I was flipping through my photos when I found this one—words painted on a monastery wall in Diskit, Nubra valley of Ladakh.
A simple message, but powerful:
“Never give up. Develop the heart. Too much energy is spent developing the mind instead of the heart.”
It made me pause.
We chase sharp minds. Smarter, faster, more efficient—that’s the dream. We analyse, strategise, optimise. But how often do we develop the heart?
Imagine if compassion was a skill, like coding or negotiation. If kindness was a KPI. If success was measured not just by what we built, but by how we made people feel.
The mind is important. But it can’t do the job alone. Logic without empathy is cold. Intelligence without kindness can be dangerous. A brilliant mind with no heart can justify anything—even things that hurt people.
Developing the heart is different. It means listening, even when you disagree. Choosing understanding over being right. Caring—not just for friends, but for strangers too.
Nalla Sivam, the unforgettable character from Anbe Sivam, puts it beautifully: “தயவுதான் கடவுள். எது நடந்தாலும் மனிதன் மனிதனாக இருக்கணும்.” (“Compassion is God. No matter what happens, a person must remain human.”)
It’s easy to be clever. It’s harder to be kind. Some think kindness is weakness—a soft option, a surrender. It’s not. Kindness is strength. Empathy takes effort. It’s much easier to argue than to understand.
A friend asked me, “But how do you define it exactly?” I told him that’s part of the problem. Not everything needs a precise formula. Sometimes, it’s just about helping people see that they too can help.
If that doesn’t make sense, well, it’s ok. That’s part of the deal.
To be ok with imperfection. To see the human beyond. And notice the deep, jagged edges of people and not miss them in the quest for surface-level perfection.
That’s what developing the heart is about.
This is perhaps the best message I can give myself. A note to self.
Some places demand silence. Not because they forbid noise, but because they leave you speechless. Meenakshi Amman Temple does that to me. Every single time.
I went yesterday. And I saw scaffolding. It wrapped around the gopurams, covering the intricate sculptures. It was early in the morning. So, no workers, just stillness. If this much care is going into restoring it, imagine what it took to build it. No machines, no shortcuts—just patience, skill, and intelligence.
Phones and cameras are not allowed inside after a fire in 2018. Perhaps the temple authorities trust that your memory has at least some storage space left. Later, as I scrolled through my old photos, I realised something—I had taken pictures of the ceilings, the pillars, the gopurams. But not the Yazhis. Perhaps I had wisely chosen to avoid making eye contact with a stone creature with teeth bigger than my head.
And yet, Yazhis are among the most stunning sculptures in the temple. These mythical beasts are carved with an astonishing mix of power and grace—lion-like bodies, an elephant’s trunk, a serpent’s tail. Strong claws. Giant teeth. A large penis. Elaborate decorations, all aesthetically done. A creature so fierce and fabulous that Hollywood fantasy films could learn a thing or two. If they ever reboot Jurassic Park with mythical beasts, I know where they should start. And these aren’t just still figures either—the giant sculptures are so elaborately done, they seem ever ready to jump out of the pillar and take on anyone into nonsense!
This time, I stood before them, staring. Ferocious yet elegant. My father once told me they were load-bearing structures. I had laughed. Who would carve something so intricate just to support a pillar?
But he was right. The Yazhis do hold up the structure, but they also hold up something else—imagination. Someone, centuries ago, looked at a block of stone and saw more than function. They saw movement, myth, and life itself. And they brought it to life.
As a child, I found them terrifying. Now, I find them familiar, almost reassuring. They have always been there. A solid as they were. My needs have shifted.
A Temple That Soothes the Soul
Whenever I visit with much time at hand, I just stand and stare. At the Yazhis. At the ceilings. At the sheer audacity of it all.
This is beyond religion. It is devotion, yes—but also craftsmanship, vision, and love.
And that is what makes it spiritual. Not just the rituals or the prayers, but the feeling of standing in a place that has stood for centuries. A place that has seen time pass but has remained unwavering. A place that, even in its silence, speaks.
It does something to the soul. It soothes, steadies, strengthens. It slows you down, pulls you iout of the present. For a few moments, the rush of the outside world fades. The doubts, the unfinished tasks, the endless scrolling—all of it seems distant.
There is a certain weight to this place. Not the kind that burdens you, but the kind that anchors you. It puts life back into your step. It reminds you that things of value take time, that endurance is built stone by stone. It gives you the courage to face the next uncertain moment.
In more than one sense, this is home.
Not in the way four walls define home, but in the way something familiar holds you when you need it most. In the way it reassures you that it has been here long before you arrived and will remain long after you leave.
Some long-form things are timeless. They stand tall, defying time and culture. Like the gopurams of Meenakshi Amman Temple. To me, they are a firm reminder that better is always possible.
Kevin Kelly is one of those people you take seriously. Not because he asks you to. But because he has lived a life that makes you want to listen. He co-founded Wired. He has written deeply about the future. And, more importantly for us today, he has spent over 50 years traveling the world. That’s half a century of airports, alleys, deserts, and detours. When someone like that gives travel advice, you pay attention.
Not all travel tips are equal. Some are practical. Some are poetic. A few are life-altering. The ones I’ve picked here are both useful and thought-provoking. They are not about checking places off a list. They are about soaking them in.
If you think travel is just about getting from one place to another, this might make you pause. If you already believe the best journeys are the ones where you lose track of time, read on.
Traveller or Tourist?
A tourist collects places. A traveller collects moments. The featured picture above is Dawki, Meghalaya. I remember the conversation with the boatman as much as I remember how bountiful nature is. It all comes together beautifully.
A tourist follows a plan. A traveller follows curiosity.
A tourist moves through a place. A traveller lets a place move through them.
The difference is subtle. But it is everything. It is the difference between taking a photo of a street market and sitting down for tea with the vendor. Between checking in at a famous site and wandering into a side street just because it looks interesting. Between skimming the surface and sinking into the depth of a place.
“Half the fun of travel is the aesthetic of lostness.” — Ray Bradbury
Travel Wisdom Worth Keeping
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From Kevin Kelly’s post, here are super special nudges to travel wisdom. Read the full post here.
Travel for a passion, not a place. Build a trip around cheese, jazz clubs, or ancient ruins. Not just cities and landmarks. You’ll remember that tiny family-run dairy in the Alps long after you’ve forgotten the famous cathedral in Rome.
Ask your taxi driver to take you to their mother’s home. Odd? Yes. But it works. You get a meal, a story, and a peek into real life. The driver gets to fulfill a family duty. The mother gets a guest to feed. Everyone wins.
Give yourself constraints. Travel isn’t just about where you go. It’s about how you go. Take only overnight trains. Carry just a day bag. Eat for a week on the price of a single fancy meal. Limits make things interesting.
Visit places that aren’t built for you. Cemeteries. Hardware stores. Small workshops. Real life happens there. Not everything has to be an Instagram moment.
It’s always colder at night than you think. Even in the tropics. Pack that extra layer.
Eat where the healthy locals eat. The fanciest restaurant may not have the best food. The street stall with a queue probably does.
Slow down. The best moments happen when you pause. The best conversations. The unexpected invites. The secret spots. They show up when you are not rushing.
Start your trip at the farthest point. Land. Then go far. Take an overnight train. A rickety bus. A long drive. Settle in at the most remote place you planned to visit. Then, slowly work your way back. Somehow, this makes the journey richer.
Buy souvenirs that have a home in your home. That intricate rug? Lovely. But where will it live when you return? If you don’t know, leave it behind.
When asking for restaurant recommendations, don’t ask where to eat. Ask where they ate last. You’ll get a real answer.
The Beauty of Travel
Bill Bryson, my favourite travel writer, once wrote, “To my mind, the greatest reward and luxury of travel is to be able to experience everyday things as if for the first time.”
That’s it.
Travel isn’t about crossing off landmarks. It’s about learning to see. To step into another world. Not as a tourist, but as a quiet observer. An eager participant. A respectful guest.
And when you do that, something else happens. You don’t just take a piece of the place with you. You leave a little of yourself behind.
So go. But don’t just go. Travel like a traveller. Soak it in.
Hyderabad doesn’t try too hard. Old and new exist without fuss. Charminar and Cyber Towers. Bazaars and glass buildings.
People are warm, witty, and fluent in many worlds. A chai can spark an hour-long debate—about the past, the present, the US, or Tirupati.
The food? Yes, the biryani is legendary. But also kebabs, the softest osmania biscuits, and some delightfully spicy vegetarian preparations.
The city stays clean. Surprises with green spaces. KBR Park for morning walks. Durgam Cheruvu for sunsets.
There is history in its bones and tech in its DNA.
Hyderabad is where opposites don’t just coexist—they complete each other. It doesn’t force harmony. It just moves, breathes, and thrives. A quiet example for the rest. Not just as a city to live in, but as a way to live.
Starting something new feels like stepping into a rain-soaked muddy puddle. I jump in and notice the mess. Tasks turn into Herculean labours. Cleaning the cardboard boxes in the cupboard above? Easy, until I find old report cards and spend hours reminiscing.
Beginnings are intimidating. Like the first day at a new school, the first word of this blog post, or that first step of a run when your last run is but a distant memory. Unknowns paralyse me. I cling to my cluttered garage and unread books.
“Someday Soon” whispers that tomorrow is better. It lures me with some immediate thing that must be done. Call the plumber. Check in on the US Election. But tomorrow is a myth. It’s where productivity goes to die. Meanwhile, today slips away, and my grand plans remain just that—plans.
I’m too good at imagining obstacles. Writing a book? The blank page mocks me. “What if it’s terrible?” I think. And so, it remains unwritten.
Beginnings are messy, awkward, and imperfect. But they’re also where great things start. I need to embrace the mess. Dive into the muddy puddle. It does not have as much muck as I make it out to be.
Starting is about momentum. Newton’s First Law: an object at rest stays at rest; an object in motion stays in motion. This applies to me, a “Someday Soon” adherent. I write in my journal, ‘Take that first step, and the next ones come easier.’
So, I plan to break tasks into bite-sized pieces. Clean one shelf. Write one page. Small victories build momentum. Soon, I’m not just starting—I’m continuing.
I need to be kind to myself. Fear of failure is powerful. But failure is part of the process. Every great achievement had false starts and mistakes. I must allow myself to fail, be imperfect, and learn as I go.
The hardest part is often the first step. Lao Tzu said, “The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.” So, I take that step. Write that sentence. Clean that shelf. Drink that health mix, even if it tastes like bad client feedback.
Starting isn’t as daunting as it seems. Silence “Someday Soon.” Embrace the mess. Some wise human quipped, “The best way to get something done is to begin.”
Ok, we are rolling. At least until the next station.
When it rains, it pours. Especially so if you are in the Western Ghats during the monsoon season. The rain brings alive many emotions.
I nurse a hot coffee—dark brown with a sting that somehow never fails to awaken my senses and keep me attentive to everything around me: the falling rain, passing clouds, and winds that seem eager to howl but end up whimpering as the rain pelts down.
Arundhati Roy once said, “The rain was beautiful to watch. The way it slanted across the road, forming fine curtains through which everything looked different.” Some writers and their words latch onto seasons. For me, the monsoon season calls for Arundhati Roy. Roy equals the monsoons.
Blinding sheets slip into to faltering drips and then offer a mirage-like pause, only to be followed by blinding sheets again. Meanwhile, my coffee is disappearing from my cup.
Bob Marley said something to the effect that some people feel the rain while others just get wet. I can’t stay in either camp for long. Sometimes, I want to soak it all in. Other times, I’m happy just to watch.
You see, life is never black and white. It’s a whole lot of grey. The rain reminds me of that. It’s never just this or that.
A whole lot of black and white is just grey masquerading as one of them. That thought gives me comfort. It helps me lay the quest to find and settle into one of those black or white territories to rest and find a small space on the margins.
Margins.
The rain pelts there as well. Perhaps it’s not about the margins, as much as it’s about the rain. “There is no place more comforting than being in the embrace of a rain-washed landscape,” said Kamala Das. And I couldn’t agree more.
It was evening. The still waters of Charlotte Lake were didn’t seem to care much about the Sun who was running away behind the hovering mountains.
Languid tourists with cameras, Kanda Bhajjis and sugar cane juice walked about trying to catch the sun for Instagram.
I walked away. After getting somewhere, I walked further to a place where I could be left alone with Charlotte lake. Almost as a reflex action, my hand cradled the phone and clicked a picture. It was when I examined what I had clicked, that I first saw him. In the frame. Sitting there and soaking up Charlotte Lake and its silence.
He sat there alone.
He did nothing. Just sat there. Motionless.
I put my phone away and watched him and Charlotte lake. He didn’t seem to care. I am not sure, if he even noticed. He sat still.
In a world filled with distraction, just sitting without doing anything is a rare sight. Here was someone who seemed to just do it! I put my phone away and immersed myself in watching him watch the still lake.
I don’t know how long we both did what we did. Suddenly, the mountains and fading light announced that the night was in. He didn’t seem to be bothered. But I had to get back. It was a bit of a trudge.
And as I walked back, I thought of him and his ability to just focus only to realise, I had done the same as well. I had put everything away, to focus on him.
“The fastest growing sector of the culture economy is distraction. Or call it scrolling or swiping or wasting time or whatever you want. But it’s not art or entertainment, just ceaseless activity.”
“I see those sad-eyed junkies, hooked to their devices, wherever I go. And even their facial expressions convey that haggard strungout look.”
“And it’s a bigger issue than just struggling artists or floundering media companies. The dopamine cartel is now aggravating our worst social problems—in education, in workplaces, and in private life.”
“If you thought the drug cartels were rich, wait till you see how much money the dopamine cartel is making.”
“Also, do yourself a favor. Unplug yourself from time to time, and start noticing the trees or your goofy pets. They actually look better in real life than in the headset.”
As I read and made some notes and quiet resolutions, my thoughts raced back to the man in Charlotte lake. He showed me that I too can sit and gaze without the need to aimlessly move my finger over a glass screen.
In the age of constant connectivity and endless stimuli, mastering the art of focus is more crucial than ever. “You can’t go distraction free, overnight”, I hear me tell myself. Embracing routines and reflecting on them is the route.
Dopamine addiction is for real. To free oneself from it requires friction. Blank spaces and routines can well be the friction I am in search of. The man at Charlotte lake taught me that.
Travel is a pathway for growth and development. That’s why I say travel to grow. After years of conscious travel, I can say with emphasis that I have packed and unpacked disproportionately large self-awareness, new learnings and beliefs than I have of bags and suitcases. If there is one more thing that I can add with equal if not more emphasis, then it is this: Travel is hugely under rated as a catalyst for development.
My love for travel got accentuated after reading Pico Iyer’s famous ‘Why We Travel’ piece from March, 2000. It was comforting to realise that there was nothing wrong with me if I just didn’t want to go check places off a “must-see” list. For I was (and continue to be) slow in soaking up a place. In small conversations, observations and just hanging out!
There are four paragraphs from Pico Iyer’s post that have been my guideposts. They are here.
“We travel, initially, to lose ourselves; and we travel, next, to find ourselves. We travel to open our hearts and eyes and learn more about the world than our newspapers will accommodate. We travel to bring what little we can, in our ignorance and knowledge, to those parts of the globe whose riches are differently dispersed. And we travel, in essence, to become young fools again — to slow time down and get taken in, and fall in love once more.”
“Yet for me the first great joy of traveling is simply the luxury of leaving all my beliefs and certainties at home, and seeing everything I thought I knew in a different light, and from a crooked angle.”
“Thus travel spins us round in two ways at once: It shows us the sights and values and issues that we might ordinarily ignore; but it also, and more deeply, shows us all the parts of ourselves that might otherwise grow rusty. For in traveling to a truly foreign place, we inevitably travel to moods and states of mind and hidden inward passages that we’d otherwise seldom have cause to visit.”
Shorncliff Pier, Brisbane
“So travel, at heart, is just a quick way to keeping our minds mobile and awake. As Santayana, the heir to Emerson and Thoreau with whom I began, wrote, “There is wisdom in turning as often as possible from the familiar to the unfamiliar; it keeps the mind nimble; it kills prejudice, and it fosters humor.” Romantic poets inaugurated an era of travel because they were the great apostles of open eyes. Buddhist monks are often vagabonds, in part because they believe in wakefulness. And if travel is like love, it is, in the end, mostly because it’s a heightened state of awareness, in which we are mindful, receptive, undimmed by familiarity and ready to be transformed. That is why the best trips, like the best love affairs, never really end.“
Every time I have stood in the queue of a land where I clearly am ‘foreign’ irrespective of the passport I hold, I learn something new. Especially so, when am not peering into my phone or consumed by the desire to see more. Just being present to all thats happening around me and reflecting on the experiences and thoughts those experiences brought alive for me have been life-altering in many ways. Because, even if I dont immediately change or do something different, I am very present to the fact there is a different way.
When I get back to where I start from, I rarely find that some pronounced changes have taken place since the time I set out. But to my eyes that sprout new lenses because they have absorbed different places, everything seems different. My mind colours old realities with new beliefs, ideas and hopes. Giving new energy for action and reflection.
If that is not a pathway to development and change, I don’t know what is.
Secret destinations are not so secret if you are not solely focused on the destination you came after. Martin Buber stitched travel to my heart with this immortal line.
“All journeys have secret destinations of which the traveller is unaware”.
Martin Buber
We all go on our journeys. There is a said destination that a contented traveller gets to. But a real traveller goes far beyond. Because the destination is not the end point. Several story(ies) start after you arrive!
There are elements like what else you discover in a journey. Like the lay of the land and markers in its evolution. Like this glorious temple of a 1000 years. It’s historical undulations. Some scripted in stone and other new tales that are spun to suit today’s skies. The internet tells you about this land’s past glory, the minerals beneath it and the flow of the water across the hills and much else. You can drink all of it in like a voyeur with no skin in the game or like a lover who is immersed in her love.
The rich air tells you a few stories, only if you are ready to stop and take in a breath without necessarily being coveted by the dull lure of THE destination you came after. Sometimes, I infer my lessons by looking at the people and their ways. Their quick stride, the simple ways, easy smiles, the quite common afternoon snooze under the neem tree and the collective bath by the lakeside.
At night when I peruse my random notes to realise, secret destinations are not so secret if the focus is on curiosity and possibility beyond what is apparent.
Today, I make my notes sitting in the shade that the Sun and a 1000 year old wall come together to offer.
There are two others men there. Animated in conversation.
One tells another a story from history about the king and his valour. He speaks as though he has seen it first hand. Passionate. Lyrical. And filled with energy. I am hooked. The story meanders.
And suddenly, he looks into his watch and remembers that they have to be somewhere else by this time. The other agrees. Their destination interferes with a story that was building up well. Both of them get up, dust themselves up and move.
Leaving me with their incomplete story. I let the king stay within me whilst shuffling my feet and wondering what new secret destination awaits the king. And me.
It was a rather quiet cafe in the busy street in a big city. It had all the hallmarks of failed blitzcaling and a wretched afterlife. I liked the coffee. Every time I had been there. One of those places where they don’t have frills and shout outs. You order. You stand in the queue. You collect your coffee. Walk to a table of your choice. Read. Talk. Stare into the ceiling. Whatever.
The man in question waited for his turn. I figured quickly that his wallet ran out of money before his patience did. Without a coffee and brimming with embarrassment, he borrowed some righteous anger and thundered at the lady at the cash counter: “Do you know who I am?”
At this point the whole cafe, I mean, mostly tables, chairs and two people including yours truly, looked up. He could have been one of us. Tired look. Eyes desirous of coffee. Sparse strands of hair on his head making a feeble attempt to stand up.
The young lady at the cash counter looked at him and said, “No Sir”. That his thundering evoked such a solid yet clear message shook the chill off me and I was fully awake.
Whatever penny that had to drop had dropped with a silent clang from the empty wallet. He looked around the cafe. There were two people in the cafe. Me. And an old lady huddled in a distant corner who stayed huddled in the company of her book.
I looked at him and he looked at me. He turned to the lady at the cash counter and said, “I come here every day and you don’t know who I am?”
The young lady with a Buddha-like economy with her words and her emotions repeated, “no sir”. He turned to look at me again. I looked at him with some curiosity. He swiftly turned to look at her. She looked at me.
The wretched long arm of embarrassment seemed to have enveloped him in a warm embrace.
“You don’t know who I am. I don’t want your coffee” he said with some seriousness. With those words, he stomped out of the cafe. Holding a sputtering assortment of other words just below his tongue, giving me a quick cold stare as he opened the door and disappeared into the street.
The door closed and I looked at the young lady. She was busy adjusting her lipstick using her phone as a mirror. It was as though the tired man with sparse hair had never come in. The last shards of his coarse “I don’t want your coffee” was still floating in the room and ringing in my ear.
Perhaps she had seen enough and more of such people. Or maybe she was a brave lass. Maybe she didn’t care. Or she couldn’t tell. Or the phone and her lipstick helped her handle the tension. I was left with a bevy of questions.
I sat with my coffee. She played a good song as the coffee coursed my veins. I thought of the man. “Do you know who I am?”, he had asked. “Idiot”. I muttered.
I left after finishing the remainder of the book that I wanted to finish. The young lady was on selfie mode. Puckered lips and all that. The music played well.
As I stepped on to the posh street of a business district, many bobbing entitled heads walked by. I merged into it with ease. Carrying my questions and the words that I drank in with the coffee. After a couple of minutes, as I shuffled my feet along, I wondered if I should have taken a selfie at the cafe.
