I CARE ABOUT Myself (2025)

19/11/2025

When I Solved the Wrong Problem for Thirty Minutes

I diagnosed myself wrong. Confidently wrong. For thirty minutes.
Evening. Service quarters in Vadodara. Black coffee going cold on my desk. I'm trying to draft newsletter content when everything stops. Comet freezes. ChatGPT won't load. Claude gives me nothing. Perplexity – dead.
I'd upgraded to MacOS Sequoia that morning.
Obviously, it's the upgrade.
My mobile apps work fine. ChatGPT on my phone responds. Perplexity pulls results. This confirms it – the problem is local. My system. My configuration. Something I broke.
I open terminal. Blue text on black screen. Start copying commands from my phone to my Mac.
sudo dscacheutil -flushcache
Nothing.
Okay. DNS issue. Simple fix.
DNS changes. Test. Still nothing.
Proxy settings then.
Proxy configuration. Test. Nothing.
The coffee goes from warm to lukewarm.
Network diagnostics. Has to be network.
Ten minutes in. Still methodical. This is what I do – isolate variables, test hypotheses, eliminate possibilities. Good medicine. Good troubleshooting.
Fifteen minutes.
Why isn't this working?
Twenty minutes. The confidence starts cracking.
I know computers. I've built apps. This should be straightforward.
But there's another voice now. Quieter.
What if it's not your system?
I dismiss it. Mobile works. Desktop doesn't. Obviously local.
Twenty-five minutes. Coffee is cold. Irritation building.
Come on. What am I missing?
The quieter voice again, more insistent:
You're solving the wrong problem.
No. I'm being systematic. This is thorough troubleshooting. This is—
Thirty minutes.
I finally search: "Cloudflare issue today."
Global infrastructure failure. Mumbai nodes down. Warsaw. Ashburn. Multiple regions.
The realization doesn't arrive gently.
You ****** idiot.
Thirty minutes. Gone. Solving a problem that didn't exist. Following AI troubleshooting guides that were diagnosing MY system when the problem was THE WORLD'S system.
You gave yourself the wrong diagnosis and committed to the wrong treatment.
The exact error I lecture residents about. Anchoring bias. Confirmation bias. Treating your first hypothesis like a conclusion.
I try VPN to verify. Switch to US servers. Then Poland. Nothing works because the problem isn't WHERE I am.
The backbone itself is cracking.
And I spent thirty minutes adjusting MY posture.
Here's what bothers me about this: I should know better.
The meta-realization hits harder than the wasted time.
I gave the AI the wrong diagnostic information. "I upgraded my system and nothing works" – accurate statement, wrong causal link. The AI troubleshot exactly what I told it to troubleshoot. Helped me solve MY system problem with precision and care.
Garbage in, garbage out.
Even when you're the one feeding the garbage to yourself.
In medicine, we call this anchoring bias. Patient says "chest pain after eating spicy food" and you anchor on GERD. Order antacids. Except it's actually cardiac. The history was accurate – chest pain DID happen after eating – but the causal story was wrong.
The AI is only as good as the context you provide. The diagnosis you suggest. The problem you frame.
I framed it wrong. Committed early. Followed that path with confidence.
Exactly what I warn residents not to do.
I learned Python during COVID. Lockdown. No surgeries. Just time and tutorials and the satisfaction of making something work.
Built small scripts. Felt competent. Felt like I was building a new muscle.
This is it. This is the skill that matters now.
Then LLMs exploded. ChatGPT. Claude. Copilot writing entire functions from natural language prompts.
The whisper started:
Why spend hours learning syntax when AI generates it in seconds?
Valid question, right? Efficiency. Leverage. Working smarter.
You're a surgeon. Not a programmer. Stay in your lane.
I let the practice slip. Told myself it was strategic. Told myself I was using tools effectively.
You're being lazy.
No. I'm being realistic about time allocation. I have patients. Research. Content creation. I can't learn everything.
You're scared it's hard.
It's not that. It's just—
You're scared you won't be good at it.
Maybe.
The skill atrophied. Syntax faded. The confidence I'd built dissolved back into dependence.
And tonight, when everything broke, I couldn't diagnose infrastructure from configuration. Couldn't separate local from global failure. Couldn't tell the difference between my system and the world's system.
I felt foolish for a moment.
That's the truth I don't want to admit.
I didn't save time by letting AI handle the code. I traded understanding for convenience. Traded diagnostic capability for surface-level functionality.
And that trade made me helpless when things broke in ways I didn't expect.
You can't afford this ignorance. Not anymore.
So I'm relearning. Not when I have time. Not casually. Now.
Because here's what I finally understand:
As a surgical oncologist, I do difficult things every day. Complex anatomy. High-stakes decisions. Life and death calls.
Why am I avoiding difficulty in THIS domain?
My brain needs genuine uncertainty. New territory where I don't have answers. Where I have to think from first principles.
De novo discovery. That's what keeps you sharp.
Python isn't just about building tools. It's about maintaining cognitive flexibility. About proving to myself I can still learn hard things.
Economics. Management. Agentic AI. I'm learning all of it not because it's directly useful in the OR, but because different domains give different perspectives.
Different ways of seeing problems I've looked at the same way for years.
This isn't optional anymore. This is survival.
There's a bigger issue here. One that keeps me up at night.
No-code tools are phenomenal for prototyping. I built a functional web app without writing much code. Magic. Democratization. Access.
Everyone can build now. That's good, right?
Yes. Until it's not.
Picture this: Junior resident. Night shift. Thirty-year-old woman, abdominal pain. The AI diagnostic support tool suggests appendicitis based on symptom pattern matching.
Resident trusts it. Why wouldn't they? The tool has 94% accuracy. Peer-reviewed. Hospital-approved.
Orders surgery prep.
But she's six weeks pregnant.
The AI didn't know. Lab values didn't flow into the prompt. Integration missed the recent hCG. The resident didn't know to verify the data pipeline.
Nobody built wrong. Nobody coded maliciously. The no-code tool worked exactly as designed.
But nobody understood the architecture well enough to know what data wasn't flowing.
The appendicitis diagnosis might even be correct. But the surgical protocol is catastrophically different for pregnancy.
How many near-misses happen because we don't understand our own tools?
Here's what scares me: We're building healthcare AI on abstractions we can't troubleshoot. On cloud dependencies we don't control. On data flows we don't verify.
Healthcare AI needs three non-negotiables:
Ethical practice: Not checkbox consent. Real informed consent about what the model sees and what it can't.
Can you explain what data your AI is using? Can you? Really?
Data security: Not HIPAA compliance theatre. Actual security. Knowing where data lives, who accesses it, what happens during system handshakes.
When the abstraction breaks, can you trace the breach?
Uninterrupted flow: You cannot have diagnostic support fail mid-shift because Cloudflare is down. Cannot have critical protocols unreachable because cloud connectivity dropped.
Patient safety cannot depend on infrastructure you don't understand.
Tonight proved it. Global backbone cracks. Everything stops. And I couldn't even diagnose whether it was my problem or the world's problem.
If I can't diagnose infrastructure failure, how can I trust myself to deploy clinical AI?
That's the question that won't let me sleep.
You can't build safety guarantees on abstraction layers you don't understand. On no-code magic you can't troubleshoot when it inevitably breaks.
And it will break.
Today proved that too.

This is what I mean by co-elevation.
It's not clinicians learning just enough tech to be dangerous. It's not engineers deploying healthcare tools without clinical context.
It's both sides becoming literate enough in each other's domains to have productive disagreement. To catch each other's blind spots. To know when the other is solving the wrong problem.
I can't fake technical understanding anymore. The "I'm just a doctor" excuse doesn't work when I'm building AI-assisted clinical tools. When I'm advising on hospital digital infrastructure. When I'm training residents who'll work in AI-augmented environments.
And engineers can't fake clinical literacy. Can't deploy diagnostic algorithms without understanding diagnostic reasoning. Can't build patient-facing tools without understanding the power dynamics in healthcare encounters.
Neither can succeed alone. Both must be uncomfortable enough to learn the other's language.

I'm still relearning Python. Still making rookie mistakes. Still Googling syntax I used to know.
But now I'm asking different questions.
Not "How do I make this work?" but "What's the actual problem I'm solving?"
Not "What command do I need?" but "Why did this fail?"
Not "Can AI do this for me?" but "Do I understand enough to verify what AI generates?"

Here's what I'm wondering about you:
What technical domain are you avoiding because "someone else handles that" or "AI can do it now"?
Where's your Cloudflare moment waiting – the infrastructure you depend on but don't understand?
What expertise do you claim while relying on abstractions you couldn't troubleshoot if they failed?
I'm not suggesting everyone learn to code. I'm suggesting we stop pretending abstraction is the same as understanding.
That we recognize technical literacy as diagnostic literacy.
That we get uncomfortable in domains where we're currently just... trusting the system.
Co-elevation isn't optional anymore. It's the baseline for building anything that matters.
Especially in healthcare. Especially with AI.
Especially when the backbone can crack without warning, and you need to know: Is it me, or is it the world?
Usually, it's the world.
But you need to understand enough to tell the difference.

PS: What I'm still learning: Python (again), network architecture, agentic AI frameworks, when to trust my diagnostic instincts versus when I'm anchoring on the wrong problem. Some days, I get it right. Some days, I spend thirty minutes solving problems that don't exist.

04/11/2025

A Cricket Captain Taught Me the Truth About Invisible Work

On mentorship, invisible labour, and why caring without recognition is the most valid form of teaching

It's almost midnight.

The room is dark except for the glow of the screen. My wife is beside me on the couch, and I've rewound the video four times now. Maybe five. The last catch—the roar of the crowd swelling and then cutting to sudden, reverent silence. The run. The moment India's captain drops to her knees and touches Amol Muzumdar's feet.

I can hear the commentators' voices crack with emotion. The tears streaming down the faces of the senior team members, years of invisible work suddenly made visible in one gesture of gratitude.

I sit in silence, my throat closing around something I can't quite name.

Not celebrating. Not cheering. Just to assess the depth of what I'm seeing. The team spirit. The bonding. The recognition.

That word keeps echoing: recognition.

Because I know—in my body, in my bones—what it's like to give everything and need nothing back.

I've been mentoring for years now. Not just surgical technique—though that's part of it—but the things that matter more. How to Approach a Frightened Patient at 2 AM. How to communicate when words feel insufficient and your hands must speak instead. How to carry the emotional burden of being a caregiver without letting it crush you. How to navigate the fear that lives in the space between what you know and what you don't yet understand.

It's a continuum, not a single moment. Years of accumulated wisdom, passed forward to the next cohort, to residents, to anyone willing to receive it.

Like roots growing deep underground while everyone watches the branches.

But here's what the world doesn't tell you about mentorship: not everyone wants what you're offering. And that has to be okay.

The logical world—the competitive world—tries relentlessly to convince us that life is a zero-sum game. That for you to rise, someone else must fall. That knowledge hoarded is knowledge protected. That there's scarcity in wisdom, scarcity in opportunity, scarcity in success.

I don't believe that.

I believe in abundance. I think there's enough room for all of us to grow, to learn, to become. I believe that lifting others doesn't diminish me—it expands what's possible for all of us.

But sometimes—from both sides—people don't feel that. They see competition where I see collaboration. They hear criticism where I offer reflection. They want certainty, where I invite questions.

I've been passed over for opportunities I knew I could handle beautifully. I've watched students choose other paths, other mentors, other philosophies. I've offered wisdom that was politely acknowledged and quietly ignored.

And that's okay.

I've made peace with it.

I never tell my juniors I'm right. I tell them to ask. To question. To reflect. To adapt. To make small changes as they move through different phases of life and practice.

You cannot fool the greatest laws of the universe.

Some will take this and run with it. Some will nod politely and ignore it. Some will resist it entirely, convinced that the zero-sum game is the only game there is.

Do I care about them? Yes. Deeply. Fiercely, even.

Do I care what they think about me? Not much.

Do I need them to follow me, to validate my approach, to prove that what I've given matters?

No.

What matters is that my care is always for them. Not transactional. Not conditional. Not dependent on outcomes, gratitude, or reciprocation.

It's my mission to transfer this experience forward. But I've learned—in a good way, actually—that not everyone is adaptive. Not everyone wants to understand. Not everyone is ready to reflect.

And I continue anyway.

The roots continue to grow, whether anyone notices them or not.

Which brings me back to midnight. To the screen glowing in the dark. To the exhaustion of a long day, I finally caught up with myself. To that captain touching her coach's feet, and something in my chest breaking open.

That gesture shattered something I didn't know I was holding.

Not because I need recognition—I don't. Not because I'm waiting for my students to honour me publicly—I'm not.

But because that moment made visible something that is almost always invisible: the quiet, continuous labour of caring when no one's watching. The years of showing up. The failures. The times you're overlooked. The moments you wonder if any of it is landing.

And you keep going anyway.

The Japanese have a word for this: ongaeshi—the repayment of a debt of gratitude. But buried within that concept is a more profound truth: some debts can never be fully repaid. The debt a student owes a teacher. The debt a mentee owes a mentor. The debt we all owe to those who shaped us invisibly, in moments we didn't even realise were shaping us.

Not because repayment is impossible, but because the gift itself was never transactional.

And here's where it gets uncomfortable: I fail at this too.

My parents. My teachers. Senior colleagues who took the time they didn't have to guide me. Friends who shaped my thoughts without ever knowing it. Writers whose words rewired my brain. Coaches who believed in me when I didn't believe in myself.

How often have I touched their feet—literally or metaphorically?

How many times have I let the days blur into years without saying, 'You changed me'? You mattered. What you gave me is still growing inside me.

The debt of ongaeshi sits heavy in my chest not just because I give without receiving recognition—but because I receive without giving it either.

We are both teacher and student. Both giver and recipient. Both the one who labours invisibly and the one who fails to see that labour.

Maybe that's the absolute truth about invisible work: it's invisible to everyone, including us.

That's what I saw in that gesture. Not just gratitude. But acknowledgement. That someone saw the invisible work. That someone understood the weight. That someone chose to honour it publicly, even though the job itself was done in private—in practice sessions, in late-night strategy talks, in moments of doubt and recalibration.

The world rarely shows you that your invisible labour matters.

But sometimes—rarely, beautifully—it does.

And seeing it reminds us: we should do it more. Not because our mentors need it—they're probably like me, continuing regardless. But because recognition isn't about the receiver. It's about us becoming the kind of people who see.

Who notices.

Who names the invisible work while it's still unfolding?

I'm not sure if my students understand what I'm trying to give them. I'm unsure if my residents grasp the distinction between technical skill and the more profound wisdom I'm trying to convey. I don't know if the care I extend—the questions I ask, the reflections I invite, the small changes I suggest—ever takes root in soil I cannot see.

And I've realised, sitting here in the dark at midnight: I don't need to know.

My work is to care. Their work is to receive it or not, to use it or not, to honour it or not.

But maybe—just maybe—my work is also this: to honour those who cared for me. To touch the feet of my own mentors, even if only in my heart. To say the words I've left unsaid. To acknowledge the invisible labour that shaped me before I knew what shaping looked like.

I can't control whether my students recognise what I give them. I can only control my own integrity. My own commitment to abundance in a world preaching scarcity. My own willingness to keep giving, even when the giving isn't acknowledged.

And my own willingness to give recognition, even when it's years overdue.

Deep down, there's always care and love.

It's hard to explain. It sits in my chest like something heavy and light at the same time. It's the weight of responsibility without the need for recognition. It's the exhaustion of showing up every day and the strange energy that comes from doing it anyway.

It's knowing that the roots matter as much as the branches, even though only the branches get sunlight.

But I watched that captain bend to touch her mentor's feet, and I understood: some things are worth doing even if no one ever sees. I think some care is worth extending even if it's never returned. Some labour is inherently valuable, whether or not the world chooses to recognise it.

The debt of ongaeshi can never be fully repaid.

But we can try.

We can name the people who shaped us. We can touch their feet. We can say the words before it's too late.

Not to balance the scales. Not because mentorship is transactional.

But because seeing—really seeing—the invisible work is how we become fully human.

So I'll keep asking my residents to question. To reflect. To adapt.

I'll keep believing in abundance when the world insists on scarcity.

I'll keep caring, even when that care isn't reciprocated or understood or wanted.

And I'll try—imperfectly, inadequately—to honour those who did the same for me.

Not because I need recognition. Not because they need validation.

But because that's what mentorship actually is: the willingness to be invisible, and the courage to make the invisible visible when we can.

Maybe your student will touch your feet one day. Perhaps they won't.

Maybe you'll touch your teacher's feet. Perhaps you won't.

The roots keep growing either way.

What you give in the quiet matters.

What you say in the quiet matters too.

Even when no one’s watching.

20/10/2025

𝐂𝐚𝐧 𝐖𝐞 𝐒𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐆𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬?

I stood at Anjuna Beach, kneeling in the afternoon sun, adjusting my iPhone’s focus to capture what a child had built. Simple stones. Standing upright. Not one was perfectly aligned.

Four of us were there—all adults, all accomplished, all watching from a safe distance.

Here’s what struck me: If that child had asked us to help, we would have. Eagerly. Encouragingly. “Try it! See what happens! It doesn’t need to be perfect!”

But build our own?

We hesitate.

The Conference Room vs. The Beach
Hours earlier, I’d sat in another conference room, feeling like the odd man out again. You know the feeling—everyone seems to belong except you. They present polished ideas while yours sit in drafts, waiting to be “inch-perfect.”

My research ideas? Years delayed. I blame job switches, but that’s just the excuse I’ve rehearsed. The truth is messier: I’m waiting for the perfect moment, the ideal setup, the perfect first line.

Meanwhile, a kid on the beach... starts.

No committee approval. No peer review. No fear that stone number seven might topple.

When Did We Learn to Loop Instead of Leap?
The AI accelerator program taught me something recently. I wanted to build a collaborative note app—pushed through Lovable, got frustrated, stayed resilient even when nothing worked right. Actually completed the web application. Testing is pending, but it exists. It’s real. Imperfect, but standing.

Yet you know what I did at 2 AM when I hit roadblocks?

Scrolled social media.

Looped into the dopamine carousel instead of sleeping or persisting.

That’s what we do now. We loop instead of leap. We scroll through other people’s victories instead of risking our own imperfect attempts. The kid with the stones doesn’t have Instagram. Doesn’t know that somewhere, someone else built a better stone arrangement.

The kid builds.

The Rigid and The Resilient
I’ve become rigid, I realise. Team failures, incongruent decisions, the inaccessibility of decision-makers who make you feel clumsy for asking twice—they all add up. Each one adds another layer of hesitation, another reason to wait, another excuse to perfect rather than produce.

But then something breaks through.

An excellent presentation at a conference. A new idea that won’t leave you alone. A moment on the beach where you see simplicity winning over strategy.

The boundaries shatter. The charm returns.

You remember: You can experiment. You can fail. You can build something that might fall.

The Gathering We’ve Forgotten
We still know how to gather—we just convinced ourselves we need permission first.

We gather likes instead of experiences
We gather followers instead of friends
We gather critiques instead of courage
We gather excuses instead of experiments

That child gathered stones. Just stones. Created something that made four grown adults stop and photograph it.

My Three-Stone Start
So here’s what I’m doing—my imperfect beach moment decisions:

Stone 1: I’m submitting one research idea. Not perfect. Just submitted.

Stone 2: My note app is built. Testing pending, bugs probable. But it exists.

Stone 3: When I feel the scroll-loop starting at 2 AM, I’m writing one paragraph instead. About anything. Even if it topples by morning.

They won’t be aligned perfectly. They might fall. Someone will probably build better stones.

But they’ll be standing.

Mine.

The Question That Matters
That afternoon at Anjuna, kneeling in the sand, adjusting my phone’s focus—I wasn’t just photographing stones. I was capturing evidence that we can still build without blueprints.

The child finished and walked away. Didn’t even look back to admire the work.

When did we start needing applause to validate our attempts?

When did we stop building just because we could?

What stones are you holding, waiting for the perfect moment to place them?

Maybe—just maybe—this afternoon is perfect enough.

Start with one stone. The crooked one. The imperfect one. The one you’re holding right now.

Could you let it stand?

P.S. - I share these observations as I navigate the space between medical precision and human messiness. If you’re also learning to build imperfectly, follow along. We might topple together—or create something unexpectedly beautiful.

06/10/2025

Not Introvert, Not Extrovert: What If You're Actually Both? (And Why Classification Might Be the Real Problem)

"So... What Are You? Introvert or Extrovert?"
You've been asked this.
In an interview. At a networking event. On a personality quiz your company made you take. Maybe even in a marriage bio someone was writing for you.
We're obsessed with classification.
But here's the problem:
Last week, I was in a closed group meeting with a couple of new faces.
I talked. And talked. Cracked jokes. Pulled pranks. Made everyone laugh. Anyone watching would've labeled me: Extrovert. Clear as day.
Two days later, I'm at a medical conference.
One speaker has me spellbound - the way she commands the topic, the precision of her presentation. I'm leaning forward, absorbing every word.
The next session? Pure self-propaganda.
I watch the speaker's polished smile - sophisticated, artificial, the kind that never reaches the eyes. The ego practically rings in the air around him.
Between sessions, I'm standing alone near the coffee station.
Some attendees are buried in their phones, scrolling through the very slides being presented. Am I also doing this now? I glance at my own screen.
One senior physician walks past - someone I've admired from afar. I want to approach, say something meaningful. But there's a wall there. Unreachable.
Another colleague catches my eye and drops a single line - something so insightful it reframes everything I've been thinking about a case.
Yes. That. That's why I'm here.
And I'm also judging all of this. The performances. The egos. The genuine teachers. The noise.
When did I become this person? 😂
Same person. Two completely different versions.
In my profession, I have to be decisive.
I break bad news. I convince people to act rather than succumb to disease. That's not optional - it's essential.
But inside?
I create space for my patients to ask what they call "silly questions." There are no silly questions, I tell them. Only questions.
And I mean it.
Because I'm constantly digging inside myself trying to answer my own.
What am I, really?
The guy who talks nonstop in the right room? The guy who observes and judges at a crowded conference? The doctor who speaks with authority? The person who still isn't sure of his own classification? 😂

Now there's a new term: Otrovert.
Not introvert. Not extrovert. The "other."
And I get it - people need frameworks. Labels help us make sense of complexity.
But what if the complexity itself is the truth?
What if I'm not "one thing adapting to situations"? What if I'm genuinely different people in different contexts - and somehow, all of them are real?
The dilemma:
In a closed group, I'm energized by banter. At a conference, I'm somewhere between captivated and critical - depending on who's speaking.
With patients, I'm assertive and clear. With myself, I'm endlessly questioning.
I can be logical or I can be pleasing - but rarely both at once. So sometimes I choose to act dumb just to avoid being swept into arguments I don't care about.
Which version is authentic?
All of them. None of them. Does it matter?

Here's what I've realized:
The pressure isn't to be introverted or extroverted.
The pressure is to be consistent.
To have a personality that makes sense to observers. To fit a story people can understand without effort.
But I don't owe anyone that story.
I can talk for hours with two close friends. I can stand silent in a room of fifty, watching, judging, learning.
I can lead a surgical team with conviction. I can sit alone and question everything I just said.
What if it's not inconsistency at all? What if it's just... fluidity?
Responding to what the moment needs - and deciding whether I choose to show up for it or not.

Maybe we don't need another classification.
Maybe we need permission to stop performing one.
Maybe the freest thing you can be is unapologetically situational.

✨ A question for you:
Are you still trying to figure out "what you are"?
Or have you realized that being multiple things - depending on the context, the people, the energy in the room - might be the most honest version of human you can be?

I don't know what I am. And I've stopped needing to.

PS: I share reflections on growth, medicine, and what it means to live authentically. If you're navigating your own contradictions, follow along - you're not alone in this.

01/10/2025

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞: 𝐁𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐅𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐍𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐠𝐢𝐚

Row 9A. Gujarat to Kolkata. Mahashasthi morning.

The flight attendant offers coffee. I shake my head. My mind is already elsewhere—suspended between what I’m leaving and what I’m returning to.

Gujarat gave me a job. A position. Stability. But did it give me a home?
Bengal is home. But what’s left there? Jobs vanishing. Politics toxic. The culture I love turning into carnival.

The plane climbs. Below, India spreads—rivers bending, cities bleeding into fields, borders dissolving at 30,000 feet.

But I know when we land, the fractures show.

The shiuli flowers are already calling. A scent that exists nowhere else, in no other season.

Logic says stay in Gujarat. Heart says go back to Kolkata. Why choose heart when I know what’s waiting?

Mahashasthi Evening — When Smell Defeats Reason

Dum Dum Airport. The air hits different. Thick. Humid. Memory-soaked.

Then it comes—shiuli. That autumn smell you can’t explain to anyone who hasn’t lived it.

The cab passes a pandal. Massive. Themed. “Sustainable Development Goals” in LED lights. Three corporate sponsors stamped across the arch.

This is what’s changed. Puja as brand activation. Devotion as marketing opportunity.

But then the dhaak begins. Dhak dhak dhina dhina dhin dhin...

It cuts through everything. Ancient. Unchanged. Unsponsored.

How do these coexist? Corporate themes and traditional drums. Commercialization and devotion. Both real. Both happening.

My phone buzzes. The school group:

“Reached, bhai? Tomorrow Saptami. 12 noon. School gate. 7 No Riverside Road. Then food and drinks. 12 confirmed.”

Twelve people. From Class 1 to 10. Thirty-plus years of knowing each other completely.

This is why logic fails. You can’t spreadsheet friendships formed before social media existed.

Mahasaptami Noon — The Gate Where We Began

12:00 PM. Ramakrishna Vivekananda Mission, 7 No Riverside Road, Barrackpore.

Twelve men at a school gate. Indranil, Sudeb, Subhajit, Suvo, Souvik, Suman, Palash, Aranyadev, Atanu, Abhishek, Dibakar. And me, Sudip.

We just stand there. Looking at the building that shaped us from six to fifteen.

“It looks smaller.”
“We’ve gotten bigger. Or just older.”

Or both. Definitely both.

“Remember that failed stunt on the playground?”
“At least I tried. You were commentary from the sidelines.”

Laughter. Same energy. Three decades and nothing essential has shifted.

They knew me before I became a doctor. Before identity had a title. When I was just another boy trying to figure out who I was.

The gate hasn’t changed. The faces have—time written gently and honestly.

We’re the same. We’re different. How can both be true?

The Adda Where Everything Spills

Usual place. Beers on the table. Food on the way. Phones face down—unspoken rule.

No warmup. Straight to the truth.

“IT is finished, bhai. Recession everywhere. I’m counting days till I’m fired.”
“At least you have a job to lose. I’ve been ‘benched’ for three months. Paid to wait.”
“Work culture is killing us. I had a panic attack last month. Couldn’t tell anyone. They’d mark me weak.”

This is why we meet. Because where else can you say ‘panic attack’ without it becoming ammunition?

They turn to me. “Healthcare is stable, right?”

I breathe. Then: “Not like you think. Healthcare is business now. Doctors as revenue units. Patients as margins. P/L over people.”

I tell them why I left the previous hospital—the forty-a-day squeeze, the dilution of care, the equitization of everything.
“Even in Gujarat—teaching hospital—it’s better, not different.”

Am I complaining? Or reporting? Both feel true, which is its own confusion.

Silence.

Then: “So basically every industry is f**ked?”

Dark laughter. True laughter.

“At least we’re drowning together.”

More laughter. Relief hiding inside honesty.

When It Turns

“Okay. Enough. Picnic?”

Heads lift.
“This year again.”
“Someplace affordable.”
“But good food.”
“And no corporate-retreat vibes. Just us being idiots.”

Old stories resurface.
“Remember Class 8 picnic? The ‘not my girlfriend’ saga?”
“She wasn’t my girlfriend.”
“Sure. Just a friend who wrote daily love letters.”

The table erupts. Even the waiter smiles.
Old slang slips back into our mouths like it was waiting there.

This bond was forged before we learned to curate ourselves. Before metrics. Before performance. Tiffins and secrets. That was the syllabus.

Split-Screen Mind

They’re debating mutton vs chicken. I’m in the room and outside it.

Look at this. Twelve people. Zero pretense. This is what survives.
Outside—recession, toxic cultures, healthcare commodified, Bengal declining. Jobs disappearing.
Maybe we’re proof that something endures. Or we’re the last ones who know how to be present without performing.
Stop analyzing. Be here.
But the hum doesn’t stop. The hum keeps humming.

“Where’d you go, Sudip?”
“Just thinking how rare this is.”

“Don’t get philosophical. We’re deciding where to get drunk.”

We laugh. Eyes meet. They know I know.

This is precious. Fragile. Irreplaceable. And maybe unsustainable.

Mahashtami Morning — Ma’s Kitchen, 8 AM

The dhaak wakes me. Dhak dhak dhina dhina dhin dhin...

Ma’s already in the kitchen. Kishore Kumar on the radio.

“You’re on time. Start kneading. Fifteen years later and your technique is still terrible.”

My hands sink into flour. The dough resists, then yields.

Fifteen years. Same ritual. Same corrections. Same sounds.

The drums outside gather pace. A child’s cap gun cracks. Incense drifts in. A priest somewhere begins the morning mantras.

“Stop overthinking,” Ma says. “Feel the dough. Your hands know.”

I press-fold-press in rhythm with the drums.
Dhak dhak dhina—knead, press, fold.
Dhak dhak dhina—knead, press, fold.

Maybe that’s the answer. The hands remember when the mind doubts.

“First batch. Drop carefully.”

The luchis sink. Float. Puff into gold.

Ma smiles. “See? Your body remembers what your head forgets.”

The kitchen fills with hot flour and childhood.

Everything is changing. This ritual isn’t. Maybe that’s why it matters.

Walking Through Contradictions

New clothes stick to my back. Humidity already winning. But it’s Puja. Logic can wait.

At the main pandal: “Climate Action” theme. Recycled plastic installations. LED screens. Hashtags and sponsors.

Emotion commodified. Devotion sponsored.

But the drummer sits beside the spectacle. Eyes closed. Hands a blur. Dhak dhak dhina dhina dhin dhin...

The rhythm is older than the branding. It refuses to be absorbed.

An old woman prays—not filming, not posting—just praying.
Kids run past with cap guns. Crack crack crack. Same game, different century.

The priest chants. “Yaa Devi Sarva Bhuteshu...”

Both exist. Performance and prayer. Commerce and faith. Neither cancels the other. I can’t resolve it. I can only witness it.

Mahanavami — Writing at the Dining Table

The drums outside. Old Puja songs from a balcony. Incense and frying batter mingling.

Yesterday loops:

IT recession. Toxic work. Healthcare as business. Bengal struggling.
And also—unfiltered laughter. Brutal honesty. A picnic that somehow keeps happening.

How do I hold all this? Collapse and connection. Sponsorship and sincerity. Margins and mantras.

I don’t know. I just know I flew here knowing exactly what Bengal is now. Knowing what Puja has become. Seeing all the contradictions clearly.

Because some things pull harder than analysis.

Shiuli. Drums. Ma’s corrections. Twelve people who’ve seen every version of me and still show up.

Not arguments against change. Reasons to participate despite it. Or because of it. I’m not sure.

Holding Without Resolving

You can acknowledge decline and still feel joy at the scent of shiuli.
You can critique commodification and still make luchi beside your mother with full presence.
You can see Puja’s marketing and still be moved when the drums slice through the noise.
You can discuss recession and still plan a picnic that may or may not happen and still matters.

Maybe life is contradictions we learn to carry, not problems we learn to solve.
Maybe authenticity is participating fully while seeing clearly.

Traditions don’t survive in museums. They survive in kitchens. Imperfect hands. Honest effort. People who see what’s broken and still choose to show up.

The Discomfort That Might Be Growth

Tomorrow I fly back to Gujarat—modern hospitals, AI conversations, P/L statements, curated persona.

But something shifted. Not loudly. Quietly.

Holding contradictions feels more honest than resolving them.
Presence doesn’t require denial.
Participation can be conscious—even when nothing is pure.

The drums swell toward aarti. Dhak dhak dhina dhina DHIN DHIN—

“Stop writing,” Ma calls. “Come eat. Luchi’s getting cold. Life is in the kitchen, not in that laptop.”

She’s right. Some moments don’t need documenting.

They need living.

The question I’m leaving with:

What if the point isn’t to resolve the tension between tradition and change, nostalgia and progress?
What if the point is to engage with all of it—eyes open, heart conflicted, presence complete?

I don’t have the answer. I have this: shiuli, drums, Ma’s voice, twelve unfiltered conversations, children’s cap guns—
and the choice to show up anyway.

Dhak dhak dhina dhina dhin dhin...
Next year: same confusion. Different questions. Full presence.

For Indranil, Sudeb, Subhajit, Suvo, Souvik, Suman, Palash, Aranyadev, Atanu, Abhishek, Dibakar—bonds that survive everything. Faces that knew me before I became anything. Conversations that need no filters. Same energy. Different decades. Still unresolved. Still showing up.

I CARE ABOUT Myself

19/11/2025

04/11/2025

20/10/2025

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