The timelines

Have you ever noticed how movies sometimes slow down a moment or speed it up? Certain scenes are intentionally played in slow motion, while others are fast-forwarded. This change in speed can completely alter the meaning of the scene. When a moment is shown in slow motion, every detail becomes more intense and meaningful. When it is fast-forwarded, the focus shifts to movement and transition rather than emotion.

In many ways, life feels similar.

Most of us wish our sad moments could be fast-forwarded, while our happy moments could be played in slow motion so we can savor every second. Interestingly, our perception of time often reflects this desire. For example, Sundays often feel much shorter than Mondays during a workweek. It is not that time actually moves differently—it is our experience of it that changes.

Some thoughtful and analytical people have the ability to observe events from multiple perspectives. They can look at a situation as it happened, then mentally slow it down to study the details, or speed it up to understand the broader pattern. By examining events in these different “time frames,” they uncover insights that might otherwise be missed.

These insights help them make better decisions and draw more thoughtful conclusions. Simply adjusting the pace at which we reflect on an event can change its meaning and the lessons it holds.

It is fascinating how the interpretation of an event can shift just by changing the speed of the timeline. And often, within that shifting meaning lies the conclusion we eventually arrive at.

People, Wrong Numbers, and the Government

People, Wrong Numbers, and the Government

The country has witnessed multiple crises under the current government. Two recent examples stand out: the Indigo airline fiasco and the ongoing LPG crisis.

The Indigo crisis left countless customers stranded, at the mercy of the airline, yet it barely made the headlines. Social media buzzed with outrage, complaints, and discussions—but soon enough, the crisis quietly faded away. Officially, the government seemed unaware; it was as if no distress calls had ever been made.

Interestingly, the concept of the “wrong number” gained national attention thanks to PK. In the film, Amir Khan’s character believed that most distress calls were reaching the wrong number, which explained why help never arrived. The metaphor seems oddly apt for real-life crises.

Fast forward to the recent LPG crisis: people across the nation are calling out, seeking assistance. Yet, the government appears unmoved, again citing that all calls were made to the wrong number. Nothing officially reaches the records, and the distress officially “doesn’t exist.”

So, who is really at fault here? Is it:

1. **The people**—who, despite their efforts, dial the wrong number and then insist they’ve done their duty by reporting the problem?

2. **The government**—which remains indifferent, expecting the wrong number to somehow resolve the crisis before it is officially recognized?

This triad—people, wrong numbers, and the government—creates a surreal drama. Distress calls are made, ignored, misrouted, and vanish into official oblivion. Meanwhile, the public discussion rages, only to be quietly erased from the official record.

In the end, it’s a peculiar theater of bureaucracy: the government expects crises to sort themselves out, the wrong number sits in the middle as an accidental intermediary, and citizens are left wondering if their cries for help were ever meant to be heard.

Life: A detailed archive

What Do We Carry From Birth to Death?

My mother is bedridden now, and most of her time is spent watching television serials. As she watches them, parts of the stories often remind her of her own life. A scene will trigger a memory, and suddenly she is talking about something that happened decades ago. She remembers her childhood at her mother’s house. She remembers the early days of her marriage. She remembers the struggles of raising us as children.

It is almost as if she carries a detailed record of her entire life — from her earliest memories to the present day.

But this is not only about my mother. I have noticed something similar in many women who were raised in traditional Hindu households. They remember everything. Incidents from childhood, conversations from decades ago, moments of joy, moments of pain — nothing seems to fade away completely. It is as if life becomes a long archive of memories that stay with them until the very end.

This made me wonder about something deeper.

When we remember everything that has happened to us, what does it really mean? Does it mean that life has changed us? Or does it mean that we have resisted change so strongly that we continue to carry every incident exactly as it was?

If we truly allowed life to transform us, perhaps some memories would lose their weight. They would dissolve into understanding rather than remain as vivid stories we keep repeating.

But often it seems we hold on to everything.

And that leads to a strange thought: if we carry every memory, every hurt, every struggle exactly as it happened, then in some sense we remain the same person we were when we were born. The events between birth and death happen around us, but they may not fundamentally change who we are.

So what is the meaning of all those experiences in between?

If we are born one way and die the same way, what was the purpose of everything that happened in the middle — all the struggles, the joys, the conflicts, the sacrifices?

Perhaps the real question is not about what we remember.

Perhaps the real question is about what truly changes within us.

Art of Chai Biskoot

There are some films that don’t just entertain us — they quietly stay back, like the lingering taste of chai on a rainy evening. One such film for me is Godavari. I still don’t know exactly why it touched me so deeply, but its simplicity captured my imagination in a way very few love stories have.

The storyline was gentle, almost unassuming. No exaggerated heroism. No over-the-top villains. No dramatic “mass” moments. Just a cool, breezy love story that unfolded naturally. The screenplay was simple yet engaging, and the songs were pure class — just like the characters themselves. Everything about the film felt real and relatable.

There’s one scene I keep going back to. The hero proposes to the heroine after reading her diary — a moment filled with vulnerability rather than drama. I even saved that clip on YouTube, and I play it whenever I want to feel that old warmth again.

In that scene, the heroine takes the hero to a small roadside bakery. He hesitates and asks, “Is it right to be in this place?” She smiles and replies that it’s better than any five-star hotel. That line says so much about love — it’s not about the grandeur of the place, but the comfort of the company.

He orders a simple chai and biscuit. And as they share that modest treat, their conversation gently melts into something beautiful. No candlelight dinner. No luxury setting. Just chai, biscuit, and honest emotions.

Sometimes, what an extravagant feast cannot achieve for our loved ones, a humble chai-biscuit at a roadside bakery can. It’s never about the price tag — it’s about presence, simplicity, and sincerity.

I can’t help but feel nostalgic about those days when a simple chai-biscuit moment could impress someone. Today, expectations often seem to soar sky-high — sometimes nothing less than the latest iPhone feels enough. Somewhere along the way, simplicity lost its charm.

It reminds me of the Tamil film Velai Illa Pattathari, which also subtly reflected the pressures and changing expectations of modern relationships and aspirations.

Maybe that’s why I cherish Godavari even more. It reminds me that love doesn’t need luxury. It needs understanding. It needs authenticity. And sometimes, all it takes is a chai biskoot shared at a roadside bakery to create a memory that lasts forever.

Letter to Editor: World just too confusing

Here is a letter to editor of a leading US news portal by one of its subscriber under the heading - World just too confusing

World just too confusing

A good friend recently told me they believe they are suffering from vertigo. My friend described the symptoms:

Up is down, down is up.

Wrong is right, right is wrong.

Lies are true, truths are lies.

Shooting a woman who might be a protester point blank is good in the U.S.; shooting a protestor in another country, like Iran, is bad.

Swindling people is good, not bad.

Sending billions of dollars to another country to help its economy while ignoring the U.S. economy is good, not bad.

Threatening friendly countries and praising corrupt enemy countries is good, not bad.

Letting people die from hunger and lack of medical care in our wealthy (for now) country is good, not bad.

Trying to start wars to distract the country from learning the ugly truth about their leader is good, not bad.

I seem to be seeing the same things happening. Perhaps I have vertigo too?

 

When you become too good to resist your downfall

Your house is on fire.

The flames are spreading, the smoke is thick, and the alarms are screaming. Yet instead of reaching for water, you stand there—admiring the glow. You call it divine will. You call it destiny. You call it a magnificent blaze that should not be interfered with.

That is what the current situation feels like.

The warning signs were everywhere. The dashboard was flashing red. The heat was rising. But rather than acknowledging the danger, some romanticized it. They called it the wrath of God. Others described it as a beautiful dance of flames. And slowly, the narrative shifted: perhaps the fire is too powerful, too meaningful, too grand to be extinguished.

But when you decide the fire is too important to put out, you also decide your house is not worth saving.

And when you convince yourself that you are above acting—above resisting, above correcting course—you become complicit in your own destruction. At that point, there is no villain left to blame. The flames are no longer the only threat. Your inaction is.

Downfall does not begin in the streets.
It begins in the mind.

It starts the moment you normalize what should alarm you.
The moment you justify what should be challenged.
The moment you admire what is quietly destroying you.

If you are too proud to confront the fire within your thinking, it will eventually consume the reality around you. Ignored danger does not disappear. Romanticized destruction does not become harmless. A fire left untended does what fire always does—it spreads.

And by the time you decide it should have been stopped, there may be nothing left to save.

The real battle is never just outside.
It is first within.

Extinguish the flames in your mind before they take your house with them.

The Movement And The Move

Technology has taught us many things. One of the most important lessons is how to design systems. As we mastered the art of system design, the way systems function for us fundamentally changed. This shift doesn’t apply only to technological systems, but also to higher-order systems—the invisible structures that guide life on this planet.

Let me explain how our understanding of system design changed the way systems work for us.

Before the advent of modern technology, higher-order systems guided humanity by observing human movement. These systems took input from how people naturally behaved and responded accordingly. They adapted to human patterns and, when crises arose, helped guide humanity through them.

But as humans began to master system design, the relationship reversed. Instead of systems observing humans, humans began observing the systems that guided them. We tried to understand their internal logic, decode their rules, and replicate them to build our own systems. At first, this curiosity was about understanding. But it didn’t stop there. Once humans understood these systems, they began to manipulate them.

Consider the traffic signal system. As long as vehicles follow traffic rules and obey signals, the system guides traffic movement smoothly. However, when drivers start anticipating the signals—trying to predict them or exploit their timing—the system changes. Instead of guiding traffic flow, it begins to influence how vehicles are steered, encouraging acceleration, braking, and shortcuts based on anticipation rather than natural movement.

This is the deeper shift: when humans decode the internal logic of higher-order systems, they start shaping those systems through their moves rather than their movement. And once systems are shaped by our moves, they, in turn, start shaping our moves instead of our movement. That distinction is subtle, but profound.

When humanity is shaped for its moves rather than its movement, something fundamental changes. Humanity becomes a piece in a chess game. The entire world turns into a board where the goal is to anticipate and influence the next move. As more of the world is designed around moves, people begin to move like pawns—positioned, anticipated, and directed—rather than flowing naturally through the game of life.