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Not the Last Word: Writing Without Forecasts

Not the Last Word: Writing Without Forecasts

by | Oct 6, 2025 | Career, Communication, Joy, value

Why astrological forecast is effective is, it is often written in quite vague language and at the very least it may happen to any one of the readers. For those for whom it had happened becomes a believers of astrology. It is called the Barnum Effect (or Forer Effect), where vague, general statements are perceived as highly personal and accurate. People remember the one line that resonated and forget the twenty that didn’t. It’s a passive, broad net approach to connection.

I write with no plan in my mind. No agenda. No aim. No crafting the message. No worries about the SM algorithm... There are weeks in which I could write 3–4 blogs. Often the trigger is a very ordinary experience in day‑to‑day life, or a sight, or a phone call, or a passage I get to read. And then I got to wake up from my sleep and just complete the writing...

“Ask yourself in the most silent hour of your night: must I write? Dig into yourself for a deep answer. And if this answer rings out in assent, if you meet this solemn question with a strong, simple ‘I must,’ then build your life in accordance with this necessity.” —Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet

That is close to how I experience writing. It is not planned, not crafted for applause, but something that insists on being written. Sometimes it wakes me up from sleep. Sometimes it comes from the most ordinary of sights or conversations.

During the initial days, I used to let whatever gets written be published as it is. As one who had my school education in vernacular medium and in Govt and Govt‑aided schools, my English is often Manglish. Guess, I think in Malayalam and type in English. Core readers remain the same. They are my dear and near and people who know me a bit. But when I tried to put together and publish, I was told I had to get them edited. One established editor, at first, said plainly to me that she was busy with a few more projects and asked me to share a few samples. She may get back. I thought that was a polite and very compassionate way of saying no. And after a few days, she wrote back saying she would edit. And those were the first writings that went under the ikebana scalpel of an Editor. I should complement my Editor, Rasna, for making those passages eminently readable.

After that, initially I used to use Hemington and Mars 21 Editors... When I saw there were too many RED marks, I stopped using them. Nowadays, Copilot editor in MS Word throws up severe grammatical guffaws, and I do spend a bit of time correcting them. Still not much worried about the SM traction and applause. Whenever I think it is complete, I publish. Sometimes in early Monday morning or Sunday afternoon.

My Zen master, Fr. AMA Samy, has written around forty books, given countless teishos, and continues to share his thoughts with students through the Bodhi Sangha Forum. And every time he completes a book, he tells me that it is his last. I took up the responsibility of editing his “last” book. And by the time I finished it, he had another one. That is the way of true expression—it does not end when we think it should. What feels like the last word is only a pause before the next arises.

One thing I notice: every single blog, I get a note from one of the readers saying that the writing is just apt for the current moment in their life. To be honest, that does make me a bit happy. But then I realise, I am not living in another planet. I share this world with them. In fact, all beings are connected. While we have our own uniqueness, there are more things common amongst ourselves. One's pain, joy, peace, love, compassion etc. are also commonly experienced. I may be seeing the Sun and Moon in Perumalmalai—the same Sun and Moon that appears in Dallas or Bangalore.

And when I published my first book, I had a list of 20 names, my inner circles in Dubar groups, whom I thought would buy the book and make an effort to read. As of today more than 100 copies were sold. Out of those first list of 20 names, only around 10–12 people bought. Maybe the way I see others is not the way others see me. But when someone who was unknown to me personally writes a one‑liner, it touches me deeply. It reminds me that words have their own journey, and they find their readers in unexpected places.

And usually when you seek or look for inspiration and motivation, there is none in the world. The same goes with applause and likes as well. When one starts writing for the sake of writing (at the least writing for oneself), one finds there is a fountain of inspiration or motivation deep within. When one reaches that, one really ceases to look for external motivators such as applause or likes.

While seekers of a moment’s fame and name try to decipher what makes a post viral and how the LinkedIn and FB algorithms are framed, they don’t realise that there is no rhyme or reason for literary fame, name, and wealth. Some of the best names such as Kafka or Thoreau were hardly known during their lifetimes, yet they made a lasting impact after they had left this world. Again, my favourite author O. V. Vijayan became a legend with his first book, and its success was never repeated. Many said he missed a Nobel only because it was too difficult to translate his surreal painting‑like prose from Malayalam to English. Perhaps if those Nobel Committee members had learnt to read Malayalam, he would have won. The same goes for Kamala Das too. And Arundhati Roy, in contrast, struck gold with her very first book.

Buddha had originally just ten core disciples. Christ had twelve, and one of them went rogue — Judas Iscariot. Socrates too had only a handful of students. Their teaching lasted because they focused on the substance. Modern times may be different, but principles are not. Focus on substance: keep the work excellent, curate visibility, share progress in ways that highlight impact, not just effort, and always align with meaning — connect your work to the “why” it matters to you and the world.

It is a bit like the sound of the Zendo bell. The bell itself (performance) must be well‑cast and resonant. But unless it is struck and allowed to reverberate (projection), no one hears its music. The bell is not diminished by being heard; its essence is fulfilled in resonance. Last month, I had to redo the Zendo lead role again. I seemed to have forgotten the way bells were struck. After the early morning Zazen, Fr. AMA called me and spent quite some time teaching me again. The core teaching is: one lets go of the need to project, then the sound of the bell becomes music. It projects itself.

“He who stands on tiptoe does not stand firm. He who rushes ahead does not go far. He who tries to shine dims his own light. If you want to accord with the Tao, just do your job, then let go.” —Lao Tzu, Tao Te Ching

I was not always like this. For a long time, I too tracked book sales and counted likes on blogs, as if numbers could measure meaning. But then Rishi, my second son — an exceptional painter and sculptor — declined my suggestion to hold a gallery show to showcase his work. He simply told me, “Papa, currently I am doing this for myself. Maybe later… I am in no hurry for those things.” As he left home to pursue his dual degree in Arts and Economics, I realised that at that young age he had already come out as an integrated human being. His words stayed with me, and they continue to remind me that the truest art is born not from the hunger for recognition, but from the fullness of being.

After the last book, I too received a note from a very unexpected quarter. The person wrote that he is not much of a reader—his breaks usually come from watching movies or listening to music. He said he bought the book only because it was written by his friend, which is me. But after the first chapter, he found it interesting and ended up reading it fully. The closing line of his note was: “When are you publishing your next one?”

The answer I did not share with him was: I too am not in a hurry. When it happens, it will happen.

After all, a writer does not really write for others. The best musicians are those who play their music just for their own ears. And the best players are those who don’t play for the gallery. Humans pursue a literary form, an art, or a game not merely for external validation, but to steady the sails within, and to make their inner gold purer by rubbing it against the sandpaper of the world. In a world obsessed with visibility, presence, virality, and traction metrics, it is often forgotten: self‑expression of the soul is the best reward. As Francis Bacon reminded us long ago: “Reading maketh a full man; conference a ready man; and writing an exact man.”

Adventures of a Bystander in the Age of AI — Crossing the Chasm Within

Adventures of a Bystander in the Age of AI — Crossing the Chasm Within

by | Sep 27, 2025 | Career, Change, Joy, Peace, Relationships, Transformation, Zen

Everyone is talking about AI taking away jobs. Just a few days back, a Coaching colleague, whose practice focus in Career shifts  wrote a wonderful passage that  the bigger issue may not be unemployment—it is meaninglessness. “Work has never been just about money. It has been about identity. It provides structure. It is the story our parents proudly share when someone asks about us. Take that away, and who are we? The fear of meaninglessness is real. For many, work has been the anchor of identity, the rhythm of daily life, and the narrative thread of belonging. AI disruption threatens to unsettle that anchor. It is not just about automation or efficiency; it is about the erosion of the stories we tell ourselves and others about who we are.”

And yet, this is not inevitable. History shows a recurring pattern: when technology reshapes work—whether in the industrial revolution or the digital revolution—humans eventually re-anchor meaning in new roles, crafts, and communities. The challenge is not the disappearance of meaning, but the transition, the liminal space where old identities dissolve before new ones take shape. I know this from experience. For over fifteen years, I worked as a Change and Transformation consultant. Then one day, I stopped. Not because the work was meaningless, but because I no longer needed that identity to define me. I discovered that life continues, and meaning can be found in other places—relationships, writing, contemplative practice, service. The pay check was never the whole story.

Peter Drucker was introduced to me by none other than Subroto Bagchi, who wrote quote often about him.  Subroto considered   Drucker as the father of modern management. By the way, while many other management gurus are known by the great institutions they are affiliated with, Drucker chose a low key University and eventually that institution got its identity from  Drucker’s contribution to the Management science.

Drucker began his career in an apprenticeship at a Hamburg trading company. By his own account, he “learned nothing” about the business itself—the managers barely paid attention to the trainees. Yet he later said it was not a wasted year. He read voraciously, discovered Kierkegaard, and began shaping the philosophical foundations that would define his life’s work. Apprenticeship, he showed, is not only about acquiring skills, but about forming identity through exposure, discipline, and reflection. In times of disruption, perhaps we are all apprentices again—learning to re-anchor meaning in unexpected places.

Drucker’s memoir, a classic must read,  Adventures of a Bystander, makes this even clearer. He portrays himself not as a man defined by his jobs, but as an observer, a learner, a bystander to history. His identity was never confined to the roles he held—consultant, professor, writer—but was rooted in curiosity, reflection, and the people and ideas he encountered. His life shows that one can live fully, contribute deeply, and yet not be imprisoned by professional labels.

He also recounted a disturbing episode from his time in a London investment bank in the 1930s. What struck him was not the technical work of finance, but the culture of the firm—how traditions, rituals, and unspoken rules shaped identity and power. Among these, Drucker noted a shocking practice: the secretary of the managing partner was considered part of the “succession package.” Whoever was to become the next managing partner was expected to assume not only the professional responsibilities of the role but also inherit the secretary in a personal capacity. Drucker was appalled by this, and he shared it as an example of how institutions can normalize practices that, when seen from the outside, are clearly unethical and dehumanizing. The point of the story is not the scandal itself, but the lesson Drucker drew: organizations often bind identity to roles in ways that are arbitrary, unhealthy, or even absurd. What was considered “normal” in that investment bank was, in fact, a distortion of both work and human dignity. Drucker’s lifelong insistence that management is a moral practice—not just a technical one—was shaped by witnessing such episodes early in his career.

Hannah Arendt, some 70 years ago, predicted the peril of modern life—long before the so‑called knowledge economy came into existence—that chasing productivity would extinguish meaning. In her seminal groundbreaking work, The Human Condition, she distinguished between labour, the endless cycle of necessity tied to survival; work, the creation of durable things that give the world stability; and action, the highest form of freedom, where we reveal ourselves to others and shape history. Her concern was that modernity collapses these distinctions, reducing all activity to the logic of labour and output. In such a world, thought is measured by its utility, people are valued by their efficiency, and even leisure is instrumentalized as recovery for further work. This marks the triumph of the animal laborans—the human as labouring animal, hollowing out meaning and eroding the very spaces where freedom, creativity, and genuine human action can arise.

One of the most influential books on technological change, Crossing the Chasm, was written not by an engineer but by an English Literature professor, Geoffrey Moore. That paradox is telling: the deepest insights about change often come from outside the expected domain. They remind us that identity is larger than occupation, and that wisdom often comes from the margins. So the deeper question is not “What will AI take away?” but “Who am I when the titles and roles fall away?” One of the most powerful coaching questions I have ever faced was exactly this: define yourself beyond titles, beyond roles. Interestingly, that question did not come from a certified coach, but it has stayed with me as one of the most transformative. It stripped away the masks and left me face-to-face with something more essential.

I am also reminded of a story shared by Wipro veteran Dr. Sridhar Mitta. In the early days, Wipro manufactured PCs and even built a homegrown productivity suite. When these systems were installed in offices, the Munims of Kolkata—masters of the traditional Marwari accounting system, Parta—insisted on cross-checking the computer’s output with their own methods. They did not trust the machine. Change takes time. But eventually, they adapted. And so did the organizations around them. This story is a parable: humans resist, test, and cross-check—but eventually, we learn to swim in new waters.

Fish know how to swim. Squirrels know how to climb trees. And birds know how to fly. They did not need finishing schools or certified coaches. The only inherent talent humans are born with is the ability to adapt—and to work with strangers. Unlike other animals, we are wired for collaboration and reinvention. That is our evolutionary gift. AI may unsettle our roles, but it cannot erase this gift. If anything, it calls us to exercise it more consciously.

But there is another way to meet disruption—not by clinging to new roles, but by letting go  the shackles of identity itself. After moving out of the 9–5 prison of corporate walls, paychecks, and social media emojis, I immersed myself in the ordinary life of a Zen student, guided by an ordinary Zen teacher, in an ordinary Zendo. And in that ordinariness, something extraordinary revealed itself. I began to notice that I was no longer the protagonist of my life, endlessly striving to perform and prove. More often, I was simply a witness. Watching thoughts rise and fall. Watching the Zendo waterfall come alive and then dry itself out. Learning to be calm under stress from Zendog Bhim . Watching myself breathe. When one shifts from being the protagonist—the doer, the achiever—to being the witness—the observer—a spaciousness opens that can hold all of life’s experiences without being defined by them. In this shift from doing to witnessing, my equanimity, inner peace, tranquillity, and joy have not just grown—they have multiplied. And one thing I reaslised is in that state of mind, Arendt’s definition of  Labour becomes an action from the true mind. Infact Zen, through its ordinary life, ordinary mind  just teaches this.  Everything is selfless action. Whether it is archery, ikkenaba, cleaning dishes or zendo, walking dog, reading philosophy or doing zazen.

So in my humble view, the real answer to the problem of meaninglessness is not to seek new identities, new labels, or new masks. That is only rearranging the furniture in the same prison cell. The deeper work is to strip away those onion skins of identity—consultant, professional, achiever, even seeker—until what remains is the emptiness at the core. And in that emptiness, there is no void. There is space. Spaciousness that holds everything: joy and sorrow, gain and loss, sound and silence. As the Heart Sutra reminds us: form is emptiness, emptiness is form. To realize this is to be free—not from work or responsibility, but from the compulsion to define ourselves by them.

AI may strip away the masks we have worn at the market place for decades. But perhaps this is not a loss—it is an invitation. An invitation to rediscover meaning in relationships, creativity, service, and contemplative practice. An invitation to remember that identity is not a title on a business card, but the living presence we bring to each moment. Identity can be adaptive, distorted, or transcended—but never reduced to a job title. The Munims of Kolkata, Drucker the bystander, Arendt the philosopher, Moore the literature professor, the London banker’s secretary, and the Zen student in the ordinary Zendo all point to the same truth: we are more than our roles. And when the roles fall away, what remains is the freedom to simply be. What remains for you, when the roles fall away?

It feels fitting to conclude with a final layer of witness-consciousness. This essay itself is a product of the very transition it describes. The thoughts, experiences, and conclusions are my own, but the process of articulating them was a collaboration with an AI language model. It served as a digital apprentice, helping to structure arguments and find connections between Drucker, Arendt, and Zen. In this collaboration, I experienced the very point I hoped to make: the tool did not define the meaning; it aided in its expression. The witness—the essential self—remained, simply using a new kind of brush to paint its truth.

The True Price of Enoughness and the Cost of Contentment : Lessons from Mitr, Zen, and a stone basin in Kyoto

The True Price of Enoughness and the Cost of Contentment : Lessons from Mitr, Zen, and a stone basin in Kyoto

by | Sep 14, 2025 | Career, Compassion, Empathy, Joy, Peace, Zen

My journey into the helping space began with Mitr, Wipro’s internal counselling initiative. Mitr was the brainchild of Kayo Shroff, then General Manager at CHRD and a counsellor at Vishwas, with Ranjan Acharya, then Head of CHRD, as its enthusiastic sponsor. They called for nominations, and I joined half self‑motivated, half nudged by my then boss, SMR. He knew I had completed a month‑long NLP course with Dr. Richard McHugh and had enrolled for an MA in Psychology with IGNOU, so he suggested I apply. The application itself was unusual — I still have a copy.

One of the questions read: “Describe yourself in 5 words. No qualifications, titles, skills etc. to be included.” My answer, characteristically, spilled beyond the limit: “I am what I (am + can be + will be). What I am = committed, sincere, open‑minded and witty.” There were a few more questions, including two essay‑style prompts: one asking me to describe a time in my life when I was absolutely broken inside and was helped by another, and another asking how I, in turn, had helped someone in a similar situation. Even before I was formally trained, those questions made me pause and look inward — a reminder that the heart of helping work is not in the techniques we wield, but in the humanity we share.

I ended up in the first cohort of Mitr counsellors. Ranjan and Kayo would jokingly call us the “co‑founders” of Mitr. It was, in every sense, a selfless service. We offered our time after hours, guarded the anonymity of those who came to us with fierce loyalty, and never discussed their cases. This work existed outside our professional duties — it could never be an excuse for unmet targets. The spirit was simple: you gave your presence freely, without any expectation of reward.

Our training was led by Dr. Uttara, a week that has stayed with me all these years. It was there she suggested a book to the group, though I felt the suggestion was meant particularly for me: On Becoming a Person by Carl Rogers. I had just finished my NLP course, and those were heady days; in that world, it was easy to feel that after a single training you could stride into the world as the next Anthony Robbins. Dr. Uttara, I think, sensed that intoxication — the seductive belief that with the right technique, you could “fix” anyone. Her recommendation of Rogers was a quiet counterweight. His humanistic approach isn’t about clever reframes or rapid interventions; it’s about presence, congruence, unconditional positive regard. It’s about being with, rather than doing to.

Years later, I became a certified leadership coach. By then, I had sat on both sides of the helping relationship — as the one offering support, and as the one seeking it. During my own struggle with depression, I was referred to a counsellor. They were helpful, and they charged for their time. And that was appropriate. Counselling is a service that offers value, and value has a price. It was a sobering but vital realization: the helping professions are not immune to economic realities. Skill, ethics, and livelihood must find a way to coexist — sometimes in harmony, sometimes in tension.

For two years, I lived a dual life: a Zen student and a full‑time breadwinner for my family, alongside my better half. Then, last December, I moved into the Zendo. Before I arrived, Fr. AMA wrote me a welcome email. He called it shokku tuddedo and reminded me that the most critical relationship we must resolve is the one with money. The world, he said, will wonderfully provide for our needs, but our wants — and sometimes our greed — are a bottomless gulf. His words stayed with me. I distributed all my wealth and possessions before I left home. I stepped into the Zendo with empty hands and a lighter heart. I still work enough to provide for Manu and Rishi’s education for the next few years, but beyond that, I am largely self‑sufficient.

And yet, I was quite at sea for a while. After living for fifty‑four years in one fashion, it is not easy to be that detached. In our minds, the lines between genuine need, want, and greed are often too thin — or not there at all.

At the temple of Ryōan‑ji in Kyoto, Japan, there is a hand‑washing basin along the rear of the building, engraved with four kanji. Alone, they have no meaning, but a fifth kanji, formed by the central water basin, completes the phrase: ware tada taru shiru. When I googled, the English brochure translated it as, “I learn only to be contented.”

Fr. AMA had asked us to have this framed and placed above his dokusan room.Last June 2025, for the first time since I began working in March 1995, no salary was credited to my account — only an automated bank message came reminding me to maintain a minimum balance. Perhaps just another serendipitous moment: the right message at the right time. There is a Zen saying, “The master arrives when the student is ready.” Paraphrased, “The teaching comes when one needs it most.” — My initiation was exactly that..

Naturally, my way of being in the marketplace has shifted. I let go of fixed prices and moved to a contributory scale — pro bono, low bono, or “pay as per your ability.” It is a natural fit for a Zen student and soon‑to‑be monk. And it works, beautifully. Often, the amount people choose to give is more than I would have asked for. There is a quiet dignity in this exchange; it trusts the other person’s inherent sense of fairness and frees me from the subtle grasping that can creep into fixed‑fee work. It feels less like a transaction and more like a shared act of respect.

This tension between making a living and staying true to one’s calling is an ancient one. History is filled with those without inheritance who navigated the same crossroads. Socrates taught without payment, relying on the support of friends. Buddhist monks lived on alms, yet debated in lean times whether they could farm or teach for a fee. Artists without patrons chose between poverty and adapting to the market. Galileo balanced his research with paid court appointments. Jane Addams built her social reform on donations from sources she sometimes questioned. The question has always been the same: how does one remain true to purpose within the economic systems available? The answer often lies in adaptation — relying on patronage, creating hybrid models, or embracing radical simplicity to reduce dependence on the market.

In Zen, there is a classic teaching illustrated in the Ten Ox‑Herding Pictures. It traces the stages of a seeker’s journey: searching for the ox, glimpsing its footprints, catching it, taming it, riding it home, then forgetting the ox and the self, returning to the source. The final picture, the tenth, is “Entering the Marketplace with Helping Hands.” The awakened one doesn’t remain in solitude on the mountaintop. They walk back into the town — selling wine, buying vegetables, laughing with the crowd — but their presence is different. They serve without clinging, they earn their keep without exploitation, they meet people exactly where they are. This is why there is nothing inherently wrong with being in the marketplace and offering a service. The question is not whether you charge, but how you show up: with fairness, justice, and integrity. In that spirit, livelihood and service are not opposites; they are two hands of the same body.

Looking back, my own journey has moved through its own stages: the initial intoxication of technique, the grounding of professional coaching, a clear‑eyed view of the helping ecosystem, the deepening of Zen practice, and now the freedom of a livelihood rooted in trust. Seen through the Ox‑Herding lens, these stages are not linear but a spiral. Each time I return to the marketplace, I do so with a little more humility, a little more clarity, and a little less need to be the hero.

In the end, perhaps the most enduring lesson is this: helping is not about saving the world. It is about meeting one person, in one moment, with presence and humility — and letting that be enough.

And sometimes, the person you meet in need of help is yourself. The one you’re called to serve is the one in the mirror. That work is beyond price — pro bono publico becomes pro bono self. And if we can make a fair living while doing so — like the avocado tree in the Zendo garden, quietly offering its fruit, the birds , the monkeys and that giant Malabar squirrel that visit without asking, or even the Bhim Zendog basking in the sun without bothering them— then we are simply walking the path of the tenth picture: in the marketplace, with helping hands.

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