Category: Life Notes

As another April dawns, I mark another year of daily blogging — six now, since I restarted in April 2020. I reflected on the first five in my post last year. These words still ring true: “This five-year journey is the chronicle of my intellectual evolution, a testament to the power of consistent reflection, and a sanctuary where ideas find their voice. My blog has become a living archive of my growth as an entrepreneur, thinker, and human being.”

The sixth year has brought one change significant enough to deserve its own reflection: I now have a co-author. AI — in the form of Claude and ChatGPT — has become a genuine thinking partner, what I’ve come to think of as a cointelligence. This is different from using a tool. A tool executes. A cointelligence pushes back, opens new doors, and surprises you with where a conversation goes.

My process has evolved accordingly. I arrive with a seed — an idea, a question, a half-formed intuition — and a handful of initial pointers. The AIs help me build on these, and in doing so, the thinking fans out in multiple directions I hadn’t anticipated. A case in point is the recent series I wrote on WePredict. What began as a single essay kept multiplying: Mu as the bridge between NeoMails and WePredict, private prediction markets, a third way beyond real money and play money, the Predictor Score, with more to come. Each essay opened a new avenue. I was not just writing — I was discovering.

This is perhaps the most honest way to describe what has changed: I find myself learning from the expositions I conduct with the AIs, more than from the act of writing alone. The blog has always been, for me, part of a read-think-write feedback cycle. The AIs have turbocharged the think leg of that cycle.

A recent addition has been the dramatic improvement in imaging tools on Gemini and the visualisation capabilities of Claude. For a blog that has always been text-first, these open a new dimension — the ability to make ideas visible, not just readable. It adds a richness I had not anticipated when I restarted six years ago.

The ritual itself has deepened. Weekend mornings remain sacred — just me, my desktop, and the AIs, lost in a world where imagination runs free and new worlds take shape in words. As I wrote last year: “Weekends have evolved into sacred spaces of solitude. My (still) makeshift home office has become a cocoon where writing, thinking, and reading flow together in a meditative communion.” That quality of absorption — the losing-of-oneself — is what I treasure most. No numerical vanity metrics to worry about. No one to please but the ideas themselves.

My blogging journey began in early 2000. The blog was, from the very first post, a mirror for my thoughts. Six years into this second chapter, that mirror is sharper than ever — and for the first time, it has a reflection I did not put there alone. That, I think, is the most interesting thing that has happened to this blog in year six.

This is one part of my life’s routine I would not want to give up for anything.

Mark Tully passed away recently. His was a voice I grew up with. BBC World Service was a constant companion. As I wrote:

I grew up listening to BBC World Service on the radio. Because of my eyesight troubles, the doctor had suggested that I don’t read at night. (And there wasn’t much TV to watch in late 1970s India.) For a 12-year-old, that was a hard decision. It was then that I discovered the joys of radio, and especially BBC. I had a big Philips radio, which I would position in the balcony to ensure good reception. The short waves brought the distinctive British accent into my room. For many years, the radio was my best friend. I spent hours listening. The only competition BBC faced was when cricket matches were played, and I would tune in to whichever broadcaster was doing the ball-by-ball commentary.

BBC World Service brought me news, analysis, quizzes, humour, science, plays and more. It became my window to the world. I could close my eyes and be anywhere in the world. I knew the voices of all the news announcers and presenters. The diversity of BBC programming gave me an education beyond the classroom.

One of those distinctive voices was Mark Tully. His reports from across the sub-continent brought an authenticity that was missing in the government-controlled media of Doordarshan and All India Radio. He understood something essential: that loving a country means telling its truths, even the uncomfortable ones.

As The Economist wrote in its obit: “In more than 20 years as the BBC’s Delhi bureau chief, in the midst of this teeming, tumultuous country, his job was to insist on balance. His commentary was not aimed at the powerful or the elite. It went out in six languages to 50m listeners, many of them illiterate. He connected them to the world, just as he connected his British listeners to ordinary Indians, reporting the issues of the day not merely from offices of state but from tea-houses, villages and railway stations.”

Pratap Bhanu Mehta wrote: “It is important to recall the institutional and political context that made [Mark] him indispensable. The foreign press has always had an outsized importance in India, largely because our own press has been censored or constrained. The BBC, in effect, had to perform the role of a local radio station, since India had none. But the BBC was also, then, a genuinely great institution. It had its biases and blind spots, but if it commanded authority, it was because of journalists like Mark. One could occasionally disagree with a particular judgment, but remarkably, he never lost trust…He was unique because, on so many occasions, his voice constituted the only first draft of history available at the moment.”

I echo these sentiments of Karan Thapar: “In his time, Mark was the BBC in India. Actually, that was probably true of the whole subcontinent. From the meanest rural hamlet to the grand portals of Rashtrapati Bhawan, his name was recalled before that of the corporation he served. Millions would tune in just to hear him. And, they unfailingly believed what he said.”

I had the opportunity to meet him a few years ago at an event in NCPA Mumbai. I spoke to him for a few minutes and thanked him for the reporting that was so much a part of my growing up years. He was gracious, unhurried, genuinely curious—much like his broadcasts. That calm, measured voice I had heard crackling through short waves was now right there in front of me. Meeting him felt like completing a circle begun in a 12-year-old’s balcony.

Mark Tully was the Voice of India when we so needed one.

My deepest thinking happens in one of four “zen zones”: when I am sitting at home in my comfortable chair with the Bose headset blocking the sounds from the world and playing at low volume from my collection of Hindi songs, when I am on a flight (preferably a long distance one) where the constraint of not being able to move around and no distractions works like a charm, in a temple where others are praying and I find myself a chair to sit with my notebook in hand and with the belief that God will help direct and streamline my thinking, and a sofa in my office side room where I can stretch my legs – and perhaps sometimes even fall asleep!

Each of us needs a Zen Zone – where we can do deep thinking. In our device-driven interruption-filled world, being away from the temptation of touching a device is very important. For me, what I need is my notebook and a pen. Silence is helpful but not mandatory. I can transport myself even with surrounding sounds as long as they are not distracting. What I also need is the assurance of contiguous time – that I can be in the silent thinking state for an hour or so. That’s when the thoughts flow and ideas connect. I use my notebook to write everything that comes to mind. Paper and pen are better than connected and tempting digital devices.

As I wrote a few years ago: “In this “me-time”, I am not distracted by emails and WhatsApp messages. There is nothing that cannot wait for a few hours. I recreate the comfort of the inflight experience: sitting in one place with just one’s mind to oneself. This is when the ideas “flow”. We need chunky time for this – and our devices and notifications have taken it away from us. The temptation to pick up the phone or switch from Word to Thunderbird must be resisted. It is only then, with each passing minute, that we get into a high productivity zone. I am able to create a bubble around me at any time, even in noisy surroundings. All I need is my notebook. At times, I am stuck in meetings which I cannot exit or escape. My notebook comes to my rescue. I mentally switch off and start writing – it is time with myself that others do not notice. The reason for time with oneself is so we can contemplate on what we are doing and what we need to do. Much of life is a reaction to events around us, so it is very important to create these extended periods when we can think deeply about the important rather than act on the urgent.”

The zen zone has transformed my writing. When I sit with just a notebook, ideas arrive unhurried. I find myself making connections I wouldn’t otherwise make — between a book I read last month and a problem I’m solving today, between something a colleague said and a half-formed thought that’s been waiting for attention. The writing that emerges is less reactive, more considered. It’s not about producing more; it’s about producing what matters.

Finding your zen zone isn’t about luxury or leisure. It’s about protecting the space where your best thinking lives. The world will always have more urgent demands than you can meet. The zen zone is where you decide which ones deserve your attention – and discover ideas that no notification would ever have delivered.

Another distinct memory and voice from my early teen years: Ameen Sayani and his Binaca Geetmala on Radio Ceylon. I had a Philips shortwave radio and I used to primarily use it to listen to BBC World Service and cricket commentary – and of course the songs that played as a countdown on the Geetmala.

As a sidenote, I came across this recently in The Telegraph on Radio Ceylon: “‘Radio Ceylon’ may seem like an aberration today; Ceylon itself, after all, is now Sri Lanka. Yet, as the iconic radio station turns 100 this month, its legacy continues to serve as a reminder of the power of communication mediums to unite people across borders and languages in the perpetual battle against forces that seek to police culture or push propaganda. The British-era institution became a household name in India after the Jawaharlal Nehru government in the 1950s mostly stopped allowing All India Radio to play Hindi film songs, insisting instead on promoting classical music. With its powerful broadcasting equipment, Radio Ceylon filled the vacuum with shows like Binaca Geetmala bringing the best of Bollywood music to millions of fans across India as well as other parts of South Asia, including Pakistan.”

I was reminded of Binaca Geetmala and Ameen Sayani when I was at a wedding recently. Given my limited interest in conversations with relatives I rarely interact with, I sat in a corner and enjoyed the songs that were being sung. I have hundreds of songs downloaded on my Amazon Prime app on the mobile, and I listen to these songs in random order regularly on my Bose headset as a way to (a) silence ambient noise and (b) think deeply. So, I am always on the lookout for Hindi songs I grew up with. It then struck me that Binaca Geetmala annual lists would be a good check to see what I had missed. And that’s how the connection got made. I found a Wikipedia page listing the top songs from each year – a treasure trove of memory triggers.

It was a different India then, of course. Scarcity and government control were the norm. We had 1 TV channel (Doordarshan), 2 radio stations (All India Radio for news and Vividh Bharti for entertainment). That was the India where there were 2 types of cars:  Ambassador and Fiat, licenced to sell by the government. The shortwave radio became an integral part of my life as my “window to the world” – so much so that when I got my first salary in October 1989 working in NYNEX I immediately went to Times Square and bought a Sony shortwave radio. (I think it cost me about $250 then.)

Besides the songs, Ameen Sayani’s voice was a huge draw for me. The melody and sweetness in his voice made it all come alive. I can still see myself lying on the window platform in our flat at night and listening to one song after another, interspersed with Ameen Sayani’s introductions.

Today, I have more music at my fingertips than Ameen Sayani could have counted down in a lifetime. And yet, none of it arrives with that voice — the warmth, the anticipation, the way he made each song feel like a gift being unwrapped. The scarcity of those years gave everything weight. A single countdown, once a week, on a crackling shortwave signal from Ceylon. We didn’t just hear songs; we waited for them.

And now, for a movie celebrating its 50^th year of release. Sholay. I have only watched it once in the theatre – with my aunt in Pune as an 11-year old.

As a kid in 1970s India, what movies I got to watch was tightly controlled. I once remember going to watch “Khoon Pasina” with my building friends and we had to buy the tickets in “black”. When I got back home, my furious mom gave me a long lecture on the immorality of what I had done. It didn’t stick for long though! In the 70s and 80s, many a time that was the only way of watching new movies.

Back to Sholay. I have since seen it on TV/OTT a few times. Sholay has very specific memories for me. As a kid, I had memorised many of the scenes from the soundtrack LP. And that became an entertainment program when guests would come over (primarily at my mamas’ place in Pune.) The Gabbar Singh scenes were always a big hit. And so was the Dharmendra water tank one. I always had my audience in laughter – perhaps at this 11-12-year-old acting them out!

Jai Arjun Singh wrote in a Mint feature on Sholay turning 50 a few months ago: “Is it possible for the most iconic and mythologised film in your life—the one that is most thoroughly familiar—to also feel like a jigsaw puzzle that took a long time to put together? Sholay is widely acknowledged as the most polished and fully realised Hindi film of its era, the most flawless technically, the one with the best action scenes and sound design, the fewest loose ends or awkward cutting. The sort of mainstream film that even Satyajit Ray could (grudgingly?) admire. But however complete it may be, I still think of it as a series of moments that are so embedded in one’s consciousness (and so easily accessed from the mind’s old filing cabinet) that it almost doesn’t matter which order those fragments come in—there are any number of entry points. It’s a bit like knowing key sections of a legendary epic—say, the Mahabharat—rather than every last detail, and still feeling like you know it in its entirety.”

Even today, I could perhaps stand up and recite all the dialogues and mimic the actions from muscle memory. That’s how we consumed movies back then — not through endless rewatches on demand, but by absorbing them into our bones. A soundtrack LP played until the grooves wore thin. Dialogues rehearsed and performed for anyone who would watch. Sholay didn’t just define a generation; it lived inside us, scene by scene, long before we could summon it with a click.

One of my favourite book series is Before the Coffee Gets Cold. As I wrote earlier, “At its core, the series delves deep into the complexities of human emotions and relationships. Each story in the café involves characters grappling with regret, love, forgiveness, and the desire to reconnect or reconcile with their past. It prompts us to ponder what we would do if given the chance to revisit the past, and at what cost. It is a captivating series that skilfully combines a unique and imaginative premise with deep emotional storytelling, philosophical depth, and beautiful writing. It offers both an escape into a magical world and a mirror reflecting our own lives, making it a compelling read.”

It is one of the books which I have always wanted picturised. I had even told a friend whose family is in the film-making business to consider buying the rights and making them as a short series! And so imagine my surprise when one day I found that the first book had indeed been made into a movie. Café Funiculi Funicula is a Japanese movie with English sub-titles. Bhavana and I watched it together a couple months ago. She had not read the books. Both of us loved the movie. For her, the movie worked entirely on its own; for me, it was the joy of seeing beloved characters finally come to life.

For long, I had wondered what the café and people so beautifully described in the book would look like. While reading lets us build our own images, seeing people in action and their emotions come out has its own charm. After some time, the spoken language did not matter. What stays with you are the four stories.

As the book blurb puts it: “If you could go back, who would you want to meet?In a small back alley of Tokyo, there is a café that has been serving carefully brewed coffee for more than one hundred years. Local legend says that this shop offers something else besides coffee—the chance to travel back in time. Over the course of one summer, four customers visit the café in the hopes of making that journey. But time travel isn’t so simple, and there are rules that must be followed. Most important, the trip can last only as long as it takes for the coffee to get cold. Heartwarming, wistful, mysterious and delightfully quirky, Toshikazu Kawaguchi’s internationally bestselling novel explores the age-old question: What would you change if you could travel back in time?” Of course, going back (or forward) in time does not change the present.

As I wrote: “The stories of our past don’t need alteration; they require acknowledgment and a place in our heart’s gallery. By recognising this, we allow ourselves to be whole, carrying the richness of each experience as a quiet strength. In the end, maybe it’s not about changing our stories, but about understanding their impact and moving forward with a heart full of gratitude for the journey.” Seeing the stories come alive on screen created the same magical effect I feel reading each of the five books (with a sixth to come in May).

I finally got around to watching Homebound on Netflix. While I had read the basic story, I delayed watching because I like my movies to be fun, transport me to a different world, and have happy endings (generally). From what I had read, Homebound was supposed to be gritty, a mirror on reality, and perhaps not have the type of ending I liked. But its also not often that an Indian movie makes it an Oscar top 15 longlist. And so, one evening in December, I watched it. (A few spoilers ahead.)

It was excellent, of course. It gave glimpses of Indias that we children of cities don’t see and prefer not to see – rural India, where caste and religion are mixed up in life’s regular interactions. It highlighted the harsh truth about government jobs and why they are so sought after (“743 applications for 1 State police constable opening”) and how lives are put on hold as the exams are taken and results anxiously awaited – sometimes endlessly. For the young, there seem to be no alternatives than government jobs or the toil as a construction worker. In so many ways, it captures India’s failure to industrialise except in pockets.

It is the first movie I have seen which brought home the reality of the impact of the sudden Covid lockdown. Unlock India was one of my first posts when I restarted the blog in April 2020. Homebound brought to vivid life the reality of what the lockdown did to the lives of migrants who had gone to cities to make better lives for themselves and their families. We sheltered at our homes in cities. For millions who were forced to walk back home under the hot summer sun of April and May through the heartland, it was the shattering of many a dream.

Homebound is the rare ‘art’ movie that gets made. It wasn’t a commercial success. But it has been a success in film festivals and on OTT. I sincerely hope it can win an Oscar. More film-makers need to show us the 80% India that we don’t like to see. The words I wrote in April 2020 still echo true: “The immediate unlocking of India so we can get back to economic activity must only be the start. We need to do much more – fight for our freedom so we can get on the path to prosperity. For this, we need to let markets work without government intervention – we are all capable of making the right decisions on our own and that is the only path to prosperity. We need to unlock the $20 trillion of wealth that is being controlled by the government in India – land, minerals and public sector undertakings. If this wealth is returned to the people, they can each chart out their own path going forward.”

With Abhishek at home for his summer break, we’ve been watching a lot of web series together. These shared viewing sessions have become one of the unexpected pleasures of having him back. Here are the shows we watched and genuinely enjoyed.

Severance (Season 2): We absolutely loved this one. The premise remains as fascinating as ever – employees who undergo a procedure to separate their work and personal memories, creating two distinct personalities. Adam Scott’s performance as Mark, torn between his “innie” and “outie” selves, continues to be brilliantly nuanced. Britt Lower as Helly brings both vulnerability and steel to her role, while John Turturro’s Irving provides the perfect balance of confusion and determination. The show’s exploration of work-life balance through this extreme lens feels both absurd and unnervingly relevant. The production design of that sterile, retro-futuristic office environment creates an atmosphere that’s simultaneously comforting and deeply unsettling.

Asterix and Obelix: The Big Fight: This animated feature was pure nostalgia brought to vivid life. I remember spending hours reading these comics as a child, captivated by the adventures of the indomitable Gauls. Watching it reminded me why these characters have endured – Asterix’s cleverness, Obelix’s lovable simplicity, and their unshakeable friendship. The animation captured the distinctive art style perfectly, and hearing the familiar voices brought back memories of imagining these conversations while reading the original comics.

Slow Horses (all 4 seasons): This series was a delightful surprise. We were both initially put off by the title and never bothered exploring what it was actually about – a mistake we’re grateful to have corrected. Gary Oldman’s Jackson Lamb is magnificently repulsive and brilliant, leading a team of MI5 rejects with equal parts cynicism and unexpected loyalty. The supporting cast, including Jack Lowden as River Cartwright and Kristin Scott Thomas as Diana Taverner, creates a ensemble that grows stronger with each season. Great action sequences, genuinely funny moments, and consistently excellent acting across the board.

Stick: Think of this as the golf version of Ted Lasso. While perhaps not quite as “sticky” in terms of emotional resonance, it still delivered plenty of feel-good moments. The show captures the peculiar culture of golf while exploring themes of second chances and personal growth that made Ted Lasso so appealing.

Andor (Season 2): Simply a classic. Diego Luna’s Cassian Andor anchors what might be the best Star Wars spinoff ever created. The series weaves together multiple storylines with remarkable precision, building toward the events of Rogue One with both inevitability and surprise. It’s amazing how well-crafted this feels given the constraint that the ending had to dovetail perfectly into the established Star Wars narrative.

Criminal Justice (all 4 seasons): This series is exceptionally well-made, shot with what feels like a feature film budget. Each season presents gripping storylines that keep you engaged from the first episode to the final revelation. The attention to detail in both the legal proceedings and character development sets it apart from typical crime dramas.

Friends and Neighbors: An interesting premise executed with genuine charm. Fun to watch without being particularly demanding – sometimes exactly what you need.

One thing I’ve begun to appreciate through this viewing marathon is how Apple TV has quietly assembled an impressive collection of quality series. It’s become a reliable filter for our watching choices – when we see the Apple TV logo, we know we’re likely in for something thoughtfully produced and genuinely engaging.

When I meet with people, one of the first things I observe is whether they arrive with a notebook. While a few come prepared with a small notepad and others rely on digital devices – phones or iPads – the vast majority arrive completely “hands-free.” This always makes me wonder: what will they actually take away or remember after our conversation ends?

I have no doubt that most people possess excellent memories for the key actionables that emerge from meetings. They’ll remember the deadlines, the decisions, the clear next steps. But meetings are so much more than task distribution centres. They’re exchanges of ideas, explorations of possibilities, moments where understanding deepens in unexpected ways. While the big ideas will likely stick, I’ve learned that it’s often the seemingly small insights that prove most valuable later.

I wrote about my note-taking philosophy a few years ago: “Most of the time we are always bothered about our next actions. We have to remember to do this, do that, tell someone something, and so on. My approach is to get it out of the mind and onto paper. For some, it could be into an app – whatever works best. I find the combination of paper and pen works best. I write a lot and write fast. It keeps me completely focused during the meeting. And as I get ideas, I note them down prefixing them with my initials or a lightbulb, thus enabling me to reference them easily later.”

This practice has taught me something crucial: “If one doesn’t make notes in a meeting, one will remember the big ideas clearly. But I have realised that it’s also the seemingly small ideas that matter. A phrase one hears, a memory that surfaces, a trigger from the gut – these are nearly impossible to recall after the meeting, especially if you’re caught in a series of back-to-back conversations. The best way to capture these fleeting moments is to write them down immediately, creating space to revisit them later.”

For me, every meeting represents a learning opportunity. If I can discover one or two things I didn’t know before walking into the room, I consider it time well invested. In customer meetings, their specific language choices help me refine how I frame both problems and solutions. Their casual asides often reveal underlying concerns that formal presentations miss entirely. Capturing these nuances on paper creates raw material for deeper thinking during me-time.

I’m particularly drawn to the paper-and-pen combination because it enables spatial thinking in ways that digital tools struggle to match. I can draw connections literally – with arrows, circles, and diagrams that span across pages. Ideas can live in margins, concepts can be grouped visually, and relationships between thoughts can be mapped in real-time. The small keyboard of a phone or tablet forces linear thinking, but paper allows for the kind of multi-dimensional note-taking that mirrors how conversations actually unfold.

There’s also something about the physical act of writing that enhances retention and processing. The slower pace of handwriting compared to typing creates natural moments for reflection. Your brain has time to filter and synthesise as your hand moves across the page.

Perhaps most importantly, visible note-taking signals something valuable to the other participants: that their words matter enough to be preserved. It demonstrates active engagement in a way that staring at a screen – however well-intentioned – simply cannot match. In our increasingly distracted world, the simple act of putting pen to paper has become a form of respect, a way of honouring the conversation and the people sharing their time and insights with you.

I recently had to travel to Surat for a family function. Since I was booking last-minute, I could only manage a non-AC ticket on the Intercity from Udhna to Bandra for the return journey. What seemed like a compromise turned into an unexpected journey back in time, bringing back vivid memories from my childhood travels.

After years of climate-controlled comfort, I found myself in a non-AC compartment again. While it was admittedly warm and the overhead fans struggled to provide adequate relief, there was something refreshingly authentic about experiencing the unfiltered sights and sounds of both the world inside the train and the landscape rushing past outside. AC compartments, for all their comfort, create a sanitised bubble with minimal interaction. This journey was different – wonderfully, chaotically alive.

Every few minutes brought a new vendor hawking their wares: “Chai, chai, garam chai!” echoed through the compartment, followed by sellers offering everything from snacks to newspapers to small toys. The constant parade of commerce was both entertaining and nostalgic. I found myself giving in to the experience, purchasing a Cadbury chocolate and an Amul kesar milk drink – not because I particularly needed them, but because they felt like essential props in this theatrical journey. Combined with the Marie biscuits I’d grabbed at the station, this makeshift meal became part of the adventure rather than a disappointment.

I spent considerable time looking outside the open window, letting the warm air rush past my face as I watched the world unfold at a more human pace. In the distance, I could see the dedicated freight corridors – those parallel tracks built to handle India’s massive goods movement. A freight train provided steady competition as we halted at multiple stations while it maintained its relentless pace without stopping. This was a marked change from earlier times when goods trains had to yield at stations, allowing faster passenger services to overtake them.

The Intercity essentially functions like an express local, stopping frequently but moving efficiently between stations. I noticed many students aboard, returning home after college days in Surat. For them, this train clearly offered the optimal balance of cost, time, and convenience. The journey covered 250 kilometers in about four hours – respectable timing, though the Vande Bharat completes the same distance in roughly two-and-a-half hours.

This ride transported me back to an era before Shatabdi and Vande Bharat transformed rail travel. I remembered always hoping for a window seat, watching the countryside unfold like a slow-motion film, and sometimes stepping off at intermediate stations just to stretch my legs and absorb the unique energy of each stop. There was a particular joy in observing fellow passengers – people boarding and alighting at various stations, each carrying their own stories and destinations.

Perhaps speed and sealed windows have inadvertently diminished some of the more human pleasures of train travel. The open window, the frequent stops, the organic interaction with vendors and fellow travellers, the unmediated connection with the passing landscape – these elements create a travel experience that’s messier but somehow more alive than our modern, efficient alternatives. Sometimes the journey itself deserves to be savoured, not just optimised.