e Magus

We often hear that necessity is the mother of invention. Perhaps it's time to recognise that convenience is its father. In today’s hyper-connected, on-demand world, convenience is no longer just a feature—it's the driving force behind most modern innovations. The desire to simplify life, minimise effort, and enhance ease has woven itself into the very fabric of our daily existence. Cultural evolution has long been shaped by geography, religion, language, and shared history. But over the last few decades, an unanticipated player entered the fray—technology. Where once culture developed slowly over generations, technology has accelerated this evolution. The printing press, which sparked the spread of ideas, religious movements, and democratic revolutions, was perhaps the first modern agent of mass cultural change. Suddenly, everything was accessible to everyone. Knowledge spread, education increased, scientific reasoning became the norm, etc. But the shift we’ve seen since then,

A few days ago , I encountered a beggar on the street, and a genuine instinct to help him arose. I reached into my pocket, only to find nothing—no coins, no small notes. I realised then that I hadn’t carried physical cash in a long time. Like many of us today, most of my transactions had shifted online. The tactile feel of money had quietly disappeared from my life.   This absence was a stark contrast to my childhood, when money wasn’t just an abstract means of exchange—it was something you could hold, touch, and count. Coins and notes were more than just currency; they carried weight, both literal and symbolic. As children, we were sent on errands with a few rupees, and those coins felt powerful. The act of handling money, of saving it in a clay piggy bank (We had a Mr. Potato Head bank), counting it on slow afternoons, gave a sense of responsibility. Each paisa had its place, each rupee was revered. In India, money has long been more than just a transactional tool—it is intertwined w

Gully cricket , once an integral part of Indian childhood, is now a fading memory. In the 80’s and early 90s, the streets were more than mere public spaces; they were stages for dreams. A bat, a ball, and a group of eager kids were all that was needed. Stumps were supported by stones, or stones themselves became stumps, or it could be a lamppost, or 3 lines drawn with a piece of brick on a compound wall. If nothing, it would be two hawai chappals that acts as wickets. A twig could be a stand-in for a second bat, and everyone played with a shared spirit. The road in front of anyone's house was open to all—a place where games, conversations, and sometimes even family functions spilled over. The essence of gully cricket was its simplicity and collectiveness. No one really owned anything individually. If one kid had a bat, it became everyone’s bat. The game was not defined by boundaries of ownership or the idea of personal space. Rather, it thrived on the joy of shared resources and ex