While wandering around the cobbled mediaeval alleys of one European old town full of insouciant cats, I saw a cat poster in a little shop that said: “Before Coffee : I hate everyone. After Coffee : I feel good about hating everyone.”
I was overcome by an intense desire to possess the poster. I acted on my impulse and I have no regrets about this one. The poster still makes me smile. ( Fortunately – or unfortunately – I do not act on my occasional impulse to possess a dog or a cat – or a human. )
Now the thing about cats is that they seem to have opinions – but no interest in sharing them. Unlike some humans.
I don’t really hate people. I enjoy the company of people who have stories – the kind where they’re not always the protagonist. People who light up about an idea, a book, a film, a song, a painting , a performance, a recipe, a moment, or a stranger ( or dog ) they once met. People who listen to the stories ( not opinions) of other people without looking at their phone screens.
Then there are the others. Every pause is a cue for another opinion. Or a story – about the impact of their own powers, post or presence of mind. Or their rage. Or outrage. Or victim hood .
I once endured dinner beside someone who had three firm opinions and two stories of personal glory . I had acid reflux afterwards.
Cats don’t push their views. They’ll watch you taking pictures of your wife instead of them, quietly judge you, and walk away.
If cats were on WhatsApp groups, they’d be silent. Or leave silently. No dramatic exit. No broadcast messages. Just gone.
Once upon a time I was an indefatigable reader of books by spiritual masters and about spiritual masters.
From the austere wisdom of the Upanishads to the whispering clarity of Rumi; from the razor-sharp aphorisms of Zen monks to the ever-smiling Dalai Lama – I devoured them all. Tibetan lamas, Sufi mystics, Christian contemplatives, and, yes, even the occasional Hawaiian shaman or California – based crystal whisperer. If someone had even briefly glimpsed enlightenment, I wanted their reading list.
Like many ‘seekers’ (with mild existential anxiety) I was trying to decode the big questions:
What is the purpose of life?
Why are we here?
What happens after we die?
And also – should I eat carbs after 8 pm if I want to attain moksha?
I diligently underlined passages, lit incense, listened to chants and tried very hard not to judge people. I nodded gravely when someone used the word “non-dual.” I even attempted silence. (On day two, someone asked me what was wrong with my voice.). I also went through a ten days Vipssana course. It was uplifting and learnt to mediate.
But then… I met Zorba.
Or rather, I read Zorba the Greek. And something shifted.
Here was a man who didn’t quote scriptures, didn’t meditate at dawn, and certainly didn’t follow any “12 steps to transcendence.” Zorba danced. He loved. He failed. He laughed like the gods were listening – and couldn’t care less. He devoured life with both hands, spilt wine, and the occasional broken plate.
And suddenly, all those questions I had held so carefully began to wobble a little.
It wasn’t that Zorba answered the great spiritual questions. It’s that he made them seem slightly… beside the point.
Because what if the meaning of life is simply to live it? Fully. Messily. Gratefully. What if we’re not here to transcend the human experience, but to inhabit it?
Zorba didn’t seek detachment -he sought engagement. Not escape, but immersion. He was a walking contradiction: earthy and wise, wild and kind, reckless and clear-eyed.
After Zorba, I began reading the mystics a little differently. I still love their insights – but now I suspect many of them would’ve quite enjoyed a night out with Zorba too. Even the Buddha might’ve smiled at one of his jokes (before returning to his cushion, of course).
So here I am now – older, possibly wiser, and only occasionally smug about inner peace. I still listen to chants sometimes but soon shift to Jazz. I still flip through spiritual books out of habit. I meditate sometimes. But I also dance , badly, to Bollywood music. And when someone offers me a glass of wine, I don’t check if it’s organic or karma-free. I just raise a quiet toast to Zorba and then ask if there is any Mezcal in the house. If not Ouzo.
Because maybe the sacred isn’t always in silence.
Sometimes it’s in the laughter that bursts out when you stop trying so hard to be profound.
💬 “Life is trouble. Only death is not. To live… is to undo your belt and look for trouble.”
The modern mind, even at its most intelligent and self-aware, is rarely still. Beneath the surface of our daily routines runs a restless current of desires, anxieties, and calculations – shaped by familiar human preoccupations: safety, social approval, material success, reputation, influence, and control. Even our moments of pleasure are often tainted by the underlying question – how can I hold on to this? How do I get more?
It is through the arts – literature, music, architecture, and visual expression – that we sometimes rise above this conditioned state. When these mediums transcend mere entertainment or emotional stimulation, they offer a portal to something subtler, deeper. In such moments, the mind stirs with a distant memory of stillness – of a consciousness less entangled in craving and comparison. At its highest, art becomes a quiet echo of the mystical.
Mysticism, however, is not mere aesthetic transcendence. It is a fundamental reorientation of consciousness. The mystic does not simply think differently; they are different. Their perception flows from a different center of gravity – one that is not defined by the self, but liberated from it. Yet this state is difficult, if not impossible, to describe using the language of ordinary experience. Mystics speak in metaphors, paradoxes, and silences-pointing not to doctrines, but to direct knowing.
And herein lies a perennial danger: the symbols and sayings of mystics, when stripped of their experiential roots, often become tools of illusion. People may project onto mysticism their hopes for divine intervention, miraculous outcomes, or metaphysical shortcuts to success. The mystic’s invitation to surrender becomes a promise of reward; their insight becomes doctrine; their metaphors become magic.
It is true that some mystics-later canonized as saints or prophets – have been able to communicate a message of love, compassion, and fearlessness to those around them. A few among their followers even managed to live this truth. But over generations, what began as lived insight often ossifies into belief systems, rituals, and power structures. The mystical impulse is rarely scalable, and traditions built around it often become mere shadows of the original flame.
In today’s world – shaped by accelerating technology, algorithmic distraction, economic precarity, and ideological fragmentation – people find themselves more anxious, more divided, and more desperate for certainty. As institutions falter and worldviews clash, many retreat into inherited identities: religious, cultural, tribal. Others seek to evangelise or defend what they perceive as under siege. Both are, in different ways, responses to fear. And fear is the antithesis of the mystical.
The tragedy of modernity is not that we have lost access to mystical states, but that we have drowned out the conditions that allow them to emerge: stillness, silence, inwardness, self-questioning. Our age encourages noise over nuance, spectacle over substance, assertion over inquiry. And yet, beneath the surface, the longing persists – a longing not for more, but for meaning. Not for certainty, but for truth. Not for belonging, but for being.
Perhaps the role of art, philosophy, and contemplative inquiry today is not to offer answers, but to keep this longing alive. Not to lead people toward yet another ideology, but to help them hear what remains unsaid – the quiet call of the real.
I like to believe I’m an adventurous eater. I’ve tried stinky (fermented) stuff, eaten every kind of salad to ease the conscience (ahem), indulged in bites of forbidden succulence—and even flirted (recklessly) with a raw herring once.
But no matter how many stamps the passport gets, there are some flavours I keep returning to- the ones that feel like home.
Here’s a long (but far from exhaustive) list of Indian dishes that sit at the top of myvpalate-not in any particular order, because how does one rank comfort, memory, and masala?
South Indian Staples I’d Fight For (Gently):
• Idlis with sambhar and coconut pachidi – soft, spongy clouds of calm.
• Malabar parathas – layered, flaky indulgence.
• Kara Kuzhambu and Chettinad chicken from Tamil Nadu – spicy, complex, unforgettable.
• Andhra favourites like Gongura mutton and Pesarattu – bold, punchy, and unapologetically proud.
• Avial, poriyal, kootu – Tamil Nadu’s lesson in how vegetables can dance.
• Curd rice – the unsung lullaby of the South, cooling, calming, complete.
• Pokhalo bhaat – Odisha’s summer salvation: fermented rice, curd, mustard oil and humility in a bowl.
Meat That Deserves a Standing Ovation:
• Mutton Dum Biryani – drama in every grain.
• Kadhai Chicken – for the masala-fix days.
• Lal Maas – fire and finesse.
• Kashmiri Rogan Josh and Gushtaba – velvety, royal, soul-stirring.
• Gongura Mutton (yes, again. It deserves it).
• Salli Boti, Patra ni Machhi, and Dhansak – where the Parsi kitchen turns fusion into fine art.
• Champaran Mutton from Bihar – slow-cooked in mustard oil and sealed pots; smoky, tender, and irresistible.
• Kolhapuri Mutton Rassa (Tambda & Pandhra) – two gravies, one spicy red, one creamy white. A fierce and flavourful duo.
• Saoji Mutton from Nagpur – dark, dry-roasted, intensely spiced. Not for amateurs.
• Mutton Sukka – dry, masala-laced comfort from coastal Maharashtra or Karnataka.
• Bhakri with Mutton Lonche – spicy mutton pickle paired with rustic millet bread.
Saltwater & Sweetwater Blessings- Because We Love Both:
• Maccha Besara – Odiya-style river fish in mustard and garlic – rustic, pungent, perfect with rice.
• Rohu in Aloo Jhol – the everyday fish curry that’s never boring.
• Macha Tarkari – fish cooked Odiya-style with vegetables and subtle spice.
Veg Dishes That Don’t Need Meat to Impress:
• Kanda Poha, aloo parathas, sattu parathas – Indian breakfasts that fuel revolutions (and sometimes mid-morning naps).
• Ker sangri, Gatte ki sabzi, lehsun chutney – Rajasthani resilience on a plate.
• Dalma and Santula from Odisha – gentle, grounding, quietly brilliant.
• Shukto and Aloo Posto from Bengal – bittersweet, poppy-laced poetry.
• Khar and Ou Tenga from Assam – earthy, tangy, and refreshingly different.
• Aloo ke Gutke from Uttarakhand – fried pahadi potatoes with jakhya seeds, small-batch magic.
• Thukpa from Nepal – a hearty, slurpy noodle soup that warms hands and hearts.
And the Ever-Dependable Comfort Crew:
• Kolkata-style rolls (wheat base) – eggy street magic that no burrito or wrap can match.
• Egg fried rice – the universal backup plan.
• Dal Tadka – the humble hero.
• Pickles from every corner of India – mango from Andhra/Southern Odisha, red chilli from Rajasthan, garlic from anywhere, gongura from Telangana, kathal from Bihar… bottled with love and a warning.
• Odiya & Bengali sweets – where sugar doesn’t shout, it sings.
So yes, I’ll still try strange sauces in foreign lands and pretend to appreciate undercooked stuff, but when it comes to true, undying love…
Give me mustard oil, give me garlic, give me heat, give me home.
And if it’s fusion : O Pedro ( in BKC Mumbai is my favourite. They do not carried away by experimentation )
#FoodIsHome #GlobetrotterWithAPickleProblem #DesiAtHeart #IndiaOnAPlatter #CurdRiceOverCaviar #MasalaBeforeMinimalism #Trishna # O Pedro
After a berry smoothie and scrambled eggs with avocado and asparagus Satiated my cardio driven hunger and my conscience, I was checking out a book online Inspired by a friend’s fb post on Rumi and Shams.
I decided then that a shot of espresso at Nandan Would help the stream of consciousness to have a longer run
As I was leaving Cou Cou I decided to ask for the name of the Maltese cutie Who was subjecting the menu to such close scrutiny
And believe you me She is called Rumi !
At Nandan, as I contemplated the idea of serendipity Another beauty appeared with an air of levity
She is called ginger not Shams Such a pity
But serendipity is serendipity
So how about ginger espresso instead of ginger tea ?!
I make myself a cup of coffee every morning, beginning with the grinding of beans. I did that a bit late today, when I took a break after reading half of Aditi Ratho’s book for children at one stretch. The reading – and of course, the caffeine hit – made me think.
“Will literature decline with the advent of AI? Is literature still important for humankind or will it just be a mere hobby for some sedentary people?”
These aren’t questions one typically asks after reading a children’s book. But then again, a good children’s book often has the power to remind us of all that is pure, profound, and quietly revolutionary.
What struck me was this: in a world racing towards automation, simulation, and instant everything, here was a book that slowed me down. It asked for imagination, not interaction. It offered delight, not data. It nudged the mind gently, instead of overwhelming it with options.
So, will literature survive the age of AI?
Perhaps not in the way we’ve known it. Mass-market writing might become more formulaic, more tailored to metrics and mood graphs. Instant plots, hyper-personalised endings, AI-generated novels with chapter-wise sentiment analysis. All perfectly possible.
But literature – true literature – was never about utility. It’s about us. Our contradictions, our wonder, our madness, our silences.
AI can simulate a story. It can even write a beautiful sentence. But can it write from heartbreak? From longing? From memory blurred by time and scented by nostalgia?
Can it make a child laugh and make a parent pause to think?
Can it surprise you not just with what it says – but why it says it?
Reading Aditi Ratho’s freshly published book ( Suzie Mistry and The Imagination Factory ) reminds me that the spark of literature lies not in sophistication but in soul. And for that, you need a beating human heart, not just a brilliant algorithm.
So maybe literature will become a niche hobby. But it won’t be because of AI. It’ll be because we stop making time for it.
And that, like missing your morning coffee, would be a shame.
—
Now back to the book. There is dragon waiting in the next chapter 😊
I have never read a Harry Potter book. Yes, you heard that right.
This, despite both my children- Siddharth Ratho and Aditi Ratho – being Potterheads. In fact, Aditi’s devotion continues to this day, long after growing up and acquiring all the signs of responsible adulthood (jobs, deadlines, her own business venture now – and the ability to function without a wand 😀).
I’ve always stood my ground – with this (very grown-up sounding) logic: “Why read fantasy when real life – and fiction based on it – is already so fascinating?” To which Aditi would patiently say, year after year, “Just read the first ten pages. You’ll love it.” I didn’t do it. Not becuase I am stubborn- just… habitual realism 😊. My children even got my late father to read a few Harry Potter books. But I did not relent 😎
But then something magical happened. Aditi’s debut novel — Suzie Mistry and The Imagination Factory — got published last week! 🥹💫
I’m immensely proud – the kind of pride that makes you sniff the pages, carry the book around like a trophy, and tell complete strangers, “My daughter wrote this!”..My late father and late father in law must be so proud too – wherever they are.
…At this point, refusing to read my daughter’s book just because I’m “not into the genre” would be… well… churlish (and grounds for family disownment 😄).
So I read the first page. And guess what? I’m hooked ! Turns out magic runs in the family after all 🤔
Reading it tonight. And yes, you can find it on Amazon. 😁
An ordinary life 