e Magus

The other morning, my wife was looking out of the window as the school bus pulled away. A few children, as usual, had missed it. Casually, she remarked: “Have you noticed? The ones who are mostly on time are South Indians, and the ones who aren’t tend to be North Indians.” I thought to myself, it isn’t about the kids, it is about rice and wheat, reflecting on what I read longtime back in Sapiens: A Brief History of Humankind.   Yuval Noah Harari has a way of making us see the invisible. In Sapiens, Harari writes about the difference between rice and wheat civilisations. Rice, he points out, is a demanding crop. It needs constant tending, precise water control, endless labor. Wheat, on the other hand, grows with less fuss. Plant it, pray for rain, and wait. From this difference, he says, emerge two distinct work ethics — rice societies become disciplined, cooperative, and patient; wheat societies lean toward individualism, bursts of energy, and risk-taking. One needn’t need to trave...

I heard the word “seasoning” on a cooking show the other day and realised we almost never use it outside the kitchen anymore. It used to be a wider verb. A new cricket bat had to be seasoned— Linseed oiled, wrapped, knocked for hours until it felt right in the hands. As an aside, the bats used to highlight if they were with ‘fish-cover’ which for a long time I thought was a bat wrapped in fish-skin..until years later I realised, it was a kind of plastic wrap on the blade of the bat. I remember my friends who kept reminding me, sitting behind their new two-wheeler, while I rode - to keep the speeds low and avoid sudden bursts. I think it too was called tuning the engine and some called it seasoning period till its first service. Seasoning was not garnish. It was patience made practical. There were other versions. New leather school shoes needed a few careful, blistered days before they softened and became yours. I remember having a fountain pen (For those from Hyderabad will remember th...

Coincidentally, I’ve been coming across references to tea and coffee over the past few weeks. An article on the Matcha craze in Japan. The sudden fall in coffee prices in India due to surplus production in Brazil (no, I’m not into commodities trading—I have a client who owns a coffee estate and exports, so I keep a Google alert on coffee). And during a quick trip to Hyderabad—famous for its Irani chai and Osmania biscuits—I found myself in a group where everyone ordered morning coffee except one person, who asked for tea. These little moments stirred up a range of thoughts about these two beverages. Some unfiltered free flowing stuff. I’d like to start by saying that I love both my cuppas—coffee and tea. If it is coffee then preferably filter coffee. We all know the regional split. In India, coffee is preferred in the South, while tea rules the North and most of the rest of the country. In North Indian homes, it’s always tea—sweet, milky, and boiling over with routine. In the South, co...

I just got my DSC (Digital Signature Certificate) renewed the other day, and it struck me with increasing use of DSC, the last option of the actual signing of the signature is vanishing. It took me back to when I was 15, sitting in the classroom, scribbling endlessly in the pages of my rough book—practicing my signature before the board exams. Back then, our teachers told us with great solemnity, “This is your identity. It can never change.” I tried loops, underlines, bold initials, even dramatic flourishes. My rough book was a battlefield of squiggles, each one asking, Is this me? An uncle - family friend, who fancied himself amongst other things, a graphologist, made it worse by explaining how a signature revealed personality—slanting upwards meant ambition, a straight line meant stability, clarity, etc. I wanted a signature I’d never get wrong, because it wasn’t just a mark. It was me on paper. Giving your signature felt like a rite of passage. Parents would hand you a cheque to wi...

Every now and then, a familiar surname floats past on my feed—attached to a guitar solo, a zonal cricket match, or a small gallery exhibit. Someone’s son is representing their university in a zonal cricket tournament. Someone’s daughter is performing Carnatic vocals at a college fest. A painting’s gone up in a local gallery. A guitar solo performed at a bar gig has made its way to an YouTube channel or Soundcloud.   These updates are almost always accompanied by a proud caption. But what catches my attention isn’t the post—it’s the parent, for they are my childhood friend. I remember that the dad was once a Ranji-level cricketer who now manages a regional office for a bank. I know the mother who once sketched brilliantly in the margins of notebooks but now heads a Pharma company. Another was an aspiring guitarist in a college band before trading riffs for revenue targets. Their dreams didn’t exactly die. They were deferred . Placed on pause by the demands of a different time. Ours ...

There are three things that triggered this post. One, I’ve been working on a marketing brief for a financial client. As part of it, I’ve been digging into the context of money and wealth. Two, few days back, I was talking to my mom, and she made a passing reference about a relative visiting my native place He is generally treated with high reverence as he has made himself “successful”, and doing good favours for the extended family. Well, how he became successful…that’s a topic for a different conversation. Three, a couple of weekends ago, I met an old friend for breakfast at a Udipi restaurant. After the dosas, puris, and filter coffee, the bill arrived, and like clockwork, we tossed in a 20 rupees tip — less a gesture of generosity, more a tick mark on the social contract. I was left with a nagging feeling on why didn’t I tip more. I thought to myself, if we were at a shiny café where the coffee costs three times more and comes with a heart on the foam, and there’s already a 40 INR s...

Few days back, I was strolling (pun intended) around in a mall looking at suitcases. Nowadays, the market is filled with either the nylon types or the light, wiggly kind—polypropylene hard (or soft?) cases. But not long ago, there was a time when travel meant hauling around weight—literally. Steel trunks that needed two people to lift. I remember, in my childhood, we had either VIP or Aristocrat suitcases that we had to sit on to close the bulging lids. Even the duffle bags we carried had zippers that threatened mutiny. No, they did not come with wheels, and usually the handles gave way every few trips. Luggage had gravity. It said you were going somewhere, and taking everything with you—even the extra just-in-case-we-need stuff. Today, suitcases are different. They glide. They spin. Some even follow you like loyal pets. They’re made of polycarbonate or polypropylene (I don’t know the difference), boast of smart compartments, and weigh next to nothing. These days, when airlines charge ...

There is one thing that is missing from the walls of my home for many years now.   They used to be hung there , steady and visible—watching over time as it passed. I’m talking about — the calendar. You didn’t check a calendar. You glanced at it. As you walked into a room. As you stirred your morning tea. Time was not summoned; it was absorbed. Not just calendars. The rooms included the wall-clocks , the tabletop clocks, and the random wristwatches lying on top of the centre table (we called it teapoy) or on the dressing table. Yes, there was a time when time was all around us. Not hidden in apps or tucked inside phones, but present and visible—on walls, on wrists, in corners of the room. It was ambient. It was as if we were surrounded by physical manifestations of time. While the other devices are still kicking around struggling for relevance, it is the calendars that has disappeared from our homes. Together, they offered a rhythm to life. Time wasn’t just tracked. It was seen . C...

Last week at the Cannes Lions Festival, the best minds in advertising gathered once again to celebrate creativity. Awards were handed out for what was different, daring, disruptive, and of course, “never-seen-before.” Funnily, for a festival that champions difference, the crowd looked remarkably…similar. Black or white t-shirts, jeans or linen trousers, sneakers, and perhaps a blue or black linen blazer to complete the uniform. The same happens at weddings—no matter how much we desire to stand out in the event, our hand automatically reaches for a kurta or a saree, even if it hasn’t seen the light of day in years. Why, have you ever noticed that at office parties, someone will eventually play “Summer of '69,” and as if it’s encoded, everyone in office joins the chorus of singing it together. There is something oddly comforting in sameness. Not just in rituals, but in behaviours, gestures, even aspirations. For a society that prides itself on diversity, we seem to hold a deep and en...

Like every Father’s Day, this one too saw the social media floodgates open. A wave of sepia-toned memories and black and white stoic portraits of fathers who walked barefoot so we could wear branded shoes, who skipped meals so we could eat out, who didn’t buy new clothes so that we could, who served a small helping of his favourite dessert to himself so we could get an extra serving, who quietly shouldered burdens, who defined love as responsibility and care as invisibility, and who gave up dreams so we could chase ours. I’m not writing to question the truth of these stories. I’m sure it all is true. However, what caught my attention is that the subtext is unmistakable: the nobility of a man lies in how much he gave up. What makes me curious is: why do we keep telling this story in the same way? Why are we so compelled to romanticise sacrifice? Perhaps it begins with how we've historically understood love in Indian families. Unlike the West, where love is often expressed through wo...