Potato is an all-rounder. It even is a good mentor , a couch potato ..

Aur kya bana sakte hain ? Batata hoon Batata hoon ..

So next time DON’T ever fat shame this fellow who makes everyone happy

If you looking for veg protein, paneer maybe . If happiness , potato guarantees it …

“Comforting people forever.”
- Your humble alugaDDe

There was a time when people maintained diaries. Private little books that were hidden under mattresses and protected from curious people including siblings. Today, we have WhatsApp Status. The difference is that the diary was meant to keep things private. WhatsApp Status is apparently designed to ensure that absolutely nobody is spared from knowing what's happening in your life.

Every morning begins with the religious programming segment. Before the sun has fully risen, dozens of gods have already appeared on your phone. Ganesha arrives first, followed by Shiva, Venkateshwara , Hanuman , Jesus and a few deities of which some names you don’t know. Some people seem to believe that if enough god photos are uploaded before 7 AM, traffic jams, inflation and India's middle-order batting problems can all be solved.

Immediately after the divine shift ends, the Good Morning Department wakes up and takes over. Somewhere in the world there is a factory manufacturing images of roses, waterfalls, swans and cups of tea accompanied by profound wisdom such as "Life is like a pencil because it gets shorter every day but leaves a mark." Nobody knows what this means..We simply accept the wisdom and move on with our lives.

Then come the uncles and aunts . The infamous WA uncles and aunts . They treat WhatsApp status as a public service broadcasting platform. The photo they upload has usually travelled through several phones, a few family groups and at least three compression algorithms before reaching you. The image quality is so poor . Yet the uncle confidently posts it with the caption, "Must Read." Read what, Uncle? The text consists of eight blurry pixels.

Some people use WhatsApp Status to share life updates. Others use it to share medical updates. In fact, there are individuals whose blood reports have been seen by more people than their wedding albums. One moment you're checking a friend's holiday pictures, and the next moment you're staring at someone's fasting sugar levels, cholesterol count and vitamin D deficiency. Somewhere a schoolmate from 1987 now knows more about their liver function than their family doctor. The doctor, is still waiting for the report to be sent to him.

Pet owners deserve a separate chapter. Their dogs have a more active online presence than most startups. Bruno sleeping. Bruno eating. Bruno running. Bruno looking thoughtful. Bruno celebrating his four-and-a-half-month birthday. Bruno meeting a close friend. Bruno recovering emotionally from meeting another dog. At this point, many of us know Bruno better than we know the owner.

Then there are the travellers. The moment they enter an airport, they become documentary filmmakers. The boarding pass is uploaded. The coffee at the airport is uploaded. The wing of the aircraft is uploaded. The clouds are uploaded. By the time they return from a three-day holiday, they've released enough content for a Netflix mini series. If they visit Paris, the Eiffel Tower appears so often like in real life Paris.

There are the folks who upload every photo on their phone to the status ,a person’s head or hand titled 10 degrees every picture as if it is taken on burst mode . Sometimes one has to just burst out with laughter.

There are a few others who have never posted a status and are like wildlife photographers in the WhatsApp jungle : silent, patient and always watching.

WhatsApp Status has become the great Indian exhibition. Temples, breakfast plates, puppies, sunsets, political opinions, blood reports, grandchildren, motivational quotes and blurry newspaper clippings all coexist peacefully in a 24-hour ecosystem. #whatsapp

In the newly formed layout stood this giant banyan tree. It was impossible to miss. It wasn't merely a tree. It was the area's mascot, landmark, meeting point and unofficial clubhouse.
“Alli , aa aaladamara hatra” was all the direction anyone needed.
Around it stretched what felt like an endless wilderness to a ten-year-old boy. There were lakes with dragonflies hovering above the water, orchards filled with guava and mango trees, empty plots that doubled up as cricket grounds.
There was more than enough greenery to convince a child that Bengaluru was one giant forest with a few houses sprinkled in between.
The banyan tree itself had many jobs.
The younger kids learnt how to be Tarzan on its hanging roots. The older uncles occupied the benches and shade beneath it, discussing matters of great importance such as politics, cricket and why the younger generation was doomed.
Teenagers played whatever sport television had convinced them was exciting that month. Cricket was permanent, of course. But hockey would suddenly become fashionable during the Olympics. Hand tennis appeared out of nowhere whenever somebody discovered a new ball or there was French open on TV.

There was India version of games being played. It was the 10 years old first exposure to a large scale event on TV which ran multiple day and also held in India.
One summer vacation afternoon, after returning from an expedition that involved climbing trees, getting chased by a dog and three raw guavas in his pockets, the boy sat beneath the banyan tree and made an announcement.
"I want a baby elephant."
His parents looked at each other.
"A baby elephant?"
"Yes."
"As a pet?"
"Of course as a pet.”
The discussion continued far longer. Instead of immediately rejecting the idea, his parents played along.
"What will you do with a baby elephant?"
The boy had clearly thought this through.
"I'll call him Appu."
"I'll take him everywhere with me."
He could already picture it.
Every summer morning he would stroll through the neighbourhood with Appu walking beside him. All the other children would stare in admiration. Appu would accompany him to the lake. While the elephant enjoyed a refreshing bath, spraying water from his trunk like a municipal tanker , the boy would sit nearby washing freshly plucked guavas and mangoes.
He would eat a couple immediately to check quality.
The remaining fruits that could be fit into his pockets would be brought home for the afternoon.

Sometimes he would ride Appu through the empty fields. Sometimes they would simply wander around together exploring the lakes and orchards.
It was, as far as the boy was concerned, a flawless plan.
His parents listened patiently.
Then
"Do you know how much an elephant eats?"
The boy of course knew but did not respond.
"It eats a lot." The boy felt it wasn’t a problem with all the fields around
"And where will it stay?"
"Outside."
"Outside where?"
The boy looked around.
The entire world appeared to be outside.
His parents continued.
"It will become very big. We don't have enough space. We don't have enough money to feed it. We definitely cannot keep an elephant in the compound."
One by one, the arguments shattered his dream.

The boy spent the next few days sulking. He kicked stones. He stared at the banyan tree. Life was unfair.
An elephant pet was denied
After several days of reflection, he approached his parents again.
"Can I ask you something?"
His parents sensed danger.
"What?"
The boy looked hopeful.
"Okay. If I can't have a baby elephant..."
A pause.
"...can I at least have a tiger cub?"

*The story line drawing image generated by ChatGPT

The ones who spend every meeting lamenting the collapse of civilisation and humanity?

Or the ones who have a new “well being” obsession
Or the ones who still remain interested in living?

Because there is a category of friendship that slowly becomes an endless complaint department. You meet for what is supposed to be dinner and within minutes the autopsy begins.

The country is doomed. Younger people are useless. Nobody has values anymore. Work is terrible. Marriages are clinging by a thin thread. Politics, the lesser said the better .

The cities weather is getting worse by the year and infrastructure is crumbling.

Everyone speaks as if they alone were appointed guardians of a glorious past .

By the end of the evening, the food plates are swiped clean, the glasses are empty. But someone cribs, the food and taste is not like the olden times anymore.

Then there are the wellness warriors.

At these meetings, every second person suddenly becomes less human, more diagnostic report. A casual drink now sounds like a medical conference.

“My Vitamin D3 crashed.”
“Check your triglycerides, very very important .”
“I’ve cut gluten, dairy, seed oils and all the joy.” “ I have started eating eggs , you know for protein ..its mandatory for everyone , my daughter tell me”

“ Dal is carbs da.. “
“This one supplement changed my life.”

“ My blood sugar is more than my class X marks”

“ My smart watch is the best “

“Both my niece and my knees hurt me in equal measure ”

Somewhere around the second beer and Masala peanuts, someone inevitably starts discussing gut health with the passion that earlier was reserved for cricket.

You realise adulthood for these folks is essentially people gathering socially to discuss inflammation.

They are trying to feel better. Trying to negotiate with time.

But then there are the those friends.

The ones you truly want beside you when your hair greys and your walking speed reduces by half

The ones who still carry curiosity into a room.

Friends who can spend twenty minutes passionately debating whether the old Jagjit Singh recordings sounded warmer on cassette. Friends who recommend books knowing fully well you may never read them, but recommend them anyway because sharing enthusiasm is itself an act of affection.

The ones who still have favourite restaurants in cities nobody talks about.

Who know where to find proper filter coffee, the kind served hot in stainless steel tumblers that u calm down by blowing them some flying kisses. The kind where conversation slows down naturally. Where nobody is taking photos of the coffee.

The friends who can sit through an entire ghazal, a thumri or a kirtana without touching their phone.

Who can still get excited about discovering a tiny bar in Lisbon, a new bookstore in Bengaluru, a jazz club in Paris, or fluffy idlis in a nameless place on the highway to Mysore.

The ones who still notice things.
A line in a poem, or The smell of old books.
A well-designed chair which helps relax . The first sip of beer after a long drive.
The way an old Manna day song can suddenly transport you to an era you thought you had forgotten.

They discuss the new drink they tried and how it is a refreshing change.

They still are curious and want to learn new skills. They look forward to interact with many age groups to get a world view

These friends matter because they resist the greatest danger of ageing.

Some people age into wisdom while some others age into repetition. They become loops of the same complaints, same fears, same cynicism replayed endlessly.

The best people somehow continue evolving.

They still travel not to post photos, but to feel surprise and joy.
They still laugh loudly in public.
They still pull each other legs like they did a few decades ago.

They still plan that Goa monsoon trip and surprise folks by going..

Because life gives everyone enough material to become bitter.

Careers may disappoint. Bodies surely slow down. Children grow distant quickly . Dreams downsize themselves without even trying too hard. Even mirrors become less cooperative.

But some people still manage to arrive at a table carrying warmth instead of weight.

Those are the people I want to grow old with.

Not the richest or the most successful. Maybe not even the healthiest.
Just the ones who leave you lighter after spending time with them even without us having a beer .

The ones after whom the world still feels interesting.

Because eventually friendship is not about who knew you longest.

It is about who helps you remain alive inside.

Ageing is inevitable. Becoming boring should remain optional.

I want to grow old with people who bring stories to the table instead of their blood markers ..

But it also surely advice given by someone who didn’t have to deal with actual neighbours.

Most of us do, and most of us, if we’re being honest, don’t exactly love them.

The neighbour who decides Sunday morning is the perfect time to test a drill. The one who parks half their car in your spot and shows all their attitude. This is just residential, Scale it up and you get states and then countries doing the same thing, except with sharper elbows and larger toys.

We like the idea of neighbours in theory. In practice proximity surely leads to irritation. In reality a lot of them are just Neigh’bores .

Even in the wild, where there are no society meetings or passive-aggressive WhatsApp groups, the story isn’t very different. A lion doesn’t wake up thinking, “Let me check in on the neighbouring pride, see how they’re doing.” It knows it’s just trouble waiting to happen.

We dress it up better as humans. We use words like harmony, community, coexistence. We build fences, literally and emotionally, and then pretend they don’t exist. But the instinct is still there, humming quietly underneath. The need to protect what’s ours, this mild suspicion of whoever is just a little too close.

So “love thy neighbour” starts to feel like an aspiration. Like eating healthy or waking up at 5 a.m. We agree it’s a good idea.

Maybe the bar is set too high for us.

John Lennon tried tho spread the word with his famous “Imagine” . Lovely imagination indeed.

Love is a big ask for someone whose music leaks into your living room at 1 p.m . Maybe the goal isn’t love but it’s tolerance. Maybe it’s learning to nod in the lift. Maybe it’s choosing not to escalate every small inconvenience into a personal battle.

And once in a while, neighbours surprise you. The same person who irritates you on most days might lend you a ladder, or keep an eye on your house when you’re away, or show up with food when something goes wrong. Not consistently enough to qualify for “love.” But enough to complicate the narrative.

Which is probably the point.

Maybe “love thy neighbour” was never meant to be taken literally. Maybe it’s just a gentle nudge away from our default setting of irritation.

So no, you don’t have to love your neighbour unless it is Alice.

Would you love my neighbours ? My morning Raagas go something like this

I have become a habitual early riser, My day begins pretty early.

My wake up call usually is around 5:15–5:30 am and really depends on my immediate neighbor to the right who cleans her courtyard with a coconut wig broom. This raaga agitates the mind, but the hope everyday is that it’s a short one. The courtyard can’t get so dirty every single day. Wrong !, The mind starts getting used to it by around 5:45 am.

The uncle next door wakes up for his exercise to cure his diabetes. Loud claps help apparently and it yields the best results when the whole neighborhood listens to devotional songs played in sync in full volume. The sweeping neighbor complains about this uncle of disturbing the neighborhood:)

Now it’s 6:15 am and even the dogs know that it’s time for their owners to wake up and take them for a walk. There is an orchestra setup in the neighborhood OR maybe it’s just a saregamapa final contest.

With all this taking a break at around 7:30 am, the vegetable vendors come out with their wares for the day announcing them with microphones just so that no one misses them. They stop every 100m to announce.

At around 8 am there is a sudden quiet, an eerie silence in the neighborhood where I feel the scare of a real lockdown. I am lost for those 10 min.

Then the maid banging vessels (Presumably in protest for getting to work for her pay). All the 5 construction sites around me are now into their daily breaking, drilling and shouting across floors with their usual shouts to the Nepali watchman “Motor off Karo Bhaiyya”. This gets back a sense of “all izz well”. The construction workers of course come with their 10’s of children of varying ages who have their own raaga practices in various scales and pitches.

An old uncle keeps trying to start his electric switch scooter older than him in vain. The car cleaners are using industrial equipment to clean the saheb’s car. He wants it spick and span, he shouts..

Time to eat breakfast and move to the non stop requests on zoom . Ragaas for the rest of the day with the earphones plugged deep into your ears.

They say if you really want something the world conspires to make it happen. It’s a lie, the world conspires on some things you don’t want as well. NO, I didn’t really ever want to be an early riser.

Musically yours , a reluctant 5am clubber…

You move mountains. The ones that don’t even look like mountains when you start.

You get close. Close enough to think, okay this is it. And then it slips. Not by much. But just a little short.

And what stays with you is not the miss. It’s the silence. You’d couldn’t hear the applause.

Because you remember the other times. Smaller and easier things. You did them, and people noticed. There was appreciation, maybe even a bit of noise around it. This time you did more and gave it all you have got. You handled things you couldn’t have earlier. Nothing, most people didn’t even notice.

That contrast .

You try telling yourself it shouldn’t matter. That doing something well is enough. Nice thought. Doesn’t quite help when you’re in it.

Recognition matters. Not in a loud, chest-thumping way. Just someone saying, I saw that. I know what it took. That’s all.

The problem is, people don’t see effort. They see outcomes. Clean finish lines are easy to celebrate. No one quite knows what to do with it.

So you’re left explaining it to yourself. Which is harder than it sounds.

The tricky part is what you do next.

One option is to dial it down. Pick things you know you can finish cleanly. Get your recognition back. It feels sensible ?

The other option is to accept that this comes with the territory. That some of your better efforts will indeed go unnoticed. That the gap between what you did and what people see won’t always close.

Not a very satisfying answer, but a useful one.

Being heartbroken is definately fair. It just means you expected something reasonable and didn’t get it. It also means you cared enough to go after something that wasn’t guaranteed.

You don’t have to pretend this didn’t sting. It did.

But you also don’t need to reduce the size or ease what you attempt just so it gets noticed next time.

You moved more than you have before. Even if no one said it.

You know it. And that has to count for something. Your work grew even if recognition didn’t.

Dedicated to all folks who keep trying to better their attempts... Sometimes no one notices

As you leave the city, discussions are underway about which highly priced restaurant would you spend your month’s salary to have breakfast with a 100+ noisy strangers for company. For a fleeting moment you overestimate your smartness. The drive planned on a weekday. Lesser people , lesser noise. But then, your happiness is shattered with the idea of it being noisier than usual. Children and vacations. The key to choosing the place now just rides on access to clean loos, your acceptable levels of it.

But there is always hope on other lovely things to look forward to..

These are summer days when an Indian highway feels like it has decided to deck up for your arrival.

The road stretches out, some of them are really clean and wide. You ease into a comfortable speed and for a few minutes you start trusting it. That’s usually your first mistake. .

Summer shows up properly. Trees on both sides even forming lovely canopies. No colours are subtle. Bright yellows, loud reds, Gulmohar going full festival mode painting the highways red. You pass through patches of shade and light. The car hums along, and you allow yourself that rare feeling that this might actually be a smooth drive. You even reduce the music volume, which is a dangerous level of confidence. For a while, you forget where you are going. Some people shift to cruise control. Car makers are collecting data and have a smile on their face. That feeling of getting closer to building an autonomous car for India. Then a biker appears from nowhere and reminds you this is still a group activity.

A little away from the highway, there’s a village atop a hillock. You don’t see people . A little far away to. A thin line of smoke rising from somewhere behind tall old trees. Perhaps brunch is cooking. Or some tea is boiling. You see a small roadside place. People have stopped for hot fluffy idlis as a board proclaims. A thought crosses your mind “Should this be a quick first breakfast for the day?”. You are told against it by your CGM readings.

As you feel the need for a leg stretch, a chai tapri appears overlooking the paddy fields at exactly the right time. Tea would be served in a small glass, too hot, and extra sweet. You stand there, looking at fields stretching out lazily. Is it the tea or the tender coconut that would make you happy right now?.

Further down as you drive along , a village Sante is in full swing. Fresh vegetables, fruits, everything looking so fresh and like it didn’t travel far to get here. You slow down because everyone else has. Cars are parked in a neat line. Wait , we consider a hapazard curve a line. Mangoes are being inspected like it is a once in a lifetime buy. Press, sniff, rotate, select. One stranger confidently says, “This is original piece, tumba channagide” and suddenly becomes the authority. People are falling over each other to get their hands on that particular mango. Innocent children returning from school are happy running around and wave occasionally at a vehicle or two ..

Back on the road, the trucks take over.

“Be kind to animals”
“Use dipper at night”
“Speed thrills but kills”

And then spelling decides it has done enough.

“Keep distence”
“Blow horn pleaze”
“Horn OK Pleasee”

One truck says, “Don’t angry me.”
Another says, “Wait for side.”
One has just written, “OK TATA BYE BYE”

This one below even encourages you to open that bottle of poison you carried with you just in case..

Just when you think you’ve seen it all, the road signs join the conversation.

“After Drinking Whiskey, Driving Is Riskey ”
“Be Gentle on My Curves. Feel Them, But Don’t Hug Them”
“Eager to Last, Then Why Fast”

A government department decided poetry might work better than enforcement as strategy.You sometimes slow down just to process what you read.

Highway trucks carry more load than they can and are testing the banking of the roads. They are also stress testing their skill to check how much more they can lean before they topple on the adjacent vehicle.

Then comes the toll plaza.

FASTag promised a smooth future. No stopping, just glide through like you’re a VIP. Murphy had other plans.

You pick a lane carefully. Not too crowded, not too empty and feel good about it. And then you spot the car in front .Stationary with barrier firmly down. The driver is in discussion mode.

“It is recharged, check properly.”. It is not recharged.

The operator suggests paying double. The driver reacts like this is a teenage heartbreak.

Someone behind you honks. Not angrily, just with hope.

The next lane starts moving faster. It always does. In another lane, someone is explaining they belong to a “special category” and therefore rules are optional. The barrier doesn’t budge.

Eventually, through payment, persuasion, or maybe just sheer exhaustion, the barrier lifts and you move.

And then, like a switch, the highway opens again.

An SUV appears in your mirror. Large, polished, slightly offended by your existence. It comes close enough to check your tyre pressure. Objects in the mirror are right next to you. You move aside. Not out of fear, just self-preservation. SUV’s have a “ jaante ho mera baap kaun hain “ written all over them.

Behind it comes the wannabe SUV. Same attitude, smaller budget, louder engine. It has stickers of I will someday grow to have a “jaante ho mera baap kaun hain” written all over me.

Now it’s a contest. Size matters.

The big one accelerates like it is already too late. The smaller one has dreams. Lanes are suggestions while indicators are optional.

They overtake each other repeatedly, achieving nothing except noise and mileage loss. Then the highway restores order.

The holy animals are on their way to work.

Cows

Some are not crossing. Just existing., just there. Perched on the speedbraker. Some others move diagonally across. The large SUV’s too have to stop .

A shepherd stands at a distance with a stick in his hand and a beedi in the other, watching this. A regular episode. The driver looks at him, and the shepherd looks back. He has seen a lot of egos from a distance. He lets a few 100 goats cross the road to add complexity to the situation and then smiles.

Sometimes these holy cows lock their horns across a car mirror .. the vehicles honk but in vain. The mirror reflects on things it has to go through..

The highway driving games add more levels to the equation as you progress

There are speedbrakers that make the car learn to move in Staccato. Another one has been laid with all the remaining tar the contractor could afford. He proudly claims “Saar, I have used more tar than the contract allowed . All for our village only, No? Nothing will happen for another 25 years saar” . He has reached new heights of creating these car breakers.

An auto with words behind its back “ Tande Taayi Aashirwada” has grown legs in all directions and a extra bum or two as the auto driver shoves in the 9th passenger inside when the auto is in motion..it is challenge to find out who the driver is by now.

You will also notice that Indians are ambidextrous on the highways . They can drive on both side of the median with equal ease . A vehicle which has the sticker with lettering of “Government of .. “ written in green is heading from the wrong side. One wonders if this is symbolic of the direction some states and countries are headed in.

A man in a dhoti and a towel tied as a turban starts crossing the highway. No rush, no concern whatsoever . He walks like traffic will adjust and most times it does.

A drunk truck driver is navigating the winding ghats to the best of his inabilities. The others on the road are saved by physics , prayers at small temples en route and luck in equal measures ..

And then, the constant. That one car.

The slowest car in India, in the fastest lane. The guy driving believes in palmistry still and tries to show his hands as to which direction his life is headed in.. the future is indeed bleak.

Mirrors are closed . The driver sits there, at peace. SUVs and bikes go around him with show of appropriate fingers and hands in the air. Trucks express themselves a bit more loudly. This is his lane. Highway, my way ..

A smooth stretch, a random stop, a toll story, a food detour, a race you didn’t join, advice you didn’t ask for, and a signboard telling you to drive safe around the curves.

You began the drive thinking about the trees and the food.

You ended it with stories

Stories of all these Highway stars !! You survived another day …

The way back home is a same game with very different rules.

Indian highways are the best versions of Calvin ball.

PS: Pictures are not mine, they are from various sources from the internet.

For others, Friday is less about noise and more about escape. It is the doorway to a weekend that looks like long walks under trees , meeting an old friend over coffee or a cycle ride where the only metric that matters is that new record on how far you went without checking your phone.
Maybe it’s a quiet corner in a library, or that book you’ve been pretending to read all week finally getting its due. These Fridays are softer, but no less important

Then there are Fridays that arrive like a full stop. The last working day at a place you’ve spent years in. The desk is cleaner than usual. The inbox is empty. People say things like “stay in touch” and “we must catch up,” and everyone knows how that usually goes. There is relief, yes, but also a strange floating feeling. Monday is no longer what it used to be. It hasn’t yet decided what it wants to become.

And then there are the Fridays we don’t talk about much. The ones that sit heavy. When someone is dealing with loss, of a person, a pet, a city they are leaving, a version of life they had quietly built routines around. Friday doesn’t come with relief then. It’s just another day to get through, except now the weekend stretches ahead like an unstructured silence. Too much time to think, too much space where something or someone used to be.

What is Friday to them?

We often borrow meanings for days. Monday is serious. Friday is good. But days, like most things, are neutral until we load them with our own stories.

Ode To Friday

So many days throughout the year
Are cause for celebration.
Birthdays, Christmas, wedding days,
Anniversaries, a coronation.
They make life much more bearable.
Give us respite and great joy.
A chance to kick up our heels and rejoice,
Every girl and every boy.
But there’s one day that gets overlooked.
A day that’s quite unique.
That day is Friday! What a blessing it is,
That there’s one at the end of each week!
- Dawn Ferrett

A Friday evening can be loud or lonely, celebratory or uncertain. The same sunset, different lives.

And sometimes, Friday comes fully prepared, but you aren’t in the mood to show up.

Ugadi comes and goes without much fuss, a new panchanga on the wall and a ritual bite of neem and jaggery, loads of food and in Bengaluru it almost immediately turns your mind to Rama Navami and the things that come with it.

What I remember from years ago first of course is the food, appearing across the city in pandals, outside homes, at street corners, where someone you didn’t know pressed a steel tumbler of beladahannu panaka into your hand, also maybe majjige sometimes and kosambari. A cool majjige was just trait during summers.

We children, moved from one house to another, then another, because that is what everyone did, accepting every serving even when you were already full, staying a little longer than planned because some friend's mom insisted.

Evenings would be another completely different kind of a treat that was relished at the Ramanavami music festival. This was at Makkala Koota on the grounds of Fort High School , Chamarajpete where the setting never tried to impress but always worked. Time seemed to stand still, the setting felt from a previous century.Never had the best music systems or speakers but the artists more than made up for it.

Artists like M. Balamuralikrishna, K. J. Yesudas, Sudha Ragunathan, Kunnakudi Vaidyanathan and U. Srinivas and many such stalwarts would perform to crowds that often exceeded the space, leaving many of us to find a place behind the stage or near the parking lot. Unable to see anything but hearing everything, staying on because the evening allowed it and because the music carried far enough to include one even when you were not really part of the main audience. Mesmerising concerts, the summer evenings and music for the soul. Still can feel a Vatapi Ganapathim, a Krishna nee begane Baro or a Samaja varagamana in the maestros voice . Goosebumps

On the lawn, a 75th birthday party was in full swing. White chairs arranged in neat rows, a few already turned at odd angles. Balloons were tied to poles and children run around on the lawn. Someone was testing the microphone again, saying “hello, hello ” to no one in particular.

The man tilted his chair just a bit to get a better view of the happenings. The children gathered near the cake table, the only interesting part of the evening. A man in a blazer moved around with hurried importance, possibly the organiser.

The old lady was talking. A steady stream, moving from one thing to another without pause. In a language that the neighbouring tables weren’t familiar with. Possibly a cousin they met last week, something the doctor mentioned, a reminder about a bill that was to be paid. He followed along in his own way, nodding at the right moments, letting out the occasional “hmm” while lifting his glass of whisky. The conversation didn’t require precision. It ran on habit and years of knowing when to respond. There was Family’arity..

Their food arrived: fried chicken, crisp and inviting, a heap of French fries, and a cabbage salad that seemed to have been ordered out of obligation. She reached for the salad first, placing a small portion on her plate. Some part of her still believed in balanced diet it seemed. He went straight for the fries. He joked that he was following a diet of liquids, fat and protein. Maybe she wasn't even listening.

Each fry was dipped generously into ketchup, more than it needed. He didn’t rush, even a bit . One fry at a time, each treated with the same care. The salad remained untouched on his side of the table.

Her phone rang. She picked it up quickly, her voice changed almost instantly. Warmer, more animated. Her daughter, most likely. Or a grandchild checking in. She began to describe what she saw perhaps: the lawn, the birthday, the decorations, the crowd gathering slowly. She filled in details that may not have mattered to the listener but seemed important to say out loud.

He took a long sip and looked back at the lawn. Someone was helping the elderly man of the hour into his seat. There was applause, scattered but sincere. A photographer waved people into position. He saw all this through the window and nodded knowingly. The photographs were being taken in batches of people with the birthday man.

At the table, things remain unhurried. Her voice carried softly through the call, his attention drifted between the glass and the gathering outside. The fries diminished, the salad barely did. The light shifted slightly over the lawn.

They sat there, watching a celebration that wasn’t theirs, yet felt close enough to understand.

The old man told her “Seventy-five years on the banner, and at least a hundred opinions on how the chairs should be arranged or a lot more opinions about what should have been on the menu” .

The baby is born and doctor smiles. The nurse reaches for a small steel tray. On it lies a yellow chip, glistening like a festival sweet. The hospital brochure proudly says: “100% indigenous chips used here..”

The chip is installed on the left shoulder before the baby can cry properly. Instantly, systems sync. Aadhaar created. PAN generated. Passport approved (subject to future visa rejections). Voter ID queued. A bank account opened with a zero balance , a notification of overdraft facility denied due to lack of credit history and existence.

The chip hums to life. Inside the skull, a Local mini LLM™ boots up. It understands hunger, sleep, and the fundamental truth that relatives will compare to other babies.

By age two, parents receive push notifications:

“Your child is eligible for new Optimisation. Upgrade now and get free rhymes.”

By age four, schooling is no longer about age , it’s about chip performance.

“Sorry, your child’s chip is still buffering phonics. Please try next academic year.”

The great divide arrives early.

At birthday parties, parents casually ask, “Which version?”
There is a pause.
“Yellow.”
A sympathetic nod follows.

The rich upgrade aggressively. Neural + → Brand XX V17 . Each upgrade promises sharper intelligence, faster sarcasm, and reduced tolerance for mediocrity. These children don’t say “why”; they say “according to my model.”

The middle class waits for the promised miracle: the Cheap Chip.

It is always launching in six months. Always subsidised. Always “final testing phase.” Politicians mention it in speeches. Bureaucrats blame supply chains. Manufacturers say, “Sir, global situation. Costs are increasing currently”

Middle class folks are still be putting fight to upgrade ,They have to go through education and learning and entrance exams to get the upgrade. Some “special people” get free upgrades ..

Meanwhile, children with advanced chips don’t raise hands in class. They auto-sync answers directly into the teacher’s chip. Homework is completed before it is assigned. Parent-teacher meetings are replaced by firmware compatibility checks.

All payment transactions will be through scans using a wave of the human hand connected to the bank via this chip ..

Taxes and GST will be deducted online and recorded every month automatically.

Some folks will try to get a dual sim system installed , which is available currently only for a “privileged few “ at govt hospitals . This is in the hope of avoiding taxes, the second sim isn’t tracked or auromatic..

When it finally arrives, the Cheap Chip it is supposed to be called a JanataChip Lite. Minimal capacity. No creativity module. Comes with ads. Occasionally plays government jingles during deep thought.

Workplaces adapt beautifully.

Job portals add filters:

• XXX V15 and above – Immediate shortlist

• YellowChip – Experience required: 2 years minimum

• JanataChip – Special Reserved roles preferred

Annual appraisals become awkward:
“You’ve done well this year, but unfortunately your chip cannot handle leadership yet.”

Bars announce a 2+1 for folks with XXX chips..

Loans are sanctioned based on processor speed. Love marriages now require compatibility tests. Arranged marriages list chip specs openly:

“Girl, fair( this isn’t changing), MBA, XXX V16. Looking for V16 and above only. No downgrades.”

Religion also evolves.One guru claims enlightenment is only possible on YellowChip because it “overheats less.”

The yellow chip can’t multitask. It doesn’t predict stock markets. It sometimes freezes when confronted with more than 5 Excel sheets. But it remembers stories. It laughs at the wrong places. It knows hunger before data, emotion before logic, and silence before response.

Some folks who cannot afford new shiny ones reuse their own childhood versions for their children.

A chip of the old block ..Sometimes leads to a chip on your shoulder kind of situation.

From a very young age, many a child’s body is declared a matter of concern. Not ill, not weak, just too thin to be trusted. This activates a task force of Indian mothers, aunts, and everyone else who don’t matter and who have no formal introduction to the child or nutrition but just feel spiritually responsible for the children’s weight.

Meals aren’t just that. They were campaigns.

“Just one more bite.”
“How can this be enough?”
“Eat properly. You will become weak. See how Amit eats.”

Cod liver oil arrives early in life, and so do raw eggs. Trauma before memory. A lot of homes not eating eggs suddenly are ok with their grandchildren eating eggs. “Poor kids need nutrition; how will they become strong?” The realisation finally occurs that Complan/Bournvita/Horlicks/Milo or any such are just tasty powders to make milk consumable for most lactose-intolerant Indians. “How can these make one stronger?” The grandmoms are ok with eggs being made at home. Now justified by science. Wait ... Of course in a different vessel and pan, which may even be kept outside the house near the dog’s eating bowl. The vegetarian dog doesn’t know the smell of egg but starts waking up to these smells and regains hope of getting tasty food.

Butter and ghee are added to everything; I mean everything. Bananas are forced upon children in bulk because someone once saw a strong wrestler eat bananas. Milk is poured as an investment.

“So little?”
“Nothing else will go in?”

Indian mothers don’t accept defeat easily. Emotional angles are explored.

“Okay, don’t eat. I’ll throw it.” “There are so many children who are starving.”

“Ok, ok, at least eat a little rice and curd, no?” “No more chips for you.”

Somehow, despite years of this effort, many emerge unchanged. The jeans never evolve. They have lasted longer than friendships, jobs, and most New Year resolutions. Loyal fellows. Deeply opposed to being replaced.

Let them be. The children will surely come looking for food when they are hungry, just like adults. They’re just small adults, unspoilt by the world views yet.

Then adulthood happens, and the advice economy expands.

I was one of those children who eat and eat. Enjoyed all the eggs, butter, ghee, everything... Loved it… P.S. I still eat and eat. Eggs and regular desi thindi did their honest work. My body, however, behaved like a stubborn government department, listened politely to all the growth enablers’ advice and did nothing.

Last week, a man on a bike stopped me and asked if he could have a word. I assumed directions because I look permanently local. Instead, he asked, “Do you want to increase your weight without giving up your favourite food?” This sentence has a long criminal history. I said, “Not right now,” and walked away. He followed me and still gave me his card. “If you decide later.” Hope, in India, is distributed freely.

Some friends join in. One camp says gym, weights, discipline, protein. Another suggests holding 500 ml of beer in each hand with alternate sipping for functional training and a balanced diet too, apparently. Both speak with total conviction. You know which camp I trust more.

At this stage, growth has taken other forms. I’ve grown older, maybe slightly wiser, and far less tolerant of nonsense. My body has chosen consistency. It knows what it wants, or more accurately, what it refuses to do.

Indian mothers will never stop, though. Somewhere, right now, a child who has said “I’m full” is being watched closely. Some of us are not meant to expand. We are meant to stay the same while everyone else keeps trying.

There was a time when sending a message meant living in a completely different world. Not even talking about the messages sent by a dove. Not just slower, but very very slow. A world where urgency had a price tag and silence was the default setting.

A post could mean a telegram, the SMS of that era. Short, sharp, and brutally expensive. You paid per word, so every message was edited like a household budget. Articles were eliminated. Adjectives were suspicious. Emotions were compressed. “REACHED SAFE” carried relief and parental reassurance in two words. “UNCLE EXPIRED” didn’t mean they needed fresh stock. Anything more would have required a small debt. Telegrams were used sparingly . There are codes for common messages sent , that you just mentioned them. The son mostly sent “ OK, SEND MONEY” probably best represented by a code $000.

Then there was the postcard, the original public timeline. Anyone who handled it could read it. The postman. The sorting clerk. The curious neighbour waiting for his pension letter. Privacy was optional. “Weather nice. Met new friends. Missing home.” would not make you poor. Subtle flexing existed even then, just without filters or hashtags.

The inland letter card was the premium upgrade. More space. Sealed. Private. The leap from 140 characters to long-form writing. It came pre-paid with no ads, no subscriptions, no surprise renewals. Once sealed, it was encrypted with glue and courage. You could not edit or unsend it. Spelling mistakes became permanent. Emotional oversharing was archived forever.

Those who wanted unlimited space, the bloggers of the time, people essentially running their own websites wrote on sheets of A4 paper. Pages folded with care, margins respected, handwriting unconsciously improved. Glue was applied generously, often unevenly. Fingers were always sticky. The letter was then taken to the post office, where it was weighed like grain. Stamps were priced by weight, not importance. A love letter and a reminder to pay rent were treated equally by the system. Justice was blind and postal.

Envelopes, too, had privacy settings. Seal or don’t seal. Open account or private profile managed with saliva and hope.

A speed post, of course, meant urgency with restraint. You wanted it faster, but you weren’t rich enough to send a telegram. Speed post came with tracking, a miracle of sorts. A receipt. A number. Proof. The blue tick of its time. Delivered. Read? Understood? Ignored? That was still left to imagination.

Finally, the letter was dropped into the post box. A red, silent front-end system. No confirmation. No vibration. No “sent successfully.” Once it went in, it was out of your hands.

And then you waited.

No typing indicators. No “last seen.” Just days, weeks, hope, and imagination.

Pen pals used media based on their allowance. Complete strangers connected by curiosity and neat handwriting. They knew each other’s thoughts before they knew each other’s faces. Age, accent, appearance all delayed by weeks. A reply arriving meant someone, somewhere, had thought about you long enough to sit down, write, fold, stamp, and post.

For lovers, the postman was the most important person in the world. Footsteps outside could raise heart rates. The sound of the gate opening was a notification alert. Letters were read slowly. Then reread. Then read again under better light. Some lines memorised. Some underlined.

A sign of love was a non cloud storage.Slipped inside fat books no one else would open.

Technology has changed. Communication has sped up.

But the feeling of waiting for someone who may or may not write back?

That remains perfectly undelivered.

Even Hindi cinema used letters in their songs to showcase waiting. One of my favourites

फूल तुम्हे भेजा है खत में