Hmmm...

I was invited to a college to speak about women and where to draw a line, or should we even draw one at all. I did not carry slides. I did not carry statistics. I told them a story. I asked them to listen, not as students, but as people. I said, listen carefully. Rishab and Aryan came from a powerful family in Uttar Pradesh. Old money. Old control. When they moved to Bangalore, the city made space for them easily. Doors opened before they knocked. "Rain Tree" became their home. A place where power lived behind tall walls and polite smiles. Inside those walls, names mattered more than behaviour. They were never questioned. Next to that gated world lived another family. Tribal by roots. Quiet, grounded, but ambitious. They believed in slow growth and honest work. Among them was Naina and her two brothers, Kabir and Veer. Kabir observed before he acted. Veer reacted before he thought. Naina was free spirited and open. She reached for what she wanted without fear. Well educated, ...

  Jayshree was in her early sixties, living in a house that looked like a postcard. Waves breaking just outside her gate. Soft wind floating through the windows. Every evening the sky turned orange as if the whole world was painted fresh for her. She had everything people dream of — peace, comfort, money, freedom. She had no one to share it with. Life had once been full. She and Suresh had worked side by side, counting every rupee, building every wall of that house with hope. When he laughed, the house felt warm. When he left the world with that sudden heart attack, it felt like the walls turned cold overnight. Her sons, Sunny and Bobby, lived far away in Europe. Good families. Good jobs. They loved her, called her every week, begged her to come and live with them. But each time she visited them, she felt small. No friends. No freedom to move around. No familiar language. She sat alone all day waiting for them to return from work. It made her feel like a guest in her own life. So s...

For the last many years, I have been writing only one thing in my blog and on LinkedIn. India’s real strength is not IT. Not manufacturing. Not startups. It is manpower. People laughed at me. Some got angry. Some said I am negative. Some said I do not understand the new India. And today, suddenly, the government proudly signs agreements to send thousands of Indians to other countries as workers. And they call it diplomacy. Now everyone is clapping. And I am sitting quietly and smiling. Because now it is official. India is the world’s most organised manpower supply company. Recently, we signed a big agreement with Russia to send workers. Construction, IT, textiles, everything. Around seventy thousand people in one go. That is not migration. That is not opportunity. That is export. A full moving township of Indians. We are not exporting products. We are exporting people. What a vision. We could not become number one in manufacturing. We could not become number one in innovation. We ...

Last couple of weeks I have been travelling a lot. Which means living in hotels and eating in restaurants became unavoidable. And somewhere between my second coffee and third buffet breakfast, I noticed something strange. Food has changed. Or maybe we have. In the late 90's and early 2000, when we travelled, every city had its own taste. Coimbatore tasted like Coimbatore. Bangalore tasted like Bangalore. Hyderabad had its own magic. Delhi had its own spice. Today, no matter where you go, in any decent, reasonable hotel, the taste feels more or less the same. Same gravy. Same masala. Same presentation. Even if you order local cuisine, it feels like a copy of a copy. I feel all chefs are now learning from the same recipe book and just reproducing it like an assembly line. Earlier every restaurant had a signature style. Today I struggle to remember one place and say, this taste is only from here. It feels like food has become a product, not an experience. Even at home, I see the sa...

I was having my tea the other morning, sitting on one of the small shacks near my construction site. A teenage girl walked past and waited at the bus stop across the road. It was clear something was special for her that day. Maybe her birthday, maybe an event in school. She kept adjusting her hair and her dress, and from the corner of her eye she checked if anyone was noticing her. That small moment pulled me into a long thought. Who are we when nobody is watching? I realised how often we live our life like someone is always looking at us. As if there is a stage, lights, and a crowd waiting to judge our next move. I lived that way too. Every smile measured, every word chosen, every silence planned. I knew how to act in rooms, how to fit in, how to be liked. What I did not see then was how temporary habits become permanent masks. Slowly the mask sticks so tight that one day you forget how your real face even looks. The mask was supposed to be something I take off when I feel safe. But a...