Oru Murai and the End of the Language Argument

Some songs you hear once and move on. Others? They sink in, loop around your head, and before you know it, they’ve set up camp in your chest. Oru Murai, sung as a duet by Sandeep Narayanan and Kaushiki Chakravarty at the Isha Foundation’s 2023 music festival, belongs firmly in the second category. I’ve had it on repeat for the last two days, and honestly, it hasn’t worn out one bit.

The pairing itself was exceptional. Sandeep Narayanan, with his deep Carnatic grounding, has a voice that feels almost architectural—solid, rooted, like the kind of foundation you could build a temple on. Kaushiki Chakravarty, on the other hand, brings the agility and soaring fluidity of Hindustani tradition. Put them together, and you don’t get a tug-of-war between two schools of music. You get a duet that feels like an actual conversation, the kind you don’t want to end.

What makes it even more striking is Kaushiki’s switch between Tamil and Hindi. In a country where language sparks endless debates, here was a performance where words didn’t divide but dissolved. And the audience’s reaction was telling. The applause that broke out when Kaushiki sang a few lines in Tamil was warm and enthusiastic. It’s a strange irony: in a land where people often hesitate to learn their neighbour’s tongue, even a small attempt at crossing linguistic boundaries feels like a revolution. The applause was commendable, yes—but it also spoke volumes about our collective hesitation. Why should singing a handful of lines in Tamil feel like an act of bravery? And yet, in that moment, it did.

At some point, though, just listening wasn’t enough for me. I wanted to know what those Tamil lines meant, so I dug into their essence. And what I found was humbling. The lyrics are not lofty philosophical pronouncements but intimate appeals, a call from the devotee to the divine: a plea for grace, for guidance, for just “one chance” (Oru Murai) to surrender fully. When Kaushiki echoed those lines in Hindi, the simplicity of the sentiment shone even more clearly—faith doesn’t need ornamentation, and devotion doesn’t belong to any single language. The meaning itself felt larger than the vessel carrying it.

And here’s what made the song even closer to my heart: it is set in Hamsadhwani. That raga has always been one of my favourites—bright, uplifting, brimming with optimism. Born in Carnatic music but also embraced in Hindustani circles, Hamsadhwani is, in a way, the perfect metaphor for what this performance achieved. It belongs everywhere and refuses to be claimed by a single tradition. Hearing Sandeep and Kaushiki bring it alive, each colouring it differently, was like watching a familiar place under two kinds of light. Same space, different magic.

The atmosphere wasn’t flashy either. No theatrical overkill, no “look at me” gestures. Just two musicians pouring out devotion. Sandeep’s voice carried a sense of gravity, as though each note had been carefully weighed before being released. Kaushiki matched him with an ease that felt effortless but never careless—you could tell she was anchored in bhakti, but also enjoying the playfulness of it. Together, they weren’t performing for us so much as offering something bigger, and we just happened to overhear.

 Now, you could analyse the performance technically—the ragas, the phrasing, the balance of Carnatic precision with Hindustani fluidity. But doing that would miss the point. The real magic wasn’t in the math of the music, but in how it broke free of the math. It lived in the space where form turns into feeling, where the rules of tradition stop mattering because you’re too busy being moved.

Here’s the thing about songs you play on loop: after a while, you’re not chasing novelty. You’re returning to a particular feeling, like revisiting an old street because it smells familiar. That’s what Oru Murai does. Every replay pulls back another layer. It doesn’t grow stale; it deepens, like listening to your own heartbeat more closely each time.

And maybe that’s why this performance lingers. It wasn’t just a concert; it was a small argument in favour of something we already know but keep forgetting: music does what politics can’t. It unifies without lecturing. Sandeep and Kaushiki didn’t set out to make a statement, but in singing together, they showed us a version of harmony we spend years debating and drafting policies over. A simple ten-minute song accomplished what entire committees often fail to do. That’s both funny and a little humbling.

When the last note fell into silence, the applause came, loud and inevitable. But the truer applause had already happened inside each listener—the kind that doesn’t make noise, the type that simply lets you sit still for a moment because you’ve been reminded of something essential.

So, why do I keep replaying 'Oru Murai'? I could say it’s technically brilliant, culturally relevant, and emotionally rich. All of that is true. But the more straightforward truth is this: it makes me feel human. And in a country where people still argue about whose language deserves primacy, maybe the real punchline is this—music already solved the problem, and we were too busy clapping to notice.

 

The Lyrics We Don’t Hear Until We Do

This morning, I was struck by a strange mix of nostalgia and discomfort.

I was looking for a song to learn next for my music practice — something classic, something rich. This one came to mind almost instinctively. I pulled it up and played it while driving to work. The first time, I was taken in by the melody — smooth, haunting, effortless. The second time, I tuned into the rhythm, let the beat guide my breath, and my mind began to slow. That’s when the lyrics started to really land. Not just as words, but as a story. By the third listen, I found myself reaching for the brakes — not just on the road, but in my thinking. 

I was listening to a beautiful old Hindi film song from the movie Aa Gale Lag Jaa, sung by Kishore Kumar and Lata Mangeshkar, composed by R.D. Burman, and penned by Sahir Ludhianvi. It’s a classic—melodic, romantic, unforgettable. What had felt like a love song was suddenly revealing something else entirely.

There it was again—the quiet pressure women face to comply, to not stand out, to be flattered by persistence that skirts the line of consent.

We often talk about grand gestures and big statements when we talk about sexism. But more often, it's the small things—the offhanded comment, the romantic line, the unchallenged image—that shape how gender roles are understood and reinforced.

A song lyric. A joke. A look. Each of these things, taken alone, might feel harmless. But they build a narrative over time, one that tells women to be desirable but not assertive, to be flattered by pursuit but not too eager, to accept their role in someone else's story. In this case, it is the lyrics that tell the story. 

“Mere hi peeche aakhir pade ho tum kyun
Ek main jawan nahi hoon aur bhi to hain”

She’s asking a fair question. But the response isn’t to respect her boundary—it's to brush past it:

“Jawan kayi hai, lekin jahan mein koyi
Tum sa haseen nahi hai, hum kya karein”

He flatters. He presses on. He refuses to back off.

“Chhuo nahi dekho zara peeche rakho hath”

She’s clearly uncomfortable. But even then, the romantic tone never falters. The melody stays soft, the mood stays playful—as if her protest is just part of the game.

Then comes “Kisi ka to dena hoga, dedo mera sath.” 

This is the most direct admission of the power play. He knows there’s resistance. He knows she hasn’t agreed. But instead of accepting that, he frames submission as inevitable. He reframes consent not as mutual choice, but as something he’s owed.

That’s not love. That’s coercion with a poetic twist.

Imagine the process now: I’m not just listening to the song — I’m learning it. I write the lyrics out by hand, line by line. I break each phrase into its rhythmic pattern, figure out the notations, and repeat the notes until they fall into place, in pitch and in beat. It’s a deeply focused, almost meditative practice. But here’s the thing — while the conscious mind is busy with scales and timing, the unconscious is listening too. The meaning seeps in. Line by line, the story becomes muscle memory. The act of learning turns into an act of internalizing. And without realizing it, I’m not just singing the melody — I’m echoing the message.

I don’t believe this song was written with any malice. These artists were brilliant and well-intentioned. But the effect remains: it normalizes a version of romance where women say no, men don’t listen, and persistence equals passion.

We are taught to see her resistance as coyness, his persistence as charm.

This isn’t about one song. It’s about the culture that shaped—and was shaped by—hundreds of songs, films, and stories like it. These portrayals taught men to chase, to wear women down. They taught women to accept pursuit, even when it feels invasive and to doubt their discomfort. 

It’s tempting to shrug this off as just a song from a different era. A harmless relic of old-school charm.  I doubt that though. If I’m listening to it many years later, if I’m drawn to learn it, rehearse it, embody it — then it’s not just nostalgia. It’s alive. It still holds emotional power, artistic value, and cultural weight. That’s precisely why it matters. Songs like this don’t just live in the past — they live in us, especially when we choose to revisit and recreate them. And if something stays alive that long, we owe it a deeper look. Because what we sing, we carry.

Songs like these are in fact scripts. For many, they were the emotional education of love. And in that education, women were taught to be flattered by pursuit and hesitant to say what they want, while men were taught that a “no” might mean “try harder.”

When girls see this repeated, they internalize that being wanted matters more than being respected. When boys see this, they learn that not taking no for an answer makes them heroic.

It’s easy to say, “Now that you know the meaning is troubling, just compartmentalise. Use the song for music practice — separate the art from the message.” But how does one actually do that? When you’re learning a song, you’re not just skimming its surface — you’re inhabiting it. You’re breathing its rhythm, shaping its emotion, giving voice to its words over and over until they settle into your body. It’s not passive consumption; it’s embodiment. And when the meaning grates against your values, it’s not so simple to shut that part out. You can’t sing with conviction and distance at the same time. The music demands presence — but presence invites absorption. So no, compartmentalising isn’t easy. It’s a negotiation — one that deserves to be acknowledged, not brushed aside.

Does meaning matter? Absolutely! These messages may be subtle, but their influence is profound. Because they don’t scream—they whisper. They tell us who we’re supposed to be. And unless we notice them, we end up absorbing them.  Because when we absorb these narratives over and over, they teach us that persistence is romantic, boundaries are negotiable, and love is something to be earned by wearing someone down.

It matters because when we wrap a dangerous message in a beautiful melody, it becomes hard to question. We teach people to associate dominance with desire, pressure with passion, and emotional manipulation with romance.

The way we challenge these norms is by paying attention. By asking: Why wouldn’t she want to stand out? Why is his insistence treated as love? By seeing the difference between affection and erasure.

Subtle misogyny is harder to challenge than its louder cousin. It’s not a shout — it’s a murmur in a song. It lives in the grey areas: in lyrics we love, characters we root for, scenes we quote. It’s what we absorb when we’re not looking. That’s why it sticks.

The woman in the song spoke up. But the story didn’t make space for her voice — only for his desire.

We can love the music. We can honour the artistry. But we also need to notice what’s being said — and what’s being ignored.

It’s time we start hearing these songs differently — not to cancel them, but to learn from them. To sing with our eyes open. It's about learning to hear them differently. Appreciating the melody while questioning the message. And making space for new stories—where women are not just recipients of desire, but authors of it.

Because in the end, small things add up. And so do the small steps we take to see them more clearly.

I Am Counted, Therefore I Am: What the Census Says About You in a Country of Billions

In a country where population is often described in crores and people sometimes feel like dots on a spreadsheet, it’s easy to wonder—Do I even matter?

But once every decade, something quietly radical happens. A government official knocks (or soon, taps) at your metaphorical door and asks: Who are you? Where are you? What do you do?

It’s called the Census. And no, it’s not just a bureaucratic formality or a throwback to your grandparents’ era of paperwork and pen ink stains. It’s the Indian state’s way of saying to each of its 1.4 billion citizens: You are seen. You are counted. You matter.

Our Census is “us” being seen in the world’s largest crowd. India is the world’s largest democracy and also one of its most complex experiments in coexistence. Languages, faiths, castes, incomes, dreams—all packed into a single subcontinent. It’s beautiful. It’s overwhelming.

And in that sea of humanity, the Census is the one moment where every person is equal in importance. Whether you’re a coding intern in Bengaluru, a tea seller in Guwahati, or a grandmother in Kutch who doesn’t quite trust that tablet the enumerator brings—you count.

In fact, the 2027 Census will be India’s first digital one. No more towering stacks of forms. Instead: tablets, tech, and (regretfully) still no emojis.

Here’s something the new generation might not always pause to consider: being counted has always been the goal, and over the decades, the Census has done its best to reach everyone—across crowded cities, remote villages, winding mountain paths, and quiet coastal hamlets. Enumerators have walked, ridden, and knocked their way through all of India’s complexity.

But here’s the shift we now need to make: while the system has tried to count us, we haven’t always known how to own being counted. Think of it this way—if India were a vast mural, the Census is the moment you pick up a brush and say, “This is where I go. This is my colour. This is my space on the wall.” It’s not just data collection. It’s self-declaration. Being counted isn’t a passive act—it’s a statement: I am here. I exist. I matter.

The narrative of the Census can evolve from one of documentation to one of dignity. And that shift begins with us.

Why Should You Care? Let’s put it this way. You might never visit Parliament, but Parliament is shaped by the Census. You may never draft a government budget, but what your town or village gets depends on the Census. You might think policies are written in Delhi boardrooms—but the data they’re built on? That starts with your name on a census list.

More schools in your neighbourhood? More jobs in your town? More buses, more doctors, more funding? The Census decides.

It’s not just counting heads. It’s creating a map of where India is and where it needs to go.

If Aadhaar is your ID, the Census is your Voice. Yes, you already have an Aadhaar number. You’re on WhatsApp, Instagram, and probably a dozen government portals. So why another “registration”?

Because Aadhaar tells the government that you exist. The Census tells the country who you are, in context—with your family, your community, your language, your history. It’s not just your fingerprint. It’s your footprint.

And while the Census doesn’t give you a blue tick, it gives something far more valuable: civic recognition.

For the Gen Z TL; DR crowd, let’s be real—when it comes to government forms and data collection, your first instinct might be: “Ugh, it’s not giving relevance.” But the Census? That’s different.

It’s giving: Visibility

It’s giving: legit representation 

It’s giving: “I see you, I hear you, I fund your district accordingly.” 

So no, it’s not just another official chore. It’s your IRL blue tick from the world’s largest democracy.

Next time the Census comes knocking—digitally or otherwise—don’t ghost. Say your name. Mark your space. Claim your mural spot.

Because being counted? That’s giving identity. That’s giving power. That’s giving “I matter.”

Next time someone whips out a tablet for the Census, don’t side-eye it. That’s your ‘I’m here’ moment. Own it.

There’s something quietly revolutionary about saying, “I’m here.” Not metaphorically—literally. And knowing that your presence changes how the country thinks, spends, builds, heals.

That’s what the Census does. It says: We don’t just govern the people. We know the people. And every single one of them matters.

So in 2027, when a government official (or a tablet screen) comes your way, don’t brush it off like junk mail. Take a breath, answer the questions, and stand your ground. You are not just a number. You are a number that changes everything.

Because in this democracy, being counted is not just a right—it is a declaration: I am here. I belong. I matter.

 

 

Of Deadlifts and Enterprise: The Heavyweights of Progress

The gym is, bar none, the most ironic classroom I’ve ever enrolled myself in. You join it dreaming of chiseled glory, biceps like boulders, perhaps a shorts-worthy pair of thighs—and yet what you end up with, month after month, is a series of uninvited life lessons wrapped in sweat and soreness. It turns out that lifting weights isn’t just a workout; it’s a philosophical inquiry into the nature of progress, pain, and the peculiar ways we sabotage ourselves.

As I reflect on my 1.5-year relationship with weight training, I can’t help but laugh at the naivety of my early ambitions. Year one was glorious—deadlifting 100 kilograms, dropping six off my own bodyweight, and basking in the kind of post-workout confidence that makes you fancy yourself as a superpower. Naturally, I assumed year two would follow the same curve. Except, it didn’t.

Progress slowed. My original goal of lifting 120 kilograms and hitting 60 kilograms on the scale remained stubbornly out of reach. I found myself stuck—pushing and pulling in a literal and figurative sense—like I do when staring at the same spreadsheet for hours with no real results. And this is where my trainer enters the scene, his enthusiasm boundless and his patience maddeningly relentless.

Think of my trainer as the Sisyphus of logic—every time I come up with an excuse, he relentlessly rolls it back down the hill. “Flexibility,” he insists. “Mobility. Address your weaknesses!” And when I roll my eyes at the wisdom (and occasionally wish for him to get one exercise wrong so that I can cry out in victory), he does something infuriating: he turns out to be absolutely right.

His logic isn’t just unavoidable; it’s bulletproof. Training, he informs me, is less about raw strength and more about eliminating the inefficiencies preventing me from using my strength effectively. Where I see slowness, he sees opportunity, a chance to identify what’s holding me back. “Your hamstrings are like steel cables,” he grins; it’s unclear if he means this as a compliment or criticism, but the foam roller calls, and I leg curl bitterly.

By now, I’ve realized my problem isn’t just about physical slack—it’s also mental. I expected my body to accelerate as it did in year one when the real secret is that the foundation wasn’t even finished. Sure, I could lift—badly—but my rigid hips, neglected glutes, and stiff ankles had joined forces to play defence against progress. Success wasn’t in adding weight; it was in tearing down the bad habits that wouldn’t let me use my potential.

Of Squat Racks and Startups -  this essay was partly inspired by a conversation with a friend who runs an IT company. Hearing him talk, I couldn’t help but notice how the trajectory of his business mirrored my own fitness journey, albeit on a grander scale.

When he founded the company in 2007, it was as if he, too, had walked into a gym for the first time. The early years were all about enthusiasm and grit. With a team of just twenty, they pushed through sheer effort, growing slowly and steadily to a modest twenty-five employees over a decade. But then came the tipping point. In the last four years, they exploded to a hundred staff members, their work gaining recognition and clients flocking to their brand.

From the outside, the success story looks seamless. But as he spoke, he said something that resonated deeply with my own struggles: the real challenge wasn’t growth. It was dealing with what had been ignored during the early years. As the spotlight shone brighter and the workload piled higher, inefficiencies in internal processes—the company’s “slack” in communication, data management, and operations—became glaringly obvious. Without strong systems, it was a herculean task to keep track of the “body” of the organization. Decisions lagged, resources weren’t fully optimized, and talented employees were overburdened.

Sound familiar? Just like in my training, the building stage was exciting. You rush toward visible progress: numbers lifting up (or, in my case, pounds going down). But scaling the next mountain requires something else entirely—it’s about fine-tuning the machine itself. You’re not just building muscle; you’re fixing how the muscle works.

In both gyms and offices, addressing the slack is tedious, sometimes demoralizing. Nobody writes a motivational book about ankle mobility or an employee performance review template. There’s no applause for spending two months focused solely on breathing patterns, nor does anyone celebrate the ten minutes you add to your dynamic warm-up to fix your lopsided squat. But those quiet, painstaking adjustments determine whether you’ll move to the next level—or collapse under the shiny new weight you so desperately wanted to carry.

The Truth About Strength - there’s a saying you hear a lot in gyms: “Leg day is mandatory.” When I first encountered it, I dismissed it as yet another stupid slogan, right up there with “No pain, no gain.” But the irony of this particular cliché is how deeply it cuts, especially when you consider the reality of where strength actually resides.

Somewhere along the way, my trainer shared an eye-opening statistic: 75% of the muscle in your body lives in your lower half. And yet, ask anyone to define “strength,” and chances are they’ll start flexing their biceps or puffing out their chest. It’s the upper body that captures the imagination; the legs are treated like an afterthought, as though their sole purpose is to hoist the upper body from place to place.

Those misconceptions echoed in my own training—and, again, in the way my friend described his business. Just like gyms glorify bench presses and biceps curls, companies chase the visible, headline-worthy aspects of success: signing clients, scaling teams, launching products. But if the legs of the operation—back-end systems, mobility (pun intended), and processes—aren’t strengthened, eventually the whole enterprise starts to wobble.

For me, acknowledging this has meant embracing leg day (grumbling all the while). Squats, front and back, have become a ritual—they’re unsexy but transformative. The legs are the engine, the foundation builders of everything else, and investing in their development feels like unlearning the glamor and relearning the essence.

My focus today is in removing the Slack, in Life and Lifting. As I inch closer to my goals—120 kilograms on the barbell, the elusive 60 kilograms on the scale—I’ve come to realize that progress isn’t linear, nor is it grand and dramatic. It’s stopping mid-lift to reevaluate where your feet should be. It’s listening to an annoying and frustrating, BUT highly accurate trainer. It’s recognizing when your body (or your business) is stuck not because you aren’t trying hard enough, but because invisible weaknesses need attention.

If I’ve gained anything in these 1.5 years of training, it isn’t just muscle or even wisdom—it’s an appreciation for the work we don’t see in progress photos or performance reviews. Fixing slack—those inefficiencies holding you back—isn’t glamorous, but it’s essential.

And when you finally feel the clean, taut tension of a well-executed lift or an organization firing on all cylinders, you’ll know that success isn’t built on glamour. It’s built on patience, humility, and a little stubborn persistence. Just ask my trainer. Or better yet, don’t. He’ll keep talking about it and irritating me again and again, and yet again!!

JAT: A Cinematic Head Injury I Willingly Inflicted Upon Myself!!!

Every once in a while, life gives you a test. Some people climb mountains. Others run marathons. I watched Jat.

After a long day of grown-up things—emails, calls, and pretending I knew what I was doing in a spreadsheet—I craved something brainless. Something loud, silly, disposable. So I hit play on Jat. This was a catastrophic mistake.

Believe you me it is a plate of Idli that launched a thousand punches. The film begins innocently. Sunny Deol, now a Brigadier, is sitting in a small Andhra town in Prakasam District, peacefully eating an idli.

Enter a random thug. He bumps into Sunny. The idli falls. Sunny stares. Calmly says:

“Apologise.”

The thug laughs and says the most dangerous words in cinema: “Do you know who I am?”

From there, things escalate with military precision:

• Goon ➝ gets punched

• Goon’s boss, Suba Reddy ➝ refuses to say sorry ➝ gets punched

• Suba’s boss, Somulu ➝ also refuses ➝ punched

• Finally, the problem is escalated to… Ranatunga

Yes. Over a fallen idli. I will never look at South Indian breakfast the same way again.

With this Sunny ka “2.5 Kilo Ka Haath” has entered the building. The Brigadier is in full roar mode. At one point, he bellows—louder than a jet engine—

“Yeh dhai kilo ka haath North nein ne dekha hain… ab South dekhega!

Jab yeh haath uthta hai, desh jhoomta hai!”

Sir, please we are in the south! We want some simple breakfast, not seismic events.

Now, meet Ranatunga - the Villain, a narcissist and most importantly a meteorological authority. Ranatunga appears in all his glory—moustache, sunglasses, and a voice like barbed wire. He delivers the single most unhinged line of the decade:

“Jahaan tu khadaa hai, zameen meri hai. Aasmaan mera hai.

Sooraj mujhse poochh ke ugta hai.

Tu kaun hai?

Main? MAIN HOON JAT!!”

At this point, I wanted to open my window just to check the sun was still rising independently. It was night time!!! So, cannot confirm that yet.  I would like to hope that the sun perhaps barely survived. I also believe that the censor board wanted to cut short the film and hence there were some deleted Ranatunga quotes:

• “Mausam mujhse NOC leke badalta hai.”
• “Main hi satellite hoon. Baaki sab antenna hai.”
• “Main sochta hoon… aur earth rotate karta hai.”
• “Google mujhe confirm karke answer deta hai.”

If he’d claimed to own the ozone layer, I wouldn’t have blinked.

Meanwhile, a Thorium conspiracy is also happening. Just when you think the idli-fueled brawls are enough, the film zooms out. We learn that Davos-level global terrorists have their eyes on Prakasam District… because it’s secretly rich in thorium. Naturally! Clearly, when you want to destabilize global power, you skip Geneva and go straight to semi-rural Andhra Pradesh.

 The villagers – That’s a different story. I started wondering if were in 2025 or 1962? The villagers in this film are noble, shawled, and permanently confused. They appear to be:

• Time travelers from a Doordarshan drama
• Bewildered by electricity
• Waiting for a miracle or a memo from Nehru

Do they have WhatsApp? Do they vote? Has Jio reached them?

Honestly, the whole film feels like it’s set in the Neanderthal Era, with Sunny Deol as the first man to discover fire (and yell at it).

 Then Came My Real Mistake: I announced that I was watching  Jat. At some point—God help me—I posted on WhatsApp:

“Watching Jat. Lol.”

The responses were swift and unforgiving:

• “Are you drunk?”
• “Do you need medical help?”
• “This is self-inflicted pain, Radhe.”
• “Even Race 3 is a more coherent choice.”
• “Delete this message before future generations find it.”

Friends disowned me. Cousin started sending voice notes ridiculing my choice. As if words weren't enough, I had to listen to them too. One person sent me a photo of a coffin with “Your taste in cinema” written on it. The final twist was me being nominated for a bravery award. Yes! This morning I woke up to a message that I’m being nominated for a National Bravery Award.

Apparently, I’ll be receiving it on January 26, 2026, from none other than the President of India. It all tracks.

After all, the movie opens with a little village girl writing a letter to the President, asking for help. Sunny Deol is deployed. The nation is jhoomed into motion.

And now, I, the woman who sat through this cinematic thunderstorm, am being honoured too. The President is the common thread—between her story and mine.

Jat Is Not a Film. It’s a Weapon.

Let’s be clear: Jat is not entertainment. It’s a national endurance test.

There are: No songs, No heroine and No peace

Just Sunny Deol yelling into the wind, and a villain who thinks the atmosphere belongs to him.

And yes, all of it starts with an idli. So if you ever find yourself holding a soft, innocent South Indian breakfast, please show respect. Apologise pre-emptively. Don’t challenge the chain of command. You never know when Sunny Deol might rise… and make the desh jhoom again.

Day 11- 12: Ups, Downs, and Desert Contradictions

As Day 11 began, our journey stretched from the cobblestoned charm of Cambridge via Heathrow to the buzzing energy of Abu Dhabi, from a land of academic grandeur and flat monotony to an entirely different world of speed, sand, and stars. But let's gloss over the cab ride that stood out in its own right—90 minutes of insightful chatter served piping hot with a generous side of wit, courtesy of our middle-aged cabbie, Balan.

Who knew the man behind the wheel had a story as layered as the UK countryside he zipped through? A maths teacher turned philosopher (at least for that hour and a half), Balan taught Maths to children with tough histories and learning disabilities. If that wasn't interesting enough, he had a remarkable knack for dissecting landscapes, equating their appeal to human temperament. "Good landscapes are never flat," he said, his voice lilting between nostalgia and pragmatism. "Flat land is boring to everyone. That's probably why some say Cambridge is boring."

The irony was on our faces! Cambridge, the "city of learning," reduced to the tedium of its topography. Genius grows on flat land—that's the punchline no one tells you during those walking tours. But the man had a point. Perhaps it is in the peaks and valleys, both in land and life, where adventure truly resides.

Balan and I lingered on philosophical meadows as he praised British drivers' trust in their roads. "The kind of trust where they know you'll signal every turn," he chuckled, no traffic horns in sight. I couldn't help but laugh, thinking of the beautiful chaos of Indian roads—a horn honked here, a scooter slithered there, and Jugaad ruled above all. Trust? Overrated. Give me improvisation any day.

I briefly lamented not driving myself; my Indian license was valid. But then again, where's the fun if you don't get lost at least once and question every road sign? That extra dose of confusion—it keeps me awake.

Soon enough, we landed in Abu Dhabi. From the quaint English countryside to a land of relentless modernity, the juxtaposition was stark. We checked in at the W hotel, elegantly perched beside the adrenaline-fueled Formula 1 race track. Our room, with its sprawling balcony (compared to those we experienced in the UK) overlooking the track, was the kind of space that whispered indulgence and causal lavishness in the same breath. Watching cars whip past below would have been phenomenal. But alas, I'd have to settle for imagining the symphony of engines roaring—speed always seems sweeter when it's just out of reach.

Abu Dhabi quickly flipped the switch on my mood. From the depths of Balan's reflective thoughts, I catapulted straight into Ferrari's shiny, roaring world. Ferrari World is one of those places that makes you ask absurd existential questions mid-ride: Can happiness be bought? Why, yes, in this case, it can. Strapped into the red monster of a ride, I experienced it firsthand. My cheeks stretched taut from sheer velocity as the car hurtled from zero to 140 km/hour in under three seconds. If controlled chaos had a soundtrack, it would be the Ferrari engine purring relentlessly beneath me.

And just when I thought life had sped up enough, we veered into an entirely different tempo—the desert safari, a ride far removed from the sleek simplicity of Ferrari but equally adrenaline-driven in its way. Before charging into the dunes, the first reality check quietly unfolded—the vehicle's tyres had to be deflated to just 40% of their regular pressure. Only then could the car glide through that shifting, sinking kingdom of tan. A desert may seem soft and giving, but its sand has its form of resistance that can trap even the sturdiest of wheels. Reduce the pressure, loosen your grip, allow room for adjustment, and you'll sail (pun intended) through. The metaphor was almost too obvious to miss. Sometimes in life, too, you've got to ease out, adapt, strip away your rigidity, and align with your surroundings. Once the sand is behind you and you're back on solid ground, pump that pressure—restore your firm footing, fill yourself up to full strength, and resume the straight and steady march forward.

Now, the desert is a moody poet. Underneath its apparent simplicity—the endless swirls of blistered sand—it harbours a symphony of contradictions. It's a place that humbles you, a reminder that nature, in all its starkness, has no time for vanity. Perched on the sand, dune bashing transforms the serene landscape into an adrenaline-laced theme park. The sudden dips, the steep climbs—it's like riding the earth's most unpredictable rollercoaster.

But the desert isn't just about the excitement of being tossed around in an SUV. It's also in the moments where silence stretches so deep you can hear your thoughts vibrating against the night stars. Watching the fiery sun fall into submission behind the horizon and the cool, glinting stars take over—it felt oddly… impartial. The desert doesn't ask who you are; it lets you figure that out as you trudge through its sand, stumble a little, and curse its scorching sun.

As I knelt to let the fine grains slip through my fingers, I laughed at how sand is both mercifully light and agonizingly persistent. It clings. Just like thoughts, just like people. You can try shaking it off, but it's resistant. As I struggled to keep my footing on shifting dunes, I realized this was no easy territory to navigate, neither in the literal sense nor the metaphorical one. It's a test of patience, resilience, and keeping your humour intact even as your shoes fill with sand.

By contrast, the UK roads and Cambridge flats flashed in my mind—the ease of their outlines, the reassurance of their predictability. Yet, I stumbled upon an epiphany under the infinite sky of the Abu Dhabi desert, careening across dunes and quiet landscapes alike. Adventure thrives in contrast. Aluminium skyscrapers glorify speed, but the sunset on the dunes slows time. Flatlands nurture structure, but rugged terrains spark curiosity. Trust governs orderly British streets, while Indian chaos pulses with creativity.

And perhaps Balan was on to something back in the car, cruising miles away from those Arabian sands. Like a good landscape, life is never interesting if it's too flat. So, here's to the bumps, the curves, the climb, and the sand that refuses to let go.