Whom should you bet on: Potential or Proven Performers?

(2 mins read)

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The other night, I was talking cricket with a few close friends, and the conversation turned into a debate. We were discussing India’s new Test captain: Shubman Gill. With Rohit Sharma and Virat Kohli retired, Cheteshwar Pujara and Ajinkya Rahane out of the picture, and even KL Rahul and Jadeja getting older, Gill seemed the obvious pick. But was it the right pick? His Test record doesn’t scream "next great captain". The room quickly split, some felt he hadn’t done enough to earn it, others (like me) argued that potential sometimes matters more than past numbers.

This whole debate isn’t new. I quoted a few examples from the past where potential was given preference. Graeme Smith was just 22 when he became South Africa’s captain. He had played only a handful of Tests, but the board saw leadership in him. It was a bold move, but Smith ended up captaining for over a decade, leading South Africa to the top of the Test rankings. In politics, Barack Obama had only been a U.S. Senator for four years before running for President. People doubted him. But his fresh ideas and calm presence inspired a generation and led to two successful terms in office. In both cases, potential was given a platform, and it delivered big.

So what really makes a good leader? Someone who has done it all? Or someone who could do it all, if trusted early? I think there’s no perfect formula. But I believe in backing potential, especially when it comes with hunger, clarity, and the ability to grow. Experience can steady a ship, but potential can change its course. As someone once said, “Leadership is not about being the best, it's about bringing out the best in others.” And maybe that’s what we really need - not just a captain who leads from the front, but one who lifts everyone around him.

What still works, still matters

(2 mins read)

source: unsplash

I’ve always had a habit of using things till their very end. 

A pen stays with me until the ink completely runs out. Shoes are worn until the soles give up. Clothes are used until they fade beyond color recognition or no longer fit. I use my devices (especially my phone) until they absolutely stop working, often trying to fix them before giving up. Old notebooks are filled till the last page, plastic bags are reused again and again, and sweet boxes are repurposed to store spices or small items. It’s not about being stingy; it’s more about the satisfaction that comes from fully using something that once served a purpose.

This way of living reminds me of the Arabic word Isrāf, which means wastefulness; using more than necessary, or discarding things that still have value. Islam gently teaches us to avoid this. 

The Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) once passed by his companion Sa’d (may Allah be pleased with him), who was making ablution (wudu) using a lot of water.
The Prophet asked, “What is this extravagance, O Sa’d?”
Sa’d replied, “Can there be any extravagance in ablution?”
The Prophet said, “Yes, even if you are on the bank of a flowing river.”
(Source: Ibn Majah)

That teaching is within my core memories. Even in abundance, we are taught to be mindful, to not let our habits slip into carelessness. It’s a way of honoring what we already have and showing gratitude by not taking it for granted.

Over the years, I’ve noticed how slowing down consumption brings peace. It quiets the urge to constantly replace, and makes space for contentment. A shirt worn many times carries stories. A reused notebook feels complete. A repaired device teaches patience. And somewhere in this small practice lies a deeper truth: that living intentionally is far more fulfilling than constantly chasing the new. I’ve shared this with friends, and now with you. Maybe it’ll stay with you too. Not as advice, but as a quiet reminder, the next time you think of replacing something that still works. 

Use what you have. And use it a little longer.
Not because you have to.
But because you can.

Let’s try to live with less noise.
Let’s try to give everything we have its due.
Let’s not waste.

One summer afternoon, I discovered something ...

(3 mins read)

image created using a feature of ChatGPT

I believe we all carry a core memory within us, tucked away quietly, in a small corner of the mind. It doesn't always have to be something big or life-changing. Sometimes, it’s just a quiet moment, an afternoon, a smell, or a glimpse of a room that stays with us. As the years pass, these memories blur around the edges. We begin to wonder, did it really happen that way, or have we imagined parts of it?

One of my fondest memories goes back to a summer afternoon in my maternal grandparents’ village. Back then, their home was a beautiful mud house, not very fancy, but full of warmth and character. That house doesn’t exist anymore; it has been rebuilt with bricks and concrete. But in my mind, it still stands the way it was. I was around seven or eight years old, and it was the kind of hot, lazy afternoon. As it happens on a lazy summer afternoon, everyone had a stomach-filled lunch and went off to sleep. But I was restless and curious. I decided that the two-hour nap would ruin my productivity! :P So while my parents and siblings took the nap, I began to wander, quietly exploring the corners of that peaceful house.

I went to the first floor: yes, the mud house had a first floor, which still feels quite fascinating to me. There were two rooms on the terrace. One was used to store rice, wheat, onions, and potatoes. The other had a charpai and a small pile of books on a table near the window. That room was empty, but I had a feeling someone would come up soon, so I knew I didn’t have much time. I flipped through the books, searching for something, found no pictures, so I gently placed them back. But then I found a small black notebook. Inside, it was something bluish and mysterious, a carbon paper. I don’t remember whether the notebook belonged to my uncle or my nana, but I did know what it was, and that made me feel oddly proud. So I placed it between two sheets and started drawing something, just to see the magic of two copies being made at once. What did I draw? I don't remember. Did I tear out the page and saved it? I don’t remember. How I left that room? I don't remember. But I do remember the feeling.

That hot breeze outside. The quietness of the house. The joy of finding something new. It’s a small memory, really. But it has stayed with me all these years. I’ve spoken about it to my wife with childlike excitement, and now I find myself sharing it with my children. They may not understand what carbon paper is, or why that afternoon meant so much. But maybe someday, they too will carry a quiet little memory from their own childhood. A simple, forgotten moment that refuses to fade.

Degree, Job, Done?

(3 mins read)

pioneers of Science in the 20th century

A few days ago, I came across a tweet and some replies to it that really made me think. They spoke about privilege, adversity, and how our circumstances shape the path we take, especially when it comes to higher education and innovation in science.

Author's tweet

Support for the author's tweet

Counterpoint to the author's tweet

It made me pause and reflect.

Why didn’t I pursue higher studies?

Was it a lack of ambition, or something else?

What role did my background, my parents, and my responsibilities play?

Growing up, I didn’t have the luxury to dream big. My father worked tirelessly, barely making ends meet. My mother gave tuitions and taught in a primary school, not out of passion but necessity. There are many like me who belong to the lower middle class in India, where engineering isn’t seen as an ambition, but as a gateway to a stable job and a way to start supporting the family. I am the eldest in my family, so when I graduated with a degree in Information Technology, there was no question of further studies. The family needed support, and I had to step in. That job meant survival, more than success. If I had chosen higher studies, it would’ve meant more sacrifices, and perhaps, an increase to the family’s burden, both financially and emotionally. So I shelved my ambitions: not out of regret, but out of responsibility.

But dreams are strange things: they don’t die, they just change form. I don’t want my children to carry that weight. I want to be the cushion I never had, give my children what I never had: the luxury to choose learning over earning. Job and income shouldn't be their finish line. 

They should have the freedom to take risks, to explore astrophysics, quantum computing, study the stars, or fail at a startup. 

Like a runway for a plane, long enough to gain momentum before flight. Not too short for the plane crash, and not too long, for the plane to never take off.

Like training wheels on a bicycle, offering balance until they can ride on their own. 

Or a safety net under a trapeze artist, not to prevent falls, but to allow daring leaps. 

The wealth that I provide for them cannot just be money; it should also include freedom. And if my hard work and sacrifices mean they get to chase knowledge and focus on learning instead of just earning, then I’ve done my part for humanity.

My First Eid as a Father of Three: A Celebration to Remember

(2 mins read)

This Eid was a little different. For the first time, I didn’t travel to Kolkata, the place where Eid always feels the most real. My parents, younger siblings, in-laws, and so many friends are all there. Every year, it’s the same: hugs, laughter, home-cooked food, and the warmth of being home.

I’ve lived in Hyderabad for nine years, but only twice have I celebrated Eid here; once during the pandemic, and now, this year. At first, I was worried - would Eid feel empty without the chaos of our big family in Kolkata? But Hyderabad surprised me. 

The city I’ve called home for nearly a decade finally felt like home on Eid. This year, Hyderabad wasn’t just where we lived—it became our home away from home. I celebrated Eid with my wife and our three kids. The youngest is just 10 months old, the other two full of energy at 7.5 and 3.5 years. It was our first Eid as a family of five. And somehow, that made it special.

Friends from our apartment came together with their families. We hugged, smiled, exchanged Eidis, and shared delicious food. The kids ran around happily, dressed in their new and bright Eid clothes, excited with every sweet and every smile.

Decorated my home

 

The youngest one is missing. And I realize it now that in the midst of enjoyment and meet-ups we forgot to click a full family pic on Eid.

Did I miss Kolkata? Of course. My parents’ voices on video calls made my throat ache. Kolkata is my roots, always will be. But this Eid, Hyderabad gave me wings.

Because happiness was right here. In my kids’ giggles. In friends who feel like family. In those quiet, grateful moments between spoonful of sheer khurma. Here’s to more Eids like this — full of warmth, love, and memories made at home, wherever that may be.