Goodbye, Privacy of Thoughts

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The other day, I was discussing the upcoming trip with my wife, and barely an hour later, my phone began showing advertisements from travel portals and a handful of airlines.
It’s no secret that our smartphones are actually very smart — always eavesdropping, quietly learning, and constantly listening.

But believe me, our generation is still fortunate. Our phones may listen to what we say, but our thoughts are our own — at least for now. The generations that follow may not be as lucky.

There are already laboratories working on technology that allows physical actions to be controlled by thoughts. It sounds miraculous — a breakthrough that can change lives, especially for those with limited mobility. Recently, on October 27, 2025, the world celebrated when the UK’s first Neuralink patient successfully controlled a computer with his thoughts. And rightfully so.

But behind that celebration lies a quiet unease.

We are beginning to open the door to our own minds. Once that door is open — once machines learn to read and interpret our neural signals — can we really be sure it will stay a one-way exchange?

What begins as medical innovation may soon find itself in the marketplace, where ethics have another meaning. From thought-controlled devices, it’s only a short step to thought-analyzed advertising, thought-monitored workspaces, and thought-influenced behaviour. The lines that separate what we do, what we say, and what we think are blurring faster than we realize.

Artificial intelligence and machine learning thrive on data — and there is no data more personal than our thoughts. The idea that our unspoken feelings, private reflections, or quiet fears could someday be interpreted, stored, or even predicted by a machine should make us pause.

We once feared that technology would read our messages.
Now, it may one day read our minds.

I’m not against progress. Every great leap forward carries both promise and peril. But somewhere in this pursuit of innovation, I hope we remember to preserve a corner of our personal self — a small, silent space where our thoughts remain untouched, where they can still breathe freely, without algorithms listening, measuring, or manipulating.

Because the day we lose that, we may gain convenience — but lose something far more precious:
the sanctity of our inner world.

Thank you for reading. If this reflection resonated with you, do share your thoughts below — while they’re still your own.

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Adapt or Fade: The Unchanging Law of Change

 

From My Earlier Post

We may resent it, deny it, or even band together to resist — but one fundamental truth remains: a more efficient solution will always phase out the lesser version. It’s not personal; it’s progress.
The key to survival is adaptation — the very essence of Darwin’s theory that has governed not just species, but civilizations and careers alike.

Those of us born before the 1980s have seen this play out repeatedly. We’ve lived through typewriters giving way to computers, film cameras replaced by digital ones, and design boards swapped for screens. Think about it - people with one skill set have been replaced by another.

I remember when AutoCAD first entered the profession. Many resisted it, fearing that draughtsmen would lose their livelihoods and artistry would vanish. Some even took pride in doing things “the traditional way.” But imagine if we had stopped there —.

Every great shift in history has faced resistance. When the wheel was invented, there must have been those whose jobs depended on dragging or carrying loads, warning that the wheel would destroy their craft. Yet, had we resisted then, where would we be today?

The world we inhabit today is changing faster than ever. Artificial intelligence, automation, and digital transformation are the new wheels and AutoCADs of our age. And the pattern remains unchanged: every innovation that threatens the old way of doing things also opens new doors for those willing to adapt, learn, and imagine differently.

Change is not the enemy. Resistance to change is.

Sir Ken Robinson once said that the secret to survival is creativity. The future doesn’t belong to the strongest or the most experienced — it belongs to the most adaptable. Those who can reimagine, reinvent, and rediscover themselves each time the world shifts a little more.

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The AI and Washing My Clothes

 

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Recently, our washing machine broke down — a minor domestic setback, but one that demanded immediate attention. So, I went to a large electronics store — the kind that sells everything from toasters to 90-inch TVs. It says something about our economy, but that’s not the point here.

The salesman appeared promptly — well-trained, eager — and began my guided tour through what I can only describe as the washing machine district. After a few minutes of polite nodding, I narrowed my choices down to two models — both of suitable capacity, both from brands I trusted.

One, however, was about 20% more expensive.

“That one has AI,” the salesman said, tapping the sticker as if revealing a divine truth.

Not being entirely naïve about AI, I was both suspicious and curious about this supposedly groundbreaking feature I’d somehow missed.

“What exactly does the AI do?” I asked.

He brightened. “Sir, it checks the weight of your clothes…” — I nodded — “then it analyzes how dirty they are, and decides how much detergent is needed.”

I paused. “Wait a minute. It checks how dirty the clothes are?”

He nodded earnestly. “Yes, sir. It has sensors.”

I couldn’t help picturing a boardroom of tiny robots inside the drum, holding a meeting:
“Gentlemen, we have a stubborn curry stain on the sleeve — increase detergent by 7%.”

AI and sensors have become the modern salesperson’s magic words — covering any gap between imagination and reality.

I asked to see the brochure. Unsurprisingly, there was no mention of this revolutionary dirt-detection technology. The salesman quickly added, “Not everything is written in the brochure, sir,” and suggested I check the online specifications.

I didn’t.

Instead, I chose the simpler model — the one without AI, without self-awareness, and without ambitions to optimize my laundry experience.

On the way home, I thought about how easily the word AI now slips into every sales pitch — as if intelligence, artificial or otherwise, can be sprinkled on anything to make it desirable.
Maybe the real test isn’t whether machines can think — but whether we still can, before we swipe our cards.

Thank you for taking a moment to read my reflection today. If this piece brought a smile or a thought worth keeping, I hope you’ll return for more.
Until next time — think gently, live simply, and keep your mind switched on. ✨

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“My Song” by Rabindranath Tagore — A Poetic Offering of Simplicity and Devotion

No, no, no — this isn’t another post about Tagore’s greatness or his influence on Bengali or South Asian life. There are books, lectures, and institutions for that.

This is something smaller, more personal.

It’s about a song my daughter learned when she was in middle school — My Song by Rabindranath Tagore.

Now, there’s nothing unusual about that in itself. Most Bengali girls her age learn a Rabindra Sangeet or two. But this one stood out for a simple reason — its language. It wasn’t Bengali. It was English. 

Listen to the song here:

And yet, it carried the same fragrance of tenderness and quiet devotion that all of Tagore’s songs seem to hold.

Today, I stumbled upon a recording of her practising that song — her young voice, a little unsure but full of feeling. It brought everything rushing back.

In My Song, Tagore doesn’t speak to the world; he speaks to the soul. He writes of art as something pure — free of ornament, pride, or decoration. He imagines his song as a bride who sheds her jewels, choosing simplicity over grandeur. That image stays with you — because it feels like a reflection of life itself.

The poem carries a quiet prayer too. Tagore asks for his life to be made simple, so that divine music can pass through him. Perhaps that’s true for all of us — if only we can make ourselves still and simple enough to let it flow.

For many, My Song isn’t just about poetry or music. It’s about surrender. It’s a reminder that beauty doesn’t need to be loud — and that what comes from the heart never fades.

The most widely sung version of Rabindranath Tagore’s poem “My Song” around the world is the English translation that begins: “This song of mine will wind its music around you, my child, like the fond arms of love.” This version has been adapted into choral music and performed internationally, both in classical and contemporary forms. Prominent modern renditions include Alan Bullard’s choral arrangement “My Song (This Song of Mine),” sung by choirs in festivals and concerts globally. Tagore’s own English translation and poetic text remain the basis for most musical adaptations, making it the version most recognized beyond India.

Thank you for stopping by and spending a few moments here. I hope this song finds its way into your day — softly, like a quiet prayer.
Do visit again — there’s always another story waiting to be told.

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Here is the most loved version of this poem —

“This song of mine will wind its music around you, my child, like the fond arms of love.
The song of mine will touch your forehead like a kiss of blessing.
When you are alone it will sit by your side and whisper in your ear,
When you are in a crowd it will fence you about with aloofness.
My song will be like a pair of wings to your dreams,
It will transport your heart to the verge of the unknown.
It will be like the faithful star overhead
when darkness is deep in your soul.
My song will sit in the pupils of your eyes,
and will carry your sight into the heart of things.
And when my voice is silenced in death,
my song will speak in your living heart.”

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The Woman by the Window

 

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Sometimes we wake up with a strange unease — a hollow feeling that something unpleasant is about to happen.
Some say the body senses trouble before the mind does.
Daniel’s left eye had been twitching since morning.
He wasn’t a superstitious man, but when life is in turmoil, even reason looks for omens.

On another day, he would’ve shrugged it off — determined to make a bad morning better as the day went on.
But not today.

All night, Daniel had simmered from a bitter argument with his ex-wife — the kind that replays long after the words end.
“There’s so much in common between evil and Eve,” he muttered when she’d shown up that morning — with her new partner.

His thoughts were sharp, restless. To escape them, he drove without direction, trying to reassure himself that “the world isn’t ending — there must still be kind, rational people out there.”

After an hour of aimless driving, he spotted a small café glowing with warm morning light. For a moment, he thought a cup of coffee might calm the storm inside him.

Inside, the air smelled of fresh bread and quiet — two things Daniel felt he no longer understood.
He told himself, “This will be a happy day. No matter what.”

He sat near the counter, ordered coffee, and noticed the room — a mix of college students on laptops, friends chatting softly before work.
All men, he realized.
Maybe that’s why it felt so peaceful.

And then, he saw her.
A woman sat by the window, reading a book, utterly at peace.
There was something infuriating about her calmness — as if life itself had placed her there to mock him, to remind him of all the grace he’d lost.

Before he could stop himself, he said aloud, his voice cutting through the café:
“Today,” he declared loudly, “is the first day of the rest of my life! Coffee and muffins for everyone — except that woman!”

The waiter blinked, unsure if he’d heard right.
But Daniel’s face left no room for questions.

Moments later, the café hummed with quiet delight. Trays of muffins appeared on tables — for everyone except her.

The woman looked up from her book. Their eyes met. And then, to his surprise — she smiled.
“Thank you,” she said gently.

Daniel felt irritation rise. He was expecting her to react the way his wife would have.
“Fine! Add pastries for everyone — except her!”

Again, the woman smiled. Again, she said, “Thank you.”

Confusion replaced anger. Maybe all women aren’t the same, he thought to himself.
He got up and approached the window, half-demanding, half-pleading,
“What’s wrong with you, lady? I keep excluding you, and you keep thanking me!”

The waiter, who had stepped closer anticipating trouble, leaned in and said softly, with a knowing smile,
“She’s not upset, sir. She owns this café.”

Daniel froze.
For a second, the air itself seemed to laugh. Then, a chuckle escaped him — the first in weeks.

“I do own the café,” she said softly. “But that’s beside the point. I’ve learned not to lose my inner peace just because someone else has lost theirs. My peace is my own.”

Sometimes life holds up a mirror in the strangest ways.
We strike out at others to soothe our own pain — and life gently shows us how foolish that is.

He looked at her once more and, for the first time, saw that she looked nothing like his ex-wife.
She was simply a woman by the window — and he, perhaps, was finally ready to heal.

Thank you for stopping by and reading my story. I hope it left you with a moment of reflection — do visit again for more such tales of life and perspective.

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🌿 Read Reflect Rejoice

Between No and Yes

 

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Our children have a particular advantage when it comes to turning a parent’s “no” into a “yes.”
They play with emotions — pleading eyes, gentle persistence, and the disarming charm of a smile.
It’s persuasion in its purest, most instinctive form.

But that equation doesn’t quite work in the real world.

The other day, while sitting at a street-side café, I watched young vendors weave through the crowd, their voices soft but assured. They moved with purpose — gestures measured, never too forceful, never too timid.

They seemed to understand, almost intuitively, that between a “no” and a “yes” lies a space — a space where persuasion lives. And they knew just how to move within it: how warmth could turn hesitation into agreement, and how pressing too hard could turn that same hesitation into refusal.

It made me think about how persuasion works far beyond sales. Whether in boardrooms, relationships, or everyday conversations, influence isn’t about pressure — it’s about presence. It’s about sensing the invisible boundary between interest and irritation, between trust and resistance.

Persuasion, at its best, is an art of balance — knowing when to speak, when to listen, and when to let silence do the work.

A “no” is rarely final. More often, it’s a pause — a sign that the listener has reservations, needs more clarity, or simply seeks to protect their sense of control. Persuasion lives in this space between certainty and hesitation. It isn’t manipulation — it’s understanding, the patient art of aligning perspectives rather than overpowering them.

Recognizing when persuasion will work — and when it won’t — is a quiet mark of wisdom. A hesitant “maybe,” a thoughtful silence, or a request for more information are signs that dialogue is alive. But when the “no” is firm, repeated, or emotionally charged, persistence can only close the door further. In such moments, respect becomes the highest form of persuasion.

Ultimately, persuasion is less about changing minds than about creating connections. Between “no” and “yes” lies not a battlefield but a bridge.

And perhaps that’s what both the young vendor on the street and the child at home already understand:
that persuasion’s secret lies not in the push, but in the pause —
in knowing when to stop, smile, and simply wait.

Thank you for taking the time to read.
If this reflection resonated with you, I invite you to return for more whenever you can create an opportunity..
Until then, stay curious — and may every “no” in your life lead you a little closer to understanding.

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💬 Read Reflect Rejoice