From Marble to Migratory Wings: A Journey Through Agra and Bharatpur
In hindsight, travel drama seems to announce the beginning of many of our vacations. Once, during an Andaman trip, I forgot to collect the keys of our luggage at airport security, resulting in a late-night hunt for a key maker in Chennai.
This trip had its own opening act.
After landing in Delhi from Pune, we began our road journey to Agra at around midday. A casual conversation with the taxi driver suddenly turned serious when we mentioned our plan to visit the Taj Mahal the next day. He calmly informed us that the Taj Mahal is closed on Fridays.
That moment—equal parts disbelief and panic—forced instant improvisation. We decided to visit the Taj the same day, Thursday. A hurried check-in, quick freshening up, and a race against the clock followed. The entry gates close at 5 pm, and we were the last five people allowed in before the shutters rolled down.
We had just made it.
Seeing the Taj Mahal in person is fundamentally different from seeing it in photographs all one’s life. The white marble, the semi-precious stone inlay, the symmetry—everything stood in quiet confidence. Despite the late entry, we still had a couple of hours inside.
We were underprepared for the realities of a place like the Taj Mahal. Along with awe comes crowd, commerce, and persuasion.
Guides quoted steep prices and gently nudged us toward “optional” shopping stops. Photographers—mercifully—offered digital copies, which suited us better than printed ones. Still, without a clear agreement, they could easily flood you with prints and inflate the bill. We learned quickly: clarity upfront matters.
With some freedom given, our photographer ended up taking 80 photographs of the five of us—in every possible combination. It was excessive, but we didn’t regret it. My philosophy while traveling has always been simple:
I would rather spend a little extra money than lose an experience.
Shopping for petha, marble artifacts, and stone carvings revealed Agra’s rich craftsmanship—but also its storytelling excesses. Claims of “17th-generation artisans” and so-called “government shops” later proved to be creative marketing rather than facts. We smiled, accepted it as part of the experience, and moved on. Later in the trip, when we saw peacocks, I could not resist quipping that this particular one must surely be the 74th generation descended directly from the peacocks that once strutted through Akbar’s gardens.
Agra has more to offer beyond its most famous landmark. The tomb popularly known as Baby Taj was well worth the visit. Its architecture is delicate and thoughtful—the dome shaped like a treasure chest, a serene garden layout, and the Yamuna flowing alongside, echoing the larger masterpiece downstream.
Mehtab Bagh, though not in its best shape, offered something else: a different perspective. Seeing the Taj Mahal from across the Yamuna—less crowded, more contemplative—was worth the visit, if only to pause and look back.
The following day brought us to Agra Fort, and this time we were better prepared. Fewer photographers, clearer expectations, and—most importantly—a genuinely knowledgeable guide. He took his time, explained patiently, and his historical insights stood up to scrutiny.
Visiting Fatehpur Sikri after Agra Fort was particularly illuminating. Built under Akbar, the similarities were evident—Diwan-e-Aam, Diwan-e-Khaas, royal residences—yet expressed differently.
What I hadn’t fully absorbed from school textbooks was that Fatehpur Sikri, despite years of construction, was never truly lived in for long. Water scarcity forced abandonment, sending the empire back to Agra.
It stood there—magnificent, ambitious, and underutilized—a reminder that even grand visions depend on basic resources.
Fatehpur Sikri was also overwhelming with crowds and self-appointed guides—many acting more like brokers for photographers and shrine donations than historians.
At the Dargah, donation requests bordered on extortion. Still, I didn’t want to spoil the moment.
I am not an atheist, but I stand near the border. I don’t usually ask for wishes. Yet watching my family engage in the ritual of asking for three wishes, inspired by Akbar’s belief, I joined in.
What surprised me was not belief—but reflection.
Asking myself, “What are the three things I truly want right now?” turned out to be a powerful exercise. Rational or irrational, it forced clarity.
It also reminded me of a childhood memory—writing a wish at the Manokamana Mandir in Darbhanga, long after I had already prepared for a scholarship exam. When the results came, I had qualified. Magic for a younger mind—logic for an older one.
After three days steeped in Mughal history, we moved to Bharatpur, crossing into Rajasthan.
I had always known, vaguely, that Bharatpur had a bird sanctuary. Nothing more. What followed turned out to be one of the most enriching phases of the trip.
Only e-vehicles and tongas are allowed inside the sanctuary. The absence of engine noise changes everything. Sounds become sharper, and the place immediately feels more respectful to its inhabitants.
It was a rare treat to encounter so many birds that we do not commonly see around us. Many had migrated from other countries, while others had travelled from distant regions within India. Winter, we were told, is when the sanctuary comes fully alive, hosting these visitors for a few precious months. By March, most would begin their return journeys. Knowing this added a sense of timeliness to the experience—we were not just watching birds, but witnessing a seasonal convergence that would soon dissolve.
Storks were the most immediately noticeable presence in the marshland. Almost every tree rising out of the water carried four or five nests, each hosting chicks in various stages of growth. In sharp contrast stood a heron in shallow water—so motionless that it could easily be mistaken for a sculpture. I waited for minutes just to reassure myself it was alive, rewarded only by the slow blink of an eye. I also learned, for the first time, that ibis was not merely a hotel chain name, but a bird I could actually see and observe. One personal surprise came with the Yellow-footed Green Pigeon. I discovered that it is the state bird of Maharashtra, despite having born and lived there for years. Snakebirds dried their wings in their characteristic poses, while coots glided quietly across the water, unhurried and unbothered.
Until this visit, three names lived separately in my mind: Salim Ali, the Bombay Natural History Society (BNHS), and Bharatpur Bird Sanctuary. Bharatpur quietly stitched them together.
Our guide mentioned—almost in passing, but with unmistakable pride—that he had worked with Salim Ali for a couple of years. The name came up repeatedly during the walk, each time with a sense of reverence. That alone was enough to spark curiosity.
Salim Ali lived well into his nineties, born in the late nineteenth century, witnessing the British era and then independent India. His career evolved with the nation itself—from studying birds under colonial rule to shaping conservation priorities in a young democracy. The challenges changed; the purpose did not.
What stood out most, however, was not just his contribution as an ornithologist, but as a writer. His writing carries precision without dryness, authority without arrogance, and learning without heaviness. It is scientific, literary, and quietly entertaining at the same time.
By the end of the day, I found myself buying one of his books. As the year draws to a close, it feels fitting to end it in the company of a man who taught generations how to look closely—at birds, at nature, and at responsibility itself.
Was it really a vacation if you came back tired?
There is an old, well-worn joke people repeat almost as a badge of honour: “The vacation was so exhausting that I now need another vacation.” It gets a laugh every time—but it also quietly exposes a misunderstanding of what rest actually is.
We tend to equate rest with physical inactivity. By that definition, a vacation that involves walking, exploring, learning, or adapting feels like a failure. Yet the best part of a vacation is rarely physical rest. It is the rest given to routines—the temporary suspension of predictable schedules, familiar roles, and repetitive decisions.
When routines loosen their grip, something important happens. The mind stretches. It wanders. It absorbs new knowledge without effort—history that was once confined to textbooks, ecology that comes alive through birds and wetlands, people and practices that don’t mirror our own. Learning happens not through intention, but through exposure.
Equally important is stepping out of the comfort zone. Travel places us in unfamiliar systems—different languages of bargaining, different social cues, different rhythms of life. Even small acts, like navigating a new city or trusting an unknown guide, gently train adaptability. On this trip, something as simple as riding an e‑bicycle inside the Bharatpur resort became a quiet mastery experience—a reminder that learning does not stop just because we are away from work.
Psychologist Sabine Sonnentag and her colleagues describe recovery as resting on four pillars: relaxation, control, mastery experiences, and mental detachment from work. Think of them as mental vitamins. Vacations rich in all four are like nourishing meals; those that offer only passive relaxation are closer to empty calories.
The museum, the movement, and the return
The day before the sanctuary visit, we explored the Bharatpur museum. Like many others—weaponry, paintings, royal narratives—it didn’t stand out, but it offered a quiet walk through time.
And like every good vacation, this one left me changed.
I came back a little more mature.
A little more humble.
And a little wiser to the ways people exploit—without letting that bitterness steal the joy.
For now, the journey—from marble to migratory wings—feels complete.
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The Problem Isn’t Learning — It’s Choosing How to Learn
We all want to learn something new — yoga, singing, strength training, coding, public speaking, tennis, anything. And every time, the same question quietly appears: Should I hire a coach or can I learn this myself?
In today’s world, options multiply faster than clarity. We have YouTube tutorials, recorded MOOCs, online coaches, in-person trainers, group classes, solo practice… and too many reviews to read. Ironically, choosing how to learn now consumes more time and energy than the learning itself.
I’ve wrestled with this too — and eventually found a simple mental model that helps me make faster, more confident decisions. Before I share it, let me start with a small story from my gym.
I used to show up at the gym every morning, almost automatically. For me, consistency was the easy part. But I noticed something interesting. Some of my gym mates wouldn’t come unless their trainer called them personally. Sometimes the trainer made two or three phone calls before the person even arrived. And once they arrived, the coach had to motivate them through every rep, every set — almost the entire workout.
For them, the coach was the accelerator — the reason they showed up at all. For me, the trainer was not about motivation. I never needed someone to push me or “make me come to the gym.” But I did need a trainer to:
- ensure I wasn’t injuring myself
- correct my form
- help me use my effort efficiently
- avoid strength plateaus
My reason for needing a coach was completely different from theirs. That’s when it hit me: We don’t hire coaches for the same reasons. And we don’t need a coach for every skill. This insight connected beautifully with an idea from Indian mythology. In the Indian epic Mahabharata, two iconic archers represent two opposite learning styles:
Eklavya
A self-taught archer with extraordinary determination. He learned in the forest, practicing relentlessly without direct human coaching. His commitment and discipline made him one of the finest archers of his time.
Arjun
A prince and student of the legendary teacher Dronacharya. Arjun benefited from structured coaching, real-time correction, personalized guidance, and a rigorous training environment. He thrived under expert instruction.
Both became exceptional — but through very different learning systems. This inspired what I now call: The Eklavya–Arjun Learning Model – A mental model for deciding when to self-learn and when to hire a coach.
Every skill you want to learn falls into one of two zones.
- The Eklavya Zone — Self-Driven Learning
Choose this path when:
- your motivation is naturally high
- you value flexibility in time and pace
- you love independent exploration
- online resources (YouTube, MOOCs, books) are enough
- cost or availability of a coach is a barrier
- mistakes are low-cost and easily correctable
In this zone, you don’t need a human coach to stay consistent. You already show up — like I did at the gym. This is where self-learning shines. And yes — it often aligns with introverts who enjoy thinking, experimenting and learning alone.
- The Arjun Zone — Coach-Driven Learning
Choose this when:
- you struggle with consistency
- technique, form, or alignment matter
- there is a risk of injury (physical or reputational)
- unlearning mistakes is costly
- real-time correction accelerates progress
- accountability boosts productivity
This is the zone where human coaching multiplies your results. Think of a personal trainer fixing your squat form. Extroverts often flourish here — the human presence energizes and motivates them.
To sum up –
Don’t over-coach your strengths – Self-learn where flexibility matters.
Don’t under-coach your weaknesses – Hire a coach where precision matters.
This one decision alone can save hundreds of hours and thousands of rupees. Both Eklavya and Arjun became masters. The magic lies in identifying your zones with honesty. Neither path is superior. What matters is choosing the right approach for the right skill — at the right moment in your life. This model has saved me time, money, and mental friction. I hope it does the same for you.
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(Originally published in Times of India on December 06, 2025)
Consistency Isn’t Magic — It’s Math
A few years ago, a little online puzzle called Wordle unexpectedly became a global ritual. Even if you never played it, you probably saw those green-and-yellow grids everyone kept sharing. The puzzle itself was simple — guess a five‑letter word — but what really hooked people was something even simpler: the streak. The quiet satisfaction of showing up today because you showed up yesterday.
You don’t have to know Wordle to understand this. All of us have felt that pull at some point — the gentle push to continue something just because we’ve been at it for a few days in a row. Once you notice that, you start seeing the same pattern everywhere.
So many things in life stay alive not because they’re easy or exciting every day, but because a streak quietly pulls us forward. A streak makes progress visible. And once progress is visible, we’re reluctant to break it.
I’ve experienced this in my own life in surprisingly small ways. For a while, a friend and I used to share our daily LinkedIn puzzle results. It was a tiny ritual — solve, screenshot, share. Then one day, we simply stopped sending them. A few days later, I checked in on her, and she admitted she had stopped playing altogether. The streak had broken, and with it, the habit quietly dissolved.
A similar pattern showed up when my two brothers and I decided to meditate daily. We had agreed to share a quick update in our WhatsApp group — just a simple “done” whenever each of us finished. For a while, that tiny act kept all three of us consistent. Then one day, we thought it was okay to stop sharing. A few days later, we realised all of us had stopped meditating as well. The streak had vanished, and the routine quietly disappeared. Later, when we spoke about it, we agreed the practice was valuable, so we chose to restart it — this time with a little more care in how we keep the streak alive.
In my own work and practice, I’ve learned to distinguish between maintaining a streak and sharing a streak. Maintaining a streak — even if it’s visible only to you — is the real engine. It’s what builds momentum. Sharing it is optional. It can add a layer of accountability if you have someone to share with, but it’s a bonus, not the foundation.
I’ve also seen how beautifully this idea fits inside a simple productivity journal. You don’t need fancy trackers or habit apps. All you need is a visible count — something that tells your brain, “Look, you’re showing up.”
Record the days you do something — a good habit you want to build. Record the days since you stopped something — a habit you want to break. That visible number turns effort into momentum. And without that count, you may not even realise how consistently you were showing up — there’s no reward, no marker, nothing to acknowledge the effort. And realistically, how could you expect a reward for every single routine action?
I once suggested this to friends who were trying to quit smoking. They started counting smoke-free days — one, then two, then ten. And after a while, that number itself became motivation. None of them wanted to reset the count back to zero.
The exact same principle applies whether you want to go to the gym, meditate, write your book, or give up late-night snacking. Streaks make the invisible visible. And once visible, progress becomes self-reinforcing.
Here’s a simple way to try this for yourself:
- Keep a daily record. Write one line a day for what you did — or didn’t do.
- Add a count. Start with 1 and keep incrementing. Very soon you’ll have numbers like Exercise – 42, Reading – 18, No sugar – 9, Swimming – 82 — and that growing count becomes its own motivation.
- If you miss a day, just continue. You’re not collecting perfection; you’re building momentum. But if the gap becomes big, restart with 1 — it’s a fresh beginning, not a failure.
You’ll notice something interesting happen: the count begins to pull you forward. Streaks act like a small pat on your own back — a quiet push to keep the number growing and a personal challenge to see how far you can go.
The same psychology that kept millions returning to Wordle each morning can help you stay consistent with what truly matters in your own life.
Once progress becomes visible, discipline feels natural — almost effortless.
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(Originally published in Times of India on November 21, 2025)
Photo by Nils Huenerfuerst on Unsplash
Teams Win Only When Plans Meet Follow-Through
Planning is where every successful project begins — and the Gantt chart remains one of the most powerful ways to bring order to complexity. It helps teams see the big picture and keep projects on track. But what happens after the plan is made? That’s where many projects lose momentum — not because the chart failed, but because individual task management did. This post looks at both sides: how visualization tools like Gantt charts drive coordination, and why personal task discipline keeps the whole system moving.
If you’ve ever managed a significant-sized project — say, a construction site, a research study, or a multi-department rollout — you’ve probably encountered a Gantt chart. And once you’ve used one properly, you rarely forget its utility.
A Gantt chart is more than a timeline — it’s a visual language for managing complexity.It allows you to see how a project truly moves — and where it might stall. At a glance, you can understand:
- How tasks are sequenced and where dependencies exist
- Which milestones mark progress along the way
- How resources are distributed — and where they might overload
- How delays in one part affect the whole project
- This visualization transforms complexity into clarity.
It converts what would otherwise be a spreadsheet of chaos into a map of logic — one where every moving part is visible. When you’re orchestrating multiple people, timelines, and constraints, that visual structure isn’t a luxury — it’s survival.
It helps project managers allocate resources effectively, adjust priorities intelligently, and keep everyone aligned to reality rather than assumptions.
Many workplaces use enterprise tools like MS Project, Asana, or Jira to manage these dynamics. But when it comes to personal or small-scale projects, I’m often asked to recommend a tool that’s free or inexpensive, yet practical enough to plan and visualize real work. For such cases, a simpler alternative works wonders.
That’s where GanttProject shines. It’s free, open-source, and beautifully visual. You can define tasks, link dependencies, assign resources, and instantly see how milestones and workloads line up.
For engineers, researchers, or small teams, it provides just enough structure to manage real-world complexity — without the overhead of big project suites. It’s a perfect way to see your project before it starts moving.
That same discipline doesn’t translate well into your personal workday. When it’s just you — at your desk, in meetings, or out on the field — you don’t need dependency mapping; you need clarity of the next action. That’s where the line between project management and personal task management becomes clear.
A Gantt chart gives you the plan view, but execution happens through task flow. And while most organizations train their teams on project tools, few help individuals build effective personal work systems. It’s often left to preference — sticky notes, reminders, scattered apps — until something slips.
And that’s where even well-planned projects lose momentum: not through poor charts, but through unstructured personal execution.
Interestingly, contrary to what many might assume, a personal task system doesn’t have to interfere with individual work preferences. There are several well-known methodologies for task management, each varying in rigor and sophistication — the simplest being the humble to-do list. It’s not rocket science though. Its purpose is simply to anchor people to their current priorities while making it easy to update those priorities and maintain the flexibility to choose tasks.
A Gantt chart ensures collective alignment; a disciplined task system ensures individual reliability. Both are essential layers of productivity — one maps the journey, the other fuels the motion.
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(Originally published in Times of India on November 9, 2025)
A simple truth from the road — and from life: start before you have to
You have to send an important email tomorrow — maybe it’s a proposal, an update, or a follow-up. So you tell yourself, “I’ll do it tomorrow.” And technically, you’re right. The sending has to happen tomorrow — which really just means you’ll be pressing the send button then. The preparation, though? That can start right now. Sounds like common sense, doesn’t it? Yet somehow, we miss it more often than we realize.
You could easily draft the email today, let it sit quietly in your drafts folder overnight, and give it a quick look tomorrow before sending it out. You’ll wake up lighter, without that tiny, nagging thought: “Oh, I still have to write that email.” And if you wish to, you might even refine a few lines, soften your tone, or make that one small improvement that comes only after a second look.
This small act captures something bigger. We often think that unless something is due today, we can wait. But that thinking quietly pushes us from what Eisenhower called Quadrant 2 — important but not urgent — into Quadrant 1, where things become urgent and stressful. And that’s where last-minute tension, rework, and unnecessary anxiety live.
When you start earlier — not just a day before, but as soon as the task appears on your radar — you give yourself space. You see things you might have missed otherwise. You might realise the task is trickier than you expected, that you need more inputs, or that some instruction is unclear. If you discover these only on the day of the deadline, even small tasks can throw your entire schedule off. But when you begin early, you have time to clarify, adjust, and breathe.
Starting early doesn’t mean you have to finish everything right away. It just means crossing that invisible line of getting started. You don’t need to complete the report, record the video, or send the email immediately — but you can draft, outline, or test the first step. Once the ball is rolling, the mind relaxes, and the rest becomes easier.
It’s not about working faster; it’s about working sooner. Deadlines will always be fixed points in time, but your preparation can stretch around them. People who handle work calmly and consistently aren’t superhuman — they just start before they have to.
Next time you think, “I have to finish that next week,” remind yourself, “Which means I should begin this week.” That’s the essence of it all — start before you have to.
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Don’t Miss Important Messages: Trust Your System, Not Your Memory
In today’s global work environment, email and instant messages are the lifeblood of collaboration. On any given day, you might check them from your laptop, tablet, or mobile device — between meetings, during a commute, or while making coffee.
You might glance at a message, instantly understand what’s being asked of you, and think, “I’ll handle this later.” But then the day speeds up. More notifications arrive. By the time you remember that message, it’s buried deep under a growing pile of unread items.
It’s not a question of carelessness — it’s a question of cognitive limits. Our short-term memory can only hold a handful of items at once, and only briefly. As psychologist George A. Miller described in his classic paper, “The Magical Number Seven, Plus or Minus Two,” our minds can typically manage only about five to nine discrete pieces of information at any given time. That means even a single distraction can overwrite what we just read or planned to do. Unless we capture a message somewhere external, it simply fades.
That’s why the discipline of checking messages isn’t enough. You can read every email and still miss something important if it never makes the leap from your mind into a reliable system that remembers for you.
The Discipline of Daily Processing
The antidote to missed messages isn’t another app or reminder — it’s consistent discipline.
Make checking your emails and messages a non-negotiable part of your morning routine.
This isn’t to say you should only check messages in the morning. Of course, you’ll read and respond to them throughout the day — as part of your normal workflow.
The purpose of the morning routine is different: it’s your fail-safe. It’s the daily checkpoint that catches anything you may have missed, forgotten, or left hanging amid the rush of the previous day.
Sometimes you’ll be confident that you’ve already captured every new task or follow-up — but do the drill anyway. You’ll be surprised how often a message, a quick chat, or a small promise slips through unnoticed. Our memory is far less reliable than we’d like to believe.
The keyword here is process, not respond.
You don’t need to execute every task immediately. The goal is to recognize, decide, and record each actionable message into your trusted system — your to-do list, task manager, or follow-up tracker.
If something takes less than two minutes, feel free to complete it right away. But for everything else, your mission is simple: get it out of your head and into your system.
Please note, when you do this every day, you’re only processing messages from the last 24 hours. Most apps even label them as “yesterday”, making it easy to spot and clear anything that arrived since your last check. It’s a light lift — a daily reset that keeps your system current and trustworthy.
The Trap: Don’t Run With the First “Important” Task
During this message review, you’ll often come across a task that feels urgent, exciting, or personally meaningful. The temptation is to drop everything and start on it immediately.
Resist that urge.
When you dive into one task before finishing your review, the rest of your messages remain unprocessed — which means hidden risks and unfinished requests still lurk in your inbox. You lose visibility before you’ve even begun.
Treat this step like triage: finish the scan, then decide what truly deserves your attention next.
This simple act separates reactive busyness from intentional productivity.
Conclusion: Trust Your System, Not Your Memory
Our minds aren’t built to hold dozens of digital threads at once. Important messages slip not because we’re inattentive, but because we rely on a system — short-term memory — that isn’t made for this world of endless input.
True productivity comes from trusting your system, not your memory. When you build the daily habit of message processing, you’re not just tidying your inbox — you’re designing reliability into your day.
It’s a quiet form of professionalism: ensuring that nothing meaningful depends on chance or recall.
And the result?
Peace of mind, clearer focus, and the confidence that every message — and every responsibility — is exactly where it should be.
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(Originally published in Times of India on October 10, 2025)