The Name Crisis

A couple of days back, I was chatting with my schoolmate Gandharv on WhatsApp. Gandharv and I studied together in Class 12th. To be precise, we attended class 12th together as neither of us studied!! Ours was a friendship built on bunking classes, mischief in school, shared academic irresponsibility and the continuous agony of our respective parents.

I have written about Gandharv earlier this year in my blog post titled, 'A Tale of Two Soft Drinks: A Heist Gone Wrong.' He now lives in Dehradun with his family.

Back to the incident. Gandharv needed my suggestion on something and we were exchanging messages. In the middle of the conversation, I wanted to mention his daughter's name. Only trouble was that I could not remember her name!!

In my defence, I have met his wife and daughter only once. But this is not normal for me. I am usually pretty good with names. Yet my brain had suddenly transformed into a server from 1997. No matter how much I tried, I simply could not recall her name. And I felt awkward to ask him. What kind of question is this, "what is your daughter's name?" Friends should not be asking this question.

In desperation, I turned to my wife. Women are generally better at remembering such things. Birthdays, names, what someone wore in 2014, exact wording used during an argument six years ago… they remember everything.

So, with a lot of hope, I asked, “What is the name of Gandharv’s daughter’s?” But, like most times in my life when I seek useful assistance, she was of no help.

I did not know what to do. And then, my eyes fell upon my daughter!

Now this creature possesses a very unique talent. She can remember absolutely anything and everything, provided it has no connection whatsoever with academics. So I asked...again with a lot of hope..., “What is the name of Gandharv Uncle’s daughter?”

Without blinking. Without hesitation. Without even taking half a second. She confidently replied, “Pahal.”

The speed and certainty of the answer gave it unquestionable authority. This was not a guess. This was “I know EXACTLY what I am talking about” kind of confidence!

I felt immediate relief. My wife was stunned...because my daughter had met Gandharv and his family only once and that too in 2018...when she was seven years old! Naturally, my wife immediately switched to sarcasm mode (also her default mode): "So you are able to remember this but you cannot....blah blah blah blah blah"

Like always, I stopped listening. I was too busy feeling proud of my genetically gifted offspring.

I immediately typed my message to Gandharv and included his daughter’s name with full confidence. Message sent.

Then came Gandharv’s reply. “Yeh Pahal kaun hai bey?" ("Who is Pahal?”)

I froze. I stared at the message for a few seconds. Then I slowly turned toward my daughter.

“You gave me the WRONG name?!!”

My wife, who like always derives tremendous joy whenever I embarrass myself, had already started giggling uncontrollably. I was giving a dirty look to my daughter.

And then came her response. The greatest question ever asked in human history. With absolute nonchalance...

“Who is Gandharv Uncle?”

At that moment, it became clear to me. She has no clue. None whatsoever!

Mankind is making so much progress. Artificial Intelligence, quantum computing, reusable rockets, UPI payments… but all are pale in comparison to the confidence with which children can give completely wrong information.

I cursed myself for trusting this space cadet....and asked Gandharv,"what is your daughter's name?" 

The Laughter, The Arguments, The Regret and The Relief

My first memory of Jagdev goes back to Class 10 in school in Ranchi.

The session had already started a few weeks back and one of the classes was going on when a teacher walked into the classroom with a very lean, quiet Sikh boy and asked him to take a seat. That was Jagdev. If my memory is not failing me, he was wearing all whites - so maybe it was a Saturday - and had a green patka (A patka is a smaller, simpler form of turban worn by Sikh boys and sometimes by Sikh men during sports or casual activities).

To everybody’s amusement, instead of sitting in the boys’ section, Jagdev crossed the entire width of the classroom - straight to the first bench in the girls’ row - and sat there calmly. The entire class found it hilarious. Jagdev, however, looked completely unfazed.

I do not think we became friends immediately. In fact, when I think back about Class 10, I do not remember too many incidents involving him and me together. We must have been cordial - like everybody else in the class - but not particularly close.

He stayed in the main Dipatoli military cantonment on the outskirts of Ranchi and I stayed in the officers’ quarters in the middle of Ranchi. I am not even sure whether those were technically separate cantonments or part of the same military establishment. The two places were several kilometers apart and, in those days, friendships depended heavily on physical proximity. There were no mobile phones, no internet and no social media. Once school ended, everybody disappeared into their own part of the city.

Things changed a little in Class 11 when both of us joined the Commerce section. Ours was a smaller section with around fifteen or sixteen students while the Science and Arts sections were much larger. Smaller groups naturally create more interaction.

I started visiting his house occasionally. His family was warm and welcoming. His father had risen to officer rank in the army and they lived in officers’ quarters. Jagdev had sisters and he was the only son in the family. I could sense that he was deeply loved and probably the most naughty and pampered member of the household.

He was introverted. He spoke very little. But whenever he did say something, it was either unintentionally funny or unintentionally awkward.

And sometimes both.

The Haircut

One of my strongest memories from school involves Jagdev and a very unfortunate haircut.

When Jagdev had joined the school in Class 10, he used to wear a patka. At that point, like most Sikh boys from traditional families, he had long hair and had probably never imagined cutting it.

Then suddenly one day he decided to chop it all off. I still remember him telling me that with his hair gone, he was probably no longer welcome at his grandfather’s house in Punjab.

Why did he do it? I honestly do not know. Maybe he wanted to blend in better with the rest of us. Maybe he was tired of standing out. Or maybe, like most teenage boys, he thought a new hairstyle would dramatically improve his appeal among girls. High hopes!! That did not happen at all.

Initially, everything was fine. After the first few days, everyone got used to seeing Jagdev without a patka or turban. The novelty faded away and life moved on.

And then fashion happened.

Back in those days, a particular hairstyle had become extremely popular. Boys kept their hair longer on top while shaving or trimming the sides and the back almost to zero. Jagdev decided to go for it.

The result was unforgettable.

Since his scalp had remained covered by long hair and a turban throughout his life, suddenly exposing it fully revealed skin that was unbelievably white. It looked so strange and unexpected that the entire class found it hilarious. Even teachers commented on it. It made Jagdev awkward and conscious.

The next day, however, something miraculous happened.

Jagdev entered the classroom and his scalp looked completely normal. The shocking whiteness had disappeared overnight. For a brief moment we were genuinely wondering how he had managed that....Till he started sweating.

Slowly, very slowly, thin black streams began appearing near the sides of his head. That is when we realized the truth. To darken the exposed white skin, Jagdev had applied black liquid shoe polish all over his scalp. And now, because of sweat, the polish had started dripping down. People laughed uncontrollably. Even Jagdev eventually saw the funny side of it and started laughing himself.

Even today, after so many years, the incident brings a smile to my face.

Another thing that I remember from that entire haircut disaster is that Jagdev started getting a lot of flak from teachers for his new hairstyle. So, in what we believed was a great act of friendship and solidarity, some of us decided that we too would get the same haircut. I do not remember how many actually went through with it, but I definitely did. The hairstyle looked ridiculous on us. I blame the barber.

Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge

Another memory from those days is when he suddenly came to my house and insisted that I accompany him for a movie. The movie was Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge.

Both of us had already watched it, but he wanted to watch it again. He had truly loved the movie while I had found it just “okay”. So I was a little reluctant, but looking at his enthusiasm I joined him. He watched the movie like a complete fanboy and lived every moment of it. I could make out that the movie had made a significant impact on him. That remains one of my key memories of Jagdev from school days.

Shared Stupidity

There were also the usual immature school incidents that now seem ridiculous and funny in hindsight.

Once Jagdev made a remark to one of the girls in our class which offended her badly. She was furious enough to complain to our class teacher, who also happened to teach us Accountancy.

Now this particular teacher already disliked our group because we bunked his class quite regularly. So the moment he realized he finally had a legitimate reason to thrash one of us, he arrived in the classroom with the speed and aggression of a man who had been waiting for this opportunity for months.

Back then teachers could thrash students and easily get away with it. In fact, many parents probably considered it part of a teacher’s responsibilities. Nobody questioned it too much. Sometimes I miss those days (this is for a specific reader..my daughter)!

Until the teacher stormed into the classroom, most of us had absolutely no idea what Jagdev had done. The teacher entered, walked straight up to Jagdev and slapped him immediately before even beginning the lecture. The entire classroom froze for a second. Then he announced to everybody what Jagdev had apparently said to the girl.

The girls in class were scandalized. The boys - like boys - found the entire thing hilarious.

There stood our friend getting thrashed while the rest of us idiots struggled desperately to suppress our laughter. Some were giggling with heads down. Some were hiding behind notebooks pretending to be serious. We all ran the risk of becoming the next target.

School friendships are strange. At that age affection rarely expresses itself through emotional conversations or loyalty. More often it hides itself behind mockery, laughter, leg-pulling and shared stupidity.

Lost Touch

After Class 11, Jagdev left school. His father got transferred to Delhi (if I am not mistaken) and, like countless friendships in army/cantonment life, we lost touch completely. That was normal in the 1990s and before. People vanished from your life without closure. My father served in the army and I had already experienced this cycle repeatedly while growing up.

Reconnect-Disconnect-Repeat

Years later, social media happened.

Somewhere around 2012 or 2013, old classmates found each other again on Facebook and WhatsApp.

Jagdev was in Australia by then, living with his wife and daughter and working with Harvey Norman. I was in Malaysia with my own family.

Unfortunately, adulthood had changed all of us. In school we bonded over jokes, cricket, movies, girls and harmless stupidity. Now everybody had political opinions.

Jagdev and I often found ourselves on opposite sides politically. Initially the debates were manageable, but gradually they became personal and unpleasant. He would sometimes comment aggressively on my posts or on posts by some of my friends or colleagues, even though he did not know them personally. Heated exchanges became common.

To be honest, even in school we were never inseparable friends. After reconnecting online, we were more like old batchmates rediscovering each other.

Yet, when he blocked me on Facebook after one argument, I found it deeply strange. I could never understand how school friendships could become casualties of political disagreements.

Then one day he disappeared from the WhatsApp group too. For a couple of years, we did not interact.

Then one day in 2016, I randomly called him.

I have noticed something strange about myself over the years. I can remain angry with someone for a long time, but eventually the specifics fade away. That is a good habit in me. Unless I have felt insulted, I forget about the specifics of any argument or fight. I do not recall who said what. That makes it easy to overcome any bitterness. Sometimes all it takes is one normal conversation to rebuild a bridge.

That day I was sitting at KL Sentral in Kuala Lumpur when I decided to call Jagdev.

We spoke for a very long time. He spoke about spirituality and about a Guruji he had started following. He said he sometimes felt like leaving everything behind and staying in an ashram. He had actually discussed it with his Guruji but was discouraged from doing so. 

I asked him if everything is alright.

He told me that his marriage was going through a difficult phase. His wife had moved out and was staying separately with their daughter. I do not know the full story and therefore I cannot judge what happened between them. I told him that while I do not know the specifics, it seems that the issue is not something that cannot be resolved through communication and understanding. 

During the conversation, what I could clearly sense was the pain of separation from his child. Jagdev came across as a sensitive person and he sounded emotionally shattered. I realized for the first time how deeply he loved his daughter.

I believe that daughters change men. They make even strong men vulnerable in the gentlest possible way.

That conversation affected me deeply and I prayed for him.

In the months that followed, he again went into a shell and unfortunately we again lost touch. I did try to reach him a few times but could not.

Regret

Probably the first time I regretted a social media argument was sometime in 2017.

Years earlier he had unfriended and blocked me after a political argument. Later he had again sent me a friend request on Facebook. I ignored it. Not because of ego. Not because I hated him. I think I simply felt hurt that somebody could throw away an old school connection over silly online debates.

Now I realize I was being equally silly.

In mid-2017, I got the news that Jagdev had passed away in a motorcycle accident in Punjab. It was a hit-and-run case. 

He was visiting his family in India. During his trip, he bought a motorcycle and had taken it out for a ride at night. A car hit him and sped away. He lay injured on the road for some time before help arrived. (source: a friend of Jagdev, who I reached out on Facebook when I heard the unfortunate news)

And just like that, a school friend was gone...forever.

Honestly, when I heard about his death, grief was not the only emotion I felt. I felt regret for losing touch. I felt regret for not accepting his friend request. I felt regret for not speaking to him more often.

But, above all, what haunted me most was the thought of his daughter. In 2017 she was just a toddler. I kept thinking that when she grows up, she may not even remember her father’s face clearly. She may never fully know how much he loved her.

And that thought broke something inside me. That silly argument and not accepting his friend request haunts me and will haunt me forever.

I made a silent promise to myself that if I ever get to connect with his daughter, I would tell her that her father truly loved her and cared for her deeply.

Relief

A few weeks ago another friend and classmate from school - Jinish Thomas - who is stays in Australia told me that Jagdev’s wife and daughter are doing well. They are in touch with Jagdev's family in Punjab and even visited them. He told me that Jagdev's daughter is growing up well. She is doing well in studies and extracurricular activities. She is happy. 

Hearing that gave me immense relief.

Jinish shared a video of Jagdev's daughter where she is wishing Happy Diwali to everyone. I felt that she looks like Jagdev but Jinish said she looks more like Jagdev's younger sister. I do not recall the face of Jagdev's sister so I cannot comment. But the video made me very happy and relieved.

I do not know if I will ever meet her in person or connect with her digitally. But if I do, I will tell her this -

"Your father loved you and cared for you deeply. More deeply than words can explain."

Jagdev, I miss you, my friend. Life took us in different directions and somewhere along the way we allowed silly arguments and distance to come between us. But when I think of you today, I remember the awkward, funny, sensitive boy from school days and the father who loved his daughter deeply. I will always pray for your daughter’s happiness, strength and well-being.

--------------------

The above is my FB post in 2017, when I heard the news. Much of what I had written, remains true even today. I still regret the silliness of those arguments and the distance that followed. But after hearing recent updates from Jinish about his daughter doing well, growing up happy and staying connected with Jagdev’s family, I finally felt a sense of relief. Somehow, that mattered to me more than I can explain. 

The Voice of Dissent is Not Disrespect

In professional environments, the voice of dissent is often misunderstood. I firmly believe that sometime the most valuable person in the room is the one willing to say, "I disagree." Not because they enjoy conflict. Not because they want to undermine someone. But because they genuinely believe that an alternative point of view needs to be heard.

Over the years, I have had a few situations where I felt it was important to express an uncomfortable opinion honestly. But is honesty always accepted and appreciated? I want to share a couple of examples and also reflect on how people reacted to dissent in each case.

A few years back, I was speaking to an entrepreneur friend and his founding team. They had been working on a venture for the last few years. They had managed to get some angel investors on board, which put some fuel in the tank. The initial funding helped them get started.

But over time, the venture gulped up truck loads of money. The angel investment was gone and the founders themselves had spent more than double that amount from their own pockets.

I had been observing their journey closely. To their credit, they had indeed come a long way. But in MY opinion, they still had miles to go. More importantly, I was not convinced that continuing further made sense anymore.

My concern was partly financial. The venture was becoming financially draining for the founders. But there was another concern as well.

The service they were building was heavily dependent on technology. While the founding team understood the industry and the problem they were trying to solve, they had very limited understanding of the technical complexities involved. It was a tech-heavy business being driven largely by non-technical founders.

In my consulting career, I have seen several entrepreneurs make one common mistake - they fall too much in love with their idea.

There is nothing wrong with passion. In fact, passion is often necessary to survive the brutal journey of building something from scratch. But there is a fine line between believing in an idea and becoming emotionally inseparable from it.

Sometimes good ideas fail. Not because the founders lack intent or work ethic, but because timing, execution, capability, market realities, or a dozen other factors do not align. And at some stage, one must be able to assess objectively whether continuing to invest time, money, and energy still makes sense.

As Kevin O'Leary often says on Shark Tank, sometimes you need to "take it behind the barn and shoot it."

During the discussion, I did not hold back. I felt the founders needed to hear an uncomfortable perspective, so I expressed my thoughts without mincing words.

One person in the team, especially, was deeply attached to the venture. It was his idea. He had spent countless hours building it. Compared to others, he had probably spent 100x more time, emotion, and effort on it.

Imagine someone questioning something that has consumed years of your life. Imagine someone asking you to let go of a dream you built from scratch.

Yet, what stood out to me was the maturity with which the disagreement was handled. The discussion remained calm. He explained his point of view. I explained mine. There was disagreement, but there was also mutual respect. No bitterness. No hostility. No personal attacks.

Now lets look at the second incident, which happened some years after the first incident. I found myself in a very different disagreement.

At a company where I was working, there was an issue regarding the designation of a team member. When the individual had originally joined the organization, there were no formal bands attached to designations. She had joined as Senior Consultant, but due to an error in official records, her designation was incorrectly reflected as Consultant.

Later, when the company introduced structured designation bands, the incorrect designation evolved into Consultant Tier 1 in the system. After spending couple of  years in the system, she finally noticed her designation. Her designation was updated to Senior Consultant Tier 1. Up to this point, there was no disagreement. Correcting an error in records was a no-brainer.

However, one of the fellow leaders - let us call him Person ABC - wanted the designation to be elevated further to Senior Consultant Tier 2. And, he wanted this change to happen without it being treated as a promotion!

That was where I disagreed.

My disagreement was not about the individual employee. In fact, I had no issue (hmmm...lets say - almost no issue) with her performance or capability. My concern was about organizational consistency and the precedent it would create. Promotions had already been announced and a sudden change in someone's designation could have raised eyebrows and led to uncomfortable questions. The argument from Person ABC were not invalid but I did feel that selective points were being considered. Like a defense lawyer.

I also felt there was a practical issue being ignored. This individual wanted to be elevated and if the change in designation was not officially classified and communicated as a promotion, the employee herself could have questioned it. And she would still expect or demand a formal promotion in the next cycle. 

I expressed these concerns openly during the leadership discussion. It was a difference in opinion and nothing more. I was not obstructing the decision, nor was I unwilling to go with the majority view eventually. I simply believed that the implications needed to be discussed properly before a call was taken.

During the course of the discussion, it eventually emerged that Person ABC had already promised the higher designation to the employee. Personally, I felt that should never have happened. Since the promise had already been made, the rest of us agreed to proceed with the change.

In my honest opinion, this was a much smaller issue than the first incident.

In the first case, I was asking someone to reconsider years of effort, passion, sacrifice, and truck loads of money invested into a venture. In the second case, it was merely a disagreement over a designation band in an HR context. No one's dream was collapsing. No existential crisis was involved. The practical impact on the employee was limited.

Yet when I look back at both incidents side-by-side today, what fascinates me is not the disagreements themselves, but the reactions to them.

In the first incident, despite the emotional weight attached to the discussion, the dissent was received with maturity. The entrepreneur heard me out, calmly shared his perspective, and there were no ill-feelings afterwards. In the second incident, despite the issue being relatively minor, Person ABC reacted emotionally, said things rudely, and eventually stopped speaking to me!

And perhaps that is the real lesson about dissent.

Dissent itself is not rude. It is not disrespectful. It is not disloyalty. It is not negativity. It is simply the willingness to express a different point of view honestly and present strong arguments (and not disagree just for the heck of it). 

What truly defines individuals and leaders is not whether they face dissent. Everyone does. What defines them is how they respond to it. Some people can hear uncomfortable truths without taking them personally. Others perceive even minor disagreement as an attack on their judgment, authority, or ego. 

The irony is that the people willing to dissent are often the ones most invested in preventing mistakes.

Healthy organizations, strong leadership teams, and mature individuals do not eliminate dissent. They create space for it. 

Because progress rarely comes from rooms where everyone agrees. 

Juror # 2: A Courtroom Drama With No Easy Answers

What a coincidence that on the very day I wrote about some of my favorite courtroom dramas, I ended up watching another captivating addition to the genre - Juror # 2.

And it is really, really good.

The story felt refreshingly different from almost every courtroom drama movie I have watched or legal thriller I have read. Throughout the film, you constantly keep wondering what ending you actually want. Not what the law demands, not what morality demands, but what outcome you yourself are hoping for. Very few courtroom dramas manage to create that kind of internal conflict.

The movie stars Nicholas Hoult (from About a Boy and Superman) in the lead role and also features Toni Collette (from About a Boy, Little Miss Sunshine, The Sixth Sense) , J.K. Simmons (from Whiplash, Spiderman, La La Land), Gabriel Basso (from The Night Agent), and Kiefer Sutherland (from Designated Survivor, 24, A Time To Kill). The performances are restrained, mature, and perfectly suited to the tone of the film.

One of the best moments for me was realizing who the director was only when the end credits started rolling.

Directed and produced by Clint Eastwood.

That instantly explained the understated brilliance of the film. Eastwood has always had a unique ability to tell emotionally layered stories without unnecessary dramatization. Whether it is Mystic River, Million Dollar Baby, Gran Torino, Hereafter, The Bridges of Madison County, Unforgiven, Letters from Iwo Jima, Flags of Our Fathers, Sully, Invectus, American Sniper, The 15:17 To Paris, Richard Jewell, his films rarely scream for attention, yet they stay with you long after they end.

And, when it comes to Clint Eastwood, you naturally expect his movies to deliver “The Good” (Get that?😛)

Juror #2 certainly does. 

A Special Night for Pandey Ji...and His Fans

Really happy to see Manish Pandey finally get an opportunity to bat today - and he made it count in style.

He played a calm, crucial, and match-winning knock when his team needed him the most. The composure, experience, and timing he showed throughout the innings reminded everyone of his class and value under pressure.

Winning the Player of the Match award made the moment even more special and well deserved.

For fans - like yours truly - who have always backed him, this performance felt emotional. Cricket can sometimes move very fast, and players often get judged too quickly. But innings like this prove that class never disappears. Given the right opportunity, quality players can still shine brightly.

Today was more than just a good batting performance. It was a reminder of resilience. A reminder that staying prepared matters, even when chances are limited.

And honestly, it was simply wonderful to see Manish Pandey smiling at the end, holding the Player of the Match trophy after playing such a crucial knock for his side. 

While destiny has not been very kind to you, Pandey Ji, your patience, and perseverance (and fielding) have always stood out. God bless you.

Why My Cousin Vinny Remains One of My Favorite Courtroom Dramas

I have always been extremely fond of courtroom dramas. Perhaps it started because I got hooked onto John Grisham novels at a fairly early age. The entire world of investigations, legal strategy, courtroom arguments, witness examination, and the battle of intellect between lawyers has always fascinated me.

Over the years, I have read many courtroom dramas and watched quite a few films as well. Among Indian movies, I really liked the - top of the mind recall - Jolly LLB (the one with Arshad Warsi), Mulk, Pink, Court: State vs A Nobody, Sirf Ek Bandaa Kaafi Hai, and Kesari Chapter 2 - in no particular order. Among English movies, I have liked A Time to Kill, Philadelphia, 12 Angry Men, Just Mercy, The Client, and The Rainmaker, to name a few. I am sure I am missing some names. 

And while discussing courtroom dramas and legal comedies, I know I may risk losing the image (this image is only in my mind) of being an 'intelligent movie watcher,' but I must admit that I absolutely love Liar Liar as well. It is outrageous, exaggerated, completely over-the-top in parts - and yet endlessly entertaining. Jim Carrey at his absolute chaotic best is something I can never get tired of watching.

There are also a several highly acclaimed courtroom dramas like Jana Gana Mana and Jai Bhim that are still on my watchlist.

But one courtroom drama that I can watch endlessly is My Cousin Vinny.

I honestly do not even remember how many times I have watched this movie. At one point, I even owned a DVD copy of it, back when DVDs were still a thing. Unfortunately, I lost track of it over time, and today the movie is not available on any streaming platforms in India. It is not even available for purchase on YouTube Movies.

At its core, My Cousin Vinny is about two young men who unexpectedly find themselves trapped in a serious legal situation in a small American town, and the only person available to defend them is an inexperienced, unconventional lawyer - Vinny Gambini. What follows is a highly entertaining mix of courtroom drama, culture clash, comedy, and clever legal maneuvering. The film stars Joe Pesci as Vinny and Marisa Tomei as Mona Lisa Vito, in what remains one of the most memorable performances in courtroom cinema. The movie also features strong performances from Ralph Macchio, Mitchell Whitfield, and Fred Gwynne. Without relying on over-the-top drama, the film manages to remain sharp, funny, intelligent, and deeply engaging throughout.

What makes My Cousin Vinny so enjoyable is that it is not just a courtroom drama. At its heart, it is also a story about an underdog.

Vinny is not the polished, larger-than-life lawyer one usually expects in legal dramas. He is inexperienced, unconventional, rough around the edges, and constantly underestimated. Yet, despite all odds, he slowly pieces things together and outsmarts people who initially dismiss him completely.

One of my favorite sequences from the movie - and a scene I must have watched countless times on YouTube - is the courtroom exchange involving Mona Lisa Vito, played brilliantly by Marisa Tomei. The way she casually demonstrates her deep automotive knowledge and completely changes the direction of the case is both hilarious and immensely satisfying to watch.

The brilliance of the movie lies in its balance. It is funny without becoming silly, intelligent without becoming pretentious, and dramatic without losing its warmth. Even decades later, it still feels fresh.

For me, My Cousin Vinny is far more than just another legal film. It is one of the most entertaining examples of how a good story, memorable characters, sharp writing, and an unlikely hero can come together to create something timeless. 

I would genuinely love to own the movie digitally if it becomes available on any platform. And honestly, in today’s era - where old classics are getting theatrical re-releases because of the shortage of truly memorable storytelling - I hope My Cousin Vinny gets screened in theatres again, because I would absolutely love to experience it on the big screen.

Patriotism Beyond Slogans

Recently, the Prime Minister made an appeal that many people found unusual. He urged citizens to avoid unnecessary foreign travel, reduce discretionary consumption especially gold purchases, and wherever possible, adopt work-from-home flexibility.

Predictably, the statement created caution in the markets and among people. But on closer observation, many understood the larger concern behind the appeal: growing global economic uncertainty, geopolitical volatility, pressure on fuel imports, and the importance of preserving India’s financial stability and foreign exchange strength in the coming period.

Among all the suggestions, the one that directly affects the largest number of people is work from home.

It made me curious and I wanted to see how other companies are reacting to the appeal. I spoke to a friend who runs a mid-size business employing a few hundred people. He is also a strong BJP and PM Modi supporter. When I asked whether he planned to offer employees some flexibility to work from home, to my surprise, his answer was a clear no.

His reasoning was practical: every business has to evaluate what is feasible for its own operations. That is fair to an extent. Not every industry or role can function remotely. Manufacturing, physical operations, frontline services, and several other sectors obviously require physical presence. He argued that the nature of his business does not permit it and, moreover, he believes that overall productivity would dwindle.

I disagree and I have a question.  

Is resistance really about productivity, or is it more about reluctance to accept change?

Personally, I have seen remote collaboration work effectively for years, long before COVID made it mainstream. Early in my career at Deloitte, I once asked my manager whether I could work from home on a particular day. He simply asked me two questions: “Do you have work on your plate?” and “Will you complete it?” When I answered yes, he casually replied, “Then I do not care whether you work from office, home, or Timbuktu.”

That stayed with me.

I disagree that productivity declines in case of work-from-home arrangement. In fact, both studies and personal experience suggest that productivity can improve while working from home. In a typical office environment, people are frequently interrupted by conversations, meetings, informal discussions, and constant movement around them. Working remotely, on the other hand, often allows longer periods of uninterrupted focus and continuity of thought. Ultimately, the issue is less about location and more about work ethics. Someone who lacks discipline may remain unproductive regardless of whether they are sitting at home or in an office. But professionals with strong ownership and accountability generally deliver results irrespective of where they work from.

Professional maturity is not about monitoring physical presence. It is about ownership and accountability.

When I was working in Malaysia, I collaborated daily with team members spread across Singapore, Japan, Korea, Thailand, Indonesia, Vietnam, and Australia. Geography and physically being away from each other were never the obstacle. Clarity, discipline, and accountability mattered far more.

Even today, many large organizations have embraced hybrid flexibility. Interestingly, this includes companies like Infosys as well. Despite the public debate around the founder's appeal for 70-hours work week, Infosys allows employees a significant degree of work-from-home flexibility. Employees can work remotely for nearly half the working days in a month, and even on office days, the emphasis appears to be more on productivity and deliverables than merely spending long hours physically present in office.

That is why I believe the discussion today is less about whether remote work is possible and more about how intelligently organizations are willing to adapt wherever feasible.

And I also want to make a different point here.

Supporting a leader or a political party is easy when it costs us nothing. Real support is tested when adaptation demands some inconvenience, flexibility, or change from our side.

The Prime Minister knew very well that such appeals would attract criticism, political attacks, market nervousness, and uncomfortable public debate. Yet, he disregarded his interest and the interest of his party and still made the appeal because he believed they were necessary in the national interest.

If leadership is willing to take political risks for what it believes is good for the country, then as citizens, businesses, and professionals, the least we can do is honestly evaluate how much flexibility we ourselves can show. 

Not every company can implement work from home. Absolutely agree with that. Not every role allows it. Complete work-from-home and permanent changes are also not required. But many organizations can certainly reduce unnecessary travel, stagger attendance, enable partial remote work, or adopt temporary hybrid models wherever feasible.

Patriotism cannot remain only emotional or symbolic. It also reflects in whether we are willing to make reasonable adjustments when the country faces uncertain times.

There is a famous line often heard in India:

“भगत सिंह सबको चाहिए, लेकिन अपने घर में नहीं, पड़ोसी के घर में।" (Everyone wants a Bhagat Singh - the legendary revolutionary - but not in their own home, only in the neighbour’s)

Everyone admires sacrifice and national commitment - as long as someone else is making the adjustment.

Perhaps the real test of patriotism is much simpler:

When the country needs flexibility, responsibility, and collective discipline, are we willing to contribute even in small ways ourselves?

Leadership is More Than Knowledge and Expertise

Two leadership related statements stayed with me over the past year.

The first was:

“People respect someone and consider them a leader only when they see strong knowledge and expertise.”

The second was:

“There is a thin line between being friendly and being a friend.”

Both statements were made (in separate conversations) in the context of discussing the traits of a good leader. While leadership is far broader and more nuanced than these two perspectives alone, I found myself reflecting deeply on them.

Having observed leaders, teams, and workplace dynamics across a career spanning 23 years, I find myself agreeing with both statements to an extent. Expertise and knowledge certainly matter, and they do contribute to a leader’s credibility. However, I agree far more strongly with the second statement.

In fact, I recently came across a situation where both these statements could almost be analyzed side by side.

A close friend told me about a highly knowledgeable individual who took over a large team in his company. Multiple sub-teams were reporting into him and everyone was communicated the same. The person has robust domain knowledge and is highly experienced, and by the logic of the first statement, respect and leadership acceptance should have naturally followed. Yet, despite formal authority and clear communication structures, the individual continued struggling to gain genuine acceptance from the team.

Over time, it became increasingly visible that the challenge was not knowledge - it was leadership approach. In an attempt to be liked and accepted, the individual gradually became overly agreeable, tried to accommodate every concern, avoided taking firm positions, and focused heavily on staying in everyone’s good books. Last heard, he has also started to push back on few decisions of the management and has now adopted a 'Union Leader' approach, just to get the popularity votes. His leadership style has become less about balanced direction and more about seeking approval.

He also tends to take up the more important and visible tasks himself, possibly in an attempt to lead by example. While that may come from good intent, the way it is perceived by the team matters equally. When routine or less glamorous responsibilities are delegated, it sometimes creates an impression that such work is somehow beneath him. Over time, this can unintentionally weaken team ownership and create a sense of imbalance, because good leadership is not only about taking ownership of high-impact work, but also about demonstrating equal respect for every contribution within the team.

So, knowledge certainly matters. No two ways about it. Competence gives a leader credibility and creates confidence that the person understands the work. But expertise alone rarely guarantees respect or influence. Teams do not follow people only because they are knowledgeable. 

For example, in sports, some of the greatest players have not necessarily become the most successful captains or coaches. Technical brilliance may earn admiration, but leadership in a team environment requires the ability to inspire, manage personalities, maintain discipline, and make difficult decisions for the larger good of the team.

In fact, there have been examples where leaders proved their mettle despite having little or no technical expertise in the domain they were leading. Since I come from an automotive background, I naturally look at examples from that industry.

A fascinating real-world example is Alan Mulally. Before joining Ford Motor Company, he spent most of his career at Boeing and was not an automobile expert. Many within Ford understood the technical side of the business far better than he did. Yet Mulally became one of Ford’s most respected leaders - not because of technical superiority, but because of his ability to bring clarity, accountability, collaboration, and direction to the organization.

Coming to the second statement, I agree that problems begin when a leader crosses the line from being friendly to becoming a friend. In an attempt to be liked, some leaders start agreeing with everyone, validating every grievance, avoiding difficult conversations, and trying too hard to stay in everyone’s good books. While this may create temporary goodwill, it often weakens long-term respect.

Teams usually respect leaders who can maintain balance - leaders who are empathetic without losing objectivity, approachable without losing authority, and supportive without avoiding accountability.

Knowledge may create initial credibility. But leadership is ultimately sustained by maturity, balance, and the ability to maintain that fine line.

Breaking News: Good Orators Don’t Automatically Become Good Actors

Yesterday, I watched the movie Kartavya starring Saif Ali Khan, Sanjay Mishra, Rasika Dugal, Manish Chaudhari, Saharsh Kumar Shukla, Zakir Hussain and journalist-turned-actor Saurabh Dwivedi. The film itself was extremely mediocre. The storyline felt weak and too predictable with very little that could engage the audience.

So why am I wasting even more time and writing about it? 

Though one must be kind because it is his first movie, I simply could not stop myself from writing about just how disappointing Saurabh Dwivedi’s performance turned out to be. He is an exceptionally gifted speaker and has built a strong reputation through his lengthy and compelling monologues on 'The Lallantop', which he has now left. Naturally, I expected him to carry at least some of that effortless command and screen presence into cinema. Unfortunately, the opposite happened.

Dwivedi appears in only a handful of scenes, despite being positioned as the film’s principal antagonist. More importantly, nearly all his scenes are shared with seasoned performers like Sanjay Mishra, Manish Chaudhari, Saharsh Kumar Shukla and Saif Ali Khan. The contrast is brutal. Against actors with such natural rhythm and command over dialogue delivery, his performance feels even more fragile and unconvincing.

Almost every line he speaks sounds rehearsed rather than lived. There is no conversational flow, emotional spontaneity or screen instinct. His expressions appear stiff, his pauses unnatural and his dialogue delivery painfully artificial. In many scenes, it genuinely becomes uncomfortable to watch. His performance can be used as the case study of what not do in acting.

The director deserves equal criticism here. Either Dwivedi was miscast from the beginning or he was not directed properly enough to hide his limitations. It almost feels as though the makers themselves realized midway that the performance was not working, because his screen presence appears noticeably reduced as the film progresses. Whether that was due to editing choices or a conscious attempt to minimize damage, the result is obvious on screen.

I am not sure whether he has more films or web series lined up, but I hope he improves as an actor. Though, based on this performance, I will not put my money on it!

The Boy Who Bowled MS Dhoni

There are stories that stay with you because they were extraordinary. And then there are stories that stay with you because they were unfinished.

This is about a school friend named Ariel.

Ariel was from Jharkhand. Even his name sounded unusual back then. But that was not the unusual part about him. Ariel played cricket with a polio-affected leg. And yet, he was unbelievably good. Even today, when I think of Ariel, I remember one thing before anything else - how ridiculously difficult he was to bat against.

I was never much of a batsman, but I still remember once facing around twenty deliveries from him and failing to connect even one properly. I know, you guys would argue that it only reflected my batting (in)abilities. Fair enough! But that was not the real issue. Ariel had one of the most difficult bowling actions I have ever faced.

Because of his affected leg, his run-up and delivery stride were awkward, unpredictable and extremely deceptive. And then came the real problem - he could bowl leg-spin, googly, off-spin and wrong ones with almost the same action.

Trust me, I am not kidding or exaggerating.

We were in Kendriya Vidyalaya Dipatoli in Ranchi. Before Ariel got selected for the school cricket team, I had never seen him bowl. To be honest, when I first heard about his selection, I assumed he would become a liability in the field. I thought the captain would probably have to hide him somewhere because of his leg.

Then came the first match. I did not go to watch it. And in that very match, Ariel bowled us to a convincing victory against a decent side. Naturally, I became curious.

The next game was against Central Academy, one of the strongest school cricket teams in Ranchi at the time. They had won the Inter-School League multiple times and had also finished runners-up on several occasions. Their batting line-up included a hugely talented and popular batsman named Deepak Lal, who apparently had a reputation for never getting bowled.

Ariel dismissed him with a googly.

Not just dismissed him - completely foxed and bowled him!!

He took three wickets in that match. We still lost, but that day I realized just how special he was. Later, my cousin, who studied in Central Academy, told me that their batsmen could not stop talking about Ariel.

Our next match was against the mighty DAV Jawahar Vidya Mandir - commonly known as DAV Shyamali. Their admissions were famous for two things: excellence in academics and excellence in sports. They also seemed to have a few “over-aged” players. One batsman honestly looked more like a coach than a student.

They beat us comfortably. But Ariel left an impression there too.

Kendriya Vidyalayas used to send students for regional and national selections. Ariel was selected by our school for the regional trials in Patna.

And this is the part that still annoys me when I think about it.

He travelled all the way to Patna, only to be rejected before even getting a chance to bowl in the nets. The selectors looked at his crippled leg and decided he could not play. That was it. No trial. No assessment. No opportunity.

Ariel challenged them.

He asked them to put their best batsman against him for one over. He said that if he managed to dismiss the batsman even once, they should at least give him a fair chance. The selectors agreed.

The batsman they chose was the captain of the district team. Ariel bowled him three times in that one over. And still, he was sent back to Ranchi. Nothing changed.

The following season, we again played against DAV Shyamali. We batted first and collapsed to 45 for 8 in six overs in a fifteen-over match. Ariel played a useful innings lower down the order and somehow dragged us to 114.

It was still nowhere near enough against a side like DAV. Then...Ariel bowled.

He picked up four wickets in his three overs while conceding very few runs. One of the batsmen he dismissed that day was a boy named Mahendra Singh Dhoni - who would later become one of the greatest white-ball wicketkeeper-batsman of all time, arguably the best finisher the game has seen and India’s most successful white-ball captain.

We still lost the match. But once again, Ariel walked away having impressed everyone except the people who mattered.

Over the next couple of years, I watched him play many matches. He was a genuinely gifted bowler, a decent batsman and a very sharp close-in fielder. Running was his only real limitation. But talent alone is rarely enough in India.

Ariel came from a lower-middle-class family. His family could not support his cricket financially. He could not afford club cricket. He was not particularly interested in academics and eventually became ineligible to continue representing the school team. Slowly, his cricket reached a dead end.

Years passed.

He later started a small music band in Ranchi and performed at local functions, events and perhaps even church gatherings. But one thing about Ariel never changed - his smile. It was infectious. So was his energy. He was one of those people who made conversations easy.

I passed out of school in 1997 and after that we gradually lost touch. Even during our final years in school, we hardly met because he had failed a couple of times academically and we were no longer in the same class. Later he continued his education privately and we mostly met only during inter-school cricket tournaments.

I met him once around 1999 when another school friend and I went to meet old friends in Ranchi. Ariel was exactly the same - warm, cheerful and welcoming. His family treated us like their own.

Years later, around 2011, I visited his house again when I was in Ranchi for a few months around my daughter’s birth and while preparing for my move to Malaysia. He was not home when I arrived, but his family once again welcomed me warmly. Ariel later came back and we spent some time together.

After that, our meetings became infrequent. Occasionally, whenever I visited Ranchi, we would meet over drinks.

Then came COVID.

And strangely enough, during the pandemic, our school batch suddenly became enthusiastic about organizing a reunion in Ranchi. I knew from the beginning that I probably would not attend, especially because of the pandemic, but as usual I involved myself actively in the planning so that my eventual withdrawal would not surprise anyone.

Ariel became part of the core organizing group because he was one of the few batchmates based in Ranchi. He helped tremendously. He visited resorts, negotiated prices and coordinated logistics. At one point, some people were unhappy with the deal he negotiated with a resort, so I spoke to the management over phone and together we managed to work out a much better arrangement.

Eventually, close to the reunion date, I informed everyone that I would not be able to attend. Soon after that, the entire reunion got postponed indefinitely. Ariel was disappointed. He had genuinely been looking forward to meeting everyone. This was sometime in the second half of 2020, after the first wave of the pandemic.

We remained in touch through phone calls, WhatsApp and social media. He spoke about the shoe shop he had opened and the struggles of running a small business. Several months later, during a WhatsApp video call with a few school friends, someone suggested adding Ariel to the call.

He answered.

And I remember feeling shocked the moment the screen opened. He was lying on a hospital bed with an oxygen mask on. He told us he had COVID.

If I remember correctly, this was during the beginning of the second wave. By then, my parents had already contracted COVID and recovered. A few years earlier, I myself had been hospitalized in Malaysia with a rare form of pneumonia and had experienced dangerously low oxygen levels.

So when Ariel told me that his oxygen saturation was around 88, I tried to reassure him. He had removed his oxygen mask while talking to us and he still sounded relatively stable. I told him I had seen patients in much worse condition recover fully. I told him everything would be alright. That he should wear the mask again, avoid talking too much and follow the doctors’ instructions carefully.

He became a little calmer.

But before ending the call, he asked me one more question.

“Will I be alright?”

I told him confidently, “Yes. One hundred percent.”

A week later, Ariel passed away. And even today, that question haunts me.

“Will I be alright?”

He was sitting alone in a dark hospital room, away from his loved ones, searching for reassurance and hope. I still wonder whether I gave him enough of it. I do not know.

What I do know is this - every time school friends now discuss reunions, I quietly stay away from the discussions. Because some absences change the meaning of gatherings forever.

And any reunion without you would never really feel complete, my friend.

The Threshold for Greatness Changes

For decades, 10,000 Test runs was cricket’s sacred line.

Cross it, and you entered a different room in history. It separated the merely excellent from the immortals. Sachin Tendulkar, Rahul Dravid, Jacques Kallis, Ricky Ponting, Alastair Cook - the club itself became shorthand for batting greatness.

But sport evolves. And when sport evolves, the thresholds for greatness evolve with it.

Football once had a similar problem. Before 1995, the Ballon d’Or was restricted to European players. That meant Pelé and Diego Maradona were ineligible for the sport’s biggest individual honour during their primes. The rules eventually changed because excluding names of that magnitude made the criteria look incomplete.

Cinema did the same with Charlie Chaplin. The Oscars eventually had to correct themselves with honorary recognition because history could not seriously tell the story of film while leaving Chaplin outside its highest institutional validation.

Earlier, winning the World Cup was often seen as the final measure of greatness in football. Though he eventually lifted it in 2022, many people already considered Lionel Messi one of the greatest ever because two decades of brilliance mattered more than a single trophy.

Cricket now faces a similar moment with Virat Kohli.

The game he played was not the game previous generations played. Modern cricketers exist in a year-round cycle of Tests, ODIs, T20Is, franchise leagues, travel, media scrutiny, and relentless athletic demands. Batting across formats today is physically and mentally more taxing than it was for most earlier eras.

And yet, despite that burden, Kohli retired with 9,230 Test runs at an elite average, across conditions, eras, and attacks. Any honest list of Test batting greats is incomplete without him.

Which raises the obvious question:

If a threshold excludes someone universally accepted as great, is the threshold still correct?

Maybe the number was never sacred. Maybe it was only symbolic.

For this era, the line can no longer be 10,000 test runs.

Now, the threshold for greatness most certainly is 9,230.