality tightens its grip and forces the vulnerable to swallow more than they can bear.

“Little one,” it says, “you scatter your rain too freely. Save your strength for the valleys that need it most. The desert will drink you dry, and the ocean needs no more.” The budding cloud twirls, puzzled. “But raining feels good!” it replies. “Why should I hold back when the world sparkles below?”

These days, it’s a storm of uncertainty—layoffs loom like dark clouds, and the chorus of worry echoes: “What if I lose my job?” The fear is real, but so is the trap of inertia. Instead of preparing, adapting, or exploring new paths, many cling to excuses, frozen like a deer in headlights. Losing a job stings, no doubt, but is it the end?

There’s no way the Manusmriti can be accepted today. It’s outdated, rigid, and honestly, it doesn’t fit with how we operate.

Then there’s the driver I knew. He hung a lemon-chili thread on his car, trusting it to shield him on Mysore’s chaotic roads. I warned him, “No ritual’s saving you if you don’t drive right—rules, focus, caution, that’s what counts.” Days later, he crashed. The thread dangled uselessly; the accident broke his faith. I wasn’t smug—I was sad. Sad that it took a wreck to show him what I’ve always believed: superstition’s a flimsy shield against reality.

So, the next time you feel the urge to speak without thinking, to react without reflecting, or to let your emotions spill over unchecked, picture the bottom of a broken kitchen sink. Ask yourself: Is this the version of me I want to present to the world? Is this the version of me that’s true to my consciousness?

My uncles and their friends despised the Congress government, cursed Nehru and the Gandhis, cheered the Ram Janmabhoomi movement.

“You know,” she said, nudging my elbow, “Pallavi still asks about you. My forever crush now turned dermatologist, your ‘what-if’ girl from 5th grade. Should I arrange a school reunion?”, I laughed, half choking on the coffee, ..

First off, what even is Gurubala? It’s this belief in my community that you need to consult a priest or astrologer to pinpoint the perfect moment for anything important—marriages, housewarmings, you name it. They claim it’s about the planets aligning, the stars whispering, or some cosmic vibe check. But let’s cut through the incense smoke, who decides what’s a “good time” versus a “bad time”? On what basis?

It’s not just an observation—it’s a call. Space isn’t just a privilege to envy; it’s a principle to chase. We can’t all move to mansions, but we can fight for room in our lives and societies. In cities, it’s green parks, wider streets, and housing that doesn’t stack people like boxes—things India’s urban planners are starting to rethink with projects like Delhi’s “green lungs” initiative. In our minds, it’s carving out time to unclutter, to let thoughts stretch and settle.

My body felt feathery, as if I could float above the pavement, my mind clear as a mountain stream. I wasn’t hallucinating—this was real, a cosmic embrace that left me weightless and whole. It was the third time I’d felt this, but here, in Slough, it struck with a beauty that stole my breath.

The BJP and its Sangh Parivar allies have created a culture of fear. Their foot soldiers—whether it’s cow vigilantes lynching Muslims or hit squads targeting intellectuals—operate with impunity.