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The Marketplace of Masks: Value, Silence, and the Sound of One Hand Clapping

The Marketplace of Masks: Value, Silence, and the Sound of One Hand Clapping

by | Jan 24, 2026 | Integrity, Life, value, Zen

In 2002, one of the things learnt from Dr. Richard McHugh is that much of our behaviour and actions stem from the subconscious or unconscious mind. For a while, while leading the Talent Transformation Academy at Wipro, it became clear why facilitators use games and simulations in corporate classrooms. It is in those moments that the mask falls off, and we begin to notice what is usually hidden.

Later, during a PG in Education at APU, frameworks such as Social Exchange Theory, Carl Menger’s subjective value and marginal utility, and most importantly the minmax principle, offered lenses to decode these observations. Returning to NGO work and then corporate corridors, observing people’s behaviour and learning from it became a kind of pastime. It is fascinating, almost like marking tally marks, when a senior leader rudely interrupts others in a meeting, or when an SVP nods approvingly whenever the Chairman speaks. People are constantly trading in currencies of respect, attention, status, and approval. The interruption is a claim to status currency. The nod is an exchange of approval for favour with the Chairman. It is a market of social transactions.

Once, an experiment made this visible. In a brainstorming session, notes were exchanged between myself and my boss. I presented his inputs, and he mine. The team’s responses were striking—most of my ideas, when voiced by my boss, were voted in. Again, at the Zendo and outside, it is equally interesting to observe how people respond—or do not respond—on social media and various community groups.

Carl Menger’s principle of subjective value and marginal utility applies directly to meetings: an idea’s worth is not intrinsic, but assigned subjectively by the receiver. The same idea, voiced by me, had low marginal utility, but when packaged and presented by my boss, it carried high value—the source added a premium. People are value-appraisers in every interaction.

The minmax principle (minimizing maximum possible loss) is the engine of much corporate politeness and risk-aversion. Supporting the Chairman’s point or deferring to the highest-paid person’s opinion (HiPPO) is often less about genuine agreement and more about minimizing personal risk.

And one of the toughest koans in Zen is “What is the sound of one hand clapping?” created by Hakuin Ekaku, one of the famous Rinzai masters. Once a practitioner gains insight into that koan, one begins to live with the sound of one hand clapping. There is freedom from approvals, emojis, and appreciation—even from close family or friends. One speaks because speech must arise. One writes for the sake of writing. Nothing more.

The Zendo and other platforms make this explicit. The response or non-response is pure social exchange and subjective value. A like or comment is a micro-currency. Silence can be a deliberate withholding of currency—disagreement, indifference—or a calculation that engagement has no utility or carries risk (the minmax principle in a public forum). The online disinhibition effect—both positive and toxic—is another way the mask falls off.

Here, the koan of one hand clapping integrates seamlessly as liberation. All the tally marks, nods, interruptions, likes, and emojis are currencies in the social marketplace. But the koan points to freedom from that marketplace. To live with the sound of one hand clapping is to speak without seeking approval, to write without chasing appreciation, to act without calculating marginal utility. It is radical liberation from the minmax principle itself.

And most often, our learning and education come from a mindset of instrumentality—we learn in order to get something. Yet there is another way. My children, who had their schooling at a Krishnamurti school, taught me that learning is not transactional but transformational. Learning is meant for making or unmaking ourselves. The mindset of Instrumental vs. Integral Learning is a crucial one. Conventional learning often becomes another transaction—acquiring skills to trade in the marketplace. In contrast, learning for “making or unmaking ourselves” is inherently non-transactional. It aligns with the one hand clapping. It is learning for sovereignty, not for currency.

The Marketplace of Self

These observations highlight the core challenge of collaboration: human beings are not rational agents evaluating pure data, but social beings navigating a complex web of subconscious drives, perceived value, and status economies.

The corporate and social world is a subconscious economy where our masks are both currency and commodity. Every interruption, nod, like, or silence is a transaction in the currencies of status, approval, and security. The theories of Menger and Minmax aren’t just academic; they are the living, breathing algorithms of daily life.

That note-swap with my boss is the quintessential proof. It reveals that in this marketplace, the “who” often completely overwrites the “what.” The subjective value conferred by status can render identical content either priceless or worthless. This is the silent, powerful bias that undermines meritocracy.

And the Zen practitioner who lives with the sound of one hand clapping has already stepped beyond the need for transformation—because the freedom is already here.

Hakuin’s koan is not a riddle, but an antidote to the social marketplace. To live with the sound of one hand clapping is to opt out of the exchange. It is to act from an internal locus of value, where creation and expression are ends in themselves. It is freedom from the tally sheet.

The ultimate goal, perhaps, is not to make everyone a Zen monk, but to create pockets of space—in relationships, in corporate meetings, in classrooms, in online forums—where the sound of one hand clapping can be heard: where ideas are evaluated more independently of their source, where silence is not fearful, and where contribution is driven less by the calculation of personal utility and more by the intrinsic value of the act itself.

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.”

Willing the Will: From Material Assets to Essence

Willing the Will: From Material Assets to Essence

by | Oct 5, 2025 | Compassion, Gratitude, Grief, Joy, Peace, value

A few days ago, in our Coaching WhatsApp group, there was a conversation about writing a will. Many wise and practical suggestions were shared, mostly focused on financial assets—how to ensure they are passed on smoothly to loved ones. In a way, our will reflects what we owned while alive, even after we have stopped living.

Soon after, Thara and I were visiting my sister in Bangalore. During the course of conversation, she shared the sad fate of a distant relative. On the eve of his housewarming, he met with a freak bike accident and has since remained in a coma, tube-fed in a hospital bed. It was heartbreaking to hear.

Seventeen years ago, my father passed away without writing a will. He was a generous man and did not have much to leave behind. The small house he built, he ensured was registered in my mother’s name, along with his family pension. That was his quiet foresight. Last year, my Zen master shared the draft of his will with me, and I was touched to see my name in it.

When I moved to the Zendo last year, I had already given away what little I had of financial worth. Today, I live on a modest four-digit pension. For a while, I felt there was nothing left worth writing a will for. But the question lingered: other than money, what do I truly own that is worthy? This was on my mind as I took the night bus back from Bangalore to the Zendo.

What is rightfully, legally, and morally mine—and more importantly, what am I, legally and spiritually? These are deep questions. In the natural world, animals do exhibit an instinct of “myness”—my prey, my food, my territory. Yet once their life is done, there are no personal claims. They cannot leave behind a will. Nature has no concern for their mortal remains, their cave, or the trees they nested in.

Much later, Marx observed that many human problems began when we started dividing the Earth and creating ownership: of land, water, air, trees, food. In The Communist Manifesto, he wrote:

“The theory of Communism may be summed up in one sentence: Abolish all private property.”

His point was not about denying people shelter or livelihood, but about how the very act of carving up the Earth into mine and yours created alienation and conflict. Even today, our ownership is often nominal. If gold, diamonds, or petroleum are found beneath the land we “own,” the government claims it.

If this is true of material assets, what about the products of the mind? Many of us claim ownership of those too, and make them part of our will. Yet there are exceptions. U. G. Krishnamurti, for instance, refused to claim ownership of his words. On the front page of his books, he wrote:

“You are free to reproduce, distribute, interpret, misinterpret, distort, garble, do what you like, even claim authorship without my consent or the permission of anybody.”

When I added a similar note to my first published book, The Fallen Flower, Fragrant Grass, the publisher told me they would not allow it. I may have to go to a printer directly and get it printed. In contrast, Jiddu Krishnamurti fought a long, drawn-out court battle with Rajagopal over the rights to his teachings and writings.

And then there are inventions like the three-point seat belt, the internet, and the polio vaccine—gifts to humanity, not possessions to be hoarded.

 

This reminds me also of Kahlil Gibran. In The Prophet, he wrote of eating fruit with reverence:

“When you crush an apple with your teeth, say to it in your heart, Your seeds shall live in my body, And the buds of your tomorrow shall blossom in my heart."

And echoing this spirit, an old proverb says: “We enjoy the shade of trees we did not plant; we eat the fruit of trees we did not sow.” Both remind us that what we inherit and what we pass on are rarely ours alone.

Hearing about my distant relative’s tragedy—much like Michael Schumacher’s accident—brought another thought to the surface. I do not want a medically prolonged life. For two reasons: first, because the most important hope is for a dignified death. And second, because I once read that 95% of one’s lifetime medical expenditure is spent in the last four or five days of life. That struck me as both sobering and unnecessary.

This reflection deepened as I skimmed Paul Kalanithi’s When Breath Becomes Air.

He writes:

“At those critical junctures, the question is not simply whether to live or die but what kind of life is worth living… Because the brain mediates our experience of the world, any neurosurgical problem forces a patient and family… to answer this question: What makes life meaningful enough to go on living?”

That question lingers with me.

And here, again, Gibran’s words return with force (On Giving, The Prophet):

“You give but little when you give of your possessions.

It is when you give of yourself that you truly give.

For what are your possessions but things you keep and guard for fear you may need them tomorrow?

And tomorrow, what shall tomorrow bring to the over prudent dog burying bones in the trackless sand as he follows the pilgrims to the holy city?

And what is fear of need but need itself? Is not dread of thirst when your well is full, the thirst that is unquenchable?

There are those who give little of the much which they have—and they give it for recognition and their hidden desire makes their gifts unwholesome.

And there are those who have little and give it all. These are the believers in life and the bounty of life, and their coffer is never empty.

There are those who give with joy, and that joy is their reward. And there are those who give with pain, and that pain is their baptism.

And there are those who give and know not pain in giving, nor do they seek joy, nor give with mindfulness of virtue;

They give as in yonder valley the myrtle breathes its fragrance into space.

Through the hands of such as these God speaks, and from behind their eyes He smiles upon the earth.

It is well to give when asked, but it is better to give unasked, through understanding; And to the open-handed the search for one who shall receive is joy greater than giving.

And is there aught you would withhold?

All you have shall some day be given; Therefore give now, that the season of giving may be yours and not your inheritors’. You often say, ‘I would give, but only to the deserving.’

The trees in your orchard say not so, nor the flocks in your pasture. They give that they may live, for to withhold is to perish. Surely he who is worthy to receive his days and his nights, is worthy of all else from you.

And he who has deserved to drink from the ocean of life deserves to fill his cup from your little stream. And what desert greater shall there be, than that which lies in the courage and the confidence, nay the charity, of receiving?

And who are you that men should rend their bosom and unveil their pride, that you may see their worth naked and their pride unabashed?

See first that you yourself deserve to be a giver, and an instrument of giving.

For in truth it is life that gives unto life—while you, who deem yourself a giver, are but a witness.

And you receivers—and you are all receivers—assume no weight of gratitude, lest you lay a yoke upon yourself and upon him who gives.

Rather rise together with the giver on his gifts as on wings; For to be over mindful of your debt, is to doubt his generosity who has the freehearted earth for mother, and God for father.”

Perhaps, then, the real will we leave behind is not a document of assets, but a testament of choices—how we wish to live, how we wish to die, and what we wish to pass on that cannot be measured in currency.

For me, it is the dignity of a simple life, the freedom of a simple death, and the hope that my words, my friendships, and my small acts of belonging may outlive me.

My late father was an ordinary man who lived an ordinary life of extraordinariness. Even after seventeen years, when my siblings and I speak of him, and when those who once knew him remember him, I realise this truth: in the end, a will is not measured in possessions, but in the meaning we leave behind. 

Truly, it is not our assets that matter, but the essence we bequeath.

The Iron Bar, Birkenstock Sandals and the Moon

The Iron Bar, Birkenstock Sandals and the Moon

by | Sep 5, 2025 | Compassion, Empathy, Friendship, Gratitude, Joy, RElationship, value, Zen

We’ve all seen those posts: a neat little parable, a clever moral, a tidy takeaway about “unlocking your value.” They get likes, they get shares — and then they vanish. But some stories don’t fit into a neat box. They stay with you, because they’re not about price at all. They’re about the kind of value you can’t measure, can’t market, and can’t steal.

“A thousand‑gram bar of iron. In its raw form, it might fetch a hundred dollars. Shape it into horseshoes and its value rises to two‑fifty. Draw it into sewing needles and you’re looking at seventy thousand. Craft it into watch springs and gears, and it’s worth six million. Refine it into precision laser parts for lithography, and it could command fifteen million. “, thus read a LinkedIn post by an  “Influencer” with a really large number of followers. The lesson seems obvious: your worth is not just in what you’re made of, but in what you make of yourself.

And yet, that’s only part of the truth. Value is never absolute. It bends and shifts with context and timing. On a desert island, the Kohinoor diamond would not buy you a sip of water. In that moment, a loaf of bread or a bottle of clean water would be beyond price. Even the humble iron bar might be more precious than a laser part if it could anchor a shelter or crack open coconuts.

The trouble with our modern world is that we’ve let market price masquerade as the only measure of worth. And in the age of social media, this distortion has taken on a new costume: the endless stream of clever, self‑promoting “insights” packaged as wisdom. Posts that sound profound but are designed to sell you the author’s brand. We scroll through them, mistaking polish for depth, applause for truth.

Some time back, in a WhatsApp group, there was a long discussion about the “right” pricing for coaching. I’ve made a decent living from coaching, but never a fortune in USD or INR. What I have earned, though, are relationships that no invoice could capture.

When I lost my day job and coaching was my only bread and butter, I called an old friend and colleague to ask if he might buy a copy of my book. I get INR 49 from each sale. I hung up, reached for my door key — and saw a message that he had transferred a large sum into my account. I called him immediately to say I wasn’t looking for a loan and had no idea when I could repay it. He laughed and said, “There are things money can’t buy. Don’t put a price tag on my friendship with you.”

Another friend once transferred INR 50,000 for a single coaching session. I called to tell him he must have made a mistake — I don’t charge anywhere near that. He simply said he knew, and that was exactly the point. And that was the highest money I got for a Coaching session till date.  ( Btw he was my first coaching client. Still he is. And he is a designated CEO of an IT company. 🙂 )

And then, more recently, there was my 19‑year‑old son, in his first semester at university. He was planning a trip to visit a friend in Jalandhar, and I sent him some extra money without him asking. Soon after, he wrote in our family group to say he could manage the trip within his monthly pocket money and didn’t need more. I was left wondering — at his age, did I have that kind of metta and muditā? That ease with enough, that relationship with money where you can receive with gratitude but also decline with grace.

Some time back, I had gifted a good pair of Birkenstock sandals to my Zen master, Fr. AMA Samy. When I returned from Bangalore, I noticed he wasn’t wearing them. Perhaps sensing my thought, he placed his hand on my shoulder and said that one of our staff at the Zendo didn’t have sandals, so he had given them to him. I half‑protested, saying they were costly, and he laughed it off: “How does it matter? A pair of sandals is a pair of sandals. There is value only when someone uses it.”

Zen master Ryōkan once returned to his hut to find a thief had taken everything. Looking out at the night sky, he wrote: “The thief left it behind: the moon at my window.” There are things that cannot be stolen: joy, peace of mind, the quiet companionship of the stars, the warmth of a shared laugh, the kind of friendship — and family — that gives without keeping score, and sometimes, the wisdom to say, “I have enough.”

Everything of value cannot be measured, and everything we can measure may not be of value. The iron bar, the diamond, the bread, the sandals, the moon — each has its moment. The art is not in chasing the highest price or the most likes, but in seeing clearly what is needed now, and offering it with an open hand.

 

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