Category: Life Notes

Another genre I delight in is the cosy mystery. Anthony Horowitz’s Magpie Murders series (both in book form and on TV) and “Only Murders in the Building” are perfect examples of this charming subgenre. While psychological thrillers and noir mysteries plumb the darker depths of human nature, cosy mysteries offer a gentler, more whimsical approach to crime-solving.

What makes these mysteries “cosy” is their unique blend of elements: yes, there are bodies (usually discovered in rather bloodless circumstances), but there’s also a warmth and wit to the investigation process. The detectives aren’t hardened police officers, but often curious amateurs – bookshop owners, mystery writers, or in the case of “Only Murders,” an unlikely trio of true-crime podcast enthusiasts living in a grand New York apartment building.

The settings themselves become characters: quaint English villages, charming small towns, or intimate communities where everyone knows everyone else’s business. There’s something comforting about watching clever amateur sleuths piece together clues while sipping tea or sharing gossip. Even when dealing with murder, these stories manage to maintain a light touch, offering moments of humour and human connection alongside the puzzle-solving.

Of course, as in the legal thrillers and courtroom dramas, the challenge for the reader is to guess the “whodunnit” – which I inevitably cannot!

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And then there are the short stories – those perfect literary gems that demand just the right amount of attention. From a blog post a few months ago: “While a book is a commitment of a few hours, a short story can be read in about 20-odd minutes – perfect for those stolen moments in a day or just before bed. I am always trying to guess the twist at the end – and rarely succeed. (Guess that’s what makes the story leave its mark.) There are times when I just don’t get the ending, and then I have to Google and figure out what the author intended. But that’s part of the joy – the interpretation, the discussion, the discovery of layers of meaning I might have missed.”

This magical uncertainty of short stories is beautifully captured by Amor Towles in his introduction of The Best Short Stories 2024: The O. Henry Prize Winners: “It is quite unusual for us to begin a short story with a sense of what it is about. Whether we read the story in a periodical, an anthology, or an author’s collection, we will not find a synopsis of it on the dust jacket. Most stories we encounter haven’t been summarized in a review or sketched out for us by a recommending friend… So, when we read the opening sentence of most short stories, we are delightfully in the dark. Without the pre-awareness that accompanies novels, we don’t know where or when the story is taking place. We don’t know what sort of person will be at its center, whether male or female, old or young, black or white, Asian or Latino. We don’t know if the narrator is omniscient, an interested observer, or the principal player. We don’t know if the tone is going to be cynical or wistful, compassionate or angry, unnerving or hilarious. Which is all to the better. For our discovery of each of these elements as we read the story will provide its own little jolt of surprise.”

These days, my relationship with short stories has evolved. While I still eagerly anticipate the “twist” at the end, I’ve learned to savour every element – the artistry of the opening lines, the careful construction of setting, and those delightful little surprises sprinkled throughout. It’s like learning to appreciate both the destination and the journey.

A couple of months ago, I read Scott Turow’s new book, Presumed Guilty. A few months previously, Apple TV had released the TV series “Presumed Innocent” based on Turow’s first book. Both of these reminded me how much I adore legal thrillers and courtroom dramas.

Perhaps it started as a teenager when I began borrowing Erle Stanley Gardner’s Perry Mason books from the Shemaroo library near my house. I was captivated by the tense courtroom scenes where Mason would methodically break down witnesses on the stand, revealing the truth through clever questioning and keen observation. Those dramatic moments when a key witness would crack under pressure, transforming the entire case, left an indelible mark on my young mind. And I would wonder where I had missed the clues and why I hadn’t seen the end coming.

What drew me in wasn’t just the “whodunit” aspect, but the intricate dance of legal procedure, the battle of wits between the prosecutor and Mason, and the way justice often hinged on the smallest details. Perry Mason’s unwavering dedication to his clients and his ability to see through deception showed me how the courtroom could be a theatre where truth eventually prevails, even against overwhelming odds.

Later in life, I discovered other masters of the genre. Michael Connelly’s Mickey Haller series, starting with The Lincoln Lawyer, showed me a different kind of defence attorney –  one who ran his practice from the back seat of a Lincoln Town Car, taking on cases across Los Angeles County. John Grisham’s legal thrillers transported me from the streets of Memphis to the corridors of Washington D.C., weaving tales of young lawyers caught in webs of corruption and conspiracy. And Scott Turow’s complex, psychologically rich novels, beginning with Presumed Innocent, demonstrated how the legal thriller could transcend genre conventions to become sophisticated literary fiction.

Each of these authors brought something unique to the courtroom drama. While Perry Mason had shown me the thrill of the dramatic courtroom revelation, these writers explored deeper themes: the moral ambiguities faced by defence attorneys, the psychological toll of high-stakes litigation, and the complex intersection of justice, politics, and human nature.

Two movies I watched recently added to my love for courtroom dramas. The 2023 Palme d’Or winner “Anatomy of a Fall” gripped me with its ambiguous tale of a wife accused of her husband’s murder, blurring the lines between truth and perception in a French courtroom. And then there was the masterful “Witness for the Prosecution” – Billy Wilder’s 1957 adaptation of Agatha Christie’s work, where Charles Laughton’s performance as the brilliant barrister Sir Wilfrid Robarts, alongside Marlene Dietrich’s enigmatic Christine Vole, showed me how the genre’s golden age could still captivate modern audiences with its clever plot twists and compelling courtroom theatrics.

During the early years of the pandemic, Abhishek and I fell in love with “Suits” Like many others discovering comfort viewing during lockdown, we were drawn into the slick world of Manhattan law firm Pearson Hardman. The dynamic between brilliant fraudster Mike Ross and legendary attorney Harvey Specter offered a fresh take on legal drama – less about courtroom theatrics and more about the high-stakes strategic battles played out in conference rooms and corporate corridors. We found ourselves binge-watching episode after episode, caught up in the clever legal manoeuvrers, witty banter, and complex relationships that made the show so engaging.

And so it was with pure delight when I read this story in the New York Times recently: “Suits LA” is launched on NBC this February, with at least 13 episodes promised. While the show trades Manhattan’s sleek corridors for Los Angeles sunshine, it promises to keep the wit and high stakes that made the original so compelling. I’m looking forward to watching the season with Abhishek in summer – a fitting continuation of our pandemic-era ‘Suits’ marathon.

For me, whether in books, movies, or TV shows, legal thrillers and courtroom dramas continue to prove why they remain one of storytelling’s most gripping genres.

The slide deck clicked forward, the presenter’s voice steady. Charts glowed on the screen, but as I scanned the room, I realised no one was asking the obvious questions—the ones that would make or break our next quarter. My pulse quickened. Should I risk derailing the meeting?

I raised my hand.

After three pointed questions—“What’s actually driving these numbers?”, “Why haven’t we validated this assumption?”, “What’s the one lever we’re ignoring?”—the room fell silent. Then came the nods. The real conversation began.

Later, I realised: Every team needs 1-2 people willing to ask these “crux” questions. I called them the “Blue Team”, inspired by the idea of a “Red Team.”

In Making Better Decisions, I had written about “Red Teaming”: “It is a decision-making support process wherein a group actively challenges an organisation’s plans, policies, systems, and assumptions, mimicking potential adversaries to expose vulnerabilities. Originating from military exercises, Red Teaming’s primary goal in business and security contexts is to improve decision-making by providing a candid, critical perspective. It helps organisations anticipate potential threats and weaknesses by simulating an external attacker’s mindset, ultimately refining and fortifying decisions and defences.”

Red and Blue Teams work like a strategic yin and yang. While Red Teams ask, “What could go wrong?”, Blue Teams ask: “What must go right?”

Red Team	Blue Team
Challenges assumptions	Uncovers core assumptions
Mimics external threats	Clarifies internal priorities
Prepares for failure	Ensures foundational clarity

Red Teams are devil’s advocates. Blue Teams are architects of focus.

Management legend Peter Drucker believed the mark of an effective leader was asking, “What needs to be done?” rather than “What do I want to do?”

Blue Teams operationalise this. They cut through metrics-laden presentations and polite consensus to demand:

• “What’s the one thing we haven’t discussed that could change everything?”
• “If we had to bet the company on a single assumption, which would it be—and how do we know it’s true?”

This isn’t confrontation. It’s clarity engineering.

Most meetings fail here: We debate solutions before agreeing on the problem. Blue Teams fix this—but only if leaders:

• Reward courage, not compliance (“Thank you for asking that—let’s dig in”).
• Pause before problem-solving (“Let’s Blue Team this for 5 minutes first”).
• Separate ego from inquiry (Treat questions as contributions, not criticism).

o, in your next meeting, try this: Before diving into debate, ask: “What’s the Blue Team question here?” Watch how it shifts the conversation from reactive (“How do we fix this?”) to strategic (“Should we be fixing this?”). Because in a world drowning in data but starving for wisdom, the real power lies in asking fewer questions—just the ones that matter.

For many weeks, I had been thinking about putting together my new marketing ideas into a slide deck that I could present to customers and prospects. I just didn’t get around to doing it. And then, my team came to me and said that I needed to present (virtually) at Netcore’s Martech Global Summit in Miami. Suddenly, I had a date and time.

In the span of a week, I worked through multiple iterations of the deck to ensure I could tell the story right and succinctly. While I can be verbose in my blogging, here I had to make sure I kept the story moving along quickly – communicating my NeoMarketing ideas and Netcore’s pathbreaking innovations. The constraint of time forced clarity of thought. Two powerful frameworks emerged naturally: a 1-2-3-4 format (1 mission, 2 technologies, 3 problems, and 4 innovations) along with a House (of NeoMarketing) concept.

Of course, I put on a good show in the end! But this experience left me pondering: why hadn’t I created this deck earlier? Without pressure, without a forcing function, without a deadline, I had procrastinated since there was no audience. The moment I knew I had to present publicly, everything changed. Parkinson’s Law came into play – work expanded to fill the time available, but more importantly, work compressed when time became scarce.

This phenomenon isn’t unique to presentations. Writers often talk about how book deadlines from publishers drive their creative process. Startup founders frequently cite how upcoming investor meetings sharpen their business plans. Even artists, known for their free-spirited approach, often produce their best work under the pressure of gallery opening dates.

In life, these triggering events move us forward. It’s like the difference between peacetime and wartime. Just like in war, there are no second chances. I knew I had to get the pitch perfect to persuade the marketers in the room. But why do we wait for external pressure? Looking at my own patterns, I see this behaviour in my daily life. For example, I meticulously clean up my inbox before long travel, as if Air India requires a tidy inbox!

The key question becomes: how can we create these “artificial” forcing functions to improve ourselves? Some successful professionals I know set monthly public commitments on social media. Others join accountability groups that meet weekly. Some even hire coaches not just for their expertise, but for the regular check-ins that force progress.

Perhaps the secret lies in understanding that real deadlines work because they combine three elements: a specific time constraint, public accountability, and meaningful consequences. The challenge is to recreate these conditions for our self-imposed goals, turning abstract “someday” plans into concrete “by next Thursday” commitments.

What forcing functions could you create for yourself this week?

In early January, I had attended a musical program by Drishti Foundation featuring hit songs from the 1990s. As the familiar tunes filled the auditorium of Dinanath Mangeshkar Natyagriha in Vile Parle, each melody triggered cascading memories – of movies watched alone, and later, many with Bhavana. Sitting there, I found myself reflecting on a decade that transformed me from a corporate employee to an entrepreneur, from single to married, from dreaming to doing.

The decade had begun with me working at NYNEX in White Plains, living the American corporate life. But there was always my father’s gentle deadline hovering: two years in the US, then back to India. In May 1992, I booked that one-way Singapore Airlines ticket home – San Francisco to Mumbai via Seoul and Singapore. I still remember that day in Singapore, walking its ordered streets, perhaps unconsciously preparing myself for the chaos and opportunities that awaited me in Mumbai.

India welcomed me back with its characteristic bureaucratic embrace – my computer exceeded the “transfer of residence” value limits, and I had my first lesson in navigating Indian regulations through customs duty payments. It was a fitting introduction to the entrepreneurial journey ahead.

The early years tested everything I had. Multiple ventures failed, and in the midst of this turbulence, Bhavana and I had an arranged marriage in December 1993. I remember watching “Hum Hain Rahi Pyar Ke” with her during our engagement period, its enchanting soundtrack becoming the background score to our early days together. While I was finding my entrepreneurial feet, we found common ground in Hindi cinema. Bhavana wasn’t just a movie buff; she had an almost mystical ability to write perfect movie reviews for IndiaWorld after its launch in 1995, sometimes without even watching the films – she just knew.

The decade that began in an American suburb ended with the landmark sale of IndiaWorld to Sify for $115 million. Sitting in that auditorium, as each 90s song played, I realised how each melody marked a milestone: the uncertainties of early entrepreneurship, the warmth of a new marriage, the excitement of building IndiaWorld, and finally, the sweetness of success.

Looking back, the 1990s weren’t just a period of time; they were my crucible of transformation. Each failure, each movie watched, each venture attempted, each song heard – they all contributed to making something from nothing. Not just a business, but a life.

If there was one key takeaway from my Jakarta trip, it was the profound importance of luck. I’ve written about luck previously: “Life is essentially a stream of events and decisions. What we attribute to luck are often just decisions – either ones we made or someone else did. Sometimes, it’s easier to ascribe outcomes to an unseen force than take ownership, especially when things aren’t going well! But we cannot passively wait for good luck. We must chart our own path by making decisions we believe are right. And then there are certain events that can accelerate the journey we’re already on. Think of luck as a tailwind propelling you forward when you’re heading in the right direction. And bad luck? An unexpected headwind that you must battle – one that ultimately forges a stronger version of yourself. Either way, you emerge ahead.”

On this trip, I experienced multiple instances of good fortune.

While waiting to meet a prospect in a hotel lobby, an American-Brit approached me and asked, “You are Rajesh from Netcore?” [I was wearing a Netcore jacket.] Initially stunned, once I regained my composure, we engaged in a very productive conversation about a potential partnership.

A dinner meeting was scheduled with a company CEO who ultimately couldn’t attend. The restaurant was dimly lit and noisy – conditions that would have made showcasing our products nearly impossible. (His colleague was present for the dinner.) Fortuitously, the CEO rescheduled for the following morning, joining several colleagues whom we were anyways scheduled to meet. This gave us the opportunity to present our solutions to the CEO on a large screen in a proper conference room.

Another example: our local partner’s CEO realised that the person we were meeting at one of our customers was someone he had known from a decade earlier. He decided to join us, and that connection made all the difference – a scheduled 30-minute meeting extended to a full hour, allowing us to explain our innovations in depth. (The local language rapport certainly helped.)

And perhaps the most significant stroke of “luck” – my trip was extended by a day when a customer needed to reschedule. While initially disappointed about staying an extra day, those final 24 hours yielded multiple valuable meetings that came together unexpectedly. As I often remind myself (but sometimes fail to heed): everything in life happens for a good reason!

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Overall, it was a productive journey – one I perhaps should have undertaken a few years earlier given our established presence in Jakarta. It reminded me how much I enjoy traveling and connecting with people. In recent years, I haven’t done enough of this – often preferring the comfortable familiarity of the office for thinking, writing, and conducting Zoom calls. But the in-person meeting remains irreplaceable – the connection forged over coffee or a meal creates a bond that virtual interactions simply cannot match.

A few weeks ago, I made a 3-day business trip to Jakarta. Netcore has had a presence there for many years, but this was my first visit to the city – though I had gone to Bali on vacation many years ago. With Indigo having started a direct flight from Mumbai about a year ago, travel is much easier now – just six hours non-stop. The flights in both directions were full with what appeared to be Indonesians traveling in groups – I later realised they were going for Haj and transiting through Mumbai. In fact, on the return flight, it seemed the only Indians were in the two Emergency row seats (having paid extra for the leg room)!

While I typically prefer business class for long-haul flights, Indigo offered no such option. En route, I travelled with a colleague, so time passed quickly – we discussed many ideas without the constraint of the next meeting looming over us. On my return flight, I was alone, but my writing habit caught the attention of both the person across the aisle and the one beside me, and I found myself chatting with both. (Both were Indians; one of them positioned in Jakarta.) It’s remarkable how flights can transform strangers into friends. I gained insights about Indonesian culture and airline loyalty programs from my new acquaintances! This kind of spontaneous connection would never have happened within the siloed confines of a business class seat.

**

Indonesia has a population of 280 million, making it the fourth largest in the world. Its per capita GDP stands at $5,000, roughly twice that of India. Their economic growth rate is about 5%, lower than India’s 6.5%.

For Netcore, Indonesia, Malaysia, and Philippines represent our largest South-East Asian markets. We’ve established a solid ground presence in Jakarta: a local partner and a strong team.

My three days there were packed with meetings (and evening travels battling traffic). All our meetings started punctually – we had wisely built in sufficient buffer between appointments. One aspect I particularly enjoy is meeting customers and prospects, listening to their perspectives on their business and marketing challenges. I consistently ask, “What are the top two challenges you face in your business?” The answers prove illuminating because the problems described are genuinely top of mind for the CxO. In companies where we’re seeking entry, one effective approach is to focus on solving their key problems. I generally excel at suggesting solutions that can give us a “landing” in that account.

Indonesia features several large conglomerates operating across multiple industries – much like India. Securing entry into one of these companies becomes crucial for business expansion. In my presentations, I emphasised NeoMarketing and Agentic AI concepts (especially Marketing Agents and Madtech Twins). We also showcased some compelling demos for both, which sparked productive discussions.

These conversations helped crystallise my thinking about the need for a Progency – a marketing services entity capable of solving business problems holistically. Just providing technology and tools no longer suffices; at Netcore, we need to focus on delivering outcomes – similar to what Google and Meta accomplish with adtech. While the Progency concept has been percolating in my mind for several years, the addition of Agentic AI could potentially be a game-changer.

Weekends have evolved into sacred spaces of solitude. With Abhishek away at university, the rhythm has shifted from bookstore visits and dining out to something more introspective. My (still) makeshift home office has become a cocoon where writing, thinking, and reading flow together in a meditative communion.

As I wrote recently: “The one routine I cherish most—and which has deepened significantly this year—is my weekend writing ritual. Every Saturday and Sunday, starting at 5 am, I dedicate those tranquil early hours to crafting essays for my blog. On average, it takes me about three hours to complete an essay, but during that time, I enter a state of absolute focus and creativity—what many describe as “the zone” or “flow.” I usually begin with a title and a rough outline, which gradually evolves as the ideas take shape. Words flow into sentences, sentences into paragraphs, and paragraphs into cohesive sections until, finally, the essay emerges. By the time I finish, not only do I have a completed piece, but I often uncover a couple more ideas or topics to explore next. This harmonious cycle of creation and discovery has become the rhythm of my weekends, energising my passion for writing and keeping the well of ideas perpetually replenished.”

After writing comes a brief retreat – an hour’s nap that serves as a natural intermission in my day. Then it’s back to the computer for my “Thinks” – a curated journey through the week’s collected articles. This ritual of selecting roughly 30 snippets for weekly posting isn’t just about content creation; it’s a deliberate practice in diverse reading and thought synthesis.

The afternoons belong to deep thinking. Settled in my chair, I don my Bose headset, letting my collection of 400+ songs on Amazon Music create a cocoon of contemplation. The noise-cancelling feature transforms my space into a private thinking chamber where ideas connect, future blog essays take shape, and insights emerge from the intersection of various readings.

Evenings bring a different kind of solitude – the company of stories through OTT platforms. A series or movie provides a perfect wind-down before sleep claims me at around 9:30 pm.

I’ve learned to protect these weekends fiercely, politely declining meetings and calls whenever possible. While weekdays submit to the chaos of meetings and external demands, weekends remain sovereign territory. Here, it’s just my mind and me, with my notebook standing ready to capture the fruits of contemplation.

This embrace of me-time resonates with an excerpt from a recent New York Times review of three new chapter books: “Yes, we are social animals, looking to others to give our lives safety and meaning. But there sure is such a thing as too much togetherness. Writers and artists are particularly inclined to be introverts — it’s hard to make a masterpiece at a dinner party, after all. So I’m not surprised to see three lovely new chapter books from three different countries all singing the praises of good old-fashioned me time…“Other people” are going to be in your life no matter what. But the person who is always going to be there is you, and that’s a very worthwhile person to be friends with.”

In a world that often equates solitude with loneliness, my weekends stand as a testament to the richness of chosen solitude. They’ve become not just a break from the week, but a vital space for personal growth and creativity. In these carefully crafted hours of solitude, I’ve found not isolation, but the deepest form of connection – with myself, my thoughts, and the endless possibilities that emerge when we give ourselves permission to simply be.

[Related writings: Time with Oneself and Mindwandering.]

Every December, I eagerly await TIME magazine’s Person of the Year announcement. In 2024, the choice was predictable yet significant – Donald Trump. As TIME’s editors explain: “For 97 years, the editors of TIME have been picking the Person of the Year: the individual who, for better or for worse, did the most to shape the world and the headlines over the past 12 months. In many years, that choice is a difficult one. In 2024, it was not… Over time, we’ve seen the Person of the Year franchise shift: from Man of the Year to its current designation; from the period between the world wars, defined by leaders like Mohandas Gandhi and Wallis ­Simpson, to the first quarter of the 21st century, an era marked by the tremendous changes ushered in by a technological revolution. ­Although the ­American presidency has evolved across these eras, its influence has not diminished. Today, we are witnessing a resurgence of populism, a widening mistrust in the institutions that defined the last century, and an eroding faith that liberal values will lead to better lives for most people. Trump is both agent and beneficiary of it all. For marshaling a comeback of historic proportions, for driving a once-in-a-­generation political realignment, for reshaping the American presidency and altering America’s role in the world, Donald Trump is TIME’s 2024 ­Person of the Year.” Trump was also POTY in 2016.

This annual tradition holds a special place in my memory, dating back to 1982 when TIME named “The Computer” as its first non-human “Man of the Year.” I was in college then, unaware that this machine would fundamentally alter my life’s trajectory. When my father installed a computer in his Nariman Point office the following year, I found myself drawn to it, teaching myself BASIC programming and creating games (cricket match simulations, Othello, Mastermind, Monopoly). Those after-college hours spent in that room with a computer that seemed impossibly large sparked a passion that would lead me away from my planned career in civil engineering. Looking back, I can trace part of that pivotal decision to the inspiration I drew from that TIME cover story.

If I had a vote, my 2024 choice would have been different – either “Artificial Intelligence” itself or the duo of Sam Altman (OpenAI) and Jensen Huang (Nvidia). While Trump’s influence on America and the world remains to be seen, AI’s transformation of our society is already undeniable. Since ChatGPT’s debut two years ago, AI has catalysed innovation across virtually every sector, and we’re merely at the beginning of this revolution.

TIME’s selection isn’t just about recognising influence; it’s about marking moments that define our journey as a society. Whether we agree with their choice or not, it always sparks valuable discussion about what – and who – shapes our world. That’s precisely what makes this annual tradition so compelling: it’s not just about who wins, but about the conversations it starts.

India has done phenomenal work in building the national highway infrastructure over the past decade. Travel times have been cut by at least 25% thanks to the development of 4- and 6-lane highways. The smooth surfaces, efficient toll plazas, and well-marked lanes make for a relatively stress-free driving experience. However, the real challenge begins when one ventures onto state roads and interior routes. As I had written in an essay a couple years ago: “This is quintessential India: existing simultaneously in multiple decades and perhaps even centuries.” Here are some reflections and observations from a recent journey on these roads.

Road Quality: One of the first things that strikes you is the quality of the roads. While there has been some improvement over the years, the smoothness and consistency seen on national highways are missing. Potholes, undulations, and uneven patches are common, especially in areas prone to heavy rainfall. The result? It is rarely possible to go beyond 60 kmph, and the average speed ends up being closer to 30-35 kmph. For those used to cruising on highways, this can be frustrating and time-consuming.

Two-Lane Roads and the Art of Navigation: The 2-lane roads without dividers present a unique set of challenges, particularly at night. These roads require heightened alertness and considerable driving skill. Every journey feels like an adventure, with a wide assortment of fellow road users to navigate around. Bicycles, bullock carts, motorbikes without taillights, slow-moving tractors, and stray cattle squatting in the middle of the road all contribute to the experience. It’s a shared space for everyone, and at times, even other drivers seem unsure of which direction they’re headed.

The Overtaking Dilemma: With traffic moving at different speeds, overtaking becomes a constant exercise. While overtaking on highways is fairly straightforward, on these 2-lane roads, it becomes an intricate dance. Drivers must wait for the perfect opportunity, peer ahead to check for oncoming traffic, and often rely on instinct to make their move. Impatience can be dangerous, and misjudgments can be fatal.

Headlights and Night Driving: Night driving on interior roads is an entirely different beast. The blinding glare of high-beam headlights from oncoming vehicles can be disorienting. Despite the availability of technology like auto-dimming headlights, many vehicles still use high beams indiscriminately. This forces drivers to squint, slow down, or even stop momentarily to regain their composure.

Speed Breakers: The Unmarked Menace: Speed breakers are an inescapable feature of India’s interior roads. They are found everywhere — near schools, on village approaches, and sometimes seemingly in the middle of nowhere. The problem is not their presence but the way they’re implemented. Many of these speed breakers are unmarked and unpainted, making them almost invisible at night. Instead of simply slowing down traffic, they bring vehicles to a complete halt as drivers navigate them with extreme caution. The unexpected jolt from hitting one at speed can be both physically and mechanically jarring.

The Pothole Paradox: After the monsoons, potholes become a permanent feature of interior roads. The rains wash away not just the surface but also the hopes of a smooth ride. Potholes of varying depths and sizes dot the roads, creating a bumpy and uncomfortable journey. As one government official candidly remarked, “The money is not made during the construction, but in the maintenance contracts!” This points to a systemic issue where the durability of roads is compromised, necessitating frequent repairs that are financially lucrative for contractors but frustrating for road users.

Urban Chaos and the Traffic Lights Puzzle: Many small towns and growing cities face a unique infrastructure challenge. As populations expand, the road network often struggles to keep up. Intersections without traffic lights become the norm, leading to 4-way scrambles. The result? Everyone tries to edge their way through the crossing simultaneously, creating confusion, chaos, and frequent gridlocks. While some drivers resort to honking incessantly, others rely on luck and aggression to make their way through.

Mixed Traffic and Unpredictability: Perhaps the most fascinating aspect of India’s interior roads is the sheer unpredictability. At any moment, a dog or goat might wander onto the road, a tractor might reverse into traffic, or a motorbike might appear from a hidden lane. This unpredictability keeps drivers on edge, forcing them to stay alert. It’s a constant reminder that driving in India is not just a skill — it’s an art.

The Broader Perspective: The chaos of India’s interior roads is a microcosm of the wonder that is India. It’s an unfiltered, unvarnished reflection of life in the country — bustling, unpredictable, and full of surprises. The same roads that challenge drivers also reveal the spirit of resilience, adaptability, and ingenuity that defines India. From roadside mechanics who can fix anything to truck drivers who navigate impossible routes, these roads tell a story of survival and grit.

While national highways have seen tremendous improvements, it is clear that attention now needs to be directed towards state roads, rural routes, and city infrastructure. Encouraging signs are emerging. More flyovers are being constructed, certain towns are getting their first proper traffic lights, and smart city initiatives are taking off in pockets. Over the next decade, with the right focus and investment, it is possible to imagine an India where even interior roads match the quality of national highways.

As drivers, we are also learning. On highways, there’s a growing awareness that slow-moving traffic should stay to the left, a practice that’s gradually becoming second nature. Perhaps similar behavioural changes will occur on interior roads too, as we move from chaos to order. Just as India is rising on the global stage, perhaps its roads — big and small — will also follow the same trajectory of progress and excellence.