Fueling Thoughts

  “Hello—No Problem!!” bellowed the grimy dreadlocked Sadhu Baba for the umpteenth time that evening. His fixation was Derick, an egg-headed bull of a man in his sixties from Australia, who could easily have made a film career playing a Nazi or a skinhead. He was also the owner of the worst Royal Enfield imaginable—glitter and chrome but breaking down at every corner. We were sitting across in a former parachute-turned-tent at Sarchu, shared with a few dozen others—tourists, truckers, the owner’s family, and the Baba himself. Totally sozzled after helping the truckers with their booze and then stoned from countless chillums, he would first yell “Hello,” wave at Derick, and, once he had his attention, give a thumbs-up and roar again: “No Problem!!” The “Techno Baba,” by contrast, was a self-styled sadhu—a young Bihari from Pasighat—living off an attractive but perpetually stoned Israeli blonde in an old Manali guesthouse where I stayed. With long shampooed hair, clad in a saffron...

     “Are you a devotee of Lord Krishna?” I was taken aback by the unexpected question and didn’t know how to respond immediately. I looked at the inquirer, my co-passenger in the Rajdhani coupe, and tried to assess if he was one of those self-righteous types who will extol the virtues of vegetarianism all the way to Delhi. “I asked because you are wearing a Tulsi mala,” he clarified. “Tulsi is sacred to us Vaishnavas; it is a holy plant. I also have one, but I feel shy to wear it. Do you use it for chanting?” “Well actually… I wear them for health reasons. I suffer from respiratory trouble, and someone recommended Tulsi. These beads are a gift from a friend,” I replied not untruthfully, leaving out the details about how they came from Nimtala Ghat crematorium — one of Calcutta’s more morbid corners — where we once went to smoke for Shiva, talk of life, and stare at death. Besides, which born-again hippie can be without a string of beads? We made a cont...

Deep Purple’s “When a Blind Man Cries”  is arguably one of the saddest rock ballads ever penned and sung. But honestly, I was never a great fan of Purple and only started paying serious attention to the song after hearing a cover version by the German never-grew-old rockers  Axel Rudi Pell.  They did justice to the song in a way Ian Gillan and the rest of Purple could never dream—  powerful, yet  plaintive  heavy metal vocals, with canyon-deep guitar riffs emerging from the core of the heart only to rip it apart, while tears stream down from empty eyes.  Listening to this song invariably reminds me of a college senior and good friend, “Raja,” an ethnic Nepali who lived in a small room behind a pharmacy owned by his uncle, not far from my home. Short, stocky, thuggish but effulgent, we shared a love for books and rock music—though he leaned more towards metal. I started appreciating  Iron Maiden  thanks to him, while he tripped on Floyd's...

     Meat Loaf's iconic Bat Out of Hell Album cover. If I had anything to brag about in my youth, it was that I was the first guy in town to own the entire Pink Floyd collection. A remarkable achievement, considering most of their albums weren’t even released in India at the time, and my parents barely gave me any pocket money—definitely not enough to buy a cassette tape. So I call them gifts from the Gods of Psychedelic Rock. Two others in town made the same claim. One was blatantly lying—he had a few and just knew the rest of the album names. He later died of an overdose. The other copied my collection and then claimed, to all, he was the first. He became a rock band vocalist, who organized a Pink Floyd tribute concert "The Wall" in the city - pocketed all the proceeds, not paying other artists and contractors, and fled to Mumbai, where he is now some kind of music director. Anyway, I soon dropped the boast—not a single girl was impressed, and most had no clue who the...

Ushanka-The Iconic Russian Hat a.k.a. The Russi Topi Out of the blue, I was contacted by a Russian chap I had once met at a conference. No prior message, no email—just a straight video call from his car. No apology, no excuses, or preamble. He claimed it was common practice for them, and immediately looped in a colleague. Since nothing about Russia—or Russians—surprises me any more, especially when it comes to their business culture, or the apparent lack of it, I didn’t react. From unscheduled calls to blunt emails and bullying tactics used during meetings, it's all part of doing " Bizness wiz Mazeer Russha. " It was evening, I was free, so I let it slide. He had called for the unlikeliest reason— not one I could have ever guessed—they wanted to discuss the scope of sourcing construction workers from India. They first grumbled about how hard it was to get labour import quotas, pitched it as a “great opportunity” for me, even gave me a peep of Lubyanka —former KGB, now FSB...

In my class section in high school, there was a group of boys who weren’t particularly good at anything - not academics, sports, music, looks, not even cracking a decent joke or spinning a convincing yarn.    Yet, they were united by one habit:  Booing anyone and everyone who, in their view, dared to step out of line. Many of them were Boy Scouts as well, though not everyone. Told early on that they are a chip above the rest, with badges to proved it, they had an innate belief that they could lecture anyone. Same with delivering condescending comments to outright insults all in the name of greater good, and playing the victims when the tables turned. A trait many carried into adulthood, and by all evidence it still hasn't eroded for some now in their 50s.   Though the two of the worst offenders were not scouts, they just played the role of being too cool to be a part of anything except Booing Cheerleaders. With my outspokenness, sometimes unusual and often outlandish...

    " La noche oscura del alma " is a poem by the Spanish mystic St. John of the Cross, which translates into English as "Dark Night of the Soul." A period of immense crisis of faith, one of unanswerable questions posed to the self and the world, and mental turmoil. It's characterized by a deep sense of meaninglessness, apathy, isolation, and despair. A transformative experience that may lead to spiritual awakening, a deeper understanding of oneself and the world, a renewed sense of purpose — or a fall into the abyss of depression, apathy or worse. It’s not taught in management schools, by accelerators or mentors. If the Valley of Death is an obstacle to gaining market traction, the Dark Night of the Soul is the deeper, more personal crisis — one faced by founders who are inventors, builders, and problem-solvers. Those who pour their life and soul into their solutions. I am yet to meet a single deep-tech or appropriate-tech innovator who was motiv...

    Ever wondered why are some Western European nations so predictably loud in their support of Israel? It's not what you think. It's not about some collective guilt — that ship sailed generations ago, if ever. The truth is simpler and uglier: they just don’t want the Jews back. All it costs them is a few hours of prime-time posturing, sobbing crocodile tears under perfect lighting and lacquered hairdos, and maybe a few billion in aid and arms packages. Cheap price, really. With the US, it's messier. Since the 70s, the pro-Zionist lobby, later rebranded as the Neocons, completely hijacked their foreign policy. But let’s be honest — American policymakers weren’t innocent babes in the woods, either. They needed a local thug to intimidate the neighbourhood to secure their oil interests. Enter Israel: arrogant, eager, armed to the teeth, and drunk on its own supremacist delusions by booting out unarmed Arabs and Palestinians from their ancestral land. They control...

The game is always rigged. My father’s disdain for the arts far exceeded his indifference toward my dyslexia, forcing me, a numerically challenged person, to study commerce. A subject I quickly developed an equal disdain for. What college didn’t teach me, despite being about trade and commerce, was that the game is rigged and the dice is always loaded. My first proper job selling cars in Kolkata seemed like a dream for an idealistic auto lover, till it quickly fell apart. I learned that most of the gruff, uncouth buyers who booked ₹6 lakh cars (in the 90s) did so only to sell the allocations at a premium. Concurrently, seeing how a nonchalant young plain-Jane at the bus stand, hopped into a van full of sleazy guys after a brief chat, catapulted my moral and sexual innocence to oblivion.  We learned that our rival dealer outsold us five to one. He was a well-heeled Marwari businessman who was related to, or knew all the who's who in town, and even the car manufacturer...

A friend took his teenage son to the GNR concert in Mumbai. His neighbour asked him if he managed to get free tickets. I’ve never been much of a concert-goer—even in my younger days, the thought of thousands of crazed, doped, smelly minions crammed into a stadium still makes me gag. But I get asked a similar question whenever I’m invited to speak at an overseas conference: “So, you managed to bag yourself a free foreign trip, heh heh,” —always with a tinge of envy. When I tell them it’s an online event, or that I’m paying my own way, their expressions relax into a strange mix of relief and mockery. A few days ago, my morning began with me telling a wheeler-dealer friend to buzz off. He wanted intel on a niche tech—something I only have peripheral knowledge of—and was trying to coax me into researching and sourcing it. As usual, he was pitching the “huge opportunity” angle. I told him straight: no pay, no work. And reminded him why I gave up consulting in the first place— freeloade...