Watching 120 Bahadur — a film that brings to life the extraordinary bravery of Indian soldiers at Rezang La — leaves one stirred and proud. It should. The men of C Company, 13 Kumaon, fought against impossible odds and earned a permanent place in India’s military memory. But courage on the battlefield and clarity in national strategy are not the same thing. If remembrance ends at valor alone, it risks obscuring the failures that made such sacrifice inevitable.

Lines on a Map, Not on the Ground
India’s claim over Aksai Chin did not emerge from sustained administration or continuous control. The 19th-century expedition of Zorawar Singh into western Tibet was a bold military venture, but it was not followed by governance, settlement, or infrastructure. It established no enduring political presence.

After Independence, however, Indian maps depicted Aksai Chin as sovereign territory. These claims were asserted long before India had roads, civil administration, or permanent military deployment in the region. Maps hardened into doctrine even as the ground reality remained thin.

In practice, Aksai Chin remained an area of limited and intermittent Indian presence rather than sustained administration. India maintained a company-strength detachment in Lhasa until the late 1950s, and there were periodic patrols and border police incidents across Aksai Chin during the decade. What never followed was consolidation. There was no civil administration, no permanent infrastructure, and no road network linking the region to the Indian heartland, making reinforcement or sustained policing impossible.

China, meanwhile, moved with clarity of purpose. It constructed a strategic highway linking Xinjiang and Tibet through Aksai Chin. Indian intelligence reports confirmed the road’s construction, but New Delhi did not respond with comparable physical measures. Diplomatic protests and inherited cartographic claims were expected to secure a frontier that geography demanded be held on the ground.

The Other Frontier We Forget
The eastern border was no less complicated. Much of what is now Arunachal Pradesh had been administered from Lhasa until the late 1940s. Indian administration followed independence and local consent, not prior state control. Over time, democratic participation and integration strengthened India’s claim — and today, Indian sovereignty there is both legitimate and settled.

But in 1947, this too was an ambiguous frontier. China’s claim rested on Tibet’s historical jurisdiction, while India’s rested on the McMahon Line — a colonial-era agreement Beijing rejected. Treating the eastern border as ancient and uncontested narrowed diplomatic options at a moment when flexibility might have mattered.

The Settlement That Was Refused
In the 1950s, Zhou Enlai proposed a broad settlement: China would accept the McMahon Line in the east if India accepted Chinese control over Aksai Chin in the west. Nehru rejected the proposal. Accepting it, he believed, would legitimise aggression and undermine principle.

Yet this refusal was based on the belief that China could not be trusted to honour negotiated borders. That belief was not universally supported by evidence. In 1960, China settled its boundary with Burma through negotiation and adhered to the agreed line. The precedent suggested that Beijing was capable of pragmatic settlements when it suited its interests.

The choice India faced was not between honour and surrender, but between diplomacy and war — at a time when India was ill-prepared for the latter.

An Army Asked to Do the Impossible
By the late 1950s, warnings from military commanders were growing more urgent. India’s armed forces were under-equipped for high-altitude warfare. Winter clothing, artillery, transport aircraft, roads, and logistics were all inadequate. Intelligence assessments warned of Chinese capabilities that India could not match on the ground.

These warnings were largely ignored. Civilian control of the military is essential in a democracy, but civilian disregard for professional military advice is dangerous. Experienced officers were sidelined, while political trust became a key criterion for advancement. Lieutenant General B.M. Kaul’s rise — despite limited operational experience — reflected this distortion.

The result was the Forward Policy: isolated posts placed forward of supply lines, without assured reinforcement, artillery support, or air cover. The assumption was that China would not escalate. When it did, Indian troops were left exposed.

A particularly consequential decision was the refusal to use the Indian Air Force offensively. This was not due to lack of capability, but fear of escalation and retaliation. The consequence was that Indian soldiers fought a modern war without the benefit of air power that could have altered the battlefield balance.

At Rezang La, courage filled the gap that strategy left open. Courage can hold a position briefly; it cannot substitute for preparation.

How the War Actually Ended
Popular memory often suggests that Indian resistance forced China to halt. The historical record tells a different story.

On 20 November 1962, China unilaterally declared a ceasefire and announced a withdrawal from several forward positions. The decision was driven by Chinese assessment that its objectives had been achieved — “the lesson delivered” — and by the practical concern of not leaving troops stranded on the Indian side once winter closed the Himalayan passes.

Indian bravery did not end the war. Chinese calculation did.

This does not diminish sacrifice. It simply resists comforting myths that confuse valour with victory.

Accountability — and Silence
In the aftermath, Nehru accepted responsibility and removed Defence Minister Krishna Menon. Nehru remained Prime Minister until his death in 1964, a leader visibly diminished by the trauma of the war.

The Henderson Brooks–Bhagat report remains officially unpublished more than six decades later. Successive governments have argued that disclosure would harm national security. The effect, however, has been to keep India’s most important military autopsy sealed from the public that paid the price for its failures.

That instinct — to manage the narrative of military setbacks, to curate what may be said and when — is not unique to 1962. The recent controversy surrounding former Army Chief General M.M. Naravane’s memoir is a reminder that civil–military candour remains delicate terrain in India. Portions dealing with sensitive operational episodes reportedly drew objections before publication, reinforcing an uncomfortable truth: in India, the story of national security is often treated as state property rather than as democratic history.

The parallel is not exact. India today is far stronger, more capable, and more institutionally mature than it was in 1962. But the underlying question is the same: can a democracy learn from its strategic mistakes if it is uneasy about allowing senior military professionals to describe them plainly?

In 1962, professional military advice was discounted when it conflicted with political optimism. After 1962, institutional self-examination was constrained by secrecy. If contemporary debates over memoirs and military transparency show anything, it is that the tension between political authority and professional military judgment has never entirely disappeared.

Lessons That Still Matter
To honour Rezang La is not merely to commemorate bravery, but to ensure such bravery is never again demanded as compensation for strategic failure.

The unsettled border with China remains a live issue today, periodically flaring into confrontation. Avoiding a future conflict will require political courage of a different kind — the courage to negotiate seriously, to contemplate land exchanges, and to redraw maps that generations of Indian schoolchildren have been taught to see as immutable. It will be uncomfortable. It will invite criticism. But it may prevent a war that courage alone cannot win.

National security demands more than symbolism and intent. It requires equipping the armed forces with the resources, autonomy, and leadership they need to meet clearly defined objectives. It also requires choosing commanders for competence, not ideological comfort or pliability. Wars are not won by agreeable generals, but by the best men and women for the task.

The men of 13 Kumaon did everything that was asked of them. The least we owe them is the honesty to ask whether the nation did enough — before asking them to pay the price.

It began over a cup of chai on a balcony in Hawaii.

I was visiting my aunt Shyamala and uncle Sankaran at their apartment overlooking Honolulu. My uncle was teaching at the University of Hawaii at Mānoa, and we were enjoying one of those lazy afternoons that drift from family gossip to world affairs.

Almost in passing, my aunt said, "My friend's brother is running for president."

"President of the university?" I asked.

"No," she replied matter-of-factly. "President of the United States."

I laughed.

"Really? What's his name?"

"Barack Obama."

I remember grunting dismissively. "No chance. It'll be Hillary Clinton versus Rudy Giuliani."

That was the end of that conversation.

Or so I thought.

A few months later I was back in California when my friend Vidya asked me a question that caught me completely off guard.

"Do you want to volunteer for the Obama campaign?"

This surprised me for two reasons. First, I knew almost nothing about Obama beyond the fact that he was a first-term senator with an unusual name. Second, Vidya was one of the strongest feminists I knew. I had assumed she would be firmly in Hillary Clinton's camp.

Around the same time, I read an op-ed by David Brooks praising Obama. Brooks was a conservative columnist—not someone I expected to become an Obama admirer. His piece made me curious.

So I bought Dreams from My Father.

By the time I finished it, I was hooked.

Here was someone who combined intelligence with humility, idealism with pragmatism, and compassion with an ability to inspire. More than anything, I was struck by the distinctly American possibility that someone with such an unconventional background could realistically aspire to the presidency.

As an Indian immigrant—and the father of a U.S. citizen—I found that deeply moving.

Only in America, I thought.

I signed up as a volunteer.

----

My first assignment was phone banking California during the Democratic primary.

Obama lost.

That hardly seemed like an encouraging beginning.

Soon afterward, however, I was assigned to Texas, where the Democratic Party used its famously complicated "Texas Two-Step." Voters participated in the normal primary election during the day, but delegates were also allocated through evening caucuses.

Our mission was simple: don't just persuade Obama supporters to vote. Get them to show up for the caucuses.

Call after call, evening after evening, we reminded people where to go, when to arrive, and why staying home after voting wasn't enough.

The result became one of the pivotal moments of the campaign. Hillary Clinton won the popular vote in Texas, but Obama won more delegates because his supporters actually attended the caucuses.

For the first time, I felt that the hundreds of anonymous phone calls made by volunteers like me really mattered.

I also began making small donations to the campaign.

Nothing dramatic—typically fifty or a hundred dollars.

What fascinated me wasn't my contribution. It was everyone else's.

The campaign seemed powered by ordinary people giving modest amounts instead of relying primarily on wealthy donors writing big cheques. It created a feeling that the campaign belonged to its supporters.

I wasn't funding a politician.

I was joining a movement.

----

Once Obama secured the Democratic nomination, I was reassigned to New Mexico, then considered a genuine swing state.

Every evening after work I would pull out my cellphone, log into the campaign's calling platform, and begin making calls.

The technology impressed me.

If a voter cared primarily about healthcare, immigration or the economy, I wasn't expected to become an instant policy expert. I simply noted their concerns in the system, and the campaign would route them to volunteers better equipped to discuss those issues.

It was an extraordinarily sophisticated operation, especially for 2008.

The conversations themselves were fascinating.

Many voters were genuinely undecided between Barack Obama and John McCain. They liked aspects of both candidates. You could almost hear them thinking aloud.

Then everything changed overnight.

John McCain announced Sarah Palin as his running mate.

The tone of my calls shifted almost immediately.

People who had been weighing the two candidates suddenly began saying that McCain had shown terrible judgement. If this was the person he wanted a heartbeat away from the presidency, what did that say about him?

Within weeks, New Mexico was no longer considered competitive.

It had become safely Democratic.

The campaign stopped calling there.

----

As Election Day approached, the campaign asked whether I could travel to a battleground state. They needed volunteers on the ground.

I couldn't go. My job simply wouldn't allow it.

"No problem," they asked. "Do you have any frequent flyer miles?"

As it happened, I had about 25,000 Northwest Airlines miles sitting unused. I had no idea when I would ever redeem them.

The campaign had a better idea.

They asked me to use the miles to fly a young volunteer from Oakland to Ohio, where every additional pair of hands mattered.

Even that tiny resource had a purpose.

Looking back, what amazed me most about the Obama campaign wasn't simply the candidate.

It was the organisation.

Every volunteer.

Every dollar.

Every airline mile.

Everything was put to work.

----

On November 4, 2008, I watched Barack Obama deliver his victory speech in Chicago. Like millions around the world, I had tears in my eyes. 

Not because I imagined I had made a significant difference.

I hadn't.

There were millions of volunteers, donors and supporters. My contribution was microscopic—perhaps one millionth of the effort that carried him to the White House.

But it was my one-millionth.

For a few months in 2008, I wasn't just reading about history.

I was participating in it.

Epilogue
Eight years later, another US Presidential Election moved me to tears. This time it was after the 2016 election that brought Donald Trump to power. 

The contrast between Barack Obama and Donald Trump felt almost impossible for me to comprehend. How could the same country that had elected one produce the other?

With the passage of time, however, I have come to realise that my strongest memory isn't one of disappointment.

It is still that feeling from 2008—that ordinary citizens, making phone calls from their living rooms, donating fifty dollars at a time, or even giving away unused airline miles, could help shape the future of a nation.

For one brief season, I had the privilege of being one of them.

​
Prejudice doesn’t vanish with time. It reincarnates. Not in the mystical sense of souls migrating, but in the social sense of ideas reborn. What one generation whispers, the next repeats, and the third shouts. Biases, stereotypes, and values that harm society — greed, selfishness, exclusion — live on because we pass them on.

Caste: The Hidden Inheritance  
India abolished caste discrimination in law decades ago, yet it thrives in practice. Dalits are still barred from temples, denied equal relief in disasters, and treated as outsiders in schools and workplaces. Children don’t need lectures to learn this; they see who is excluded, who is demeaned, and they absorb it. Caste prejudice reincarnates not through scripture but through silence, through everyday normalization.

I remember when I had just graduated from business school and started working. I was seeing a girl, and my father — in what seemed like a casual remark — said, “Oh, she’s Iyengar.” Iyengars are another sub‑caste of Tamil Brahmins; we are Iyers. That single comment carried weight. It signaled to me that they weren’t too happy I was dating her, not because of who she was, but because of what she represented in the caste hierarchy. It was a moment when I realized how deeply these divisions live on, even in families that consider themselves educated and liberal.

Religion: Division Disguised as Tradition 
History offers moments of tolerance — Ashoka’s Dhamma, Akbar’s Sulh‑i‑Kul. Yet prejudice persists. The 1984 anti‑Sikh riots, the 2002 Gujarat riots, and countless smaller acts of exclusion show how religion can be weaponized. And often, it’s passed on in subtler ways. How many Hindu boys and girls have been told by parents — parents who thought they were being liberal — “You can marry anyone, any caste, as long as it’s not a Muslim.” That single sentence reincarnates suspicion, ensuring division survives another generation.

The Buddha’s Reincarnation Reimagined  
Perhaps this is what the Buddha meant by reincarnation. Not that the soul lives on in another body, but that our thoughts, our prejudices, our values — good or bad — live on in others. Every stereotype repeated, every bias reinforced, every prejudice left unchallenged is reborn. The wheel of samsara spins not only spiritually but socially, until someone chooses to break it.

Breaking the Cycle  
The challenge is not awareness alone, but courage. To ask: What am I passing on? Am I teaching dignity as universal, or conditional? Am I modeling compassion as strength, or selfishness as survival? Am I reinforcing caste hierarchies and religious suspicion, or dismantling them through example?

Prejudice persists because it feels invisible. But once seen, it cannot be unseen. The hope lies in ensuring the next generation does not merely inherit our biases, but learns to question them. To reincarnate not prejudice, but compassion.

A Message to Mentors
If you guide a younger person — as a parent, teacher, coach, or elder — pause. Every word, every gesture, every silence is instruction. Ask yourself: Am I unconsciously passing on prejudice? The values we hand down today will shape the society of tomorrow. Let us choose empathy over exclusion, fairness over bias, humility over greed. For in mentoring, we are not just shaping individuals — we are shaping the future. And perhaps, in doing so, we redefine reincarnation: not as the rebirth of prejudice, but as the rebirth of compassion.

I watched Whiplash yesterday. Like many great films, it is ostensibly about one thing while actually being about something much larger. On the surface, it is about a young jazz drummer and an obsessive music instructor. Beneath that, it is about excellence, ambition, grit, and the uncomfortable role that other people sometimes play in helping us discover what we are capable of.

The central question the film raises is one that most of us encounter sooner or later in our own lives. When someone pushes us hard—harder than we would choose to push ourselves—should we accept it and grow, or walk away? How do we distinguish between a mentor who is helping us become better and one who is simply making us miserable? And if the person doing the pushing happens to be brilliant, does that change the answer?

I was reminded of an incident from many years ago. A friend and I were playing squash when a woman approached us and asked whether we would mind hitting with her daughter for a few minutes. The girl looked to be around twelve or thirteen years old. Like most adults would, we began feeding her easy shots. We rallied gently and tried to ensure she enjoyed herself. Almost immediately, her mother intervened.

"Don't go easy on her, sir. Give her tough shots."

We were surprised. Most parents want strangers to encourage their children. This mother wanted us to challenge hers. So we started hitting shots that stretched her movement and forced her to work harder. We thought little of it afterward. A few years later, however, that same girl became the Indian Under-16 squash champion, when was not yet 14.

I do not tell that story because I believe our brief game contributed meaningfully to her success. It almost certainly did not. What stayed with me was the mother's instinctive understanding of something important: improvement rarely happens in comfort. Growth usually occurs when we are operating at the edge of our capabilities.

That observation leads to another uncomfortable truth. Laziness is, in many ways, the natural human condition. By laziness, I do not mean idleness or lack of character. I mean our tendency to conserve effort. Left to ourselves, most of us do enough to achieve acceptable results. We study enough to pass the examination, work hard enough to avoid criticism, and train hard enough to remain competitive. Very few people voluntarily discover where their true limits lie. For that, we often need some external force—a goal, a rival, a coach, a mentor, or sometimes a system—to demand more from us than we would demand from ourselves.

A mentor who pushes hard may do so for many reasons. The most cynical explanation is sadism. Some people simply enjoy power and control. Others enjoy being feared. There are individuals who mistake cruelty for strength and humiliation for teaching.

A second possibility is self-interest. A coach may want trophies. A manager may want results. A professor may want prestige. Such people may invest heavily in their protégés, but the investment is ultimately transactional. Your success advances their ambitions.

The third possibility is more generous. A mentor may genuinely see potential in you that you do not yet see in yourself. They may believe your current limitations are largely self-imposed. They push because they think you are capable of more than you currently believe. Many of us can probably identify people in our own lives who changed our trajectories precisely because they refused to accept our excuses.

The difficulty, of course, is that all three kinds of mentors can sound remarkably similar.

For a long time, I believed that demanding mentors were simply part of the price of excellence. Then I had an experience that made me reconsider.

Years ago, while working toward a tailwheel endorsement, I trained under an instructor who was extraordinarily demanding. He insisted on exercises that went well beyond the syllabus requirements. I remember doing endless touch-and-go landings, sometimes intentionally offset from the centerline, correcting back and repeating the exercise over and over. There was nothing wrong with high standards. The problem was his manner. He was frequently rude, dismissive, and demeaning. My confidence steadily eroded. Eventually, I found the courage to ask the chief instructor for a change.

The replacement instructor was very different. He was supportive, encouraging, and professional. Yet he did not lower the standards. The airplane was the same. The endorsement requirements were the same. The expectations remained high. What changed was the relationship. Within a short time, I regained my confidence, completed the syllabus, and earned the endorsement.

That experience taught me something important. Pressure is necessary. Humiliation is not.

The first instructor provided both pressure and humiliation. The second provided pressure without humiliation. The second approach worked better.

Yet even that conclusion is not entirely satisfactory, because life presents harder cases. What if the difficult mentor is genuinely one of the best in the world? What if the experience of working with them offers opportunities unavailable anywhere else?

Many fields contain such figures. Elite sports coaches. Renowned chefs. Distinguished scientists. Acclaimed artists. Some are generous and supportive. Others are notoriously difficult. If one insists on learning only from people who are pleasant and emotionally intelligent, one may miss opportunities to learn from exceptional practitioners.

I do not think the correct answer is to avoid every difficult personality. Excellence and virtue do not always coexist. Some brilliant people are also wonderful human beings. Others are not. The relevant question is whether the value of what they teach exceeds the cost of learning from them.

There is a difference between a demanding mentor who is blunt and impatient, and an abusive mentor who systematically destroys confidence. Most successful people have encountered the former. Some have endured the latter. The distinction matters. A demanding mentor may make you uncomfortable. An abusive mentor makes you smaller.

One of the most interesting aspects of Whiplash is that it refuses to answer whether Fletcher's cruelty is responsible for Andrew's eventual success. We are invited to assume that the abuse produced greatness, but another interpretation is equally plausible. Perhaps Andrew succeeds despite Fletcher rather than because of him. We notice the one student who reaches extraordinary heights. We do not see the students who might have become excellent musicians under a different teacher but instead quit, burned out, or lost confidence.

This is a classic problem of survivorship bias. We see the champion and assume the method created the champion. We rarely see the casualties.

Perhaps the most useful distinction is between productive discomfort and destructive discomfort. Productive discomfort stretches us. It exposes weaknesses. It forces us to confront reality. It often feels unpleasant, but it leaves us more capable than before. Destructive discomfort, by contrast, erodes confidence without building competence. It creates fear rather than mastery. The two can feel similar in the moment, which is why they are so often confused.

As I think about my sons—Dhruv, beginning his career in the intensely competitive world of sports sales, and Arjun, preparing to leave for university in the United States—I find myself returning to this distinction.

My advice to them would not be to seek comfort. Comfort is seductive, but it rarely produces growth. I would encourage them to seek managers, professors, coaches, and mentors who expect more from them than they currently expect from themselves. I would urge them not to quit simply because something is difficult. Some of the most valuable experiences in life are difficult precisely because they demand transformation.

At the same time, I would tell them not to confuse cruelty with excellence. A mentor's value lies not in how intimidating they are but in how much they help you grow. The important question is not whether a mentor is pleasant. It is whether, after spending a year under their influence, you are becoming more capable, more resilient, and more confident.

​The enduring lesson of Whiplash, at least for me, is not that greatness requires a tyrant. It is that greatness requires pressure. The challenge is finding the right source of that pressure and recognising when it is making you stronger rather than merely making you suffer.

On a Monday morning in December 2001, I opened my email and found a message from a school counselor.

The subject line contained just three words:

One Happy Boy

The counselor went on to explain that one of her students had arrived at school unable to stop smiling. He had spent the entire morning talking about his weekend adventure, telling classmates and teachers about it whenever he got the chance. Apparently, the grin hadn't left his face since Saturday.

I have remembered that email for nearly twenty-five years.

​To explain why, I need to go back a few months.

At the time, I was living in Fremont, California. I had a private pilot's licence and flew recreationally whenever work and family life permitted. Flying was one of my great passions.

I had also decided to volunteer with Be A Mentor, a nonprofit organization that matched adult volunteers with young people who could benefit from guidance, encouragement, and a positive role model. The screening process was understandably rigorous. There were interviews, training sessions, and an FBI background check before I was finally approved.

Once all the paperwork was complete, I was assigned a high-school senior named Alim Joyaa.

Alim's life story was remarkable.

His family had fled the conflict in Afghanistan, travelled through Pakistan, spent time in refugee camps in Delhi, and eventually received asylum in the United States. Now he was trying to build a new life while attending high school in Fremont.

Like many teenagers, he loved music. In his case, it was Bollywood songs. He was bright, polite, and eager to learn.

But what immediately caught my attention was his ambition.

Alim wanted to become a pilot.

That was apparently why the program had paired him with me.

There was, however, one detail that caused some raised eyebrows.

This was late 2001.

Barely three months had passed since the attacks of September 11.

When some friends learned that I had been matched with a teenage Afghan refugee who dreamed of flying airplanes, their reactions ranged from surprise to outright concern. A few questioned whether it was wise.

I found that deeply unfair.

Everything I saw in Alim spoke of determination, curiosity, and hope. He was a young man who had already endured far more hardship than most adults, yet he remained optimistic about his future. He deserved the same encouragement and opportunities as any other teenager.

So we spent time together.

I helped him with homework. We talked about school, music, and life in America. Naturally, we also talked about airplanes.

My wife welcomed him into our home and frequently cooked Indian meals for him. He attacked those meals with the enthusiasm only a healthy teenage boy can muster. Before long, he looked forward to those dinners almost as much as our conversations.

As the months passed, mentor and mentee gradually became friends.

Then came the day I had been looking forward to.

On Saturday, 8 December 2001, we drove to Hayward Airport and climbed into a Piper Cherokee Archer, registration N44400.

For Alim, this was no ordinary airplane ride.

After takeoff, we headed eastward across the hills toward California's Central Valley. The morning was clear and the visibility seemed endless. As the urban landscape gave way to farmland, I could sense his excitement growing. He seemed determined not to miss a single detail outside the window.

Once we had reached a safe altitude and settled into smooth air, I told him to place his hands on the controls.

"Your airplane."

He looked at me as if he wasn't entirely sure he had heard correctly.

At first his movements were hesitant. The airplane drifted gently off heading and he corrected a little too much. But after a few minutes he relaxed. He began to understand that small inputs produced small changes. Soon he was maintaining straight-and-level flight remarkably well and making gentle turns while I quietly monitored the aircraft.

For a young man who had dreamed about flying for years, it was a magical moment.

He wasn't merely looking at the sky anymore.

For a few precious minutes, he was helping guide an airplane through it.

I remember glancing across at him from time to time.

The smile said everything.

Two days later, the counselor's email arrived.

**One Happy Boy.**

She wrote that Alim had spent Monday morning enthusiastically recounting every detail of the flight. He couldn't stop talking about it. He couldn't stop smiling. For one weekend at least, he had been living inside a dream.

And that is why I have remembered that email all these years.

I often wonder what became of him.

Did he become a pilot?

Did he go to college?

Did he build the life he imagined for himself as a teenager sitting in a classroom in Fremont?

I don't know.

I have lost touch with him, and I have no idea where life ultimately took him.

But I hope he remembers that flight.

More importantly, I hope he remembers what it represented.

In a period when many people looked at young Afghan men with suspicion, someone chose to trust him. In a time when fear often overwhelmed understanding, someone chose to see him not as a stereotype but as a teenager with dreams.

I hope he remembers that somebody believed in those dreams enough to share an airplane with him and let him take the controls.

Perhaps he became a pilot. Perhaps he didn't.

Either way, I hope life was kind to him.

And whenever I think of Alim, I still think of that email.

Three simple words.

One Happy Boy.

There are many noble paths to the priesthood. Some people spend years in seminaries studying theology, philosophy, and the mysteries of the human soul. I spent about seven minutes on the internet. My journey into the clergy began when my friend and colleague, Dean Whiteside of Infosys, walked over to my cubicle with a request.

"Would you officiate my wedding? I’d rather you do it than some random priest I don’t know.”

Now, there are moments in life when a sensible person asks questions.

Questions like:

"Why me?"

"Are you sure?"

"Is this legal?"

I asked none of these.

Instead, I said, "Sure."

A few clicks later, I was ordained through the Universal Life Church. Somewhere in cyberspace, a server processed my request, and I was instantly transformed from corporate executive and amateur golfer into a fully qualified minister of matrimony. If Joey Tribiani could officiate over the wedding of Monica and Chandler, I figured I could. 

When I informed my father of this development, he reacted with considerably less enthusiasm than I had expected.

"You're what?"

"An ordained priest."

There was a long silence.

"What's wrong with Hinduism, kanna?"

I explained that I wasn't actually converting religions. I wasn't joining a monastery. I wasn't renouncing worldly possessions. In fact, I had barely finished the online application.

This did not seem to help.

I explained that the organization had a long and colorful history. During the Vietnam era it became famous for ordaining people en masse, allegedly helping some young men establish ministerial status while trying to avoid the draft. What had begun as a counterculture religious movement had evolved into something even more American: A mail-order business.

My father remained unconvinced.

A few days later, I received a catalogue welcoming me to my new profession. Apparently, ordination was merely the first step. The catalogue offered everything a modern clergyman might require: rosary beads, ceremonial stoles, purple surplices, bottles of rose water, ministerial identification cards, wedding certificates, and enough ecclesiastical accessories to launch a medium-sized denomination. All at a price, of course. The transformation was astonishing. One week earlier I was shopping for golf clubs. Now I was apparently in the market for liturgical garments. Martin Luther had the Protestant Reformation. I had a catalogue and a Visa card.

---

Naturally, before I could unite two souls in holy matrimony, I had to participate in the sacred rituals leading up to the event. Specifically, Dean's bachelor party.

Now Dean's defining personality trait is golf. This is partly my fault. Years earlier, I had introduced him to the game. What I thought would be a pleasant recreational activity evolved into a full-blown obsession. Most bachelor parties involve bars. Dean's involved a golf course. Most golf courses feature golfers. This one featured strippers. Not in the clubhouse. Not after the round. On the golf course. Imagine standing over a delicate seven-foot birdie putt while a lap dance is taking place beside the green. The Rules of Golf are surprisingly silent on this situation. Dean, meanwhile, seemed perfectly happy. His two great passions in life—golf and questionable decision-making—had finally merged into a single event.

---

A few weeks later, we arrived at Pajaro Dunes. There I stood. A brown-skinned Indian man who had become a priest via the internet. Waiting to officiate the wedding of a Scotch-American groom in a kilt. Who would be led down the aisle by a bagpiper. To marry a first-generation Chinese immigrant bride dressed in a traditional Cheongsam. 

Meanwhile, her parents had been staying with the couple for a month before the wedding, which every Asian person considered completely normal and every American considered a hostage situation. (Dean had been sufficiently indoctrinated by my company to take it in his stride.)

The audience was equally remarkable. Many of the guests were Dean's and my colleagues. These were people who knew exactly how I had become ordained. They had watched the entire process unfold. A week earlier I had been discussing software contracts, golf handicaps, and quarterly business reviews. Now I was standing in front of them officiating over a wedding.

As the bagpipes began to play, I looked around and realized that absolutely nobody in this scene was where history expected them to be. A Scotch-American groom in a kilt. A Chinese-American bride in a Cheongsam. Saree wearing guests. An Indian internet priest. A bagpiper. A beach in California. Somewhere a Scottish ancestor was wondering why an Indian minister was marrying one of his descendants. Somewhere a Chinese grandmother was wondering why nobody had started serving food yet. And my father was probably still wondering: "What's wrong with Hinduism, kanna?"

There was, however, one person who seemed entirely unfazed by any of this. Dean's father. A blue-eyed Scotch-American who had served in the Merchant Marine during World War II, carrying supplies across the Atlantic while German U-boats attempted to send him to the bottom of the ocean. This was a man from a generation that regarded hardship as a normal Tuesday. He just looked at me and said: "You better make sure the marriage works."

---

The ceremony itself was beautiful. I had spent days rehearsing my remarks, practicing my look,and trying very hard not to accidentally marry the wrong people. When you're standing in front of family and friends, nobody cares that your theological education consisted primarily of filling out an online form. They expect confidence. So I delivered the vows with all the dignity I could muster.

The bride said yes.

The groom said yes.

Nobody objected.

Most importantly, nobody asked to see my credentials.

As I pronounced them husband and wife, I reflected on the absurd chain of events that had brought me there. One friendship. One golf addiction. One bachelor party that should probably never be discussed in detail. One internet ordination. And one unforgettable wedding.
--
I have held many titles in my life: CEO, President, Co-Founder, Golfer, Commercial Pilot, Father. But none of them quite compares with the one bestowed upon me by the Universal Life Church. According to the certificate lying somewhere in a folder I can no longer locate, I am officially: Reverend Palamadai Ramachandran Ganapathy. It is difficult to describe how improbable those four words look when placed together.

The title suggests a man who has spent decades studying theology in a monastery. Not someone who became ordained between conference calls.

To this day, Dean and his wife remain happily married. Which means my batting average as a priest remains a perfect 1.000. More importantly, it means I successfully met the only professional standard ever established for me. Dean's father has not complained.

My father, meanwhile, eventually accepted my brief dalliance with the clergy as a momentary lapse of reason, also because I had resisted buying the $250 Deluxe Baptism Kit from the Universal Life Church catalogue.

So if you're getting married in California and want to save $150 on a priest, call me.

Reverend Palamadai Ramachandran Ganapathy is available for weddings, although theological depth, doctrinal consistency, and long-term marital outcomes cannot be guaranteed.​

Winning at all costs has officially broken sports. The ancient, unwritten rule that honor matters more than the scoreboard is fading away. Even golf, the historic bastion of etiquette and self-regulation, is losing its grip on decency. When we sacrifice fairness for a trophy, we corrupt the very reason sports exist.

From the PGA Tour to the Local Club

This rot isn’t confined to television screens; it has trickled down into our weekend friendly rounds. I experienced this firsthand during a casual game with a long-time friend. He sliced his tee shot deep into the rough and lost his ball. We all searched, but the mandatory three-minute clock ran out. Just as it did, he magically "found" it.

When I pointed out the time limit, the excuses started: first, he argued that the three minutes weren't up; then, he claimed he hadn’t started searching yet—only his caddie had. I had to pull out Rule 18.2 to show him that the search time begins when the player or caddie looks. All of this bitter lawyering was over a measly ₹200 pot. He won the argument in his own mind, but it cost him a friendship. I have never played a competitive round with him since.

Weaponising the Crowd at the Ryder Cup

This petty mindset mirrors what we see at the absolute pinnacle of global sport. Consider the hostile spectacle at the 2025 Ryder Cup at Bethpage Black. In a bygone era of true sportsmanship, an American player facing a European opponent being actively heckled by a hostile home crowd might have stepped forward and conceded the hole. Conceding would say: "I want to beat you on merit, not because my fans sabotaged your swing." It may have also quietened the crowd.

Instead, the modern approach is the exact opposite. Players like Bryson DeChambeau actively riled up the crowd, weaponising a "tsunami" of partisan noise to rattle his opponents. Meanwhile, U.S. Captain Keegan Bradley did nothing to intervene. Leadership stood by, absorbing the unfair advantage with a shrug and prioritizing a hostile point over an honorable match.

As noted in a blistering New York Times piece on the Ryder Cup's toxic atmosphere, this behavior holds up a mirror to the broader, Trump-driven coarseness overtaking modern public life. The "mob mentality" on the fairway has mirrored our political arenas, where personal insults and a total breakdown of civility are now celebrated as winning strategies.

The Indian Arena: Deemaks, Cockroaches, and Crudity

We do not have to look to American golf to see this degradation of public grace. India’s public discourse has succumbed to the exact same sickness, flowing directly from the very top of our public institutions:

• Political Dehumanisation: Years ago, Home Minister Amit Shah set a chilling tone by likening illegal immigrants to "deemaks" (termites).
• Misogynistic Dogwhistles: Prime Minister Narendra Modi famously lowered the bar at an election rally by mocking a woman as a "50-crore girlfriend".
• Institutional Collapse: Most alarmingly, in a shocking courtroom outburst, Chief Justice of India Surya Kant described frustrated, unemployed youth on social media as "cockroaches" and "parasites of society".

When the judges and political titans of our democracy handle the rules of civility with such utter contempt, it is no wonder the common citizen feels vindicated in cheating their friend out of ₹200 on a golf course.

The IPL Sickness: Mocking Greatness Instead of Celebrating It

This cultural decay has naturally poisoned our national religion: cricket. We saw it manifested in its ugliest form during the IPL 2026 Eliminator match between Sunrisers Hyderabad and Rajasthan Royals.

A 15-year-old prodigy, Vaibhav Sooryavanshi, played a historic, jaw-dropping innings of 97 runs off just 29 balls. It was a breathtaking masterclass of fearless batting that should have united the stadium in pure awe. Instead, when Praful Hinge finally dismissed the young prodigy just three runs short of a century, Hinge aggressively mocked and taunted the dejected teenager, getting directly in his face with a venomous send-off. When a seasoned bowler's first instinct upon dismissing a child genius is to humiliate him rather than marvel at the carnage he just witnessed, sport has lost its way. To his credit Abhishek Sharma came up to congratulate the young Sooryavanshi. ​

From Self-Regulation to "Whatever You Can Get Away With"
To understand why this matters, we have to look at the high human purpose of sport. Humanity possesses deeply ingrained, natural aggressive tendencies. In his foundational work Authority and the Individual, philosopher Bertrand Russell noted that ordinary human beings cannot be happy without competition. He argued that our fierce, primitive impulses must be channeled into forms that are not injurious to society. Sport is that channel—a peaceful surrogate for war. But this safety valve only works if it is governed by a strict contract of fairness.

Today, sport has shifted to an era of hyper-policing. Athletes operate on a cynical philosophy of "it's only illegal if the referee sees it." This has forced every major sport to rely heavily on Video Assistant Referees (VAR) and microscopic reviews. We need more referees because players can no longer be trusted to play fair on their own.

Glimmers of Hope: The Keepers of the Spirit
Yet, the fire of true sportsmanship has not been entirely extinguished. Look no further than golf's Sahith Theegala. During the 2024 FedExCup Playoffs, Theegala called a crucial two-stroke penalty on himself because he felt his club might have touched a few grains of sand on his backswing. Nobody else saw it, but his conscience did. He chose honesty over a higher leaderboard finish.

An even more radical antidote can be found in Ultimate Frisbee. At the highest levels, Ultimate operates entirely without traditional referees. Instead, players are responsible for calling their own fouls, settling differences calmly and amicably. It is living proof that intense competition can coexist with mutual respect and self-governance.

A Vital Appeal: How We Introduce the Next Generation
These examples prove that the "whatever you can get away with" mindset is a choice, not an inevitability. If you are a parent, coach, or friend introducing someone to a sport, you carry a profound responsibility. Do not begin by teaching them how to exploit a loophole or bend a boundary.

• First, inculcate a radical respect for the opponent. Without them, the game cannot exist.
• Second, anchor them in unyielding integrity. A victory built on a lie or a hidden foul is entirely hollow.
• Finally, warn them never to let their competitive instincts master their character.

Aggression in sports is a natural fire meant to warm the spirit of competition, not a wildfire meant to incinerate human decency. Let us teach the next generation that how they play the game matters infinitely more than the score.

The trail
The trail for the Kuari Pass trek is reasonably well marked and clearly delineated. The walk per se is not particularly challenging in normal circumstances, the only thing that was different here was that we were doing it in winter, and when we arrived it had snowed for the previous few days and there was therefore a lot of fresh white powder on the ground, something that made experience all the more beautiful.

​The trek commences in the village of Kharchi, and the first day is a short 4.5 hour walk , gaining about 1900 feet in altitude, to the Akrotghetta campsite , so called for the beautiful lone Walnut tree [called ‘Akrot’ in Hindi and the local language]. As you reach the Akrotghetta campsite you look around you and see several 6-7000 meter mountain peaks covered in snow and this is what makes the Kuari pass trek especially beautiful -- spectacular views of the snow-capped peaks and the changing character from sunrise to day-time and then sunset. This continues to the next campsite, Khullara.

Since it was winter, it was cold in the morning before the sun hit you, and after the sun dipped below the Hills (which typically happened as early as 4:00 PM). While the sun was shining it was actually quite pleasant. One had to make sure that one properly utilized layering techniques to stay warm, and at night, the trek organizer, India hikes, had provided us with 2 sleeping bags and a liner each, which was more than adequate [in fact on the 3rd night I actually found myself sweating inside the sleeping bag].

The views
The Trek to the pass itself was on the 3rd day and due to ice and snow on the route some members of the group decided not to take a chance , so 12 out of 18 of us managed to actually climb the summit. The views from the summit were even more spectacular because you could see almost 360 degrees around, peaks like Chaukhamba, Kamet, Haathi Parvat, Dunagiri , etc. You just cannot get tired of the views on this particular trek.

Fellow trekkers
​The trek group were a mixed bunch -- three TV serial actresses from Bangalore and a good friend of theirs who was a photographer, software engineers from Kerala , a filmmaker from Mumbai and some folks from Delhi. Gautam, Gaurav and I were the three oldest at 52, 50 and 49 years of age, but as I've seen in my half marathons, older people tend to take preparation for such events much more seriously and I do believe the three of us were fitter and therefore typically at the front of the pack when it came to actual walking.

We were also amused to see how surprised some of the folks from the south were with the cold (I've lived in Ambala, Delhi and New York, so I don't count). I guess if you haven't experienced -10 degrees C, you have no idea how cold that can be. We also observed how focused people were on getting their photographs taken, and looking good in them. I am guessing that for the Snapchat - Instagram generation, the primary purpose of the trek is to generate enough material to keep their feed busy for the next year or so!

Animals
​Wildlife of Uttarakhand is legendary and this trek was no different. On the drive up we were extremely presently surprised to see a full grown leopard by the side of the road leaping up a rivulet. We got only a flashing glimpse of him but it was sure energising. On the way down I happened to see and take some nice photographs of streak-throated woodpecker who was busy pecking away at an old pine tree. I have a photograph of him with a worm in his mouth. Of course we had several Bhutia dogs following us and hanging around the camp, and one night when I stepped out to relieve my bladder, in a flash one of them snuck into my tent and if it wasn't for the alertness of my half asleep tent mate, he would probably have been comfortably sleeping inside my sleeping bag when I returned a few minutes later!

The Locals
The people of Uttarakhand are special - hardy, friendly, and cheerful, despite the tough conditions under which they have to live and work. Interacting with these folks always makes one realize that there's more to life and joy than material comforts or possessions. 

Another beautiful thing that we were fortunate to experience on this trek was a meteor shower. I've always enjoyed looking at the stars at night, and the Milky Way in particular. I was not aware that a meteor shower was in the offing, and was thankful to the trek leader for the heads up. When I stepped out on the night of the 12th, I saw three meteors at the same time and a few minutes later I saw two other meteors , which was an absolutely delightful experience.

Trek organization
​The trek organiser, India Hikes, was efficient as usual, and I do think that they have gotten better over the years that I've been trekking with them. We were fortunate this time to have one of their most experienced trek leaders, Dushyant, and he certainly lived up to the reputation that preceded him . Every time I watch a good trek leader in action I have a renewed appreciation of how difficult that job is -- the participants in the trek are customers, and a bad review on Facebook or other social media could have a damming effect on both the career of the trek leader as well as the prospects of the trekking company.

​But at the same time, they are team members who have to be commanded, disciplined, motivated, entertained, comforted, and sometimes told “no”. To do all this while maintaining an even keel and smiling face requires a unique set of skills, which one does not see often in the same person, but Dushyant certainly had them in more than adequate measure. Due to the snow, uncertain track, and lack of fitness of some team members, he had to modify the itinerary and order some people down by the easier route, which he handled with tact.

​Kuari Pass trek was my first winter trek, and I was happy to see that I was able to handle the conditions, the cold as well as the snow, as well as I thought was necessary. I do believe that winter treks are special because of the very clear day and night skies that you get, the sight of snow on the ground, less crowding in general, and the challenge that the conditions provide. I'm not sure if I'll do one again but I'm certainly glad that I did this one and that it brought otherwise bad year to a wonderful end. 

I remembered my mother, who passed away earlier this year, a lot during this trek, particularly when I was on the summit. After every trek, we would sit down and I would project my best photographs on the TV for her, and walk her through a day-by-day account of what had happened, and she would vicariously experience the trek through my descriptions and photographs. I was acutely aware that this time that would not be the case. But on the other hand, she was probably there with me, on my shoulder, finally experiencing what I could see with her own eyes.

During the first workshop of the Stanford Seed Transformation Program, we play a video featuring business leaders from past cohorts, titled "Problem Solvers". One thing they speak about is how often they've failed and how they learned valuable lessons from those failures. It almost seems like they're glorifying failure (you know, the regular clichés: "if you haven't failed you aren't trying hard enough"). This prompted me to think about how we should think about failure.

While there is merit to the idea that an organization shouldn't vilify failure, or punish someone for failing, Jesper Sorenson puts it well when he says "I don't have a problem with  well-intentioned failure" (emphasis added). In other words, don't encourage an environment in which people are being reckless, or failing for the sake of failing. The failure must be well-intentioned, in that you thought you had the wrong answer, but it turns out you didn't.

Second, make sure that lessons from failure are well learned, throughout the organization. Any mistakes should (as far as possible), be new mistakes. If you shrug off failure, forgive people for failing, but don't adequately learn from the failure, then you've just flushed a lot of time and money down the drain. Have a process to learn from failure and to disseminate those lessons. Some organizations have a "Fail-faire" where they disseminate these lessons. The World Bank has an excellent blog post that covers how to organize such an event. 

Lastly, make sure that any experiments that are likely to result in failure are circumscribed so that they don't take down the whole organization. SMEs have limited resources, and a significant failure may bring the whole organization crashing down. Don't experiment with that important client who is fussy and demanding; find a smaller client who is forgiving and willing to take a chance. Don't roll out that new initiative throughout the organization before testing it with a smaller part first. 

By all means, go ahead and fail, but ensure that failure, if it were to happen, gives you the benefits you seek from it. Test new ideas, learn new lessons, create a culture of risk taking, but manage it well.