You Hurt Our Children. Now Listen to Their Parents.

There is something every government, every institution, and every person in authority should remember. A child may stand alone on the street.

A student may appear to be just another face in a crowd. But no child ever stands alone. Behind every child is a family. Behind every student is a mother who stayed awake through nights of fever, a father who sacrificed dreams to build a future, grandparents who taught them values, teachers who believed in them, and countless people who invested their hopes in that young life.

When you raise your hand against a child, you are not merely hurting one individual. You wound an entire family. You shake the faith of an entire generation. I hear people dismiss today's students as emotional, entitled, or rebellious. I disagree. Many of our children are more socially aware than we were at their age. They volunteer. They care about the environment. They question injustice.

They speak for those without a voice. They believe that every person deserves dignity. That is not weakness.

That is the strength every democracy needs. Many of us were raised by parents and grandparents who believed in values larger than themselves. Some walked in the footsteps of India's freedom movement. They believed that courage did not require hatred, that strength did not require cruelty, and that disagreement did not require violence. They taught us that non-violence was not the absence of courage it was its highest expression. We passed those lessons to our children. We taught them to question respectfully. To stand up for what is right. To believe that their Constitution belongs to them.

To trust that their country would protect their rights. What do we tell them when that trust is broken? What do we tell them when asking questions is answered with force? Parents are expected to teach their children to respect the law. That becomes much harder when those entrusted with enforcing the law appear to abandon restraint. Respect cannot be demanded through fear. It is earned through fairness.

Those who hold power today should remember something that history has demonstrated again and again. A government may silence a protest. It cannot silence a generation forever. You may disperse a crowd. You cannot disperse a parent's love. There is no force more determined than a mother protecting her child. There is no resolve stronger than a father standing beside his son or daughter. Parents do not seek confrontation. They seek safety, justice, and dignity for their children. When those are threatened, they will.  Not because they crave conflict, but because you left them with no other choice.

This is not a warning of anger. It is a reminder of responsibility. Every student on the street is someone's entire world. Treat them accordingly. Power is temporary. Uniforms are temporary. Governments are temporary. But the memories created in young minds last for decades.

If a generation begins to believe that authority responds to questions with force instead of reason, we do not merely lose their trust. We lose the moral foundation upon which every democracy rests. Our children are not your enemies. They are the future you have been entrusted to protect. Do not mistake their courage for defiance. Do not mistake their questions for rebellion. And above all, do not mistake the silence of their parents for indifference.

Because behind every child stands a family that wants only one thing: That their sons and daughters return home with their dignity intact.

A nation that cannot protect its children cannot claim to be protecting its future.

When Did We Stop Being Human?

 There are moments in life when silence feels like wisdom, and there are moments when silence becomes complicity. For the past few days, I chose to remain silent. Not because I had nothing to say, but because I wanted to understand before I reacted. In a world where everyone rushes to take sides within minutes, I wanted to pause, reflect, and ask myself one simple question: What is right?

The more I reflected, the more I realized that what disturbed me was not just one incident or one headline. It was something much deeper. It was the realization that we are slowly losing our ability to distinguish between right and wrong. We have replaced our conscience with political allegiance. We have stopped thinking as individuals and started reacting as members of tribes.

Today, before we see a human being, we see a political identity. Before we hear a voice, we ask which party it supports. Before we feel compassion, we check whether the victim belongs to "our side." It is astonishing how naturally this has become part of our thinking. We no longer ask whether an action was just or unjust. Instead, we ask who committed it. If it was done by those we support, we find reasons to defend it. If it was done by those we oppose, we demand justice. The act itself has become secondary. The actor has become everything.

That frightens me.

History has never been kind to societies that lost their moral compass. Every great injustice that humanity remembers today was once defended by ordinary people. No one wakes up believing they are supporting evil. People justify it. They explain it away. They convince themselves that those who suffered somehow deserved it. That is how every abuse of power begins—not with violence, but with the acceptance of violence.

Power alone has never been enough to suppress people. Power survives because ordinary men and women choose loyalty over conscience. They stop asking difficult questions. They stop challenging authority. They stop feeling uncomfortable. They become so emotionally invested in defending a leader, a party, a religion, a caste, or a region that they no longer recognize injustice even when it stands before them.

What is even more disturbing is that many of these same people speak passionately about justice when the roles are reversed. They demand rights when they feel wronged. They ask others to stand with them when they become victims. But rights lose their meaning the moment we deny them to someone else. Justice is not something we can selectively distribute. It either belongs to everyone, or it belongs to no one.

I often wonder how someone can justify cruelty today and then expect to be heard tomorrow when they speak about fairness, equality, or constitutional rights. How do we collaborate with people who believe violence is acceptable simply because it serves their political interests? How do we trust the moral judgment of someone whose principles change every election cycle? Principles that depend on convenience are not principles at all. They are strategies.

Perhaps what disappoints me the most is that we have confused identity with character. Somewhere along the way, many people began believing that belonging to a particular religion, caste, language, political ideology, or region automatically places them on higher moral ground. It doesn't. Character has never been inherited. It has never been determined by birth or by the slogans we chant. It is determined by the choices we make when no one is watching and by the courage we show when standing up for what is right becomes inconvenient.

The world has witnessed civilizations rise and fall. It has witnessed dictators, revolutions, wars, and genocides. If history teaches us anything, it is that the greatest tragedies were rarely caused by monsters alone. They were enabled by ordinary people who remained silent, looked away, or found reasons to justify what should never have been justified. Every generation believes it is too educated, too civilized, and too informed to repeat the mistakes of the past. Yet every generation finds new ways to do exactly that because human nature has not changed. We still choose comfort over courage and loyalty over truth.

Social media has only made this easier. We no longer seek facts; we seek validation. We follow people who tell us what we already believe. We celebrate opinions that confirm our biases and dismiss everything else as propaganda. Algorithms reward outrage, political influencers profit from division, and somewhere in that endless stream of content, our ability to think independently slowly disappears. We have outsourced our conscience to people we have never met.

I have also noticed another uncomfortable truth. Many people proudly speak about charity, service, religion, patriotism, and contributing to society. They donate money, feed the poor, build institutions, and volunteer for noble causes. These are good things, and they deserve appreciation. But I cannot help asking myself one question: what is the value of all these acts if they cannot teach us compassion for someone we disagree with? If our kindness ends where our politics begin, then perhaps we are not serving humanity at all. Perhaps we are simply serving our own image. Real compassion does not ask for a person's political affiliation before deciding whether they deserve dignity. Real humanity does not choose favourites.

I am often told that politics is dirty and that we should simply stay away from it. I disagree. Politics matters because it shapes our society. We should participate, question, debate, and vote. But we must never allow politics to replace our humanity. The moment our loyalty to a leader becomes greater than our loyalty to justice, we have surrendered something far more valuable than an election. We have surrendered our conscience.

Support whichever political party you believe will build a better future. Defend your ideas with conviction. Criticize those you disagree with. Democracy depends on debate. But never become so loyal that you lose the courage to admit when your own side is wrong. Never become so consumed by ideology that another person's suffering no longer moves you. Never allow your identity to become so important that you forget the simple truth that every person standing before you is, first and foremost, a human being.

Today, it may be someone else's child whose pain is being debated on television. Tomorrow, it could be yours. Today, it may be someone else's voice being dismissed because of their political beliefs. Tomorrow, it may be yours. Injustice has a strange way of travelling. Those who cheer it today often become its victims tomorrow. By then, however, they discover that the people they taught to justify cruelty have become very good at it.

I am not writing this because I support one party or oppose another. Governments will change. Leaders will come and go. Political slogans will be forgotten. But the values we lose as a society are much harder to recover. If we continue down this path, our greatest loss will not be political. It will be moral.

Long after today's leaders are gone and today's debates have faded into history, our children will inherit the culture we create. They will not remember every election, but they will inherit the way we taught them to think. They will learn whether we chose empathy over hatred, truth over convenience, courage over silence, and humanity over blind loyalty.

Perhaps that is the question each of us should ask before defending or condemning anyone.

Not, "Which party does this person belong to?"

Not, "Which religion do they follow?"

Not, "Are they one of us?"

But simply,

"If this were my child, my brother, my sister, or my friend, would I still believe this is acceptable?"

If the answer changes depending on whose child it is, then the problem is no longer political.

It is us.

And until we have the courage to admit that, no government, no election, no ideology, and no revolution will ever make us a truly just society. Because the day we stop seeing people before politics is the day we stop deserving the humanity we so proudly claim to defend.

A Small Beginning Towards Safer Walkways in Electronics City

 Like thousands of others, I have watched this area grow into one of Bengaluru's busiest residential and IT hubs.

With this growth has come a challenge that many of us experience every day but have slowly begun to accept as normal the struggle of walking safely on our roads.

Every day, hundreds of people get down at the Thogur Cross bus stop and walk towards nearby communities like Coconut Grove Villas, Celebrity Signature, Celebrity Paradise Layout and several other layouts opposite to Celebrity Signature. I believe there are well over 2,000 homes, which means thousands of pedestrians must use this stretch every single day. But today vey few walk because it is dangerous. 

They are school children carrying heavy bags, college students, senior citizens, women returning from work, domestic helpers, drivers, delivery people, and parents walking with young children.

Unfortunately, the footpath is not there.

In some places it is occupied by shopkeepers. In other places vehicles are parked. Where there is still space, it is covered with shrubs, mud, construction waste or has become a place where people dump garbage or even urinate. As a result, pedestrians are forced to walk on the road.

When traffic builds up, two wheelers squeeze into every available gap, leaving no safe space for people to walk. Even when motorists want to give way to pedestrians, they often cannot because the road is completely packed. It is a situation that puts everyone at risk. 

The Moment That Changed My Thinking

There wasn't one single incident that motivated me. There were many.

One day I saw a young mother walking out of the daycare centre next to our layout. She was carrying one child in her arms while another small child walked beside her. She was struggling to find space to walk towards Celebrity Signature. The vehicles around her were almost stationary because of the traffic, yet there was still no safe place for her to walk.

Another day, my own wife was walking towards Coconut Grove when a two-wheeler tried to squeeze through the left side of the traffic and hit her.

A few days later, another lady from our layout was struck by a delivery rider who was rushing through the same stretch.

Sadly, these are no longer isolated incidents.  

They have become a common sight. That was when I realised something.  We may not be able to control the traffic. We may not be able to stop every vehicle from parking illegally. But perhaps we can create a safer space for people to walk.

Taking the First Step

The first step was simple. With the help of our gardener, I arranged concrete blocks to discourage vehicles from parking on the edge of the road and to improve visibility.

It helped, but it wasn't enough. After observing the situation for some time, I felt we could do more. Fortunately, a builder opposite our layout was willing to give us construction debris that would otherwise have gone to waste. He also offered red soil that had been excavated from his site.

Using this material, we started creating a proper kerb along the roadside.

The inside was filled with construction debris, followed by crushed stone (jelly), making it easier and safer for pedestrians to walk.

Our enthusiastic new gardener joined the effort. Our housekeeping staff also came forward to help. Over a couple of Saturdays, we worked together to gradually extend the walkway.

Our Garden Committee member also contributed plants from our own community and arranged additional saplings to make the area greener.

What was once an unused strip of land slowly started becoming a footpath.

The Best Reward

The greatest satisfaction did not come from seeing the completed work.

It came from seeing people use it.

Children coming out of the daycare now naturally choose the footpath and even encourage their mothers to walk with them.

Senior citizens, women and children have started using it whenever possible.

Each passing day, the walkway looks a little better, becomes a little longer, and is used by a few more people. That is incredibly encouraging.

A Wish Beyond Coconut Grove

My wish is much bigger than the stretch outside our gate.

I hope one day this safe walkway can continue all the way to Celebrity Signature and beyond.

If that happens, thousands of people will have a safe place to walk every day.

Perhaps more people will choose to walk the 1.5 kilometres to the Electronics City shopping area instead of taking an auto, bike or car—not because they have to, but because they finally can.

Safe walkways encourage walking. Walking improves health. Healthy streets build stronger communities.

A Community Effort

This has never been about one person. It has only been possible because many people quietly supported the effort. The builder who donated debris and soil. Our gardener who willingly took up the work. Our housekeeping staff who spent their Saturdays helping. Our Garden Committee member Anand  who arranged plants. Every contribution mattered.

Imagine what we could achieve if many more people came together. If every layout adopted just a small stretch outside their gate. If every resident protected the footpath instead of parking on it. If every vendor respected pedestrian space.

Electronics City could become a place where walking is not an act of courage but a natural choice. Sometimes meaningful change does not begin with a large project. It begins with someone deciding that the problem is worth solving.

I hope this is one such beginning.

The Exhausting Journey After Class 10: What Our Children and Families Are Quietly Going Through

 The last two and a half years in our home have revolved around exams.

Not one exam.

Not one board.

Not one entrance test.

A continuous chain of preparation, performance, pressure, waiting, uncertainty, and emotional ups and downs.

My daughter recently completed her 12th standard. Looking back now, I realize that this phase was not just academically demanding for her — it was emotionally exhausting for the entire family.

The journey began with PU college and internal assessments. Then came the board exams. Alongside that were coaching classes, mock tests, and endless discussions about the future.

Before one exam ended, another one arrived:

• JEE Main
• KCET
• COMEDK
• improvement exams
• entrance preparation
• counselling discussions
• college applications

Each exam came in a different month.

Each had a different pattern.

Each carried its own pressure.

And each one somehow felt “critical” for the future.

What struck me most was this:

our children barely get time to recover emotionally before they are pushed into the next battle.

At 16, 17, or 18 years old, they are still figuring out who they are. Yet they are expected to perform consistently under enormous pressure for nearly three years continuously.

As parents, we try our best to support them.

We become drivers, motivators, counsellors, planners, financiers, and emotional shock absorbers — often all at once.

We quietly rearrange our schedules around exam dates.

We track hall tickets and results.

We monitor stress levels.

We stay awake when they study late into the night.

We encourage them after disappointing scores.

We celebrate small wins to keep their spirits alive.

And somewhere along the way, the entire household begins to live according to an exam calendar.

What worries me is that this has become “normal.”

Children today are not just competing academically. They are enduring a marathon of pressure. The system increasingly seems to reward endurance as much as intelligence.

Many students are burnt out even before college begins.

Parents rarely speak openly about it because everyone is trying to “manage.” But behind closed doors, many families are emotionally and mentally drained.

The sad part is that no mark sheet reflects this effort.

No rank card captures the anxiety, the sacrifices, the sleepless nights, or the emotional resilience required from both students and parents.

Surely, there must be a better way.

Can entrance exams be better aligned?

Can schedules be streamlined?

Can we reduce repetitive testing?

Can mental health support become part of the educational system instead of an afterthought?

Most importantly, can we remember that these are children — not machines built only for rankings and cut-offs?

Competition is important. Hard work is important. Aspirations are important.

But childhood, emotional well-being, confidence, and family peace matter too.

To every student going through this difficult phase:

you are doing far more than simply writing exams.

And to every parent silently walking beside their child through this journey:

your strength, patience, and sacrifices deserve recognition too.

Because these last two and a half years are not just an academic journey.

For many families, they have been an emotional endurance test.

March refused to end and yet, it just did.

Looking at the calendar, seeing April finally take its place and it feels almost unreal. 

Because for the past thirty one days, March stretched itself so thin, so wide, that it felt like it would never let go.

In Bangalore, where I live, the month could not make up its mind. It began with a gentle coolness, then came the heat, sudden and insistent, announcing summer before its time. And just when that felt settled, the rains arrived unexpected, brief, and confusing. Cold, heat, rain not in seasons, but all at once. 

As if March was trying on every possibility before leaving.

But the real weight of the month was never just in the weather. It was everywhere else.

The world felt restless. News did not flow it collided. 

The Middle East dominated conversations, not as distant geopolitics, but as something that quietly reached into everyday life.  The Strait of Hormuz a place most of us rarely think about suddenly mattered. Ships carrying oil and LPG to India moved through uncertainty. Supplies tightened, demand rose, and something as routine as cooking gas began to feel fragile. There were reports of attacks, of ships caught in conflict, of retaliation and escalation. Stories of destruction, of leaders targeted, of nations hardening their positions. The kind of news that does not settle easily in the mind. Tensions between Pakistan and Afghanistan added to the sense that instability was not far away  just closer than we would like to admit. And still, life did not slow down. Ram Navami, Lunar eclipse and what not. 

If anything, it insisted on moving forward.  Holi arrived in a burst of color loud, chaotic, alive. Ugadi followed with its quiet reset, a new beginning tucked inside tradition.  Ramadan began, bringing rhythm and reflection, a different pace layered over already crowded days. And in the middle of it all, there were moments of collective pause like India lifting a T20 World Cup title where, for a brief time, everything else seemed to step aside.

But March never allowed any one feeling to last. That was its nature. Every time something settled the weather, the news, the mood something else rose to replace it. LPG shortages, shifting skies, global tensions, festivals, victories, anxieties. It was not a sequence. It was everything, all at once. That is why it felt endless.

Not because it had more days, but because it carried more than a month should. It felt like time was layered, not linear like we were living through multiple versions of March at the same time. And now, suddenly, it is over.

There is no grand ending. No clear transition. Just a date on the calendar that tells you it is done. But it does not feel done.

Because some months pass quietly, leaving barely a trace. And some months stay with you  stretched across memory, unfinished in feeling.

March was one of those months. It refused to end. And even now, in April, it feels like it has not entirely left.

The Best Lesson from NTLF 2026 Came on the Flight Home

I had just spent two of the most intellectually charged days of the year at the 34th Nasscom Technology and Leadership Forum at the Fairmont, Mumbai. The theme this year was "Tech-Driven, Human-Centered"  a call for India's technology leaders to think not just about what comes next, but about how we build it, and for whom.  (Nasscom) Over 1,600 CXOs, founders, and thought leaders had gathered to wrestle with questions about AI, agentic systems, digital sovereignty, and the future of enterprise. 

The sessions were sharp, the conversations were energising, and the ideas were still swirling in my head as I made my way to the airport that Wednesday evening.

The forum had covered everything from leading in a world of exponential change, to whether human decisions still matter in the age of AI, to how agentic AI is reshaping enterprise operations.  (Sched) Big ideas. Bold framings. And yet, the most lasting lesson of the entire trip was waiting for me not in the Infinity Ballroom, but on IndiGo flight 6E 5074 — the Mumbai-Bangalore service that, that evening, was packed almost entirely with delegates heading home from the very same event.

I boarded early — unusual for me. I had a colleague with me and we were still in conversation as we joined the queue. I settled into seat 7D, my usual aisle preference, and looked around the cabin. Familiar faces everywhere — technology leaders, entrepreneurs, senior executives, all winding down after two days of intense engagement. The flight felt like an unofficial closing session of the forum.

The last to board were a couple. They walked in unhurried, talking to each other, until — just as they reached my row — the woman stopped. A sudden pause. She turned to the man with a look that needed no words. Where is the bag? He looked back blankly. Clueless.

She turned around and walked back toward the door. From my seat in the seventh row, I had a clear view of what unfolded. She spoke to the ground staff in their green reflective vests, clearly wanting to return to Gate 23 to retrieve the bag she had left behind. They wouldn't let her. The pilot's announcement came soon after — the flight was ready, doors to be closed.

As one of the attendants moved to shut the door, the woman asked desperately, "Could you please tell me what's happening? I was told they are looking into it." Whatever the response was, it didn't comfort her. The door closed. The flight began its taxi to the runway. The couple sat behind me in heavy silence.

That's when I first noticed her.

The senior-most flight attendant on board — Rosymint, as I would later learn — walked up to the man seated behind me. What she did next was something no keynote that day had demonstrated quite as clearly.

She didn't stand over him. She knelt down — right there in the aisle — and spoke to him at eye level.

"Sir, I am really sorry I couldn't help you earlier. Let me try to make up for it. I was busy ensuring the flight took off well."

She collected the details of the bag. Went to the front. Came back. Asked more questions — where they had been seated at the gate, the colour of the bag, any distinguishing features. Returned again to assure him she would do her best to locate it.

No fanfare. No script. Just one human being fully showing up for another.

A little later, dinner was served. Two junior attendants came by with the trolley. I asked for water — it arrived. I asked for tissues, my fingers sticky from the mayonnaise in the sandwich — no response. I waited, then asked again. "Give me a few minutes, I will," she said. She didn't come back.

I sat with sticky fingers, quietly waiting.

Then I noticed my reading spotlight was still on and reached up to switch it off. In that moment, Rosymint appeared beside me — smiling, asking if I needed help, assuming I had reached for the call bell.

I said, "Could I get two tissues, please?"

She returned in moments with three.

One of the key discussions at NTLF 2026 was about Human-Centred AI — building trust, inclusion and wellbeing at work.  (Capgemini) Speakers across sessions debated how technology could be designed to serve people better, how enterprises could build with empathy at their core, how leaders could balance innovation with human impact. These are important, necessary conversations.

But here is what I kept thinking about on that flight home: we were a cabin full of people who had just spent two days discussing the human-centred future — and it was a flight attendant, not a keynote speaker, who made it tangible.

Nasscom President Rajesh Nambiar had set the tone at the forum by saying that in an age of exponential change, leadership is about sensemaking — connecting the dots between technology, trust and transformation.  (DATAQUEST) Rosymint didn't use those words. But she lived them. She sensed what was needed. She built trust in under five minutes, in an aisle, on her knees. And she transformed the experience of two distressed passengers without any technology at all.

The difference between good service and great service is rarely about systems or tools. It is about the person. Whether someone sees their role as a job to get through or a responsibility to a fellow human being. Rosymint carried a quiet mastery — born of experience and genuine care — that no AI can replicate and no forum can teach. She made people feel seen.

In a flight full of India's technology leaders, it was the most human person in the room who delivered the most powerful lesson of the week.

I made sure to find her before I stepped off that plane. I wanted to say thank you. I wanted her to know that she had, without realising it, given me something to write about  and something to aspire to.

The theme of NTLF 2026 was Tech-Driven, Human-Centered.

Her name is Rosymint. She already knows what that means.