I continue here the narrative on the power of storytelling from my earlier blog, Technology, Post-Truth, and the Craft of Story. History, when reduced to dates and events, runs the risk of becoming distant—almost abstract. But when someone writes with moral clarity and an actor embodies a life with unsettling precision, the past steps forward and confronts us. In the case of Adolf Hitler, this confrontation is not merely intellectual; it is deeply human, even disturbing. Through the monumental scholarship of Ian Kershaw and the haunting portrayal by Anthony Hopkins in The Bunker, we are forced to encounter a paradox: how does a human being become an instrument of immense destruction?

Among historians, Ian Kershaw, through his landmark biographies, Hitler: Hubris 1889–1936 and Hitler: Nemesis 1936–1945, offered one of the most authoritative and nuanced examinations of this question. It is not merely a life story; it is an anatomy of power. Kershaw resists the temptation to see Hitler as a lone aberration—a monstrous exception—and instead situates him within a broader social and institutional framework. The famous Nazi phrase, ‘working towards the Führer’, captures a chilling dynamic: Hitler did not need to issue explicit orders for every atrocity. Instead, a system evolved in which subordinates anticipated his wishes and acted with increasing radicalism. Evil, in this telling, is not only imposed from above; it is also cultivated from below.

What makes Kershaw’s work so compelling is its refusal to simplify. Hitler emerges not as a caricature of villainy but as a man shaped by circumstances, resentments and opportunities. The young, failed artist in Vienna, the soldier in the trenches of the First World War, the orator who discovered the intoxicating power of mass rallies—each phase is rendered with careful attention. Yet Kershaw never loses sight of the moral gravity of his subject. The Holocaust, the war, the devastation of Europe—these are not treated as abstractions but as consequences of choices made within a system that normalised the unthinkable.

If Kershaw gives us the architecture of power, The Bunker gives us its final, claustrophobic collapse. In this film, Anthony Hopkins portrays Hitler not as a distant figure of propaganda, but as a man in decay—physically diminished, psychologically unravelling, yet still clinging to delusions of control. The setting itself—the underground bunker in Berlin during the last days of the Third Reich—is almost theatrical in its intensity. The world above is burning; inside, a shrinking circle of loyalists inhabits a reality increasingly detached from the truth.

Hopkins’s performance is remarkable for its restraint. He avoids the temptation to exaggerate. Instead, he presents a Hitler who is, by turns, petulant, paranoid and eerily ordinary. There are moments of quiet conversation, flashes of irritation and sudden eruptions of anger. The effect is unsettling precisely because it humanises without excusing. One sees not a mythical monster, but a man—fragile, fearful, and yet capable of commanding unimaginable destruction. One cannot help but feel a disturbing sympathy for a man caught in the web of his own making, moving inexorably towards a horrific end.

This is where the power of storytelling becomes evident. A historian like Kershaw reconstructs the past through documents, testimonies and analysis. An actor like Hopkins reconstructs it through gesture, voice and presence. Both, in their own ways, bridge the distance between then and now. They remind us that history is never detached from human experience; it emerges through lives, decisions, and moments that were once as vivid and immediate as our present reality.

And yet, this very humanisation raises a troubling question: if even someone like Hitler can be understood as a human being, what does that reveal about the human condition itself?

The instinctive response is to resist this idea. We prefer to see figures like Hitler as fundamentally different from ourselves—as embodiments of evil that seem removed from the accepted terrain of human behaviour. This distance provides a kind of moral comfort. But Kershaw’s analysis and Hopkins’s portrayal both challenge this comfort. They suggest that the capacity for destruction is not alien to humanity; it is a distortion of impulses that exist within it.

In Kershaw’s account, Hitler’s rise is inseparable from the conditions of his time: the humiliation of Germany after the First World War, economic instability, political fragmentation, and a widespread longing for order and national revival. These conditions did not create Hitler, but they enabled his message to resonate. They created a space in which his ideas could take root and grow. The lesson here is not that history repeats itself mechanically, but that certain patterns—fear, resentment, the search for simple answers—can make societies vulnerable.

In The Bunker, this vulnerability is seen in its final consequences. The men and women around Hitler continue to serve him even as the reality of defeat becomes undeniable. Some are driven by loyalty, others by fear, and still others by an inability to confront the collapse of the world they believed in. The film captures this psychological inertia—the difficulty of breaking away from a system, even when it is clearly failing.

Together, these works illuminate a deeper truth: large-scale evil is rarely the product of a single will. It emerges from an interplay of leadership, ideology and collective behaviour. It is sustained not only by those who initiate it, but also by those who enable it, justify it, or simply fail to resist it.

And yet, recognising this does not diminish responsibility. If history teaches anything, it is that the boundary between the ordinary and the catastrophic is more fragile. The transformation of a society does not occur overnight; it unfolds through a series of small steps, each of which may seem insignificant in isolation but becomes profound in accumulation.

This is why the work of historians and artists matters. They do more than recount events; they shape our understanding of them. They invite us to look beyond the surface, to ask difficult questions, and to confront uncomfortable truths. In bringing figures like Hitler to life—not to glorify, but to understand—they perform a vital function. They keep memory alive, not as a static record, but as a living inquiry.

The paradox is this: understanding is not the same as forgiving, and humanising is not the same as justifying. But if we refuse to understand, history turns into myth—and we may fail to recognise the same forces shaping our own world.

In this sense, the enduring value of Kershaw’s scholarship and Hopkins’s performance lies not only in what they reveal about the past but in what they ask of the present. They remind us that history is not something that happened once and is now over. It is a mirror—one that reflects both the heights and the depths of human possibility.

And perhaps the most sobering insight they offer is this: the line between good and evil runs, quietly and persistently, through the human condition itself—echoing the Bhagavad Gita’s reminder that दैवी सम्पद्विमोक्षायनिबन्धायासुरी मता (16.5): the divine qualities lead to liberation, the demonic to bondage, both residing within the same human frame. Blessed, then, are the writers and actors—for theirs is the rare art of holding up a mirror, and compelling us to see not only history as it was, but ourselves as we are.

Indian civilisation stretches back into prehistory, carrying within it one of humanity’s longest continuous memories. The Vedas stand among the earliest recorded repositories of knowledge, intuition, inquiry and metaphysical reflection. The spread of Indian culture across South-East Asia—visible in Angkor Wat, Borobudur, Prambanan and countless temple traditions—was not merely the result of conquest, but of a deeper civilisational radiance: trade, language, ritual, art, kingship and ideas travelling across seas and being accepted, adapted and naturalised by other societies.

Yet India has often suffered from a peculiar historical forgetfulness. Our civilisational memory is vast, but our public narration of it is fragmented. We remember invasions, but not always resistance. We remember defeat, but not continuity. Mahmud of Ghazni and Muhammad Ghori are invoked repeatedly, but less attention is given to the long intervals between incursions, the resilience of local powers, and the fact that India was never a passive geography waiting to be conquered. Alexander’s retreat from the north-west, the presence of Greek envoys at Chandragupta Maurya’s court, the vast sweep of Mauryan power, the maritime reach of Indian influence, and later, the Maratha expansion from the north to the deep south—all deserve equal space in our national imagination.

The same is true of the Mughal period. Their rule was powerful but uneven, imperial but never total. They controlled courts, cities, armies and revenue systems, but India’s social and cultural life remained deeply plural, local and resilient. The inability of even long imperial rule to homogenise India’s religious and civilisational identity shows not merely resistance, but the depth of Indian society. Aurangzeb’s final years in the Deccan, far from Delhi, and his burial near Chhatrapati Sambhajinagar (formerly Aurangabad), symbolise the limits of imperial overreach. India was politically conquered many times, but rarely culturally subdued.

It was in this spirit that I spent a memorable afternoon with Wing Commander M.V.N. Sai, a distinguished Indian Air Force officer who retired after 24 years of service. He played an important role in the evolution of India’s Integrated Air Command and Control System (IACCS), a critical air-defence network that integrates sensors, command nodes and weapon systems for real-time response. Considered a credible ‘think-tank’, his recent analyses have also highlighted the importance of IACCS in India’s network-centric air defence architecture.

Our conversation took place at Quorum in HITEC City, Hyderabad, graciously hosted by our mutual friend, Gopi Krishna Reddy. It was not merely a meeting; it was a reflection. We recalled how India fought wars, how it produced nearly a quarter of global GDP before colonial disruption, how Partition created two militarised flanks on India’s west and east, and how the British departure left behind not only borders but strategic constraints. Yet India, despite technology-denial regimes, geopolitical sanctions, and prolonged economic constraints, became both a nuclear and a missile power. Operation Sindoor, as described by official Indian sources, showcased the increasing importance of indigenous defence systems, layered air defence, electronic warfare and precision capabilities in modern conflict.

The central question before us was this: what kind of war is still ‘tenable’ in the twenty-first century?

Large conventional wars have not disappeared, as Ukraine’s prolonged resistance to Russian military power has demonstrated. But the texture of war has changed. It is no longer only about tanks crossing borders or aircraft dominating skies. It is about drones, satellites, cyber systems, energy grids, financial networks, ports, undersea cables, social media narratives and psychological endurance. The battlefield has expanded from land, sea and air into space, cyberspace, cognition and infrastructure.

The drone has changed military arithmetic. A cheap unmanned system can threaten an expensive platform. Even when claims of drones bringing down stealth aircraft must be treated carefully, the larger lesson is undeniable: asymmetry has returned with force. In fact, recent reports show F-35s being used to shoot down drones, raising questions about cost, sustainability and tactical efficiency. The issue is not that advanced aircraft have become useless; it is that superiority now depends on integration, speed, software, sensors, electronic warfare and layered defence.

This does not mean the end of military warfare; rather, it means the end of old-style military thinking. Militaries will still matter. Navies will still matter. Air power will still matter. But none can function effectively in operational isolation. The decisive force of the future will be the nation’s ability to integrate military strength with technological depth, industrial resilience, civil preparedness and strategic clarity.

The Strait of Hormuz crisis shows how fragile the world remains. The United States has recently warned shipping firms against paying Iran for transit through the Strait, while reports indicate ongoing negotiations and tensions over keeping this vital energy route open. A narrow maritime passage can affect oil prices, inflation, insurance, shipping, diplomacy and war planning across continents. This is exactly why sea lines of communication are no longer abstract naval concerns—they are the arteries of civilisation.

The most frightening dimension, however, lies in cyber warfare. What happens if a national power grid is paralysed? What if banking systems freeze, railway signalling collapses, airlines are grounded, hospitals lose digital access, or ports cannot process cargo? Such an attack may not kill immediately like a missile, but it can immobilise a nation. The next war may begin not with an explosion, but with silence: screens going blank, cities going dark, accounts becoming inaccessible, and command systems failing.

Therefore, India’s preparation must be on a civilisational scale. It must bring together the armed forces, engineers, scientists, cyber experts, aerospace entrepreneurs, maritime strategists, AI specialists, energy planners and young innovators. National security cannot remain confined to cantonments and ministries. It must become a whole-of-nation discipline.

The best solution is not merely more weapons, but deeper preparedness: indigenous technology, secure supply chains, hardened digital infrastructure, resilient power grids, cyber reserves, drone and counter-drone ecosystems, maritime aviation, space-based surveillance and rapid decision networks. Above all, India must recover confidence in its own historical continuity. A civilisation that has survived millennia must not think episodically. It must think in centuries.

The wars of the future will not be won merely on battlefields of land, sea, or air, but in the far more complex theatres of intelligence, technology, economy, information and national resolve. They will not be secured by anger—an emotion that exhausts itself—but by awareness: a clear understanding of history, strategy, vulnerabilities and emerging realities. Nations that survive and lead will be those capable of seeing the world as it is, not as they wish it to be. Memory remains essential, for a civilisation without historical consciousness becomes vulnerable to manipulation and repetition of past mistakes. Yet memory alone is insufficient unless transformed into preparedness—into strong institutions, scientific innovation, strategic industries, military capability, educational excellence and social cohesion.

The future belongs neither to those who merely imitate dominant powers nor to those trapped in nostalgia. Blind imitation breeds dependency; nostalgia without innovation breeds irrelevance. True sovereignty arises when a civilisation draws strength from its own intellectual and cultural foundations while simultaneously controlling the engines of contemporary power. Civilisational self-belief is, therefore, not arrogance, but confidence rooted in continuity—a recognition that a people secure in their identity can engage the future creatively rather than defensively. For India, this means uniting the philosophical depth of one of the world’s oldest civilisations with leadership in artificial intelligence, defence systems, energy security, biotechnology, cyber capability and economic resilience.

A nation that remembers its civilisational inheritance while commanding cutting-edge technology becomes far more than a reactive state—it becomes a decisive force in history. Such a society does not merely defend borders; it defends narratives, institutions, values and the capacity to define its own destiny. In this lies the ultimate lesson: the decisive victories of the coming century will belong to those nations that combine wisdom with innovation, heritage with scientific excellence, and strategic patience with bold execution. For in the end, the greatest power is neither conquest nor rhetoric, but the enduring ability of a civilisation to rise, adapt and lead with confidence in both its soul and its systems.

These days, I have found myself increasingly drawn to the quiet brilliance of Japanese fiction. My journey began with the deeply reflective novels of Nobel Laureate Kazuo Ishiguro, whose works opened a gateway into a literary tradition where memory, loss and the unseen emotional architecture of life are rendered with extraordinary subtlety. From there, I immersed myself in the surreal yet profoundly human worlds of Haruki Murakami, reading nearly all his major works. Most recently, I turned to The Lantern of Lost Memories by Sanaka Hiiragi, born in 1974, a writer whose delicate craftsmanship continues this remarkable Japanese literary sensibility.

Across these writers, one notices a common artistic thread: the ability to magnify seemingly ordinary moments into luminous meditations on existence. Small gestures, forgotten memories, fleeting encounters and personal griefs are transformed into profound philosophical reflections. Reading these works in English translation is a pleasure, but one cannot help imagining the exquisite linguistic precision and emotional cadence of the original Japanese prose.

The Lantern of Lost Memories unfolds through three distinct yet intricately interconnected stories, all centred around an ethereal photo studio perched upon a serene hill between life and the afterlife. This liminal place is managed by Hirasaka, a mysterious figure who receives a box of photographs every day from a courier named Yama. Each set of photographs, one from every day lived from birth to death, corresponds to the life of a person who will die that day and arrive at the studio soon.

Upon arrival, each deceased visitor is granted an extraordinary final gift: the opportunity to choose a single photograph from each year of their life to make a revolving lantern. More than that, Hirasaka possesses the unique ability to invisibly accompany them back to a chosen day from that year, allowing them to relive it and photograph it anew. Hirasaka then arranges these photographs in a slow, revolving lantern—an emotional illumination meant to gently guide souls into the afterlife.

Yet Hirasaka himself remains the novel’s most haunting enigma. He possesses no memory of his own human life, save for one solitary photograph of himself standing alone in a park—an image that serves as both anchor and void. Very subtly, but powerfully, we are told that even those entrusted with guiding others through memory and meaning may themselves remain lost in search of their own. The quest for identity, purpose and self-understanding is universal, extending even to those who illuminate the path for others—as seen in the lives of many gurus, philosophers and writers who ended their days in misery.

The first story introduces Hatsue, a 92-year-old woman who chooses to revisit her youth at age 23, when she worked as a nursery school teacher for the impoverished children of industrial labourers. Her return reveals not grand achievements, but the quiet dignity of compassion and service. Through Hatsue, the novel emphasises that a meaningful life is often built not through power or acclaim, but through tenderness, sacrifice and unnoticed goodness.

The second story shifts dramatically in tone, following a 47-year-old gangster-like, hefty man who arrives at the studio after being murdered. Initially appearing hardened and morally compromised, his journey backwards reveals hidden layers of kindness, particularly his role in protecting a vulnerable Vietnamese immigrant child from the cruelty of local bullies at school. In doing so, Hiiragi masterfully reveals humanity even in hardened souls.

The final and most emotionally resonant story centres on Mitsuru, a young girl who has suffered abuse. She is only temporarily dead but would return to the living world. During her visit, Hirasaka breaks the sacred code of non-interference by teaching her how to start a fire with focused sunlight and dried leaves—a small act of practical wisdom that ultimately saves her life later. This act of compassion comes at a great cost: as punishment, Hirasaka’s memories are permanently erased, leaving behind only a single photograph Mitsuru took of him, as mentioned earlier.

This climax elevates the novel from a meditation on memory into a profound reflection on selfless love and sacrifice. Hirasaka’s choice suggests that true meaning may not lie in preserving oneself, but in becoming a source of light for another’s continued life.

The novel concludes with Mitsuru growing into adolescence while Hirasaka and Yama quietly hope that she will not return to the studio until the farthest possible future—an understated but deeply moving blessing that she may live a long, full life.

Ultimately, The Lantern of Lost Memories offers readers a deeply humane and spiritually resonant message: life’s true significance lies not in grand accomplishments, but in the moments of kindness, courage and connection that leave an enduring imprint on human lives. Memory, in this novel, is not merely recollection—it is illumination. Our lives become lanterns, glowing through the love we gave, the wounds we healed, and the small acts of grace we offered. In that sense, every human life has the potential to become its own lantern—guiding others long after we are gone.

As I read, I could not help but ask myself: If I were to arrive at Hirasaka’s studio, which memory would I choose to relive? Without hesitation, I know my answer.

I would ask to return to a day in 1977, when I went with my siblings—my sister Seema and my brothers Varun and Salil—and my father to watch the film Hum Kisise Kum Naheen in Meerut. It was an evening show at Menka Cinema theatre. I had brought my first little salary home. During the film’s interval, I stepped out to buy a paan for my father—a first-of-its-kind gesture. It was a simple act by a son for the father who always provided whatever was needed, often without my asking and before the need had even risen.

Memory often preserves such moments with sacred precision. My father passed away soon after. And with his passing, something far larger than a life came to an end: we siblings never again sat together in a cinema hall as one complete family. My sister got married, and my brothers grew into adults with lives of their own. That ordinary evening became, without our knowing it, the closing frame of an entire era of our formative years.

If Hirasaka were to guide me back, I would not seek grand revelations or dramatic turning points. I would simply wish to stand again in that theatre lobby, holding that paan, seeing my father alive, hearing my siblings’ laughter, and experiencing again the unconscious security of a world still whole. Unfortunately, no photograph exists of all five of us, and I would love to take one with Hirasaka’s help.

Perhaps the deepest tragedy of life is that we seldom recognise its most precious moments while we are living them. In the end, The Lantern of Lost Memories leaves us with a haunting yet consoling truth: life is not measured solely by milestones, victories, or public achievements, but by those fragile, irreplaceable moments whose true value becomes visible only after time has taken them away. Perhaps that is why memory hurts. And perhaps that is also why it glows.

After finishing this blog, pause for a moment and imagine your own journey through time—capturing, in a single impossible photograph, one beautiful moment from your life that memory alone could never fully preserve.

I have had a long association with Wipro since the 1990s. I accompanied Dr A. P. J. Abdul Kalam to the Wipro campus in Bengaluru in 1999. We aimed to develop a mobile Cath Lab, as none existed in the country outside a few large cities. There, I had the opportunity to present to Azim Premji on the civilian spin-offs of defence technology. I titled the presentation ‘Web of Life’. However, the initiative did not move forward.

Years later, my son Aseem worked with Wipro in Germany, absorbing the global rhythms of an Indian enterprise that had learned to speak many technological languages. In another phase of my journey, I co-authored Innovate Locally to Win Globally, the memoir of Mr D. A. Prasanna, Founder and CEO of Wipro GE Healthcare. The book traces the origins of India’s med-tech revolution in the 1990s, which has since grown into a US$12 billion export ecosystem.

So, when an invitation came from Seshu Venkata, Chief of Wipro Intelligence and Location Head in Hyderabad, for a tête-à-tête, it was more than a courtesy call—it was a familiar echo from the past.

The Wipro Gopanpally campus is expansive—nearly 100,000 square metres of built space, interwoven with restaurants, cafeterias, fitness centres, and a library that speaks of both scale and aspiration. Four energy-efficient towers are dotted across a meticulously landscaped 38 acres, creating a setting that feels almost surreal.

Sheshu received me in his Spartan cabin on the 12th floor—no showpieces, no paraphernalia, none of the trappings that often accompany hierarchy. For someone overseeing a workforce of over 52,000, the absence of phones, secretaries, and guards felt almost radical to an Indian mind conditioned to equate authority with visible markers. And yet, what appeared as minimalism was, in fact, a deeper discipline. I was reminded of an earlier moment in San José, when John Chambers, the CEO of CISCO Systems,  hosted Dr Kalam in a similarly understated office. True scale, I have come to realise, does not need to announce itself.

In his fifties, Sheshu is a man of good health and pleasant manners, but one cannot miss a ‘no-nonsense firewall’ around his persona. He prefers to drive a Tata Safari—a deliberate choice in a world where he could afford any global brand. He commutes from his villa in Hill County, a home he acquired nearly two decades ago, long before the surrounding landscape transformed into today’s bustling technology corridor. His attire is simple, his food is home-cooked, and his rhythms are unadorned.

In his cabin, he demonstrated something far more telling than any artefact of success. On a wall-mounted screen, each of his immediate team members appeared—not in static profiles, but in motion—working in real time, assisted by AI agents that were already anticipating needs, offering insights, and intervening even before being explicitly asked. Each morning, when they arrive, their AI agent tells them that certain activities have already been completed since they left the previous evening. It was a glimpse into a living system—an organisation where intelligence had begun to flow, not as a command, but as a continuum.

Sheshu himself is a Wipro veteran in the truest sense—one who has grown with the institution. From managing Wipro’s flagship Nokia account in Finland for a decade to returning to Hyderabad and shaping it into a powerhouse that rivals even Bengaluru, his journey mirrors Wipro’s own evolution in Hyderabad. From a modest 300-seat facility, to 3,000 seats at Cyber Towers in 2000, to 30,000 in the Financial District, and now this sprawling campus—the growth is not just in numbers, but in confidence.

We spent about an hour—over tea, a simple piece of grilled toast, and a sachet of tomato ketchup that seemed almost symbolic of the times: minimal, functional, unpretentious.

With me was my long-time colleague S. G. Prasad, who pitched in where I lacked or strayed. Between us, we framed our conversation around three questions—questions that are now shaping not just the IT industry, but the very architecture of human work.

1. How will AI transform the IT sector?

AI will automate much of today’s IT work—from coding and testing to infrastructure management and parts of system design—transforming, not eliminating, the profession. As routine execution shifts to intelligent systems, IT roles will evolve towards systems thinking: framing problems, interpreting outputs, designing architectures, and aligning machine intelligence with human goals. The future professional will move from coder to orchestrator, from execution to supervision. This is not an extinction event, but a profound reconfiguration in which talent, adaptability, and contextual intelligence will matter more than routine technical labour.

In fact, productivity per engineer is likely to increase dramatically. Smaller teams will build larger systems. Start-ups will challenge incumbents with unprecedented velocity. Within enterprises, the distinction between ‘business’ and ‘IT’ will dissolve—because intelligence will be embedded across functions. Jobs will not disappear; new roles will come up and demand a higher level of thinking.

2. What is India’s position as regards AI?

India’s position in AI is both promising and precarious. It commands major advantages: vast engineering talent, deep large-scale IT expertise, cost-efficient innovation, and digital public infrastructure capable of deploying AI at population scale. These strengths position India to lead the Global South—if it avoids self-inflicted setbacks. Yet foundational AI, from large models to core algorithms and semiconductor ecosystems, remains concentrated among a few global powers. India’s true opportunity lies not in replicating these giants, but in mastering AI applications at scale.

India can lead in building domain-specific AI solutions—in healthcare diagnostics for rural populations, precision agriculture for small farmers, and multilingual education systems that bridge linguistic diversity. We have the advantage of complexity, and if harnessed correctly, that complexity can become our innovation engine. The future will not be decided by who builds the largest model; it will be shaped by who applies intelligence most meaningfully.

3. What can AI do to improve the lives of ordinary people?

This, to me, is the most important question. AI must move beyond enterprise efficiency and enter the domain of human dignity. Seshu himself appeared brimming with enthusiasm on this account.

Imagine a primary health centre where AI assists a doctor in diagnosing conditions early, reducing errors and expanding access. Imagine a farmer receiving real-time, localised advice on soil, weather, and crop health. Imagine a student in a remote village learning in her own language, guided by an adaptive system that understands her pace and potential. These are not distant possibilities; they are emerging realities. AI, when aligned with public purpose, can compress inequity. It can bring expertise to places where experts cannot physically be present. It can reduce the distance between knowledge and need. But this requires intent. Technology alone does not guarantee inclusion.

As the visit drew to a close, I was introduced to Sheshu’s twenty-strong Wings of Intelligence team. There was a quiet bonhomie among them, born of having worked together for over a decade—an ease that arose not from hierarchy, but from shared purpose. They did not speak of disruption; they embodied continuity. In many ways, they carried forward the spirit of Dr. Kalam’s Wings of Fire.

Leaving the campus, a simple thought stayed with me. The future of IT will not be written by those who chase technology as an end in itself, but by those who see it as a means to integrate systems, elevate human capability, and serve a larger purpose. The façade may evolve; the foundation must deepen. And I can already see that shift taking shape.

There are meetings that remain as events, and there are meetings that quietly become reflections. My recent interaction with Pavan Pidugu, graciously hosted by Dr. Chinnababu Sunkavalli at his home, belongs to the latter category. It was not a formal gathering of titles and achievements, though both were present in abundance—it was a meeting of journeys, of intent, and of that rare human quality which one recognises instinctively but struggles to name.

Pavan stood before me in a simple cotton shirt—unassuming, grounded. Yet here was a man who, since February 2025, has served as the Chief Digital & Information Officer at the U.S. Department of Transportation, reporting directly to Secretary Sean Duffy. In that moment, as he held my hand with warmth and respect, there was no hierarchy—only a quiet dignity that comes from being aligned with something larger than oneself. We sat on a sofa and spoke for an hour, and he also shuffled, talking to other guests.

Pavan’s story begins not in a metropolis, but in a village nestled in the foothills of the sacred Tirumala Hills in Tirupati. It is here that one begins to understand the first layer of his personality—the synthesis of tradition and aspiration.

His formative years were shaped within the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi Education System, an educational philosophy that integrates consciousness-based learning with modern knowledge systems. It is a system that does not merely aim to produce professionals, but individuals anchored in awareness, discipline and inner balance. In hindsight, one sees how such an education does not loudly announce itself but quietly informs every decision that follows.

Like thousands of Indian engineers of the late 1990s, Pavan arrived in the United States in 2002, carried forward by the rising tide of the global software revolution. But what distinguishes him is not the migration—it is the evolution.

He worked for Walmart at its headquarters, nestled in Bentonville, Arkansas—a place that blends the character of a Southern town, the intimacy of a small community, the dynamism of a global business centre, and the expanding energy of the Northwest Arkansas metropolitan region. Pavan entered a world where scale is not an abstract concept but a daily operational reality. Walmart is not merely a retail giant; it is a complex network where supply chains, customer behaviour and digital systems intersect on a planetary scale. Here, Pavan did not just participate—he transformed.

He led the evolution of Walmart’s global digital customer and omnichannel experience, redefining how millions of people interact with retail ecosystems. More importantly, he introduced a shift in ways of working—embedding design thinking and product management principles into the organisation’s technological backbone.

One of his defining contributions was taking charge of Walmart’s global point-of-sale systems through a rigorously fact-based decision-making framework. In a world often driven by intuition and urgency, he brought clarity, data discipline and architectural foresight. Recognition followed, as did material success—but these, one senses, were by-products rather than objectives.

Even at the height of his corporate journey, Pavan remained a student. He pursued a master’s in operations management from the University of Arkansas, and later another from Columbia University—one of the most storied institutions in the Ivy League.

He also briefly stepped into academia as an Adjunct Professor at the Rochester Institute of Technology. This movement—from industry to classroom—reveals an important trait: the desire not just to accumulate knowledge, but to share it.

Then came what Pavan himself describes as a ‘calling’.

In a decision that might appear ‘worldly-unwise’, he chose to leave a successful corporate trajectory and join the U.S. federal government, moving to Washington, D.C. It is here that the narrative deepens.

Governments around the world share certain characteristics—they are large, complex, often slow, and bound by layers of processes. Compensation rarely matches the corporate sector. Yet, they embody something that no private enterprise can fully claim: a mandate to serve.

At the Federal Motor Carrier Safety Administration (FMCSA), Pavan served as Chief Technology Officer and later rose to his current position. His work focused on transforming how technology is conceived, built and delivered within a federal institution—serving carriers, commercial vehicle drivers, and law enforcement agencies.

This is not merely about software. It is about safety, efficiency and trust across a vast national network. His recognition as one of the ‘World 100 Technology Leaders 2024’ stands as an affirmation—not just of competence, but of conviction.

My conversation with Pavan opened a deeper window into how transportation is conceptualised in the United States. In India, transport is often equated with trucks—the visible carriers of goods on highways. It is a perspective shaped by immediacy and familiarity.

But in the United States, transportation is far more expensive. It encompasses everything that moves—by road, rail, air, sea and inland waterways. It is an integrated network where logistics, infrastructure, policy and digital intelligence converge.

The U.S. Department of Transportation oversees this vast ecosystem—ensuring not just mobility, but safety, sustainability and interoperability. Agencies such as FMCSA are but one part of this larger architecture, focused on commercial motor vehicle safety, yet intricately woven into larger systems beyond themselves. This holistic approach transforms transportation from a sector into a living framework of national functionality. It is not merely about movement; it is about enabling life at scale.

India, in its rapid development, stands at an interesting juncture. The physical infrastructure is expanding impressively, but the conceptual framework—seeing transport as an integrated, multimodal system—still has room to evolve. The future will demand not just more roads, but smarter, interconnected mobility ecosystems.

Yet, beyond systems and strategies, what remains with me is the person. In Pavan, I see what Friedrich Nietzsche once described as the ‘Übermensch’—not in the misunderstood sense of dominance, but as an individual who transcends conventional limitations by aligning deeply with purpose; a person who acts not out of compulsion, but out of clarity.

And yet, Pavan remains grounded—rooted in family, in simple habits, in a life that does not seek spectacle. Such an equilibrium is uncommon. Ascending is one thing; to ascend while remaining anchored to one’s centre is another altogether. As I left that evening, I found myself thinking not just about Pavan, but about the ecosystem that produced him. 

Indian civilisation, at its best, does not merely impart knowledge—it shapes character. When this foundation is paired with quality education, global exposure, and relentless hard work, it produces individuals who can navigate complexity without losing their inner coherence. Pavan Pidugu is one such individual.

He is not an exception to celebrate, but a possibility to recognise. A reminder that in a world increasingly driven by speed and scale, it is still possible to move with purpose—and to remain human while doing so. And perhaps, that is the quiet message he embodies: true greatness does not announce itself. It can be lived simply, steadily and with a sense of responsibility that extends far beyond oneself. In Pavan lives the ideal of a life divine—a son of Mother India who neither submits to nor blindly rejects systems, but elevates them from within with mindful intelligence and a compassionate heart. May his path remain guided by clarity and grace, may his work continue to serve with quiet strength, and may his journey inspire many more to rise with purpose, wisdom and compassion.