e Magus

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...

There was a time when the markers of success were defined by what you chose to own. The car you drove, the house you lived in, the watch on your wrist, the phone in your pocket, the fashion or perfume you wore —success was a visible, quantifiable thing. It was a flaunt you carried it out-of-home, on you in person, and inside, in your living rooms. Today, that calculus seems to be quietly changing. Increasingly, success is not about what you choose, but what you choose not to. To not hustle constantly. To not work on weekends. To not need a corner office. To not flaunt your wealth, but to use it for something “meaningful.” In short, to have the privilege of saying “no.” This isn’t just a shift in consumption or consumer behaviour. It is a recalibration of aspiration itself. Earlier, arrival was about accumulation. More was more. Today, it’s about subtraction. Consider the appeal of minimalism—not as an aesthetic, but as a status statement. Owning fewer things but better things. Wearin...

Gatekeepers have been the most toughest hurdle to cross from time immemorial before one can reach out to the powers that maybe. Be it the Kotwal in the courts of the emperor or the king, or the celestial guards of the gods or meeting the modern day corporate czars. I started my career in sales. My first job was going door to door and canvas for newspaper subscriptions. Well, that was the easy part of the job. The tougher part was Institutional Sales. It was a time when every institution worth its salt had its own hierarchy of barriers. To reach the boss, one had to first cross the darban , then the receptionist, then the chaprasi , and if you were lucky (and well-dressed), the secretary. These human gatekeepers didn’t just regulate access—they defined power. Gatekeeping was not just functional, it was theatrical. A ritual of deferral that reminded you where you stood. Today, something eerily similar is happening—except the gatekeepers wear no uniforms, have no expressions, and sit ...