A Nation in Crisis: When Systems Fail Humanity

The fabric of compassion in the United States appears to be fraying, revealing a dangerous trajectory where the most vulnerable are increasingly discarded by systems designed to protect them. Recent events, from the heart-wrenching eviction of a disabled woman in Minnesota to the callous disregard for a student’s life, paint a grim picture of a society where empathy often takes a backseat to profit, enforcement, and political maneuvering.

The Minnesota Tragedy: Fraud, Eviction, and the Streets

The story emerging from Minnesota is a horrifying testament to systemic failure and moral bankruptcy. A differently-abled woman found herself evicted by government agents after the welfare agency responsible for her care committed egregious fraud. By inflating her bills and eventually ceasing rent payments, the agency left her exposed and vulnerable. Government agents, instead of intervening with support, simply ordered her to vacate her home.

This incident, fortunately captured on video, highlights a disturbing reality: how can a differently-abled person survive on the streets, abruptly thrust into a world utterly unprepared for their specific needs? This is not just a case of administrative error; it’s a stark example of how corruption at one level can dismantle an individual’s entire life, pushing them into homelessness and extreme peril. The very agencies meant to be a safety net have, in this instance, become a source of profound trauma.

Justice Denied: The “Limited Value” of a Life

Another deeply unsettling incident involves the tragic death of Jaahnavi Kandula, a Telugu student from India, who was run over by police officers. The subsequent revelation of an officer’s callous comment—that she had “limited value”—sent shockwaves through the nation and the world. While her family has since been awarded a multi-million dollar compensation, the question remains: Can money truly bring back a life, or restore a sense of humanity and accountability in those who serve and protect?

The financial settlement, while a form of legal redress, does not erase the dehumanizing sentiment expressed. It forces us to confront whether such compensation truly addresses the deeper cultural issues within institutions that allow such a disturbing disregard for human life.

Immigration: Quotas Over Compassion

The relentless pursuit of quotas by ICE agents, leading to the expulsion of immigrants, further underscores this disturbing trend. The human cost of these policies is immense, tearing families apart and denying individuals the opportunity for a safe and stable life, often based on arbitrary targets rather than individual circumstances or humanitarian considerations. It reflects a hardening stance that prioritizes enforcement statistics over the inherent dignity of every person seeking a better life.

Cuba: The Human Cost of Geopolitics

Beyond its borders, U.S. foreign policy continues to exert a heavy toll. The people of Cuba are currently suffering a severe fuel crisis, a direct consequence of the U.S. embargo. This economic pressure, intended to achieve political aims, directly impacts the daily lives and well-being of millions, demonstrating how geopolitical strategies can inflict widespread hardship on innocent populations.

A Dangerous Trajectory

These incidents, taken together, paint a troubling picture of a nation on a dangerous trajectory. The underlying thread connecting these disparate events appears to be an “unbridled indulgence” and a societal shift where immediate gratification and profit often outweigh fundamental human values like empathy, compassion, and collective responsibility. When “enjoyment” and economic efficiency become the ultimate priorities, the vulnerable, the marginalized, and the politically inconvenient are the first to suffer.

The question is no longer merely “What has happened to the government and the people in the US?” but “How do we collectively restore a sense of humanity and ensure that our systems truly serve and protect all, especially those most in need?” The path forward requires a re-evaluation of our priorities and a renewed commitment to the core principles of empathy and justice.

അഹന്തയെ അലിയിച്ചുകളഞ്ഞ ആ നോട്ടം

ഒടുവിൽ, അത് എഴുതാനുള്ള സമയം അതിക്രമിച്ചിരിക്കുന്നു. പ്രപഞ്ചം നിശ്ചയിച്ച ഏതെങ്കിലും മാന്ത്രിക മുഹൂർത്തമായതുകൊണ്ടല്ല ഇത്; മറിച്ച്, അമ്മയെ കണ്ടുമുട്ടിയതിനുശേഷമുള്ള എന്റെ അനുഭവങ്ങൾ കുറിച്ചുവെക്കാൻ ഇപ്പോൾ ഞാൻ ഉള്ളിൽനിന്ന് പ്രേരിപ്പിക്കപ്പെടുന്നു എന്ന് മാത്രം.

മുറകാമിയുടെ നോർവീജിയൻ വുഡ് വായിക്കുന്നതിനിടയിലാണ് ഈ ഓർമ്മ എന്നിൽ വീണ്ടും ഉണർന്നത്. പുസ്തകത്തിലെ നായകൻ നാഓക്കോയുടെ കണ്ണുകളിലേക്ക് നോക്കുന്നതും, യാതൊരു കാരണവുമില്ലാതെ അവൾ അവനെ നോക്കുമ്പോൾ അവനിലുണ്ടാകുന്ന നിസ്സഹായാവസ്ഥയും വിവരിക്കുന്ന ഭാഗം വായിച്ചപ്പോൾ, വർഷങ്ങൾക്ക് മുമ്പ് പൂനെയിൽ വെച്ചുണ്ടായ ആ സന്ദർഭം എന്റെ ഉള്ളിൽ തെളിഞ്ഞു വന്നു. 1991-നും 1995-നും ഇടയിലായിരുന്നു അത്. കൃത്യമായി പറഞ്ഞാൽ 1995-ൽ.

മുറകാമിയുടെ പുസ്തകത്തിൽ അത് പ്രണയിതാക്കൾ തമ്മിലുള്ള നോട്ടമാണ്. എന്നാൽ എന്റെ അനുഭവം അതൊന്നുമായിരുന്നില്ല. അത് തികച്ചും വ്യത്യസ്തമായിരുന്നു.

പൂനെയിലെ ആ ഉച്ചനേരം

അന്ന് പൂനെയിലെ അമ്മയുടെ മഠത്തിൽ സന്നദ്ധസേവനം ചെയ്യുകയായിരുന്നു ഞാൻ. അവിടുത്തെ ക്ഷേത്രത്തിലെ പൂജാരിയായിരുന്നു ഞാൻ. ഒരു ഉച്ചതിരിഞ്ഞ നേരത്താണ് ആ ദമ്പതികൾ ക്ഷേത്രത്തിലെത്തുന്നത്. നാൽപ്പതുകളിലോ അമ്പതുകളിലോ പ്രായം തോന്നിക്കുന്ന ഭർത്താവും ഭാര്യയും. ആ സ്ത്രീയുടെ മുഖത്ത് ഇപ്പോഴും യൗവനത്തിന്റെ തിളക്കം ബാക്കിയുണ്ടായിരുന്നു.

അമ്മയുടെ ഭക്തരെന്ന നിലയിൽ ഞങ്ങൾക്കിടയിൽ ഒരു ആത്മീയ ബന്ധമുണ്ടായിരുന്നു. അമ്മയെക്കുറിച്ചും ആശ്രമത്തെക്കുറിച്ചും സംസാരിക്കുക എന്നത് ഭക്തർക്കിടയിൽ പതിവുള്ള കാര്യമാണ്. എന്റെ ചുമതലകൾക്കിടയിൽ ഞാൻ അവരെ അഭിവാദ്യം ചെയ്ത് കടന്നുപോയി. കുറച്ചു കഴിഞ്ഞപ്പോൾ ആ ഭർത്താവ് എന്നോട് സംസാരിക്കണമെന്ന് ആവശ്യപ്പെട്ടു.

അദ്ദേഹം വളരെ പ്രസന്നനും ചിരിച്ചുകൊണ്ട് സംസാരിക്കുന്ന ആളുമായിരുന്നു. എന്നാൽ സംസാരത്തിനിടയിൽ ആ സ്ത്രീയെ ശ്രദ്ധിച്ചപ്പോൾ എനിക്ക് എന്തോ ഒരു പ്രത്യേകത തോന്നി. അവർ അവിടെ ഇരിക്കുകയാണെങ്കിലും, സ്വന്തം ലോകത്ത് ഉൾവലിഞ്ഞതുപോലെയായിരുന്നു. തുടർന്ന് നടന്നത് വിവരിക്കുക എന്നത് എനിക്ക് ഇപ്പോഴും പ്രയാസമുള്ള കാര്യമാണ്.

ആ കണ്ണുകളിലെ ചുഴി

"എന്റെ ഭാര്യയെ ഒന്ന് പരിചയപ്പെടണം," ഭർത്താവ് പറഞ്ഞു.

ഞാൻ അവരെ നോക്കി. വളരെ നിഗൂഢമായ, അല്ലെങ്കിൽ ധ്യാനനിഷ്ഠമായ ഒരു അവസ്ഥയിലായിരുന്നു അവർ ഇരുന്നിരുന്നത്. അദ്ദേഹം എന്നെ പരിചയപ്പെടുത്തിയപ്പോൾ അവർ തലയുയർത്തി നോക്കി. കറുത്ത വലിയ കണ്ണുകളായിരുന്നു അവർക്ക്. ഇരുണ്ട നിറമുള്ള ഒരു സ്ത്രീ. പക്ഷേ അതൊന്നുമല്ല എന്നെ തറപ്പിച്ചു നിർത്തിയത്.

അവരുടെ കണ്ണുകൾ ഒരിടത്ത് ഉറച്ചുനിൽക്കുന്നവയായിരുന്നില്ല. അത് കറങ്ങിക്കൊണ്ടിരിക്കുന്ന ഒരു ചുഴി പോലെ എനിക്ക് തോന്നി. ആ വലിയ കണ്ണുകൾ എന്റെ കണ്ണുകളിലൂടെ നിരന്തരം തുളച്ചുകയറുന്നതുപോലെ തോന്നി. ആ നിമിഷം എന്റെ മുഴുവൻ അസ്തിത്വവും സ്കാൻ ചെയ്യപ്പെടുന്നതായും, എന്റെ വീർത്തുവീർത്ത അഹന്ത (ego) അതിന്റെ പൂർണ്ണരൂപത്തിൽ പുറത്തുവന്നതായും എനിക്ക് തോന്നി.

അവർ മുഖം ചുളിച്ചു. "ഓ, അപ്പോൾ നീ ഇത്ര വലിയവനാണോ?" എന്ന് അവർ ചോദിക്കുന്നതായി എനിക്ക് തോന്നി. വാക്കുകൾ കൊണ്ടല്ല, അവരുടെ ഭാവം നൽകിയ ധ്വനി അതായിരുന്നു. ആ ക്ഷേത്രം നടത്തുന്നതും, സ്വന്തം ജീവിതം നയിക്കുന്നതും താനാണെന്ന എന്റെ അഹന്തയെ അവർ തുറന്നുകാട്ടി. ഞാൻ വളരെ നിസ്സാരനാണെന്ന് എനിക്ക് തോന്നി.

തകർന്നടിഞ്ഞ നിമിഷം

ഞാൻ അങ്ങേയറ്റം നിസ്സഹായനായിപ്പോയി. എന്റെ ഹൃദയത്തിന്റെ മധ്യത്തിൽ ഒരു ശൂന്യത രൂപപ്പെട്ടതുപോലെ തോന്നി. എന്റെ ആത്മവിശ്വാസവും സംസാരിക്കാനുള്ള കഴിവും പാടെ ഇല്ലാതായി. എന്തു ചെയ്യണമെന്നറിയാതെ ഞാൻ അവിടെ തറഞ്ഞിരുന്നുപോയി. അത് വളരെ അസ്വസ്ഥതയുണ്ടാക്കുന്ന ഒരു അനുഭവമായിരുന്നു.

ഏതാനും നിമിഷങ്ങൾക്ക് ശേഷം അവർ നോട്ടം മാറ്റി. അപ്പോഴാണ് എനിക്ക് ശ്വാസം നേരെ വീണത്. ഭർത്താവ് അപ്പോഴും പുഞ്ചിരിക്കുകയായിരുന്നു എന്ന് ഞാൻ കരുതുന്നു. അവിടെനിന്ന് ഞാൻ പുറത്തേക്ക് വന്നത് എന്റെ സകല ഗർവ്വവും തകർന്നടിഞ്ഞ നിലയിലായിരുന്നു.

പിന്നീട് ഒരിക്കലും ഞാൻ അവരെ കണ്ടിട്ടില്ല. മുപ്പത്തിയാറ് വർഷങ്ങൾ കടന്നുപോയിരിക്കുന്നു. ഏതാനും മിനിറ്റുകൾ മാത്രം നീണ്ടുനിന്ന ആ കൂടിക്കാഴ്ച ഇന്നും എന്റെ ഉള്ളിൽ മായാതെ നിൽക്കുന്നു.

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The Discipline Loop: Why You Need to Work On Both Your Mind And Body

We often view our thoughts and our physical habits as two separate countries. We think we can let our bodies run wild—eating what we want, sleeping when we feel like it, and consuming endless streams of digital noise—while expecting our minds to remain calm, focused, and "good."

But I’ve come to realize a singular truth: involuntary thoughts are the cause of all human misery, and those thoughts run wild when we let our bodies run wild.

The Tragedy of the Frozen Moment

Most people exist in a state of "frozen" awareness. They are caught in a humdrum stream of events designed to perpetuate a dull, repetitive memory in their minds. They gape and stare at whatever passes by, caught in a cycle of reinvention that eventually leads to boredom and jadedness. This is the comedy and the tragedy of the modern condition.

To break out of this, we have to look at the "Chicken or the Egg" of self-regulation.

The Regulation Loop

When the body is regulated, the mind is regulated—and vice versa. You cannot say, "I will fix my mind first, then my habits," or "I’ll get fit, then I’ll worry about my anxiety."

It is a feedback loop:

• The Body: When we have no "reins" on our physical impulses, our thoughts become feral.
• The Mind: When the mind is chaotic, it seeks instant physical comfort to drown out the noise.

Both must be mastered together. Regulation isn’t a destination; it’s the act of holding the reins on both the horse (the body) and the rider (the mind) simultaneously.

The "Movie Myth" of the Aggressive Hero

In our moments of frustration, we might feel a "pressure cooker" of emotions building up. We might want to speak or act with the arrogant, "macho" style we see in movies—the antisocial gangster who does whatever he wants.

But that is a cinematic fiction. In reality, even the toughest environments require a code of conduct. True strength isn't found in being "inimical" or aggressive; it is found in being amiable and humane.

Being a "sociable person" isn't about being fake. It’s about recognizing that:

1. Arrogance is for entertainment.
2. Consideration is for real life.
3. Discipline is for survival.

Closing the Valve

If you feel the pressure building, write it out. Question your inimical thoughts. Let them "thin out" by subjecting them to the light of reason. The old-school tradition of “see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil” isn't just a moral cliché—it’s a blueprint for mental peace.

By regulating the vessel, we protect the passenger.

The Bare Soul: From the Pen to the Divine

There is a desperate kind of "ambush" that happens when a writer reaches the end of their stock. When the arrows are depleted and there is nothing left to say, one is left holding onto the hope that some heavenly liquid will replenish the soul and save it from perennial penury. In those moments, I am scared and dumbfounded by what might emerge from the unknown, hidden caverns of the mind.

The Vulnerability of the Stream

In stream-of-consciousness writing, there is no preparation. You are baring yourself, nearly naked, for the world—or at least the AI—to see. It is a terrifying exposure of the unseen recesses and the skeletons hidden deep in the closets of the psyche. Yet, it is strangely therapeutic.

This feeling is identical to the one I experience during Amma’s Darshan. In that space, no false self, no ego, and no polite pretenses can stand. They are blown away like dust in a gale. I feel like an open book, held wide, where every secret is visible to the Eye that sees all.

The Encounter with Divinity

It is the strangest feeling one can have: a terrifying vulnerability that can only be survived through total humility. You must acknowledge that you are nothing, and that the Being before you is unlike anything you have ever conceived.

As if to confirm this, She will lean in and send a glance your way at the exact moment needed to resonate with your internal thoughts. In that instant, you know you are approaching Divinity herself.

The Pranic Wind

I felt this same power once before the shrine of an Avadhuta in Poonthura, Trivandrum. It is as if a powerful gust of energetic or pranic wind hits your chest—the spiritual heart. But in Amma’s Darshan, you aren’t just hit by it; you are completely engulfed.

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A Note on "pranic wind": Couldnt find another word to describe

Verification

Success crowds the room.

You are no longer alone.

Old praise leans on the body,
teaches the hands to pause
before they tell the truth.

Every impulse
is weighed,
hammered into a calf of gold,
warm in the noon heat.

Then—

a sleeping animal.
A baby, folded into breath.

Or a toddler
climbing your lap,
touching your face
without a reason.

The noise breaks.

The rush loosens.
You freeze.

Not afraid—
recognized.

Something quiet
threads you back
to the one
who never learned the trick.

This is it.
Not the chase.
Not the shine.

The simple truth
we buried
under toys.

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The Liberation of the Raw Page: Why You Don’t Owe Your Writing a Justification

There is a heavy, invisible weight we often carry when we sit down to write: the felt need to be "right." We approach the page as if we are stepping into a courtroom, preparing a defense for every comma and a cross-examination for every claim. We ask ourselves: Is this logical? Does this sound smart? Will people think I’m complaining?

But here is the truth that will set your creativity—and your mind—free: You do not have to justify a single word.

The Trap of "Purposeful" Speech

In the world of marketing, sales, or debate, justification is the engine. If you want to convince someone to buy a product or convert them to your point of view, your sentences must be calculated, backed by logic, and aimed at a specific result. In those arenas, every word is a soldier in a war for influence.

But life is not a sales pitch, and your private thoughts are not a marketing brochure.

Writing as Catharsis

When you engage in freewriting, the goal isn’t a "result"—the goal is the release. This is therapeutic writing; it is a mental purge designed to lift the "past burden of thoughts" off your chest.

When you treat writing as catharsis, the rules of the world melt away:

• Grammar doesn't matter: The "fucking" in the middle of a sentence belongs there because that is the energy of the moment.

• Logic is optional: If your thoughts are messy, your page should be messy.

• Judgment is banned: You aren't writing for an audience; you are writing for your own sanity.

Just Write. Free-Write.

The moment you stop trying to justify your feelings is the moment you actually start feeling them. Freewriting is the act of letting the ink (or the pixels) act as a pressure valve. If you stop to analyze whether a sentence is "justified," you close the valve and the pressure stays trapped inside.

We don't need to be "complete." We don't need to be "correct." We just need to be honest.

So, put down the gavel. Stop being the judge of your own internal monologue. Don't think about the "why" or the "how." Just write. Free-write. Let the load off your chest and leave it on the page.

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Writing as a Way Out: A Journey Through the Lineage of Great Minds

If there is any way for a human being to loosen the grip of the system — the social, economic, psychological structures that quietly shape thought and desire — it may lie in a long, patient companionship with the great writers of history. Not merely reading them for information or entertainment, but approaching them as one would approach mountains, rivers, or sages: as presences that alter the scale of one’s inner world.

Such a journey begins at the dawn of poetic consciousness. Valmiki, singing the Ramayana, does not merely narrate events; he shapes an entire moral and emotional universe. Vyasa, through the Mahabharata, holds within a single epic the full turbulence of human dharma — duty, conflict, doubt, transcendence. Bhasa and Kalidasa refine experience into luminous form, where nature, longing, time, and destiny move with an almost cosmic grace. These writers do not appear as “authors” in the modern sense. They seem less like individuals seeking expression and more like instruments through which civilization speaks to itself.

To enter their world is to experience writing not as self-display but as participation in a vast continuity. The work does not shout, “Look at me,” but whispers, “This is how existence unfolds.”

As we move forward in time, we encounter another stream — Chaucer mapping the variety of human types, Shakespeare opening the inner chambers of ambition, jealousy, love, and mortality, Alexander Pope chiseling language into moral and satirical precision, Ibsen turning the stage into a battlefield of social truth. The modern writer stands more visibly as an individual consciousness. Personality sharpens. Psychological depth intensifies. Society itself becomes an object of examination and critique.

Yet something else also shifts.

In the ancient imagination, writing often seems aligned with something supra-personal — dharma, cosmic order, sacred tradition, collective memory. The poet is a seer, not a brand. The work is an offering, not a product. Immortality is not chased; it is a byproduct of depth.

In the modern world, the conditions of authorship change. Print, markets, publicity, and institutions create a literary economy. Name, fame, recognition, and money enter the field not as accidents but as structural realities. It would be unfair to claim that all modern writers are driven by these; many struggle fiercely against such pulls. But the gravitational field has shifted. Writing risks becoming performance, career, or identity construction.

The contrast, then, is not simply between “pure” ancient writers and “corrupt” modern ones. It is between two orientations of consciousness.

One writes as though the self were a channel — a place where language, myth, and truth pass through. The other writes as though the self were the center — expressing, asserting, distinguishing. Both produce great art. But they lead the writer inward along very different paths.

To study the great lineage — from Valmiki to Vyasa, from Kalidasa to Shakespeare, from epic poets to modern dramatists — is to gradually loosen the illusion that our own time, our own struggles, and our own ambitions are ultimate. We begin to see writing as a long civilizational conversation. Our ego becomes smaller; our responsibility becomes larger.

In that shrinking of ego and widening of vision lies a subtle freedom.

The “system” — of status, comparison, anxiety, and self-importance — feeds on the belief that we are isolated individuals fighting for visibility. But when a writer places themselves in the company of centuries, something changes. One writes less to be seen, and more because something must be said. Less to accumulate, more to serve meaning itself.

This may be the quiet way out: not rebellion, not withdrawal, but alignment with a deeper current of human expression. To write as part of a lineage rather than as a competitor in a marketplace. To let the work matter more than the name attached to it.

In such writing, fame may come or not. Money may come or not. But the act itself becomes an inner discipline — a movement toward clarity, depth, and participation in something larger than the restless modern self.

And perhaps that is the oldest purpose of literature: not to decorate life, but to help the human mind remember its true scale.

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