Santhosh's ramblings

We are living through an interesting season as a nation. Many in the older generation - people roughly my age - struggle to understand the behaviour of the young. Having grown up in a patriarchal, male-dominated, hierarchical culture, we find it difficult when young people break away from the patterns we expect. Especially girls breaking away. Rather than admit our part in shaping this reality, which would feel like a failure, we look for scapegoats - political forces, neighbours, or anyone else.  Yet with 65% of the population under 35, we also recognise the need to speak their language, so we try hard to learn the words and expressions they use. It feels like a kind of FOMO - whether genuine or politically motivated is hard to say . On the other hand, the younger generation is clearly declaring, “Your generation has not left us anything to aspire to.” It may not be fully true, but looking around at the context, that is how they feel. They are a generation saying, “We will deliver...

Recently, at a nearby mall, I saw a scene that encouraged me. For a moment, I wondered whether a quiet transformation was around the corner.  Children and young families were picking up piles of books at a book sale. Some children skipped from shelf to shelf with their hands full, while parents hurried after them, trying to keep up. The sale was lively and tempting, but I somehow managed to restrain myself and stay away.  Was this a revival of reading habits, or just a one-off event? And none of them had screens in their hands!  A few days later, while speaking with some young families about education, I noticed another emerging urban trend: parents moving children away from regular schools and toward homeschooling. Many seemed to be looking for alternatives to an education system they increasingly see as “NEETified,”* leak-prone - or “leakified” (Leaked examinations – a common occurrence in our nation) -  and narrowly career-driven.   Those conversations a...

With all the events happening around us, I was reminded of something that happened to us a couple of years ago.  Disclaimer - "This story is not fictional. If any character or event accidentally resembles something or someone you know, please assume it’s because the universe has a sense of humour, not because I do. Any likeness to real people - living, legendary, or loudly opinionated - is purely coincidental and definitely intentional."   It was while we were in Delhi that the mystery began. Every night, strange sounds would come from the kitchen. Wires were being chewed up, little clues were being left behind, and there was clear evidence of what appeared to be a rather large rat moving about with far too much confidence. We lived on the third floor, so the first question was obvious: how had such a large rat reached us? Had it climbed the stairs? Or were Delhi rats, as part of their urban development, now trained in climbing up the walls?   One night, around midnight, ...

For years, I’ve proudly carried a set of principles to prevent compassion fatigue. They sounded noble, looked impressive for me, and made me feel like a seasoned elder in healthcare.   First, I practiced slow noticing. In reality, this  often meant noticing things only after they were pointed out by someone else. My version of slow noticing was sometimes so slow that the moment had already passed, the person had already left, and the opportunity for compassion had died of geriatric problems. Second, I believed in sensible boundaries. This sounded very mature until I realised my boundaries were mostly designed to protect my schedule, my efficiency, and my ability to walk briskly through corridors without being interrupted by humans. Third, I practised micro‑restoration. This was the one principle I genuinely excelled at - but mostly because it involved coffee, trees, and occasionally pretending I didn’t hear my phone ringing. I had convinced myself that these principles made me...

I bought a new car not long ago. By “not long ago,” I mean sixteen months, which in car years should still count as youthful. Unfortunately, my car has already acquired the expression of a middle-aged man who has seen too much traffic, too many potholes, and too much enthusiasm from its owner. The engine is fine, the wheels are still attached, and the horn retains its theological confidence. But the body has needed repeated visits to what I call “car hospitals” for denting and painting. If there were a loyalty card for such shops, I would probably qualify for a free bumper massage. My wife, who represents the voice of wisdom, economy, and inconvenient truth, once asked, “Why do you keep spending money on denting and painting? The car still drives.” This was difficult to answer because she was entirely right. The car could move, turn, stop, and even look respectable from a generous distance. But I could not bear the sight of its small scars. A scratch on the car somehow felt like a scra...