From Childhood Aversions to Steamed Epiphanies: My Evolving Love-Hate with Idli

 #682

As I scrolled through my feed this morning, October 11, 2025, I was greeted by Google's delightful Doodle celebrating Idli – that fluffy, steamed South Indian staple that's as comforting as it is iconic. The animated sketch, complete with a stack of idlis alongside a steaming bowl of sambar, and chutney, instantly transported me back to my childhood in Karaikudi. What was meant to be a light-hearted homage to this beloved breakfast dish triggered a flood of memories, laughs, and a bit of self-reflection on how tastes – and superstitions – evolve over time.

Growing up in a bustling Chettinad household, Idli was the undisputed king of the breakfast table. Soft, pillowy rounds of fermented rice and blackgram batter, steamed to perfection and drowned in sambar and chutney. But for me? It was the enemy. As a child and even through my teenage years, I loathed Idli with a passion that bordered on the dramatic. My irrational fear stemmed from a wild childhood belief: that the blackgram (urad dal) in it could make you deaf. I'd seen it "happen" in my community – elderly relatives and neighbors in Karaikudi who struggled with hearing loss, their conversations a mix of shouts and gestures that left me frustrated and isolated during family gatherings. In my young mind, the dots connected: Idli = blackgram = deafness. No thank you. I steered clear like it was a curse.

Instead, I negotiated my way to alternatives with the stubbornness only a kid can muster. Dosa was my safe haven – thinner, crispier, and made with less of that dreaded batter per piece. My family, bless their patient souls, would fire up a separate tawa just for me, much to the chagrin of my father and the eye-rolls from aunts and uncles and cousins. "Why can't you just eat like the rest of us?" they'd tease, but I held firm. On days when even Dosa wasn't an option, I'd opt for a simple bowl of rice with curd – plain, safe, and utterly unadventurous – and call it a meal.

Fast-forward to my late-30s, about a decade into my marriage. Life had softened my edges (or maybe it was just curiosity winning out over fear). One lazy Sunday, I finally mustered the courage to take a bite of a proper Idli. And you know what? It wasn't half bad. Fluffy, tangy from the fermentation, and surprisingly light on the palate. No thunderclap of deafness followed – just a quiet realization that I'd been depriving myself of a simple joy for far too long. These days, while Idli still isn't my first choice (give me a masala Dosa any day), I don't outright reject it. I've even gotten creative: I ask my wife, Lalitha, to whip up Idly Upma by mashing leftovers with onions, green chilies, mustard seeds, and a squeeze of lime. It stretches the portions, masks the "Idli-ness," and turns it into something I actually crave.

Idly Upma. (Dish made by mashing idly)

What I love about Idli now, beyond the personal redemption arc, is its unpretentious charm. This dish isn't just food; it's a testament to South Indian ingenuity. Dating back to at least the 9th century, Idli's earliest mention appears in ancient Kannada texts as "iddalige," a fermented rice preparation that evolved into the steamed cakes we know today. Some historians trace its roots even further, possibly introduced by Indonesian traders around 800-1200 BCE, blending local rice with fermentation techniques that make it probiotic-rich and incredibly digestible. Nutritionally, it's a powerhouse: low in calories, high in protein from the urad dal, and packed with gut-friendly bacteria from the overnight fermentation – no wonder it's gone global, popping up on international flight menus ( I am told Air France was the first one) as a healthy, gluten-free option. In fact, World Idli Day on March 30 celebrates its cultural footprint, from street-side eateries in Chennai to fusion twists in cafes worldwide.

Yet, for all its wholesomeness, Idli remains a second or third pick for me – a reliable backup when Poori or Upma steals the show. Seeing Google's Doodle today, with its vibrant nod to this everyday hero, reminded me that change isn't always revolutionary. Sometimes, it's as subtle as a single bite after 30 years of avoidance. Thoughts, ideas, opinions – they all shift with time, experience, and a dash of openness. Flexibility isn't weakness; it's the spice that keeps life flavorful. So, here's to Idli: the dish that taught me to adapt, one steam at a time. What's your food story that flipped the script?

Karthik

11th October 2025

930am. (On way to Trichy, Boy Lalitha is one happy woman- Her hometown!!)..

"Lost in Translation: Why We're Building Walls with Whispers – A Traveler's Plea for Kinder Bridges Abroad"

 #681

Hey everyone, from bustling Bangalore streets to quiet Manchester lanes, and from Shanghai skylines to Sydney suburbs – if you've ever packed a suitcase and stepped into a new world, this one's for you. I'm writing this as someone who's crisscrossed the globe for 30 years, loving the thrill of new horizons but aching at the growing chasm I see between us travelers and the places we visit. Lately, social media has been buzzing with stories that tug at my heart: Indians and Chinese folks abroad getting side-eyed (or worse) for small slips in etiquette, while settled migrants beg their kin back home, "Please, act like the ambassadors we all need you to be." It's a sad ripple in our global family – hate and disengagement toward migrants rising in the West and beyond. Why does this happen? And more importantly, what can we do to mend it? Let's unpack this gently, with no blame, just honest reflections for all of us.

The Heart of the Hurt: Why Do These Moments Multiply?

I've felt it myself – that one awkward chide from my English colleague in Manchester, 2007, after I absentmindedly leaned on a stranger's car. It stung, but it stuck, teaching me volumes about invisible lines we all draw in sand. Over 50+ trips, I've cringed at Indian kids turning flights into echo chambers of screams, parents scrolling away while the rest of us grit our teeth. Or spotting that telltale zigzag merge on freeways, loud phone chats spilling secrets to strangers, music blasting sans earphones, group huddles in tongues that isolate rather than invite. Queue-jumping in lines that feel eternal. And yes, I've noticed echoes of this with Chinese travelers too – not to point fingers, but to wonder aloud.

But why? It's not malice; it's a mismatch of worlds. Growing up in cultures where warmth means volume – think lively Indian markets or animated Chinese family dinners – quiet spaces abroad can feel like a cold shoulder. In India or China, talking loud isn't rude; it's connection. Sharing stories in your mother tongue on a train? It's joy, not exclusion. Yet in the West, where "personal space" is sacred, these feel like invasions. Add the chaos of travel – jet-lagged brains, packed bags, unfamiliar rules – and good intentions fray. For many first-timers, it's simply ignorance: no one told them that a freeway isn't a village road, or that earphones are the unspoken law of shared skies.

Dig deeper, and it's bigger than individuals. Rapid migration waves from booming economies like India and China mean millions arriving yearly, often under pressure to succeed fast. That hustle can blind us to subtleties. Social media amps it up too – one viral video of a queue-jumper, and suddenly "all Indians are like that." Stereotypes stick like glue, fueling disengagement. In places like Canada or Australia, locals already stretched by housing crunches or job shifts see migrants as "taking" rather than "adding." It's a perfect storm: cultural blind spots + travel stress + amplified negativity = walls going up.

And oh, the passport part – that glee in renouncing Indian citizenship I hear from friends abroad, or the impatience to swap it out. It pains me, not as a flag-waver

Lalitha waving Stars and Stripes on 4th July at San Jose.

(I'm no patriot; my anchors are people, not borders, and the non-Indians who've shaped me outnumber the rest). Why the rush? For many, it's escape from red tape back home – endless bribes, crumbling infra, a system that feels rigged against dreamers. A third-world trap? Maybe, where opportunity abroad whispers "freedom" louder than duty calls. Yet, flip the script: Chinese and Vietnamese folks are trickling back, fueled by pride in their nations' rise, building startups in Shenzhen or Hanoi. It's not disloyalty; it's human – chasing stability, respect, a life less encumbered. But when it comes with fanfare, it stings those left behind, widening the emotional gulf.

Bridging the Gap: Simple Steps to Softer Landings

We can't fix the world overnight, but we can start with kindness – to ourselves and others. China’s leading the way with pre-travel "etiquette bootcamps" – short videos, apps, even airport talks on "dos and don'ts" abroad. Imagine India's Foreign Ministry rolling out something similar: a fun app with quizzes on "Freeway Zen" or "Whisper Wins on Planes." Would we listen? I believe yes – we're quick learners when motivated by love for our image, not shame.

Beyond governments, let's lean on communities. Diaspora groups could host "Welcome Abroad" chats – settled Indians in Toronto sharing tips over chai, or Chinese networks in London running role-play sessions. Schools and workplaces back home? Slip in global manners modules, like "Travel Like a Local Hero." For parents on flights, a gentle nudge: earplugs for tots, or games that turn squirms into quiet adventures. And us veterans? Speak up softly – that colleague's lesson changed me; yours could too.

On the flip side, hosts abroad: remember, we're all guests once. A smile over a scowl goes far. Programs like "Migrant Buddy" pairings – locals linking with newcomers for coffee and customs chats – could melt ice faster than rules alone.

For the passport puzzle? Let's reframe return. India could spotlight "Boomerang Builders" – stories of NRIs circling back with skills sharpened abroad, like those EHS pals of mine who might one day trade green cards for green initiatives here. No guilt trips; just inspiration. And for those staying put? Celebrate the global Indian – remitting billions home, bridging worlds. It's not about chains; it's choice.

In the end, this isn't about "fixing" Indians or Chinese – it's about us all tuning into the quiet music of respect. I've always craved that Sunday Bangalore homecoming, chai steaming as jets fade. You? Wherever your heart pulls, let's travel lighter, listen deeper, build bridges not barriers. Because in a world this small, every whisper echoes. What's one etiquette win you've learned abroad? Share below – let's learn together.

With wanderlust and warmth,

Karthik

9th October 2025..(John Lenon would have been just 85 today!! Boy)

9am.

Echoes of the Airwaves: Honoring Sting's Milestone and Benjamin Orr's Enduring Legacy

 #679

Ben Gone 25 years ago today, Sting entering 75 today. 

(Note: While it's already the 3rd here, our friends across the pond are still basking in the glow of October 2—perfect timing for a double tribute to the icons who soundtracked our youth.)

As the calendar flips to October, my mind drifts back to those crackling radio waves that were my lifeline in the 1970s and '80s. No streaming playlists, no on-demand Spotify—just the thrill of catching a song once or twice a week on BBC World Service, Voice of America, or Radio Australia. Daytime hours from 8 a.m. to 5 p.m.? Forget it; those were for studies or survival. It had to be the dead of night, low volume, in the dim glow of a hostel room, praying the signal wouldn't fade. Music wasn't just entertainment back then—it was sanity, a rebellion against the loneliness of college days when I was barely out of my teens, making boneheaded judgment calls that left me staring at the ceiling at 2 a.m. And yeah, cricket kept me grounded too (nothing beats a Test match), but movies? Sheer waste of time. Give me a guitar riff or a haunting vocal over two hours of celluloid any day.

Today, as I fire up my personal blog after too long a hiatus, I'm channeling that nostalgia into a heartfelt tribute. It's a dual homage: to Sting (the one and only Gordon Matthew Thomas Sumner), who just stepped into his 75th year on October 2, and to Benjamin Orr—affectionately known as Benny (that seven-letter powerhouse of a name)—marking the 25th anniversary of his passing on this very day, October 3, 2000. These artists from the golden eras of the '70s and '80s didn't just hook us with their hooks; they pulled us through the down moments, the isolation, the raw uncertainty of being under 25 and figuring it all out. Bands like REO Speedwagon, The Police, The Cars, Dire Straits, Eagles, Deep Purple, Carpenters, ABBA, and A-Ha—they were the architects of our emotional architecture. And in that pantheon, Sting and Ben stand tall, their music a timeless thread in the fabric of anyone born in the '60s like me.

Sting: The Englishman Who Wrapped the World Around His Finger

Gordon Sumner—Sting to the world—turns 74 today, but let's call it what it is: the dawn of his 75th year, a testament to a life that's been as poetic and unpredictable as his lyrics. Born in the gritty shipyards of Wallsend, England, in 1951, he traded teaching gigs and jazz bass lines for the spotlight with The Police, blending reggae rhythms with punk edge into something utterly revolutionary. By the mid-'80s, his solo work had cemented him as a global force—intelligent, introspective, and impossibly cool.

For me, Sting's songs were escape pods. "Wrapped Around Your Finger" (1983) slithered into my ears like a siren's whisper, all brooding bass and that signature falsetto, making you feel seen in your vulnerabilities. "Don't Stand So Close to Me" (1980) captured the forbidden tension of youth with Lolita-esque lyrics that hit harder than any textbook. Then there's "Roxanne" (1978), the raw howl of unrequited love that turned The Police into legends overnight—pure, desperate energy that drowned out the hostel hum of snoring roommates. And "Englishman in New York" (1987)? A wry anthem for the outsider, trumpet flourishes and all, reminding me that feeling like a fish out of water in a new city (or country) was universal. Oh, Yes!! Steve Copeland's drums added magic.

Mark Knopfler (Dire Straits) and Sting Live Aid 85 London.

But if one moment crystallizes Sting's magic for me, it's his guest spot at Live Aid in 1985. Sharing the stage with Dire Straits for "Money for Nothing," he unleashed this gleeful, teenage-boy energy—grinning like a kid who'd just aced a test, strutting and shredding with Mark Knopfler. In a sea of earnest anthems raising millions for famine relief, Sting brought unfiltered joy. It was a reminder that music isn't just catharsis; it's celebration. Sting, you're a treasure trove of a human—activist, innovator, eternal romantic. I'm profoundly glad to have lived in your time, and here's to you hitting 100 with that voice still slicing through the noise.

Benjamin Orr: The Voice and Groove That Drove Us Home

Ben (2nd) and Ocasek (3rd) with other "THE CARS" Members.

Shifting gears to a sadder note, today we remember Benjamin Orzechowski—Ben Orr to fans, or simply "Benny" in those intimate circles—gone too soon at 53. It was October 3, 2000, when pancreatic cancer silenced one of rock's smoothest baritones, leaving a void that's echoed louder with each passing year. Born in 1947 in Lakewood, Ohio, Ben co-founded The Cars in the late '70s with Ric Ocasek (himself taken from us in 2019), blending new wave precision with classic rock soul. Together, they weren't just a band; they were a formidable duo, Ocasek's quirky songwriting the spark to Ben's velvet vocals and masterful bass work.

The Cars' catalog is a time capsule of '80s cool, but Ben's contributions shine brightest. "Drive" (1984) is a masterclass in melancholy—his lead vocal a tender plea over shimmering synths, evoking rainy nights and unspoken heartaches. I still remember exactly where I was the first time I heard it: huddled by the radio in my dorm, the world pausing as that chorus washed over me. "Magic" (1984) followed with its infectious bounce, Ben's voice wrapping around the word like a spell. "Since You're Gone" (1982) packs emotional punch with its driving rhythm, while "Good Times Roll" (1978) kicks off their debut with irrepressible fun. And don't sleep on "Moving in Stereo" (1978)—that bass line from Ben is the heartbeat, underscoring the film's iconic Fast Times at Ridgemont High pool scene and cementing its cult status.

Ben's passing at such a young age (53) feels like a theft; there was so much music left in him, untold riffs and refrains. With Ric, he defined an era where rock could be cerebral yet visceral, futuristic yet familiar. The '70s and '80s rock scene they helped shape? It's irreplaceable, especially for us '60s babies who came of age in the '80s—that effervescent golden hour when we shed boyhood, chased manhood, and dared to dream bigger. Their sound fueled my own path, oddly enough, into safety professionalism. Yeah, you read that right: the vigilance of "Drive's" careful navigation mirrored hazard assessments; the vigor of "Good Times Roll" ignited that hunger for success amid risks. Music didn't just soothe; it armored me.

A Lifeline Across Decades

In the end, Sting and Ben are threads in a larger tapestry—those rare artists who turned scarcity into sorcery. Hearing a track once a week? It made every note sacred, every lyric a revelation. They pulled me from the pits of poor decisions and hostel solitude, whispering that better days (and better judgments) lay ahead. As I navigate my own midlife innings—still chasing that cricket ball of purpose—I'm grateful for the vigor they instilled.

May Sting grace us to 100, his pen and voice ever sharp. And Ben? Rest in peace, Benny Orr—your grooves will roll on, remembered in every late-night spin and heartfelt cover for decades to come.

Karthik

3rd October 2025

9am.

Why India Can Never Produce a Charlie Kirk.......

 #678

Charlie and Erika. (Charlie was younger than my Daughter, when fate snatched him)

October 1, 2025 – As the calendar flips toward October 14th, the day that would have marked Charlie Kirk's 32nd birthday, a heavy shadow falls over what should be a celebration of unyielding spirit. Instead, it's a somber birth anniversary, a reminder of the void left by a man taken far too soon. Charlie Kirk, the firebrand conservative who ignited a generation, was silenced by an assassin's bullet just a month ago. At an age when most are still finding their footing, he had already reshaped American politics, rallied millions to the polls, and dared to dream of a world rooted in faith, family, and fearless truth-telling. Gone too soon. The radical left's venom may have claimed his life, but it birthed a thousand Charlies in its wake – and that's the ultimate rebuke to his killers.

I first encountered Charlie's brilliance through his eight-page letter to Benjamin Netanyahu, a masterstroke of strategy and empathy penned in the heat of global scrutiny. (His podcasts and interactions showed me his orative part long before) In it, Charlie didn't just defend Israel; he charted a path to reclaim its soul – dismantling the toxic labels of "apartheid state" and "warmongering nation" with bold, actionable ideas. Proposals for grassroots alliances with Arab youth, transparent aid pipelines to Gaza's innocents, and a media blitz showcasing shared Judeo-Christian values that transcend borders. I pored over those pages, underlining feverishly, thinking: This is leadership unburdened by cynicism. No platitudes, no half-measures – just a blueprint for redemption that even the most hardened diplomat couldn't dismiss. If only more voices like his echoed in corridors of power.

Then came 2024, the election that will be etched in history as Charlie's magnum opus. With boots on the ground in all seven swing states, he orchestrated a voter mobilization miracle: over 500,000 souls – young, disillusioned, forgotten – marched to the polls under Turning Point USA's banner. It wasn't just numbers; it was a seismic shift, swinging every battleground to Donald Trump in a landslide that stunned the pundits. Charlie didn't wait for permission; he made the permission. He saw the rot in a system that silences the faithful and mobilized the faithful to roar back. Legendary doesn't begin to cover it. (Joe Biden Loathed him, Democrats and Crazy Kaaamaalaaa, and lunatic left would have pounced on him had they won office in 2024 and silenced him and would have thrown him in jail. (He feared that in his confession on election night after Trump won- Yes the other person whom the looney democrats would have hunted down was Elon Musk! that is story for another day!).

In the ashes of tragedy, his flame endures. Erika Kirk, his extraordinary wife, stepped into the CEO role at Turning Point USA with a grace that defies comprehension. Ten days after the unthinkable, she publicly forgave the assassin – a radical ideologue twisted by the very echo chambers Charlie fought to dismantle. What a woman. Unyielding in her sorrow, magnanimous in her mercy, she's not just carrying the torch; she's forging a new one. Under her stewardship, Turning Point's campus chapters have exploded from 11,000 to a staggering 66,000 applications nationwide. Colleges, high schools – they're clamoring for the message that once seemed fringe: Get married. Start a family. Live the Christian values. Churches, once echoing with empty pews, now overflow with seekers finding solace in the radical simplicity of faith renewed. Charlie's death didn't dim his light; it amplified it, proving that true conviction outlives the body.

And yet, as I reflect on this American phoenix rising from loss, my thoughts drift inexorably to my own homeland: India. A nation of 1.4 billion dreams, choked by the smog of its own contradictions. Why, I wonder, can India never produce a Charlie Kirk? A young visionary who storms the gates of power at 19, rallies the masses with unapologetic moral clarity, and bends history toward justice and faith? We've got the population, the intellect (on paper), even the occasional flash of brilliance – but something fundamental eludes us. It's a malaise deeper than poverty or politics; it's woven into the fabric of our collective soul. Let me unpack why, drawing from the bitter lessons of a lifetime observing this beautiful, broken land.

1. The Empathy Deficit: Compassion as a Luxury We Can't Afford

In the West, success breeds empathy – the kind that fueled Charlie's outreach to the overlooked, the voter who felt voiceless. Rich nations like America understand that true wealth is measured in lives uplifted, not just GDP spikes. But in third-world behemoths like India, China, or Russia, empathy is a scarce commodity, rationed out like alms to the deserving few. Our streets teem with the destitute – beggars at traffic lights, slum kids scavenging scraps – yet we avert our eyes, muttering about "karma" or "personal failing." Financial growth? Sure, India's middle class swells, but it doesn't touch the innate care that binds communities. Charlie wept for the unborn and the disenfranchised; we scroll past their pleas on Instagram, too busy curating our own facades. Without this heart, no leader emerges to mobilize the masses – because who would follow someone who truly sees their pain?

2. Religion as Transaction, Not Transformation

The West's declining faith isn't a death knell; for those who hold on, it's a passionate anchor – the Christian ethos that propelled Charlie to preach family and fidelity amid cultural decay. In India, religion is a bazaar of bargains: You give me a son, I'll build you a shrine; heal my illness, and I'll fast for a year. Temples, mosques, churches – they're vaults overflowing with gold and guilt, billions funneled into marble idols while schools crumble and hospitals ration beds. The Tirupati collections alone could vaccinate millions, yet they're hoarded for divine IOUs. No wonder our "spiritual" giants peddle astrology apps and prosperity gospels instead of moral revolutions. Charlie's faith was a call to arms; ours is a crutch for the status quo. How can a nation transactionalize the divine and expect prophets to rise?

3. The Dunning-Kruger Trap: Arrogance Masquerading as Expertise

Indians suffer from a collective know-it-all syndrome – half-baked ideas executed with the swagger of sages. From pothole-riddled roads "built" by corrupt contractors to Silicon Valley expats lecturing on startups without ever shipping a product, the Dunning-Kruger effect reigns supreme: the less competent we are, the more convinced we sound. I've witnessed it firsthand on cross-country jaunts – a village sarpanch pontificating on climate policy with zero data, a CEO botching mergers because "intuition" trumps research. Shoddy work isn't laziness; it's overconfidence untethered from humility. Charlie, at 19, knew what he didn't know and sought mentors; our youth, armed with WhatsApp wisdom, dismiss elders and evidence alike. In a land where ego eclipses learning, no Charlie emerges to humble the mighty.

4. Ego Over Everything: The Unbridgeable Class Chasm

Charlie was God's calling personified – a kid from the suburbs who cold-called billionaires at 19, and they listened. Donations flowed because he spoke truth without deference, and the elite recognized a force of nature. In India? Rich industrialists and Bollywood barons build empires on nepotism, their egos fortified by generational wealth. A 19-year-old firebrand knocking on Mukesh Ambani's door? He'd be laughed out – or worse, sued for "defamation." Our power structures are feudal fiefdoms, where youth is suspect and audacity is arrogance. Supporters? They'd rather fund family weddings than risky revolutions. Charlie bridged divides; we widen them with caste, cash, and contempt.

5. Politicians Who Listen to No One – Least of All the Young

Donald Trump heeded Charlie's swing-state playbook, mending fences with JD Vance under his guidance. It was mentorship in motion, ego yielding to efficacy. Indian politicians? Arrogant relics hiding inferiority complexes behind intellectual bluster and bulletproof vests. Modi, Rahul, Stalin – name them; they'll quote scripture or stats to dodge scrutiny, but listen to a whip-smart kid outlining electoral chess? Never. Their lacunae are armor: corruption cloaked as culture, dynasties defended as destiny. A Charlie Kirk in Delhi would be branded a "foreign agent" or "anti-national," silenced before the first rally. No mending ways here – only entrenchment.

And here's where it stings deeper: our systemic horrors amplify the void. Corruption isn't aberration; it's architecture – from electoral bonds laundering black money to judges auctioning justice to the highest bidder. Education? A scam factory churning rote learners who parrot without probing. Healthcare? A privilege for the privileged, leaving 70% uninsured to die in dignity's deficit. Women's safety? A punchline amid daily rapes and honor killings, where "Beti Bachao" slogans mask patriarchal prisons. Environmentally, we're torching our lungs with festivals of fireworks and rivers of sewage, all while lecturing the world on yoga and ancient wisdom. Social media amplifies the noise – trolls enforcing mob morality, cancel culture rebranded as "woke Hindutva." It's a malign merry-go-round: innovation stifled by bureaucracy, talent fleeing to foreign shores (hello, brain drain), and a youth bulge bloating into unemployment despair.

Charlie Kirk was lost at the peak of his promise – good 55 years stolen, a potential 2044 presidential run snuffed out. What a cataclysm for America, for the world. He could have been the bridge to a post-partisan era, the voice tempering Trump's fire with Kirk's faith-fueled finesse. Instead, we mourn what might have been.

India, though? We never even glimpsed the spark. Until we shed our transactional souls, our arrogant illusions, and our empathy droughts, no Charlie will rise here. But perhaps in his absence, his echo can stir us – a distant thunder urging us to build, not just lament. Rest in power, Charlie. Your light exposes our shadows, and maybe, just maybe, that's the start of dawn.

Sadly

Karthik

1st October 2025

9am.

Blue Bubble Burst: How Cancel Culture Doomed Democrats to Podcast Purgatory and a Vance Victory in '28 & '32

 #677

Political post after ages...

Podcasts downloads. Red Conservatives, Blue Liberals. 

 The Red Tsunami Nobody Saw Coming

RFK Jr. dropped a chart that says it all: “Congrats, cancel culture, you played yourself.” Picture this—Joe Rogan towering at 37.5M downloads, Ben Shapiro at 23M, My favorite Megyn at 7.3M, and Theo Von at 22M, all red bubbles dominating a sea of blue stragglers like Hasan Piker (2M) or the Breakfast Club (10M). I listen to 10 of these red beasts weekly—Shapiro’s laser logic, Von’s unfiltered laughs, Lex Fridman’s deep dives. They’ve saved me from the MSM propaganda swamp. What happens when the side that silences jokes ends up with zero laughs? Spoiler: They riot instead. This isn’t just podcast trivia—it’s why Democrats are melting down with riots, rigged votes, and open borders, yet still can’t touch power.

The Democrat Desperation Playbook: Tactics That Tanked

Their “indulgences” are backfiring in a vicious cycle: Overreach → Backlash → Fade to irrelevance. Portland 2020? $2B in damages, zero wins—hardly a “Summer of Love.” Post-Charlie Kirk assassination attempt, Americans are waking to Judo-Christian values: Protect the innocent, not torch cities. Trump’s riot-handling? Peace through strength—rioters think twice. No ID voting? Illegals “voting”? Rigging scandals in Philly and Atlanta? Even with that, 2024 was a Trump landslide—real Americans smell the fraud. A quick look:

Tactic	Intended Win	Actual L
Street Riots	Mobilize base	Alienated suburbs (60% swing to GOP)
No-ID Voting Shenanigans	Stuff ballots	Exposed fraud, fueled voter ID laws in 20 states
Illegals as 'Voters'	Pad margins	Sparked mass deportations, border wall fever

Democrats treat elections like a participation trophy—everyone wins, except them. While they’re burning ballots, we’re building audiences—Shapiro’s 23M listeners aren’t buying the “mostly peaceful” BS.

My podcast list about 25# ( I think 0 Indian!! hahahahhah!). I listen to Ben Shapiro, Dr Jordan Peterson, Charlie Kirk, etc. 

Trump’s MAGA Machine: Policies Punching Above Weight

Dems are “leaderless and clueless” because Trump’s team is two steps ahead. Tariffs on China? GDP up 3.2% Q2 ‘25, (3.8 % for Aug 2025) manufacturing jobs +500K—Dems called it a “trade war,” now they’re begging for scraps. No endless wars—Ukraine aid smart-capped, Middle East de-escalated. Smart power, not isolationism. Biden’s forever wars left USA broke; Trump’s got America winning. Immigration? Deportations hit 2M in Year 1, borders sealed—voter rolls purged, IDs mandatory. Charlie Kirk’s brush with death lit a Judo-Christian revival—churches packed, school boards flipping red. Dems’ woke indoctrination? Crumbling. I tuned into Rogan post-assassination attempt—his take? “This is the pushback we needed.” Spot on. They don’t know what hit ‘em.

Podcast Power: The Anti-Propaganda Revolution

Cancel culture boomeranged, just like RFK said. Blue bubbles? Hasan at 2M, a few TED-Talk comics gasping. Red? Rogan 37.5M, Von roasting elites, Shapiro dismantling narratives daily. Edgy comedy wins because it punches up—woke stuff? Lectures with limp jokes. Americans realized: MSM’s 0% trust (Gallup ‘25 poll: 31% overall, 12% among young men). I ditched CNN eons ago, (CNN-- Communist News Network for me) for these 10 podcasts—Shapiro, Rogan, Fridman, and more. No hoodwinking here; millions like me have clocked it—hence the fade. Theo Von at 22M? Proof laughs > lectures. Cancel him? He’d just get bigger.

The Inevitable Fade: Vance ‘28, Obliteration ‘32

Leaderless Dems—Harris who? Newsom flop? Trump’s bench (Vance, Ramaswamy) is loaded. ‘28? Vance cruises on MAGA momentum—economy booming, borders ironclad. ‘32? Total rout; blue states flip as podcasts red-pill the masses. Dems: Adapt or die. Rest of America and its youngsters? Keep listening, keep voting red. Share this if you’re all in. Cancel culture handed the mic to the voices it hated—now those voices are screaming victory, and the blue bubbles? Popped. Yes, if people like Rahm Emmanuel makes it, there is an outside chance? But I doubt!!

America is in safe hands until 2037... I think that is enough for me for I will be 75, life done and enjoyed things much to my liking.

Karthik

30th Sep 2025

9am.

My Journey with Samarth: A Grandparent’s Tale of Joy

 #676

Our recent 20-day trip to Cupertino and Foster City was nothing short of a heartwarming adventure, filled with the joy of meeting our grandson, Samarth, for the first time. At just under 40 days old, he’s already stealing hearts and teaching us that time flies faster than we can imagine. Weeks, months, and years will slip by, and before we know it, Samarth will be taking his first steps, speaking his first words, and carving his own path in this world. That’s life, isn’t it? A beautiful whirlwind of moments that feel both fleeting and eternal.

A Name Full of Meaning

During our visit, we celebrated a special family moment by naming our little one “Raghunandan” for the traditional naming ceremony, a name steeped in cultural significance, invoking blessings from Lord Vishnu. It was a proud moment for me, as the family warmly embraced both names I suggested. For everyday love and affection, we’ll call him “Samarth,” a name that reflects strength and capability—qualities we already see twinkling in his tiny eyes. The elders showered their blessings, and it felt like a beautiful blend of tradition and new beginnings, a moment that resonated deeply with our Indian roots.

Samarth’s Playful Antics

Samarth is thriving under the careful guidance of his pediatrician, growing stronger and more curious by the day. But don’t let his innocent face fool you—he’s already a master of mischief! He’s taken to playfully soiling his parents, Shravan and Sangeetha, with an accuracy that’s almost comical. And the pacifier? Oh, he knows it’s not the real deal and tosses it aside with a cheeky determination, as if to say, “Milk, please, and nothing less!” These little pranks have us all laughing, reminding us of the joy and unpredictability that babies bring into our lives.

The Grandparent Glow

Lalitha and I found ourselves utterly captivated by Samarth. Everything else—work, routines, even the world outside—seemed to fade into the background. It’s a feeling that’s hard to describe, but I realized it’s not new. My father shared the same sentiment when my daughter Radha was born in 1992. It’s as if grandchildren have a magical way of making everything else feel insignificant. A dear friend put it perfectly: “Grandkids are the interest you earn on the investment you made in your children.” And oh, what a delightful return on investment Samarth is proving to be!

For my fellow Indian grandparents reading this, you’ll understand the overwhelming pride and love that comes with holding your grandchild. It’s a universal feeling, yet deeply personal, rooted in our culture’s reverence for family and legacy. Samarth’s tiny hands have already wrapped us around his little finger, and we’re happily surrendered to this new chapter of life.

The Bittersweet Goodbye and a Joyful Reunion Ahead

Leaving Samarth to catch our flight back home was no easy task. Lalitha and I practically had to drag ourselves to the airport, our hearts heavy with the thought of being miles away from our little bundle of joy. But there’s a silver lining that keeps us going—Radha’s baby shower is just around the corner, scheduled for my birthday on November 30th in San Jose. It’s a beautiful coincidence that we’ll celebrate my special day with family, surrounded by love and the anticipation of meeting Samarth again. Another couple of weeks with him is a gift we can’t wait to unwrap.

A Message to My Readers

To all my readers, I hope this resonates with you. Whether you’re a parent, grandparent, or dreaming of the day you’ll hold your own grandchild, know that these moments are what make life so rich. Samarth has reminded us that amidst the chaos of work and daily responsibilities, it’s family that anchors us. Share your own stories in the comments—I’d love to hear about the little ones who light up your lives!

Until we meet again in San Jose, Samarth, keep growing, keep pranking, and keep filling our hearts with joy.

Karthik

29th Sep 2025

9am. 

Sikkim Visit: A Different World, Different Time!

 #675

I recently wrapped up a quick business trip to Sikkim, and let me tell you—it felt like stepping into another era. The place is serene, the people are incredibly warm, and the landscapes? Straight out of a dream. This was my first time there, heading to Mamring in South Sikkim for a 4-day work stint(Back late evening yesterday). While business kept me tied up, the experience was eye-opening. I'll share my journey, some highlights, and a few tips for anyone planning a visit. If you're thinking of escaping the hustle of city life, Sikkim might just be your next adventure.

The Journey: From Bangalore to the Hills

Getting to Sikkim was straightforward, thanks to direct flights. I flew from Bangalore to Bagdogra Airport, which has about four non-stop options daily. Bagdogra is roughly 80 km from the Sikkim border, but don't let the distance fool you—the real adventure starts on the road.

Due to the monsoon season, the uphill climb turned into a bit of a slog. Mamring sits at around 7,000 feet, and Gangtok is even higher at about 11,000 feet (though I didn't make it there this time). What should be a quick drive stretched to 3.5 hours, thanks to heavy rains, winding paths, and a 30 km stretch with practically no roads—just muddy tracks and switchbacks. Add in the traffic chaos around Bagdogra and Siliguri, and you're in for a patience test. On the bright side, the return trip to the airport was smoother, with a flyover shaving off time for a good 10 km.

Pro tip: If you're traveling during monsoon (July to September), expect delays from landslides and fog. It's lush and green, but pack rain gear and motion sickness meds—the roads are twisty!

First Impressions: A Slower, Gentler Pace

Sikkim hit me like a time warp—life here moves at a leisurely rhythm, maybe 50 years behind the frenzy of metro cities like Bangalore. And honestly? It's refreshing. You need to indulge in that slowdown every once in a while to recharge.

The people are what stole the show: soft-spoken, warm, and genuinely good-natured. Most folks speak Nepali, and their hospitality shines through. I opted to stay at the company guest house instead of a nearby 3-star hotel, and it was the best decision. Not only did I get authentic local food cooked by our Nepali caretaker, but I also got to chat with locals and feel more immersed.

One surprise? The abundance of Hindu temples dotting the landscape. I expected Buddhism to dominate (given the monasteries and prayer flags everywhere), but Hinduism has a strong presence too, blending seamlessly with the culture. It's a beautiful mix that adds to the spiritual vibe.

The Food: A Delicious Highlight

Food in Sikkim is a treat for the senses! Staying at the guest house meant home-cooked Nepali meals—think hearty thukpa (noodle soup), momos stuffed with veggies and gundruk (fermented leafy greens) that packs a flavorful punch. Everything felt fresh and wholesome, spiced just right without overwhelming heat. If you're a foodie, try the local chhurpi (hard cheese) or sip on tongba (millet-based hot drink) for an authentic experience. Vegetarians and non-veg folks alike will find plenty to love here.

Scenery That Takes Your Breath Away

The drive alone was worth the trip. For about 50 km, the Teesta River snakes alongside the road, its turquoise waters rushing through the valleys. The hills are blanketed in thousands of trees—dense, green forests that stretch as far as the eye can see. It's a feast for the eyes, especially after the concrete jungles back home. Monsoon made everything misty and vibrant, but clear days would offer epic Himalayan views.

Business First, But So Much More to Explore

As with any work trip, business ate up most of my time—no chance to play tourist. I missed out on Gangtok's bustling markets and monasteries, or a side trip to Darjeeling for tea estates. Sikkim's proximity to Nepal and Bhutan makes it ideal for extended adventures; you could easily hop borders for a multi-country jaunt. And Nathula Pass? That's on my bucket list—a high-altitude border point with stunning views into China.

I'm already plotting a return in 2026, this time with Lalitha, to properly explore. Fingers crossed for better weather!

Useful Tips for Your Sikkim Trip

If my story has you inspired, here are some key pointers to make your visit smooth. Sikkim is India's hidden Himalayan gem, but it requires a bit of prep.

• Best Time to Visit: Skip the monsoon if you can—aim for March to June for blooming rhododendrons and mild weather, or October to mid-December for clear skies and festivals. Autumn (September to November) is great for vibrant foliage too. For Nathula Pass, May-June is ideal as roads open post-winter.
• Permits Needed: Indians require an Inner Line Permit (ILP) for restricted areas like North Sikkim or Nathula—get it online via the Sikkim Tourism website or at the border (free, valid 15-30 days). Foreigners need a Protected Area Permit (PAP) or Restricted Area Permit (RAP), arranged through tour operators. Apply 24-48 hours in advance, especially in peak seasons (April-May, October-November). Always carry ID proof.
• Transportation and Packing: Shared taxis or jeeps from Bagdogra are common and affordable. Roads can be rough, so book reliable drivers. Pack layers—nights get chilly even in summer. Don't forget sunscreen, insect repellent, and altitude sickness remedies like Diamox, as elevations climb quickly. ATMs are sparse outside Gangtok, so carry cash.
• Respect the Culture and Environment: Sikkim is eco-friendly—plastic is banned, so use reusables. Be mindful in monasteries (remove shoes, no photos inside without permission). Join in local festivals if you time it right, and try learning a few Nepali phrases for warmer interactions.

Sikkim isn't just a destination; it's a reset button for the soul. If you've been, share your stories below—I'd love to hear! Safe travels. 😊

Momos with various types of sauces for dinner

The slopes can put your physical endurance to test, sometimes good 50 feet steep slopes (Even within worksite)

Hills with 1000s of trees...... The water falls from hills ( I am told pure water!) is treat to watch.

Teesta River orgininates from Sikkim flows in to Bangladesh.

View from the guest house I stayed.

Karthik

28th Sep 2025

1200 Noon.

My Evening with Lech Walesa: (Noble Peace Laureate) A Memorable Night in Oakland California.

 #674

I had the privilege of attending "An Evening with Lech Walesa" on September 6, 2025, at the Oakland Marriott City Center’s West Hall, (California) and I’m excited to share this unforgettable experience. The 90-minute event, part of a 28-city U.S.-Canada tour celebrating the 45th anniversary of Poland’s Solidarity movement, was a powerful moment.

 As someone who believes capitalism, despite its flaws, is the only viable path forward (unlike socialism, which looks ideal but fails in practice), hearing Lech Walesa, the 1983 Nobel Peace Prize laureate and former Polish President, speak was a memory etched for life. I have been following him since my teens (he, along with Pope John Paul, another Pole, were instrumental in systematic dismantling of communism with energy supplied by Reagan, Thatcher to the cause). 

The event, starting promptly at 6 PM, drew a vibrant crowd of about 2,000 attendees—a diverse mix of Polish, Portuguese, Germans settled in the U.S., and local Americans. I was the only Indian there, which made my interactions with the audience even more special. My son spotted the tour announcement during our July visit to the Bay Area and quickly arranged tickets and my daughter, travel from Foster City—a 32-mile Uber ride that took about 40 minutes. The $99 ticket was worth every penny for this historic occasion.

Walesa, speaking through a live English interpreter, shared profound insights on global challenges and his role in dismantling communism alongside figures like Pope John Paul II. Here are the key takeaways:

• New World Order: Walesa stressed that old solutions won’t solve today’s global (10 key issues), continental (30 issues), and national problems. He urged people to take ownership through gatherings like this, with America as the leader to drive change. No other nation, he said, comes close.
• Capitalism vs. Socialism: Addressing younger generations’ fascination with socialism, he firmly stated it looks good on paper but doesn’t work. Capitalism, though imperfect, is the practical path, needing course corrections through collective action.
• Europe’s Identity Crisis: He noted the rise of nationalist populism in Europe, suggesting it’s acceptable if people endorse it, but Europe must reinvent itself to stay relevant.
• Poland’s Strategic Role: Walesa credited Poland’s post-1991 reforms, supported by leaders like Bill Clinton (whom he recommended for a Nobel Prize), for sparing Poland from Russia’s aggression, unlike Ukraine today. Geographically stuck between Russia and Germany—two nations Poland has complex relations with—Poland must stay vigilant.
• Luck and Opportunity: In a charming anecdote, Walesa shared how, at 20, a train he was on left early during a coffee break in Gdansk. Stranded, he explored the city, became an electrician in its shipyard, and later a vocal union leader—proof that luck plays a role, but you create your own circumstances.

A Q&A session revealed Walesa’s resilience. An American-born Polish attendee shared that his mother, a 1979 immigrant, refused to attend, calling Walesa a traitor who sold out Solidarity. Walesa, unfazed, explained how Russian disinformation and Polish secret police campaigns maligned him. He asked, “Who else could have secured better deals while dismantling such forces?” His response underscored the persistent shadow of propaganda.

I also got my copy of his book signed and a quick photo with him! When I mentioned I’m from India, he warmly shook my hand (he speaks little English, but his presence speaks volumes). Being among the first 10 in a 200-person signing queue meant I was back home early.

This event was a powerful blend of history, wisdom, and inspiration, made richer by connecting with such a diverse audience. Walesa’s call to action—to shape a better future through active engagement—left me energized.

Karthik. 

10th Sep 2025

925am PDT. 

Proud Grandparents.

Lalitha and I are thrilled to share the wonderful news of the arrival of our grandson, Samarth Shravan Karthik, born on Thursday, August 21, 2025, at 5:21 AM PDT in Palo Alto, CA. This little champ gave his mother a true test of resilience and kept me on edge for 30 minutes before making his grand entrance into the world!

Samarth joins us as the 7th known generation in our family and the 5th generation at Gayathri Niwas, Karaikudi. We can’t wait to meet him in Cupertino, on August 27!

A special thanks to Dr. Lakshmi Srivatsan and the amazing team at El Camino Hospital, Palo Alto, for their exceptional care. Fun fact: Samarth shares his birthday with legends like Sergey Brin, Kenny Rogers, and Usain Bolt!

Please join us in welcoming Samarth with love and blessings!

PS: Samarth is the first great grandson to my father and mother in law. 

Hoodwinking.

 #673

I was away on Business Travel all last week.

Tomorrow, June 24, 2025, Lalitha and I celebrate 35 years since our engagement. (We tied the knot in January 1991, just seven months later!) Thirty-five years ago, today on 23rd June, a brave young woman travelled 2,000 km to meet a guy who, if she said "yes," would become her life partner. In a whirlwind 20-minute meeting, with just 15 minutes of one-on-one conversation, I somehow hoodwinked and convinced her to say "yes." We got informally engaged that day, and the rest, as they say, is history!  Oh yes! before the marriage day arrived, she was twice hinted by my dad and my grandfather when they met her, as to what sort of crazy guy I am!! 

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(Lalitha 24th June 1990 at Bharuch, Gujarat. (She travelled all the way from Trichy TN). 

Karthik

23/6/25

1330 Hrs.

I am away to Cupertino / Foster City, CA, until 20th July 2025. Blog posts may be of irregular frequency. 

Reclaiming History and Honoring a Storyteller: A Reflection on Civilization and Frederick Forsyth....

 #672

It was to be a quiet day. Not so, time says. 

The past is a puzzle, and the more I read, the more I realize how little we truly know. Recently, I finished The Dawn of Everything by David Graeber and David Wengrow, a book that turned my understanding of human history upside down. It paints a picture of ancient civilizations—7,000 years ago—that were often more orderly, egalitarian, and sophisticated than we’ve been led to believe. From the planned cities of the Indus Valley to the monumental temples of South India like Tanjore, built around 1010 CE, these societies thrived with ingenuity and balance, often without the rigid hierarchies we assume defined “civilization.” Standing in Rome, marveling at the Pantheon (from 125 CE, not 10,000 years ago as I once miscalculated!), I couldn’t help but compare it to the urban brilliance of Mohenjo-Daro, crafted 4,500 years ago. How did such distant cultures, with no apparent means of communication, arrive at similar systems of governance and architecture? It’s a humbling reminder of humanity’s shared creativity.

Pantheon-Rome. (Every time I saw the monument, my awe went deeper!).

Yet, this awe comes with a bitter truth: the stories of Asian, African, and Latin American civilizations have been overshadowed. Western powers, rising to dominance through exploration, colonization, and industrial might, rewrote history to suit their narrative. They framed their ascent as inevitable “progress,” sidelining the brilliance of older civilizations. The Indus Valley’s drainage systems, Egypt’s pyramids, or the Great Zimbabwe’s stone palaces were downplayed or erased, their artifacts looted and displayed in Western museums. Colonial powers exploited internal divisions—warring kingdoms in India or rival tribes in Africa—to conquer and control. The printing press, gunpowder, and disease gave them an edge, but their real weapon was storytelling: they controlled the global narrative through education, media, and rewritten histories.

This manipulation wasn’t just accepted; it was enabled by the chaos of the time. Fragmented societies, like post-Mughal India or pre-colonial Africa, couldn’t unite against the onslaught. Priceless records—Mayan codices, African oral traditions—were destroyed, leaving gaps that are hard to fill. Today, there’s a growing push to reclaim these narratives. Scholars and activists are unearthing archaeological evidence, amplifying oral histories, and demanding the return of looted artifacts. But it’s a long road. Internal divisions still linger, and the West’s grip on global media remains tight. As I’ve learned, history doesn’t fill stomachs, but it shapes identity and dignity—fuel for a future where these voices can rise.

+++++++

This reflection feels even more poignant as I mourn the loss of Frederick Forsyth, the master storyteller who passed away yesterday, June 9, 2025, at 86. Forsyth’s thrillers, like The Day of the Jackal, The Odessa File, The Dogs of War, and The Fist of God, weren’t just page-turners; they were windows into the murky world of power, deception, and hidden truths. His meticulous research and cold precision, as one fan put it, made his stories feel like “operations on the page.” The Day of the Jackal is a masterpiece of suspense, but for me, The Odessa File—with its hunt for a Nazi war criminal shielded by a shadowy organization—mirrors the struggle to uncover buried histories. The Dogs of War exposes the greed behind colonial exploitation in Africa, echoing how resources like platinum or diamonds fueled Western dominance. And The Fist of God, with its cunning Israeli agent posing as an Iraqi minister, captures the kind of subterfuge that reshaped global narratives during the Gulf War.

Forsyth, a former RAF pilot and journalist who covered the Biafran War, knew how history could be manipulated. His novels, selling over 75 million copies, blended fact and fiction to challenge official stories. In The Odessa File, the pursuit of justice against a Nazi network reflects the fight to restore erased truths. In The Dogs of War, mercenaries topple an African regime for profit, a stark reminder of how colonial powers exploited divisions. Forsyth’s work reminds us that history isn’t just what happened—it’s what we’re told happened.

As I reflect on ancient civilizations and Forsyth’s legacy, I see a common thread: the power of narrative. Whether it’s the West rewriting the past or Forsyth crafting a thriller, stories shape our world. Reclaiming the glory of Asian, African, and Latin American civilizations is a battle worth fighting, but it’s not just about correcting history—it’s about moving forward with pride. Forsyth’s tales of intrigue inspire us to question, dig deeper, and tell our own stories. Here’s to honoring the past and writing a future where every voice is heard.

Karthik

10th June 2025. (Anusham-2025).

9am.

Paramacharya Portrait at Gayathri Niwas,Karaikudi. 42 years completed.