The ethics of everyday choices

You have likely already encountered this statistic: Half the world’s population will go to the polls this year. More than four billion people across 60 countries, including India, will cast their votes and elect national leaders.

Whether you vote will be one of the biggest decisions you make in 2024. How you vote will be another.

It is inevitable that citizens will ask: What difference does it make? Leaders that are larger-than-life loom on the horizon. Events often feel beyond our control. But when it comes to questions such as “Does my voice matter?”, may I submit that the answer is always “Yes”.

Not just because single voices add up to form a clamour. But because the decisions we make, large and small, singly and in groups, are also the true litmus tests of our character.

It is a theme we don’t contemplate enough: the ethics of everyday choices. I’ve often pondered the invisible threads that connect our daily choices to our ethical stances. How does one’s preference to shop at a chain of stores, or the decision to ignore an unhoused person, contribute to the larger ethical portrait of our lives?

These questions aren’t merely rhetorical; they form the weave of our societal fabric.

It is easy to stand in judgment over grand scandals and overt acts of moral failure. But when thought about deeply, the real measure of an ethical framework is not taken during high-stakes moments. Rather, it resides in the mundane, quiet decisions we make when no one’s looking. This is where our true self reveals itself, in the quiet alleyways of our day-to-day existence.

Consider the simple act of purchasing a cup of coffee. Where do the beans come from? Are the farmers paid a fair wage? What is the environmental impact of its production and transportation? Each choice might be a drop in the ocean. But collectively, they can create a storm.

Similarly, our engagements with strangers reflect deep truths. How we treat waiters, interact with taxi drivers, respond to a street vendor, all offer clues to where our moral compass points. This is why I find brand-consciousness so disturbing. Why should I choose coffee from South America, simply because it is advertised widely and forced into my line of vision, when beans from south India have a far lower carbon footprint?

In an age of rampant consumerism and individualism, there is a tendency to reduce life to a series of transactions, devoid of ethical implications. But this is a narrow and impoverished view of existence. Our lives are not just about exchanges; they are about connections. And every connection carries with it the weight of moral consequence.

It is imperative, then, that we reflect on daily choices. They shape not just our lives but the world around us. The clothes we wear, the food we eat, the products we consume, are all silent testimony to our values and ethics. They are votes cast for the kind of world we wish to live in and leave behind.

How do we navigate this complex landscape? It begins with the awareness that every choice has a moral dimension. This means developing a habit of reflective consideration, taking the time to frame the right questions, and seeking answers that align with one’s deepest values.

In this way, ethics become a profoundly social affair too. They are the channel by which we see beyond ourselves, consider the impacts of our choices, and make that vital shift from a mindset of consumption to one of contribution.

Of course, navigating this path has its challenges. There are often no easy answers. Where there are answers, ethical living involves trade-offs and compromises. One must part with a measure of vanity, self-indulgence, comfort. Even then one will necessarily make missteps.

But the pursuit of an ethical life is not about perfection. It is about direction, and about making choices that are more deliberate, compassionate and coherent.

If nothing else, start with the decision to vote. Think about the world you want to inhabit, and leave behind. Do you want it to be kinder, more wholesome and more balanced? Or do you want to end up with demagogues in power, and no one to blame but yourself.

This article was originally published in Hindustan Times. All copyrights vest with the publishers and this may not be reproduced without permission.

The underbelly of fashion

This weekend, my column First Principles, in Hindustan Times, dipped into the world of sustainable fashion. I got to know how even the most expensive, branded clothing have surprisingly short lifespans. And that the term 'sustainable' in the fashion businesss is thrown around loosely. While there is an increase in eco-friendly practices and a growing consumer base for sustainable fashion brands, challenges persist. This includes the high costs of sustainable garments and the significant carbon footprint of India's textile industry.

A shout-out to KL Mukesh for helping me think this through.

Leaders eat first

It’s that time of the year when everyone starts resolving to make a resolution for the New Year. Most are clichés. Clichés that pretty much puts into perspective a surge in gym memberships after the binge drinking in December. Studies from various parts of the world report 8 out of the 10 people who sign up for gym memberships, stop by the end of January. I stand by the altar of the guilty as well. 

Last year, though, I shied away from a fitness resolution. Instead, I filed away two altogether different resolutions. The first, that I will practice meditation for at least a half hour every day. The second, that I will either meet one new person, or latch onto a new book every week.

I am happy to report that for all practical purposes, my resolutions stand executed. I do not intend to make any this year. Because there is much work to be done on these old ones.

December is as good a time as any to reflect on the learnings and outcomes that have emerged until now. With the benefit of hindsight, I think I know three things.

1. When confronted with silence, the head is a very noisy place.

2. Between listening deeply to people share their stories one-on-one, and reading from the pages of a book, listening beats what is embedded in books.

3. There are no bad people. Only circumstances. It is just that each person responds to fortune and adversity differently. That is what makes each one unique.

A caveat must be filed. The reason I stated upfront that “I think I know" is because these learnings are basis my perceptions so far. As that saying goes: “When the facts change, I change my mind." There is no consensus around who said it first.

Regardless of the mutability of facts, the things I’ve learned in conversations with the people who have earned my respect over the year are these.

The sky is blue

When it came to meditation, one of the first things I was told was to practice sitting in silence, meditate, and focus on just breathing in deeply, and exhaling completely, to the exclusion of everything else. When starting out, I was told to attempt the exercise for no longer than 10 minutes before progressing to longer periods. “Sounds ridiculously simple," a voice in the head suggested.

That this is extremely hard dawned on me only when the practice started. That was also when that phrase, “the mind is like a monkey" started to fall into perspective. It is the kind of creature that can tease, provoke, anger, amuse, infuse thoughts of all kinds—and do it all at once.

Over time, I could begin to see what those who are close to me have always told me—that I am a difficult person to be with. And that the demeanour I put on with those who don’t know me too well of being an easy-going bloke is a façade. In attempting to stay silent and focus on the breath, I could, for the first time, see myself in the third person and witness that I am indeed a difficult person.

My mind is constantly “chattering". It has an opinion about everything. I could hear myself talk and opine all the time—until even “me" started to get infuriated by the voices in my head. Can’t I just shut up?

Some conversations with an experienced practitioner of meditation offered pointers.

Such behaviour, it seems, is difficult for people who cannot deal with ambiguity. People like me need a clear line of sight on what must be done. But life does not offer such luxuries. It plays itself out. The best of plans can go awry. You adapt and go with the flow.

Those who insist on a clear line of sight are plain pig-headed and not cut out to be either chess-players or leaders. They can get cranky and are inevitably difficult to live with. To understand that better, I was asked to look up at the sky. There are days when it is cloudy. Then there are other days when it rains and dark clouds appear. But anyone who has been on an airplane knows that the clouds are only an obfuscation. And that once you cross the turbulence, there is a clear blue sky. Clouds, by its nature are transitory. It comes and goes with the wind.

Getting agitated then is an exercise in petulance if you implicitly understand that the sky is blue. All you need then is the patience to let the clouds pass, and develop a mental muscle memory not to do anything stupid when it gets overcast.

GyShiDo over perfection

I am, so to speak, frequently conflicted. On the one hand, I admire perfection and remain convinced nothing must go out until, as it were, that greatest of artists Michelangelo himself may approve of the perfection in it. Then on the other hand there is the idea of a Minimum Viable Product (MVP) embedded in my head.

Personally, I can trace the roots of this conflict to my days when I used to report to a team of editors based out of Munich. When looked at from their West European eyes, they’d cluck their tongues in disapproval at the slightest hint of tardiness and convey their displeasure in no uncertain terms. They wanted perfection down to the last detail before the product could roll out.

Then on the other hand, my training as a business journalist, conversations with entrepreneurs of all kinds who make things happen at scale, getting hands dirty in a newsroom where deadlines are tight, and in attempting to take things off the ground, it suggests GyShiDo—a polite way to say, “Getting your shit done"—is the way to be.

Over the last year on the back of experience and multiple conversations, I now veer towards that view that perfection can wait. GyShido comes first.

By way of example, men like Leonardo da Vinci and Steve Jobs are celebrated for their obsession for being perfectionists. But what is not spoken of much in the public domain is that Steve Jobs’ quest to find perfection also made him a jerk. He bullied people, was a control freak, and had no moral qualms about building a monolith by exploiting cheap Chinese labour. I am still to read Walter Issacson’s biography of Leonardo. But there is no taking away from the point that his quest for perfection made him a procrastinator and his worst enemy as well.

When looked at from that perspective, it is possible to argue that the quest for perfectionism is an ideal pursuit, and one that must be a lifelong one at that. But while at it, implement a minimum viable product that gets you off the ground. You iterate and fix things as you go along.

If any evidence of the viability of this process is needed, look no further than what is apparently the most evolved of all businesses: Software. Each time a new version is released, it is touted as an improvement over the previous one. Nobody complains. Instead, everyone complies and upgrades.

There will be naysayers and doomsday predictors of all kinds. Pay heed to their voices for all that it is worth. But at some point, you’ve got to take a call and roll with what you have. Ideologues talk from pulpits. People who make the world go around place a premium on GyShiDo.

There are no bad guys

Contrary to what popular narrative would have us believe, there is no such thing as “us" and “them". Only different ways of looking at the world. The world needs ideologues who stoke debates and the kinds who make things happen. Both are fiercely motivated and believe deeply in what they are invested in. So even if you subscribe to the GyShiDo manifesto, it would be outright stupid to dismiss ideologues.

Because at the end of the day, there is no getting away from the reality that perfection is an ideal state. And one must do all that it takes to get there. It is a journey. The issue on hand is, which path do you take to get there the fastest. That is where decisions must be taken.

But how do you choose? Which path do I take? I asked an entrepreneur who subscribes to GyShiDo even as he keeps track of where may perfection lie, how does he manage.

His answer was a simple one. He does not judge people. He only evaluates the idea. In doing that, he asks himself some questions.

1. If I adopt this suggestion, is the outcome reversible? 

2. If the outcome is reversible, how fast can a new iteration be created?

3. If the suggestion is irreversible, what may the possible outcomes be? 

4. How many people can potentially be impacted by a negative outcome? 

5. Does an option exist to an irreversible suggestion? 

The answers to these questions are ones he cannot obtain by consensus and in a democratic manner. It is his cross to carry. Whatever be the outcome of his decision, it is conveyed and executed. But his decisions have to be made in real time. People look up to him. To that extent, he is a very lonely man.

But to stay the course, he is also aware he must also perform at his peak potential at any given point in time. To do that, he needs some creature comforts. That includes right of way and an implicit mandate to eat before the others do.

This was first published in Mint on Sunday

How I won the Pulitzer and other tales

After much bickering with friends on a WhatsApp group over the inflammatory content of a forwarded message that seemed clearly manipulated, I exited the battle. It was clear they wouldn’t consider any evidence I presented if it stood in the way of the alternative “facts” they subscribed to. The version of events presented in the forward aligned with an ideology and came from a source that they considered infallible. Their minds had been manipulated. I realised I would need an altogether different toolkit to prove this to them.

A war had to be waged. But how was it to be won? It occurred to me that few stories carry greater credibility than those that appear in a newspaper. That settled it.

It took 10 minutes to look up an online tool that allowed me to create a news clipping. Another 10 minutes to compose a story that insinuated it had appeared in The New York Times. The final output stated that I’d been shortlisted for the Pulitzer Prize in journalism.

I sent it out on the WhatsApp group with the comment: “Feeling overwhelmed. Thank you for your support guys over the years. Love you all!”

A stunned silence greeted my post. This was going to plan. I was messing with their heads. Eventually, the first message came in. Grudgingly. “Boss! You’ve made us proud!”

“Thanks man! Will call. Fielding too many calls right now and juggling work.” I responded.

A deluge of congratulatory messages from members of the group followed.

What I hadn’t anticipated was how quickly this would backfire as well. Happy with the clip I’d created, I shared it with my wife, daughter and some close friends who understand the news business. I assumed they’d see through it right away. My family knows I try to pull a fast one every once in a while, and if anyone in the news business with a sharp eye looked at it closely, they’d spot it as a fake. But in this case, almost no one did.

As I stepped out of my room a little later, a teary-eyed wife hugged me tight and the older daughter looked all proud of her dad. She couldn’t wait to show off to her friends! Not just that, they’d shared it over WhatsApp with others in the family. I could see messages from friends trickling in on my phone now. They desperately wanted me to get on a call to begin celebrating.

It broke my heart to begin telling everyone it was a fake. And hard to see those around me struggle to hide their disappointment — at having nothing to celebrate, at having been so wrong, and now feeling foolish. That’s when it hit me. People see and hear what they want to see and hear not just because they’re stubborn or incapable of admitting error. It’s also because it’s so much easier to dig the self in deeper than dig the self out of a hole. As with so many things, take enough turns in the road, and it’s almost impossible to turn back.

Those who craft fake narratives understand this intuitively. That is why, as a thumb rule, I don’t take any narrative on social media platforms at face value, even if they originate in people I know.

Why did friends who are ideologically opposed to me, then, buy into my Pulitzer nominee story? And why have they started to consider my opinions on all things more seriously?

Let me put it this way. Humans have fickle memories, and minds that are easily swayed. The story I crafted didn’t attack their ideology. Instead, it was something they wanted to be a part of. Suddenly, what they could see was a friend they grew up with, not an ideological opponent.

I haven’t bothered to clarify with them that it is a prank. But I will, eventually. When we argue as we often do around ideology, and they decline to consider evidence that does not fit their worldview, this clipping will be deployed to demonstrate how easily minds can be manipulated.

This piece was first published in Hindustan Times. Copyrights vest with HT Media

Navigating the 40s

That I don’t fit the definition of a young man any longer hit home last week, when an innocuous tweet attracted vicious trolls and the invective hurled at me included descriptions that addressed me as Uncle. Sometimes, when you’re called Uncle in India, the line that separates respect from derision can be a thin one.

To place that in perspective, I have become used to friends of my kids addressing me as Uncle; I have nephews and nieces; random people such as harried delivery boys looking for directions in the neighbourhood address me as Uncle too. It is an honorific I use liberally as well. Every parent of a friend is addressed respectfully as Uncle or Aunty. For that matter, anybody who looks old enough and is unrelated must be addressed like this in the Indian scheme of things. That’s how everyone I know was raised — me included.

But this time, as the trolls deployed Uncle against me, their sense of derision sunk in. Because, much like them, I have used the term to signal to strangers that they are old and over the hill. “Nikal na, Uncle!” (Get lost, Uncle!) delivered at the right moment and in the right intonation in Hindi, can be devastating.

But just how did the trolls on Twitter conclude that I am an Uncle? All they could see on my profile was a thumbnail-sized image. It was time to examine myself more closely in the mirror.

t showed a man with a receding hairline who works hard to stay in shape. From being a night owl who could work 15 hours on a trot and then party all night, he has morphed into a teetotaler because he can’t handle the hangovers. And once a while, when he tells the missus he plans to meet up with the “boys”, she smirks. I think I now know why. When he gets back from meeting these buddies from his school days, all the stories he shares are rehashed ones, about pranks played on teachers, first crushes, the early years of struggle, and so on and so forth.

But the mirror insisted I think about the other updates conveniently tucked away in corners of my mind. These include narratives around lifestyle diseases such as hypertension and diabetes, bad marriages and messages of shock still exchanged about a friend’s sudden demise. When you think about it, these meet-ups and the sharing of these stories are actually meant to compel people such as me to acknowledge the passage of time, and to admit that I am a mortal creature in his mid-40s

But I don’t. Why? I suspect this is where the issue lies. Navigating the 40s isn’t easy. I’m not young. But I’m not old either. I’m abandoned. I have finally grown up.

My kids need me and my parents need me. I am in charge and supposed to have all the answers. This is scary. How am I supposed to have all the answers? When did I grow up? But grow up I did.

I am not as brash as I used to be in my 20s or 30s. Nor have I descended into the cantankerousness of many in the generation that raised me and my wife. In her 2018 book, There Are No Grown-Ups, Pamela Druckerman points out that all research has it that in our 40s we digest information more slowly than younger people do and are “worse at remembering facts”.

Having said that, she points to the upsides. “What we lack in processing power we make up for in maturity, insight and experience. We’re better than younger people at grasping the essence of situations, controlling our emotions and resolving conflicts. We’re more skilled at managing money and explaining why things happen. We’re more considerate than younger people. And, crucially for our happiness, we’re less neurotic.”

I couldn’t agree more. That also explains why I didn’t take the bait and put up a spirited fight against the trolls. I may have done that in an earlier avatar. This avatar had other things to do on a Valentine’s Day — such as live better and love better.

This piece was originally published in Hindustan Times on Sunday. All copyrights vest with HT Media.

Follow your passion, is rubbish advice

My elder daughter is now a teen and considering her career options. The two of us are at loggerheads. Everyone around her tells her she must “follow her passion”.

I think that’s rubbish advice.

But to inspire her, there’s a cottage industry that thrives off recycling posters of Steve Jobs with “Follow Your Passion” plastered on them. All narratives have it that this is what Steve Jobs told students at Stanford in 2005. The 23,000 people in attendance gave him a standing ovation when he was done talking. The commencement speech went viral and I remember feeling goosebumps when I first saw the video.

How am I to argue against Steve Jobs? Even my kid won’t take me seriously.

May I submit then that the real import of his advice was lost on most people? His official biographer Walter Isaacson pointed out to the irony of it all in a conversation with the writer Cal Newport. Isaacson spent hundreds of hours with Jobs, including during the last year of his life, in 2011.

To cut a long story short, as a young man, Jobs was passionate about the liberal arts, and design. That is why he took courses on these themes when in college. He was passionate about travel and spirituality. That led him to goof off for a while as a backpacker in India.

Very soon though, it became clear to him that if he continued doing only what excited him, he would go nowhere. To get somewhere, he needed to find a purpose. In attempting to explain that to Isaacson, Jobs said, “The important point is to not just follow your passion but something larger than yourself.”

Once this was clear to Jobs, he went back to technology and computing — both of which contained elements of drudgery that he hated. In fact, before his brief stint of doing only what he loved, Jobs had already been fired from a technology start-up for lack of motivation.

But once he had figured out that personal computers could change the world, he wanted to be part of that transformation. That became his purpose. “It ain’t just about you and your damn passion,” Jobs would tell Isaacson years later. After Jobs found his purpose, he poured all of his passion into it. That makes sense.

When I think about it, I am passionate about the biosciences because that is what some very fine teachers at college initiated me into. I am beginning to get passionate about running. I am passionate about writing and would go batty if I couldn’t write.

But here’s the thing. Writing is the only one of those passions that I am willing to invest effort in. It’s one thing to be passionate about the biosciences; I could never actually do the time in the labs. It felt like drudgery. In the same vein, while I enjoy running, I don’t think I will ever run as effortlessly as friends who have dedicated years to the discipline.

In much the same way, every other person I meet claims they are passionate about writing and wants to write a book. I know they won’t. I’ve been writing for over 20 years. And I know the drudgery involved in writing a book. I do it because I find purpose in writing.

Passion is fleeting. Purpose takes time to discover, and even more time to build on. How am I to tell my daughter that? “Don’t just follow your passion.” Maybe it’ll work if I quote Jobs right.

This article was originally published by in the print edition of Hindustan Times on November 15, 2020.