Daily New Journal

  The idea struck me this morning: what if everyone I spoke to today was a robot? I played out the scenario mentally, and the result is a profound hollow-ness. My day, I’ve realized, is not built on words, but on the silent symphony of non-verbal cues that form the bedrock of Indian communication. It began with the chai-wallah. The daily ritual isn't transactional; it's the slight raise of his eyebrows, a silent "Kaise ho?" His head tilt awaits my nod of approval after the first sip. Today, a robot handed me a perfectly brewed cup. But his face was a placid lake. There was no shared, silent complaint about the morning chill. The chai was perfect, but it tasted of nothing. For us, conversation is a  thali —a platter where words are just one item. The main courses are the facial expressions, the gestures, the tone, the shared context. Our language is danced out with our hands, our eyes, our entire being. The absence of this dance became deafening. At the office, our mor...

  It’s a strange thing, to wake up and have your first conscious thought be about the space you occupy. This morning, it wasn't the alarm clock that roused me, but the feeling of my own shoulders pressing against the walls of my room. Not in a crushing, panicked way, but in a firm, undeniable way—like a great tree that has grown to fit the exact clearing it stands in. I am massive. The first change was the light. My window, which usually frames a neat square of Bangalore sky, now feels like a porthole. The sun, a fierce orange ball climbing over the distant tech parks, felt close enough to warm the deep, weathered teak of my skin. My skin… that’s the second thing. In this form, it’s thick, resilient, like the hide of an elephant or the slate-grey, rubbery skin of a whale. The same complexion I’ve always had—the color of strong, sweet coffee—but amplified, textured by a life of immense scale. It feels less like a covering and more like a landscape, with valleys and ridges that catch...