Jimmy Soni, talking to David Perell on an episode of How I write, made a distinction that stuck: AI isn’t the writer. It’s the tool that gets the picture in your head onto the page. You write the draft, in your voice, and then use AI to find better words, sharpen sentences, push back on weak arguments. The writing stays yours. The voice stays yours.
That’s the only way it works. The moment you outsource the draft, you’ve outsourced the voice. And the voice is the only thing worth keeping.
]]>When I was done, I had five channels left. All of them about writing.
The feed looked almost empty.
What we put into our bodies gets a lot of attention. Processed food, empty calories, sugar engineered to keep you eating past being full. Chronic overconsumption of the wrong things damages the body’s ability to function — not just its weight, but its metabolism, its capacity to process food the way it was meant to.
The same thing is happening to our minds.
The feeds we scroll, the notifications we chase, the content we consume without choosing — it’s information junk food. Engineered, like ultra-processed food, to bypass the signal that says enough. We’re losing our ability to regulate attention. To sit with one thought. To let an idea breathe before moving to the next one.
I’m calling it mental obesity.
A hundred channels felt like a fast food feast. Five feels like a diet I can live on.
]]>I have also started cooking. I try to make something with what is available. Better the ingredients, better the meal.
This also applies to reading and writing habits. If you aspire to be a writer, you need new and varied thoughts. You need raw material to work on. That comes from the whatever it is that you consume.
People consume everything online, YouTube videos, podcasts, reels etc. What you consume determines how you think. This is why a section of the world has become an echo-chamber, especially politics and human rights.
To be able to write differently, you should be able to think differently. That doesn’t happen if you are consuming the same thing as everyone else. If you want to stand out, read different books and sources, not just the random self help books that instagram is suggesting since past few months. Read widely, read beyond what you think is your area.
I, am a work in progress.
]]>There is a ceiling. Every model processes a task in a fixed number of steps determined by the length of the input. If a task genuinely requires more steps than that, the model cannot complete it correctly. It will produce something. That something will not be right. This isn’t a training or a data problem. It is a structural problem.
The paper also points out that asking one AI to verify another AI’s work doesn’t fix this. And reasoning models, the industry’s current answer to everything, don’t escape it either. More tokens in the “think” step is not the same as more computational ability.
The tasks sitting above this ceiling are not obscure edge cases. Complex legal reasoning, medical diagnosis, autonomous code deployment. The things being promised on every earnings call. Last month I was pondering on who benefits from the alarm. Now smart people are helping figure out what the technology can actually do.
Two different questions. Same answer.
P.S. The full argument, with the researchers’ credentials and the paper’s actual mechanics, is coming to Zero Parsec soon. I’ll link it here when it’s up.
]]>By the end of the day I’d been “learning” for hours. I felt strangely empty.
It took me back to summers at my grandmother’s house. Excellent food, a daily walk to my aunt’s to catch some TV, and otherwise — nothing. No infinite scroll. No on-demand anything. Just long afternoons with nowhere to put your attention.
In that vacuum, I built things. Fighter planes from matchsticks, rubber bands, scraps of cardboard. I sketched spacecraft too — imaginary ones, meant to carry humans across the galaxy. No reference material. Just time, and a mind with nowhere else to go.
I haven’t sketched anything in years. Finding ten minutes to sit with a book feels like a struggle now. Every gap I might have left empty, I fill. The commute. The meal. The ten minutes before sleep. The boredom is gone. So is whatever it made.
David Foster Wallace said something about this in 2003 — that reading requires sitting alone in a quiet room, and that for a lot of people that now produces something closer to dread than boredom. He noticed that public spaces in America had stopped being quiet. Music piped into every corner. Not because people love the music, but because silence had become unbearable. That part of us that’s hungry for quiet, he said, never gets fed. And it makes itself felt, somewhere in the body.
That was 2003. It’s only gotten louder since.
I think we’ve confused a busy mind with a productive one. When your brain is processing someone else’s podcast, it isn’t making its own connections. It isn’t building spacecraft in its imagination. It’s just a passenger.
The podcast was good, by the way. I learned things. That’s not the problem.
The problem is I stopped leaving any room for my own thoughts to show up.
]]>I read it this morning and it made me think.
I have spent four decades living in three different Indian states. For much of that time, I understood Berry’s central idea from the inside without knowing it had a name: that when we move away from our native land, we feel displaced and absolved. The welfare of the new place, its upkeep, its future, none of it feels like our responsibility.
I moved to Bengaluru in my twenties for work. Born into a Malayali family in New Delhi in the 80s, raised in Kerala in the 90s, Bollywood songs and jalebis, Yesudas and fish curry, I arrived here as a stranger to the language, the food, the culture. I learnt just enough Kannada to get 9 km to my office by bus. No more. In my mind, the city was temporary. An assignment with a time limit. You don’t invest in a place you’re planning to leave.
Between 14-hour workdays and the weight of family expectations, there was no room for anything else anyway. My colleagues spoke English. My identity stayed that of a visitor. Bengaluru was where I worked, not where I lived.
I let this go on for years. Like others who had moved in from other places, I found myself distancing from any responsibility one should feel as a citizen. I assumed that responsibility stayed with people who were from here. I compared the city unfavourably with the place I had come from, with a pride that now embarrasses me slightly.
What changed is harder to pinpoint. Age, maybe. Friendships that crossed the lines I had quietly drawn. At some point the resistance started costing more than it gave.
Berry’s argument is that a place and its people shape you, whether you allow it or not. The question is whether you meet that shaping with openness or with arms crossed. I had spent years with arms crossed.
I slowly put them down. A word of Kannada here, a locally flavoured meal, a road I knew by feel. The city started being home.
I married a proud Kannadiga. For those unfamiliar with India, language, attire and food change every 100-300 kms here. Marrying across that is a big deal. Being accepted across that is a bigger one. My newfound family gave me love and respect I hadn’t anticipated, and never once made me feel like an outsider. I stopped being one.
Now, driving through traffic, walking the green corridors of the city, sitting in a cafe with my coffee, I feel proud to be a citizen of this place. I have arrived. A Kannadiga friend said it better than I could —
You came in as a son in law to this state, but now you have become a son.
Berry writes that a person is more fully alive in a place they have truly committed to. I believe him. The land gave back exactly as much as I was willing to give it.
Wherever life takes me next, whichever city, state or country, I will not make the same mistake twice. Don’t arrive with luggage and leave with nothing.
]]>I can type relatively fast and can maintain a train of thought long enough for my fingers to type in sentences at a relatively good pace. But, over a period of time, my blogs and my personal information management systems (read Apple notes or Logseq) have gathered a bunch of drafts that have never been published. Most of these are the result of distractions that are easy to find when you are equipped with a computer that is connected to the internet.
I have restarted my reading habit again and as usual while going down the rabbit hole of channels that talk about reading on YouTube, I came across a video that emphasised the importance of writing the first draft by hand. By hand in this context means using pen (or pencil) on paper. Later down the same path I learnt that legendary Stephen King wrote all of his first drafts on paper.
I was reading one of the amazing essays by the prolific Wendell Berry this morning and it sparked an idea for an essay in my mind. Instead of reaching out for a word processor, I decided to reach out for the black bound notebook in my backpack. I started writing and felt like I was able to make the connection between my mind and the pen perfectly. Words were flowing more easy and a long lost art suddenly felt like it is making its comeback.
Within a few minutes, I realised that I was in a flow state, just converting thoughts to scribbly lines on the paper and making perfect sense of everything. I realised why some people emphasise on writing on paper, at least the first draft.
Writing the first draft on paper also gives an opportunity to edit while moving from paper to digital, one extra layer of edit and polish. I am loving it and going forward I will be sticking to this workflow. Paper first, then digital.
Ironically, this entire article was written directly in markdown format on Visual Studio Code, which is my text editor of choice. I needed to see the difference and I am definitely going paper first, digital second from now on.
The article I drafted using pen and paper can be found here: Finally a native
]]>Although the thought of his passing loomed at the back of my mind for past couple of years as he was showing the signs of ageing and had difficulty in getting up and walking around, in my mind, he was eternal. He was always going to be around, curled up behind my chair as I work, placing his head gently on my lap when he needs attention and our morning walks. That is something I miss the most.
For me Kittu was my firstborn, and nothing or no one can ever replace him in my life. Do I have regrets? Yes, I wish I had spent more time with him, I wish I had expressed myself a little more. But what it’s worth, he has had a pretty good life.
His passing has taught me that life is precious, time is precious. I must not spend it holding grudges or overthinking petty things.
I miss him the same way I missed him the day he passed. Everything around the house reminds me of him. Every corner of the house is filled with his absence. The silence is deafening.
It is difficult to control tears whenever I find his hair somewhere in the most impossible of places, on my keyboard, inside the drawers and on my clothes. In a way, I do not want to clean them up. Those are the last of whatever physical form he has left.
I have spent days reading about other people’s experiences of losing a pet, recurring theme is that you never forget them and the grief remains. I am prepared to carry that grief through the rest of my life. I feel honoured to be able to do that. In his honour, for having given us the gift of spending his entire life with us. Sharing happiness and selfless love, even when I was at my lowest point in life.
I miss feeling him around the house, the sound of his feet trotting around, his occasional snoring and the vision of him sleeping peacefully and I will miss it for as long as I have life in myself. Such was his love.
]]>Love you forever and ever Kittu!
Most of us have two lives. The life we live, and the unlived life within us. Between the two stands Resistance.
— Steven Pressfield: The War of Art
There’s an old story about a young sculptor, who inherited a massive block of marble from his father. For years, he dreamed of carving a masterpiece, something the world would admire. But every time he picked up his chisel, doubt crept in.
“What if I ruin it?” “What if I’m not skilled enough?” “What if people laugh at my work?”
So the marble sat untouched, gathering dust. Days turned into years, and eventually, he grew old. One evening, he visited a renowned sculptor in the village and confessed his regret. The famous sculptor led him to his workshop and pointed to a brilliant finished statue.
“This” he said, “is my greatest work. But do you know what it once was?”
The sad sculptor shook his head.
“It was just a block of stone, until I began.”
He realized then that the masterpiece had never been hidden in the marble. It had always been hidden in him.
We all carry within us an life yet to be lived, the art uncreated, the book unwritten, the dreams yet to be fulfilled. And yet, Resistance stands in our way, disguised as fear, doubt, or the comfortable illusion of ‘later.’ But later is a thief. It steals from the life we could have lived.
Resistance is not a wall, it’s a mirage. It disappears the moment we step forward.
So here’s something to carry with you - The life you long for isn’t waiting for permission. It’s waiting for action. Pick up the chisel. Take the first step. The masterpiece isn’t in the marble, it’s in you.
]]>You’ll find reflections here. On marriage, health, growing older, being the eldest child, buying a motorcycle in late 30s, and all the self-talk that goes into wondering, “Do I deserve this?” Spoiler: most of the time, yes, we do.
What fascinates me most is how we behave, how we carry our childhood scripts into adult decisions, how we bottle up emotions until they spill in strange ways, how a scar you think everyone notices is often invisible to them. Human behavior is endlessly curious to me. Sometimes I just sit with a coffee, watch people, and wonder what story they’re living through today. Writing helps me turn that same lens inward.
This blog is a place for me to do that. To reflect. To reconnect with my younger self. To listen to the version of me that often goes unheard in a noisy day. It’s not always polished, and it’s rarely planned. But it’s real.
Think of this space like a public journal, but with better punctuation. Sometimes thoughtful, sometimes cheeky, always honest.
And if even one post here makes you feel a little less alone in your own mess — well, that makes this whole exercise a little magical.
⸻
P.S. You won’t find clickbait here. But you will find a guy in late 30s wondering if buying a Honda CB350RS is selfish or self-care. Stick around — it gets philosophical sometimes.
]]>And here comes the cliché — everything feels clearer now. It’s not just a physical transformation, but a shift in the mind as well.
For the longest time, I held on to mental blocks around working out. I told myself I could do it all at home. That I’d find the discipline, squeeze in a few exercises here and there, and manage my food well enough to stay in shape.
But apart from brief spurts where my weight fluctuated, nothing really worked. The gains always came back.
That is, until last week, when I finally walked into the gym, signed up for a yearly membership, and even opted for a personal trainer.
The biggest decision wasn’t about lifting weights. It was simply deciding to show up.
That’s all I committed to: walking through the door. I knew that once I was in, the rest would follow.
Now that the transaction is done, my only daily goal is to put on my gym clothes and step outside. The rest takes care of itself.
I reach the gym on time, get in some cardio, and then begin my strength training with the trainer. Weight training feels intense. Sometimes it burns like fire, but it’s real, and I love it.
As I write this, I’m feeling DOMS (delayed onset muscle soreness) in all sorts of places. But it’s the kind of pain I’ve earned. And I’m not complaining.
I’m looking forward to a year of transformation.
And maybe, when I look back, I’ll say: This was the year I started my second life.
]]>Allow me to indulge you.
It was the second half of 2005, my very first semester of engineering. The dreaded first internals were around the corner, and I wanted to give them my best shot. The horror stories from seniors about how a poor internal score could ruin your final grade were more than enough motivation.
For one of the subjects, I decided I’d start early and really focus. I knew the hostel would be buzzing by 9:30 AM, making distraction free study nearly impossible. So, I woke up at 6, freshened up, and sat down at my desk by 6:30.
And, I slipped into focus.
I began by writing down and summarizing every single topic from the syllabus. I wasn’t checking the clock. I wasn’t thinking about anything else. Just page after page, concept after concept. Before I even realized it, it was 9:30 AM—breakfast time. A neat stack of handwritten notes sat beside me, and my roommate looked at it in disbelief.
“You already started?!” he asked, surprised.
After breakfast, I sat back down. No rest. No chit-chat.
The second deep session lasted another three hours, all the way to lunch. Then again, post lunch from 1:30 to 5 PM. I was amazed at myself. I wasn’t distracted, I wasn’t tired, and except for short breaks for water or the washroom, I barely moved. I didn’t even speak to my roommates.
After dinner, around 9 PM, my roommate walked in and said something that still makes me smile:
“Dude, what got into you? I’m feeling jealous watching you study like that!”
I turned to look at my desk. It was overflowing with notes. The dustbin was stuffed with the day’s scribbles. I blinked, half in disbelief. It felt surreal, but I didn’t want to stop.
I finally went to bed at around 1:30 AM.
Sixteen hours of study.
No fatigue. No force. Just flow.
That was the first time I tasted what it truly means to be in a flow state, when the world fades away and all that remains is doing. And when it hits, it’s powerful.
]]>Everything we watch, hear, or read, whether it’s videos, podcasts, blog posts, or shorts, started as writing.
Want to create something? Start by writing.
Write a lot.
]]>I’ve always been fascinated by cameras, maybe because growing up, we had a finicky one, sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t. And it used film, so every shot had to count. A single roll gave you about 30 photos, and you had to be careful not to waste them. Because of that, there are far fewer pictures of me as a kid than any Gen Z growing up today.
My nieces, who are only just over two, already have more photos on my phone than I probably have of my entire childhood.
At some point, I got caught up in the idea of photography. I bought a phone with a great camera, then a DSLR, thinking I wanted to be a photographer. But over time, I realized that I don’t. At least, not in the professional sense.
I take a lot of photos, but not for the aesthetics or the perfect composition. I take them for memories.
“The best thing about a picture is that it never changes, even when the people in it do.”
– Andy Warhol
A photo is a moment in time, frozen forever. It’s a portal to the past, bringing back not just the image, but the feelings of that instant. To me, it’s like hearing an old song, one that’s deeply ingrained in my mind, suddenly transporting me back to a different time. A wisp of nostalgia.
Actually this video should be able to explain this a little better - How to Remember Your Life
Sometimes, I scroll through my camera roll just to relive those moments. And every time, I’m grateful I captured them. I am also grateful to my wife who has encouraged me to capture these moments. She has made me realise that these are important.
Life moves fast. Most of it, you won’t remember. But photos help. They remind you where you’ve been, who you were, and how far you’ve come. So take more pictures.
]]>Closure is not always necessary. Every friendship need not have a conclusive ending or a mutual acknowledgment. Some people are just passing through, and the lack of a final conversation doesn’t make what you had any less meaningful.
Maybe some friendships are like background music in a cafe, you enjoy them while they play, but you don’t always notice when the song ends.
]]>The last week of the year, especially the days between Christmas and New Year’s Eve, carries a unique charm. It’s a time when most people wind down (well, almost everyone) and eagerly await the new year. Although time is just a human construct, a way for us to measure and organize our lives, it’s still comforting to take a step back and relax during this period.
This year, I’ve taken time off work for this week, with no grand plans for once. It’s the first time in years I’ve allowed myself an extended break with the sole intention of focusing on personal projects and simply being.
As we transition into 2025, I wish everyone on Earth more peace and happiness—something we all need in the current climate. May 2025 treat us kindly as we edge closer to completing the first quarter of this century.
]]>The Plan:
I’ve “started getting healthy” more times than Ross said “We were on a break”. But this time, I’m putting it out here. That means there’s no backing out, no excuses, and sadly, no sneaky night binges that “don’t count because nobody saw”.
The 3 (Highly Negotiable but definitely Non-Negotiable) Rules:
Why? Because being healthy is underrated, and I refuse to huff and puff my way up a flight of stairs ever again. Plus, I’d like to stick around long enough to witness the next technology-will-destroy-us-all innovation. Priorities, right?
So, here it is, my official, no-way-out declaration that 2025 will be my year of transformation (minus the cheesy makeover montage). I’m coming for you, 72 kgs, armed with a salad fork and a reusable water bottle.
Here’s to the healthiest year yet. Let’s do this!
]]>This is the trap of infinite accessibility. We’re bombarded by curated perfection and compare it to our unedited lives. It’s not a fair comparison, yet it’s one we make daily. Add the fear of missing out, and the pressure to follow society’s invisible timeline grows unbearable.
But life isn’t a race. There’s no universal schedule for happiness or success. Starting a family at 40 or forging an unconventional path isn’t a failure, it’s a choice. Social media might ignore the struggles behind the glamour, but our lives aren’t meant to be measured in likes or timelines.
Instead of asking, What am I missing? maybe ask, What do I have? The answer might surprise you.
]]>Resistance has been a constant companion in my life. Whether it was something important, like applying for my driving license in my teens, or something seemingly trivial, like shaving in the morning, Resistance always found a way to whisper excuses in my ear.
Last weekend, my wife and I escaped to a beautiful villa nestled in the heart of a plantation estate. It was the perfect getaway, a reminder that joy often hides in the simplest of moments. In that cozy villa, sipping coffee while rewatching the first two seasons of F·R·I·E·N·D·S for what felt like the hundredth time, I was reminded of the beauty of slowing down. It was absolute bliss.
But here’s the twist: before we set out, I felt Resistance creeping in. The idea of a quiet weekend at home seemed far more tempting than waking up early, driving hundreds of kilometers, and venturing into unfamiliar territory. Resistance whispered, Stay home. Don’t bother. Why go through all that effort?
Thankfully, I didn’t listen. Because adventure, and the purest kind of bliss, lies just on the other side of Resistance.
Whatever Resistance is telling you to avoid, challenge it. Break through it. You might just find the moments that make life truly meaningful waiting for you on the other side.
]]>As a child, the radio was always on in our home. Later, cassettes introduced by cousins and friends became my go to. Eventually, MP3 players and CDs took over, changing how I listened but not what music meant to me.
Certain songs take me back to specific moments in my life, simpler, quieter times. Nostalgia hits not because I miss the music itself but because I miss how life felt when I first heard it.
Where does your playlist take you?
]]>