My middle name was inspired by my mother’s father, whose name was Alejandro. My parents opted for the English version of the name with an “x” because they reasoned it would be more convenient in the U.S. While in principle this is true, it made little sense alongside my first name, which is arguably one of the most confusing names in Spanish.

I am not particularly fond of my middle name. While I am grateful for its connection to my grandfather, I feel the name does not suit me. I would have much preferred the Spanish version, as it would align with my Latin American heritage. Alexander, despite the small difference, sounds foreign.

On my first day of middle school, a Cuban classmate with no knowledge of Spanish struggled to pronounce my name. This was an unusual experience because in Miami you can often live life as if you are in Latin America. Spanish can be the primary language in certain neighborhoods, though that is sadly changing. Until that moment, I was accustomed to my name being ordinary.

My classmate asked if he could call me something else. Wanting to fit into my new, alien private school, I offered my middle name, “Alex.” The next day, as I walked down the hall with other kids, I was puzzled to hear someone calling, “Alex! Alex!” It was so anomalous that it took me a moment to realize he was calling for me. My peers were as puzzled as I was, asking “your name is Alex?” I immediately dropped the name and resolved to use my first name, even if it was confusing to others. I preferred to have my first name butchered, than to abandon it for a comfortable English alternative.

Guillermo is the name of my father, and my father’s father. The name, by definition, is the Spanish translation of William, which interestingly means “resolute protector.” While I do not put much stock in family “legacy,” I do take pride in bearing my family’s story. My father was born poor in Nicaragua. As a young adult, he fled a civil war on foot to eventually reach the U.S. My mother faced similar hardships migrating from Ecuador. Together, they built a life that far exceeded what would normally be expected of people born in their circumstances.

My name embodies the dreams of my parents. Over the course of my life, I felt it proclaimed to others, “I am here,” despite the hand my parents were dealt. This is aided by the fact that Guillermo is one of the most Latino names possible. It leaves little room for ambiguity. My siblings, in contrast, were given some of the most American names possible in the interest of assimilation. As a child, I sometimes resented the complexity of my name, but in adolescence came to prize it for marking my heritage. When someone calls my name, even if it comes out twisted, I feel seen. For the same reason, I take calling people by their chosen name as a basic matter of respect.

Since moving to India, my first name has become obscured, while my middle name has been unexpectedly foregrounded. The first time I visited India to meet my partner’s family, my name presented a conundrum. The double “l,” as it always has, confounded my future relatives. Guillermo was so challenging to pronounce that one asked if they could swap it for an Indian name, like Gopal. Today, this memory brings me great laughter — the time I almost became Gopal — but at the time I was panged with discomfort. It was like being called Alex all over again. I was relieved and grateful when my in-laws took the time to learn my name. They were willing to see me.

In the years that have followed, however, I have had to make compromises. In my current workplace, I go by the nickname, “Gui,” pronounced “ghee,” as in clarified butter. In India, where ghee is ubiquitous, I have found this nickname to be legible. It also feels perfectly apt for my illusive name to literally become butter.

Still, Gui can lead to amusing errors. One colleague calls me “gooey.” Another calls me “guy.” Some write my name as “ghee” in emails or messages. I don’t usually have the heart to correct these people unless they ask because it can become awkward. It is odd how correcting someone can sometimes seem like an affront.

I don’t mind my new nickname, Gui, but there is an obscurity to it. The fact that it emerged from the inconvenience my full name creates, as I have been explicitly told, sits uncomfortably. In fairness, many people do call me Guillermo. Thanks to the director Guillermo del Toro and Guillermo Rodriguez from Jimmy Kimmel, my name has some global recognition. Nonetheless, Gui has gained a lot of traction, even across borders.

At the same time, my middle name has become strangely prominent. Almost always, when I have to provide my legal name, my first name is skipped over. At doctor’s appointments, airport check-ins, workplace orientation, government offices, and other settings, I see the same mental calculation in the staff person. They read my first name with consternation, then see my middle name with relief and say:

“Mr. Alexander, how can I assist you?”

“Alexander, please go ahead.”

“Welcome, Alexander.”

I generally reply, “it’s Guillermo,” to their indifference. When I joined my current job, a few colleagues called me Alexander thanks to the all-staff welcome email. When I corrected them, one asked with surprise, “it’s not Alexander?” as if I did not know my name.

I know some people are reading this and thinking, “stop being so sensitive.” Honestly, I am inclined to agree with those people. It does feel petty to fuss over my name. Many immigrants, especially from East and Southeast Asia, happily take on alternative names in the interest of assimilation. Maybe Alex had the right attitude back in middle school. I have gone back and forth on writing this precisely because it felt silly, but with each stinging “Alexander” the urge write intensified.

When I am so removed from my roots, my name sometimes feels like one of the few ways to remember where I come from and who I am. Moreover, my name is just the tip of the iceberg on finding a sense of belonging in India, which perhaps compounds my unease.

Recently, I was hanging out with a couple colleagues. We took turns playing music on a speaker. I put on “Ojitos Lindos” by Bad Bunny and Bomba Estereo, a personal favorite. A person remarked, “Oh it’s like Despacito!” to the agreement of others.

“No, it’s not!” I retorted, with a force that surprised me and my colleagues. They immediately felt bad and apologized, even though they had done no wrong. Of course these songs can sound similar within the broad genre of reggeaton, but I was quick to frustration over what felt like a stereotype of Latin American music. I was embarrassed by my reaction.

In the same vein, I completely understand the difficulty of my name and do not blame people for changing it. Still, I long to be seen.

During my time in India, I have been surprised to hear Indians comment on their country’s inability to afford certain public goods or services, like decent public education or transit systems. In Bangalore, where I live, residents frequently complain about the city’s infrastructure, from its crawling traffic to its polluted waterbodies, but feel helpless against their incapable government.

“India is still a developing country. We are not there yet."

“We are a third-world country. Change will take time.”

“India is too big to govern properly.”

Comments like these are common yet confound me. India certainly has major challenges, but they are hardly beyond reach. In a country with immense wealth, “under-development” arises not from a lack of resources, but from poor policy decisions and public perceptions. India needs to shed this self-limiting approach and strive towards a better future for its people.

India as abundance

Globally, India is often maligned with unfair stereotypes, associated with sweeping poverty and polluted environments. While these issues exist, as they do around the world, the India I know is much greater than these perceptions.

India is a land of abundance, rich in every aspect. Historically, the subcontinent has made immense contributions to the world, from yoga to radio broadcasting to the number 0. It is home to one of the earliest civilizations to produce textiles and has produced some of the finest fabrics in the world, like muslin cloth.

India’s natural and cultural diversity is remarkable, especially when considering its landmass is a third of the United States’. Any experience one could desire can be found here, whether its scaling breathtaking mountains to traversing desert to exploring bustling cities. Each of India’s 28 states and 8 union territories (UTs) has unique languages, cultural practices, topographies, and cuisines. Even within a state or UT, you will encounter linguistic and cultural variation. The diversity and abundance of India’s lands has made it a global breadbasket, serving as the second-largest producer of rice, sugarcane, and wheat.

Economically, India has rapidly emerged as a major force. Since 2000, its economy has nearly quadrupled in real terms, and per capita income has almost tripled. Today, it boasts the fifth largest economy in the world and is one of the fastest growing major economies. In the coming years, India will surpass Japan and Germany (fourth and third largest economies, respectively). The country boasts leading universities, premier medical institutions, and booming industries in information technology, pharmaceuticals, and steel, among others.

Strolling through India’s urban centers, it is easy to witness the scale of wealth and development. Cities like Hyderabad have sprawling skyscrapers and modern infrastructure that would remind you of world-class cities like Singapore. Instant mobile payments have become ubiquitous, such that you can pay a small samosa vendor or rickshaw driver via QR code in seconds. In the U.S., on the other hand, mobile payments have barely caught on, with Zelle or Apple Pay still feeling like a novelty.

All this is to say that India has the full potential to provide its people a secure and dignified livelihood. However, this potential has been persistently undermined by a development strategy that primarily benefits a select a few.

Poverty amid plenty

Even as India has emerged as one of the wealthiest economies in the world, much of its people have been excluded from these gains. India’s GDP per capita is about $2,700, which places it firmly as a lower middle-income country, alongside Kenya, Laos, and Nicaragua. Even if we were to account for cost of living, GDP per capita would be around $11,000, roughly a third of China’s and an eighth of the United States’s.

In Poverty Amid Plenty, Atul Kohli, a political scientist at Princeton University, argued that India’s economic development took a turning point in the 1980s: “socialist rhetoric was discarded for pro-business policies and the economy grew rapidly.” These policies included the removal of industrial licensing requirements, opening up of industries that were previously reserved for the public sector, relaxation of import restrictions, and suppression of labor activism. As a result, major corporations, like Wipro, Adani Group, and Sun Pharmacueticals, emerged during this period and expanded the economy. However, this strategy primarily benefited a small share of educated, wealthier individuals, and did relatively little for the masses.

The widening income inequality in India captures this effect. From 1980 to 2020, the top 10% of individuals increased their share of income from 30% to nearly 60%. In contrast, the bottom 50% saw its share fall from about 20% to a measly 13%. Today, the top 1% alone controls more than a fifth of income and 40% of wealth (i.e. assets) today. Thomas Piketty and a team of researchers studying these trends have termed this era the “Billionaire Raj,” as “India’s modern bourgeoisie is now more unequal than the British Raj headed by the colonialist forces.” Research on upward mobility similarly shows that low-income people have little prospect of moving up the ladder. People born at the bottom end of income distribution are likely to stay there.

To be clear, India’s development has meaningfully improved the lives of all people. Indians are healthier, wealthier, and living longer today than decades before, across the income spectrum. The government has played a direct role in this by investing in safety net programs, infrastructure, public health, and other crucial areas.

Still, over four decades, India has shown a persistent, if not worsening, tendency to shortchange its public to reward elites. It has ascended to the club of rich countries, but only invited a handful to the party. At the same time that India rallies to become a global leader in AI, spending billions on data centers, it has been cutting social welfare spending year after year. Despite the advancements, millions of people face hardships over accessing quality healthcare, education, work, and nutritious food.

These skewed priorities manifest clearly in Bangalore, India’s “Silicon Valley.” The state government has been prioritizing costly infrastructure projects, like underground tunnels and double-decker expressways, to appeal to businesses, yet neglected basic enhancements to roads, public transit, and footpaths that would benefit residents. The development of the city has been highly unequal, leading to severe disparities in access to drinking water, clean air, and waste collection. In 2024, Bangalore experienced a severe drought. I was fortunate to live in a central neighborhood that had secure water availability, but those living in the city outskirts and informal settlements suffered.

Right now, people across India are hurting from rising fuel prices amid the war in Iran. Their access to work, food, and transportation has been greatly disrupted. Some have even returned to their villages because they could not afford to purchase gas cylinders to cook at home or to buy meals outside.

Some readers may shrug their shoulders and conclude that bad things can happen and will eventually pass. These hardships can and should be preventable, though.

Pursuing a better future

In Poverty, by America, Matthew Desmond frames the persistence and depth of poverty in the United States as a social failure. The U.S. has the sad privilege of being the wealthiest country with the gravest poverty, leaving millions to struggle every day to afford basic necessities.

Poverty is often framed as an individual problem to be overcome, with limited support by the government and non-governmental organizations. Desmond instead presents it as a problem of our creation. “People benefit from poverty in all kinds of ways,” he argues. The reliance on under-paid labor allows people to enjoy their rapid Amazon deliveries, convenient Uber rides, and on-demand dog walkers. This reality has been enabled by gutting unions, stagnating wages, and exploiting undocumented people. Even if we put aside the ethics of this, poverty has major socioeconomic costs. It undermines productivity, public health, public safety, and social cohesion. We all pay as a society for poverty.

India is, of course, very different from the U.S., but the persistence of poverty and inequality can be similarly framed as a deliberate social failure. The availability of cheap, plentiful labor benefits the middle and upper-class. It pays for our cheap cabs, cleaners, cooks, delivery drivers, nannies, and so on. It is uncomfortable to say, but as a society, we (including myself) tolerate or even like inequality because of the conveniences it provides. We may assuage our guilt by claiming to pay our workers well. Although this matters, it doesn’t change the fundamental circumstances of the hardworking people we depend on for our comforts. If India wishes to be prosperous, then its development strategy needs to radically change.

Desmond calls for a “poverty abolitionist” movement to eliminate poverty in the United States.

“Those of us who embrace this project seek to divest from poverty in our consumer choices, investment decisions, and jobs. We support a government actively striving to end scarcity by rebalancing the nation’s safety net and expanding policies that empower the poor. We detest all forms of exploitation, whether it is carried out by corporations, property owners, or financial institutions, even if—especially if—it benefits us.”

I believe India should embrace a similar movement to end poverty and reverse inequality. In their foreword for the World Inequality Report 2026, economists Jayati Ghosh and Joseph Stiglitz wrote, “Progressive taxation, strong social investment, fair labor standards, and democratic institutions have narrowed gaps in the past.”

Yet, in India, taxes have been cut, social sector spending has been cut, and labor rights have been curbed. The same people who complain about poor infrastructure and public amenities, longing for the quality of life in the West or East Asia, are often the same individuals resisting taxes. Some lament that India is too big to govern, when in reality the state is just too small to adequately serve its people. India’s public sector workforce among G-20 countries is the lowest as a share of total employment at 5.8%. How can India aspire towards prosperity with disempowered labor, divestment in public services, and an unequipped state?

Indians can and should take pride in the immense progress the country has made. I am proud to call India my home for several years. However, the country’s choices have made it the “poorest rich country,” having rapidly expanded its economy without distributing those gains equitably. This has denied many a dignified, healthy, and secure life. It denies all of us the vibrant and thriving environments we wish to enjoy. In fairness, India is hardly alone in this regard, as many countries have pursued unequal growth. But the implications are massive in a population of 1.4 billion people.

India has the potential to demand a better future. It’s on us to seize it.

My dad said these words in December as we waited in a parking lot in Miami to be seated as a restaurant. As harsh as they were, I was mostly unbothered. Over the course of my adult life, I had become quite used to statements like these.

As the eldest son of immigrant parents, I have chosen a life very different from what my parents would have preferred. I work in the “development sector,” which is comically difficult to explain to my family.

“So, you do charity?”

“So, you like to be poor?”

(My favorite:) “So, you tell corrupt governments to stop being corrupt?”

I left the U.S. and moved to India, which perhaps felt like a slap in the face to the toils of my parents, who struggled greatly to move to the U.S. from Latin America. In their eyes (and frankly those of many), I left the greatest country on earth for an inferior place.

Amidst constant doubt over my life choices, I have developed a shell to preserve myself against this skepticism. To be clear, my family does celebrate my triumphs. My father still tells random people that I graduated from good schools, to my embarrassment. However, it often seems like these successes only accentuate to them my wasted potential.

So, when my father questioned my career trajectory, I immediately dismissed him. “You’re wrong. You feel this way because you don’t understand my choices.” I was regretfully rude and cold. Before I had a chance to respond more sincerely, my siblings joined our circle and steered the conversation elsewhere.

At the time, I thought I had moved on from this tense yet ordinary moment; that my shell had repelled it.

In reality, the comment stung. It pierced and lingered, demanding to be heard. In the months since, I have tried to unpack why and slowly realized the comment hurt because my father had vocalized a similar thought that has been swirling in my mind.

I do not believe my career is regressing. On the contrary, I have been relieved to discover a greater sense of professional clarity after years of aimless wandering from one job to the next without a conscious trajectory.

However, since turning 30, I have been grappling with simultaneous feelings of confidence and anxiety. The confidence stems from feeling more secure in myself. During my 20s, I struggled with self-doubt. I knew fairly little about who I was or who I wanted to be. I was living as an independent “adult” in Baltimore, away from my home in Miami. Trump had just started his first term and the U.S. felt upside down. At the workplace, I was surrounded by brilliant people, most of whom did not look like me, and anxious to seem competent. Minor incidents, like when my cat got an ear infection shortly after moving, felt like crises. I was eager to prove to myself and to others that I could succeed, which brought great pressure.

As the years went by, I steadily felt my feet reach the ground. I married my best friend. I excelled in my work. I graduated from the school of my dreams. I made wonderful friends. I learned to embrace the softer parts of me without fearing judgement. I moved to the other end of the world and was thriving. Of course, there were hardships along the way, like a debilitating case of long COVID. As each one subsided, though, I learned they did not have to define me.

And so, by the time I reached 30, I felt so much more at ease. I no longer questioned myself constantly. I was not cowed by people’s expectations. I did not stress as much about my career, finances, and other aspects. My friends, many of whom were older, seemed to feel similar and welcomed me to the “best decade.”

Although my thirties have felt this way in many respects, a new source of anxiety has crept in. At the same time that life is smoother, I find myself wondering if I am taking it for granted. Am I meaningfully contributing towards a better world through my professional and personal actions? Am I adequately showing up for my family, friends, and wider community? Am I making the most of my time to enjoy new experiences, learn new skills, and travel to new places?

Life somehow feels long and short these days. I have so many years ahead, but do not want to squander them. At work, even as I am excited about my career trajectory, I worry about complacency. In the past, I would compromise on salary, work-life balance, or personal interests in the name of building experience. Today, I am less amenable to these sacrifices, especially if they extract a high price.

Many people lament that Gen-Z does not want to work and is unreasonable with their expectations, but I actually find their resolve inspiring. Millennials have been taught to put their heads down and accept what comes to them, but we should demand more from work and life more broadly.

My body has started showing initial signs of aging. My back and knees are prone to aches. I am learning the limits of my body in the absence of caring for my physical and mental wellbeing. At the same time, I’ve seen through family and friends how circumstances can deteriorate instantly. I know I am being paranoid, but the fragility of life has become more apparent.

As the years go by, I want to make the most of them with the people I love. Hopefully, I can turn this angst into the motivation to live a full life.

Unpacking the numbers

In nominal terms (i.e. raw figures), the budget would give the impression that total expenditures have been rising moderately, while receipts (net of devolution to states) have steadily caught up to reduce dependency on borrowing (see Figure 1). In the last five years, expenditures have grown 28% from Rs. 41.9 lakh crore to Rs. 53.5 lakh crore. Meanwhile, revenues have increased 50% from Rs. 24.6 to Rs. 36.5 lakh crore. In 2020, over half of public spending was financed by debt, today that share is less than a third, indicating greater self-sufficiency.

However, this story changes when we look at the same figures relative to the size of the economy, which controls for inflation and more accurately represents the government’s fiscal impact (see Figure 2). In 2020, total expenditures as a share of the economy hit a high of 17.7% of GDP to respond to the COVID-19 pandemic. Since then, spending has been persistently cut down to 13.9% in 2025. The 2026 budget expects to further reduce this to 13.6%, which is just slightly above pre-pandemic levels.

Receipts, on the other hand, have been relatively constant. In 2020, receipts modestly fell from 8.7% to 8.5%. The year after, they rebounded to 9.4% and have generally stayed there. In effect, the reduction in deficits have predominantly been paid for by spending cuts.

A shrinking social sector

The most visible source of cuts has been subsidies, which mainly lower the costs of food, fertilizers, and petroleum. Both in nominal and relative terms, subsidies have markedly declined since 2020. From 2021 to 2025, subsidies have nearly been cut in half from 2.1% to 1.2% of GDP. Broader social sector spending has also shrunk. Per ResGov, spending across 16 ministries associated with social welfare programs (e.g. health, nutrition, and rural development) has fallen from 3.8% of GDP in 2021 to 2.3% in 2025 — lower than pre-pandemic levels.

To be clear, I am not arguing that spending cuts are inherently bad. It was sensible to contract spending and overall deficits as the pandemic subsided. However, it is a questionable strategy to achieve fiscal stability purely through spending cuts when the needs are plenty in areas like health, education, and infrastructure.

India spends the lowest amounts per capita on health among G20 countries, and falls short of national spending targets on education. Infrastructure spending needs to ramp up significantly to meet the demands of urbanization. The Ministry of Finance has highlighted the nearly 12% increase in capital expenditure (i.e. spending towards infrastructure and other fixed assets) compared to last year, but relative to GDP it hasn’t changed. In 2026, capital expenditure is expected to be 3.1% of GDP, equivalent to 2025’s levels and slightly lower than 2024’s when 3.2% was spent.

Rather than rely on spending cuts, the Central Government could have adopted a more balanced approach that tempers spending while mobilizing revenue collection. Instead, revenue collection has been constant and may even be on a downward trajectory due to recent tax cuts.

The myth of self-paying tax cuts

Last year, the Central Government made two major tax reforms. The first was an increase in the income tax threshold from Rs. 7 lakh to Rs. 12 lakh, meaning anyone earning below Rs. 12 lakh paid zero income tax, which I discussed as part of last year’s budget release. The second was a redesign of the Goods & Services Tax (GST) rates, under which most goods and services would now be taxed at a lower rate.

In both cases, the Ministry of Finance argued that these tax cuts would pay for themselves through boosts in consumption. While it is still too early to say the real fiscal impact of these measures, one clear indication of their negative fiscal impact comes from the revised revenue figures for 2025. In 2025, the budget estimated (BE) that personal income taxes would represent 4.0% of GDP and GST would represent 3.3% of GDP. However, the revised estimates (RE), which essentially update projected spending and revenue collection for the year, showed a considerable decrease in collections for both categories (see Figure 3). This is likely due the negative impacts of the revenue reforms. At the time, the estimated revenue loss from the GST changes ranged from INR 48,000 crore to 1.8 lakh crore.

To be fair, gross tax revenues (GTR) have largely held steady in spite of the tax reforms. The GTR for 2025 are expected to be 11.4% of GDP, which is just slightly below the 2024 level of 11.5% (see Figure 4). The revenue loss could have been stemmed by efforts to improve tax enforcement, especially for GST.

Nonetheless, the core point remains. To achieve fiscal stability, the Central Government has relied on incremental spending cuts, compromising its ability to meet national priorities and needs. These cuts are likely to continue in light of revenue losses from the tax reforms.

Ultimately, fiscal deficits are a function of spending minus revenues. A government has many options to achieve reduce deficits. One option is to cut spending and maintain revenues constant as India as done. The inverse would be to raise tax revenues without cutting spending. India would benefit from a more measured approach between these ends that promotes fiscal responsibility and public welfare.

A digital bulletin board

I first heard about LinkedIn towards the end of high school in the early 2010s. As internships became a dreadful reality, we were encouraged to try this new platform for finding professional opportunities and networking. At the time, LinkedIn was like a digital bulletin board, where you could post your resume and share internships or jobs.

Soon thereafter, I created a profile and listed the few “professional” experiences I had. There was embarrassingly little to show for (shout-out to my pity endorsers), but it was becoming a standard. For instance, employers started asking for a link to your profile as part of submitting an application.

Still, LinkedIn was mostly an afterthought throughout college and my early 20s, even as it expanded its social features. I only updated my profile occasionally when searching for internships or jobs, and otherwise ignored the platform. My friends and peers largely behaved similarly, which reinforced my indifference. In the D.C. policy bubble, Twitter was the predominant social media platform.

I started to notice a serious change in this around 2020. LinkedIn had evolved from a simple repository for your resume and job notices into a full-fledged social media site akin to Facebook. Users could post, comment, share, and direct message as they would on other platforms. Organizations were increasingly embracing the site for their public communications. It went from being a platform of little consequence to one that you engaged on a weekly, if not daily, basis.

Success without integrity

Today, LinkedIn is the “social network for professionals,” with over 1 billion users worldwide. People carefully curate their profiles (“look at my certificate from Harvard!”), post about their work or accomplishments (“happy to announce…”), opine on issues, and network with strangers. Some treat their LinkedIn as a diary, sharing details about their personal life that or may not relate to work. Likewise, organizations develop sophisticated media strategies on LinkedIn. They obsess over their posts, tags, and hashtags, and spend hundreds if not thousands on paid promotions.

In the process, we have created a perception that aggressive networking on LinkedIn is imperative to professional success. My feed is filled with “key takeaways” from events, papers, or persons with cute emojis and polished text that were often generated by AI. Even college students and fresh graduates engage in this brand-building, sharing observations from a training course or from their initial days at work. While reading these posts, I often wonder, “Who is this for? What are you trying to achieve?”

LinkedIn’s mission is to “connect the world’s professionals to make them more productive and successful.” While the platform has certainly created new ways for professionals to connect and grow, these interactions often feel hollow. People and organizations constantly try to sell themselves by touting their latest “transformative” project or “breakthrough.” This practice is so well known that there is a dedicated subreddit for it. Many others have written about it as well.

In an ideal world, LinkedIn would be a place for the meaningful exchange of ideas, but instead it’s an echo-chamber of self-flattery and hyperbole. Maybe this facilitates success, but it also compromises integrity. For the development sector, this trend is especially tragic when we are supposed to be working towards improving lives. Rather than earnestly grappling over how to overcome problems, we fixate on how to tailor our messaging to maximize likes, reposts, and views, especially from donors. My LinkedIn feed would lead you to believe we have defeated poverty, climate change, and conflict based on the dramatic achievements displayed.

Even when a post seems genuine, you can’t help questioning the motives. Recently, I saw a post in which someone’s office had been decorated for a holiday. The post discussed how much the decorations meant to them and praised the employer. On the one hand, this can be an innocent celebration of how a workplace creates a more fun environment for its staff. On the other, it could just be seeking recognition from the employer. The motive may even be a combination of both.

Connecting with others can feel similarly shallow. I often get connection requests from strangers, with no context on why they reached out. Every now and then, a person asks for an edge with their job application. Unless I know the individual, I ignore these requests because they’re impersonal, if not extractive. To be clear, I get that people are searching for bridges to opportunities, and that this is challenging without existing connections or status. I am happy to be that bridge, just as others have been for me, but be human about it. Don’t just reduce me to a means to an end.

A look in the mirror

In fairness, I am guilty of perpetuating some of these practices. One time, a cousin noted how “active” I am on the platform, to my embarrassment. My partner sometimes teases me for how hard I try to share my writing. It’s true; I have been that wanna-be pundit. I do share my writings on LinkedIn to gain visibility.

I started this substack to write freely and honestly about topics I care about, and to see how they resonate with others. In the absence of other social media platforms, I chose a selective embrace of LinkedIn by only sharing work-related posts and welcoming feedback. I thought this approach would be better, but comments like the above have made me realize that my posts may seem as disingenuous or self-interested as others.

I am still grappling with what constructive engagement with LinkedIn would look like. Some friends have completely opted out of the platform in response to these concerns. I have often contemplated this, but can’t ignore the plain importance of the platform and its legitimate value, whether to find jobs, learn what partners and peers are doing, and follow developments in my sector.

Perhaps this is naive, but we should be able to imagine a better, more authentic LinkedIn. I am not suggesting we take the opposite extreme of putting our personal lives in the platform, as others do. That is problematic in its own way, as it further blurs the lines between our personal and professional lives.

However, there certainly must be ways to engage as professionals with greater integrity and decency. What do you think?

In recent months, Ocean Vuong, the acclaimed Vietnamese American poet, has deeply shaped my perspective on this. It started with an emotional interview he did with the New York Times — one of the most affecting interviews I have ever heard — where he discussed the inspiration for his new novel, Emperor of Gladness. He explains that his book explores the idea of “kindness without hope,” based in part on personal experiences.

“What I saw working in fast food growing up in Hartford County was that people are kind even when they know it won’t matter. Where does that come from? I watched co-workers get together and dig each other out of blizzards. They could just dig themselves out and leave, go home sooner, hug their families, but they all stayed, and they dug each other out. What is kindness exhibited knowing there is no payoff?”

He then considers his own capacity for intrinsic kindness or “goodness,” and shares a harrowing experience as a teen when he nearly killed someone, breaking down into tears. He had been saved from himself by a friend who refused to lend him a gun.

“Writing became a medium for me to try to understand what goodness is. Because when I was begging my friend, ‘Please give me your gun,’ he said: ‘Ocean, I’m not going to do that. You need to go home.’ What was so touching to me is that I was not responsible for that. Someone else’s better sense saved me.”

His candor and vulnerability were breathtaking. Because the book is tied to his lived experiences, Ocean shared other personal hardships, like being homeless during his college studies, as well as moments of beneficence, like being a caregiver for his mother. By the end of the interview, I was left stunned by his story.

On the surface, Ocean is the American dream realized; a poor refugee who rose from difficult circumstances to become one of the country’s greatest contemporary poets. Below this, I encountered a tender survivor, grappling with questions of worthiness, goodness, and belonging.

The book, which I picked up shortly thereafter, considers these same themes (*minor spoilers up ahead). It centers on Hai, a 19-year old Vietnamese man living in the deprived, post-industrial town of East Gladness, Connecticut. In the book’s opening, Hai is contemplating jumping off a bridge, until he is persuaded against it by Grazina, an 80-year old Lithuanian widow struggling with dementia. Brought together by desperate circumstances, Hai becomes Grazina’s caretaker in exchange for lodging.

Over the course of the novel, we watch Hai’s relationship with Grazina deepen, as they try to scrape by each day. They survive on Grazina’s food stamps and Hai’s minimum wage earnings in her dilapidated home. He reminds Grazina to take her medications and helps her bathe. She helps Hai pick up the pieces in his life that had crumbled. Occasionally, Grazina imagines she’s back in Lithuania during World War II, and Hai plays the role of a general to ride out the delusion. They form a close bond that is as remarkable as it is unusual.

Later on, Hai gets a job with the help of his cousin Sony (yes, the electronics company) at a local Home Market, a fast casual restaurant inspired by Boston Market that serves typical Southern fare. The employees at Home Market are an eclectic bunch and form an unlikely family, supporting each other through their tiresome jobs. If it wasn’t for Home Market, they would never be friends, let alone meet, but the workplace binds them in lasting ways. This gives way to poignant and, surprisingly, hilarious moments.

For example, BJ (for Big Jean) is the manager of the Home Market. She amusingly runs the Home Market as if it were a divine temple, endowed with a mission to bring Thanksgiving joy to the masses. However, her true dream is to be a professional wrestler. This is nurtured by her team over the course of the book, such as when she practices her entrance song. Each employee faces personal hardships, but finds some solace in their teammates through small and large acts of kindness.

The Emperor of Gladness is a beautiful yet difficult read. Throughout the book, I longed for Hai and other characters to overcome their challenges and enjoy a happy ending, but that’s not what happens, perhaps because it is meant to mirror life. The whole point of the book is to probe what moves people to be kind in the absence of a payoff or reward.

Altogether, Ocean’s remarks and writings deeply moved me because they forced me to consider my own capacity for kindness and goodness. I want to believe I am a decent person, but I grew up in an environment that facilitated decency. I didn’t grow up poor or insecure, like my parents did. It is easy to be kind when you have the resources to be generous, even as the classic irony is that the wealthiest are often the stingiest.

One of my personal flaws is that I can be selfish, whether it’s with belongings, finances, or time. In recent years, I have tried to be more aware of this tendency and embrace a more generous attitude towards others. My partner has been a great inspiration in this process, as she radiates generosity with innate decency. Ocean has further inspired me to exercise kindness, even when it’s fruitless. In the interview, he described his friend’s intervention as a moment of satori, a Buddhist term for enlightenment. Perhaps this was my own moment of satori.

You are in a “workshop,” where the most work you do is raise a question at the end of a dull presentation. The room is arranged lecture style, such that a presenter speaks at you from the front of the room, while you and others sit quietly, looking ahead.

For many, this is probably the standard event format. It is familiar because we have learned this way since we were children at school. However, as adults, it can feel tired. Even when the substance of the presentation is interesting, we easily lose focus because it hardly engages our attention.

Events don’t have to be boring, though. I believe they can be enriching in the fullest sense by affirming our past experiences and inviting our full participation. This belief is foundational to my practice as a facilitator. In this blog, I unpack why facilitation matters and how to exercise it.

A learning-centered approach

My formal introduction to facilitation was happenstance. In 2018, I was working for the International Budget Partnership (IBP), which champions budget transparency and accountability. One of IBP’s core functions is to convene and foster dialogue among different parties, including civil society organizations (CSO), governments, and international organizations. This certainly applied to my particular project, such that one of its central goals was to build a community of practice on budget credibility.

At the time, IBP was in the middle of an organization-wide initiative to strengthen the quality of its events. It contracted Global Learning Partners to lead this effort and train staff on how to be better facilitators. In the process, GLP opened my eyes to how facilitation is a craft to be honed and nurtured. It transformed my understanding of workshop design and implementation through its “learning-centered approach.”

In short, the learning-centered approach orients a workshop around the knowledge, skills, and needs of the participant. It acknowledges their past experiences and creates an environment that promotes their full, active engagement with an event’s objectives. The novelty behind this approach is that it fosters mutual learning by recognizing the value of every perspective and inviting it to be shared, even if one is new to a subject.

The role of the facilitator, in turn, is not just to impart knowledge, but to encourage dialogue, provide structure, and listen to others. The facilitator and participants have a two-way relationship, such that the facilitator is learning from the participants as much as the participants are learning from the facilitator.

This differs sharply from the traditional teacher-centered approach that relies on a lecture format. In a lecture setting, there is a presumption that the teacher (or presenter, speaker, instructor, etc.) is the primary source of knowledge. Learning takes place in a one-sided manner from teacher to student. As a result, the teacher does the bulk of the speaking, leaving the participants scarce opportunities to engage with the material or each other.

Putting theory into action

I realize this may sound slightly abstract or theoretical, so I will illustrate my point with two recent examples. One from an online diversity, equity, and inclusion (DEI) workshop and another from an in-person launch of the India Public Finance Collaborative (IPFC).

Demystifying DEI

Earlier this year, I led an online learning session on workplace DEI initiatives. As the facilitator, I had several years of experience on leading DEI at the workplace, while my participants were relatively less familiar with the topic. However, given the broad nature of DEI, every one of my participants had knowledge and experiences with themes related to DEI. A couple of them had even led DEI-like initiatives that simply weren’t labeled that way.

This was precisely shown when I asked participants to self-assess their familiarity with DEI using Miro (Miro is a wonderful online platform that allows users to interact with each other in real time using a digital canvas). As shown below, everyone had at least some knowledge or experience with DEI.

In recognition of this, I designed the workshop as a structured dialogue, where I shared my knowledge and experiences about DEI at the workplace and invited others to share their own perspectives. For example, at one point I noted that DEI can be fluid and focus on different dimensions, whether its race, ability, or gender. I then paused and asked asked others what DEI meant to them and in India more generally. This format created a richer conversation for everyone, including for me because I was hearing new ideas and approaches.

Catalyzing PFM reform

My second examples comes from last week, when several organizations came together to form the India Public Finance Collaborative. The IPFC gathers research institutions, implementation organizations, and other bodies to promote public financial management (PFM) reforms in India. Following months of conversation on the nature, composition, and functions of the IPFC, it was formally launched last week.

As a member of the IPFC, I volunteered to help organize and facilitate the launch event. The planning team involved a handful of staff from different member organizations and an external facilitator for support. We had two primary objectives for the convening: secure commitment to the collaborative and initiate a plan of action. For the planning team, it was crucial for the event to be as participatory and constructive as possible given the IPFC’s mission to build community and catalyze reform.

As a result, we ditched from the beginning the standard modes of keynotes and presentations. Instead, we opted for formats that encouraged everyone to engage and contribute to the IPFCs future. For starters, we arranged the room in a circle to promote equal dialogue.

To secure commitment, we invited all participants to share a quick reflection on what the IPFC meant to them and what they hoped to achieve. We then had each individual sign the charter. In the process, everyone could feel like they had an equal voice in the IPFC and hear the wide support for the collaborative.

In the latter half of the event, we proceeded to form working groups and develop an initial plan of action for the coming year. This was the most complex part of the event, as we had to somehow align on a set number of themes to focus on, even as we worked on PFM from many different angles.

As the organizers, we came to the event with a wide-ranging set of potential themes to choose from based on past conversations and tried to account for how the discussion would flow. However, our preparation could only get us so far. In real time, we had to figure out how to steer towards a resolution.

We opted to first have a vote on the initial set of options to narrow down preferences and then talked through the remaining choices. At times, the discussion was messy. A couple people formed side conversations; some spoke out of turn (we used the mic as a “speaking object”). As the facilitators, though, we eventually managed to reach alignment by keeping the discussion structured and focused. This point is particularly important — our job as facilitators wasn’t to provide the answers, it was to help participants reach one.

The picture below was taken in the middle of this session. In one sense, it captures the tumult in grappling towards a solution. Shipra, the external facilitator, (standing next to me in green) held a flipchart to record people’s thoughts, while I held the mic wondering how to move ahead. In another, it highlighted a wonderfully dynamic and inclusive dialogue. Everyone was invested in the exercise and thoughtfully opining on what direction to take.

To me, this is the embodiment of a learning-centered approach. Participants are fully engaging the workshop objectives in dialogue with each other.

We can all be great facilitators, but it takes work

To be clear, the learning-centered approach is not the only way to go about workshop design and facilitation. There are a wide range of alternative models, like ADDIE and the Systematic Approach to Training (SAT). While these can differ, in my experience they tend to be similar in values and approach by promoting two-way interactions in a structured learning environment.

Similarly, I do not want to imply that training is required to become a good facilitator. It certainly helps, and I encourage it to individuals and organizations looking to improve the quality of their workshops. However, a lot of this learning happens while doing and through exposure to other excellent facilitators. I am fortunate to participate in excellent networks of facilitators that share ideas and support one another. When I find myself in an excellent workshop, I make it a point to approach the facilitator to thank them and better understand their methods.

Going back to my starting point, the core principles of effective workshops are affirmation, invitation, and intention. A good workshop should affirm people’s lived experiences and invite their perspectives, with the intention to reach a certain end. This necessitates careful thinking on:

• Who will attend a workshop?

• What are its primary objectives?

• How will these objectives be met (i.e. what formats will be used)?

• How will success be evaluated?

I believe anyone can be a great facilitator. They just have to be willing to work towards it. Recently, I came across an excellent image that describes facilitation as an iceberg. Above surface, we often think of a facilitator as someone loaded with sticky notes and interactive activities. However, so much thought and work is happening below the surface to bring an event to life.

Relatedly, there is a common misconception that a good facilitator needs to be extroverted and excel at public speaking. While these qualities can help, they are not sufficient. Besides engaging people, a facilitator has to be thoughtful in creating a program, organized in arranging all the logistics, and flexible to unplanned issues, among other aspects. Further, good communication is often determined by robust preparation. When I lead a session, I extensively plan my remarks beforehand and think through how to navigate discussions.

Designing a workshop well is thus intensive. However, it is also deeply rewarding. As a facilitator, I derive great joy from seeing people build connections with each other and work towards a shared goal. The IPFC launch required great effort before and during the event, but in return people felt more unified and excited for the future of the collaborative.

Put simply, a workshop does not have to be dull. With enough effort and thought, it can be enriching and even fun.

This was not always the case, though. For much of my life, I was inept in the kitchen; a spoiled son who could count on being served three meals a day. When I moved out of home for college, my mom gave me my first cooking lesson on how to make a simple bistec con arroz (steak with rice). Even then, I was still helpless. My wife loves to tell friends how in college I did not even know how to boil an egg (true).

This changed in 2017 after I graduated and settled into my own apartment in Baltimore. As a newly independent adult living on a basic NGO salary, I resolved to learn how to cook proper meals. Although this started as a financial imperative, it eventually became a source of joy and enrichment. I was amazed to see how scrambled eggs could become fluffy and creamy, or how the flavor of garlic could change depending on how its cut. I stumbled a lot, such as when I over-marinated my first fish ceviche, but discovered a deep fulfillment from learning how a dish is put together. It also allowed me to reconnect with my home in Miami by making dishes like sopa de lentejas (lentil soup) or mojo-marinated lechon (roasted pork).

Since moving to India, cooking has become a means for remembrance and discovery. It allows me to connect with my distant origins and to learn about my new home. I first started learning how to cook Indian food around 2020. I was eager to better understand my partner’s cuisine, but intimidated by the numerous, unfamiliar spices. Slowly but surely, I learned how to make basic dishes like chana masala and eggplant fry, thanks to guidance from my partner and sites like Swasthi’s. However, I could only get so far in the U.S., where Indian food is tragically reduced to predominantly northern dishes like butter chicken and naan.

This totally changed after moving to India. My learning flourished as I suddenly had access to a range of new foods and ingredients. I was filled with wonder, for example, when I first tried the gongura leaf, which is naturally tart and gives South Indian dishes like pappu (lentils) a nice tang. I learned about the unique cuisines that each Indian state has to offer and even the variations within them, like the pandi (pork) curry from Coorg in Karnataka.

My attama (mother-in-law) has particularly nurtured my awareness, introducing me to a wide breath of food from Andhra Pradesh and India more broadly. Her depth of knowledge of local ingredients and how to integrate them into a dish is nothing short of brilliant. On many occasions, she has returned home from a trip with a bounty of produce and exposed me to a new green or vegetable that can only be found in a specific place or at a certain time of year. One time, when I was in Delhi for work, she asked me to bring red carrots, which grow in North India during the winter time, to make a seasonal dessert, lal gajar ka halwa.

My attama perhaps never imagined teaching her alludu (son-in-law) how to cook, let alone sharing a kitchen with him. However, through meals, observation, and conversation I have learned immensely from her. In the process, I can now competently make a range of Indian dishes, like this gutti vankaya curry (stuffed baby eggplant) shown below.

While Latin America and India have generally occupied distinct spheres with regard to food, I have been delighted to discover rare intersections. For example, some of the foundational ingredients of Indian cuisine, like tomatoes, chilies, and potatoes, originated in Latin America. They were introduced to India by the Portuguese and British through trade in the 1600s.

Recently, I made a similar discovery regarding chow chow, also known as “chayote.” Chow chow is a pear-shaped gourd packed with important nutrients, like fiber, folate, and vitamin C. I was first exposed to chow chow when my attama brought some home and made a simple, creamy curry involving onion, spices, and milk.

At the time, I didn’t think much of chow chow, besides snickering at the name. It was just one more gourd amongst the many others commonly eaten in South India, including sorakaya (bottle gourd), dosakaya (yellow cucumber), dondakaya (ivy gourd), and potlakaya (snake gourd). (As an aside, these are the gourd names in Telugu, which is how I’ve come to know them. They rhyme in a way that’s personally fun to say out loud.)

Anyways, a couple weeks ago, when I went to buy produce, I randomly picked out a couple chayotes in an effort to try cooking a new vegetable (though, technically, chayote is a fruit). As I always do, I proceeded to google the vegetable to identify recipe options. Until this moment, I had only known the gourd as “chow chow,” because that is how its called in English in India. Once I googled it, however, I realized it was also called “chayote.”

As soon as I read the name, I recalled hearing my Nicaraguan father speak about chayote in my youth. I still can’t place the exact context, but it was somehow familiar. (I initially assumed my father spoke of it because he enjoyed eating it, but I later learned he does not). As I continued to read about chayote, I learned that it originated in Mexico and Central America, and later spread to other parts, including Asia, through the Spanish. Today, chayote is commonly found and consumed in Latin America, South Asia, and Southeast Asia.

This alone was personally fascinating. I had discovered another vegetable in India that originated in Latin America. What made this even more exciting, though, was learning that chayote is prepared in a similar way in Nicaragua and India. The same curry that my attama made is fairly similar to a guiso (stew) made in Nicaragua with chayote. In both countries, chayote can be cooked in a stewed fashion with tomatoes or with milk.

To be fair, the flavors are distinct because of the spices, and there are many other ways to cook chayote in both countries. Still, it was remarkable to find a parallel between such different places. In celebration of this discovery, I made a hearty guiso/curry of chayote with coconut milk and chickpeas, with red rice. If you come across this nutritious gourd, I highly recommend giving it a try! It’s highly versatile for stews or even stir fries thanks to its mild, earthy flavor.

At the risk of sounding cliche, I love how cooking can serve as a bridge. Over the course of my life, I have moved far from my roots and traveled widely. The act of preparing, discussing, consuming, and sharing food have gifted me rich connections along the way. Chayote reminds me of how food binds us in small yet wondrous ways.

If you were in Bangalore a few weeks ago, you would have likely seen one of these signs at a small shop. Across the city, small vendors abruptly announced that they would no longer accept Unified Payment Interface (UPI) payments — India’s state-run mobile payment system. This created a major stir, as UPI has become the predominant mode of payment nationally, especially in urban centers.

The backlash originated from thousands of small vendors across Karnataka State receiving massive bills for unpaid Goods and Services Taxes (GST), which is a value-added tax on consumption. A small vegetable vendor received a staggering INR 29 lakh (USD 33.3k) GST notice, based on four years of UPI transaction data, even though produce is supposed to be excluded from GST. Many of these vendors felt completely blind-sided by the notices, and responded by collectively rejecting UPI.

Although a resolution was quickly reached, it presents important policy lessons for governments looking to increase tax collections.

The faulty digital trail

The rise of UPI has generated a wealth of transaction data that tax officials have been eyeing to use for curbing tax evasion. This especially applies to the informal sector, which accounts for half of the country’s economic output yet is difficult to tax due to the lack of a paper trail (i.e. transactions are typically not reported). In principle, UPI enables tax officials to approximate the turnover of businesses and calculate their GST liability.

However, in practice this is a flawed source of data that likely overestimates turnover. For example, a small vendor may use one UPI ID for all of their transactions, regardless of whether they are for business sales or personal purposes. Alternatively, multiple independent vendors (e.g. relatives with separate businesses) may share one UPI ID in case they are unable to open their own accounts. Further, UPI transactions do not indicate the type of goods or services being exchanged; they primarily indicate the volume of transactions occurring. As a result, tax-exempt goods and services are easily overlooked.

By law, businesses must register for GST if their annual turnover exceeds INR 40 lakh (USD 45.9k) for goods or INR 20 lakh (USD 22.9k) for services. A wide range of essential goods and services are also exempt from GST, like fresh produce and healthcare. In effect, this excludes many small businesses from paying GST. In FY 2023-24, there were about 10.2 million GST registered taxpayers. Of these, only half earned above 40 lakhs.

Many of the businesses that received these GST notices were targeted incorrectly. Even amongst those who did owe taxes, their non-compliance may have had more to do with ignorance than willful evasion. Filing GST — like many other taxes — is a complex process that requires submitting extensive documentation, parsing arcane and mercurial rules, and navigating an unfriendly digital platform. In the absence of an accountant, it can be very difficult to comply.

Carrots over sticks

By haphazardly imposing hefty arrears, the tax department created undue panic, confusion, and resentment. Small vendors responded not with compliance, but with outright protest. Tax officials should have instead taken a more measured approach.

For example, they could have first issued warnings of pending arrears. A wide body of research shows that deterrence letters threatening enforcement lead to significant short-term increases in filing. In addition, they could offer more tax filing assistance to ensure businesses understand the rules and how to file. Taxpayer outreach and support is already available, but may not be reaching smaller, informal businesses. Tax officials could have offered incentives to compliance as well, like partial forgiveness for arrears, which was later offered. In Colombia, researchers found that offering reduced fines for voluntarily disclosing wealth led to higher disclosures among affluent taxpayers.

The social reaction to the ban on UPI payments was equally troubling. Many residents in Bangalore expressed frustration towards the small vendors, asking, “why are we taxed, but not them?”

This betrays a fundamental ignorance about how the informal economy works and how informal workers are taxed. “Too often, low-income informal workers are unfairly categorized as tax evaders in a ‘shadow economy,’” stated Dr. Michael Rogan from WIEGO. Although research on this area is difficult, we know that informal workers often do pay taxes on consumption, either for business inputs or personal consumption, and other government fees, like stamp duties or market stall fees.

Ultimately, the UPI ban was short-lived, as the Karnataka State Government and trade bodies reached a resolution. The State Government agreed to forgive old tax arrears if vendors register for GST and start paying the tax in the future. It also reiterated the rules on exemptions. However, this debate is unlikely to be resolved either within Karnataka or the wider country. Vendors are still wary of UPI transaction data and other state governments are actively pursuing the use of these records.

Lessons on who and how to tax

From a global perspective, this may seem like a minor event. In reality, it has great relevance to international discussions on domestic revenue mobilization.

Governments are under more pressure than ever to increase revenues to finance their development objectives, in part because development aid is retreating. Because raising tax rates is politically difficult — as shown in Kenya — one key strategy has been to prevent tax evasion and close loopholes or exemptions. The backlash in Karnataka reflects the tensions governments face in deciding who to target and how.

Technology presents new opportunities to prevent tax evasion, as I have discussed here. However, deploying these tools poorly can be counterproductive, leading to faulty conclusions and social push-back.

There are also deeper questions about tax justice and equity. Is using scarce resources to tax lower-income individuals — many of whom may not owe any tax to begin with — practical with regards to cost-effectiveness and equity? GST evasion is rampant, but likely driven by higher-income firms with the relative means and incentives to cheat given the level of potential savings.

Of course, this is not an “if-or” scenario, but there are plausibly higher gains to prioritizing evasion at upper ends of the income spectrum than the bottom.

Who will be affected?

“It’s the biggest bill of its type in history,” boasted Trump. “It includes the largest tax cut in American history, the largest spending cut, $1.7 trillion. And yet you won’t even notice it.”

It’s true that many Americans won’t even notice the effects of the law. However, it’s not because the spending cuts won’t hurt, it’s because the bulk of the law’s costs stem from preserving existing tax cuts under TCJA. The estimated cost of extending or restoring measures from TCJA alone is $4.3 trillion. Thus, for many taxpayers, the law’s impacts will be negligible as it continues existing policies.

In contrast, the law will be felt by the millions of people who stand to lose health insurance and food assistance. About 17 million people would lose health coverage and become uninsured by 2034 because of the deep Medicaid and ACA marketplace cuts. Over 2 million people are expected to lose vital food assistance from SNAP due to onerous work requirements. For those who remain on SNAP, they will receive less assistance, making it harder than it already is to afford a healthy diet.

Altogether, Trump’s tax and spending law continues to provide generous tax cuts, mainly to wealthy individuals and corporations, while harming the livelihoods of millions of working and vulnerable people. Per the Penn-Wharton model, “By 2033, households in the lowest quintile would see a loss of $1,300 on average. The typical household in the lowest quintile would experience a total income loss of 6.4 percent.” Meanwhile, households in the top quintile would enjoy an average gain of $2,865. The richest 0.1% of households would enjoy an average staggering gain of $83,095.

Figure: Distributional impacts of the tax and spending law, by quintile

Ignored lessons from the 2017 tax cuts

Back in 2017, when Congress was debating TCJA under Trump’s first term, similar alarms were rung about how costly and regressive it was. At the time, I was an Research Assistant at the Center on Budget and Policy Priorities, analyzing each iteration of the tax bill obsessively. The bill was expected to lavish wealthy households and corporations at the expense of low and middle-income people, and add $1.5 trillion over 10 years to the deficit — an amount that felt massive then yet now seems modest by comparison.

Republicans had wishfully claimed that the tax cuts would pay for themselves by fueling economic growth, which has proven to be a fantasy. After TCJA passed, I cautiously hoped we would learn from this mistake when the cuts eventually lapsed due to the limitations of the reconciliation process. (In short, reconciliation bills may not increase deficits or reduce surpluses beyond a 10-year period.)

Clearly, we learned nothing. In April 2025, during the early stages of the tax and spending bill, the CBO projected that extending TCJA would increase the national debt by $37 trillion over thirty years and shrink the economy by 1.8 percent by 2054. Republicans again tried to deny the CBO’s estimates and mislead the public, claiming the bill’s true costs are negligible, if not positive, when accounting for economic impacts.

Republicans have essentially taken a bad policy and supercharged it, making it even more regressive and costly. Trump and other proponents have touted the law’s “populist” measures, like the exemption on tips. However, much of these will expire in a few years due to reconciliation rules and hardly dent the overall impacts of the bill. The tips exemption, for instance, would only benefit about 2% of workers, and they may on net be worse off when considering the Medicaid and SNAP cuts.

A Bleak Fiscal Future

As a result of the bill’s deficit increases, the U.S. is further compromising its future.

Currently, the national debt is close to 100% of GDP. Our government spends about 13 percent of the budget ($880 billion) on debt interest payments. Our debt payments are the third most expensive item on the budget, followed by Social Security and Medicare. Under current policy (i.e. excluding the new tax and spending law), debt is projected to reach 117% of GDP and interest payments would consume 16% of the budget (1.7 trillion).

However, under the new law, the national debt would climb to 127% of GDP by 2034 and interest payments would near $2 trillion. If the provisions of the law were made permanent, the debt would be 130%. (As was the case with TCJA, many provisions will expire because of reconciliation rules unless extended).

To be clear, I am not worrying about the U.S. government’s ability to pay its debt like other alarmists. However, I do worry about how our debt is increasingly crowding out our ability to pay for the nation’s future needs and priorities. Our fiscal outlook was already bleak, and now it’s even worse, all for skewed, counterproductive tax cuts.

From an international perspective, the U.S.’s decision is confounding. Countries are under more pressure than ever to increase revenues to finance investments in social welfare, economic development, and climate action. At the same time that Congress debated the bill, over 70 governments — excluding the U.S. — were in Seville for the Fourth International Conference on Financing for Development to align on financing the global Sustainable Development Goals agenda.

By dramatically cutting revenues and scaling back the safety net, the U.S. betrays its public’s welfare and sets a poor global example.

Personally, this debate has often felt too simplistic. Some people act as though the line between democracy and autocracy is clear and exact, as if there will be a singular moment to define the country’s move to authoritarianism. While it is possible to point to defining moments in a country’s shift from democracy or autocracy (or vice versa), such as the suspension of elections, in reality there are usually a series of assaults, over many years, that precede these episodes.

Turkey and Hungary are contemporary examples of this. Erdoğan in Turkey and Orbán in Hungary have steadily eroded liberal democratic norms and amassed power while maintaining a facade of democracy, such as by rewriting the constitution. Similarly, scholar Laura Gamboa argues that Venezuela underwent a 25-year transition from a long-standing democracy to an entrenched autocracy.

From this lens, the United States has been sliding towards autocracy for some time. President Trump shut down the U.S. Agency for International Development (USAID) without legislative consent. He has withheld or threatened to withhold billions in funding from universities. He has disappeared migrants on dubious charges as well as international scholars and students to silence solidarity with Palestine. These actions have taken place in the span of a few months. Never mind the attempted coup and other attacks that took place during his first term.

The military crackdown on protestors is the latest and perhaps most visceral indication yet of an authoritarian slide. Thus far, Trump has deployed about 4,000 National Guard troops and 700 Marines, in spite of resistance by local and state officials. In a recent press conference, the LAPD Chief stated that the deployment of Marines “presents a significant logistical and operational challenge for those of us charged with safeguarding this city,” and reiterated its confidence in managing public safety autonomously.

Trump justified the military deployment on the weak grounds of protecting law and order, even as the protestors were overwhelmingly peaceful at the time of the announcement. Several riots have since broken out, which should be condemned, but these have likely been stoked, in part, by the President’s actions.

The military has rarely been deployed for domestic incidents, but Trump has been quick to consider it as an option to quell dissent. As observed by Abdallah Fayyad on Vox, “In 2020, when nationwide protests broke out after a police officer murdered George Floyd, Trump also wanted to display an overwhelming show of force to respond to the demonstrations — so much so that he even inquired about shooting protesters.”

Spoken plainly, Trump has demonstrated his willingness to go to extreme lengths to silence opposition. Beyond the military deployment, he has threatened to arrest California’s Governor Gavin Newsom. David Huerta, a renowned labor union leader, was violently arrested while protesting an immigration raid. Multiple journalists have been injured by rubber bullets while reporting on the protests.

These events are disturbing. “If you saw all this in any other country — soldiers sent to crush dissent, union leaders arrested, opposition politicians threatened — it would be clear that autocracy had arrived,” wrote Michelle Goldberg on a New York Times column.

Some people dismiss these concerns by saying that the Trump Administration is primarily targeting “bad immigrants,” who deserve to be arrested or deported. Firstly, this is woefully naive. Today, it may be immigrants, but tomorrow it could be citizens. When El Salvador’s President Bukele visited in April, Trump claimed that he wants to make space in the country’s maximum security prison for U.S. citizens — “The homegrowns are next.”

Second, it’s devoid of humanity. The far majority of immigrants being hunted by ICE are decent, hardworking people just trying to make a basic living in this country. They often give to this country more than they get in return. In them, I see my parents who moved to the U.S. in the 80s from difficult circumstances with dreams of better lives.

Law and order has never been the point of these raids; it is about intimidation. Stephen Miller, the deputy chief of staff, has set an absurd quota of 3,000 arrests per day, echoing stop-and-frisk style policing. Long-time residents, asylum-seekers, and people with temporary legal protection are being hunted with little cause in places like schools and churches. To reside in the U.S. without legal status is not in itself a crime.

I am moved by the protestors who are bravely speaking out against the cruelty of the Administration. Movements like this and the upcoming “No Kings” demonstrations on Saturday are what will keep democracy alive in the United States.

While applying, I was often frustrated by how unfair and burdensome applying can be. In the development sector, we espouse ideals like equity, respect, and transparency yet these are often lacking in our recruitment practices. In this post, I discuss specific practices that need reform, namely lengthy tests, one-sided interviews, and unfair salary negotiations.

Of course, it’s unfair to generalize hiring processes; I recognize they can vary depending on the employer. My recent experience also primarily relates to applying for work in India. However, based on others’ experiences, I gather these concerns are widespread in the development sector and merit attention.

Lengthy application tests

Many employers require applicants to complete an assignment to assess their knowledge and skills. Typically, applicants either have a short window to submit (e.g. a couple hours) or a longer period (e.g. a week). Independent of the timeline, these tests can be highly time consuming, requiring three hours or more.

Lengthy assignments are, frankly, unreasonable and obnoxious. During a job search, applicants are often exploring multiple opportunities at a given time in addition to their existing full-time employment. Requiring candidates to write a 3+ hour exam, especially within a short window, is exceedingly burdensome. Employers should limit their tests to 1-2 hours maximum and offer candidates a flexible time period to submit, like 3 days. Any further assessment could otherwise be conducted during an interview.

Employers need to be mindful of the busy schedules of applicants, rather than behave as though they can suddenly drop their responsibilities. Not even the revised GRE is that long! If the GRE could be cut in half from 4 hours to 2 hours, then employers can certainly shorten their assignments. This would not only be beneficial for applicants but also for the recruiter, as it would reduce the test grading time.

One-sided interviews

In my experience as an interviewer and interviewee, interviews tend to be cold, extractive affairs. The interviewer asks a series of generic questions and then leaves a small amount of time at the end for Q&A. The questions can be disjointed and somewhat invasive, like “tell me about a personal failure.” The Q&A, if time allows for it, is a rushed formality. In effect, an interview can feel more like an interrogation, when it should be a two-way dialogue.

When assessing candidates, interviewers often reduce people to checklists and overlook the experiences, ideas, and emotions that shape them. Recognising that interviewing multiple candidates can be intensive, this is understandable. However, interviewers should respect a candidate’s time, interest and basic dignity by engaging in equal dialogue.

This starts by ensuring that a candidate understands the role that they have applied for before diving into questions. Many employers assume that applicants are fully informed by a job description (JD), when they may lack important context. This occurred frequently at J-PAL, such that candidates thought a role was more focused on research than policy outreach. Sure, part of this confusion can stem from a candidate not carefully reading a JD, but it can also be an innocent mistake. J-PAL is known foremost for its research, so I could understand confusion arising. Taking time at the outset to describe the role and clear doubts enables a more productive conversation thereafter. For instance, the candidate will clearly know what qualifications to speak to in the subsequent questions.

More broadly, interviewers should exercise empathy and take measures to create a conducive environment. We’ve all been on the applicant side of an interview and know how anxiety-inducing it can be. People who are shy or introverted can especially struggle, even if they are otherwise perfectly qualified. Interviewers can take simple steps to mitigate this anxiety. For example, they can remind candidates that it’s okay to think for a minute before responding or to take breaks for water or the bathroom. When applicants share candid details of their life stories, the interviewer should affirm and respond to these experiences, rather than jump to the next question.

I had a wonderful interview experience with one employer. They provided an overview of the role and the strategic direction of the organization, and invited my thoughts on how this resonates with my background. It was a free flowing conversation, where we learned about each other and assessed our alignment. I ultimately didn’t move ahead with the opportunity, but was left with a positive impression of the organisation because I felt respected.

Just as an interviewer is assessing the qualifications of a candidate, the candidate is assessing the suitability of the job. Interrogative interviews can dissuade rather than entice promising applicants.

Unfair salary negotiations

Salary negotiation is perhaps the most frustrating and consequential aspect of applying for jobs. As job-seekers, we’re often in the dark on the salary range of a role, except in rare cases where an employer specifies it. Online resources, like Glassdoor, provide some insights, but they are limited, especially for smaller organizations. If we’re lucky, we can turn to peers with insider knowledge. This opacity on compensation is by design — it benefits employers and enables them to drive down the salary offer.

Besides withholding information, they attempt to extract as much information as possible from candidates to inform their salary offer, particularly by requesting your past compensation as a benchmark. In India, you’re even expected to provide copies of past pay slips. The most upsetting practice, though, was how development organizations resorted to guilt tripping. I constantly heard comments like, “we are a social sector organization, our resources are limited,” even when the employer was well-funded. As has been discussed before, these practices are grossly unfair.

I’m not sure if this is a standard practice in India, but in my experience the negotiation generally started with a pre-interview conversation with HR, where they asked basic questions about my motivation and salary expectation. Sometimes they gave a neutral “okay,” while other times they pushed back, reminding me of their limited funds. Later, if I reached the offer stage, HR would request past pay stubs and ask again about my expectation, before finally giving a number.

Throughout this process, it felt like I as the applicant was expected to give up all my cards in the negotation, while the employer could retain information until the very end. It was especially frustrating when an employer would offer a very low salary figure, knowing it would be a non-starter based on the pre-interview. Effectively, the application process was a waste of time because we were unlikely to align on compensation from the beginning.

In retrospect, I wish I pushed back against these expectations from employers. During one pre-interview, I asked to discuss compensation at a later point because the role was uncertain. This allowed me to learn more about the role and organisation, and make a more informed salary request. In the same case, the employer named a figure first before I stated my expectation, which enabled me to negotiate favorably. While applying, it can be scary to push back because you don’t want to alienate the employer, but I learned towards the end that typically the worst an employer will do is refuse a request.

Employers should disclose a salary range from the beginning. This would benefit both the applicant and the employer. When faced with little to no information, applicants are incentivised to start high and potentially request an unfeasible salary. Employers may also receive applicantions from candidates who have no intention to join the organisation at their expected range. Transparency would allow employers to draw a more targeted applicant pool and foster a more constructive negotiation.

Employers also need to cease using past compensation as a benchmark, as it can perpetuate pay disparities among disadvantaged groups. Women, for example, earn considerably less than men even when controlling for the type of work. Basing compensation on past employment would result in continued disparities. Instead, compensation should be based on merit, experience, and resource availability.

Against subservience

At the core of these problems is an attitude among employers that job applicants are subservient to them. Employers control the process, conversation, and terms, and applicants just have to accept them. Yes, applicants are competing for a job, but what employers forget is that they are likewise competing for talent. While it makes sense for employers to drive the hiring process, there is an urgent need for greater fairness, from the point of submitting an application to negotiating compensation.

I am curious what others have experienced as job applicants (or recruiters). Does this resonate? Have I left out an important issue? I recognise this blog is hardly exhaustive and welcome others’ inputs!

This decision followed extensive reflection on the direction of my career (plus a lengthy 3 month notice period). When I joined J-PAL back in 2022, I had been looking to move away from my past work on public finance, in an effort to widen my perspective. J-PAL had provided exactly this, as my role broadly looked at ways to improve governance at an institutional and personnel level. Over time, though, I surprisingly found myself missing public finance. As a result, I chose to pivot back to this area.

Until recently, my career has largely felt incidental, happening more by chance than firm resolve. In the absence of a clear purpose, I experimented with different options in the hopes that each experience would shine a little more light on my path. In choosing to return to public finance, though, I believe my career has taken a more intentional direction than before.

In this blog, I unpack this evolution and consider its implications for the future.

Lawyer by process of elimination

My parents grew up poor in Latin America. Neither of them completed college. In spite of these circumstances, they built a thriving business and provided me all the material resources to thrive. However, they were limited in their ability to professionally guide me. I think they imagined that as long as they gave me an excellent education and secure environment, that I would naturally find a prosperous career.

In reality, I felt quite lost for much of my adolescence. My childhood dream was to become a veterinarian, but this was quickly ruined by my abysmal grasp of the sciences. In school, I gravitated towards the liberal arts, especially civics and history. I felt a clear yet vague interest in social justice and global affairs, but was clueless on where to direct that.

By the time I reached high school, I settled on law, which felt like the default choice for my interests. I figured a law degree would lead me to a successful career in international relations or politics, even though I wasn’t particularly attached to the legal profession itself. At the time, I had no idea that there were many other pathways to this broad area of work. Never mind the fact that I had never heard of “international development” as a sector. The limited data points I had from friends, parents of friends, school advisors, and internships pointed to law.

The depth of my ignorance is best illustrated by an embarrassing experience at a college fair in my junior year of high school. At the time, I wasn’t familiar with the concept of college “majors” and “minors,” and had assumed that I could study law starting in undergrad. At the fair, I went to a stall with a friend to learn more about a school, and explained to the college representative that I am interested in pursuing law. My friend audibly laughed at my statement and explained that this is not a choice in major, while the representative sympathetically confirmed the same and pointed me to other majors typically associated with law. I swallowed my embarrassment, nodded politely, took a brochure, and kept quiet for the remainder of the fair as I tried to process this information.

To be clear, I don’t say this to draw pity. As mentioned earlier, I was comfortable financially and enjoyed an excellent education. Rather, I wish to illustrate that there were limits to this wealth. I could access elite spaces, like my private school, but lacked the know-how and network to navigate these environments. For other first-generation college students, this is an all-too familiar experience.

It wasn’t until the latter half of my college years at Johns Hopkins University that I finally got wider perspective. Learning about political science, economics, and global development unearthed a vast range of career options that didn’t require a law degree. At the same time, I started to seriously doubt becoming a lawyer. The mammoth costs of a law degree and rigidity of legal practice were distasteful.

As a result, to the alarm of my parents, I dropped the law school plan and opted to work after college, in the hopes that I would find greater clarity on my professional interests.

A happy accident

In 2016, I was a fresh recent graduate, anxiously looking for work. While I preferred something in Latin American affairs, whether it was development, immigration policy, or diplomatic affairs, I cast a wide net.

In the fall, I stumbled upon a job at the Center on Budget and Policy Priorities (CBPP), a progressive think tank that promotes a robust safety net in the U.S. At the time, Trump had just been elected and threatened to impose fiscal austerity and attack immigrant communities. Though I was averse to domestic policy, I reasoned that CBPP offered an enriching opportunity to resist the Trump Administration’s harmful policies. This became the start of a promising yet unplanned career in public finance. I contributed to thoughtful research on areas like tax and immigration that shaped national policy debates.

Although this work was deeply fulfilling, my heart always lied in the international sphere, so I made a comfortable shift to the International Budget Partnership (IBP). While IBP similarly focused on the budget, its mission differed in that it centered on fiscal transparency and accountability. In other words, it advanced the belief that people deserve to know how their governments collect and spend money, and have a say in those decisions.

This idea of open and participatory governance was deeply moving. Through IBP, I learned about the remarkable ways in which civil society organizations around the world engage their governments towards building budgets that are responsive and just to their people.

However, I struggled with how niche and arcane public finance is as a field. Public financial management (PFM), in basic terms, looks at how governments collect and spend money. The budget, as many PFM practitioners tout, is the most fundamental tool that governments have to improve lives. And yet, outside of this community, people rarely care about or consider the budget.

In the development sector, we tend to focus on discrete programs or themes, like health or education, rather than the wider governance apparatus that brings these initiatives to life. We rarely consider how exactly money is raised and then spent on the programs and communities we care about. To be fair, this partly stems from the fact that PFM is technical and difficult to grasp. It requires understanding arcane (and often boring) laws, norms, and procedures. As a result, the PFM community is characterized by an elite group of ministers, bureaucrats, academics, and practitioners.

Even as I believed in IBP’s mission, I struggled to reconcile the simultaneous importance and irrelevance of the budget. For this reason, I went to graduate school and then J-PAL in search of greater perspective. In the process, I discovered an obsession with how government institutions work and what qualities determine their success. For instance, how can participatory processes strengthen governance? What skills, tools, and incentives do bureaucrats need to perform their roles well?

Over the course of my studies and work, public finance often arose as a key consideration in these questions. For example, what role can and should the public have on the budget? How can program monitoring and evaluation inform spending decisions? This has in turn pulled me back towards public finance.

Though my concerns with PFM remain, I now view them more as opportunities than constraints. Perhaps I could find purpose in making PFM more legible and accessible within and outside government. To be clear, it is entirely possible that my thinking will change. Even so, I feel a new sense of clarity that I hope will lead to more thoughtful career decisions moving forward.

Thank you for reading about my journey. I share these reflections in the hopes that they resonate with others who are grappling with similar questions around their career paths and interests.

In recent years, there has been great enthusiasm around the potential of artificial intelligence (AI) to transform society, from improving medical diagnoses to reducing learning gaps. Tax authorities around the world have also joined this hype and focused their sights on a core problem: Uprooting tax fraud. India, too, is excited by AI’s potential to crack down on tax cheats.

However, this enthusiasm needs to be tempered by careful planning and testing. AI is unlikely to strengthen tax administrations unless they are equipped to use it and subject it to rigorous testing. A recent study from India involving an AI-based tool to prevent tax fraud highlights this.

Powering up tax enforcement

A growing number of countries are integrating AI tools to improve tax administration. A 2023 OECD report showed that about 80% of tax administrations surveyed had implemented or were implementing AI tools for virtual assistance, predictive analytics, and transcription, among other uses. In India, tax authorities are exploring AI to improve dispute resolution and auditing.

This trend aligns with a wider push to leverage technology to improve tax collection. For instance, a randomised evaluation in Ghana found that providing electronic tablets loaded with a geospatial database to property tax collectors led to a 103% increase in collections. Another evaluation in Senegal found that a computer-assisted property valuation system was much more accurate and fair than the manual appraisals of property tax collectors.

The gains of technology are not inevitable, though. In the India study, researchers used machine learning, an offshoot of AI, to detect Goods and Services Tax (GST) fraud. While the tool was successful in detecting fraud, it did not lead to an increase in enforcement or revenues. This project offers a cautionary tale on applying AI and other technologies to tax collection.

GST cheats

The GST subsumed multiple central and state taxes to make collections more efficient and simple. However, the system has been undermined by rampant evasion. The estimated revenue loss in FY 2024 was equivalent to 10% of total GST collections, per the Directorate General of GST Intelligence.

Some firms have figured out creative ways to evade taxes. They may undervalue goods and services to pay less tax, wrongfully claim exemptions, or claim more input tax credits (ITC) than allowed.

The fraudulent claim of ITCs through fake firms has been especially problematic. Fake firms are entities that exist on paper purely to generate fictitious invoices and ITCs. Taxpayers can use these fake credits to offset some, if not all, of their tax liability. In August, for example, a major GST scandal was uncovered in Delhi, where 500 fake firms generated invoices worth ₹718 crore to claim GST refunds worth ₹54 crore.

Fake firms: Catch them if you can

To catch fake firms, a research team led by J-PAL Affiliate Aprajit Mahajan at the University of California, Berkeley created a novel machine learning tool. Machine learning technology is a branch of AI that can process large amounts of data, detect patterns, and make predictions.

Using tax data and inspection records, the researchers trained the tool to generate a ranked list of firms that had a high likelihood of being fake. The researchers used common signs of fraud, like claiming a high level of ITCs with little or no actual tax paid or sharing a registered address with multiple firms. Although conventional methods consider similar criteria, the tool incorporated a wider set of factors to detect fraud.

Based on field inspections, the ML tool was found to be highly effective — 53% of the firms flagged by the ML tool were confirmed to be fake, compared to 38% of firms flagged by conventional methods. This is impressive given how difficult it is to identify fake firms and their clients. Tax evaders can bounce money among multiple fake firms, across jurisdictions, to make it harder for authorities to catch them.

In spite of the tool’s accuracy, it did not lead to increased or faster cancellation of fake firms, or in increased enforcement against the clients of fake firms. In other words, tax collection did not improve, even though the tool was relatively accurate.

Separating hype from reality

The Government of India aims to become a global leader in AI through its IndiaAI Mission. States like Telangana have also created dedicated AI research centres. This study offers important lessons for policymakers to effectively leverage this technology.

The biggest takeaway is this: Even though AI could reduce the burden of tedious tasks and free up time for other tasks better suited for humans, governments need to rigorously evaluate whether an AI tool will lead to desired outcomes. It is unwise to assume AI will inherently lead to major improvements.

In this case, the AI tool offered a more efficient and accurate way to detect fake firms, which could have enabled tax authorities to focus on taking action. But it did not provide evidence to help officials investigate and build a case against them — officials still would have had to invest a lot of time investigating each case. Spending great time and money on building an AI tool, only for it to fall into disuse, would be a tremendous waste.

More fundamentally, policymakers should first ask whether AI is the best solution to a problem. The researchers say that the ML model they developed may be detecting firms that are likely to be inspected or cancelled anyway by conventional methods. So, there may be higher and quicker returns to simpler technologies that, for instance, improve coordination between tax officials in different jurisdictions.

The appeal of AI is understandable. It is a general purpose technology that is widely accessible, highly adaptable, and constantly improving. But deploying AI for AI's sake is unwise.

As a practitioner of DEI, I recognize how flawed it can be. DEI programs often suffer from vague objectives, lack of resources, and poor leadership buy-in. However, capitulating to pressures by Trump and the wider far-right to abolish DEI would be damaging not just to underrepresented groups, but to all of us.

Unbundling DEI

Before getting into the controversy surrounding DEI, it would be useful to first unpack what exactly it is. Conservatives have tried to portray DEI as a radical leftist agenda, similar to its claims about Critical Race Theory, which is devoid of truth.

Diversity, equity, and inclusion, in the broadest sense, refers to practices and policies intended to build access for underrepresented communities and ensure they have the resources and environment to thrive. To unpack this further, diversity refers to increasing representation, equity refers to creating equal access to opportunities, and inclusion refers to fostering a sense of belonging. These terms are grouped together because they are intertwined — diversity and inclusion are necessary to achieving equity. Besides DEI, there are variations of the term, like DEIA (A for accessibility), D&I or JEDI (J for justice), that roughly have the same meaning yet place an emphasis on certain principles. DEIA, for instance, tries to draw attention to the needs of people with disabilities.

Because DEI is such a broad term, in practice it can mean different things to different institutions or individuals. In the U.S., DEI initiatives tend to focus on racial justice because of the deep prevalence of racism. However, DEI can also focus on other social dimensions, like gender, class, disability, and religion. For example, in India, workplace DEI initiatives typically focus on gender, namely increasing access and opportunities for women.

With regard to structure, DEI initiatives tend to be led by a central committee of representatives from an organization (e.g. staff, students, administrators depending on the entity). Their activities can range significantly, including conducting a diagnostic assessment, organizing educational workshops, and reforming policies.

The rise of DEI

DEI is hardly a novel concept. In the U.S., workplace DEI programs have been around since at least the civil rights movement during 1950s-1960s.

However, in the U.S. (and many other countries), DEI initiatives surged after the murder of George Floyd by police in 2020. Numerous corporations, universities, and other organizations announced task forces and commitments to promote DEI, especially with regard to racial equity. In turn, numerous consultants and resources have emerged to support DEI programs, leading to a vast, multi-billion dollar “DEI Industry.”

While the seriousness of these efforts is questionable, 2020 felt like a genuine (yet short-lived) moment of social reckoning and reform. Beyond formal DEI programs, individuals were trying to inform themselves, engaging in honest conversations, and rallying for racial justice. In Vermont, White residents outright gave money to Black residents in the name of reparations. Of course, there was strong right-wing opposition to these efforts. Towards the end of his first administration, Trump notably issued the 1776 Report as a counter to the 1619 Project, which aimed to revise the history of racism and slavery in the country. Still, there was real momentum for change.

The failures of DEI

In the years since George Floyd’s death, interest in DEI has waned, across the political spectrum. Conservative reluctance towards DEI has hardened while liberal enthusiasm has turned skeptical or tired.

Since 2018, I have led or supported a range of DEI initiatives, both in professional and academic settings as well as in U.S. and international contexts. Throughout these experiences, I have encountered growing skepticism or indifference towards DEI among friends and peers, in spite of ideological alignment with its principles. These attitudes often stem from a feeling that DEI initiatives are ineffective, superficial or performative.

In fairness, these critiques are justified. Firstly, there is little empirical research to show under what conditions DEI initiatives lead to actual improvements, and whatever research exists is quite out of date. For instance, one major meta-analyis from Paluck and Green from 2009 found, “the causal effects of many widespread prejudice-reduction interventions, such as workplace diversity training and media campaigns, remain unknown.” A more recent meta-analysis from 2022 concluded, “the enthusiasm for, and monetary investment in, diversity training has outpaced the available evidence that such programs are effective in achieving their goals.” In summary, even as the DEI industry is replete with “expert” consultants, funding, and sophisticated tools, we have little idea of what actually works.

Second, many DEI initiatives can be superficial and performative. As a practitioner, I have frequently asked myself whether my organization is genuinely committed to DEI or more so looking to posture itself as progressive and use me as a token. Oftentimes, organizations are willing to tackle “easier” components of DEI, namely diversifying non-senior staff, but highly resistant to deeper change. Across sectors, senior leadership is still heavily White. In the nonprofit sector, which is usually considered more progressive in nature, “overall racial distribution of nonprofit CEOs has remained constant over the past four years, with more than 70% of CEOs in the sector identifying as white,” according to an analysis by Candid.

Likewise, organizations rarely invest in long-term DEI work. Rather, they tend to organize one-off trainings or sparse discussions that are unlikely to have an impact. Given this, I can’t help believing that some organizations have been quick to close their DEI intiatives because they weren’t very serious in the first place.

Protecting and Strengthening DEI

In spite of DEI’s shortcomings, the appropriate response is not to withdraw, but to instead push for deeper investment and higher quality initiatives. DEI has been failing not because it is ineffective, but because it has been shallow. We need to double-down on demands for senior leadership to undertake this work earnestly, formulate comprehensive action plans with ambitious goals and outcomes, and scrutinize consultants more carefully on their approaches.

Personally, what’s most alarming is that DEI has drawn such intense vitriol even as it has only brought about modest change. Still, it is worth remembering that a majority of Americans support DEI in the workplace.

People often ask why diversity, equity, and inclusion matter. While there is research that demonstrates the instrumental value of these efforts, such as on business performance, to me the pursuit of equity is fundamentally a moral imperative. DEI is about correcting entrenched injustices and imagining a fairer, more decent society. That can be uncomfortable for those who have traditionally benefited from these inequities. However, in the absence of action, our divisions will remain and fester.

Amidst this hostile backlash, we need to protect and strengthen DEI initiatives.

Divine tax cuts

In the days leading up to the budget announcement, Prime Minister Modi tried to stir enthusiasm by stating, “I pray to Goddess Lakshmi1 to shower the poor and middle class with blessings.”

Apparently divine intervention came in the form of major tax cuts, particularly for middle-income earners. The income tax threshold (i.e. the point at which one must pay income taxes) was raised from Rs 7 lakh to Rs 12 lakh (USD 13,8400), alongside several other smaller reforms.

The tax cuts are projected to forego about Rs 1 lakh crore (USD 11.5 billion) in revenues, which is equivalent to about 7% of the expected income tax revenue in FY 2025. In spite of this, the Government has dubiously claimed the cuts will have a negligible, if not positive, impact on overall revenues. According to a senior official, the tax targets are “modest” and “the relaxations on personal income tax will spur demand and consumption, which in turn will positively impact [corporate taxes].”

Overall revenues are expected to increase by 11% in FY 2025 relative to FY 2024. Income tax revenues, which make up a third of total revenues, are expected to rise by 14%. What’s especially surprising is that income tax revenues as a share of the economy are expected to modestly increase from 3.8% in FY 2024 to 4.0% in FY 2025, even though taxable income has sharply decreased.

In fairness to the government, tax collections have in recent years exceeded their initial forecasts. However, at a time when the Indian economy is slowing down, these figures seem overly rosy. The government hasn’t provided much rationale besides arguing that the tax cuts will fuel consumer spending and boost the economy, which is questionable at best.

The idea that tax cuts can fuel growth is a popular theory devoid of evidence. For instance, in the U.S., the previous Trump Administration enacted a massive tax cut in 2017, claiming it would boost growth and have a neutral effect on revenues. In reality, the cuts led to a sharp deficit increase of of $1 to $2 trillion.

Why does this matter?

I recognize that one may read this and think, “so what if the government fudged its revenue figures?” I believe this is alarming for two reasons.

First, the government claims to be bringing down deficits. However, in the event the revenue estimates are overly-optimistic, then that will require the government to either increase borrowing, and in effect raise deficits, or cut spending and shortchange its priorities.

Second, there is a deeper question as to whether the tax cuts were a wise policy choice. The tax cuts have been positioned as a boon for the middle classes, when in reality it would more so benefit upper-middle and high-income Indians. Less than 10 percent of Indians earn more than Rs 7 lakh annually. Moreover, only 1.6% of Indians paid any income taxes in 2023. Altogether, the tax cuts primarily benefit a small number of relatively wealthy people.

The Rs 1 lakh crore that was lost to a regressive tax cut could easily have been put towards other needed areas, whether its infrastructure or social welfare, to truly shower prosperity on the poor and middle classes.

The views expressed in this post are solely my own and do not reflect the opinions or policies of my employer.

A quarter life crisis

During 2022 to 2023, I experienced a string of physical illnesses that hindered my ability to be active. It started with a terrible case of long COVID in the summer of 2022. The immediate symptoms had been mild, but when I went out for a short run a couple weeks later, I was extremely fatigued. I struggled to run one mile at a slow pace and had to walk back home. I resolved to avoid physical activity for a while in the hope that the fatigue would subside. However, over the next couple months, I developed severe back pain that at its worst immobilized parts of my upper body. Thankfully, with physical therapy and yoga, the pain eventually subsided and I was able to be active again.

Just as I was overcoming this, I experienced in 2023 two cases of gout in the right leg, which creates pain and swelling in the joints. At one point, my leg looked like an eggplant from how swollen it was from the knee down to my ankle. Following the second episode, I learned from an x-ray that my knee bones had slightly deteriorated more than usual for someone my age, possibly because of the gout and/or from overuse due to running. The orthopedist, seeing my alarm, stressed that this was fine, but that I would need to be mindful and strengthen my legs to avoid an issue. (To date, I’m unsure of what caused the gout, which has been unsettling. Typically, it’s caused by excess protein or alcohol consumption, neither of which are characteristic of my diet.)

Altogether, these health setbacks not only undermined my physical wellbeing, but damaged my self-confidence. I started to question whether something had shifted in my body that would limit my ability to be active. I’d long dreamed of running a marathon, among other physical feats, but wondered if that was naive. When my partner registered for her first marathon in Fall 2023, I passed on the opportunity, doubtful that I could handle the training regiment.

Getting back on my feet

In 2024, drawing inspiration and support from my partner, I resolved to put aside my fears and test my body.

In May, I hiked a two-day summit of Mt. Rinjani in Indonesia, an active volcano with a height of 3700 meters (12,000 ft). Throughout the hike, I wondered if my knees would handle the stress, but was relieved to summit and descend the mountain without an injury.

Feeling confident from the hike, I decided to register for my first marathon — the scenic Kaveri Trail Marathon in Karnataka. I followed Hal Higdon’s 18-month training plan for beginners and steadily worked my way from running 8 miles to 20 miles (I highly recommend Hal’s plans and accompanying app!). Each time I reached a new record in distance, I felt great pride. It was amazing to realise what my body was capable of with the appropriate training.

The marathon itself was, candidly, a beautiful yet brutal experience. The course was two out-and-back loops along the Kaveri River, with little forest cover. Feeling energized and strong, I made the amateur mistake of running far ahead of my target pace, thinking I could handle it.

I was wrong. By mile 21, under the blistering rays of the sun, my body collapsed. I dropped to a mix of jogging and walking to the finish. During this difficult moment, I was incredibly fortunate to be accompanied by two seasoned marathoners, who encouraged me and helped me get to the finish.

While I was disappointed to crawl to the finish, I felt deeply accomplished. Following two difficult years, I was grateful to achieve such a feat and, more fundamentally, to be alive and healthy. Through my 20s, I perhaps took for granted the gift of movement. To lose and recover it, however, gave me a renewed appreciation.

As the year comes to a close, I am celebrating life and excited to keep moving in community with others.

Special thanks to my partner who believed in me and encouraged me throughout this time.

On November 7, 2020, I was overwhelmed by relief and joy. I knew Biden officially won the close race when a neighbor yelled at the top of their lungs, “YES!” It could hardly be described as a “return to normalcy,” but it was a moment of cautious hope.

Today, I feel ashamed of my country. A majority of voters supported or tolerated a candidate who shamelessly ran a campaign built around xenophobia, racism, misogyny, and transphobia, and openly sought to undermine the election. In 2016, we may have been able to forgive ourselves and plead ignorance over what was to come, but today we don’t have that excuse. Trump was clear about his intents and in the days running up to the election resorted to darker and nastier comments. I recognize this doesn’t mean that all individual voters share his beliefs, but it is a damning statement of our collective values as a nation.

I am especially disappointed by the rise in support within my own community, particularly Latino men. Tony Hinchcliffe’s vile comments about Puerto Rico and Latinos more broadly crystallized how Trump and many of his followers view us and yet we still embraced them. “They’re not referring to me.” “I came in fairly.” “Those people are a drain to our country.” This is not just an absence of empathy, but willful blindness.

Trump’s success in courting men across racial groups by stoking resentment against woman and fear about the loss of traditional masculinity is equally alarming. Research had shown that in recent years the political gender gap was widening, with young women becoming more liberal and men becoming more conservative. As Meredith Ralston wrote, “In the end, the U.S. voted for… a cultural valorization of stereotypical male traits, and Trump’s endless and regressive belittling of women and ‘feminine’ men won the day.”

To be clear, there are rightful reasons to criticize the Democratic party. The Democrats were wrong to persistently gloss over people’s frustrations over the economy, even if the data suggested otherwise. They were wrong to dismiss concerns about Biden and refuse a primary until there was no other option than to switch. The disillusionment felt by many voters, especially voters of color, is valid and needs to be reckoned with.

Still, the result signals a sad reality about what the U.S. stands for and portends an anxious future. I am especially fearful for the immigrant community, who Trump repreatedly assailed and has promised to hunt. Even if some of his policies don’t come to fruition, the rhetoric alone will create great hardship. Back in 2018, I wrote about how Trump’s policies and rhetoric stoked such profound fear in immigrants that it led them to forgo needed assistance, even in emergency circumstances, out of concerns that it might make them targets of immigration authorities.

It is a sad day for the United States.

In India, the tragic death of 26-year-old Anna Sebastian Perayil over toxic work conditions at Earnst & Young (EY) sparked national outrage, to such an extent that the Central Government of India has launched an investigation into EY’s labor practices. Numerous individuals have been sharing their own toxic labor experiences in consulting or other industries, prompting wider discourse about India’s grueling work culture.

Although the nonprofit sector tends to have far better labor practices than the private sector, this dialogue has made me reflect on how nonprofits treat their employees. To be clear, I believe working in the nonprofit sector is a great privilege. I am grateful to have a career that enables me to do socially impactful work. Moreover, nonprofit organizations can offer practical benefits like normal working hours, paid family leave, medical insurance, and a decent work environment (e.g. nice coworkers with shared principles).

However, nonprofits can oftentimes exploit people’s desire to do “good work” and subject staff to poor compensation, long hours, and undue stress. In other words, nonprofits can engage in perverse “virtue tests” whereby staff are expected to tolerate poor labor practices or conditions in the name of social good. They send implicit messages like, “It’s a privilege to work here, so don’t complain that your salary barely covers rent,” or “If you really believed in our mission, then you would be okay with working overtime.”

This virtue testing is toxic and undermines people’s right to fair work. Nonprofit workers should be entitled to fair compensation, work-life balance, respect, and equal voice.

The need for fair compensation

Working in the nonprofit sector will involve lower pay than the private sector, but employees should be able to cover their basic needs and enjoy financial security, especially in well-funded organizations. Around the world, the nonprofit sector has expanded and professionalized to such an extent that executives or senior management can receive very comfortable or even lavish salaries.

In past organizations, my senior leadership had salaries that easily placed them in the top 10% of earners in the U.S. (tip: in the U.S., nonprofits are required to report the compensation of executives in the IRS Form 990). In India, nonprofit executives in larger organizations can easily fall under the top 5% if not 1% of earners. And yet, many nonprofits still behave as if they’re scrappy, poor organizations that can’t pay their staff decently.

Many nonprofit employees, especially at a junior or mid-level, come from vulnerable circumstances or marginalized communities. Depriving these individuals of decent pay prevents them from building a secure livelihood for themselves and their families. Likewise, by offering poor salaries, only individuals who enjoy financial support through family or other means can afford working for nonprofits. The fact that my parents paid for my higher education and did not depend on me for financial support enabled me to accept a modest salary at the start of my career. Fundamentally, this perpetuates social inequities.

Nonprofits thus need to prioritize fair compensation. Vu Le at NonprofitAF recently provided an excellent set of actions organizations should take, including an assessment of pay disparity and how wages align with local costs of living. There is also a need for transparency. Salaries are usually treated as a highly private, individual affair, but this perpetuates inequities within organizations. Nonprofits should instead disclose salary ranges and establish clear salary bands.

The need for balance and respect

Nonprofits need to respect employees’ time and wellbeing, and treat overtime as a last resort, rather than a norm. Building on the above, we don’t get paid enough to be asked to work late at night, or on weekends, or during our leaves. If we’re expected to take a pay cut to work in this sector, then we should be entitled to a decent work-life balance. This is not to say that high-paid staff aren’t entitled to rest, but that it’s especially alarming to crunch low-paid staff.

I understand that, by virtue of the work we do, the stakes can feel high and urgent. Ending poverty, saving the environment, eliminating social inequities — these are mammoth challenges that demand rapid and bold action. However, we also need to be humble and realistic about our day-to-day work. Overworking to write a report, develop a presentation, or plan an event is, oftentimes, unnecessary. Much of what we call urgent, isn’t in fact consequential to our lofty mission. Of course, the work matters, but not at the expense of our wellbeing.

Beyond fair hours, nonprofits need to ensure their staff are treated with respect and dignity. I was once yelled at by a senior executive who, apparently, had a well-known anger problem. “It actually used to be worse,” explained a colleague, as if to justify the behavior. There was no accountability to stop this behavior. Instead, it was normalized. In another instance, I was in a meeting with a partner organization and witnessed a manager openly patronize their staff over a trivial matter.

This type of toxic behavior should not be tolerated in our sector. It’s demeaning and damages morale.

The need for equal voice

I want to conclude by emphasizing the importance of inclusion within organizations. Issues like low pay and overwork partly stem from a fundamental lack of institutional openness that prevents hard, earnest conversations. Many nonprofits claim to promote transparency and participation for under-represented communities, yet rob their own staff of a voice.

All staff members should have a say on the key areas like strategy, culture, compensation, and professional development. There is a tendency to treat junior staff as if they don’t know better to weigh in on important matters and concentrate decision-making power at the very top. However, this ignores the important perspective that younger generations can bring to organizations. Executive staff bring wisdom from years of professional experience and institutional knowledge, but have blind-spots. For example, nonprofit leadership in the U.S. is overwhelmingly white. Women make up the far majority of nonprofit staff, but men hold a higher share of leadership positions, especially in larger organizations. In India, there is a lack of data on the nonprofit sector, but existing reports point to similar inequities.

In an effort to change the distribution of power, a small yet growing number of nonprofits are looking to unionize. This would be an important way to create an equal voice within nonprofits, but organizations can take smaller steps on their own to promote inclusion.

Living up to our values

People’s desire to “do good” can only be pushed so far. At the end of the day, we also want to enjoy a secure livelihood and positive workplace. Exploiting the goodwill of staff will lead to burnout and resentment, and undermine an organization’s ability to enact the change they seek.

Ultimately, nonprofit organizations need to live up to the progressive values they preach. We claim to fight for justice, equity, and inclusion, but often fall short of these aims internally. Labor standards in our sector may often be better than those in the private sector, but that doesn’t absolve nonprofits of confronting their own problems.

So my last post ended up receiving a lot more attention than I anticipated, especially in India. Several new individuals have subscribed to the blog, which is simultaneously gratifying and concerning.

Welcome to those who have newly subscribed! I’m not sure I’ll write along the lines of what you expect, but I hope it’s interesting.

Onward to the main event

Global development, as a practice and industry, is constantly evolving. Historically, it was dominated by a handful of Western governments and institutions. However, today it has become a far more pluralist and diverse sector, even as it is still marred by concerns around representation and power (i.e. who has a voice and whose voice matters?).

One aspect of global development that has especially evolved is language. For example, the term offensive “third world,” used to describe non-Western states, has largely been replaced by terms like “developing” or “Global North/South.”

Complementary to our efforts to make global development a more diverse, inclusive and just sector, the language we use is often subject to great debate. Some people may roll their eyes over this and consider it frivolous. However, I believe it is important to interrogate our language both out of respect for the dignity and self-worth of others, and to uphold our personal integrity.

With that said, in this post I will share a list of words or terms commonly used in development that I believe are especially problematic and merit replacement, if not at least strong questioning. Disclaimer: by critiquing these terms, I’m not trying to imply that I am morally superior or anything. I have (and sometimes still) used these terms precisely because they’re so normalized. My hope is rather to invite us to reflect on our language and encourage us to be more thoughtful.

In no particular order, here we go:

• Developed/developing: It is well past time to stop categorizing countries by their supposed levels of “development.” The label made more sense when it primarily referred to a country’s income level, though it was still degrading. If today, development as a concept has evolved to be far more holistic, then our understanding of a country’s socioeconomic status should also shift. Further, this label gives the illusion of a clear end point, when the benchmark set by “developed countries” is more questionable than ever. Personally, it would be best to distinguish countries by more neutral terms, like income levels (high/mid/low-income) or geography (Global North/South), even as I recognize these terms can also be loaded. These are still better alternatives.

• Field: In academic or research institutions, the “field” typically refers to a research site. A “field visit” in turn means going to a location to conduct research. While this may seem benign, it can be highly exoticizing or othering. The “field” is someone’s community or home, not your lab. We don’t refer to places in the Global North as “the field” even if we may go there for research or other knowledge gathering purposes. Why then do we use this term to describe places in the Global South, particularly ones that are low-income or rural? We could easily replace this term with more neutral phrases, like “research visit.”

• Systems/Ecosystems: In recent years, it seems the development sector has again woken up to the realization that policies or programs operate within larger systems and thus require “systems level thinking” or “engagement with the wider ecosystem.” Likewise, there is a strong push, especially from donors, to pursue “systems change.” It’s not that I disagree with this idea — we absolutely should be thinking in terms of systems and how individual policies or programs interact with them. What bothers me is the shallow nature of these statements. Systems change comes from ambitious, broad-based movements seeking to contest entrenched norms or institutions, not a one-time gender sensitization training or public works program. We need to be more honest about what it means to change a system.

• Stakeholders: During an anthropology class in grad school, a classmate made a comment about “gathering stakeholders,” to which the professor sarcastically replied, “ah yes, we love our stakeholders.” While I can’t say for certain why this professor disliked the term, her reaction made me pause and reflect on it. While the term is meant to call out those who have a stake or interest in a matter, I feel it can often feel empty and generic. Who is a stakeholder? What is their position of power relative to others? What do they stand to lose on a matter? We often speak of stakeholders as if they are on equal footing, when they typically are not. We also speak as if we value all stakeholders equally, when we typically do not (especially those local communities we claim to give voice to). I prefer to be more specific when referring to different actors.

• Participatory, inclusive: Building on the above, development institutions — whether it’s governments, NGOs, donors — love to celebrate how participatory or inclusive their programs are. And to be clear, I’m with them. I deeply believe in the intrinsic and extrinsic value to participation. However, the reality is that most community-focused approaches fall well short of their claim. To center community voice means to give meaningful, long-term agency to community members in our work, not to simply consult or interact with them. It would also mean to adequately compensate and recognize them for their time and support, rather than to primarily reward ourselves the financial and non-financial benefits. We should be more earnest about the quality of participation in our programs instead of resorting to blanket claims.

• Citizens: “Citizen” is a powerful term because it summons a state’s obligation to its people. A citizen of a state is entitled to certain rights and protections by law. In democratic nations, the idea of citizenry is also imbued with ideas of participating in public affairs. I can thus understand the appeal of statements like “Governments should include citizens in policy decisions,” or “Governments need to ensure that citizens have access to healthcare.” However, what is the implication of this rhetoric on those who are not citizens of a state? By focusing on citizens, we are implicitly excluding non-citizens from having a voice or access to care, like undocumented migrants in the U.S. For that reason, I prefer to use more general terms like, “the public” or “people.”

• Sustainable: This term has effectively become meaningless by this point. Does it refer to the environment? Does it refer to long-term durability? Both? I don’t know. I’m not sure any of us know. It’s just a term we add to our webpages, programs, and grant applications because it’s supposed to be some marker of success. The word is tired.

As I wrote this, I became more and more sensitive to the fact that a major reason for why we choose words like systems, inclusive, or sustainable is because there is a strong pressure to perform. For example, NGOs need to demonstrate to their donors and other audiences that they are doing meaningfully important work. Governments need to show to their people that they are serious about their concerns and working on them.

There is a certain level of innocence in using inflated language because otherwise one may lose essential funding or support. (Of course, there is also a lack of innocence in that the performance can and often is driven by self-service). Even so, I believe we’re doing a disservice to our work, our communities, and to our sector by yielding to this pressure. If we can’t be sober and honest about our work, then we’ll only distance ourselves from the change we claim to pursue.