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Preparing with Care, Trusting in Execution… Reading the First Half, Living the Second

Preparing with Care, Trusting in Execution… Reading the First Half, Living the Second

by | Jan 19, 2026 | Change, Communication, Compassion, Harmony, Life, Meaning, RElationship, Trust, Zen

My better half’s family was into Krishnamurti and she got out of a well-paying IT job to be a teacher in a. Krishnamurti school and Manu and Rishi too had their entire school education there. Though, it is an alternative education, it did give me some anxious moments, especially when i got to read about the competitive landscape of higher education and career building and livelihood earning outside that protected cocoon. They did end up in really good universities for their UG. But , the elder one, did face the challenged due to changed environment. Someone who was never part of dumb bell curve or exams for most of his life, but who pursued knowledge and wisdom for its own sake, was thrown into the high seas of surprise tests, CGPA and dumbbell curve etc without any life jacket. And it did reflect on his performance for the first two sems… There were O+ with 0 ( Not present). As someone who skipped my final year Engineering exam , for watching World cup football, in spite of my late Father’s concerned advice of a lengthy 5 page letter, i knew i did not have the moral capital to advise him. Though indirectly , i tried to share some pointers and nothing much. There was some subaltern tension and concern nevertheless.

But one thing good about him was his zeal of reading and ability to observe. As a very young child, he was into ornithology and could recognize almost all kinds of birds in the Valley school campus. Their daily routing in school, even for 1st std starts with early morning Nature walking. And the first gift i had given was a book by Salim Ali and a Bushnell binocular bought in Johannesburg. And he is one of those who read much more than i do. So in the breaks between semesters, while at home, he started reading the books in my bookshelf and also started buying a lot of books chosen by him. Me and Thara had also kind of stopped asking him about his results. We just used to say in a good way that he got to prepare himself to make a living as there is no inheritance as such.

So i was quite surprised, when he walked in and showed me his Semester marks card last month. It was all O+ and A+. I asked him how did he turn himself around and he talked about Frankl’s paradoxical intention and Huxely’s law of reversed effort. As someone who was trained in NLP ,Counselling, and did MA in Psychology and got trained in Coaching and read a bit, i was familiar with most of such stuff. But not this. And when i asked about it, he showed it in the book ( my old book of Man’s Search for Meaning). I had read the first part and just skimmed thru the second half. 🙁 .. Below is his full note on that. When your own son self-coaches himself, out of trouble into some success and teaches you about it, may be one can’t be more happier than that … Here is his note in full:

“The law of Reversed Effect

The law of reversed effect can be viewed as a psychological boomerang. When you attempt to wilfully dictate an experience, the harder you try, the more that experience will slip away from you. It’s like trying to hold a feather steady in a gust by grasping it tightly in your hand. Examples of this principle are found in all areas of human experience. The more you attempt to force sleep to occur, the more alert and reactive your brain will become; likewise, if you tell yourself to “stay calm,” all of a sudden, you’ll feel more anxious. The conscious mind, when in a state of contraction, creates a resistance to the natural rhythms required by the unconscious mind to perform its job effectively.

This law points out that the mind is likely going to produce better results through relaxation than through strain. All aspects of performance, confidence, creativity, and memory are likely to grow, develop, and improve when there is less pressure and strain associated with them. Athletes enter into flow states by not trying hard enough, but rather by getting out of their own way. As soon as an athlete stops worrying about the results of a competition and focuses only on the performance, their body takes over and performs at its best.

The law of reversed effect does not imply to “never try.” It means to use intention rather than effort and precision over strain. For instance, aim like an archer: identify the target, align your shot, and release without forcing the bow. In many cases, the most successful result comes from creating a time period of rest and relaxation in between two actions, during which you lead, rather than restrain, your movement toward your desired outcome. Sometimes the best way to make progress toward a goal is to stop chasing after it and allow it to come to you.

Rather than mandating performance, the conditions can be established which will allow the output to develop itself, which means So, you relax the inner grip. You don’t quit, you just change the aim of your effort. Just move your effort from trying to control the end result and start focusing it on the process. When the anxiety pulls you into “I must do this right,” you pull back and say, “I’ll make the space for good execution.”

In a way, this is line with. Viktor Frankl’s Paradoxical intention. Paradoxical intention is a psychotherapeutic technique developed by Viktor Frankl, the founder of logotherapy. It is designed to break the “vicious cycle” of anticipatory anxiety—the fear of a symptom (like insomnia or stuttering) which, through the very effort to avoid it, makes the symptom worse. This directly mirrors the “Law of Reversed Effort”. Many who read Frankl’s “Man Search for Meaning”, though it is a small book, reads the first part where he narrated his experiences and let go the second part in which describes the second part of Logotherapy. ( Like my Papa!) . And they don’t realise that , Man’s search for meaning is meaningful, only if you stay with it rather than let go in the middle. 🙂

Coming back to exams, it involves studying for them and going to them trusting what one has prepared for rather than going for what one has not perfected. With anxiety, it involves recognizing the sensations one feels without trying to struggle against them. With skills, it involves practicing them in a structured manner and executing them by breathing into them instead of straining them.

The core is:
Let’s put the effort into preparation rather than execution. Let the trust go into execution. You’re not letting go of control; you’re choosing the right kind of control: conditions, not grip. The effect appears like a cat; pounce too hard and it runs off; just be still, and it curls up in your lap.”

What he has written is not just a psychological principle, but a Dharma gate. The law of reversed effect is nothing but the Zen koan of “trying not to try.” The feather in the gust, the archer’s release, the cat curling up in the lap—these are not metaphors alone, they are lived gestures of life teaching us that control is often the enemy of presence.

I see in his words the same paradox that Krishnamurti pointed to when he said, “The more you pursue pleasure, the more pain you invite.” Or in Zen, when Master Dōgen reminds us that practice is enlightenment itself, not a means to it. The reversal is the teaching: when you grip, it slips; when you soften, it arrives.

And perhaps this is the most ordinary miracle—that a boy who once walked the Valley campus identifying birds by their calls, now identifies the subtle calls of the mind itself. He has moved from Salim Ali’s field guide to Frankl’s logotherapy, but the movement is the same: attention, observation, and trust in what reveals itself when you stop forcing.
For me, reading his note was like being shown my own bookshelf anew. I had skimmed, he had stayed. I had read the first half, he had lived into the second. And in that reversal, the son became the teacher, the father became the student. That is lineage too—not only bloodline, but wisdom line, where insight flows back and forth, unowned, ungrasped.
So I take his words as a reminder: prepare with care, execute with trust. Grip less, condition more. Let the cat curl up. Let the arrow fly. Let the feather dance. And let the law of reversed effect be not just psychology, but practice—practice of living, practice of dying, practice of being.

And perhaps, this is where the circle of education and life shows its hidden symmetry. What began as a child’s morning nature walk in Valley School, listening to bird calls, has now become a young man’s walk through the inner valley of mind, listening to the calls of anxiety and learning to let them perch and fly away. The binoculars of Salim Ali have turned into the lens of Frankl, but the act is the same: seeing clearly, without grasping.

It reminds me that the true inheritance we give our children is not wealth or security, but the courage to observe, the patience to stay, and the humility to learn from reversals. My father’s five-page letter was one kind of inheritance; my silence with my son was another. Both carried concern, but only one gave space. And in that space, he found his own way.

This reversal is not a defeat of the parent, but the flowering of lineage. The son teaches the father and  the feather teaches the hand. And life, in its ordinary rhythm, teaches us again and again that the way forward is sometimes to soften, to trust, to let go.

So I bow to this teaching—not as a principle in a book, but as a lived koan in my own home. The law of reversed effect is not only his discovery; it is now mine too.

Which Horse Are You Riding? Shadows, Centaurs, and the Art of Noticing…

Which Horse Are You Riding? Shadows, Centaurs, and the Art of Noticing…

by | Jan 13, 2026 | Change, Life, Meaning, Zen

We all have patterns—ways we respond to deadlines, difficult conversations, or the quiet call to care for our health, our relationships, our purpose. Often, we don’t move until we feel the heat.

Why?

Centuries ago, the Buddha offered a mirror in the form of a parable: the Four Horses. It’s a map of our readiness, of our habitual self. Not as a spiritual abstraction, but as a reflection of our everyday life. What we do here and now—this is the practice.

We each ride a deeply conditioned “horse.” Its temperament dictates our reactions:

  • The Excellent Horse moves at the shadow of the whip. It aligns intuitively with what is needed.
  • The Good Horse responds when the whip touches its hair. It acts on a clear signal.
  • The Poor Horse needs the whip to strike its flesh. It requires direct discomfort.
  • The Worst Horse waits for the pain to reach the bone. Only crisis compels it.

Be honest: Which horse feels most familiar?

For most of my life, I have ridden the fourth horse. My confession is this: “I have not changed, unless there was no other way.” My habitual self-waited for the pain in the bone—for circumstances to force my hand.

But seeing the horse is only the beginning. The real inquiry lies in understanding the terrain it runs on. In my experience, between the signal and the response, three primary shadows often fall. They are not flaws, but human patterns. Observing them is the practice.

  1. The Shadow of Reactance
    The moment an instruction comes—however well-intentioned—we often perceive it as an intrusion. This is psychological reactance: an automatic, defensive pull away from any perceived threat to our autonomy. The mind resists simply because it can, not because the request lacks value. Where do you feel this subtle pushback?
  2. The Shadow of Subjective Valuation
    We act based on a private, internal ledger. As economist Carl Menger showed with the Diamond-Water Paradox, value isn’t inherent; it’s assigned. We devote our scarcest resources—our time and attention—to what we deem most valuable in the moment. Where is your commitment placed on that ledger right now? Is the value seen in the immediate, or the eventual?
  3. The Shadow of Entitlement
    We live in a world where payment can foster the idea that we chart a purely individual course. But as with a symphony ticket—which grants you a seat, not the baton—true engagement often means joining a collective container. Does a subtle expectation for on-demand service obscure your participation in a shared, structured practice?

This isn’t just metaphor; it’s mechanism. The ‘Worst Horse’ is often the default of our survival brain, reacting only to sharp threats. The act of observing these shadows is the conscious mind waking up and saying, “I see this pattern.” This seeing is the beginning of rewiring.

The Practice: Observing the Horse, Not Judging It
This is not about violently taming your horse into an “Excellent” one. It is to notice, with gentle curiosity, the horse you are riding and the shadow it stands in.

When you delay, when you feel that bristle of resistance, when you rationalize… can you see the horse? Is it ignoring the shadow, waiting for the sting? And which shadow is there? Reactance? A devaluation? A sense of “I should get to do this my way”?

In that moment of noticing, a miracle occurs: you are no longer just the horse. You become the awareness that can see both the horse and the shadow. This is the beginning of freedom.

A Living Example: The Shadow vs. The Bone
When put in charge of our practice schedule, my horse sought comfort. I declared Sundays free—no 4 a.m. wake-up. Everyone was happy.

My 90-year-old teacher, Fr. AMA, said nothing. But on Sunday morning, he was alone in the Zendo, sitting in zazen as always. His practice didn’t bend to convenience. He moved with the shadow of the whip, not the ache of the bone.

He was not riding a better horse.

The Centaur: The Unity of Rider and Path
This points us beyond the four types. In mythology, the Centaur represents a profound unity: the human mind seamlessly fused with the horse’s body. Awareness and instinct, one being.

The ultimate aim is not to be a frail rider forever struggling to control a wild horse. It is to become the Centaur.

In this integration, the shadows dissolve. There is no separate “self” to feel threatened, to calculate return, or to demand special terms. Action flows from a unified intelligence. The Centaur does not respond to the whip; it moves in harmony with the direction of the path itself. Its movement is its nature.

My teacher that morning was the embodiment of the Centaur. Practice was simply flowing. Rider, path, and steed were not separate.

The Dance of Change: Lessons in Transformation, Resonance, and Compassion

The Dance of Change: Lessons in Transformation, Resonance, and Compassion

by | Nov 29, 2025 | Change, Management, Transformation, Zen

The first time I heard the phrase “Change Management,” I wasn’t in a lecture hall or reading a textbook. I was on the 23rd floor of the Renaissance Centre in Detroit, in 2004, looking out at the river below, surrounded by seventeen senior leaders from the tech world’s elite. I was there for the GM Round Table, representing Wipro as the most junior person in the room.

That moment was the beginning of a journey—one that would weave through corporate high-rises, soul-testing commutes, and the quiet of a Zen meditation hall. It was a journey that taught me change is not a process to be managed, but a dance to be learned—a subtle, living art built on resonance, trust, and compassion.

Beginnings: The Mask and the Scaffolding

I felt the weight of that room deeply. My boss, Geoff Phillips, saw my trepidation. He flew in and spent weekends drilling me in the art of consulting, teaching me to put on what I later called the “Monroe Mask”—that layer of outer confidence worn to cover the inner tremors.

Soon, I realized I wasn’t the only one learning to wear a mask. Our client manager enrolled the entire team in a three-day crash course on Change and Transformation Management, led by Booz Allen & Hamilton. That was the first time I heard the term. Those three days were precious.

But in my usual, tenacious way, I couldn’t stop there. I began gathering books—an enormous collection on Change Management. From the British Council’s digital library, I painstakingly downloaded chapter by chapter from nearly fifty books. Over time, those lessons became the scaffolding of my professional life.

That scaffolding was tested to its limit during my KAUST assignment. For months, I endured a daily commute of 260 kilometers—130 km each way from Jeddah to Thuwal and back. The endless desert highway became a grinding ritual that left no space for life itself. It was this physical and mental exhaustion that finally forced my hand; I decided I had to step out of Wipro to reclaim my time and my well-being.

But then, grace intervened. My client, Carsten Svensson, upon hearing my decision, spoke directly to my bosses. He valued the work more than the policy, and carved out a direct contract. He ensured I had a Red Sea-facing apartment on campus, a monthly Emirates ticket home, and a generous raise.

Those two years gave me the freedom to fly away from the 9-to-5 rhythm. The tax-free money helped Thara and me settle all our loans, buy an apartment, and decide to live debt-free.

But this story was never about financial freedom. It was about the lessons I learned in Change Management—through books, through work, through the very grain of lived experience.

The Four Directions of Change

From Detroit to KAUST to Bangalore, the compass of change has revealed itself in four enduring lessons:

  1. Reactance – The Pushback Reflex
    Reactance is the invisible wall that rises when people feel their freedom is being curtailed. It calls to mind the wisdom of Lao Tzu:

“Water is the softest thing, yet it can penetrate mountains and earth. This shows clearly the principle of softness overcoming hardness.”

A consultant who barges in with “best practices” is the hard hammer; the wall only hardens in response. The art is to be like water—to invite rather than impose. Frame change as choice, not command. Create space for ownership, so resistance transforms into curiosity.

  1. Persuasion Radar – The Hidden Antennae
    Every individual and organization has a subtle radar scanning for manipulation. This truth is perfectly captured by an old Arabian proverb:

“He who has a hundred guests cannot seat them all at the same table, but he can offend them all with a single dish of hypocrisy.”

One insincere gesture is all it takes. Authenticity, therefore, is not a soft skill but a strategic imperative. Speak plainly, act transparently. Influence flows not from persuasion, but from resonance.

  1. Overton Window – The Horizon of Acceptability
    The Overton Window is the spectrum of ideas a community currently considers “thinkable.” It is a slow, patient process of expanding the light, much like the words of Martin Luther King, Jr.:

“Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.”

You cannot force an unthinkable idea from outside the window; you can only illuminate it from within. Frame new ideas in familiar language. Stretch the window incrementally, so what was once unthinkable becomes inevitable.

  1. Context Matters – The Ecology of Change
    I never get tired of quoting Steve Donahue’s opening from Shifting Sands:
    “How big is the top of Mount Everest?”
    “About the size of a small kitchen table,” he responded.
    “That is amazing,” I said, “You know, when you cross the Sahara Desert, there is no way of knowing where the desert ends. There is no peak, no border, no sign that says, ‘You are Now leaving the Sahara Desert – Have a nice Day!’”

This is the essence of context. There is no universal map. Context is the soil. A banyan tree may scatter thousands of seeds, but it becomes another banyan only when a seed finds the right soil. A goose thrives in a pond; a camel in the desert. Listen to the land. Change is ecological, not mechanical.

The Unlearning: Compassion as the Ground

After I left Wipro, I stepped fully into managing the affairs of our Zen meditation center, Bodhi Sangha.

In my very first week, my teacher, Fr. AMA Samy, gave me a single lesson: “Be compassionate, regardless of the situation. Don’t bring your corporate hat here.”

And then he quoted a Sanskrit sloka:
Bryat satyam, priyam bryat, na bryat apriya satyam.
(Speak the truth, speak it sweetly, but do not speak unpleasant truth.)

Here, I had no title, no salary leverage. My only tools were compassion, trust, and presence. This was the most profound validation of the principles I had studied. The compass was true, even here—especially here.

The Nuance: Honesty is Not Transparency

This journey taught me another vital lesson: Honesty and integrity are the essential blocks of transformation, but honesty is not the same as transparency.

You must be honest in all you convey. Your word must be true. But to believe you must reveal every card in your hand, in a compulsive rush for total transparency, is to invite disaster. It can overwhelm, create unnecessary panic, or be weaponized against the very change you seek.

Nature understands this deeply. Human beings and animals have skin. Trees have bark. These are not walls of deception; they are vital boundaries that protect the delicate life within, allowing for selective exchange with the outside world. They are membranes of wisdom.

You can speak your truth with integrity without revealing the raw, unfinished, and vulnerable core all at once. Timing, dosage, and discernment are everything. This is the lesson from nature: be honest in your being, but wise in your revelation.

The Final Truth: Time is the Essence

And yet, all these principles rest upon one universal, non-negotiable truth: Time is the essence of all change.

We cannot alter this principle, regardless of the compulsions of Wall Street or Dalal Street. One cannot create a baby in two months by enlisting four mothers.

Nature achieves everything—without hurrying, without hastening. This brings to mind the timeless wisdom of Lao Tzu:

“He who stands on tiptoe doesn’t stand firm.
He who rushes ahead doesn’t go far…

If you want to accord with the Tao,
just do your job, then let go.”

The Dance Is the Path

So, this is my synthesis. My learning.

Change is not a formula to be memorized. It is a dance. A flight path constantly being reshaped by winds, horizons, and landscapes.

This philosophy redefines our role as that of a pilgrim—a seeker who walks alert to resistance, attuned to sincerity, patient with horizons, and humble before context.

In a world obsessed with speed and scale, this compass reminds me that true transformation is never about control.

It is always, and only, about resonance. And resonance requires the courage to be honest, the wisdom to be discerning, and the patience to listen to the ancient rhythms of nature itself.

 

Vanaprastha for Our Times: On Burnout, Busyness, and the Third Path

Vanaprastha for Our Times: On Burnout, Busyness, and the Third Path

by | Oct 12, 2025 | Career, Change, Harmony, Joy, Life, Peace, STRESS, Transformation, Zen

When M@@@@Lee first arrived at our zendo, I was struck by his quiet discipline. Middle‑aged, yet carrying the vitality of someone twenty years younger, he never missed a single zazen session. He spoke little, preferring to rest his gaze on forests, hills, and waterfalls rather than books. Only later did I learn of his past: 18 years in the United States as a chartered accountant, often working eighteen‑hour days in investment banks, living in luxury until burnout forced a reckoning.

For the last One and half decades, he has lived like a nomad, frugal and free. He speaks of happiness and contentment not as achievements, but as discoveries. His story is a living commentary on Byung‑Chul Han’s The Burnout Society. Han, another son of Korea, describes how the achievement society—with its relentless drive to optimize, perform, and succeed—leads not to freedom but to exhaustion. He contrasts deep attention, the contemplative focus that gave rise to philosophy and art, with hyperattention, the restless scattering of the mind across endless stimuli. In losing boredom and silence, Han warns, we lose the very conditions for renewal.

Lee embodies the medicine Han prescribes. His burnout was the breaking point Han diagnoses. His nomadic simplicity is the refusal of the achievement society. His steady zazen restores the deep attention Han says we have lost. His gaze on forests and waterfalls is a return to what Han calls the contemplative dwelling that modernity has abandoned.

And then there is Gopal, a respected corporate leader who recently reflected on his own transition into retirement. Quoting his father, he wrote: “To catch a train that has already started, you may have to run alongside it before jumping in.” It is a wise metaphor for transitions, yet it also reveals the subtle compulsion many of us feel—to keep running, to keep filling life with activity, even when the train we are chasing may not be ours to board.

In observing these two paths—Lee’s and Gopal’s—we see a fundamental dichotomy in how we face life’s transitions. On one end lies the person who is totally burnt out… On the other, the person who, even after a great innings…

So it is safe to assume there are two kinds of people out there. The exhausted renouncer and the restless achiever. One who feels totally burnt out and want nothing to do with it. For him, emptying his mind about anything about it is what makes the rest of his life worthwhile. While the other, after a great innings and having done brilliantly well in his chosen profession, still is eager to jump into the next train of achievement. After reaching the top of the pyramid, why the eagerness, why the worry about the next phase of productivity? Monetary considerations of worry about a lesser lifestyle may not be the reasons. If one is intended to use their great expertise and knowledge of serving the mankind for the rest of their life after a great fist innings, may not get that wary about what s/he will be doing with their time. Being not comfortable about not being in limelight, could be one. Or maybe it is due to the worry about how to be with the void /emptiness in their life.

Even if  they worry about the next innings for none of the above mentioned reasons and it is just for timepass, when we call it timepass—scrolling reels, flipping channels, or filling the calendar with trivialities—it is rarely innocent. Beneath the surface lies the same movement: the fear of the void.

We are uneasy with silence, with the space where applause fades and identity loosens. So we keep ourselves busy, not because the activity nourishes us, but because it shields us from emptiness.

But as Krishnamurti reminds us, emptiness is not a defect to be patched over. It is a doorway. When we stop trying to fill it, the void reveals itself as fullness—alive with creativity, compassion, and presence.

The real courage is not in passing time, but in letting time pass through us, unresisted.

Here, Pascal’s old warning rings true: “All of humanity’s problems stem from man’s inability to sit quietly in a room alone.” Whether it is the youth endlessly scrolling through reels, the middle‑ager flipping through channels, or the retiree rushing to fill the calendar, the root is the same: our discomfort with stillness.

Krishnamurti went even deeper. He observed that as long as the mind is seeking to fill its emptiness, it will remain empty. We try to fill the void with activity, possessions, relationships, or applause, but this only perpetuates the sense of lack. He wrote: “As long as the mind is seeking to fill itself, it will always be empty. When the mind is no longer concerned with filling its own emptiness, then only does that emptiness cease to be.”

For Krishnamurti, emptiness is not a defect to be patched over, but a doorway. “In emptiness alone can there be creation,” he said. When the mind stops running, stops filling, stops chasing trains, it discovers a silence that is not absence but presence. From that silence, something new can be born—innocence, creativity, compassion.

This is the crucial distinction:

  • To fill hunger is natural, necessary, life‑sustaining.
  • To fill psychological emptiness is endless, and often destructive.

When activity arises from genuine need or from the joy of service, it nourishes. When it arises from fear of silence or the craving for applause, it drains.

Zen would call this the great death of the striving self. And in that death, a new life appears—one that needs little, yet feels complete.

In the ancient Indian worldview, Vānaprastha—the stage of “going to the forest”—was not only for ordinary householders but also for kings and emperors, who were expected to renounce power and wealth at their peak and turn toward contemplation. King Bharata, after whom Bhārat (India) is named, is one of the most striking examples: he gave up his throne and retreated into the forest to seek liberation.

Today, the forest may not be a literal place, but a state of mind—an inner withdrawal from applause and limelight into presence.

Between the exhausted renouncer and the restless achiever, there are a few rare ones who discover meaning early and live it seamlessly until their last breath. For them, life is not about applause or limelight, nor about withdrawal in exhaustion. Their work itself is their prayer, their service, their offering.

Saba Naqvi once wrote of Mallikarjun Mansur, the saintly Hindustani vocalist from Dharwar. Stricken with lung cancer, doctors had given up. His daughter was told not to deny him the things he loved most. In his final moments, he asked for a bidi, and as he drew on it, he was still humming Raga Jogiya, almost inaudibly. With the raga on his lips, his head rolled over, and he was gone. His art was his final breath.

Another story is told of Abdul Karim Khan, founder of the Kirana gharana. On his way to Puducherry to sing for Sri Aurobindo, he sensed his end was near. He stepped off the train at an unknown station, spread out his prayer mat, and sang his last song. He died there on the platform. He did not board the next train of achievement—he stepped off, to let music itself carry him across.

And I see the same spirit in my own Zen master, Fr. AMA Samy. At ninety, he still sends emails at 3:30 a.m. with reflections, still walks into the zendo for early morning meditation. His life is not about filling time or clinging to relevance. It is about continuity of presence, a rhythm of practice that does not retire.

These lives remind us that there is a third path: not renunciation in exhaustion, not striving for the next platform, but a life so deeply rooted in one’s calling that even the final breath is an act of practice, art, or service. For them, there is only one train—the train to eternity.

In the end, whether we are young and restless, middle‑aged and distracted, or retired and still wary of leaving the limelight, the invitation is the same: to stop running, to stop filling, to sit still. The rishis called it Vānaprastha. Han calls it deep attention. Pascal calls it the courage to sit quietly. Krishnamurti calls it the doorway of emptiness. Zen calls it the great death of the striving self. Many names, one truth: the train we most need to catch is not out there on the tracks—it is already here, in the stillness of this very moment.

The Crane That Could Not Lift and the Compassion Shift

The Crane That Could Not Lift and the Compassion Shift

by | Sep 29, 2025 | Change, Compassion, Grief, Joy, Meditation, Peace, RElationship, STRESS, Transformation, Zen

Yesterday night, was on my way to Bangalore from Kanzeon Zendo, Perumalmalai. The KSRTC Volvo semi sleeper  bus stopped in the middle of nowhere. At first I thought , it was a momentary halt. But then as it lingered on  A, most of the passengers stepped down from the bus to look for the cause of block on the ghat road. I continued to read Mother Mary comes to me. Then Driver Krishnappa , came back and asked me to go and see. There was a mini truck off the road, almost landed perfectly on all four.

 Krishnappa, the ace KSRTC driver is one of my new found friends from my sojourn to  Perumalmalai over the last three years.  For the first two years, I had made a monthly trip of. Blr- Kodai- Blr  and since last December. It is. Kodai-Blr- Kodai.  Mostly on Sunday to Friday  or Friday to Sunday.  And most of these days, drivers were  Krishnappa, Girisha and  Sunmadhappa ….  I used to get down at Perumalmalai some 13 km away from Kodaikanal , the bus stand.  Though my initial interactions with them was just friendly courteous smiles and a thank you as I stepped off from the bus.  It was Krishnappa who broke the ice.  Once while having early morning coffee at that way side coffee shop during a pitstop, he asked me what I am doing at that place , making so may visits.  And when I shared about Zendo and Zen, he  told me with a hearty laugh, that they thought I am a drug carrier from Blr.  Especially since I used to travel lightly and used to get down before the check post and town limits.

From then onwards, those coffee became on the house for me. If Krishnappa was the driver,  he used to announce to them,  Nammavaru to the coffee “barrista”  which roughly translates. “ He is one of us”.

He was a very interesting character. One who took immense pride in being one of the really early Volvo bus drivers in Karnataka.  He told me that. It was Karnataka RTC which bought Volvo buses first in India and they  had put their best drivers for that fleet.  And I have heard that story from him quite a number of times.

So when a Pilot of an aero plane, a Captain of a ship and driver of your bus, tell you something, you think twice, or at times thrice before saying a  reason to say know. So I got down from the bus and made my way to that  accident spot. Just  10 – 20 meters ahead. 

 I was told, the driver had passed away on the spot. May be yesterday afternoon. Truck went down and the driver’s soul up. Since the truck load was fruits, the owner had send a crane to lift the truck. Looking at the crane, Krishnappa told me that , that crane wont be able to life the truck with the fruit load. And after more than 1 1/2 hour of effort , those workers to agreed and gave up. On our walk back to bus, Krishnappa told me that many a times, driver die due to heart attacks. ANd accoding to him, that is a better way than live on with pain and severe injiruies. ! Neither i agreed nor disagreed with him. Our journey to Bangalore continued. MAy be that scene was playing up in my mind. When i landed in Bangalore home , very early morning, there in Linkedin popped up a advt brochure on Compassion Shift. An org i had worked ( ?) earlier is part of that program. and i had to type in the below comment. During the last part of my tenure over there, i was in deep depression. My otherwise friendly Tinnitus had turned into a monster in my brain and ate away, my sleep, my wakefulness, peace of mind, joy and hunger and tears. Dont know which crane was able to pull me out of that abyss. But i too landed on all four in Zendo on the Way. On reaching home, went with Thara for our breakfast at The Rameshwaram Cafe… Thara was talking about their new joint named Thirtha in Cunnigham road. May be there was too much butter on that crispy rava dosa. I slept again and woke up for lunch.. 🙂 Pls find below my comment without further comments. Shift / transformation is not a one time act . One constantly and consciously need to be aware and keep working on it. Often reflecting on the past does help. reflecting on the past is crucial. This is wise reflection (yoniso manasikara). We look back not with guilt or pride, but as a scientist studies data: · “In that moment of irritation, where was my compassion?” · “When I acted kindly, what was the true motive? Was it free from the ‘passion’ for gratitude or recognition?” · “How did that word or mindless act of mine land on the other person?” This reflection isn’t dwelling; it’s learning to do better next time. It’s how we polish the lens of our understanding and make the “compassion shift” more accessible, more instantaneous, in the next moment of interaction. And what is a butcher’s compassion . Is it towards the animal or the knife as in Daoist parable of Cook Ding . And who are we in the parable! The animal, knife or Cook Ding ??? From someone who was on the receiving end of compassion…😀

On second thoughts,  I feel  compassion is not about choosing between the animal, the knife, or Cook Ding. it is about seeing that in each moment, we are all three—cutting, being cut, and learning to move with the grain of life. And in that realisation , the shift happens quietly without needing an external prompt, like a bus resuming its journey after a long halt on the ghat road. In the end, the truck stayed where it was, the crane gave up, and the bus rolled on. Life too moves like that—sometimes stuck, sometimes lifted, sometimes simply continuing. What matters is whether compassion travels with us. I don’t know which crane lifted me from my own abyss, or which hand steadied me when I landed on all four.

But I know this: each time I pause to reflect, compassion becomes a little more available, a little more natural. And that, perhaps, is the real shift.

Also the true crane is not outside us at all, but that  quiet strength, boot strap program written in us by that great intelligence  lifts us, again and again, into the next step of the Way.

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.

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