Author: Shakti Ghosal

* A PCC Credentialed Executive Coach mentor and trainer for leaders & performance. * A qualified engineer and a PGDM (Faculty Gold medalist) from IIM Bangalore. * Four decades of industry experience spanning Engineering, Maintenance, Projects, Consumer durables, Supply Chains, Aviation and Tourism. * Top level management positions to drive business development, strategy, alliances all around the globe. * A visiting faculty at the IIMs. *A passion to envision trends & disseminate Leadership incubation globally. www.empathinko.in , * www.linkedin.com/in/Shaktighosal. shakti.ghosal@gmail.com . +91 - 9051787576

Thinking from the Future Back: Lessons from Tesla and a Classroom at IIM Nagpur

It was midway through my elective course “Winning in a Disruptive World” at IIM Nagpur last month when a student raised a question that momentarily silenced the class.

“Professor,” he began, “Elon Musk and Tesla seem to have anticipated the future before anyone else — electric vehicles, reusable rockets, large-scale battery storage. How does someone think so far ahead and act with that kind of conviction when others are still debating the probability of success?”

It was an incisive question — and one that went to the heart of what our course was about: how to win, not just survive, in a world defined by disruption.

The Disruptive Context

Disruption today is not an occasional storm; it’s the climate we live in.
The rules of business are rewritten faster than most organizations — or individuals — can adapt.

In the course, we explored how the world has shifted from the VUCA paradigm — Volatile, Uncertain, Complex, Ambiguous — to what futurist Jamais Cascio calls BANI — Brittle, Anxious, Non-linear, and Incomprehensible. In such a world, the question isn’t whether disruption will occur; it’s whether we are ready to anticipate and shape it.

That was precisely what Elon Musk and Tesla managed to do — not by reacting to disruption, but by engineering it.

Tesla and the Power of Future-Back Thinking

When traditional automakers analyzed the electric vehicle (EV) opportunity, they saw it through the lens of probability. Their forecasts said adoption would be slow. Battery costs were high. Charging networks were inadequate. The “safe” conclusion was that the world wasn’t ready.

Tesla took the opposite route. It didn’t ask, What’s probable today?
It asked, What’s possible tomorrow?

That question unlocked an entirely different trajectory.

Musk’s strategy exemplifies what I call Anticipatory Future-Back Thinking — a concept we explored in the later sessions of the course. It involves imagining the desired future state first — in this case, a world where sustainable energy mobility is the norm — and then working backward to identify what must be true today to make that future real.

Rather than extrapolating from today’s constraints, Tesla worked backward from a bold vision of tomorrow. That shift — from present-forward to future-back — is what differentiates disruptors from the disrupted.

Exploring Anticipatory future back thinking

Possibility vs. Probability: The Mindset Divide

When I turned back to my student’s question, I began with a simple observation.

“Most organizations,” I said, “plan from the present forward. They look at past data, run probability models, and make incremental improvements. That’s the Kodak way of thinking — safe, predictable, and ultimately self-limiting.”

In contrast, possibility thinkers — like Tesla — start from a future that doesn’t yet exist. They ask, What could be true if we dared to imagine differently?

Daniel Burrus, the futurist who first articulated the concept of Hard Trends, reminds us that the future is not entirely uncertain. Some aspects — technological evolution, demographic shifts, regulatory movements — are future facts. These are the certainties around which possibility thinking can safely operate.

Tesla built its strategy precisely on such hard trends:

The inevitability of climate change driving clean energy adoption
The advancement of battery technology and digital control systems
The regulatory momentum toward lower emissions

These were not probabilities; they were certainties in motion. Musk simply connected them into a coherent future vision — and then acted as if that future were already here.

From Disruption to Design

This is the essence of anticipatory leadership — not reacting to disruption, but designing it.

In my sessions, we discussed how the future-back approach allows leaders to create clarity where uncertainty dominates. It flips the conventional question from “What will happen to us?” to “What must we make happen?”

The difference is profound.

Present-forward leaders forecast the future.
Future-back leaders architect it.

McKinsey’s research on future-back strategy underscores that such leaders don’t rely on forecasts alone. They use scenario design to imagine multiple plausible futures and then work backward to identify strategic moves that remain resilient across them.

That’s what Tesla did: invest early in charging infrastructure, build direct-to-consumer distribution, and create software-driven vehicles that improve over time. Each move was part of a deliberate future architecture.

The Classroom Reflection

I recall telling my students that day:
“Elon Musk is not successful because he predicts the future; he’s successful because he constructs it backwards.*”

In the classroom, this insight tied together much of what we had explored:

Hard Trends (what is certain) form the foundation.
The Three Lists (what I’m certain of, what I know, what I can do) create clarity.
Future-Back Thinking builds boldness.
Relational Assimilation ensures stakeholder alignment.
Resilience sustains momentum when the future resists you.

Each of these steps builds toward the mindset of a possibility architect — someone who doesn’t wait for disruption, but wields it as a tool.

As the discussion deepened, another student remarked, “So Tesla wasn’t just lucky — it was structurally anticipatory.”

Exactly.

Why This Matters Beyond Tesla

Every industry today — from energy and aviation to education and healthcare — faces its own “Tesla moment.”

In the energy sector, companies that waited for the probability of renewables to rise are now scrambling to catch up with those who invested early in solar and storage.
In education, universities that anticipated the AI wave and reimagined learning around it are moving ahead, while others debate policies.
Even in government policy, we see anticipatory thinking at work in projects like UPI and ONDC, where India intentionally designed positive disruption instead of waiting to be disrupted.

The principle is the same: the future belongs to those who can see differently, envision differently, and execute differently.

A Call to Future Architects

At the end of that class, I offered the students a reflection that I’ll share here too.

Winning in a disruptive world doesn’t mean outpacing change — it means aligning yourself with the inevitabilities of tomorrow and daring to act before others see them as obvious.

Elon Musk’s brilliance lies not in foresight alone, but in the courage to build on the certainties he could already see — however faintly — and to commit resources to them before anyone else believed.

For leaders and managers today, the lesson is clear:
Don’t ask, What’s probable?
Ask, What’s possible — and what must I do today to make it inevitable?

Closing Reflection

As we wrapped up the session that day, I noticed a quiet shift in the room.
The students weren’t merely intrigued by Tesla anymore — they were reflecting on their own “future-back” opportunities.

That, to me, was the real win.

Because when young leaders begin to think like architects of the future rather than survivors of disruption, they start embodying the very mindset our world now demands — one that balances imagination with foresight, vision with action, and optimism with resilience.

And perhaps, in some classroom somewhere, the next Tesla is already being imagined.

#WinningInADisruptiveWorld #IIMNagpur #FutureBackThinking #Leadership #AnticipatoryThinking #Tesla #ElonMusk #DanielBurrus #McKinsey #Innovation #PossibilityMindset

The Chronicler and the Curse of BOM Jesus

I chanced upon a news item of a buried ship in one of the world’s driest deserts in Namibia, with a haul of centuries old treasure, untouched by centuries.

The discovery of the sunken ship was made in 2008, in the southern expanse of Namibia’s desolate Sperrgebiet, forbidden territory. Later identified as the Bom Jesus, a Portuguese vessel which was lost five hundred years back during a trade voyage to India. The ship represented the Portuguese maritime empire’s pivot towards India and the east at the height of the Age of Discovery.

Led by Dr. Dieter Noli, a South African archaeologist of repute, the excavating team uncovered more than 2000 gold coins, ivory tusks, copper ingots, and weapons, all in a remarkable state of preservation. Unlike most coastal shipwrecks degraded or looted over time, the Bom Jesus had been pushed inland over centuries by geological forces, and combined with wind blown sediment, it had remained sealed in a natural sarcophagus.

https://search.app/5Ji9D

“The sea forgets no soul — it only waits for their return.”

They called it the Age of Discovery. But for those of us who sailed it, it was the Age of Reckoning.

It was the year of Our Lord 1533 when Bom Jesus set forth from Lisbon. She was a three-masted carrack of near 120 feet, her hull of oak black with pitch, her sails heavy canvas stitched in gold thread with the Cross of Christ. She carried five decks — the lower hold stacked with copper ingots from Augsburg and elephant tusks from Sierra Leone, the middle filled with gold and trade wares bound for Goa, and above, our cramped berths where men slept beside their sins.

I was the ship’s Chronicler — João Mendes, son of no one worth naming — tasked by the Casa da Índia to record the journey. I fancied myself a man of words, not of winds; I soon learned the sea had its own grammar.

We departed on Ascension Day, bells tolling from the Sé Cathedral, the scent of incense mixing with tar and brine. Captain Dom Diogo Pereira, a veteran of the Carreira da Índia, Portuguese East India Company, stood on the quarterdeck, broad-shouldered and proud, his hand resting on the hilt of his Toledo blade.

“Men of Portugal!” he thundered. “We sail for God and the King! For gold, glory — and for home, if He wills it!”

“Deus nos guie! God guide us!” we cried back, and the Bom Jesus glided down the Tagus into destiny.

Our route was the old one — past Cape Verde to the Gulf of Guinea, then around the Cape of Good Hope, across the endless Indian Ocean to Cochin and Goa. Ten thousand miles of wind, wave, and unseen graves of adventurers.

The first few weeks were kind. Trade winds filled our foresails; flying fish glittered beside the hull. We dined on hardtack, dried cod, and the Captain’s pride. At night I climbed the forecastle to watch the stars wheel — the Southern Cross like a torch over the horizon. The helmsman, old Mateus, would nod at it and murmur, “Mesmo o céu muda para quem navega. Even the heavens shift for those who sail.”

But the sea does not love those who sail it for long.

Near Cape Verde, the wind changed. The compass began to shudder though the sky looked clear. In the hold, a carpenter found an unlisted chest, iron-bound, its seal a reversed cruciform sigil.

The Captain frowned. “No such cargo was declared,” he muttered.

The priest, Father Almeida, whispered, “It bears the mark of the Templários, Templars. Heresy!”

“Open it,” the Captain ordered.

We broke the seal. Inside lay a crucifix of black gold, the figure inverted. It was a Satanic symbol! The air turned cold, though the day outside burned hot. The priest crossed himself. The Captain ordered it resealed and hidden. That night, lightning struck our mainmast.

Superstition spreads faster than scurvy. The men whispered that we carried a relic damned by God. One swore he heard chanting beneath the deck. Another said he saw a man in robes walking the gunwale at midnight, his feet never touching the wood.

Still, we sailed on — south past Angola, into seas uncharted. The coast grew barren; dunes stretched like the bones of the world. The charts called it Costa dos Esqueletos — the Skeleton Coast. We knew that even the seagulls avoided it.

Then the fog came. It was thick, white, soundless, relentlessly surrounding us. The lookout cried, “Land! Sand ahead!”

“Hard to larboard!” shouted the Captain.

But the current seemed to seize us like a claw. The keel scraped something unseen. The Bom Jesus groaned, a deep, living sound. Below, the ballast shifted; the copper ingots sliding here and there. The ship’s stability seemed to be teetering.

“Drop anchor!” cried Mateus. “Santa Maria, tem Piedade! Saint Mary, have mercy!”

The anchor vanished into the mist. The ship tilted. The priest clutched his crucifix and began to pray, though the words seemed to be coming out backwards.

I stumbled to the hold to rescue my journals. The water flooding in seemed to glow faintly green. I saw that the sealed chest had burst open. The inverted crucifix floated upright, its eyes gleaming red as coals. Around it, the gold coins trembled, rising and falling as if breathing. I remember shouting, “Capitão! Venha ver isto!, Captain, come see this!”

He never did. The hull split. Sand and water surged in. The ship screamed as if alive, ribs cracking, decks collapsing. I clung to a beam as men were swept into the dunes that moved like tides.

Through the maelstrom I saw — or dreamt I saw — a figure standing on the water’s surface, face hidden by a cowl, hand raised in benediction. The bell tolled, though no man rang it. Then all went black.

When I awoke, the world was silent. I lay on a dune, the wreckage scattered around me, half-buried in glittering sand. No ship. No men. Only the wind’s long sigh.

I found my quill and a scrap of parchment. The ink had turned thick with salt. I began to write. I needed to remember, to exist. The days blurred. The sun moved, the dunes shifted. Sometimes I would see the broken ribs of the Bom Jesus thrust through the sand like bones. Once, I heard laughter carried on the wind. The laughter of men long drowned.

At night, a pale glow rises from the sea. I hear the toll of the bell, steady, patient. When the fog drifts inland, I glimpse lanterns bobbing on the horizon. Our ship sailing still, her sails tattered, her decks empty. I know her. She calls out to me.

Perhaps I never left her. Perhaps I am still aboard, walking the splintered deck, quill in hand, scratching words no living eye will read.

If you find this parchment, if by some fate the sands give it back, take heed: do not seek the Bom Jesus. Her treasures lie where faith and greed collide, guarded by the sea’s own curse.

And should you hear a bell tolling across a calm shore, do not answer.
For the Bom Jesus sails yet. And her chronicler still writes. Though his hands are bone, and his words drift like mist upon the tide.

“In every wave sleeps a memory, and in every wreck, a prayer unfinished.”

In musing…… Shakti Ghosal

Ma—A Bridge Between Two Worlds

In Memoriam

Ma passed away a few days ago. In her 93rd year, the end came quietly, almost imperceptibly—an erratic pulse, two deep breaths, and then a stillness that felt like both departure and arrival. As I sat with the silence that followed, I realised that Ma, my mother, had been throughout her life a bridge—between worlds, between the slow rhythm of yesterday and the unrelenting urgency of today.

She was born into a Bengal still rooted in an older order, one among eight siblings, the third successive daughter in a family that longed for sons. Her given name, “China,” carried within it a wound of social prejudice. In colloquial Bengali, it implied “not wanted,” a stark reminder of how deeply patriarchal values once diminished the worth of a girl child. Yet, rather than allowing that name to define her, she infused it with dignity through the life she lived.

Her childhood belonged to a world we can barely imagine today—a house with a cowshed, a manual hand pump for water, and a pukur, a pond at the back where the family bathed. Dirt roads wound between houses, lanterns cast the evening glow, and chalk on slate was the beginning of literacy. But this simplicity was not untouched by history’s turbulence. Ma was a child when Japanese planes dropped bombs over Kolkata during the Second World War. She saw emaciated villagers streaming into the city during the Bengal famine of 1943, begging for fyan, the water from boiled rice, which households discarded. She was there when the horror of the Calcutta killings unfolded in 1946, a prelude to the traumatic Partition that would tear the subcontinent apart.

At nineteen, she married my father, more than a decade older, in the manner common to her time, seeing him for the first time on her wedding day, then journeying more than a thousand kilometers away to Delhi. Communication with her family in Calcutta became an exercise in patience: hand-written postcards, inland letters slipped into red post boxes, and the long wait for the postman that brought replies.

Her early years as a young bride unfolded in a government quarter on Punch Quin Road. Delhi summers were hot and dry, cooled only by the hum of ceiling fans and open windows. Even though she had to pick up the new language of Hindi, she formed easy friendships with neighbours, women bound together by proximity and mutual reliance. If she ran out of salt or turmeric while cooking, she would simply knock on a door and borrow. Life was slow, and its pace cultivated the virtue of patience. Waiting was not an inconvenience—it was a way of life. Waiting for letters, waiting for the dairy gate to open, waiting for a favourite song to emerge from the crackling radio.

As the years passed, her single-minded focus of her family became what defined her. She bore two sons and lived for her husband, her children, and later, grandchildren. Days blended into one another, but in that blending was the rhythm that gave her life meaning.

Meanwhile, the world outside was changing with increased speed. She saw the milk delivered warm from a cow at the dairy replaced by cold cartons stacked on supermarket shelves. She watched neighbourhood grocers, who once weighed vegetables on balance scales, give way to supermarkets where barcodes replaced conversation. She moved from the clunky rotary-dial telephone, whose every call was deliberate, to the age of the smartphone, where continents could collapse into a single video call. She saw handwriting, once a vital art, yield to text typed on computers and phones.

But what stands out most is how Ma absorbed these changes, without losing herself. She adapted, yet never forgot the cadence of the world she came from. She could marvel at a video call and also leaf through old preserved letters kept between the pages of the Panjika, the Bangla almanac that dictated her daily rituals. She delighted at the convenience and taste of instant noodles yet remained a reference point of how meals could be cooked slowly and better over coal or wood-based fire. In her, two worlds seemed to coexist, not in conflict, but in harmony. She was a living reminder that adaptation need not mean erasure, that continuity and change can inhabit the same soul.

Ma bore witness to the eradication of dreaded diseases like smallpox and polio, but also endured the arrival of Covid-19. She celebrated the births of grandchildren and great-grandchildren, while also grieving the loss of friends and siblings.

Four generations

Over the years, her own family shrank, with the passing of my father and brother. She increasingly withdrew into a world of her own inhabited by Jap, piety and meditation. During the last couple of years, she would hold my hand in silence, after blowing her shank, conch shell every evening. A mute reminder that I was the only one left of the family she had been devoted to.

Now, as I try to understand what she has left behind, I realise she was more than a mother; she was the bridge between what was and what will be. She connected the slow, earthy world of ponds, lanterns, and letters to the digital age of instant gratification and restless speed. She stood between fading traditions and emerging futures, carrying forward love, devotion, and humanity as constants amidst change. In her, I saw that resilience is not loud or forceful but quiet, steady, and accepting.

To live ninety-two years is to live many lives within one. As I look back at her long journey, I feel gratitude more than grief. For in her passing, she has not left me empty-handed. She has given me the assurance that change can be embraced without losing one’s essence. And she has shown me that love, patience, and quiet resilience are the true bridges between the worlds we inherit and the worlds we leave behind.

Shakti Ghosal

Twilight or Dawn? America and the Paradox of Empire

Abstract

Empires are rarely undone by external invasion; they corrode from within. The American project, like Rome, Britain, and Persia before it, now faces the timeless paradox of imperial overreach: wealth without equity, dominance without renewal. This article situates America’s trajectory within the historical cycle of imperial rise and decline, drawing upon both philosophical reflection and historical precedent. The central question is whether the United States will recognize decline as an opportunity for renewal, or whether, blinded by illusions of permanence, it will follow the path of its predecessors into twilight.

Introduction: The Cycles of Empire

Over the last few months, especially as the American tariff challenge for the rest of the world heated up, two distinct narratives have emerged in the public space. The first dwells on the unfairness—indeed the shortsightedness—of U.S. tariff policy and how it is being differentially applied to target certain countries while sparing others. The second narrative takes a step back and enters the philosophical domain: What makes America act the way it does? The symptoms, they argue, are those of an empire in decline.

In this piece I attempt to make sense of the unfolding moment through a historical lens of past empires. From the Achaemenid Persians to the British Raj, empires rose not only on military might but on the promise of order and prosperity. Yet, as Gibbon observed in his monumental study of Rome, empires collapse when external expansion conceals internal fragility. ¹

Toynbee later refined this insight, suggesting that civilizations do not perish from conquest but from their failure to respond creatively to crises. ² America, with its wealth concentrated in elites and its politics increasingly polarized, today finds itself at a similar point of reckoning.

The Illusion of Permanence

Decline is often hastened by the presumption of permanence. The British Empire, enriched by its Indian possessions, clung to naval supremacy long after its economic foundations had weakened. The Qing dynasty, flush with silver inflows, remained blind to the destabilizing flood of opium that hollowed out its society. The Ottomans celebrated elaborate military ceremony even as their agrarian base stagnated. In each case, the empire was undone less by external enemies than by its inability to adapt.³

The United States mirrors these patterns. Its massive trade deficits, spiraling national debt, and persistent militarism signal not strength but imbalance. Each dollar allocated to foreign wars secures corporate gain more than civic renewal. Bridges crumble, schools falter, healthcare divides communities, and social trust erodes. Yet the spectacle of global dominance continues—an aircraft carrier here, a sanctions regime there—masking fragility at home. This, too, is the illusion of permanence.

Rome thought itself eternal, describing itself as the urbs aeterna, the eternal city. Britain assumed that the sun would never set on its empire. America today speaks of “exceptionalism” with the same conviction, believing its dominance to be destiny rather than circumstance. The danger lies in mistaking temporary advantage for permanent security.

The Anatomy of Overreach

The trajectory of great powers often follows a recognizable arc: expansion, consolidation, overreach, and decline. Paul Kennedy, in The Rise and Fall of the Great Powers, describes how military commitments abroad eventually outstrip economic capacity at home.³ For Rome, it was the expense of garrisoning distant frontiers. For Spain, the drain of endless wars in Europe. For Britain, the unsustainable costs of two world wars.

For the United States, overreach is visible in both economic and military forms. The U.S. spends more on defence than the next ten countries combined, maintaining hundreds of bases across the globe. Meanwhile, its domestic economy is marked by widening inequality, stagnant wages, and crumbling infrastructure. The paradox is stark: a nation capable of projecting power thousands of miles away struggles to repair its own highways or ensure equitable healthcare.

Tariff wars, trade imbalances, and fiscal deficits echo earlier imperial mistakes. Protectionist policies may secure short-term bargaining chips, but they also reveal a deeper anxiety: the fear that economic primacy is slipping away. History suggests that such reactive measures rarely restore strength; they merely postpone the reckoning.

Philosophy of Decline and Renewal

At its core, the phenomenon of empire offers a philosophical lesson in impermanence. Heraclitus, writing in the sixth century BCE, reminded us that “all things flow,” that permanence is an illusion.⁴ To mistake hegemony for destiny is to deny this truth.

Toynbee argued that the decisive moment for civilizations lies in their response to challenge: renewal through creativity or collapse through inertia.² Renewal requires humility, the willingness to recognize that decline is not failure but an opportunity for rebalance. For America, such renewal would mean abandoning the imperial reflex and returning to the foundations of civic life—justice, education, community, and sustainability.

True security lies not in endless war or technological spectacle but in balance: between wealth and justice, expansion and reflection, ambition and humility. Without such rebalancing, the American century risks being remembered as another brilliant but fleeting flame in history’s long night.

Lessons from History

The cycles of history caution against complacency. Rome endured for centuries, but its collapse was sudden when it came. The Qing dynasty appeared invulnerable until it unravelled within a few decades. The Soviet Union, projecting strength one year, disintegrated the next. Empires rarely decline in a linear, predictable fashion; instead, they erode silently until an external shock exposes their fragility.

For the United States, that shock could come from multiple directions: financial crisis, climate catastrophe, technological disruption, or internal political fracture. Already, polarization corrodes trust in institutions, while economic inequality breeds resentment. These fissures, if unaddressed, could accelerate decline.

Yet history also shows that renewal is possible. Japan, devastated by war, reinvented itself as an economic powerhouse. Post-imperial Britain, though diminished, adapted into a service economy and retained cultural influence. Even Rome, in its Byzantine continuation, transformed decline into resilience. America, too, could reimagine itself—not as empire, but as a republic recommitted to equity and balance.

Conclusion

The setting sun is not fate; it is metaphor. Empires end not because history commands it but because they fail to heed its rhythms. Whether America confronts its inner distortions or clings to the illusion of permanence will decide whether twilight yields dawn—or darkness.

The challenge, then, is not to deny decline but to interpret it rightly. If decline is seen as failure, America will cling to militarism, exceptionalism, and spectacle until resources are exhausted. But if decline is embraced as a chance for renewal, the American project may yet rediscover vitality—proving that twilight need not always lead to night. Sometimes, it can be the hour before a new dawn.

Notes

Gibbon, Edward. The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire (1776–1789).
Toynbee, Arnold. A Study of History. Oxford University Press, 1934–1961.
Kennedy, Paul. The Rise and Fall of the Great Powers. Random House, 1987.
Heraclitus. Fragments. c. 500 BCE.

In musing…….. Shakti Ghosal

🌴 Breezing Through Bermuda: Pink Sands, Ghost Ships & Darrel’s Secrets

The Liberty of the Seas was slipping gracefully through the turquoise waters of the Atlantic, teasing us with views of emerald islets dotting the horizon. As land loomed closer, so did our anticipation. Bermuda—a name that evoked equal parts paradise and paranormal. Our stateroom window framed the unfolding spectacle of the approaching land, pastel-painted resorts on the sea front and the occasional home peeking from behind palm fronds.

We docked at the Royal Naval Dockyard. Once a formidable British naval base after they were unceremoniously booted out of North America, it now plays host to cruise ships instead of battle cruisers. Think of it as the colonial version of “I’ll be back!”—except the British came back with museums, not muskets.

Once ashore, as we looked around for a suitable transportation, we were greeted by Darrel, a local guide and driver. Silver-haired, sun-tanned, and equipped with the storytelling prowess of a Caribbean mistrel, Darrel introduced himself with a flourish:

“Ninth-generation Bermudian! My ancestor came here as a slave. And now I drive tourists through my island. We’ve come full circle, haven’t we?”

We chuckled, unsure whether to be impressed or introspective. As it turned out, Darrel was about to take us on a version of Bermuda that the glossy brochures never dared to print.

A Personal Bermuda

Darrel wasn’t one for those touristy places. Instead, he showed us his own Bermuda. We were soon snaking past old churches and vintage homes, zigzagging across narrow causeways which connected Bemuda’s islands like hesitant footbridges between old memories.

He took us to his ancestral home; a weathered house nestled on a hillside shaded by cedar trees. “This is where I was born,” he said. There was pride in his voice, not nostalgia. He wasn’t just showing us a place, but offering us a piece of his DNA.

As we crisscrossed the islands, almost missing the transitions thanks to seamless causeways, Darrel pointed out the unique Bermudian water storage systems. There are no freshwater lakes or rivers in Bermuda; every roof thus is designed to catch rainwater and store it in underground tanks. “It’s not just eco-friendly,” Darrel declared, “It’s that, or die thirsty!”

Exploring the Bermuda water storage system

We stopped at an old fort with low embankments, a relic from World War II. What was interesting was that it was armed with British, American, and Canadian gun emplacements. A curious cross-national collaboration.

“They were allies here before NATO was cool,” I quipped. Darrel grinned, “Yeah, and those guns haven’t fired in anger—only in memory.”

Shopping Malls, Lighthouses & Cost Shock

Next came the capital city, Hamilton, gleaming with shopping arcades, business hubs, and enough boutiques to bankrupt a Kardashian. “Don’t be fooled,” Darrel warned, “This is more for you tourists and offshore finance folks than for us locals.”

We could believe it. A loaf of bread cost more than a good bottle of rum back home. Bermuda, it seemed, was as expensive as it was beautiful—a tax haven with a sun-kissed poker face.

We also visited the Gibbs Hill Lighthouse, where the view from the base was majestic enough to spare us the knees wrecking climb to the top. From there, the Atlantic spread out like an endless blue silk sheet, dotted with hints of human habitation—each island a whisper in the sea.

Of Pink Sands and Rose Hearts

By afternoon, the sun had cast a golden glaze on the island. The temperature was perfect for what we came for: Bermuda’s legendary beaches.

We skipped the Instagram-flooded Horseshoe Bay (thanks to Darrel’s insider intel of it being overcrowded!) and headed to a more secluded beach nearby. And what a choice that turned out to be! Powdery pink sand caressed by clear turquoise water, gentle waves that beckoned instead of bullied, and—most intriguingly—a giant heart-shaped installation of roses left behind from what looked like a beach wedding. Darrel, never missing a beat, winked and said, “That’s either love… or excellent marketing.”

We did what anyone would do: took photos, dipped into the sea, and pretended we had discovered the place ourselves.

The Triangle of Terror… or Hype?

As the sun began its descent, we finally popped the question everyone avoids until dessert, about the Bermuda Triangle.

“So Darrel… any strange goings-on out there?”

He glanced at the ocean and said, “Let me tell you something. Some days, you see gas bubbles rising out of nowhere. Big ones. Not your usual air pockets. These are… different.”

He paused. “Could be alien. Could be methane. Could be the sea having gas. But small boats and aircraft? They don’t always like those bubbles.”

Darrel’s casual eeriness reminded me of the book I’d devoured in my Jamalpur college days: Charles Berlitz’s “The Bermuda Triangle.” The author had chronicled the infamous disappearance of Flight 19, a squadron of five US Navy torpedo bombers in 1945. The flight leader’s last radio transmission still rings like a Lovecraftian riddle:

“We cannot be sure of any direction… everything is strange… the ocean doesn’t look as it should.”

Some say it was magnetic anomalies. Others blame pirates, aliens, or even the lost city of Atlantis. Even National Geographic weighed in years later, shrugging off the mystery with a headline that felt like a sigh:
“No, the Bermuda Triangle isn’t real. Let’s move on.” (Source: National Geographic, 2017)

But standing on a beach where the sand is pink and the stories are surreal; logic starts to feel a bit… overrated.

A Farewell in Technicolour

As we returned to the Liberty of the Seas, the ship shimmering under the evening sun, Bermuda felt like a dream—equal parts sunshine and superstition.

Darrel dropped us at the dock, gave us a conspiratorial wink and said, “Now you know our secrets. Keep them safe.”

Bermuda had shown us its history, its heart, and maybe even a hint of its hauntings. Whether you believe in vanishing ships or just overpriced sandwiches, it’s a place that lingers.In your mind, in your phone camera, and if Darrel’s right, maybe even in your magnetic compass.

In musing…….. Shakti Ghosal

📚 References:

Berlitz, Charles. The Bermuda Triangle. Doubleday, 1974.
National Geographic. “No, the Bermuda Triangle Isn’t Real. Let’s Move On.” August 2017.
https://www.nationalgeographic.com/history/article/bermuda-triangle-mystery-disappearances-science
BBC Travel. “The Curious Infrastructure of Bermuda’s Water Tanks.” February 2020.
https://www.bbc.com/travel/article/20200219-the-island-that-catches-rainwater

Cruise Chronicles – A Bermuda Triangle of Fun, Frolic, and Farce

Abstract

After years of good intentions and postponed plans, we finally pulled off the Great Family Cruise – ten of us, one ship, two waterslides, twenty-three ducks, and a Cruise Director who could’ve moonlighted as a tornado.

From gliding over ocean waves to sliding into water-slide mayhem (albeit with minor misadventures), from buffet binging to Broadway bopping – here’s how we discovered that the only real triangle in Bermuda is one made of sun, sea, and stuffing ourselves silly. Dive into our cruise tale below!

“We had joy, we had fun, we had… sunburn, and the distinct feeling that gravity works differently on a cruise buffet.”

For several years, our family cruise plan floated in the misty sea of ‘someday’. We’d talk about it, sigh wistfully, and then shelve it in favour of life’s more pressing annoyances – work, school schedules, or the sheer logistics of aligning four households across two continents. But this year, the planets and the stars finally aligned – our schedules, and the price of cruise cabins. Over a weekend, the dates and the bookings were locked in over WhatsApp calls. The dream was on!

We had zeroed in on a 6-day Royal Caribbean Bermuda Cruise from Bayonne, New Jersey. As luck would have it, both our daughters, Riya and Piya, along with their husbands and children, were in New Jersey. Add to that, grandparents (that would be us), and we had a party of ten. One grand adventure. Two Uber XLs. Four bags per family (because who travels light when going to sea?).

The First Glimpse: Love at First Float

Royal Caribbean’s Liberty of the Seas stood docked like a skyscraper that had taken a horizontal sabbatical. Towering, gleaming, with the top decks bustling with sunhat-clad explorers and Pina Colada amateurs, the ship exuded glamour and gravity-defying engineering. How much of it was underwater, I kept wondering

The boarding was smooth; it smacked of efficiency. The Royal Caribbean staff operated with choreographed precision smiles. As we entered our 12th-floor staterooms, our suitcases were already neatly arranged at the door – not unlike obedient puppies waiting to be let in.

What greeted us inside made us gasp (some of it real, some theatrical I daresay). A wall-to-wall panoramic window offering glorious view of Lady Liberty herself, poised with her torch held high, seemingly wishing us bon voyage. The bed, king-sized and plush, promised to cradle us gently through the Atlantic lullabies.

Buffet Warfare and Windjammer Déjà Vu

The first port of call wasn’t Bermuda. It was Windjammer Café – the cruise ship’s legendary buffet zone, an all-you-can-eat haven where diets land up to perish.

“Is that an Italian pasta station or an entire province?” I asked no one in particular as I watched a chef wield a spatula with ‘Keanu Reeves in Matrix’-level reflexes.

Amid spoonfuls of mayonnaise-laced salad and pasta, memories came rushing back. Two decades earlier on a Mediterranean Cruise on Royal Caribbean’s Grandeur of the Seas, we used to frequent the Windjammer Cafe. And just like that, the generations merged across time and geography over plates piled high with memories – and shrimp tempura.

The Ship That Never Slept … so how could we

With fourteen floors of everything one could think of. From swimming pools to simulated surfing to an entire promenade that looked like it had been smuggled out of Barcelona, Liberty of the Seas wasn’t a ship – it seemed more akin to a floating nation-state. All this for a guest count of 3400 and service providing crew numbering 1200!

The Platinum Theatre promised nightly shows with a Vegas vibe, and boy, did it deliver. Between ice-skating opera (yes, you read that right) and a Broadway-style rendition of Saturday Night Fever—complete with Bee Gees hits that had us singing falsetto into dessert—we barely had time to digest our dinners.

Dining was a delight. Our assigned fine-dining restaurant was Botticelli, where we were seated by a window overlooking the Atlantic. It was a view so romantic, it could’ve made an accountant recite poetry.

But with great food came great responsibility. We soon fell into the classic cruise rhythm:

Breakfast like royalty 🥓
Mid-morning Jacuzzi + cocktails 🍹
Poolside ice cream, obviously 🍦
Pre-dinner Pizza and cocktails 🍕🥂
Dinner like it’s your last meal on Earth 🍽️
A ‘Broadway’ show for digestion 🎭
Midnight coffee and cake “sometimes, why not?” ☕🍰

As travel writer Kate Simon once said, “A cruise is a floating hotel with the added excitement of going somewhere — and waking up to a new view every day.” We couldn’t agree more, except we were too full to sit up in bed and appreciate that view.

Enter: Tornado Tanya and the Duck Hunter General

A cruise, they say, is only as memorable as its Cruise Director. And ours was unforgettable.

Tornado Tanya — part emcee, part event planner, part motivational speaker, and possibly part caffeine incarnate — zipped through venues, hosting dance-offs, trivia, pool parties, and late-night karaoke. She had the boundless energy of a toddler on Red Bull and the voice projection of a Shakespearean actor.

Our six-year-old granddaughter Anaysha ( we call her Tiri) , meanwhile, had embarked on her own high-seas mission: duck hunting. Not the feathered kind, mind you. This was a scavenger hunt for plastic ducks artfully hidden across the ship’s decks, bars, and even casino slot machines. She unearthed twenty-three of them – a personal best, a family record, and possibly a ship-wide headline if only Tanya had announced it.

The Bermuda Triangle – A ‘safe’ Detour

When we finally docked at Bermuda, we were slightly disappointed that we hadn’t fallen into a time warp.

Bermuda was…well, let us say, stunning. Coral pink sands, aquamarine waters, pastel houses with white roofs – the island looked like it had been filtered through a tropical Instagram lens. But that tale, especially that of the triangle, deserves its own dedicated post. Let’s just say, we came. We saw. We didn’t vanish, unlike those myriad ships and planes of the years gone by.

The Slides, The Slips, and the Near-Scandal

Now, every cruise needs a personal epic. Mine came courtesy of The Slides – those twisting and turning tubes of water doom perched high above the ship like serpentine sculptures of fun and fear.

There were two:

The Pink Slide – dubbed “family friendly”
The Green Slide – otherwise known as “abandon all dignity ye who dare to enter here”

My first attempt was on the Pink Slide. It was supposed to be slow. It was. Too slow. Midway through, I got stuck. Yes, stuck. Picture this: an elderly man, wedged inside a tube, using his hands to scoot forward like a plumber in a pipeline.

A voice crackled on the intercom, “Is everything alright in there, sir?”
To which I replied, “Define alright…”

Not to be defeated, I took on the Green Slide next. This time, I whooshed out like a human torpedo—splashed spectacularly into the pool… and got stuck sideways. Lifeguard involvement ensued. Applause, or was it suppressed sniggers, was heard. Dignity? Left behind somewhere in the tube.

Final Reflections: More Than Just a Cruise

As our ship finally sailed back into Bayonne and we waved a fond goodbye to Liberty of the Seas, it hit us – this had not been just a vacation. It was a story. A memory. A time capsule. A chaotic, joyful, belly-filling, duck-chasing, water-sliding tale of ten souls choosing to pause life and just be… together.

As travel writer Pico Iyer said, “We travel, initially, to lose ourselves; and we travel, next, to find ourselves.”

Well, we certainly lost our diets. And found laughter, connection, and yes – even a part of ourselves.

And thus ends the tale of the Bermuda cruise. Bon voyage, until next time.

In musing……. Shakti Ghosal

References:

Simon, Kate. Cruising: The Only Way to Travel. Travel Weekly, 2016.
Iyer, Pico. Why We Travel. Salon.com, March 2000.
CruiseCritic.com – “Top 10 Cruise Director Superstars” (2023).
Royal Caribbean Official Website: Liberty of the Seas Deck Plan & Amenities (2024).

Final Notes from Aotearoa- New Zealand

From the breezy ferry crossing over Cook Strait to sipping Sauvignon Blanc in a sun-drenched vineyard, our final days in New Zealand were an ode to quiet charm, coastal beauty, and surprising encounters. Dolphins, Blue Crayfish, and the gentle resilience of Christchurch—this last leg gave us a sense of what it truly means to journey, not just travel

As our journey across New Zealand’s North Island drew to a close, a sense of calm anticipation took hold. We were about to cross the Cook Strait—nature’s moat dividing the North and South Islands. After breakfast, we boarded the ferry at Wellington, following the well-worn advice to keep our eyes peeled for the scenic spectacle of Marlborough Sounds.

The Cook Strait has a reputation for being dramatic, both in its swells and its views. Ours was thankfully a smooth crossing, the deck wind-swept but tolerable—as long as you held tightly to your cap. While no seals or orcas showed up to greet us, a joyful surprise awaited mid-journey: a school of dolphins, dancing alongside our ferry near the starboard bow. It was a moment that felt choreographed by the sea itself.

The ferry eventually pulled into Picton, a sleepy harbor town where time seems to slow down. After our coach rolled off the ship’s lower deck, we headed into Blenheim, nestled at the heart of Marlborough—New Zealand’s most renowned wine region. As wine writer Michael Cooper once noted, “The Sauvignon Blancs here speak with piercing clarity and freshness, as if the land itself had whispered the recipe” (Wine NZ Magazine, 2022). Our lunch at a vineyard, paired with one of these signature whites, was a perfect blend of terroir and tranquility.

Post lunch, the drive to Nelson was comfortably uneventful. Known as New Zealand’s sunshine capital, the town lived up to its name. Bathed in golden light, its leafy streets invited slow, deliberate exploration. We took a detour to the Abel Tasman National Park, where aquamarine coves and golden beaches teased us with just a glimpse of their natural magic. Later, a short cab ride took us on the Prince’s Drive, a winding hill route offering panoramic ocean views. It was one of those rare moments when the vastness of the ocean made one feel wonderfully small.

From Nelson, our coastal drive traced the edge of the South Island’s spine. The Kaikoura stretch was especially dramatic—dark cliffs tumbling into turquoise waters. We stopped here, as one must, to try the region’s famed Blue Crayfish. Served fresh and simply, it needed little more than a squeeze of lemon. As travel writer Brook Sabin put it in a Stuff NZ feature, “Kaikoura offers a kind of wild luxury—the bounty of the sea framed by snow-capped peaks.”

The inland leg to Canterbury gave us rolling pastures, distant alpine backdrops, and a lingering sense of serenity. Finally, we arrived in Christchurch, a city still tender from its past, yet confidently looking ahead. Much of it felt brand new, and understandably so—years after the 2011 earthquake, which damaged more than 80% of the central city.

But there was pride in the restoration, and even more in the spirit of the people. We hopped onto the Christchurch Tram Tour, a delightful old-world loop through a new-age city. Glassy riverbanks, modern architecture, and gentle storytelling from the conductor made it feel like a living museum, still writing its narrative.

And then, just like that, it was time to leave.

At Christchurch Airport, waiting to board our flight home, we reflected on what had made this journey special. Not just the landscapes—though they are indeed epic. Not just the food or wine or wildlife. It was the rhythm of New Zealand: slow when it needs to be, stirring when you least expect it.

New Zealand doesn’t just show you its beauty. It reveals it, bit by bit. Like its shifting light, it rewards those who take the time to look closely.

We departed with tired feet, happy hearts, and the quiet promise that someday, we would return.

References

Cooper, Michael. “Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc: Still Leading the Way.” Wine NZ Magazine, 2022.
Sabin, Brook. “Kaikoura’s Wild Luxury: Where the Sea Meets the Snow.” Stuff.co.nz, 2021.
Tourism New Zealand. “Christchurch Rebuild: Resilience and Renewal.” newzealand.com, 2023.

When Silence Speaks: The Voiceless and the Silenced

In an age of selective hearing, understanding whose voices are ignored—and whose are feared—reveals the deeper politics of power and truth.

Abstract

In a world overflowing with voices, some are never heard. Some are never allowed to speak. This article explores the crucial difference between those who are voiceless and those who are deliberately silenced. One group is ignored, the other is feared. Understanding this difference helps us see the mechanics of power, injustice, and the politics of listening in today’s world. As Noam Chomsky famously said, “The smart way to keep people passive and obedient is to strictly limit the spectrum of acceptable opinion, but allow very lively debate within that spectrum.”

The idea of this piece came to me when in a social media group discussion about the unevenness of spiritual access in India based on class, caste and privilege, someone quoted author Arundhati Roy’s quote that “There’s really no such thing as the ‘voiceless’. There are only the deliberately silenced, or the preferably unheard.”

The more I thought about what Arundhati had opined, the more I sensed that she had lumped two discrete aspects of our society into one.

What is being Voiceless?

I recall the first few days of India’s response to the COVID – 19 pandemic and the lockdown that ensued. When the country literally shut down with just four hours’ notice, millions of workers—daily wage earners, domestic helpers, factory hands—were stranded without transport, money, or food. With no options available and with little support, around 40 million workers began walking hundreds of kilometres back to their villages. What came to be known as the great migrant crisis of the pandemic.

The workers weren’t silent, in fact far from it. They shared stories, walked in mass protests, called journalists. But their pain barely entered the official narrative. The crisis was, for a time, treated like an unfortunate footnote in a larger national story.

Migrant workers during pandemic

“The working class was not just unseen—they were not considered,” wrote Harsh Mander in The Indian Express. “It was a failure of both empathy and accountability.”

These were people whose voices weren’t suppressed, but simply didn’t count. That’s what it means to be voiceless.

As sociologist Michael Schudson put it, “Communication is a resource distributed as unequally as income or education.” Some voices simply don’t travel—not because they’re weak, but because the world refuses to hear them. This is indeed ironic in an age in which speaking up in fact has never been easier. Through the universal access to tweets, videos, blogs, and platforms are everywhere. But being heard? That’s something else entirely.

Being voiceless doesn’t mean someone has nothing to say. It means that what they say doesn’t register. Their stories don’t make the news. Their ideas don’t get invited to conferences. Their lives rarely shape policy decisions. They live in the blind spots of our systems. One of the main aspects which makes our society unequal.

Now let’s look at the aspect of those who Are the Silenced?

In 2017, the gruesome assassination of Gauri Lankesh hit the headlines in India. A fearless journalist and activist, Lankesh had been a sharp critic of communal violence, right-wing extremism, and state-sponsored misinformation. Her Kannada weekly, Gauri Lankesh Patrike, became a platform for truth-telling and resistance.

Gauri was shot dead outside her home in Bengaluru, her murder was not random—it was a warning.

Gauri Lankesh assassination

As journalist Rana Ayyub wrote: “Gauri’s crime was that she refused to be quiet.”

Gauri Lankesh had a platform. She was being heard. And that is exactly why she was targeted. She wasn’t voiceless. She was silenced because her voice made those in power uncomfortable. To those in power, Gauri’s voice had become too powerful; her words shone light on dark places, threatened the status quo, exposed inconvenient truths.

A recent report by the Committee to Protect Journalists ( CPJ) noted that a record number of journalists were jailed in 2022—not for false reporting, but for exposing the truth. As the CPJ observed: “Censorship is no longer enough; silencing must be enforced.”

Can we now see the intrinsic difference between those who are voiceless, and those who are deliberately silenced? Some people, no matter how loudly they speak, never seem to matter. Others are quickly shut down because what they say matters too much. The first are ignored. The second are suppressed. And both are symptoms of a far deeper crisis of listening in our times.

Why the Difference Matters

At first glance, both the voiceless and the silenced seem to suffer the same fate: not being heard. But the reasons behind their invisibility are fundamentally different.

The voiceless are ignored because they’re deemed irrelevant.
The silenced are suppressed because they’re considered dangerous.

One is a symptom of systemic neglect. The other, of deliberate fear.

Understanding this distinction is vital. It helps us recognize the difference between absence and erasure, between invisibility and targeting.

The Role of Selective Listening

Today, listening has become selective and often algorithmic. Digital platforms and connectivities are amplifying outrage, repetition, and ideology—not complexity, dissent, or nuance. In such a space, it’s easy for the voiceless to disappear into the margins, and for the silenced to be made invisible through force or discrediting.

As Noam Chomsky famously said, “The smart way to keep people passive and obedient is to strictly limit the spectrum of acceptable opinion, but allow very lively debate within that spectrum.”. As I thought of this, I could see the Voiceless and the Silenced at the two ends of the truth spectrum. Both represent ‘uncomfortable truths’ for the political dispensation and the administration. It is the centre space which holds the ‘comfortable truth’ which the powers that be would always support and push to expand. The voiceless never make it into that spectrum. The silenced try to expand their end, encroach into the ‘comfortable truth’ space and unfortunately end up paying the price

So what can each one of us do?

We need to recognize that the difference between the voiceless and the silenced also changes how we respond. We might decide to support in the following manner.

The voiceless need amplification. Their stories must be brought to the centre. This would require better representation, inclusive platforms, and ethical journalism.
The silenced need protection. They must be defended by laws, by solidarity, and by public pressure. Their speech is often a warning bell the rest of us ignore at our own peril.

Both are vital to a functioning democracy. But only one—the silenced—reminds us that truth still threatens power.

In musing……. Shakti Ghosal

References

Schudson, Michael. The Sociology of News. W. W. Norton & Company, 2000.
Committee to Protect Journalists. Record Number of Journalists Jailed Worldwide. CPJ, 2022. https://cpj.org/reports/2022
Chomsky, Noam. Media Control: The Spectacular Achievements of Propaganda. Seven Stories Press, 1997.
Mander, Harsh. “Locked Down and Left Behind.” The Indian Express, May 2020.
Ayyub, Rana. “Gauri Lankesh’s Murder Was Not an Aberration.” The Washington Post, Sept 2017

🍇 Savouring Sunshine, Wine, and Wind: A Journey through Hawke’s Bay, Napier and Wellington

🌿 Abstract

From the sun-drenched vineyards of Hawke’s Bay to the Art Deco charms of Napier and the cultured vibes of Wellington, our North Island journey in New Zealand was a heady blend of scenic beauty, fine wine, coastal elegance, and urban character. Here’s a glimpse of three unforgettable days soaking in the essence of Kiwi culture, cuisine, and charm.

New Zealand often conjures images of snow-capped peaks, sheep-dotted meadows, and fjord-streaked landscapes. But on the North Island’s eastern edge lies a less-trumpeted triad of experiences that seduce the senses in a quieter, more intimate way: the sun-drenched vineyards of Hawke’s Bay, the Art Deco elegance of Napier, and the cosmopolitan charm of Wellington.

We began the day heading toward Hawke’s Bay, a region known for its Mediterranean climate, rich soils, and status as one of New Zealand’s finest wine-producing areas. The road wound through rolling hills and vineyard vistas that stretched out like pages from a postcard. It’s no wonder that Lonely Planet calls Hawke’s Bay “a food and wine lover’s paradise… where long sunny days and fertile plains create the perfect recipe for indulgence.”

Our stop at Mission Estate Winery—New Zealand’s oldest established winery dating back to 1851—was the highlight of our visit. The elegant colonial-era structure welcomed us like an old friend, and we quickly found ourselves immersed in a world of subtle textures and fragrant bouquets. The Sauvignon Blanc stood out with its crisp minerality, but it was the velvety Syrah that stayed with us long after the last sip. A relaxed lunch followed in a shaded courtyard adorned with trellises, garden blooms, and birdsong. It felt more like a countryside dream than a scheduled stop.

The next chapter of our journey took us to Napier, a gem of a coastal town shaped by both tragedy and triumph. Rebuilt in the 1930s following a devastating earthquake, the town now proudly showcases one of the most concentrated collections of Art Deco architecture in the world. A stroll down its palm-lined promenade revealed a town wrapped in pastel tones and whimsical curves, as if time itself had taken a gentler turn here.

Condé Nast Traveler once described Napier as “a place where you’ll want to slow down and look up,” and that’s exactly what I did. As I meandered through the town, every façade seemed to carry a story—of resilience, rebirth, and remarkable aesthetic unity. Our hotel, perched with unobstructed views of the Pacific Ocean, felt like a poetic pause in this narrative. The sea, ever restless, offered a calming counterpoint to the symmetry of the streets.

The following morning, we descended further south to Wellington, the capital city nestled between rolling hills and a sparkling harbour. Where Napier wore nostalgia on its sleeve, Wellington was vibrantly alive—a city that fused culture and creativity with surprising sophistication. Its streets, both parallel and sloped, gave it a geometric charm, while cafés spilled out onto sidewalks filled with young creatives, office-goers, and the occasional street performer.

There’s something beautifully paradoxical about Wellington—it’s compact yet buzzing, orderly yet expressive. The Wellington Marina invited us to pause and breathe in the city’s rhythm. Boats bobbed gently in their berths, while locals wandered past us with wind-blown hair and takeaway coffees. No surprise then that the BBC once referred to Wellington as “the coolest little capital in the world.”

Dinner was a quiet affair, but we couldn’t resist passing by the city’s political heart—the Beehive, a part of the New Zealand Parliament complexes. The building’s modernist circular form is either intriguing or awkward, depending on your point of view. I found it oddly compelling, a symbol perhaps of the country’s bold architectural spirit, unafraid to provoke a reaction.

As we wound down our day in Wellington, I couldn’t help but reflect on the journey. Each place had offered something distinct: Hawke’s Bay’s pastoral elegance, Napier’s vintage soul, and Wellington’s urban charisma. Yet all were stitched together by a common Kiwi thread—warmth, nature, and quiet sophistication.

In a world where travel often tries to impress through spectacle, this journey stood out for its graceful subtlety. It didn’t shout; it sang.

In Musing……… Shakti Ghosal

📚 References:

Lonely Planet. (2023). Hawke’s Bay Travel Guide. Retrieved from: https://www.lonelyplanet.com/new-zealand/hawkes-bay
Condé Nast Traveler. (2022). The Most Beautiful Towns in New Zealand. Retrieved from: https://www.cntraveler.com/gallery/most-beautiful-towns-in-new-zealand
BBC Travel. (2021). Why Wellington is the World’s Coolest Little Capital. Retrieved from: https://www.bbc.com/travel/article/20210315-wellington-the-worlds-coolest-little-capital

The ‘Puppy Dog Wag tail’ Syndrome: When the Need to Belong Undermines Authenticity

Abstract:

This article explores the social behavior commonly referred to as “Puppy Dog Wag Tail Syndrome”—where older individuals attempt to gain acceptance from younger social groups through excessive compliance, self-effacement, or mimicry, wagging one’s tail so to say! While this behavior stems from a natural human desire for belonging, it often compromises one’s authenticity and self-respect. Drawing from research in social psychology, this piece delves into the emotional drivers behind such behavior and advocates for embracing authenticity across generational lines.

Have you ever witnessed an elderly individual awkwardly trying to “blend in” with a younger group? Perhaps they crack out-of-place jokes, adopt unfamiliar slang, or seem constantly eager to please — laughing too hard, offering unsolicited help, or nervously seeking approval. This performative effort to fit in, often at the cost of dignity and self-awareness, is what might be called Puppy Dog Syndrome. Much like an over-eager pet desperate for affection, the individual’s behavior becomes centered around pleasing others, often sacrificing self-expression and confidence in the process.

While it may appear superficial on the surface, this behavior is rooted in something deeply human: the need to belong. Social psychologists Roy Baumeister and Mark Leary (1995) identified belongingness as a fundamental human motivation. Regardless of age, people crave connection, approval, and inclusion. Yet, when belonging feels uncertain — especially in cross-generational settings where values, cultural references, and energy levels diverge — the fear of exclusion can drive compensatory behaviors.

Older individuals, particularly in youth-dominated spaces like workplaces, social media platforms, or casual gatherings, may feel a loss of relevance or influence. In such settings, some try to gain favor by imitating youth or subordinating themselves — often unconsciously — in exchange for social acceptance. But the cost of such behavior can be significant. Carl Rogers, the humanistic psychologist, referred to this pattern as living according to “conditions of worth” — behaving in ways that earn external validation rather than expressing one’s true self.

This misalignment can take a psychological toll. A 2006 study by Kernis and Goldman found that chronic inauthenticity is associated with lower self-esteem, increased anxiety, and reduced life satisfaction. It’s a hollow kind of belonging that demands constant performance, rather than one built on mutual respect and individuality.

What’s most tragic about Puppy Dog Syndrome is that it often masks the rich experience, insight, and stability that older individuals have to offer. Rather than chasing youth, they might be better served — and more appreciated — by showing up as their authentic selves, offering perspective rather than parody.

Intergenerational engagement works best not through mimicry but through mutual curiosity and honesty. Younger generations often value authenticity more than they let on. There’s strength in standing tall in one’s own identity, wisdom in speaking with one’s own voice, and grace in not needing to follow the crowd.

In a world obsessed with fitting in, perhaps the most radical act is simply being yourself — fully, unapologetically, and without the need for approval.

References

Baumeister, R. F., & Leary, M. R. (1995). The need to belong: Desire for interpersonal attachments as a fundamental human motivation. Psychological Bulletin, 117(3), 497–529.
Kernis, M. H., & Goldman, B. M. (2006). A multicomponent conceptualization of authenticity: Theory and research. Advances in Experimental Social Psychology, 38, 283–357.
Rogers, C. R. (1959). A theory of therapy, personality and interpersonal relationships as developed in the client-centered framework. In S. Koch (Ed.), Psychology: A Study of a Science, Vol. 3. McGraw-Hill.

In musing……… Shakti Ghosal

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