A Rather Strange Walk

A Rather Strange Walk

Sometimes words have more than one personality. Look closely, and they may surprise you.

I walked the forest, green and grand,
The most jovial soul in the land.

Singing my tender, brand-new song,

Smiling in my favourite beer hat. 

I searched for weeds beneath the trees,

Gathering herbs with greater ease, 

For nothing gives me more delight

Than an afternoon cup of herb tea.

I am brave enough to face them all,

Though I must admit, I fear the call

Of someone lurking among the trees—

Something rather grisly: the bear.

I mailed and paused beneath those trees,

And felt the freshness of the breeze.

"To stay alive and be happy,

I need to fill my lungs and ... breathe"

This post is in response to prompt  Friday Writings #246-light-hearted-words

How Far Do You Think Electric Aviation Is?

Today, it is not difficult for me to imagine a world where a tiresome ten-hour road trip is replaced by a thirty-minute flight. No long drive to the airport, no long airport queues, no expensive jet-fuel surcharge, no deafening engine noise—just a quick, affordable journey from one regional airport to another.

Until recently, that still sounded like something from the future.

A few days ago, I watched a documentary about Heart Aerospace and its X1 electric aircraft. The aircraft has a wingspan of 106 feet, and seeing something that large lift off using electric propulsion made the idea suddenly feel much more real. The electric aviation revolution may not have arrived yet, but it is clearly no longer science fiction.

So what might this actually mean for the way we travel?

Electric Aviation Is Finally Taking Off

The attraction is fairly obvious. Electric motors are mechanically much simpler than conventional aircraft engines, and the cost of the energy required to operate them can be dramatically lower. When Heart flew its X1 demonstrator entirely on battery power in August 2026, the electricity used for the 27-minute flight reportedly cost only around five dollars.

The real problem, however, is not the motor. It is the battery.

Jet fuel contains an enormous amount of energy for its weight. Batteries contain far less, which means an electric aircraft has to carry a much heavier energy source for the same journey. And unlike fuel, which an aircraft progressively burns and leaves behind, the battery remains on board from takeoff to landing.

That single difference explains much of the current limitation of electric aviation. We are unlikely to see battery-powered aircraft replacing long-haul jets anytime soon. The first meaningful market is much more likely to be short regional journeys.

This is where things become interesting.

Heart's ES-30 is being designed as a 30-seat regional aircraft. It is intended to fly approximately 125 miles on battery power alone and up to 500 miles using its hybrid system. In other words, it uses electric power where it makes the most sense and another source of energy when the distance becomes too great.

This is where the current hybrid solution makes sense—the battery can handle take-off, landing and shorter journeys, while sustainable aviation fuel provides the additional range when the journey gets longer. Heart's earlier description of the ES-30's reserve-hybrid system specifically identifies sustainable aviation fuel as the fuel for its turbo-generators.

Electric Aviation Could Transform Regional Airports

If these aircraft become commercially viable, the implications could extend beyond cheaper flights.

Imagine being able to travel between cities without first driving for an hour to a major international airport, parking, checking in, going through security and then waiting for a flight. Smaller regional airports could become more like transport hubs, connecting places that today are considered too close to fly between and too far to drive conveniently.

An aircraft designed to operate from shorter runways changes the equation even further. It does not need to compete for space at the giant airports that handle hundreds of flights a day. It could operate from smaller facilities closer to the communities it serves. Heart Aerospace has specifically developed the ES-30 around shorter-runway operations, opening up more possibilities for regional air travel.

That starts to make the idea of a "flying bus" more rational than the even more ambitious possibility: flying taxis.

We may see an "Uber Fly" sooner than we think.

The technology behind many of these aircraft is based on Distributed Electric Propulsion, where multiple smaller electric motors and propellers are distributed across the aircraft rather than relying on one large engine or rotor. The arrangement offers engineers new possibilities in aircraft design, noise reduction and redundancy.

This is also where the progress we have seen in drones becomes relevant.

I am not talking about the military drones designed to carry weapons. I mean the sophisticated, unmanned aircraft that can navigate, stabilise themselves and perform increasingly complex tasks with very little direct human intervention. They have demonstrated something important: much of what we once thought required constant human control can now be managed by software.

Who Will Fly the Electric Aircraft?

The obvious question is where this eventually takes us and who will actually fly these aircraft?

A person sitting in the cockpit? A pilot supervising from the ground? Or, eventually, an AI system that manages the flight while a human remains responsible for overseeing it?

Heart currently describes the ES-30 as being designed for single-pilot operations from entry into service, with autonomous flight introduced over time.

The transition will not happen overnight simply because the technology exists. Aviation, as we know, is conservative and governed through regulation and certification. Public confidence will probably move much more slowly than the technology itself.

But the direction is becoming difficult to ignore.

The aircraft are becoming more electric. The control systems are becoming more autonomous. The batteries are improving. The motors are becoming smaller, lighter and more efficient.

None of this means that the conventional jet is about to disappear. It simply means that there may be an entirely new layer of aviation developing underneath it.

And that is what I find most fascinating.

Electric aircraft may eventually make some distances feel almost trivial. A ten-hour drive reduced to thirty minutes is not merely a faster journey. It changes our perception of how far away a place really is.

The skies may indeed become busier. But if the engineers get this right, they may also become considerably quieter.

Manifestation

For anyone visiting India, whether as a foreign tourist, a traveller from another part of the country or even a local, there is one place that is difficult to avoid—the temple.

Some go to admire the architectural work and skills of the people who built them centuries ago, others to appreciate the remarkable abilities of our ancestors, while some are drawn by religious faith. For others, it may simply be another place to visit and tick off the list.

For me, it is a little bit of all of these.

The last time I visited one such temple in southern India, I had a rather strange realisation.

But before I get to that, let me bring up something else that has become remarkably popular around the world today, particularly among coaches, motivational speakers and self-help gurus.

Manifestation

The basic idea is quite simple: what we repeatedly think about, believe in and consciously work towards can influence what eventually becomes our reality. The concept has found a huge following, with people being encouraged to define what they want, visualise it, believe that it is possible and keep their focus on the desired outcome.

Whether we call it the power of intention, positive thinking or manifestation, there is something compelling about the idea that our thoughts and beliefs can shape the way we live and, in turn, the reality we create.

And that brings me back to the temple.

Sitting there that day, watching people pray, make offerings and being part of this culture myself, I became aware that many devotees are there to ask the Lord for something they deeply want.

I could also see some coming back with their promised offerings, perhaps because their wishes had been realised and they now wanted the Lord to accept them.

No wonder some of these temples have accumulated such enormous wealth from devotees who considered their wishes to have been blessed.

And suddenly I wondered whether we had been practising something remarkably similar for centuries to what the world is catching up with now.

Could our prayers, faith and rituals be another form of manifestation?

Could it be that we got what we asked for simply because we believed we would?

Family And The Godfather

This post responds to a prompt Friday Friday Writings #245: Family

One of the greatest movies of our time is The Godfather, frequently referred to when masters discuss cinematography and direction. For us it is the story, characters, performances and sheer brilliance of the filmmaking.

I wonder if there is another way of looking at The Godfather—through the lens of family life.

The obvious reaction will be: but it is about guns, crime and violence. Can we put those aside and look at the family itself?

The Corleones are remarkably close. They celebrate together, protect one another, respect their elders and have a powerful sense of belonging.

But there is a catch.

Family first—but at what cost?

The strength of the Corleone family comes largely from loyalty. When one member is threatened, the others rally around. Nobody is expected to face a crisis alone.

Every family needs the confidence that someone will stand beside us when things go wrong.

The burden of protection

Michael Corleone's journey shows how one person becomes the protector—the parent carrying the financial burden, the elder sibling looking after everyone, a person the family depends entirely on them.

Responsibility is admirable, but a family is healthier when it is shared.

When loyalty becomes silence

Their world also operates on secrecy and silence. Certain things are not discussed, questioned, and loyalty demands obedience.

Our families are worlds apart from theirs, but during difficult times, some decisions may need to be taken unilaterally, and everyone's views may not be useful.

But silence does not always protect a family. Honest disagreement does.

Love without control

The Corleones genuinely care about one another, which makes the story more interesting. Their bonds are not entirely artificial. There is affection, pride, tradition and belonging.

Yet those same bonds become controlling. Love should give us roots, not chains. A healthy family is one where everyone feels safe enough to be different.

So, what can we learn?

The Godfather gives us an interesting mirror. It shows the immense strength that can come from loyalty, belonging, responsibility and mutual protection. It also shows what happens when those virtues lose their moral boundaries.

Family matters deeply—but so does doing what is right.

The Corleones understood the first part exceptionally well, but they forgot the second.

The Fairy Tale Continues

Written in response to Friday Writings #244: If the Glass Slipper Fits

The Fairy Tale Continues

Our dream world is made of faith, of trust,
Of Beauty and her forever love,
With glimmers rising from the pixie dust,
And happiness being blessed from above.

We wonder if forever happiness lasts,
Cinderella’s slipper continues to fit?
or they must compromise and adjust,
To Goldilocks’ middle as their life knit?

Collect every moment with love and trust,
because they are your ‘forever’ someday;
Have good and fair and what is unjust,
Accept everything that life brings our way.

Stay enchanted and let the years unfold;
For ‘forever’ is created through what we hold.

A Ledger, a Father, a Child

Responding to Friday Writings #243: By the Numbers









We waited for one baby step,
one tooth, one word, and one birthday.
One became two, and two became four,
and soon came the first day of school.

We counted grades, scores, and years,
and counted our failure in each crush.
Then came paychecks, houses, and more,
and we kept counting what came next.

Now it is time to count eighty candles,
having mastered the art of counting.
We counted everything around us,
except the moments we were living.

Now I look back at the ledger,
wondering what I could not count—
the days we missed laughing together,
the hours we could have loved more.

The Power of Perspective: How We See the World Shapes Our Reality

Writing in response to the prompt Friday Writings #242: Perspective

Last Sunday wasn't exactly my day.

My team lost the match. I missed my train. And to make matters worse, I missed a get-together with an old friend I had lost touch with and was really looking forward to meeting.

On my way back, sitting in the train, I noticed the person sitting next to me. He was cheerful, smiling and thoroughly enjoying himself.

We were sitting in the same train, travelling through the same city, on the same Sunday. Yet, somehow, we were experiencing two completely different worlds.

And that got me thinking about perspective.

We like to think we are seeing the world as it is. But are we seeing the world around us—or our interpretation of it?

Two people can stand side by side at exactly the same moment and inhabit completely different universes. One sees an ending; the other sees a beginning. One sees chaos; the other sees possibility.

The same rain can ruin one person's day and make another feel romantic. The same empty road can feel lonely to one person and liberating to another. The same setback can make one person give up while another sees an opportunity to start again.

Two people live through the same day. One finds boredom; the other finds beauty. Same city, same job, same circumstances—and yet, completely different meanings.

Because meaning doesn't simply arrive. We make it. We build it. We breathe it into existence.

Nothing is entirely fixed. Every event is, in some way, a mirror, reflecting the observer as much as the thing being observed.

Perspective does more than colour reality.

In its quiet, relentless way, it creates the reality we experience.

Living the Change

Posted in response to Friday Writings #241: Change

Epigraph

Perhaps the deeper part of living an authentic life is accepting its inherent brokenness. We are constantly told that, given enough time, all pain will heal, and that we should emerge from suffering stronger and better than before. But some pains do not heal—and they do not have to. Grief, betrayal, shame and profound loss may remain permanently etched within us. Acceptance is not resignation; it is learning to live with what cannot be changed, and finding the courage to build a life around it rather than against it. Perhaps that is what it means to thrive: not returning to who we once were, but becoming fully, unmistakably our own.

Living the Change

Some pains may never heal, and that's alright;
losses that leave a silence, we must let them stay.
Grief, shame, the sting of betrayal from the past
may make a home just below the surface.

We love to believe that time will erase each scar,
that healing will return us to who we once were;
every wound must somehow make us stronger,
suffering must teach us how to live better.

We need not aim to erase what once broke,
nor make every wound a source of strength;
for acceptance of scars and grief is not giving up—
it is learning to live with what cannot change.

Keep the Window Open

 

Keep the Window Open

Despair may sneak in with a setback or bad news,
but delight always finds its way in through the smallest openings.
All that is required is acceptance.

Despair does not always knock.

Sometimes it slips in quietly,
holding hands with a setback,
and takes over my world.

It tells me to close the curtains,
to count what is missing in life,
under the pretence that it is wisdom.

But I keep the window open.

For delight to find its way in—
with the scent of fresh bread,
on a raindrop kissing thirsty earth.

In a child's carefree laughter,
or in an old photograph,
bringing back fond memories.

Delight does not ask.

If the sadness has left,
it finds the smallest opening
and slips through.

Despair may be all-dominating,
but delight is soft and sweet,
asking me to give it a chance

by keeping my window open.

A Bottle of Happiness

 writing in response to Friday Writings #239: Down to the Bone

Epigraph

When joy fills our hearts, we long to share it with others. Yet happiness, too, should unite people, not become a cause of division.

Sometimes I feel happy,
So happy that I want to share it
With someone unknown,
Someone very far away,
On the other side of the sea.

I wish I could gather that feeling,
Place it inside a bottle,
Seal it carefully,
Whisper a message of hope,
Before casting it into the sea.

Perhaps one day
It will wash upon a distant shore,
Into the hands of a stranger—
A princess or a pauper—
Who needs it more than I do.

They may uncork it with a smile,
Listen to my whisper,
Or simply feel an unexpected warmth,
And, for no reason they can name,
Be happier than I felt.


Then I wonder...
A strange thought, isn't it?
The happiness we long to share
May become the very thing
People quarrel over-
A bone of contention.

A Breakfast I Couldn't Resist

 

There are some temptations that are simply too delicious to ignore.

As I waited for my flight out of Kolkata, I spotted one of my favourite breakfast combinations on the menu— puri, bhaji and chana. Deep-fried? Absolutely. Spicy? Just the way I like it. Healthy? Let's not go there.

Needless to say, I ordered it without a second thought.

Fortunately, I remembered to take a picture before it disappeared from the plate.

Friday Metro Moments

 

Two quiet moments from last Friday—one inside the train and another at Dr. Sulaiman Habib Metro Station. Sometimes the journey itself is worth remembering.

Our Parallel World

 

Almost a decade ago, I wrote about the internet as a place where ordinary people could build a livelihood. I listed blogs, online teaching, stock photography, YouTube, e-commerce, and a handful of other possibilities.

Looking back, I realise I underestimated not the opportunity but the scale.

The internet turned out to be far bigger than I had imagined. It has quietly become a parallel world—one with its own economy, professions, marketplaces, classrooms, entertainment, friendships, and communities.

In its earliest days, the internet was little more than a vast library. We searched for information, exchanged emails, and occasionally participated in forums. It connected people, but very few imagined it as a place to build an entire career.

Then it became the world's largest marketplace, quietly transforming how goods and services were bought and sold.

Soon after came the age of creators. Almost before we realised it, the internet had evolved into a provider of knowledge, news, opinions, and entertainment.

Teachers began reaching students across continents. Professionals offered consultancy services without ever meeting their clients. YouTubers, podcasters, streamers, and influencers turned what were once hobbies into full-time professions.

For the first time in history, a young person could choose where to build a career. One path lay in the physical world—offices, factories, hospitals, construction sites. The other lay in the digital world—websites, platforms, and online communities.

Both were equally real. Both demanded discipline, effort, and consistency. But there was one important difference. The physical world changes gradually, while the internet rarely stands still. 

And now we stand at another turning point.

Artificial Intelligence has arrived as another general-purpose technology, much like electricity, the internet, or the smartphone. It is steadily becoming part of everyday life. Whether we welcome it or resist it is almost irrelevant. It is here to stay.

There was a time when one had to practise and persevere to acquire specialised skills. Today, with the help of AI, almost anyone can generate software code, edit images at near-expert levels, and prepare reports, presentations, translations, marketing copy, illustrations, music—even videos.

Yesterday's competitive advantage becomes tomorrow's minimum expectation.

Hasn't that always been the story of progress? So where should the next generation look? 

I don't think the answer lies in chasing the latest tool or the newest platform. It lies in asking a better question:

What problem needs solving?

Because the harder challenge is often not solving a problem—it is recognising that the problem exists in the first place.

Technology will keep changing.

But human needs remain remarkably consistent. We want to save time, reduce costs, improve our health, educate our children, feel safer, make better decisions, enjoy ourselves, and connect with others.

And sometimes, the most interesting opportunities appear not because technology has changed—but because the problem itself has changed.

That is why I believe we should spend less time asking, "What skill should I learn?" and more time asking, "What new problems are emerging?"

Look around. There are plenty of disruptions already shaping tomorrow's challenges.

Electric vehicles are creating entirely new ecosystems. Solar power is changing how homes and businesses consume energy. Quick commerce has reshaped our expectations of convenience. Longer life expectancy is creating needs that barely existed a generation ago—not just in healthcare, but in accessibility, companionship, and independent living.

Some of tomorrow's professions haven't even been imagined yet. Every new solution quietly creates new problems. And those problems are tomorrow's opportunities.

Some will be large enough to build companies around. Others will be small niches—but still meaningful enough to sustain a livelihood.

Don't fall in love with the tool. Fall in love with the problem.

Regardless of whether you choose to build your future in the physical world or in this parallel world, embrace AI rather than fear it. Over time, it will no longer feel like a separate technology. Like the internet itself, it will simply become part of the environment in which we work, create, and live.

The people who continue to thrive will not be those who chase every new tool, but those who keep noticing what the world needs next—and have the curiosity to act on it.

Because in the end, the tools will keep changing.

The people who notice tomorrow's problems will always have work to do.

The Soul Wears the Body: Part 2 - The Witness

Image credit: Robert Clark@pexels

In the previous part, I explored a simple but unsettling idea — that perhaps the body is merely something the soul wears, much like a garment eventually set aside. That thought, while abstract, leaves behind a more immediate and pressing question.

If the body is just the vessel, what determines how that vessel is formed in the first place?

Biology offers a compelling answer. Our structure comes from instructions passed down and reshaped over generations. It explains how life is built, and how it adapts.

And yet, something about this explanation feels incomplete.

It is rational, even elegant. But when it comes to explaining why two individuals — siblings, or even twins — can be so similar in form and yet so distinct in their experience of life, the explanation often rests on probability, on variation, on what we loosely call chance.

Is chance enough to explain the feeling of being me?

Because beyond structure and variation lies something far more immediate — the undeniable sense of self. Two people may share nearly identical biological blueprints and still encounter the world in entirely different ways. One may carry restlessness, another calm. One may feel deeply connected, another curiously detached. These are not differences in structure; they are differences in experience.

So where do we place that experience? Where do we locate the Atman — the self, the observer, the one who is aware?

Biology explains the instrument. Psychology goes a step further, showing how memory, conditioning, and environment shape what we call the ego — the narrative of "I am this."

But even that narrative is not stable. It shifts with time, with circumstance, with perspective. And yet, beneath it, there appears to be a quiet awareness that existed and observed the coding of "my" DNA, and continued to observe the changes in me without itself being altered.

Is that what we refer to as the soul?

Perhaps it is not something that constructs, but something that witnesses — not always in a passive way, but maybe monitors to some extent. Not the architect of the structure, but the presence within which the structure thrives. This does not contradict science — it simply lies outside its scope.

If that is true, then the idea from Part 1 takes on a different weight. The body does not just wear out with time — it may never have been the central story to begin with.

And that leaves us with an uncomfortable possibility.

What if everything we spend our lives trying to define — our identity, our differences, our sense of "me" — belongs only to the surface? For the moment? For this body only?

What if the deeper truth is in what quietly remains the same? What is capable of traveling out and witnessing another "me"?

And if that is so, then the real question is not:

What am I made of?

But —

What am I made for?

The Soul Wears the Body: Part 1 - The Garment

I watched a child playing in the park yesterday. Laughter spilling into the crisp morning air.

And I couldn't help but notice the fragile impermanence of it all.

The body is vibrant. Full of energy. Yet in the grand sweep of time, it is passing. It grows, ages, and eventually returns to the earth.

But what of the soul?

What is it that animates this temporary vessel — this soul that wears the body like a garment?

Throughout history, thinkers and sages have circled the same question. The body is transient; the soul, they say, is eternal. Just as we discard old clothes that no longer fit, the soul moves on when the body has fulfilled its role. Birth, growth, aging, death — these are the cycles we witness every day. And yet the soul remains untouched. Timeless. Beyond the confines of space and time.

Different traditions offer different words for this same truth. In Hindu philosophy, the soul — Atman — continues its journey across lifetimes, seeking liberation. In Western and Christian thought, the soul is eternal, a spark of the divine that transcends physical form. Whatever the lens, one idea persists: our bodies are vessels. Temporary homes for something far greater.

If you allow yourself the liberty of independent thinking, you may arrive at your own definition. Perhaps the soul is something closer to a set of particles — small enough to be invisible, vast enough to carry all our genetic memory, and enduring enough to keep moving through eternity.

But this reflection is not just philosophy. It is a gentle reminder for everyday life.

If the body is transient, how might we live differently? If the soul is eternal, how does it shape the way we experience joy, grief, and love? How does this awareness change the way we treat ourselves, others, and the world around us?

Perhaps the most profound lesson is simple: the body is temporary, but our essence is not.

And yet — how often do we live as though the opposite were true?

If our bodies are but garments, how might we live differently knowing the soul is eternal? And what does liberation truly mean?

In Part 2, we will explore the journey of the soul — the cycles it traverses, and the reflections it offers for our everyday lives.

Thank you for visiting my blog. If this reflection found something in you, stay with me — Part 2 is coming soon.

Eden Gardens

Written in response to the prompt Friday Writings #236: Of Gardening and Living and Such…

Eden Gardens

Gardening, they say, began in Eden.
Is that what made me part of you? she asked.
Not the garden—temptation shaped our world.
A single fruit altered perfection.
Rational yields to temptation too soon.
Act for yourself. Apples bear no thorns.

“Gardening is not a rational act.”

— Margaret Atwood

Maya: The Illusion of Ownership

Do you ever find yourself treating a public parking spot as if it were your own — oddly satisfied when it's free, visibly upset when it's taken?

Last weekend, going up the escalator at the metro station closest to my current home, I caught myself thinking: I have some sort of ownership of this place. Not belonging, exactly — something just short of it. A milder version of the instinct a child has after grabbing a toy in a supermarket.

I sat with that feeling on the train. It isn't ownership in any real sense. It's quieter than that, almost instinctive. Perhaps it comes from familiarity — the repetition of passing through the same space, the rhythm of journeys starting and ending there.

Like me, many people save it on the map as "home metro station." Somewhere along the way, usage begins to blur into ownership.

I've felt it elsewhere too. A favorite parking spot that brings a small happiness when it's free — and a surprising sense of loss when it isn't. A bench in the park. A corner in the coffee shop. A seat at the family dining table.

And it doesn't stop at places.

The feeling extends to people too — classmates, friends, cousins, teachers, anyone we like. A subtle, unspoken sense of mine. Not always possessive, not always conscious. But present. We feel a small sting when a close friend doesn't take our side in an argument, doesn't join a stroll, doesn't respond the way we'd hoped.

In its mildest form, this is harmless. A little attachment adds texture to everyday life — it gives us a sense of belonging.

But there is a line.

When that quiet sense of ownership hardens into possessiveness, when expectation curdles into entitlement, something shifts. A lost parking spot, a friend's small disappointment — and suddenly the reaction is out of proportion to the cause.

Eastern philosophy has a word for this: maya. In Hindu thought, it names the illusion that the world we perceive — and possess — is fixed and separate from us, when really nothing is truly ours. Everything passes through us as much as we pass through it. We are creatures who need to belong, even while nothing we cling to is permanently ours.

Complete detachment isn't how most of us live. It probably isn't how most of us can live.

So the goal, perhaps, isn't to eliminate attachment, but to notice the moment it begins to take hold.

That noticing might be enough.

No Shield Will Shield Forever

Responding to Friday Writings #234: Words for Images

This is inspired by my post from 2015: Peace - belief, pretence, gimmicks, et. al.

No Shield Will Shield Forever

One had to be strong.
More powerful than the rest.
A proud king... perhaps a fearless chief...

to command such an exquisite shield.
It may have shielded him many times.
Yet no shield will shield forever.

Even the finest shield is left behind.