On the Preservation of the Commonwealth and the Malice of Destruction

It has long been my conviction that every person who derives an income within this realm ought to render at least a fraction of those earnings unto the public purse.

Not merely because the Treasury stands in need of revenue—though assuredly it does—but because the very act of contributing binds a soul, however humbly, to the nation itself. The instant one has helped defray the cost of an enterprise, one begins to care whether it be upheld or brought to ruin. Such, I take it, is simply the constitution of mankind.

A railway semaphore is no longer merely a railway semaphore. A surveillance lens is no longer just another iron canister affixed to masonry. A public carriage, a bridge, a common, an infirmary, a flagging, a street lantern, a library, all cease to be the anonymous property of some distant authority. They transform into objects wherein one holds a personal share. They become portions of the commonwealth one has assisted in erecting.

Hence it is that spectacles of rioting throngs rampaging through our thoroughfares beneath the convenient standard of dissent provoke within me not merely disappointment, but profound wrath.

To observe people shatter railway apparatus, pull down lenses, consign carriages to the flames, and deface municipal edifices is paraded as though it were some noble moral posture against authority. It is no such thing. It is an ignominy. There is naught of valour in reducing public works to rubble.

Assuredly, there is naught of honour in compelling one's fellow subjects to pay a second time for that which was already established through years of honest toil.

There is one exceedingly uncomplicated inquiry which appears never to trouble those wielding the sledgehammers: By whose agency, I pray you, do they suppose all this is to be defrayed?

It is not some phantom entity denominated "the government." The State commands no coffer save that which its people have previously filled. Every shilling expended in repairing such devastation must first be earned by someone else.

It is earned by the nurse who has just concluded a twelve-hour nocturnal watch. By the scrivener of codes spending yet another day before a pane to satisfy impossible deadlines. By the pedagogue correcting copybooks long after the scholars have departed for home. By the tradesman unbarring the shutters before dawn. By the artisan labouring in stifling attics and freezing crawlspaces. By the mason standing in the tempest. By the attendant hastening from one crisis to the next. By the young apprentice merely entering upon a vocation. By the pensioner who discharged tax obligations faithfully for forty winters and yet cares deeply what befalls the land.

These mortals do not march through the streets demolishing that which pertains to all. They arise each morn, pursue their callings quietly, fulfil their duties, and in so doing maintain the motion of the nation.

And thereupon, in the compass of a single afternoon, there arrives a self-righteous rabble and contrives to dismantle what millions of respectable men and women spent years quietly aiding to construct.

And toward what purpose?

Belated trains. Heavier repair accounts. Impoverished public utilities. Augmented duties. Greater vexation for ordinary folk who bore not the slightest share in the grievance being lamented.

The bitter paradox is that the sufferers are scarcely ever the politicians the mob purports to defy. The sufferers are passengers endeavouring to reach their labours. Households awaiting a carriage. Aged souls reliant upon public transit. Humble merchants whose patrons can no longer approach them. Taxpayers who shall silently discharge the bill once more, without ever having been consulted as to their wishes.

Remonstrance is a privilege in any cultivated society, and it ought ever to remain so. Yet every protestant must comprehend that the liberty to object does not encompass the license to lay waste to that which belongs to everyone else. The freedom to make one's voice audible confers no warrant to smash semaphore signals, tear down surveillance lenses, burn carriages, or vandalize municipal structures. The moment a dissent degenerates into demolition, it ceases to be an exercise of liberty and becomes an assault upon one's own neighbours. Every fractured signal, every shattered lens, every charred conveyance is not an attack upon power. It is an assault upon the common treasury and upon every honest soul whose labour assisted in funding it.

That is why I maintain that everyone who earns a sustenance in this country ought to contribute something toward the taxes, however modest the sum. The amount itself is nearly beside the issue. What imports is the nexus it forges. When citizens know that even a minute portion of their own toil helped rear the railway, the infirmary, the highway, or the academy, they are vastly less inclined to stand idly by whilst another shatters it. They no longer view public property as another's concern. They discern it for what it truly is: a fragment of their own contribution to the state.

A nation is upheld by far more than statutes and institutions. It endures because millions of ordinary beings believe that they possess a stake in its welfare and, with that stake, a corresponding duty of guardianship. 

Abandon that sentiment, and public property becomes merely another target for the grievance of the hour. Preserve it, and every worthy citizen becomes, almost instinctively, its custodian.

The Dignity Tax: The Quiet Cruelty of the Modern ClassroomAn Inquiry into the Infantilization of the Adult Learner

In the hallowed halls of contemporary academia, a new and unsettling "orthodoxy of equality" has taken root. Under the banner of professionalism and standardized rigor, institutions have begun to enforce a peculiar form of flattening, one that demands the total psychological surrender of the student, regardless of their years, their station, or their hard won life experience. Nowhere is this friction more palpable than in the treatment of the "older learner", those individuals in their fourth or fifth decade who return to the ivory tower, only to find themselves treated not as scholars, but as errant children.

The Myth of Egalitarianism

The modern professor, often young, decorated with fresh credentials, and insulated by the vacuum of theory, frequently adopts a philosophy of "blind standards." The argument is seductive: to treat every student identically is the highest form of fairness. In this view, a PhD candidate of forty five and a bachelor’s student of nineteen are mere data points on a grading curve.

However, this "neutrality" is a logical fallacy. True equity requires the recognition of context. To subject a man who has raised a family and managed industries to the same public tongue lashing or "shaming at the blackboard" as one would a teenager is not an act of fairness, it is an act of institutional erasure. It ignores the "Affective Domain" of learning, the reality that a mind under the duress of humiliation is physiologically incapable of peak performance.

The Weaponization of the Chair

More concerning is the rise of the small but significant section of "Pedagogue Tyrant" class, individuals who view their authority not as a tool for elevation, but as a scepter of power. For some, the classroom becomes a theater for settling historical grievances. Under the guise of "breaking the ego", these instructors take a perverse pleasure in "rubbing the faces" of older students in their past setbacks.

When a teacher tells a veteran professional, "You have failed before, therefore you deserve to be treated more strictly", they have abandoned the vocation of the educator and entered the business of the inquisitor. They are no longer closing the gap between ignorance and knowledge, they are charging a "dignity tax" for the crime of seeking self improvement later in life.

The Institutional Blind Spot

This systemic coldness is particularly acute within the rigid hierarchies of many Eastern academic traditions. The institution assumes that by the mere act of enrollment, the adult student has signed a "Contract of Submission", waiving their right to the basic social deference accorded to their age.

There is an unspoken, almost medieval belief that for learning to be valid, it must be painful. This "Trial by Fire" mentality suggests that a student’s spirit must be broken before their mind can be filled. Yet, for the older learner, the burden is doubled. They must master the complex curriculum while simultaneously expending enormous emotional energy suppressing the natural instinct to defend their honor against unearned vitriol.

Toward a New Nobility of Teaching

If the academy is to remain a beacon of progress, it must evolve beyond this crude, one size fits all model of discipline. A truly sophisticated institution would recognize that:

1. Andragogy is not Pedagogy: Adult learners require a collaborative, respect based environment where their experience is viewed as an asset, not a target.

2. Authority is not Dominance: A PhD grants a person mastery over a subject, but it does not grant them moral or social superiority over another human being.

3. Encouragement is Universal: If a twenty year old deserves a "You can do it", so too does the forty year old who has had the courage to admit they have more to learn, but that should be done without patronising tone. 

To treat an elder with the bluntness of a drill sergeant is a failure of character. True power, after all, is most brilliantly displayed through magnanimity. 

The professor who must humiliate to lead is a professor who has not yet learned the most fundamental lesson of all: that education is an act of grace, not a victory of the whip.

The Architecture of Respect: Navigating the Generational Divide in the Indian Academic World!

Within the postgraduate departments and PhD hallways of India’s colleges, a quiet but profound displacement is occurring, one that carries a sharp, stinging weight. Amidst a sea of twenty two year old classmates fresh, unburdened, and focused on the start of their journey sits the Returning Scholar. Usually aged forty five or older, this individual is often a parent, a seasoned professional, or a teacher who has managed the complex storms of a household and a career for decades. At the front of the room stands a faculty member of twenty nine or thirty.

By the metrics of the institution, one is the authority and the other is the student. But by the metrics of life, the roles are reversed. When the academic system demands that this forty five year old scholar strip away their history and adopt the submissive posture of a junior, it commits a quiet, cultural violence that cuts to the very bone.

For a twenty two year old, a grade is a number. For the older woman, a 75 per cent mark is a triumph written in the margins of a grueling life. It is a grade earned at 4:00 AM before the milkman arrives; it was earned in the exhausted hours after the family slept, the bills were paid, and the children were tended to.

When a young teacher who may have moved straight from their own PhD into a teaching post looks down upon this achievement with a dismissive grilling, they are not just judging a paper. They are insulting the sheer sacrifice it took to get to that desk, wounding a spirit that has already weathered so much.

Younger faculty must realise they are not Gurus moulding a blank slate; they are necessary facilitators, cogs in the wheel of a journey that was long delayed but never abandoned.

In the Indian social fabric, respect is a currency that should flow both ways. For the older man returning to the classroom, being addressed solely by his first name by a thirty year old professor is a calculated diminishment, a cold dismissal of his lived years.

While the professor naturally expects to be addressed as Sir or Madam due to their institutional position, they lose nothing by extending a similar age based courtesy to an elder. Integrating a simple Ji after his/her name, or addressing him as Sir or her as Madam, recognises his/her standing as a human being.

Verbal cues for submission should never be expected; instead, a mutual exchange of professional titles creates an environment of shared dignity. It signals that while the professor holds the academic keys, they respect the life that is sitting in the chair, rather than ignoring the toll that life has taken.

There is a specific, heavy sorrow in being forced to act smaller than you are. To expect an individual of experience to shrink into the role of an erring child just because they are in a classroom is an act of identity erasure. It strips them of the armour they have built over a lifetime of service, leaving them exposed to the whims of those who have yet to be tested by time.

When a young professor chooses a show of power over professional empathy, they do not uphold academic standards. Instead, they create a hollow theatre of ego. In a room where the teacher is thirty and the student is forty five, the interaction should be a handshake of professional peers, one providing the technical gatekeeping, the other providing the lived wisdom.

The twenty two year old classmates are at an age where they believe status is derived solely from rank. When they see a young professor treat an elder student with a total lack of age deference, they learn a dangerous lesson: that life experience, parenthood, and decades of professional service have no value once you enter a bureaucratic system.

However, if the professor models social intelligence by using respectful honorifics and acknowledging the student’s background, they teach the youth something profound. They show that education is not about who is above whom, but about the mutual recognition of effort. They teach the younger students that ageing is not a process of becoming lesser, but a process of becoming more.

Younger faculty members must shed the ego of the Master. They hold the pen that signs the certificate, but the older student is the engine that has travelled the hard road to get to the desk. To show respect for their age is not to soften the exam; it is to acknowledge the reality of the human being sitting across the table. Rigorous questioning and age based courtesy can coexist. One can examine a thesis with clinical precision while still addressing the candidate with the respect their years have earned them, avoiding the casual cruelty of intellectual superiority.

Education should never require an individual to leave their pride at the door. In the landscape of Indian academia, we must protect the older student from the unintentional arrogance of the young expert.

We must ensure that when a scholar of forty five finishes their defence, they walk out with more than just a credential. They should walk out with their head held high, knowing that while the thirty year old at the front may have been at the head of the class, they were the one who taught the room, through their very presence, what it truly means to be a person of substance.

Respect is not a gift the professor gives the student; it is a debt the youth owes to the life that came before them, a debt that, when left unpaid, leaves the academy a poorer, colder place.

The Sacred Ground

A poem I wrote after my aunt passed away last month. I was a little apprehensive of the cremation ground. 

After coming home, I contemplated and this came. 

The Sacred Ground

Mortal man, with blinded sight,

Calling dark what burns so bright,

In the ash where bodies lie,

"Govinda" echoes to the sky.

If His Name is chanted there,

Purifying all the air,

How can you, in foolish pride,

Cast the holy ground aside?

Mortal man, you shrink in fear,

From the Name you ought to hear,

Yet you walk with steady pace,

In your godless dwelling place.

In your home no hymns arise,

Veiling truth from weary eyes;

Safe within your walls you stay,

Where the Name is cast away.

Mortal man, the end is near,

To the place you hold in fear;

Where Lord Shiva makes his bed,

Blessing all the humble dead.

You prefer your house of lust,

Built of greed and worldly dust,

Seeking wealth and fleeting style,

Leaving God for things so vile.

Mortal man, look deep within,

See the pride that masks your sin;

Only there do egos fall,

Answering the final call.

Stripped of rank and worldly fame,

Chanting loud the Holy Name;

How can such a place be base,

Where the soul finds humble grace?

Mortal man, the truth is plain,

Death is but the end of pain;

View the plot before you buy,

Watch the flame before you die.

Do not meet it as a guest,

When you go to final rest;

In that ground the Truth remains,

Breaking all your worldly chains.

On the Folly of Judging the Past by the Comforts of the Present!

There is a habit abroad today of standing in a warm, well lit room and scolding our ancestors for the way they arranged their lives. It is done with great confidence and very little understanding of what it actually took to keep human beings alive for tens of thousands of years. This habit often gathers itself under the banner of attacking patriarchy, as though the past were a debating society rather than a long, hard exercise in survival.

For most of human history, life was not an abstract moral discussion. It was immediate and physical. Food had to be found or grown by hand. Shelter had to be built from what lay to hand. Cold, hunger, animals, disease and other people were constant threats. A single winter could undo a community. In such conditions, societies organised themselves around what worked, not around what sounded fair to a modern ear.

Men, on average, were larger and stronger. They could carry heavier loads, endure longer periods of physical strain, and were more readily sacrificed when danger arose. Women carried the greater burden of reproduction and early child care, and that made them irreplaceable in a way that any hunter gatherer would have understood instantly. The division of labour that followed was not born of cruelty or ideology. It was born of necessity.

To look back at this arrangement and describe it as a moral failing is to misunderstand its purpose entirely. It was not designed to privilege men. It was designed to ensure that there would be a next generation at all. A group that treated its reproductive capacity casually would not last long enough to develop philosophies about equality. Nature is unsentimental in that regard.

What often goes unacknowledged in modern criticism is the sheer cost paid by men under these systems. Dangerous work was expected of them as a matter of course. Hunting large animals, clearing forests, building roads and ships, mining, fighting and standing guard all carried a high likelihood of injury or death. Shorter lives and harder ends were not anomalies but the norm. To describe this as effortless dominance is to ignore the ledger of broken bodies that made stable societies possible.

This is not to claim that the past was gentle or that abuses did not occur. They did, as they do in every age. But it is a serious mistake to confuse the existence of abuse with the purpose of the system itself. Tools can be misused without being inherently evil. Fire burns, yet without it we would never have survived a single Ice Age.

The real danger of retrospective bashing is that it teaches contempt for the very instincts that carried our species through scarcity and danger. Cooperation between men and women, respect for physical reality, and acceptance of unequal burdens were not moral failures. They were solutions. Remove them without understanding why they existed and you do not get progress. You get fragility.

We live now in a time of extraordinary comfort, enabled by technology, medicine and surplus energy. These have changed what is possible and rightly allow us to renegotiate roles. But wisdom lies in building upon the past, not sneering at it. A society that forgets how close its ancestors lived to hunger and cold is one that mistakes comfort for virtue.

Our forebears were not monsters. They were practical people doing the best they could with what they had, often at great personal cost. To honour that truth is not to oppose equality. It is to ground it in reality, which is the only place it can endure.

A funny tale of two groups of idiots with very, very low self esteem (the upper class Brits and the urban elite Indians):

The great comedy of our times is not on Netflix, nor in Parliament, nor even in Bollywood remakes. It is in the way the British and the Indians treat language, specifically English. If aliens ever land and demand, “Show us your finest examples of human stupidity,” we don’t need to panic. We’ll just hand them recordings of British aristocrats ordering hors d’oeuvres they can’t spell and Indian uncles saying “Kindly revert back” as though they’ve just reinvented Latin. The aliens will die laughing and leave us alone forever.

Act I: The British – From Muddy Boots to Fake French Waiters

The British were not always the “Keep Calm and Carry On” brigade with polished accents and tea cups raised at 45 degrees. No, before 1066, they were mud-smeared villagers yelling things like “Oi, pass me that pig” and “Mind the dung heap.” Their language was a mishmash of German grunts and Viking growls: perfect if you wanted to insult your neighbor, but utterly useless if you wanted to impress anyone wearing shoes.

Then along came the Normans with their swords, shiny helmets, and vowels smoother than butter. The British nobility took one look at themselves with potato sacks for clothes, beer breath, a language that sounded like furniture being dragged across stone and decided: “Right, lads, from now on we’re French.”

Overnight, English was demoted to the language of servants, stable boys, and anyone unfortunate enough to work for a living. The nobles spoke French. They didn’t just borrow words, they staged a full-on identity theft. Peasants herded “cows,” lords dined on boeuf. Peasants raised “sheep,” lords ate mutton. Peasants shoveled “pig,” lords devoured pork. The menu itself became a class system. Imagine being so insecure you rename your dinner in a foreign tongue to feel fancy.

Centuries later, the French obsession never wore off. The Brits, now rulers of an empire “where the sun never set,” still sprinkled French in every corner of their speech like cheap perfume over body odor. Why have “starters” when you can have hors d’oeuvres? Why say “meeting” when you can say rendezvous? They colonized India, but couldn’t colonize their own inferiority complex. A country could be looted and ruled, but the British still needed a fiancé instead of a future husband to sound impressive.

And the irony? The French always thought the Brits were gauche pretenders, like villagers who put on wigs and practiced saying “merci” in the mirror. Which, to be fair, is exactly what happened.

Act II: The Indians – Borrowing the Borrowed Goods

Fast-forward a few hundred years. The British pack their bags and leave India, but they leave behind their most toxic export: the idea that speaking English makes you superior. And oh boy, Indians grabbed that idea like it was the last plate of biryani at a wedding.

We didn’t just learn English. We worshipped it. We built temples to it in our schools, with “Spoken English Coaching” painted on walls like holy mantras. Parents sold land to put their kids in convent schools, not for education, but for that elusive accent. Because in India, accent equals class.

A child says “WAH-ter”? Shameful. “WAW-tuh”? Nobel Prize in Literature incoming. Forget calculus, forget quantum physics; if you can say “schedule” like you’re choking on a scone, you’re elite.

Drawing rooms across India are now battlegrounds. “Vase” vs “vahz” debates rage with more passion than India-Pakistan cricket matches. It doesn’t matter that the vase is a ₹199 plastic piece from Amazon; the pronunciation is what separates the bourgeois from the truly “cultured.”

And God forbid you speak English with an Indian accent. That’s social suicide. Your boss will look at you as if you just arrived straight from the cow shed. Meanwhile, the same boss will type emails like: “Respected Sir, Kindly revert back ASAP,” proudly unaware that this sentence is the linguistic equivalent of wearing socks with sandals.

We’ve built an entire caste system 2.0, where your status is measured not by your lineage, not by your education, not by your ideas, but by how convincingly you can pretend to be British. It’s a national audition for Downton Abbey, except everyone is reading the script backwards.

Act III: The French, Still Laughing

And then, in the cosmic balcony, sit the French, sipping wine, polishing their baguettes, and enjoying the spectacle. They started this farce a thousand years ago, and now they get to watch it play out across continents.

“Look at them!” they chuckle. “The English once abandoned their own tongue to imitate us. Now the Indians abandon their own tongues to imitate the English. Quelle tragédie! Quelle comédie! They think sophistication comes from copying people who were copying us. Mon dieu, it’s like watching someone plagiarize a plagiarist.”

Encore: Everyone’s a Clown

So here we are. The British, still strutting around with their fake French perfume, pretending to be posh while eating beans on toast. The Indians, polishing their English like a sacred idol, proudly parroting accents that even the British upper class themselves abandoned after three pints.

One group rebranded sheep as mutton to feel superior. The other group rebrands “water” as “waw-tuh” and feels enlightened. Both are trapped in the same carnival of insecurity, wearing costumes stitched together from someone else’s wardrobe.

The joke isn’t on one side. It’s on both. The Brits colonized half the world, but were colonized forever by the French tongue. Indians got rid of the Brits, but enslaved themselves to English, convinced that “Kindly revert back” is the language of kings.

And through it all, the French are still drinking, still smirking, still saying: “Quelle bande d’idiots.”

The Quiet Entitlement of Hindi Imposition: A Tale of Two Attitudes

There’s a curious double standard playing out in modern India, particularly in its southern states, that’s beginning to grate. Picture the scenario: a young professional from the Hindi belt relocates to Bengaluru. He strides into the city, confident, fluent in Hindi, and utterly unbothered by the linguistic landscape around him. When locals speak to him in Kannada, he blinks, sighs, and responds in Hindi. If questioned, he smiles and says, “Come on, Hindi is our national language. Learn it. It’s easy.”

But the moment someone suggests that he should learn Kannada, or at the very least show some cultural sensitivity to the state he's chosen to live in, the tone changes. The smile fades. Offence is taken. “How dare you force a language on me!” he exclaims, without the slightest hint of irony.

This is the quiet entitlement of Hindi imposition—not the bludgeoning, overt, authoritarian imposition of yesteryears, but the smug, modern, suit-clad version. Polished, polite, and patronising.

It’s not that anyone minds if someone from outside Karnataka doesn’t speak perfect Kannada. What grates is the assumption that locals must accommodate him, while he bears no reciprocal obligation to understand or respect them. What offends isn’t ignorance—it’s arrogance.

Let us be perfectly clear: no one is asking a migrant to master ancient Kannada literature. But the sheer unwillingness to even attempt a basic greeting, to read a signboard, to say “swalpa adjust maadi” instead of “adjust karo yaar”—it reeks not of cultural difference, but cultural disdain.

And why does this matter? Because language is not a mere tool of communication. It is the vessel of a people’s memory, their jokes, their idioms, their curses, their lullabies. It is the soul of a place. When you live somewhere, truly live there—not as a guest passing through, but as a citizen—you owe it a minimal amount of respect. And that respect begins with language.

The situation becomes all the more absurd when you consider that the very people insisting that locals must speak Hindi, do so under the banner of “national unity.” But unity is not achieved through dominance. It is achieved through mutual respect. Telling someone in Bengaluru to abandon Kannada and adopt Hindi is no different from telling someone in Delhi to start speaking Malayalam. Both would be equally unreasonable. Only one, somehow, is seen as “patriotic.”

This behaviour becomes especially galling when juxtaposed against the treatment of South Indians who move northwards. They learn Hindi, sometimes out of necessity, sometimes out of courtesy. But they rarely, if ever, demand that Delhiites or Lucknowites learn Tamil, Telugu, or Malayalam in return. That sense of linguistic supremacy doesn’t exist. And perhaps it shouldn’t anywhere.

What we’re witnessing, then, is not a linguistic tug-of-war, but a lopsided assertion of privilege: “You adapt to me, but I will not adapt to you.”

If we are serious about being one nation—Bharat, not just India—then we must understand that unity is not uniformity. A truly united India is one where a Kannadiga speaks Kannada with pride in Bengaluru, a Tamilian speaks Tamil in Chennai, and a Hindi speaker learns to say “namaskara” without grumbling.

Respect is a two-way street. And if you're moving to Karnataka, the least you can do is meet your hosts halfway. Not out of compulsion, but out of civility.

And perhaps, just perhaps, when asked to learn Kannada, instead of sulking, one might pause and consider—how very odd it is to complain about “language imposition” while expecting everyone else to speak yours.

What's to be learned from the south?

For all the fiery disputes over water sharing and political boundaries, South Indians have long demonstrated a quiet, instinctive respect for one another’s languages within their respective states. A Malayali in Chennai doesn’t walk into a shop and demand to be served in Malayalam. A Kannadiga visiting Hyderabad doesn’t expect Telugu speakers to switch tongues. There’s an unspoken code—when in Rome, speak Roman, or at least try. One may grumble over river allocations, but rarely does one presume linguistic dominance within another's domain. It’s a mark of mutual regard that, despite all the historical rivalries, each state recognises the sanctity of the other’s language within its own soil. The fights may be loud, but the boundaries of respect are quietly honoured.