Before we redefined what normal meant, my emergency tip-calculating brain cells always did the work to calculate the cost of gratitude and good service. If I was happy and satisfied, it’s a no-brainer 20%. If the server continued to address me as Roger or Rodge instead of Raj, maybe 10%? If I was having the best time of my life, it could be a whopping 25%. If the good times got me drunk, then I wouldn’t even remember what I had scribbled on until the regretful morning after. In general, restaurant tipping is easy. The measure of my satisfaction is an easy formula.

But lately, that formula feels broken. Ever since the pandemic, the news is full of inflation reports—none of them good. The Biden administration flip-flopped on the softness of the “soft landing” they predicted to keep hope alive, kept reminding us that we were not all that inflated. Still, prices soared, and my latte lifestyle took a nosedive.

A year later, here comes the Trump administration’s version of relief—a headline inflation rate hovering around 3% for much of 2025. Trump’s team touts progress, even flashing numbers like 2.7% “average inflation” from January to September, with promises that kitchen staples are getting cheaper. The White House points out that some basic grocery prices actually dropped, but the collective wallet hardly feels any lighter. Meanwhile, voters are still frustrated: years of price hikes don’t simply unwind. My cold brew still feels like a splurge, and somehow, “making lattes great again” isn’t part of the campaign just yet.

If there’s a ‘soft landing’ somewhere, it’s not showing up at my local café. Whether it’s Biden’s post-pandemic battle or Trump’s new round of tariff-fueled sticker shock, the American price tag still feels heavier than my conscience after a second fancy espresso. Politicians may celebrate slowing inflation, but for those of us doing the daily math—latte in one hand, calculator in the other—the squeeze is as real as ever.

The bitter truth, according to the experts, is that pre-pandemic prices at the grocery store aren’t coming back. A true price drop—deflation—is actually bad news for the economy. What we’re told to hope for is disinflation: prices holding steady, not dropping. In other words, those $6 lattes aren’t going anywhere—they’re here to stay.

Nowadays, the base price for a regular latte is over $6, then maybe you add in vanilla syrup, which costs you an extra dollar, and ask for oat milk, which is a dollar more. You’re now staring at an $8 drink, plus taxes and, assuming you’re doing the right thing here, at least a $1 tip.1

Every dollar counts.

Not just for my Barista, an hourly wageworker, but also for me — the coffee-art loving customer who lives pay-check to pay-check. So when I tip my Barista for the coffee I bought, it’s generally a happy transaction. Tipping is my way to express gratitude for the service I expect or hope to receive. At times, it’s simply a friendly gesture between acquaintances. As the gratitude-giver in this relationship, I add that extra 15-20% for the warm welcome, for making me feel important, and for knowing exactly how I like my coffee — never too sweet, always in a mug, and extra hot.

But when every dollar counts, with the prices already inflated on everything from eggs to gas, this “happiness contract” needs to have some basic rules. Because it has gotten out of hand.

Don’t get me wrong, there is absolutely no debate to why good service needs to be appreciated with extra gratitude. After all, it’s a tradition that tracks back to 17th century taverns and inns.

What grinds my gears is the math that goes into pre-defined tipping recommendations at the point-of-service checkout machines. The business owners who set it up seem to take the customer for granted.

For instance, why would the merch (sticker, cap, tee, etc.) that I picked up from the counter along with my coffee require a default 15% tip? Shouldn’t those orders be kept separate?

Why would a takeout order require a tip when it was ordered over an app or online with minimal human interaction? We are already paying for the cost of the product and the service as part of the MRP, aren’t we?

What about the audacity of the unmanned kiosk at the airport vending machine asking for tips? Not only are we allowing machines and AI to take over human jobs, we also want to tip them for it.

Needless to say, this culture of tipping in America has gone wild. What started out in the restaurant industry as a way to foster an environment built on quality of service, has been adopted widely in the food-service industry to delivery apps and anything with an app face. This has led to the culture of guilt-tipping, which is what most of us are defaulting to these days.

The tipping culture is truly unique to America—not merely a matter of custom, but an unwavering expectation etched into every meal and service transaction. Unlike in most other countries, where a modest 10–15% tip is generous and never obligatory, in the United States the act of tipping can feel more like a requirement than a reward. In the UK, much of the EU, and countless other regions, leaving a tip is seen as a courteous gesture, appreciated but never demanded. In fact, tipping in some places can even be unwelcome: in Japan, for instance, offering a tip can be considered impolite or even insulting, a gesture that disrupts the pride and professionalism built into service itself.

When I traveled to Japan in September, I was struck by the absence of tipping culture—and more importantly, by the relief it brought. There were no iPads swiveled toward me at the end of the meal, no silent or direct cues, no awkward pause while the server glanced away, waiting to see whether I would hit the “20%” button, or add a few dollars more for fear of being thought stingy. In Japan, the price listed is the price paid. The exchange—a meal for money, service for gratitude—is already balanced and complete.

Tipping in Japan is not expected, and attempts to leave a tip will almost certainly be turned down (a potentially awkward moment). In Japan, it’s thought that by dining out or drinking at a bar, you are already paying the establishment for good service.2

That stark contrast lays bare just how ingrained and transactional American tipping has become. Here, every coffee run and casual meal now ends with a digital ask for “generosity,” pushing customers to question not just their appreciation but their social standing and sense of fairness. Abroad, gratitude is reserved for moments that truly move you; in America, it sometimes feels like gratitude is demanded by default, making both customer and worker question the real meaning behind every exchange.

In my frequent travels to India, the Middle East, and Australia, I’ve never felt the sticky guilt that comes with tipping in America. In those places, a small token of thanks—some leftover change, a modest amount, or sometimes nothing at all—is simply left behind if you wish. The gesture carries no social weight, no pressure. Locals seem entirely unconcerned, and the baseline expectation is that good service is part of the job, not something to be bought in increments at the end of the meal.

There, tipping is what it was originally meant to be—a spontaneous act of gratitude, reserved for occasions when you are genuinely moved to give thanks, not a mandatory supplement to a substandard wage. In stark contrast, American tipping culture has become loaded with obligation and anxiety, fueled by digital prompts and social expectations that can feel impossible to escape. Here, it’s not uncommon to tip out of guilt rather than gratitude, caught in a system where the “choice” is more about economic survival for workers than appreciation from customers.

As the rest of the world upholds the principle that good service is a standard—not a luxury paid for one tip at a time—America’s practice leaves everyone second guessing: am I generous enough, too generous, or unintentionally shortchanging someone whose livelihood hinges on my decision? In a tough economy, the meaning of tipping here has shifted, becoming less about thanks, and more about the burden of keeping a broken system afloat.

So, what’s so unique about America?

Up next: a deep dive into America’s tipping culture, and what I learned from my Q&A with Dr. Saru Jayaraman. - a leading labor activist, author, and president of One Fair Wage, nationally recognized for her relentless crusade to end sub-minimum wages and transform America’s tipping culture into one rooted in fairness and dignity.

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At a follow-up press meet, with the same YouTuber present, the topic resurfaced and Gouri immediately pushed back—asking how her weight was relevant to the film, emphasising that women come in all shapes and sizes, and insisting her work, not her body, should be the focus. For over 10-12 minutes, she defended her basic right to bodily autonomy and professional respect before a room full of social media influencers whose reviews hold significant sway over a film’s success. The packed audience recorded the incident on their smartphones, but her co-star, director, and team on stage remained silent. The lack of support from those closest to her, and the quiet watchfulness of the room, spoke volumes about the broader culture of indifference she was confronting.

As I watched the social media clips replay repeatedly over the past several weeks—clips that captured national attention—one moment stood out above all, reminding me of how deeply entrenched patriarchy, male ego, and family hierarchies continue to silence women and chastise men in South India.

It was the expression on Gouri Kishan’s face, vividly captured on camera, that spoke volumes to me: an extraordinary blend of helplessness and fierce courage.

She was summoning the strength to hold back tears, to stand tall in a room dominated by men, and fight not only for her own dignity but for every woman who has endured similar indignities. That sustained moment embodies the quiet resilience and bravery required to confront a culture that often demands silence from those it seeks to marginalize.

This is what makes Gouri Kishan’s stand so profoundly inspiring—it is a testament to the courage required to claim respect in the face of disregard. In a recent interview with India Today, Gouri reflects candidly on the incident and on that powerful moment captured on camera—the moment that left a lasting impression on me.

The Silence of Institutions: Why Support Failed Gouri Kishan in Real Time

The most troubling aspect of Gouri Kishan’s experience was not the offensive question itself, but the collective silence that surrounded it. In a room full of journalists, media professionals, film industry veterans, and her own co-star and director, virtually no one spoke up in her defense while she was being subjected to this treatment. This silence is not accidental—it reflects deeply embedded patterns in Indian society where women’s voices, particularly when they challenge male authority or established norms, are systematically marginalized and silenced. Research on women journalists in South Asia reveals a troubling pattern: women who challenge patriarchal norms face severe backlash, yet institutional support is virtually non-existent. Even more concerning is the realization that institutions—whether media organizations, film bodies, or corporate environments—often do not consider it their responsibility to intervene when gender-based disrespect occurs in real time.​​

The delayed support that eventually came for Gouri Kishan—triggered only after her video went viral on social media—highlights a significant structural issue in patriarchal societies: women’s voices often gain recognition not through institutional backing, but through widespread public validation. Press clubs, South Indian film industry bodies, and cinema collectives ultimately issued statements condemning the behavior and expressing solidarity. Numerous actors also publicly supported her. However, this backing emerged only after the incident became impossible to ignore due to viral social media attention. This pattern exposes how institutions in India tend to be reactive rather than proactive in addressing gender-based harassment and discrimination. They frequently await public pressure before taking any action, implying that without widespread social media outcry, such incidents might have been dismissed or relegated to the background noise of everyday misogyny.

Before you continue reading this free preview of an important issue that deserves understanding, discussion, and action, please consider becoming a paid subscriber. The algorithms need to be bribed so it prioritises and broadcasts these stories to a wider audience. It’s the world we live in. So your contribution makes that possible.

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The YouTube Journalist vs. The Professional: A Question of Accountability

One of the unsettling aspects of Gouri Kishan’s experience was the role played by a so-called journalist—a YouTuber who asked the insensitive question that was less about insight and more about spectacle. The casual cruelty of that question, posed in front of cameras and a crowd, felt like an object lesson in how the new media landscape pressures film promotions to cater not to journalistic rigor, but to clicks and controversy.

This is not to dismiss the evolving landscape of journalism. YouTube creators have democratized access, given voice to many unheard, and challenged traditional gatekeepers. But with this power comes responsibility—responsibility that seems glaringly absent in that moment. The YouTuber’s question was framed as innocent curiosity, yet it reduced a professional actor to a body measurement, an object to be weighed and sized rather than respected for craft.

Contrast this with the kind of journalism practiced by seasoned reporters from global outfits like the BBC or CNN. These professionals are trained to pursue lines of inquiry that reveal character, context, and complexity. They understand when a question crosses from inquiry into insensitivity. Their ethos is not to generate clicks through discomfort, but to illuminate truth with empathy and respect.

The film fraternity, caught between traditional media and this newer model of content creators, finds itself in a precarious position. These YouTube journalists wield significant influence, shaping public perception through viral moments. Consequently, events that should be platforms for meaningful dialogue become arenas for sensationalism, often at the expense of dignity—particularly women’s.

The question then arises: should the industry implicitly endorse such conduct by giving airtime, by allowing these moment-driven queries to eclipse thoughtful discourse? And if not, what accountability mechanisms exist for these new media figures who straddle the line between journalism and entertainment? Who upholds standards when the lines blur?

Gouri Kishan’s ordeal shines a spotlight on these tensions. It exposes a system that prioritizes virality and spectacle over respect and professionalism. It challenges us to reconsider not just what questions we ask, but who we call a journalist—and what that title entails in this new age.

In a world reshaped by digital platforms, the hope is that the core values of journalism—truth, respect, ethical responsibility—are not casualties of this transition, but rather its guiding stars. Only then can we hope to create spaces where artists like Gouri are valued beyond physicality, and where questions are bridges to understanding, not weapons of marginalization.

Patriarchy, Male Ego, and Family Hierarchies: A Personal Context

To truly understand Gouri Kishan’s experience, it is essential to look at the specific cultural dynamics of South India, where deeply entrenched patriarchal hierarchies persist despite the region’s reputation for high literacy rates and relative progressivism.

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My card tapped. 
The cashier pretended to look away. 
There was an awkward moment of silence. 
The obligatory screen. The customary tip. 
Am I being judged? Who’s behind me? I can’t decide. 
Should I just close my eyes and pin the tail on the donkey? 
I will go low. 15% then, or maybe a dollar?  
Am I being cheap? But it makes no sense.
They make coffee and I already paid for it. 
What’s it for? Who gets it? What’s appropriate? 
10% seems ok. But that’s custom. 
More screens. More time. More awkwardness.
What if I don’t tip? Will she notice? Does he care? 
Tap something. Just tap and leave.
Tap. 20%. Awkward silence ends. 
They smile. We will call your name when it’s ready.

I blame it all on our post-pandemic economy. Prices have gone up because the cost of goods has gone up. Have you felt the pinch yet?

Many Americans are in a sour mood about the economy for one main reason: Prices feel too high.1

Before we redefined what normal meant, my emergency tip-calculating brain cells always did …

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The report focused on a physical gap left open and unattended at the end of the southern border fence that is being exploited by illegal migrants. They sneak in while an armed U.S. border patrol silently watches on without taking any action. While it is surprising that this passage has not been barricaded yet, what is more alarming are the ethnicities of these migrants. They are not Cubans, Haitians, Nicaraguans, or Venezuelans. They are not from Colombia, El Salvador, Guatemala, or Honduras. The majority of illegal migrations crossing over are from China and India.

Near this illegal entry point is a private property north of the border that belongs to Jerry Shuster, a 70+ year-old resident of Jacumba Hot Springs, California, located about 75 miles east of San Diego. The migrants enter Jerry’s property and unapologetically use his resources to camp out and endure their first cold California night.

Jerry, who was interviewed for 60-minutes, estimated about 3000 illegals trespassing into this property every week. All day long, from sunrise to sunset, there are batches of a dozen or more migrants getting dropped off every 30 mins. Many of them discard their passports on their way in, and wait for U.S. border control to register them. Within a week, they are allocated to a city where they can start a new asylum life in The United States — the land of the free, home for the brave.

With the world in disarray due to ongoing conflicts and wars, refugees and asylum seekers are heading toward The United States in unprecedented numbers2. Meanwhile, the plight of American citizens like Jerry, who migrated legally in 1969 from former Yugoslavia, seems to be falling on deaf ears.

“We have a very difficult situation here, they’re knocking our fences down, they don’t obey the rules, they’re burning down our trees, they’re burning down our fence poles, they are coming near our homes, we don’t know who these people are, we really don’t.” 3

This is the largest mass illegal migration of Asians from east to west at a time when the open-door policies of the Biden administration are being challenged by a Republican opposition. Many conservatives across the country call this an invasion of America, whereas the more liberal minds would find it disheartening and disturbing to watch as I did.

What you will read next is the modus operandi of these migrants from China and India trying to escape two economically stable and prosperous countries.

• Part 1: Understanding the East Asian route from China to the U.S. southern border

• Part 2: Understanding the South Asian route from India to the U.S. southern border

• Part 3: Comparative analysis of migrants from China and India based on publicly available data of encounters at the U.S. southern border

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This was the first time I had arrived in the country on an American passport, and being granted a visa on-arrival was a privilege I did not have before. But as soon as I stepped outside, I was just another brown man on the streets of Dubai, soon to be lost in the crowd.

The UAE is among the top 5 ranked safest countries in the Middle East due to their low crime rate attributed to strict laws, a stable economy, and a diverse population of expatriates from around the world making tax-free money. According to my family, friends, and even some strangers I met there, America is still the wild, wild west. The lack of gun control and rising racial tensions are all they see, besides the obvi…

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Yet, the priority of the government, a puppet show of corrupt or exiled public personalities dancing to the string pulls of their military masters, is to pay the rich with the bailout money that they begged and borrowed from the IMF while the rest of the country struggles.

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There was a lot of money in that package, 1.2 trillion to be exact, for repairing our bridges, roads, public transportation network and more. This was a big deal, especially since the only notable infrastructure investment by the Trump administration was a border wall.

The “Trump Wall” sounded crazy at the time, but now not so much when compared to the “Iron Wall” that Israel built to keep the Palestinians out. I guess when we hear “walls” we think of the Berlin Wall, and it sounds bad.

Ironically, Biden is having to put the finishing touches by allocating $950 million of the Trump-era funds, clearly con…

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Dave, a graphic designer and amazing artist, once told me that he moved to Tennessee from Florida in hopes of better healthcare. He sounded optimistic about his upcoming robotic double bypass surgery and had complete faith in his surgeon. Dave and I shared an appreciation of artisan coffee, so I promised to take him to one of my favorite coffee hangouts upon his return.

31 days after the surgery, Dave texted to let me know that he was in a rehab center nearby undergoing physical and occupational therapies to regulate his breathing - a side effect possibly from the anesthesia. He missed spending time with Beta and was also craving Aloo Vindaloo. My wife and I talked about treating Dave to some home cooked Indian …

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Trump stepped into office on 20th January 2017 and his first 100 days as Commander-in-Chief were tumultuous to say the least. There was confusion in the White House. The National Security Advisor was fired on a whim, and experienced elected officials were replaced by right-wing bureaucrats belonging to Trump’s band of advisors. Federal investigations were meddled with. Facts were challenged. News …

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Myopia, originating from the greek word “muopia” meaning “to close the eyes”, is commonly referred to as near-sightedness. It is a condition wherein close objects appear clearly while objects faraway are blurred, and is diagnosed usually in the pre-teen years.

Myopia is first noticed in children after the age of 6 years, accompanied by excessive elongation of the axial length of the eye, and steadily increases until the age of 14, after which it gradually decreases and stabilizes in the early twenties.2

My dad started wearing glasses in his early 30’s, my mom in her 40’s, both of which can be attributed to deteriorating eyesight with age. But my younger brother and I got our prescribed attachments well before our teenage years.

Here’s how my Dad explains it, “You guys watched too many shows on TV and needed correction later for permanent usage, but your older brother was an exception.”

My older brother is surely the anomaly with perfect 20-20 vision even now in his 50s. Why is he an exception? He watched Air Wolf, Street Hawk, Blue Thunder, The A-Team, Misfits of Science, Benji, Automan, Knight Rider, The Fall Guy, and all those 80s and 90s classic tv-series sitting right next to us. And no, he wasn’t adopted.

He is an exception because myopia is not always inherited, despite popular and prevailing beliefs. Genetics is merely a contributing factor that ups the chances of getting it, especially if one or both parents are myopic.

Similarly, reading or studying all the time, watching television up close, or being addicted to the blue screens of our handheld devices, are risk factors for developing or worsening Myopia in children. They are not the root cause according to a recent documentary by ENDEVR3.

The Environment Factor

The environment we grow up in plays a big part in our development, especially in the case of our eyesight. It was Ian Morgan, an Australian researcher, who stumbled up on this realization.

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In 2018, the Time Magazine reported1 that by 2070 the dead will outnumber the living on Facebook based on a research paper published2 that year. It was later estimated in 2022 that there were about 30 million dead users on Facebook. Many of them are memorialized users, which means their online life has been digitally frozen facebook-forever.

Our digital footprint is infinite at this point. We can only clean up that clutter to an extent. Our personal thoughts and confidential information has propagated through servers around the world for at least a century by now.

This ocean of digitized data that we continue to accumulate has a legal term - Digital Estate. For most of us in the 21st century this is really the legacy we are leaving behind. Who will take care of our digital legacy?

Meanwhile, death-care has become a lucrative industry where the demand just won’t dry up. In the wake of a pandemic that resulted in an unprecedented loss of lives, many visionary entrepreneurs saw an uptick in demand in death-care services. This paved a new path for more DeathTech startups to emerge.

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Today, my 7-year-old nephew is glued to the 10” screen of his iPad. He enjoys watching the adventures of the PAW Patrol, and the Miraculous: Tales of Ladybug & Cat Noir, as they team up to protect their respective cartoon-land communities. These shows have taken imagination to futuristic, dystopian and supernatural heights. The simplicity of cartoons that once existed, with hand-sketched scenes1 of the plight of a cat chasing a mouse, or a diabolical Coyote trying t…

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Each one of these martial arts forms stay relevant to this day, popularized as sports in schools and as franchise opportunities for small-businesses.  So if I asked you to name the oldest martial arts form in this world I am more than certain that you would name one of these popular ones. Frankly, I would have done the same.

Hey ChatGPT, What is the Oldest Martial Arts in the World?

This time the result …

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This post will provide highlights (each 90secs) from a recent interview, where we talk about some of the core problems causing this widespread issue. Dr. Shreekumar helps us gain awareness of this important social issue targeting not just us but generations to come.

Are we losing this battle against drug traffickers?

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If you missed Part 1 of this series where I set the context of this current and growing social issue, please read it here.

Shibin Shaji Varghese holds a master's degree in social work (MSW) and in his first year of college he received an internship placement in the Railway Childline wing at Ernakulam where he would get field-trained on addiction counseling for children in distress.

The Railway Childline Help Desk (RCHD) is a 24-hour kiosk service at the A-grade railway stations of Kerala, including Trivandrum, Ernakulam Junction, Thrissur, and Kozhikode, established in 2018 in partnership with the Ministry of Railways and Ministry of Women and Child Development. Their objective is to provide immediate and emergency support to runaway, lost, abandoned, or trafficked children, who are found taking refuge in the trains or transiting through Kerala's railway nodes. According to Sahrudaya, a charitable and non-profile organization registered in Ernakulam, the RCHD has the following 4 focus areas:

• Rescue children found wandering alone in trains or at stations

• Protecting and caring for the unaccompanied children found in railway stations

• Provide legal aid to children arriving by train as potential victims of child labor

• Assist in finding missing children

Shibin was 21 years old at the time. Little did he know that a kid from North India was about to change his perspective of the world and his purpose in life.

The First Case

In 2015, an NDTV investigation exposed a major child trafficking racket in Gaya, the 2nd largest city in the state of Bihar. The city known for its temples, and heritage, a place of pilgrimage, was termed India's Heart of Darkness. It was assumed that about 4000 children (including minors) were being trafficked every month from Gaya, through bus and railway networks. At least one child in every household was sold to major cities across India for child labor, and the middlemen were usually the child's relatives. A farmer in Gaya sent his 6-year-old son away with a relative for Rs.300/month and never heard back from the child again. It may be symbolic of this reality that the word “Gaya” in English translates to "Gone".

In 2018, Shibin starts his day as a volunteer for Childline eager to clock his first 8-hour shift at the Ernakulam railway station. During that day he becomes instrumental in assisting Childline to take into custody a Bihari kid whose day job was to pick up plastic bottles discarded by passengers in the train compartments and on the tracks, which he would later sell at a local scrap shop for Rs.10/kg. He had arrived in Kerala several years ago and has been skillfully evading the railway police, operating unnoticed, while being pitifully ignored by commuters. That day Shibin and the Childline staff intervened.

The Bihari kid, only 15 years old at the time, was unusually strong for his age and put up a fight. Shibin recalls how they had to wrestle him with the help of the police before detaining him. He cursed at them and protested in a dialect that was a mix of Hindi and Bihari, a language foreign to Shibin and his Malayalee colleagues. In an act of retaliation, the kid even tried to inflict self-harm to persuade them to set him free. His captors were equally relentless and with the support and guidance of the state-appointed Child Welfare Committee (CWC) team, they succeeded in admitting the kid to a shelter home.

This was Shibin's inaugural day as an intern volunteering for Childline and he had worked 48hrs straight on what became his first case of thousands that would follow.

Shibin continued to be involved with the case as social workers and doctors evaluated the Bihari kid for substance abuse. They found that he was addicted to Pan Parag, an Indian chewing tobacco product that had decayed the molars of his teeth through continuous usage, and Beedi, a hand-rolled thin cigarette made of uncured tobacco wrapped in tendu leaves, that he used to curb his hunger with. He was diagnosed as mentally unstable and the CWC recommended that he undergo treatment. He was later transferred to a boy's home in Kottayam where he continued fighting the system that was trying to help him. At one point he was accused of sexually assaulting other kids which got him transferred to the Govt. Mental Health Center at Oolampara Trivandrum for further treatment and care. That's where Shibin's purview ended for this Bihari kid.

In 2023, Shibin is visited by a young familiar face. As he reintroduced himself Shibin recognized the Bihar kid he had found 5 years ago sleeping on the railway platform. His eyes were not the red budging ones he remembered, his lips seemed to have regained color, and his teeth had been restored. He said he was on his way back to his Gaav (village) and on his way to track down some old acquaintances who owed him money. He stopped by the Childline Railway Helpdesk to meet the person who had changed the course of his life.

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“The STOP signs,” I said.

You see! In India, intersections are like roundabouts without the roundabout, and traffic can move in any direction to cross over. The palm-faced hand of a traffic cop brave enough to step in front of charging cars, buses, trucks and rickshaws, two-wheelers, two-leggers, and even some four-leggers seems to be the only sign we obey. But even that is considered an unwelcome and uncomfortable interruption responded only by the wrath of our honks. For we are in survival mode, and nothing should get in the way of the natural order of chaos on Indian roads.

So I understand why this big and bold writing painted in yellow on the road in front of my family home never came up as a topic of discussion, even as we drove over it every day. We don’t see these signs as we are busy chasing after the chaos of our daily lives.

One day I went for an early…

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