gm-reflection

  Yes, we do — as much as we need this life, severely, passionately, undeniably. We cannot do without this life, and so we cannot let go of it. The hope of an afterlife is nothing more than holding on to the life we already love so much. We are human, after all. I always said I was not afraid of death, only of dying. Whether I lived or died felt like no big deal — the lightness of being and not being. But it was not so light. One night I watched a documentary called How to Die in Oregon . The first person we meet is Roger, who had chosen to take the lethal medication under the state’s Death with Dignity law. Surrounded by family, he thanks them, thanks even the wisdom of Oregon voters, and then drinks. His face is calm, almost serene. There was such a peaceful countenance about him, such ease in how he accepted reality, that it left an impression on me. A few nights later, I dreamt I was in his place, on the same sofa, with the same glass of orange juice in my hand. The powder...

Snowflakes melt and vanish, but we don’t. We are the dippin-dots. We don’t melt. We linger. We bend, but we don’t break. There was a time when “save the owl” was common sense. In 1990, the northern spotted owl was listed as threatened, and logging in huge stretches of the Pacific Northwest simply stopped. Not paused for debate. Stopped. Crews packed up. Contracts froze. The forest stayed standing because a law said the owl mattered. Now, in this season of wanting to dismantle the EPA, letting tailings from open mines run straight into creeks, fiddling like Nero while we jog back toward a future where the Cuyahoga burns again, it earns a smirk. The kind that says, that’s cute, but we’re talking about real things here. Somewhere along the way, the language of care became the language of weakness. It didn’t happen overnight. It crept in over years, while power hungry leaders aligned with big money interests, selling the story that saving an owl or a whale was against business, against p...

  If we ever want a softer future, maybe it starts in smaller places, not with policies, movements, or big ideas, but quietly, in the ways we relate to each other. Maybe it begins with noticing how easily we take from someone else’s life, even when we believe we’re giving. I started noticing this a few months ago. Someone who’s been helping me with many personal things -someone I trust - asked me to start tracking my daily routine. We had been talking about my habit of going to sleep late, and he seemed convinced he could help me manage my day better so I'd sleep earlier. His intention wasn’t just to observe but to improve, to guide me toward better habits. I know he meant well, but I felt a quiet pressure in his request. It wasn’t harsh, but it was steady. I felt it in my body before I understood it clearly. I didn’t want to comply. Initially, I didn’t question it; I just noticed the resistance. Still, out of respect, I tracked my routine for two days and sent it to him, even th...

I was talking to Tatai, my nephew, today. He is a PhD student at Gokhale Institute of Politics and Economics in Pune, India. He’s close to finalizing his thesis proposal and preparing to defend it. We were talking about his study pattern. For him, big ideas come easily, but the details are challenging to concentrate on. It’s a familiar place for me. Midway through, almost casually, he asked if he might have autism. I didn't respond immediately. I'm not a psychologist. Instead, I said something simpler: maybe what you're calling autism is just you. That shifted things. Soon we were discussing neurodivergence—not as a diagnosis, but as a way of acknowledging different ways of thinking. Tatai struggles with details unless they're clearly part of something bigger. He doesn’t fit the picture of someone who sits crunching numbers all day at a keyboard; neither do I. I'm the same way. Whether that's ADHD or something else wasn’t the point. The point was realizing that ...

  “Integrity is not measured by the noise of virtue, but by the quiet insistence of effort.”  A lbert Camus (?) What do we do when doing the right thing costs too much? Not in theory—but in the messy, human ways that shake our lives. This is a reflection on those quiet, everyday negotiations we make with our conscience, and what it means to hold a line in a system that continually pushes us to let go. Recently, in a WhatsApp group of old friends, veterinarians, mostly retired, we drifted into one of those painful conversations that reveal more than intended. It began with a few practical comments about retirement paperwork, legal battles, and the many steps required to receive pensions from public institutions in India. And then someone said plainly, "I had to pay ₹25,000 to get what I had already earned." Another friend added, "In India, nothing moves without bribes." Someone else spoke of fighting a legal battle for over two decades, spending lakhs on fees and un...

                Comments of a Demented, Out-of-Clue, Naive Person?        I did a double take. Was Pope Leo okay? What on earth is he talking about? After all, the numbers are brutal. According to Lawrence Keeley in War Before Civilization , 90–95% of societies have engaged in war at some point in history. Hard to argue with those numbers. But Raymond C. Kelly, in Warless Societies and the Origin of War , challenges that view. He suggests war isn’t universal. Many early societies thrived on peaceful relationships — trade, intermarriage, and shared work. War came later, he argues, once wealth accumulated and fences were built. So, which is it? Are we born to war, or are we just stuck in the current story? At first, I dismissed Pope Leo’s sentiment as naïve. “War is not inevitable?” Come on. But the more I sat with it, the more it gnawed at me. Maybe he’s not entirely wrong. Maybe he's saying something we've forgo...