Category: Life Notes

On the Indigo flight from Mumbai to Colombo, I was seated in the emergency row (for the extra legroom). As is mandatory, one of the crew members came over to explain the procedure for opening the emergency door if needed. She walked through the standard safety briefing with the twelve of us seated in the two emergency rows – the usual spiel about lifting the handle, pushing the door out, and ensuring the exit path remains clear.

But then she did something that caught everyone off guard. After finishing her explanation, she randomly selected two passengers and asked them specific questions based on what she had just explained. The surprise was palpable – you could see it in people’s faces. No one expects to be ‘tested’ during a flight safety briefing. We’re conditioned to treat these moments as passive information downloads, something to politely endure rather than actively engage with.

I found this approach brilliant. The questions weren’t designed to embarrass or intimidate – she cleverly structured them to include partial answers, making it easier for passengers to respond correctly. But the impact was immediate and profound. Those two passengers had to demonstrate they actually understood the critical safety information, not just that they had heard it.

As I settled back into my seat, I couldn’t stop thinking about how much more attention everyone would have paid if she had announced upfront that she would randomly quiz some of us on our understanding. That simple expectation would have transformed twelve distracted passengers into twelve engaged learners. The anticipation of being called upon has a remarkable way of sharpening focus and ensuring information actually sticks.

This experience crystallised something I’ve long believed but rarely seen implemented effectively: asking questions based on what someone has been told or taught is one of the most powerful ways to ensure real learning happens. It’s the difference between information transmission and knowledge retention. When we know we might be asked to demonstrate understanding, we shift from passive receivers to active processors.

The more I reflected on this emergency row teaching moment, the more applications I could see in our professional lives. How often do we sit through meetings, presentations, or training sessions operating under the assumption that attendance equals engagement? How many important briefings become background noise because participants know they won’t be held accountable for retaining the information?

Imagine if we routinely incorporated this principle into our workplace interactions. Team meetings where the leader occasionally asks someone to summarise a key point or explain how they might apply a new process. Training sessions where participants know they might be called upon to demonstrate understanding. Client presentations where we pause to ensure comprehension rather than bulldozing through slides.

The beauty of this approach lies not in creating anxiety, but in creating engagement. When done thoughtfully – with questions that include helpful context, just like that flight attendant – it transforms passive consumption into participatory learning. It ensures that critical information doesn’t just get heard, but gets understood, retained, and ultimately applied.

We had the 30^th edition of our Martech Global Summit in Colombo in late July. The previous one I had attended was the one in Baku, and returning to the MGS format after that gap reminded me why these events hold such a special place in our industry calendar.

A backgrounder on MGS: “The format of MGS is truly innovative in the world of B2B events. It requires a delicate balance to pull off a good event with the right mix of content and experience, and I’m consistently impressed by how well the Netcore team manages this. What I appreciate most is the ability to connect with people in a way that’s simply not possible over a formal business meeting. Whether it’s during a thought-provoking session, while exploring a new city, or over a shared meal, the conversations at MGS have a depth and authenticity that I rarely find elsewhere.”

This edition introduced something new that proved remarkably valuable: structured 1:1 conversations with participants. I borrowed this idea from other events I’d attended like eTail and Shoptalk, recognising the untapped potential in deeper, focused dialogue. These 20-30 minute sessions enabled me to understand specific challenges participants were facing and propose tailored solutions. They went far beyond the brief exchanges that typically happen over meals or while sightseeing – creating space for genuine problem-solving and strategic thinking.

One of my most significant learnings from these conversations was the realisation that every industry has what I’ve started thinking of as “The One Number” – a critical metric that drives business growth and becomes the North Star for strategic decisions. In eCommerce, it’s the percentage of customers making a second purchase – that crucial indicator of whether you’re building loyalty or just processing transactions. In Life Insurance, it’s the Persistence rate – the percentage of customers who continue paying premiums after the initial years, separating sustainable business from churn-heavy acquisition. For NBFCs and AMCs, it’s the cross-sell index, directly impacting wallet share percentage and customer lifetime value. Understanding these industry-specific vital signs proved invaluable for crafting relevant solutions.

My presentation focused on “Neo+Agentic Marketing” – 68 slides compressed into 35 minutes, followed by an engaging Q&A session. The core message distilled into a single sentence: “Neo+Agentic Marketing can help you stop paying the 20-30% Revenue Tax to Google, Meta, and marketplaces to reacquire the customers you already had.” This concept resonated strongly with the audience, particularly as businesses grapple with rising customer acquisition costs and platform dependency.

What I genuinely appreciate about MGS events is how they provide authentic opportunities for customer conversations that help me continuously adapt and refine my narrative. This time, the focus naturally gravitated toward AI and intelligent agents, and the profound disruption that’s reshaping every industry and business model. Our theme, “Agents of Change,” captured both the technological transformation and the human element driving it forward.

The location played a crucial role in the event’s success. ITC Ratnadip offered spectacular views of the Indian Ocean through the tall windows of our second-floor conference room. The physical environment made a remarkable difference – natural light streaming in throughout the day and into the evening created an atmosphere that was infinitely brighter and more energising than being enclosed in a windowless conference room. There’s something about that connection to the outside world, the interplay of light and ocean views, that seemed to elevate both the quality of presentations and the depth of conversations.

These details matter more than we often acknowledge in creating environments where meaningful business relationships can flourish.

I was speaking with a friend recently who sought advice about his struggling business. Facing constant rejection, his confidence was flagging. I shared a pivotal story from my own entrepreneurial journey that transformed his perspective.

In December 1994, while building what would become IndiaWorld (India’s first Internet portal), I sent nearly 100 letters to every publisher and media company whose postal address I could find. My proposition was straightforward but ambitious: I needed free content for IndiaWorld. (Having failed in a few ventures previously, my financial resources were severely limited, limiting my ability to pay for content.) In exchange, I offered global exposure to non-resident Indians and the promise of future monetisation opportunities.

As expected, most letters disappeared into the void of corporate indifference. However, a handful of visionaries responded positively—India Today, RK Laxman, Amar Chitra Katha, and Cybermedia among them. These few believers provided the foundational content that powered IndiaWorld’s growth. This experience crystallised a profound truth: success isn’t built on avoiding rejection but on recognising and nurturing acceptance when it appears.

I explained to my disheartened friend that rejection is the default response in a business’s early stages—it’s the background noise of entrepreneurship. The transformative mindset shift comes when you stop counting the rejections and start celebrating the affirmations. Those rare individuals who answer your email or return your call become the cornerstones of your venture. Cast your net widely, maximise your chances of meaningful connection, and build deliberately on those relationships.

Entrepreneurship demands that we transcend our ego and conquer our fear of failure. The marketplace doesn’t remember the hundred doors that remained closed—it recognises only the doors you successfully opened and the opportunities you maximized. Every “yes” carries exponentially more weight than a thousand “nos.”

The most successful entrepreneurs aren’t necessarily those who face the fewest rejections—they’re the ones who remain undeterred by them, who maintain unwavering focus on possibility rather than limitation. Each “yes” represents not just an isolated success but a portal to new networks, opportunities, and growth trajectories that weren’t previously visible.

My friend left our conversation with renewed determination. He understood that his rejections weren’t personal indictments but simply part of the entrepreneurial landscape. By shifting his attention to cultivating his supporters rather than lamenting his detractors, he could transform his business trajectory—just as those few content partners helped lay the foundation for IndiaWorld.

Remember: History celebrates the Yeses that built empires. The Nos are just footnotes in your journey to success.

Some friendships begin with chance encounters that seem insignificant at the time, yet bloom into lifelong connections. Such is the story of Bhavana and my friendship with Ram and Nirmala.

It started in March 1998 during a vacation to the United States. Bhavana and I were at Universal Studios in Los Angeles when we struck up a conversation with an Indian couple living in America. We spent the entire day together—visiting Muscle Beach, taking photos for each other at the Hollywood sign overlook, and sitting side by side during the evening laser show. As the day concluded, we parted ways, though we exchanged contacts.

What seemed like a one-time encounter surprisingly evolved into correspondence when Ram sent a Diwali greeting email just months later. Then came the truly serendipitous moment—after my Sify deal made headlines in late 1999, Ram sent congratulations. He mentioned he would be traveling to India on December 31st, 1999. By remarkable coincidence, we spotted each other at Mumbai airport that very night—Ram on a late-night transit from Lufthansa to a morning Jet Airways flight to Chennai, and me also headed to Chennai on business. Our chance reunion in the airport sparked a friendship that has endured through the decades.

Though our meetings are infrequent, each reunion dissolves the intervening time, allowing us to continue our conversation as if we’d never been apart.

I was at their home in the US when I learned Bhavana was pregnant in August 2004, following years of IVF treatment. It was one of the happiest moments of my life and I had them to share it with me.

Recently, while in Chennai for a SaaSBoomi presentation, I spent an evening with Ram and Nirmala (though Bhavana couldn’t join us). Those three hours were precious—reminiscing about shared experiences, updating each other on our now-grown children, and savouring Nirmala’s exceptional Pongal, a dish whose distinctive flavour has remained consistent through the years.

As I returned to my Chennai hotel that night, I realised I had neglected this cherished relationship. What separates us now is merely a few hours of travel. There was no justifiable reason for allowing several years to pass between our meetings. Life grants us only a handful of truly meaningful connections, and it’s our responsibility to nurture them with intention and care.

In our increasingly disconnected world, these authentic friendships—especially those formed through chance and sustained through choice—become even more valuable. They remind us that human connection transcends distance and time, providing continuity and comfort in our ever-changing lives.

On the first evening of our revenue meet in Bangkok, I delivered an hour-long presentation to our global customer-facing team of 160 (sales, customer success, and other leaders). This forward-looking vision for Netcore explored themes I’ve written about extensively on my blog: AdWaste, AI Agents, AI Twins, NeoMails, NeoN, and Progency. I wove these concepts together to build a compelling case for transformation—moving away from the saturated red ocean of Martech and CPaaS toward the blue ocean of NeoMarketing.

My presentation underwent multiple iterations as I prepared and gathered feedback from select colleagues. I create presentations independently because ultimately, I must stand before the audience and tell the story authentically. My presentation style tends to be content-rich and somewhat professorial because I’m simultaneously educating my colleagues on the future and how to engage customers in meaningful conversations. Rather than pursuing a single narrative thread, I develop multiple interconnected sub-themes that flow throughout.

During my talk, I invited several colleagues to join me on stage and share their “NeoSelling” success stories—highlighting innovative approaches they’ve used to advance sales conversations and strengthen client relationships. These personal accounts provided valuable real-world context and offered a welcome break from my extended monologue!

The presentation culminated with what unexpectedly became the highlight of the evening: a 20-question multiple-choice quiz I had prepared in Slido. This interactive element was inspired by something similar I had witnessed at eTail West Connect last year—an idea that struck me just days before our event. The quiz proved tremendously successful! The incentive for the winners: a 30-minute one-on-one breakfast session with me the following morning!

My closing slides visually reinforced our strategic direction. The first contrasted “Today’s Netcore” with “Tomorrow’s Netcore” along several dimensions: moving from commoditisation to differentiation, feature comparison to outcome commitment, pricing pressures to pricing control, being merely a software provider to becoming a true success partner, transitioning from same old revenue streams to new revenue opportunities, shifting from limited to unlimited upside potential, and perhaps most importantly, evolving from us chasing clients to clients seeking us out.

The next slide depicted our strategic shift metaphorically—showing Netcore as the NeoMarketing Pioneer, with a lone swimmer (representing our company) breaking away from shark-infested red waters into the clear blue ocean of opportunity. This visual powerfully communicated our intention to lead rather than follow, to differentiate rather than compete on the same terms as everyone else.

This presentation represented more than a strategic overview—it was a rallying cry for transformation, challenging our team to envision and create a fundamentally different future for both Netcore and our clients.

The day we landed in Bangkok, we experienced two remarkable encounters with strangers—people we didn’t know and will likely never meet again.

Upon arrival at Bangkok airport, confusing signage led me to believe we needed a visa on arrival. I approached an official who directed us to a counter requesting 200 baht each for Bhavana and me. As I searched for the nearest currency exchange, an observant Indian traveller spotted us and asked, “Are you from India? You don’t need any visa. Just walk straight ahead and go through Immigration.” His timely intervention saved us both money and precious time in a foreign land.

Later that day, while shopping, I needed to exchange dollars for baht. I approached one of Bangkok’s ubiquitous street counters and was about to complete the transaction when another passing Indian traveller intervened: “Don’t change here. I’ll show you one ahead where you’ll get a much better rate.” He walked us several hundred meters to the right forex shop—and he was absolutely correct. The difference on 100 dollars was 70 baht (approximately ₹175).

As Bhavana and I reflected on these incidents, what resonated deeply was the selfless kindness of strangers. These weren’t grand gestures—just small acts of consideration that required slight detours from their own paths. Yet these momentary connections created ripples of goodwill that extended far beyond the immediate benefit. In our increasingly individualistic world, these spontaneous connections remind us of our fundamental human desire to help one another, expecting nothing in return.

I had the opportunity to reciprocate this kindness that same evening. While resting on a bench at Platinum Fashion Mall (as Bhavana shopped), a distressed visitor approached, asking if I could share my hotspot. He had become separated from his friends without wireless access. I obliged, and within minutes, he and his friends were joyfully reunited.

In a world where headlines often highlight division—where leaders erect trade barriers and political rhetoric emphasises differences—these simple acts of humanity quietly endure. They transcend national boundaries, languages, and cultural differences. Perhaps these micro-connections, these brief moments of seeing another’s need and responding with kindness, form the invisible infrastructure of our shared humanity.

These encounters in Bangkok reminded me that beneath our superficial differences—nationality, language, appearance—lies a common understanding: we all occasionally need help navigating this complex world. The willingness to extend a helping hand to a stranger—whether in providing directions, sharing local knowledge, or offering a brief connection to the digital world—represents our better nature.

The beauty of these interactions lies in their ephemeral quality—brief connections without expectation of ongoing relationship or reciprocity. Yet they leave lasting impressions, small beacons of hope illuminating our shared journey. In a global climate often characterised by suspicion and self-interest, these moments of spontaneous kindness serve as powerful reminders that our capacity for connection and compassion remains vibrantly alive.

I wrote last year about my memories of Bangkok from Netcore’s international sales meet: “Bangkok was a destination Bhavana and I visited frequently in the late 1990s and early 2000s (before Abhishek was born)…Bangkok, just a 5-hour flight away, offered a completely different world from India. We stayed at the Riverside Marriott. Bhavana enjoyed the shopping experiences, while I appreciated the break from work. Taking the boat ride across the river was such a calming experience. I also loved the Kinokuniya bookstore with its extensive collection of English books. Bangkok, even with its traffic, showed me what Indian cities could have become.”

This year, we scaled up by combining both domestic and international teams for a comprehensive “revenue meet.” Bangkok proves ideal for multiple reasons. For Indians (and citizens of many countries), there’s either no visa requirement or visa-on-arrival. We breezed through Thai Immigration as effortlessly as passing through our own borders. This “visa-free” advantage significantly enhances tourism – one can decide, book flights and accommodations, and simply travel without any delays.

The availability of direct flights from numerous global destinations shortens travel times considerably. The combination of reasonably priced hotels (we stayed at Hotel Rembrandt in Sukhumvit) and abundant shopping opportunities remains unbeatable. Though my shopping time was limited, I managed to purchase five high-quality collared T-shirts with pockets – each costing under ₹1,000. Two downsides persist: daytime traffic (it took 50 minutes to travel just 4 kilometres for a customer meeting) and the relentless humidity.

We discovered excellent Indian vegetarian restaurants near our hotel serving outstanding Jain cuisine: Saras (directly across from Rembrandt) and Dosa King. This solved the food challenge that often accompanies our international travel.

India needs more destinations like Bangkok to attract tourists. Discussing this with colleagues, one mentioned that while Goa could become such a destination, hotels and local transportation are becoming increasingly expensive.

On a curious note: the Indian Rupee and Thai Baht maintained an almost 1:1 exchange rate around 2000. Now, one Thai Baht equals ₹2.50. Wondering what changed, I consulted Perplexity, which explained: “The rupee’s depreciation against the Baht stems primarily from India’s economic vulnerabilities—trade deficits, inflation, and capital outflows—while Thailand’s stronger fundamentals, especially in tourism and exports, have helped the Baht outperform the rupee over the past two decades.”

Worth mentioning: India’s Trusted Traveller program is truly excellent. Immigration has become a breeze.

All things considered, it was a rewarding experience, and I’m inclined to say that Bhavana and I will likely return sooner rather than later!

Late March 2020, life stopped for many around the world. A virus was on the loose, a pandemic was forming, and no one knew what would happen. India too locked down – first for a few days, and then weeks which became months. Masks became the norm as every stranger seemed a potential transmitter. With many publications carrying articles discussing five years of the pandemic and what changed (and what did not), I decided to do my own assessment on how those lockdowns changed me.

When the lockdown was announced late night on March 24, I was wholly unprepared for working from home. I had an old laptop gathering dust, having relied primarily on my office desktop. Suddenly, I had no idea when I would access a proper computer again! My home lacked any dedicated workspace—just a table in the library that I occasionally used. This makeshift arrangement became my office overnight. Until then, Zoom had barely registered in my consciousness—suddenly it became my lifeline to the outside world.

I mention these details because they’ve endured beyond the crisis. That temporary arrangement evolved into a proper home office, and Zoom calls have become my default for conversations—a surprisingly effective alternative to in-person meetings that has persisted long after restrictions lifted.

My eating patterns underwent a permanent shift as well. Pre-pandemic, I followed the conventional three-meal structure, with lunch packed each morning to eat around noon in office. Post-pandemic, I’ve settled into a two-meal rhythm—a heavy breakfast before heading to the office, followed by a combined lunch-dinner around 4:30/5 pm at home. This adjustment, born of necessity (so as to reduce the dishes I had to clean!), has become my preferred routine.

The pandemic also ushered streaming services into my life. With Abhishek (who was 15 when the first lockdown began), I explored countless shows during that first isolated year. “The Expanse” became a particular favourite—a shared escape into space when our physical world had contracted so dramatically.

But the most significant pandemic gift was the revival of this blog. I had abandoned blogging in 2012, always finding reasons to postpone a restart. My frustration about the lockdown demanded an outlet, and I decided to resurrect my blog (with a new domain) as that creative space. My inaugural series, “Unlock India,” marked the beginning of what has now become a five-year daily writing practice—perhaps the most meaningful pandemic transformation in my life.

Bad memories tend to fade with time. Most lockdown days blurred together in their sameness—the endless cycle of waking, working, walking with masks for some exercise, and sleeping within the same walls, with nowhere else to go. Yet certain changes have become permanent fixtures in our lives. These enduring adaptations are what we ultimately remember from that extraordinary time.

Five years later, the world has largely moved beyond Covid’s shadow, but its imprint remains visible in countless subtle ways—in how we work, connect, and structure our days. Just as well that from chaos and uncertainty, we managed to salvage some lasting positive change.

I have been a “collector” all my life – especially of books. From my days in the US, I’ve found deep satisfaction in acquiring books. I don’t necessarily read every volume that finds its way onto my shelves, but there’s an undeniable pleasure in simply owning a thoughtful new title. Periodically, I’ll select one to read, though over the past decade, much of my reading has have migrated to digital formats.

A month or so, I faced an unexpected reckoning when an office renovation forced me to clear my space. Suddenly, I confronted hundreds of books – probably more, as I eventually lost count. While I carefully packed the newer additions to return them to bookshelves in a few weeks’ time, I discovered countless volumes I hadn’t touched in years. These were literary time capsules from the late ’80s, throughout the ’90s, and the early 2000s. I stood at a crossroads: keep or discard.

In every previous decluttering attempt, “keep” had been my reflexive choice. This time, however, something shifted. I decided to part with most of them, preserving only those with special memories or enduring relevance. It was time to move forward, especially knowing that digital versions exist should I need to revisit a specific text.

Books carry more than just information – they embody places and times. My collection included dense textbooks from my Columbia graduate studies (Digital Signal Processing, Computer Networks) and volumes that traced my evolving professional interests through the 1990s (image processing, text summarisation, software development and programming languages). The Internet and IndiaWorld era of my career brought another wave of acquisitions, followed by my 2000s exploration of new technologies, India, and politics. The chronology of my intellectual journey unfolded across these pages, shelf after shelf.

This time, I approached the task with newfound pragmatism. These books had been companions through a wonderful life with all its peaks and valleys. My love for books has remained the one unwavering constant, but I recognised the necessity of releasing the past. Even after this significant purge, I still possess enough volumes to fill multiple walls of bookshelves, but many older titles simply needed to find new homes or purposes.

The act of decluttering books isn’t merely about creating physical space – it’s about acknowledging that our relationships with knowledge evolve. Some books serve as momentary guides, while others become lifelong references. Some mark specific chapters in our lives that have naturally concluded. The past must give way as new futures beckon.

As I closed the final box of books to be given away, I felt an unexpected lightness. These books had shaped me, but I no longer needed to possess them to retain what they had taught me. The lessons, ideas, and inspirations had long ago transferred from their pages into the person I’ve become. In letting go, I wasn’t abandoning their influence – I was simply acknowledging that the most important parts of many of them already reside within me.

Sometimes the greatest respect we can show to the books that have changed us is to release them to potentially transform someone else.

PS: During the decluttering process, I found my notebooks from the late 1990s and early 2000s which I thought had been lost. Those I have kept. Maybe one day I will write an autobiography or, as an older version of myself, relive some meaningful chapters of my life!

For the past few months, I’ve rediscovered Calvin and Hobbes thanks to the Times of India carrying it daily on their op-ed page. Though I own the entire collection, there’s something magical about the daily drip-feed that surpasses consuming dozens of strips in a single sitting. This renewed connection has awakened a flood of memories about comics and childhood.

As a kid, Amar Chitra Katha (ACK) held a special place in my heart. The fortnightly ritual of visiting the nearby store to purchase the latest issue was sacred. These treasured collections, many still preserved in bound volumes at home, shaped my understanding of history and mythology. Years later, I felt immense pride when I got permission to publish many of the comics (scanned pages) on IndiaWorld – it was one thing that NRIs missed a lot, especially those with young kids.

“The Illustrated Weekly of India” provided another comic gateway with its dedicated two-page spread featuring Phantom, Bahadur, and other characters. Indrajal Comics published complete editions that I would eagerly borrow from the Shemaroo library near my home. Mandrake and Richie Rich were among my favourites from this period.

My love for Calvin and Hobbes blossomed during my Columbia University days in the US. Bill Watterson’s wry philosophical humour captured my imagination completely. Later, when my son Abhishek was growing up, I’d sometimes see him as the spirited Calvin to my wiser Hobbes—our relationship mirroring that imaginative partnership between boy and tiger.

Commando comics, with their World War narratives, formed another chapter of my comic journey. My uncle would share these with me, two or three at a time, and we’d bond over stories of bravery and courage. These tales of individual heroism and team solidarity left lasting impressions.

As adulthood encroached, my comic enthusiasm gradually waned. I never developed an affinity for the superhero universes of Batman, Spider-Man, and Superman, nor did I explore Manga despite its global popularity.

What I cherish most was the simple joy those illustrated frames brought—compact dialogues unfolding complete narratives during an era when entertainment options were limited to a single television channel. Comics offered a vibrant alternative to Doordarshan, creating imaginary worlds alongside my beloved novels—Famous Five, Hardy Boys, Secret Seven, and later, Perry Mason. They transformed ordinary weekend afternoons into extraordinary adventures across time and space, all from the comfort of home – and a welcome diversion from school homework.

Those illustrated pages didn’t just tell stories—they built worlds, shaped perspectives, and created memories that continue to resonate decades later.