On the Edge of Myself

This is the third chakra workshop I've attended. By now, I thought I could recite the basics in my sleep. And yet, I keep hearing familiar things like they're new. The words haven't changed—but their meanings shift. Maybe I'm finally listening. Or maybe life has just worn me down to the point where the questions actually land.

Yesterday's focus was the root chakra. The one tied to safety, stability, and tribe—family, blood, and belonging. I was told to sit with the idea of presence. Not in a poetic, Instagram caption kind of way. Just Be in the moment. And from there, ask—Who am I?

It's a question that sounds abstract until it crashes into real life. And right now, my life is jam-packed. My sister's away, so I'm juggling care for my niece. Work is its usual hurricane. A close friend's father is slipping away. An ex-colleague has floated a consulting gig I should apparently be "perfect for." And somewhere in that chaos, I'm supposed to plan the interiors of a new house. Another friend is buzzing about his son's wedding—and in the same breath, calling me to vent about his 80-year-old mother, who decided to stand for four hours frying pooris precisely how she likes them. She collapsed from exhaustion, and Sanjay was stuck somewhere between panic, guilt, frustration, and the desperate need to take a breath. I was standing in my office, still holding the terrible cup of tea from the vending machine, fresh off a sharp, exhausting argument with my sales manager. My jaw was still clenched. My pulse hadn't slowed. And now I was trying to calm someone else down.

So there I was—one hand holding my mug, the other holding the phone—offering soothing words while my brain was still on fire—a banter of speeding words in a tornado of hurling moments.

Am I supposed to be grounded? In the moment? How? And where exactly am I supposed to be in this "moment"? They're all elbowing each other for space. Is it even possible to sit still in the middle of that? Or are we just cycling through our roles—caretaker, friend, professional, dreamer—without ever fully stepping out of any of them?

The other day, I had workers over at the new house: one contractor, four carpenters, a plumber, an electrician, and two drivers thrown in for good measure. All men. All marched through like they were prepping for a Mars landing. Measuring walls, tapping floors, opening cupboards, and announcing things like, "This will have to go," and "Madam, this floor planning is from another era."

I was nodding, asking questions, pretending to understand what "load-bearing" meant. Then, out of nowhere, the question—Who am I blindsided me. Not gently. It's more like an ambush. Borderline accusatory. 

Who was I in that room? The homeowner. The one with the budget. The final say. And I still felt like I'd wandered onto a film set and missed the script briefing.

So I did what anyone would do when existential dread meets electrical fittings: I breathed and said, "JUST just do what I'm asking you to do."

Not my most spiritual moment. But very much mine.

Strangely, all of this reminds me of when I was training for a marathon. My trainer—who I initially thought was a sadist in running shoes—insisted I run barefoot. Not to "connect with the earth" or anything romantic like that. Just to feel every step. "Rest your foot fully. Feel the ground with each stride. Every inch. Then move." It was agonizingly slow. I wanted speed. He wanted presence. One nano-step at a time.

It was like being ambushed by Victor Frankl mid-run.

It is the pause between inhale and exhale—that minuscule beat between breathing in and out. Like a lightning bolt, it reminded me of Frankl again—the space between stimulus and response. That invisible pause where choice lives.

If I believe in that pause—and try to notice it, even just once—does that count as being present? Or am I just dissecting the moment so much that I miss it entirely?

Honestly, I don't know. But it's forcing me to look closer at the "I" in all this. The one who is running, signing checks, planning house interiors, juggling emotions, and trying to track her breath.

The root chakra is supposed to be about stability. But maybe it's also about not falling apart mid-scene. Maybe it's learning to carry the chaos with a bit of humour, a little awareness, and the tiny hope that even in the blur, you're still somewhere in there—trying to land on your own two feet.

And maybe—just maybe—if I'd remembered the marathon, I could've placed my words like my feet and slowed down. Felt the floor. Said, "Yes, that floor plan is from another era," and take one grounded step at a time. But then again, that's the thing about wisdom. It always shows up just after the contractor leaves.

 

Instinct, Inheritance, and the Pause in Between

“My daughter gave birth last week,” Jyoti tells me, her eyes brimming. “It had to be a boy. But it’s a girl.”

She says it with the heartbreak of a mother expecting tragedy, not a grandmother celebrating life. I freeze. Not because I haven’t heard this sentiment before—but because it still lands like a slap.

This is Jyoti—my cook, my help, and a mother of two daughters. A woman who quietly pulled together 35 lakhs to get one of them married. Thirty-five lakhs!!! That’s years of grinding, saving, borrowing, and probably skipping things for herself. But all that still didn’t buy her the social currency she was hoping for: a grandson.

As if this wasn’t enough, she says that life decides to throw another weight at her.

Just weeks before the birth, her sister-in-law dies. And Jyoti’s husband is forced to pay for the funeral. Why? Because the sister’s husband—yes, the actual spouse of the deceased—believes it’s the brother’s duty to handle it. Not his. Because she was “his” sister. Because women, even in death, come with invoices. Apparently, being female means someone else always has to pay for you. You’re a burden at birth, an expense at marriage, and a liability even at your cremation.

This is the kind of logic that quietly shapes lives—especially women’s lives—across homes, classes, and generations.

I think of my mother and my aunt. Two women who don’t cry openly like Jyoti, but fight their own battles with as much pain—just tucked behind tight jaws and long silences. My mother, who told us we should be independent. Who held education like a sword in one hand and survival in the other. 

My aunt, who still demands and apologizes for wanting things for herself and does both with equal passion. It’s like her mind and heart are running in opposite directions—one charging forward, the other yanking her back by the collar. Watching her is like watching someone wrestle with invisible hands. She’s constantly negotiating with internal voices—some hers, some inherited, all loud.

Both are strong. But they are also caught in a quiet war—not with the world anymore, but with themselves.

There is what they feel.

There is what they were taught to feel.

And then there is what they’re only now, slowly, starting to feel—after years of reflection, rumination, regret.

It’s a strange and exhausting emotional triangle. One where the spontaneous collides with the socialized. Where instinct says I want more, but habit says be grateful. And somewhere in between, after enough sleepless nights and second-guessing, something real starts to break through.

That inner confrontation—between impulsive reactions, deep-rooted conditioning, and newly-formed self-awareness—can feel like an earthquake under your skin. A bewildering trilemma, as Erik Pevernagie puts it.

And that’s the thing about many women of their generation: they’re not just fighting patriarchy. They’re fighting their own internal wiring, built carefully by decades of society whispering (or shouting) what they should feel.

So no, it’s not always about rebellion. Sometimes, it’s about quiet disruption. Not the kind that makes headlines—but the kind that makes you pause at the sink, stare out the window, and finally admit: I wanted more than this. And I didn’t know I was allowed to.

My mother and aunt are strong. But they are also tired. Because they are constantly fighting. Fighting for voice. For respect. For space. For air. And above all, fighting their past. Every day. Like it’s a ghost that sits at the kitchen table with them, judging, doubting, reminding them of the women they were supposed to be but refused to become.

But here’s the thing: do we have to keep fighting the past?

What does it do to a woman to be in constant resistance mode? What does it do to her children to watch her always either defending herself or correcting the world?

There’s a cost to surviving. A fatigue that seeps into the next generation. We inherit not just our mothers’ ambitions, but also their trauma. Their anxiety. Their blueprint for “not this life.”

And what is that blueprint, really? Often, it’s a series of negations:

Not like my mother.

Not like my childhood.

Not like that silence.

But when you build a future only in opposition to the past, you’re not dreaming—you’re dodging. You’re not designing your life, you’re reacting to someone else’s.

So again: what do we pass on?

My niece, at 15, already knows something I took decades to learn. “If boys had periods,” she said one day, casually, “pads and tampons would be free. And we’d get a holiday every month.” No filter, no apology, Just pure clarity. 

But then I watch her mother—my sister—live out a very different reality. She wants to push back at work, to speak up when things aren’t fair. And sometimes she does. But more often, she sighs and says, “What’s the point? Nothing’s going to change.”

It frustrates me. I get angry. I start pushing—say something, demand better, fight back.

And then I wonder: how different am I from the very system I resist? The one that tells women how to behave. What to feel. What strength should look like. Am I just pushing a shinier version of control and calling it feminism?

She’s not failing the movement. She’s just tired. She’s just surviving. And she gets to decide what survival looks like for her.

Maybe the work now isn’t about insisting everyone fights the same way. Maybe it’s about making space for every woman to define her own fight. Her own wants. Her own worth.

We are what we remember, what we inherit, and what we challenge.

Jyoti’s tears. My mother’s resistance. My aunt’s exhaustion. My niece’s sass. My sister’s surrender. They’re all part of the same story. Women giving voice to disparity—across generations, across class, in kitchens and boardrooms and WhatsApp groups and whispers at 2am.

Some in grief. Some in fire. Some in punchlines. But always—always—in truth.

Change doesn’t always come roaring in. Sometimes it arrives in the quiet recognition that the mould we’re running from is still shaping us. And maybe the work now isn’t just to reject the past, but to reimagine what we build in its place.

So no—it didn’t have to be a boy.

It has to be a world where every girl is enough.

Where women can want more—without guilt.

Where strength isn’t measured in how loud we yell, but in how gently we allow each other to grow.

And maybe that’s how we move forward—not by erasing the past, but by refusing to be trapped in its logic.

Instinct, Inheritance, and the Pause in Between

FLAT(ly) Single-Minded: A Loan Odyssey

So, you’ve decided to apply for a bank loan. Congratulations! You’ve officially entered the world of endless paperwork, vague explanations, and polite but patronising smiles. And if you happen to be a woman? Well, buckle up because this ride has bonus features—like unsolicited financial advice, invisible barriers, and the delightful assumption that a man should probably handle this for you.

The Builder— the place where It All Begins. It all starts innocently enough. You want to build something—a house, a business, an empire. You talk to a builder. You ask about costs, timelines, and materials. And then, like clockwork, the moment arrives:

“Would you like to bring someone else along for the financial discussions?”

Not your husband specifically, no—nobody dares to be that obvious. But the preference is clear. A man would be better. A father, a brother, even a distant male cousin might do. Because why would a woman—two women, in fact—want to take on a loan by themselves?

Next is the bank manager to whom Marriage is The Ultimate Collateral. You step into the bank with documents, plans, and an optimistic heart. You’re prepared. You know what you want. You’ve read up on interest rates and repayment plans. But instead of a straightforward discussion, you get a slow, deliberate explanation of “how loans work” (as if this is your first brush with adulthood), a subtle but persistent sense of discomfort at your lack of male companionship, and then—the real kicker—the sudden discovery that two sisters cannot take a loan together.

Yes, you read that right. Two financially independent sisters, one a CEO of an IT company, the other a Director and Board Member, cannot jointly apply for a loan because that’s not how the system works.

A father and son? No problem.
A husband and wife? Of course.
A brother and sister? If the sister is financially dependent on the brother, sure.

But two women, standing shoulder to shoulder, as equals? That is a financial anomaly. So you sit there, trying to explain to the bank that you both have incomes, understand risk, and intend to repay the loan—like any other loan applicant. And then comes the next delightful question:

“But, ma’am, what if your husbands refuse to pay in the event of an eventuality?”

What if who refuses to pay?

Ah. Right. The assumption is baked in. If two women take a loan, surely their husbands (real, hypothetical, or entirely imaginary) must be considered part of the equation.

“We are not married.”

Silence. A polite but strained smile.

“Yes, ma’am. That is also the problem.”

At this point, you must ask what exactly the problem is.

Is it a gender thing? Probably. Because a man, whether single, married, or in a lifelong relationship with his own reflection, would never be asked this. Is it a societal expectation thing? Definitely. Because, as women, we are still expected to belong to someone—to have a husband, a legal guardian, or, at the very least, an emergency male representative on standby. Or is the bank simply scared of two independent women making financial decisions without an apparent male heir to inherit their assets and liabilities? Maybe that’s the real fear. Who will carry the financial lineage? Who will inherit the debt should one of us be struck by lightning or, more realistically, exhaustion from dealing with this nonsense? What if, as sisters, we forget who owns what? What if—brace yourself—we refuse to fight over it?

It’s terrifying. The very idea that two women could apply for a loan together without needing a man to bless the endeavour. The banking system simply wasn’t designed for this level of sisterhood.

And so, we find ourselves in a surreal conversation where the lack of a husband isn’t just a minor inconvenience—it’s a full-blown financial crisis. Because, in the eyes of the bank, to be married is to be sorted. A husband is financial security. A husband is risk mitigation. A husband is the answer to every uncomfortable question.

Dealing with our Bank Relationship Manager was a lesson in endurance. His job is to support you. And yet, every conversation feels like a test. He calls you ma’am a little too often, insists on explaining things you already understand, seems deeply puzzled by your financial independence, and assumes the final decision-maker is not you.

But at least you now understand the bank’s philosophy: Marriage = Problem Solved

You: I am financially stable.

Bank: Okay, but are you married?

You: I have a steady income.

Bank: That’s great, but do you have a husband?

You: I can pay back the loan.

Bank: Yes, but what if you suddenly—hypothetically—get married?

At this point, you wonder if they’re about to suggest finding a husband just to make the paperwork easier. Maybe that’s the ultimate financial hack—marry for a smoother banking experience.

And then, just when you think you’ve survived it all, a well-meaning friend, your boss, or that ever-helpful male colleague casually reminds you about that financial literacy program—specially designed for women, of course—the one you somehow missed. Despite running businesses, managing budgets, and navigating the labyrinth of loan applications, you need a seminar on “How to Handle Money Like a Responsible Adult (for Women Only).”

Have you ever met a man who mismanages his finances? Of course, you have. We all have. But somehow, nobody suggests that he go for training. No one pulls him aside to gently recommend a workshop on “How Not to Buy Useless Gadgets” or “A Beginner’s Guide to Budgeting Beyond Beer Money.” But for women? Oh, there’s a program for everything.

How to manage your finances. How to understand investments. How to budget better. It’s as if being a woman automatically means you need extra coaching, like a remedial class for the financially clueless. Meanwhile, in the same breath, banks will also assume that you must be the equivalent of a CFO because you’re independent, successful, and applying for a loan without a husband.

So which is it? Do I need remedial training, or am I supposed to know everything already? Because if all women need financial training, shouldn’t all men be CFOs? Seriously?

And amid all this, the constant, nagging self-doubt creeps in like an uninvited guest at a party. Should I have outsourced this? Am I capable? Is there some secret financial language that only men are born understanding? The mental gymnastics required to silence these thoughts is almost as exhausting as explaining, for the tenth time, that no, we do not have husbands co-signing our financial decisions. And so, here we are: two sisters, leaning on each other, determined to push through, armed with sheer willpower, sarcasm, and an unhealthy amount of wine.

Here’s the real question: Are we being too sensitive? Are we bad at understanding financial jargon? Or was the system never designed to see two women as equals to a man? Because let’s be honest—no one asks a man if his wife will cover his debts. No one assumes he needs permission to borrow money. No one struggles to process his loan because they can’t find the right category for “two independent men applying together.”

So maybe the problem isn’t that we don’t understand finances. Perhaps financial institutions don’t know how to process the fact that we do. And until that changes, every woman applying for a loan will need two things: a sharp mind and an even sharper sense of humour. Because if we don’t laugh, we might just scream.

 

Chithi and the Perpetual Inconvenience of Existence

It is one of life’s little certainties, like Chennai’s humidity - ever present, soul-crushing, skin burning, and impossible to escape -  that when Ranganayaki Krishnaswamy appears on the scene, doom is afoot. We all call her Chithi (meaning mom’s younger sister). Remember to pronounce it correctly. It is CHITHI. Not Cheenti (ant), not Chitthi (letter), not Cheatee… Do I need to explain that? You always ALWAYS, refer to her right! Unless you want to get wrangled in a conversational ambush that will make you feel like the British leaving Kabul – cold, battered, and questioning all your life choices. Let me tell you why!!!

There are aunts, and then there are Aunts—and my dear old Chithi belonged firmly in the latter category, the sort that makes her older siblings cringe, nephews and nieces shudder, and priests and well-known artists slink away under the sofa. In her head, she is one of the elite who has read and understood the scriptures, studied the art and craft of painting (most often painting the city red), and has the absolute understanding and solutions to all that is within the boundaries of what we terms as World Politics. The woman has a presence that can command armies, bend wills, and strike terror into the hearts of specialist doctors.

For twenty years now, my sister and I have been financially supporting Chithi, a state of affairs that was, as these things often are, very unnecessary BUT entirely inevitable and wholly inescapable.

Not that she is ungrateful, mind you. No, Chithi had long made it clear that her dependence on us was the greatest humiliation since the defeat of the Marathas at the third battle of Panipat, and yet any mild hint that she should live within her means is always treated as a direct assault on her dignity.

I have, through bitter experience, learned to maintain a healthy distance between myself and the catastrophe’s that hit her. But fate, as ever, had other plans.

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Let me tell you about the whole bizarre business that began a month back on a bright Wednesday morning, which, in my opinion, is too early in the week for any kind of life-altering crises. It’s too early in the day to reach for your brandy and too early in the week to consider falling ill. 

“Vijaya,” she announced over the telephone, in the sort of grim tone usually reserved for announcing the start of an Indo-Pak cricket match, “I am being evicted.”

“Evicted?” I said, nearly dropping my toast. “Since when?”

“I was informed three months ago.”

Three. Months.

“And you are telling us now?”

“I didn’t want to bother you,” she said in the lofty manner of someone who has been waiting specifically for the most inconvenient moment to bring it up.

“And yet, here we are, bothered.”

“It’s terrible, Vijaya,” she continued. “A woman of my standing, fair and courteous always thrown out like—like—”

“Really?”

She ignored me. “We must act swiftly. I refuse to live in a shoebox.” (A shoebox that she had been living in for close to a decade!!)

What followed was a frantic two-week sprint, in which my sister Vidya and I were dispatched like errand girls to secure a house suitable to her precise requirements—a task so Herculean that I felt that some sort of civic medal was definitely in order.

The final selection was met with a series of long inhalations and even longer exhalations clearly indicating  her supreme disapproval and a reluctant, “I suppose this will do. I don’t have much of a choice, do I”

Victory, or so I foolishly thought.

And then came the sigh.

“But why, Vijaya,” she lamented, “why am I still alive to suffer this indignity? No one also tries to understand me”

Defeat!

I also wonder why we were ever named Vijaya and Vidya. Neither us have in any and all of our altercations with Chithi emerged victorious or dealt with it intelligently. Defeat again! 

The Surgeon Gets Interviewed for His Own Job

Chithi had been in and out of hospitals, battling the sort of ailments that would have had the decency to finish off lesser mortals. Twice, she had defied medical statistics, much to the astonishment of her doctors and, I suspect, to the mild irritation of the Yamagupta himself.

It was during one such stay that she found herself in the hands of a top-notch specialist, a doctor whose name was prefixed by an alarming number of letters and titles. She looked at him with her most intimidating gaze. (The gaze was not intended, that is who Chithi is!)

“I will need you to walk me through the procedure, step by step.”

“Certainly, madam. The operation is a straightforward—”

“No, no,” she interrupted. “I need every detail. If I don’t approve of it, I shall not clear you for the surgery.”

Let us be clear. Chithi is a woman with no medical background. She definitely had occasionally dabbled with diagnosing herself on WebMD. With that dabbled experience, she wanted to clear the surgeon for a life-saving operation.

The man, to his credit, attempted reason.

“Madam, I assure you, I have performed this procedure hundreds of times.”

“Hundreds?” she repeated, eyes narrowing. “And how many of them have perished under your knife?”

At this point, I was fairly certain the doctor was considering walking into traffic.

The Funeral That Must Meet Her Standards

One might assume that a woman who regularly declares, “Why am I still alive?” would have no particular opinions about her eventual demise. One would be wrong.

“Vijaya,” she said one evening, her tone suggesting that a matter of national importance was about to be discussed.

“Yes, Chithi?”

“I have decided that my funeral must be conducted with a certain standard.”

My stumbled leg and stuttered tongue with difficulty found words, “You mean… your funeral that you constantly claim will never come soon enough?”

“Yes. There is nothing worse than a terrible send-off.”

She then proceeded to outline her vision: No cheap flowers, no wailing women and most importantly, a priest with proper diction. “Some of them rush through the prayers, Vijaya. I shall need to test him first.”

“You want to interview the priest?” I asked faintly.

“Well, if I don’t, who else will get it right?”

Truly, death would be her final inconvenience.

That was the last straw for me. I just had to get back home, and take the support of my dear friend – the Brandy and my very trustworthy Governess of Domestic Affairs of many years, Jeevika.  I slumped into my armchair and muttered, “Jeevika, tell me honestly. Is there any way to make Chithi see reason?”

Jeevika poured my evening spirit with her usual air of ‘I know it all’.

“Well, she said, “one does not make Chithi see reason. One merely survives Chithi.”

I sighed. “Jeevika, you are a wonder.”

“I agree, akka”!

Chithi, having somehow acquired intelligence on my conversations, summoned Jeevika for a meeting.

“You are a thinking woman, Jeevika,” she said. “Tell me, do you believe I am unreasonable?”

Jeevika with folded hands said. “I don’t think so Chithi.”

“Hmm. And yet, you have been advising Vijaya on how to handle me.”

“Merely offering perspective, Chithi.”

“Perspective.” She sniffed. “And what is your perspective, Jeevika?”

Jeevika bent her head and with manners that would put politeness to shame said, “I think  Chithi, that your standards are of the highest order. It is, of course, only natural that others may—on occasion—struggle to meet them.”

Chithi positively glowed.

“Vijaya could learn a thing or two from you,” she said.

I realized, with awe and terror, that Jeevika had let her win.

As we left, I turned to Jeevika.

“Jeevika,” I murmured, “one has to marvel at the sheer indestructibility of Chithi. At this point, she may be immortal.”

“Yes, I have often thought about it too”

I sighed. “Jeevika, get me my brandy will you?.”

And so, I accepted my fate. Some women inherit wealth. Some inherit power. I have inherited Chithi.

 

A Morning of Misadventures: From Red Eyes to Righteous Rides

 

This is my attempt to pull together a day in the life of a dear friend of mine.  I struggled to stop laughing when he was crying his woes of the day. I do hope you enjoy reading this as much I did listening and writing it.

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I’ve long found solace in the wonderful world of P.G. Wodehouse, where life’s absurdities are transformed into witty moments that lift up your spirit. His novels, replete with witty wordplay and brilliantly crafted absurd scenarios, have been my constant refuge. It has been a reminder that even the most chaotic days can shelter moments of absolute comedy. I haven’t read such humour with any other writer in the everyday, only to be delightfully surprised when one fateful morning unfolded like a chapter straight out of a Wodehouse escapade—complete with mix-ups, red-eye flights, and an unfolding adventure that defied all expectations.

It all began in the calm early hours of a day that promised high stakes. I was boarding a flight to get to a meeting with one of India’s most noteworthy businessmen to discuss a project we had just won. Instead of a dignified, meticulously planned journey, the universe decided to serve me layered doses of chaos.

Picture this: I’m scrambling to catch a flight from Mumbai, only to discover that my assistant’s mix-up has landed me on a red-eye flight instead of the intended 5:30 PM. He  apparently treats AM and PM as if they were interchangeable symbols. Now I know what Wodehouse meant when he recognized someone as having just enough sense to open his mouth when hunger called – and no more. I am screaming “not so good-a-morning” while arriving at the airport half-awake, wondering if I’d accidentally discovered time travel. Apparently, in the world of corporate scheduling, red eyes are a badge of honour, even if they lead to a very different kind of early start.

In my rush, the packing took a nosedive into absurdity—I’m not even sure if I have managed to pack sufficient clothes. And if that wasn’t enough, as someone who is fussy about changing at least twice a day, the glaring shortage of inner wear became the cherry on top of an already precarious situation.

Just as I was recovering from the shock of my unintended nocturnal journey, my taxi driver—let’s call him Mr. Perpetual Reminder—gave me a piece of advice I won’t soon forget: “Sir, you really should read your ticket carefully.” And all this with the gentle authority of someone who’s seen it all. It seems even taxi drivers have a vested interest in my punctuality, or at least in ensuring I don’t add “misread ticket” to my list of daily faux pas.

As if fate wasn’t already having a field day with me, the universe then decided to test my interpersonal negotiation skills. Enter the persuasive passenger, whose upset stomach became his passport to securing the infamous middle seat. With all the conviction of a seasoned diplomat, he argued that his gastrointestinal distress made him the de facto owner of the aisle seat. This is the Wodehouse character who had ‘drunk from the cup of life and found a dead beetle at the bottom.  I found myself occupying the centre stage—an unintended position of honour or, perhaps, the culinary equivalent of being the extra garnish on someone else’s plate.

I land, take my phone off the airplane mode and see that there are close to ten missed calls from the family. Unseen in the background, fate was slipping molten lead into my boxing glove.  My family woke up to the shocking disappearance of yours truly in the wee hours, their minds swirling with questions—had I run off in protest, or was I so angry on being forced last evening to watch an audacious movie that I decided to vanish? The air was thick with worry as they debated whether I had finally reached my breaking point, or perhaps had said something so upsetting that I decided to embark on a life of self-exile. Post the detailed explanation that was demanded, all their concerns took the turn of a million suggestions to replace my assistant with individuals I had never ever heard of. I had secretly hoped for sympathy, not perplexity. I took a deep breath. It gave me small comfort when I realised that my family was at the end of a telephone line. 

I am a good person. I can be kind and compassionate!!! I am the hero of my story, AND I have my moments. 🔥

The day’s absurdity wasn’t over yet. As I navigated the chaos of urban transit in Ahmedabad, a taxi driver demonstrated that not all heroes wear capes; some drive taxis and are inexplicably loaded. He overheard me narrating to my friend of my morning woes, that I didn’t have time to withdraw cash and how my wallet is now in a sad lean state. The driver lends me 5000 rupees, his generosity as surprising as his choice of hobby. And like that wouldn’t suffice, he walked me through his memory lane sharing all his grievances on the umpteen times he had run short of money and wanted help. If there is one thing I hate – is someone airing their grievances, when I want to air MINE!!!! I wondered though if he was a secret millionaire moonlighting as a taxi driver and if he wanted to consider investing in my company. 

I finally check into my hotel, only to discover that the establishment serves strictly vegetarian food and it hit me that the city is part of a dry state. For someone whose taste buds were still recovering from the chaos of the morning and was secretly longing for a cold beer and a hearty meat dish, this was the final twist of this saga. Here I was, locked in a hotel with menus that could only dream of offering the indulgences I craved, while the clock ticked closer to a meeting with a business titan.

So, after a morning that felt like a surreal assortment of miscommunications, mistaken seats, and unexpected kindnesses, I emerged with a few undeniable truths: always double-check your flight times, read every word on your ticket, never underestimate the eccentric generosity of a taxi driver in Ahmedabad, remember family (s)cares, and alcohol is advanced medical thought! After all, life’s best stories are often written during the most unexpected of mornings.

 

Ideology? We Don’t Need no Stinking Ideology! (said the doomed party)

 My sincere apologies to Pink Floyd and to all his fans if the title reminds you of ‘We Don’t Need No Education!’ The number is a powerful and iconic protest song that carries a strong anti-establishment message. The song was the slogan for all those who felt alienated by traditional schooling practices! The Congress Party mis-read the purpose of the number and tried to adapt it to its own needs! 

We don’t need no education
We don’t need no thoughts at all
No ideas or ideology in the party 
People leave us Congressi’s alone… 

___________

Political parties are vital arteries in a healthy democracy, channelling public opinion and shaping policy. However, a party's failure to adapt to societal shifts and maintain a coherent ideology can lead to significant consequences, weakening its influence and potentially destabilizing the political landscape. The birth and growth of the Congress party has for long been of interest to me. The way I see it today, the inevitable death of the party is pretty much a foregone conclusion. I do believe that its tombstone should read ‘Out of Date, Out of Luck”. There is indeed a method to its inherent madness.

Yesterday, I was part of an interesting conversation regarding the Congress and how its lack of ideology and its incessant dependency on a specific family is responsible for its downfall. I do believe that it is not the lack of ideology, but the fact that its existence all along depended on not having one. An organisation that brought together a disparate set of leaders who at one point in time perhaps had a single goal, slowly dissipated to a bunch of  folks who came together for the Sunday dinner pretending to be a family of sorts. 

The Indian National Congress, once the dominant force in Indian politics, has experienced a significant decline in recent decades. Attributing this decline to a single factor is an oversimplification. It is a combination of various things that went wrong -  a mishmash of strategic missteps, leadership issues, and a steady erosion of its supposedly core ideology have all contributed to its waning influence.

It started off with the Congress positioning itself as a centrist, inclusive party carrying the flag of secularism, social justice, and planned economic development. This blurred over a period of time. The rise of identity politics, coupled with inconsistent messaging and a drift away from its traditional base, has consistently created confusion among the voters about what Congress truly stands for. This vacuum has made it difficult for the party to counter the narratives of its political opponents. The gaffes, the silences, and the constant search for words is a classic representation of this vaccum. 

Leadership Challenges and Dynastic Politics is the illness that the party needs to treat.  The Congress party has been heavily associated with the Nehru-Gandhi family for generations. Critics say that this lineage once provided stability and a unifying force,  and that today it has also become a liability. I do believe that it is not an over-reliance on dynastic succession; but the inability of a significant group within the party to stand up for what is right and essential. They have travelled from Giving in to Giving up! And at no point time has anyone stopped to ask – What gives! 

Over-reliance on dynastic succession has stifled internal talent, discouraged dissent, and created a sense of entitlement within the party. This has led to accusations of nepotism and a lack of accountability, further damaging its credibility.  The accusations are not only from outside the party, but from within too! So, now we see an entire cadre that knows what the problem is and doesn’t take any steps to do anything about it.  The fundamental of any democracy is the individuals ability to give voice to his / her thoughts. The absence of this voice is an indication of the absence of democracy. 

Inability to Adapt to a Changing India is yet another issue with the party. Our country has undergone significant economic and social transformations in recent decades. The world’s largest economy that has made phenomenal strides in various avenues especially in the digital space. Any specific reason then, that the party continues to keep “addressing poverty” front and centre” Are we still that poor a nation as we were about 50yrs back? Or is it just an inability to find anything else that can also be of importance?? 

A complete disconnect from the realities of rural India, a failure to effectively address issues of unemployment and inequality, and a slow and meaningless response to the rise of Hindu nationalism have further alienated key segments of the electorate.

The decline of the Congress party is not one bit a complex phenomenon stemming from a confluence of factors. It’s a representation of an organisation that very consciously picks up a gun with the hope to aim at the enemy; fails to acknowledge that it doesn’t know how to shoot. In its attempt to fire, turns the barrel towards itself and pulls the trigger and misses consistently!!!! 

 

TimeWalk!

 

 

I live to travel; specifically speaking, I love to drive and explore the landscape opening out in front of me. I hold the steering in my hand and attempt to touch the horizon. The sheer attempt to get there is the high. History doesn’t excite me. What does though is the marketplace of the cities and towns that I visit, its eateries, the bookshops, the talk with the chaiwallah outside the monuments…. I learn more about the present that surrounds me, and I become sensitive to the ‘present’ of others that till that moment had alluded me. The future too for a long time didn’t interest me! Didn’t being the operational term. 

A visit to the Parliament house brought meaning to “If current Parliament fulfilled India’s needs, the new Parliament would fulfill its aspirations”. And I am going to reflect on the day backwards. The last stop of the visit was the Central Hall of the Old Parliament – a space that was often seen by me in pictures, documentaries, and news channels. A big hall with portraits of legends towering tall, 10 feet fans, and the sense of claps that would have resounded when the first act (Dowry Act) and last act (Demonetization) were passed by a Joint Session in that hall. What hits your senses is the semblance of warmth and coldness. The temperature in Delhi yesterday was a warm 35.6 degrees around 1pm and inside the central hall was about 22 degrees breathing a climate that one can succumb, to listen, debate, discuss (perhaps even argue without literally sweating it out), and arrive at a consensus. The place gave us the Act that made it illegal to take or give dowry, and finally gave us a decision that paved the way to a Digitized India and the birth of online payments. 

Fidel Castro said, “A revolution is a struggle to the death between the past and the present” and that revolution is beautifully exemplified when we see the Constitutional Hall of the New Parliament Building. The Foucault’s Pendulum at the Centre surrounded by the embossing of the Samudra Manthan, the brilliant and emotional outpourings of 75 women painting their lives, the home to the Art and Crafts of our country, and most importantly that one book that homes the language of what our country lays its trust on – The Constitution! Our present is going through the churn, and we are witnessing that while struggling to balance the past and the aspired and promised future. 

The new Parliament is a milestone in India’s democratic History – a process that one can see in play in the Lok Sabha and the Rajya Sabha. A process that demands the play of Sangosthi (discussion) based on Sampushthi (evidence and documentation), and Samanvay (Coordination). The use of a native language, that symbolizes the coming together of Science (fact based discussion) and Emotions (Collaboration and Toleration), all of which was bringing together the firmness of a resolve that the building of a stronger nation is embedded in DEBATE. The synonym for Democracy must be Debate… and no other. 

And then the people – a group that came across to me as individuals who knew what they had to do, all of whom respectfully made eye contact, and displayed a maturity that is so essential for people in position that take decisions for running our country. 

Today, we don’t need to build our decisions on architectures (literally and figuratively) that are handed down to us. We have the potential and capability of building our own. It will take us time (75 + years), and we are ok to wait it out. Every piece of that architecture will be a thought that comes from the soul of India (its people), the breath of the sensitivities expressed in our arts, crafts, and R and D centers, a stability that we have sought in our own ways in the constitution that attempts to balance our past (Colonial and Religious) and the aspirational future!