It was a mild noon, neither summer nor winter, when Venkat Kumar Tangirala came to see me. The sun, hidden behind clouds that held back its heat, allowed only a soft light, as if words were holding their breath between two thoughts, unsure whether to be expressed or remain silent. He arrived with his twenty-one-year-old son, Medhansh Tangirala, taller than his tall father, a young man with that familiar mixture of curiosity and hesitation which youth wears when stepping into a room of ideas.

Kumar Tangirala, of Brahminical ancestry, always the steady one, had in his eyes the mild exhaustion of someone who has travelled long, not just across distances but across the years. Medhansh, however, carried that unspent restlessness of beginnings—the kind that believes time is infinite and the world still pliant enough to bend to one’s will. As I greeted them, something stirred within me: a memory perhaps, or the faint echo of what it feels like to be twenty-one and sure that understanding lies just one book away.

We settled into conversation as easily as one slips into an old armchair. Kumar spoke of work and the state of things—his windmills, the confusion of tariff times, the noise—business became a relentless chase for something undefined. Medhansh listened, occasionally nodding, but I could sense his mind was elsewhere, moving through the invisible labyrinth of screens and opinions that define his generation’s consciousness.

And then, I placed a copy of my new book, Yoga Vasishtha: The Original Thesis on Mind, before them. Its orange-yellow cover caught the light for a moment, like an idea surfacing from deep meditation. I said nothing for a while. The silence seemed to belong to the book itself, as though the centuries between Sage Vasishtha and us had folded into this one quiet moment in my living room.

Medhansh turned it in his hands. “Is it Rama sitting here? Is this philosophy or psychology?” he asked in a sincere, disoriented tone of one trying to map the borders of meaning. “It is both,” I replied. “And neither. It is a mirror. When you look into it, it shows not the world—but the mind that sees the world.”

He looked at me, perhaps expecting elaboration, but I smiled instead. There are moments when explanation kills the wonder it seeks to awaken. And Yoga Vasishtha—that vast, contemplative ocean of inquiry—demands wonder more than comprehension. It begins where the world ends and the mind begins to ask, What is real?

Kumar spoke then of how his son’s generation had been overwhelmed by the post-truth chaos—the endless tide of news, trends, and digital drama. “Medhansh says everyone has an opinion, but no one seems to know anything,” Kumar sighed. “I told him, maybe you should read something old enough to be new again.”

The sentence hung in the air, like incense. I felt its truth deeply. In a time when truth itself is fractured, the ancient voice of Vasishtha resonates with radical clarity once more. He doesn’t promise peace or salvation. He offers understanding—the quiet kind that dismantles illusion, not through belief, but through awareness.

I told the young man, “Look, Medhansh, this book is not to be read as one reads the news or a novel. It is to be entered into, like a forest. The more you wander, the more you lose the map—and in losing it, you begin to see differently.” Medhansh smiled faintly, half in politeness, half in intrigue. “But what is it about?” he asked. “It is about the mind,” I said. “The one thing we carry everywhere but rarely meet.”

As we spoke, I saw in him what I often see in young faces today—a subtle fatigue. The fatigue is not of labour but of attention. Attention that is stretched thin, pulled apart by devices, deadlines, and desires. In the post-truth world, where even silence is commodified, the mind rarely rests long enough to see itself. Yoga Vasishtha begins precisely there—at the threshold between restlessness and reflection.

Kumar looked at his son, perhaps remembering his own youth when questions still weighed and silence was still a language. “I think this will appeal to you,” he said. “It’s about the art of thinking, not about conclusions.

Medhansh nodded, holding the book as though it were a fragile relic from another time. I watched him and thought of Rama—the young prince in the scripture—disillusioned with the world, asking his teacher why life felt meaningless despite all its pleasures. That was the beginning of Yoga Vasishtha: a conversation between despair and wisdom. How fitting, I thought, that it should begin again here, between a father and his son.

Outside, the evening had deepened. The light was turning golden, spilling gently through the window, and for a moment it seemed that time itself had paused to listen. We spoke then of the relevance of ancient thought in modern times. I told them that philosophy, when lived, is not an escape but an awakening. It teaches discernment—the rarest virtue in an age where information masquerades as knowledge. The Vasishtha way is not to retreat to caves, but to live in the world with the stillness of one who knows that the waves and the ocean are not different.

Kumar asked softly, “Do you think young people can understand such depth?” I looked at his son, who was now tracing the Sanskrit title on the cover with his fingers. “They feel it,” I said. “Only the words haven’t come to them yet.”

Perhaps that is what Yoga Vasishtha offers—language for the inarticulate knowing that every young soul feels when it looks at the world and wonders, Is this all? The book tells us that the world we see is but the projection of the mind—shifting, shimmering, impermanent. It doesn’t condemn the illusion; it teaches us to see through it. In that seeing, freedom begins.

The conversation drifted, as all good ones do, into silences and digressions. Kumar spoke of his worries for the future, his son, and his confusion about what to believe. And I, quietly, thought of Vasishtha’s own words: “The mind is the cause of bondage and the mind is the cause of liberation.” It is that simple—and that difficult.

As they rose to leave, I felt a certain serenity. The book had found its next reader, or perhaps, its next questioner. I signed it with a few words: “May this not give you answers, but the courage to question rightly.”

Kumar clasped my hand warmly. “You always make even confusion sound noble,” he laughed in his trademark crackling manner. Medhansh smiled too, and I noticed that his eyes had softened, as if some veil had thinned, ever so slightly.

When they left, the house grew quiet again. I thought of the generations—how they come with their noise and their brilliance, their disbelief and their yearning. Each must find its own bridge between science and spirit, intellect and intuition. The mind remains the battlefield, as it was in Rama’s time, as it is now in the age of algorithms.

And so, the scene lingered in my mind long after the door closed: the father, the son, and the book between them. A trinity of time—the past, the future, and the eternal present—bound by a single question: What is real?

That is where Yoga Vasishtha: The Original Thesis on Mind begins—and where, perhaps, all modern minds must return.

It was a quiet forenoon when they arrived — father and son, two physicians bound by a lineage of service and an unspoken continuity between action and thought. The air outside was still, save for the occasional chirping of birds on my 14^th-floor east-facing balcony. By noon, the sun had moved overhead, leaving the balcony in shade and pleasantly cool.

Dr Venkata Ratnam Vakkalanka sat opposite me, unhurried, his eyes clear, his presence light yet steady. There was no theatricality about him, no performance of virtue. Sagacious, with his white hair and beard, he spoke in simple sentences that carried the ring of lived truth — a rhythm as steady as his pulse.

He is about my age, and yet I felt, as we talked, that he had lived a life more centred, more certain of its course. He had chosen his orbit early and had remained within it — like a planet loyal to its sun. As he spoke, memories came flooding back — of Kakinada, that quiet coastal town I had been to ‘once upon a time’. A paradise of tranquil order, I had called it then — a place where life seemed to move with purpose yet without haste. It was easy to imagine him there, tending to his patients not merely as cases of sugar and blood pressure but as whole lives, luminous and complicated, each seeking equilibrium.

In a world where most young doctors fled toward neon cities and richer destinies, he had stayed behind. Not out of inertia, but out of faith — faith that one need not go far to serve greatly. His wife, Smt. Padmaja provided anchoring. His clinic, modest by city standards, had become a sanctuary for those who sought not miracles but understanding. He had turned medicine into dialogue, and dialogue into healing.

He spoke of diabetes — not with the mechanical certainty of textbooks but with the tenderness of a philosopher. “Diabetes,” he said, “is a rhythm gone astray. The human body is a system of balances — intake and expenditure, rest and effort, indulgence and restraint. When the rhythm is lost, disease enters. My task is not to overpower it with drugs but to guide the rhythm back.”

Remembering his guru, legendary diabetologist Dr M. Viswanathan in Chennai, he said, smiling gently, “I often tell my patients — Metformin is not a miracle, it is a foundation. It gives us a base to rebuild upon. But without discipline, without the steady pulse of daily practice, even the best medicine becomes futile.” Healing is never a technical fix but a repairing act — a restoration of harmony between man and his body, between desire and discipline. He believed that the truest medicine was awareness.

His son, Dr Sujit Vakkalanka, sat beside him — younger, thoughtful, with the stillness of one who has seen the world and carries both its promise and fatigue. Trained in the United States, he now stood poised at the threshold of a new frontier — that of using artificial intelligence to treat diabetes. He spoke softly, almost diffidently, of algorithms piggybacking on the mobile phone that could monitor energy intake and expenditure in real time, whisper gentle reminders when indulgence crept in, and make health a living dialogue between man and machine.

“The body always tells us everything,” he said. “We just don’t listen. AI could help us listen better.” It was a beautiful image — not of machines replacing wisdom but extending it. The father saw in his son’s vision the evolution of his own lifelong practice: what he had done through intuition, the son hoped to do through data. Between them stood not a generational divide but a bridge — one built of the same compassion, expressed in different tongues.

I asked Dr Vakkalanka whether he had ever regretted not leaving Kakinada for a larger city, such as Hyderabad. He shook his head slowly. “No,” he said. “A doctor’s work is not measured by where he practices but by how deeply he listens. My patients are my teachers. Many of them have gone elsewhere, yet they still come for consultation. I never felt the need to go elsewhere.” The sentence lingered between us like a benediction.

In that moment, I understood something rare: that staying is also a form of courage. In an age where ambition is defined by departure, to remain rooted is almost radical. Dr Vakkalanka had not chased success; he had cultivated meaning. In the quiet streets of Kakinada, he had built a small republic of trust. I remembered again that town — its symmetry, its discipline, the rhythm of its tides — and saw how his life mirrored its geography. The man and the place seemed woven from the same calm cloth.

We spoke of food, of sleep, of the unseen mathematics of metabolism. He believed that modern life’s tragedy was excess — not just of calories, but of noise, anxiety, distraction. “We live,” he said, “as though energy were infinite. But it is not. Whether physical or emotional, every indulgence must be balanced by stillness. The healthiest people are not those who do the most, but those who do enough.”

His words were less prescriptive than philosophical. I thought then how his son’s vision — AI monitoring our daily rhythm — was, at heart, an echo of the father’s teaching. The old wisdom clothed in new syntax. Awareness translated into code. Perhaps that is how knowledge evolves — one generation feels, the next measures. One listens to the pulse, the other to the data. Yet both, in the end, seek the same harmony. When they rose to leave, the air around me seemed lighter and the sunshine brighter.

In the night, in the brief spell before sleep takes over, the images of Kakinada returned — of its still waters and soft light. Dr Vakkalanka had embodied Kakinada: its tranquillity, its balance, its quiet assurance that service is richer than ambition. And through his son, that same spirit was finding its way into the circuitry of the future. Perhaps this is what it means to heal — to make the hidden rhythm visible again, whether in the bloodstream or in the algorithm, whether in a small town by the sea or on the luminous screen of a machine.

And perhaps, when the world grows too hurried, too indulgent, it will need more men like Dr Vakkalanka — those who stay, serve, and remind us that the healthiest system, human or digital, is the one that remembers to live in rhythm. Life, after all, is like the deep ocean: stillness rules its depths, holding treasures for those with the courage to dive deep. The world of families, communities, livelihoods, media, and other vanity fairs is like waves on the ocean surface: roaring, glittering, crashing, and vanishing — a fleeting display of entropy! But like there is always the enduring calm below, there is eternal immortality residing within all of us, witnessing the drama of our lives.

My name found its place in the world through Wings of Fire, the autobiography of Dr A.P.J. Abdul Kalam, who invited me to walk beside him as co-author. When it was first published in December 1999 by Universities Press, the book did not immediately take flight. I still remember those early months—more than a year, in fact—when it lingered quietly before gradually finding its readers. But once it did, the journey was unstoppable. For twenty-five years now, the book has endured, carried by the affection of people who saw in Dr Kalam’s story a reflection of their own hopes.

Not long ago, the publishers asked me to prepare a Silver Jubilee edition. I approached it with reverence. The original sixteen chapters remain exactly as they were; to me, every word and punctuation mark is sacred. To these, I added six new chapters, written in my own voice, reflecting on Dr Kalam’s life as I had witnessed it. These chapters speak of his role in India’s nuclear tests, the day he received the Bharat Ratna, his election as President, and the way he spent his final years speaking to young people about purpose and possibility.

The new edition is now available. My hope is simple—that it touches hearts as profoundly as the first edition did, and that Dr Kalam’s light continues to guide those who read it.

Two questions arise before me as I stand witness to this event, grateful for the opportunity despite my frail health: What is the purpose of a life, and how best can one live it? These are not easy questions, yet unless they are faced, there can be no true peace of mind or serenity of heart. I have seen it in myself—whether lying awake, travelling in search of new horizons, or seeking relief through distractions—no matter how the “chemistry of pleasure” persists, the restlessness remains until these questions are addressed.

I have learnt that no one else can answer them on my behalf. A guru may speak, a scripture may guide, but unless I make the truth my own, it remains hollow, like a counterfeit note that cannot buy anything of value. In my own journey, I have seen how easy it is to borrow beliefs and call them convictions, but life has a way of testing what is genuine.

For me, God—however one names or imagines Him—has never accepted intermediaries. It is always a direct, unmediated encounter, intimate and personal. Methods, yes, they help just as a car or a plane can carry me faster to a destination; prayer, meditation, or discipline can bring me nearer to clarity. But what I find when I arrive—that is mine alone, and no one else can share in it or claim credit for it.

I have also discovered that mythology, states of meditation, and even the trance of devotion are only shifts of consciousness. They may soothe, they may uplift, but they are not the truth itself. The truth is something starker, simpler, and deeply personal. It comes only when one dares to live the questions as one’s own. And in those rare moments when it appears, it feels less like an achievement and more like a homecoming.

We all enter this world without choice, and in our growing years, too, so much unfolds beyond our control. Education, for instance, is often decided not by aptitude or desire, but by the accident of birth—by the financial standing of one’s parents and the geography of one’s home. Those born into low-income families, especially in remote villages far from urban centres, face a clear disadvantage.

This is why Dr Kalam stands out as a beacon for countless reasons, but most profoundly for one: his unyielding determination to rise above educational deprivation. Had he surrendered there, no later success—scientific or social—would have been possible. His life reminds us that the foundation of all achievement lies in refusing to be defined by early limits.

Then comes another test—the enticement of the world around us: the circle of friends, the distractions of pastimes, the easy slide into gossip or indulgence in pursuits that drain energy yet yield nothing. Here again, Dr Kalam offers a lesson. His life was marked by an unswerving focus on the task before him—first as a student absorbed in learning, later as an adult committed to his work. A simple, frugal lifestyle reinforced this focus. To many, it may sound like a small detail, but in truth, it is pivotal.

How many students today can genuinely say they are giving their studies the attention they deserve? How many employees can claim genuine loyalty to their livelihoods? And frugality—once a virtue—seems to have been cast aside. Instead, we see people living for the moment, beyond their means, buying on credit, acquiring that which is neither necessary nor nourishing. Dr Kalam’s example is a quiet counterpoint to this—a reminder that simplicity sharpens focus, which in turn, paves the way to greatness.

It has been ten years since Dr Kalam walked out of this world, and yet he remains with me—every single day, not as nostalgia or sentiment, but as my witness. In his unseen presence, I ask myself the same questions he asked himself: Am I living with purpose? What does a purposeful life mean when one has retired, when the body has grown frail? The answers are no longer uncertain.

I have come to see that the meaning of a human life is to let one’s narrow consciousness—the embodied soul—expand into the vastness of universal consciousness. It is not hidden; it does not require elaborate rites or intermediaries. The truth is in plain sight. Look up at the sky on a starry night, and you will sense it. Watch a plant turn sunlight into matter, breathe in carbon from the air, and quietly fulfil its purpose—you will know it. Education, too, is like this. Knowing how to swim is one thing; swimming across a river is another. Knowledge that serves only livelihood is incomplete. The real test is whether you shared it, whether you offered it beyond yourself.

This was Dr Kalam’s gift to us. After Rashtrapati Bhavan, he became a pilgrim to classrooms. From campus to campus, he carried the flame, speaking to students—of dreams, of courage, of purpose. And it was before them, in the midst of that message, that he laid down his body and gave his final lesson—that a life lived in service ends in service.

And so, I write. I write blogs, I write books—sometimes about myself, often about the quiet, good work of others. Each dawn I take as an extension, another chance to do what little I can. Every night I close with the satisfaction of having read a noble voice, borrowed a spark, and try to kindle it into words that might steady or inspire a fellow traveller.

The Silver Jubilee edition of Wings of Fire carries this torch onward. And now, it rests with you. The next time someone says, “This cannot be done,” remember Dr Kalam, and this truth: life itself is the miracle of what has never happened before. We are here to add to that miracle. That was his gift, his legacy. I have tried to carry it faithfully. And now, dear reader, it is yours to keep alive.

For as long as I can remember, a quiet thought has drifted through my mind in the still hours between dusk and sleep: what if life itself is a simulation—an elaborate stage play in which we, vivid though we seem, may yet be characters animated by some higher intelligence? Even facial expressions change, as if we are possessed by some external energy.

The concept of Maya has been interpreted in various ways by sages, seers, and philosophers throughout the centuries. This cosmos is a dream of the Supreme Creator. Just as a dream is formed in the consciousness during sleep, the Absolute manifests this universe not out of necessity, but out of sheer abundance and playfulness (Lila). Creation is not some enterprise but a dance, where Maya becomes the stage on which consciousness experiences itself in infinite forms.

I often reflect on the disquiet of our times—wars that swallowed young soldiers, terrorist attacks killing innocent people, a virus that brought the globe to its knees, and a climate in turmoil. It revives the old question: are we participants in a simulation, scripts running on algorithms we do not write? Does Maya continue to hold us in an unreal loop, testing us again and again? Two dear scientist friends have sketched its modern contours with striking clarity.

My friend Dr Ashok Tiwari, a biologist, once paused as if stepping between thoughts and told me, like the body is created out of code written in DNA, the mind is also an ever-flowing stream of consciousness. Dr Tiwari has been delivering excellent lectures on this theme for several years after his superannuation from CSIR. He declared in one of his podcasts, “The universe is a simulation of Cosmic Intelligence and the algorithm is changing every instant.” 

Then there is Prof. Ramesh Loganathan, the computer scientist, whose eyes light up behind his glasses when he speaks of virtual worlds. “Look at what we’ve done in fifty years—entire forests regrowing in pixels, avatars falling in love, armies clashing without real blood.” There is no king or throne in the virtual world (computer science) only workstations (called consoles) and yet there is power, excitement and pride everywhere.

And in the midst of these reflections came word of a recent article: “We Live in the Matrix,” by British physicist Melvin Vopson, published in the Science Journal. Vopson claims he has uncovered evidence of simulation—not vague speculation, but a hint traced in the very behaviour of gravity. He proposes that gravity—and indeed the universe itself—emerges from a process of data optimisation and compression.

Indian philosophy had a sense of this long ago: the Vedas describe the universe as emerging from Shabda (sound/vibration, i.e., information). Modern ‘infodynamics’ echoes that intuition: reality itself may be structured as evolving information. American physicist John Wheeler (1911–2008) said it in three words: “It from bit.” Matter, energy, and even spacetime may be emergent from information processes. Bits cannot exist without a physical substrate (such as a photon, an electron, a spin, or a mark on paper).

Just as there is no free energy, there is no free information. To gain information about a system, you must invest energy through observation, computation, and measurement. Information can only be reduced to its basic pattern, retaining some repetition to correct mistakes and some novelty to convey meaning. DNA is tightly packed but still has built-in repetition to resist errors. Information flows in one direction, like time: DNA produces proteins, but proteins cannot produce DNA.

Even when systems appear to ‘lose’ information (like a book burning or matter falling into a black hole), the information is not annihilated; it disperses, scrambles, or becomes inaccessible. Diseases are inherited. Subsequent generations carry the diseases even after the death of people. Dormant genes that have been inactive for several generations become activated when they encounter new environments like radiation or chemicals. Information is conserved at the deepest level of physics.

As in a computer simulation, the universe doodles itself more efficiently: it binds particles together, reducing informational complexity, much as a program consolidates data to save processing power. Instead of tracking every particle separately, the universe groups them into wholes: atoms, molecules, stars, galaxies. Each new level of order is like a higher-order data structure, an elegant shorthand that allows the cosmic computation to proceed without drowning in its own detail. In this way, the world is both infinitely rich and surprisingly efficient: it hides its bits in patterns, its chaos in symmetry, its noise in music.

Ancient wisdom calls it illusion, Dr Ashok Tiwari names it script, Prof. Loganathan reads it as code, and Vopson discerns in gravity’s pull an architecture—compressed, ordered, a simulation in motion. Amid this confluence, I often circle back to the scripture’s promise: that beneath whatever façade exists, there lies a witness—the Atman—untouched, serene, outside and beyond the mechanism of Maya.

Yes, pandemics rage. Forests burn. Seas rise. We are fragile and not in control. Yet, in the notion of simulation—even in that unsettling idea—there is space for dignity. These trials aren’t happenstance; perhaps they are scenarios to test our compassion, our resilience, our capacity to act with awareness within this seeming illusion.

Poets and philosophers have described life as a river—always flowing, impossible to grasp. I feel that the current in my thoughts is the puzzle of reality versus simulation, which may be less urgent than how we live inside it. An illusion, after all, still demands care. A dream garden wilts if ignored; a simulated earth still calls for tenderness. What if tenderness is a command?

On the sidelines of the Cancer Run event organised by mutual friend Dr S. Chinnababu, Prof. Loganathan lovingly held my hand and said, “We cannot rewrite the code—or so it seems—but we can choose how we move within it. To live with intention as though each gesture matters. To acknowledge suffering as sacred. To love as though love might breach the veil of Maya and touch something eternal.”

I remain—uncertain, searching, yet anchored. As the 2017 Nobel Prize-winning Japanese-born British novelist Kazuo Ishiguro has famously uncovered the abyss beneath our illusory sense of connection with the world in his narratives, what we are living is a fleeting performance where roles shift, masks fall, and truth glimmers in the pauses. To be both actor and witness is to live with awareness, to hold in balance the part we play and the stage upon which we play it.

Whether this life is real or an illusion, it is the only stage at which we can be conscious. And the question we must live, not resolve, is whether we can become not just performing actors, but also spectators watching the play.

The phrase ‘unboiling the egg’ evokes the impossible: once heat has transformed the contents of an egg, there is no turning back, no means of returning the yolk and white to their original, separate, fluid states. This commonly used analogy has helped convey the futility of attempting to reverse certain processes—whether physical, emotional, or psychological. Mithu Storoni uses this metaphor in her 2017 book Stress Proof. A medical doctor from the University of Cambridge and a doctorate in neuro-ophthalmology at the National Hospital for Neurology and Neurosurgery in London, she mentioned that under specific laboratory conditions, it is possible to ‘unboil’ a hen’s egg.

This led me to learn about the Ig Nobel Prize, a word play on ignoble. It is a light-hearted take on the Nobel Prize, which began in 1991, celebrating something unusual yet significant. To drive home the irony, a lone banknote of 10 trillion Zimbabwean dollars is presented, which is actually worth only about US$0.40.

Researchers at the University of California, Irvine, and Flinders University in Australia, led by Colin Raston (b. 1950), won the 2015 Ig Nobel Prize in Chemistry for developing a Vortex Fluidic Device (VFD) that can ‘unboil’ proteins in an egg, effectively reversing the protein-folding process caused by cooking. While the method doesn’t fully restore the egg’s original state, it untangles the denatured proteins and returns them to a clear, fluid state.

So, instead of laughing it off, I saw this development cast the metaphor in a new light, inviting us to reconsider our assumptions about change, especially in the context of mental conditioning and personal growth. Can we, like the laboratory egg, ‘unboil’ our own minds, shedding layers of learned behaviour or trauma to become better versions of ourselves?

From birth, people’s minds are shaped and reshaped by countless influences—family, society, education, trauma, success, and failure. The traditional outlook is that mental impressions are permanent, etched forever upon the consciousness. Once trust is broken, can it ever be fully restored? Once trauma is experienced, can its effects ever truly be erased? In this framing, attempts at self-improvement or recovery may seem Sisyphean—meaningful, perhaps, but ultimately unable to undo the past.

Thus, ‘egg boiling’ is seen as the process of mental conditioning: each experience, lesson, or hardship is like heat, denaturing the proteins of our psyche, binding us into new forms. Over time, neural pathways are established, habits are formed, and patterns of thought become solidified. Just as a hard-boiled egg is the product of heat and time, so too are our personalities, anxieties, and worldviews the result of accumulated experiences and learned responses.

By adding a chemical agent and using a vortex fluid device, Raston restored cooked proteins to their original, uncooked state. This breakthrough, meant for biomedical research and protein manufacturing, also presents a potent metaphor: with the right tools and knowledge, even changes once thought irreversible can be undone—or at least reconfigured.

So, if protein ‘denaturation’ can, in some circumstances, be reversed, might we also find ways to unbind the hardened, conditioned responses of our minds? While we cannot return to a true psychological ‘blank slate,’ modern psychology and neuroscience suggest that profound change is possible through neuroplasticity, therapy, introspection, and new experiences. The brain, far from being fixed, is dynamic and adaptive.

Essentially, mental conditioning encompasses the beliefs, biases, fears, and habits formed over a lifetime. These are not always negative—indeed, conditioning is essential for survival—but some patterns become maladaptive. Phobias, negative self-talk, prejudice, and self-limiting beliefs are examples of ‘overcooked’ responses that may no longer serve us.

Modern research in neuroscience has shown that the brain has the ability to form and reorganise synaptic connections, called neuroplasticity, in response to learning or experience. Therapy modalities such as cognitive-behavioural therapy (CBT), mindfulness, and even psychedelic-assisted sessions can make individuals ‘rewire’ their responses to past events and unlearn maladaptive patterns. The Internet is full of stories of people who have overcome addiction, healed from trauma, and abandoned deeply held prejudices. The evidence is clear: mental ‘unboiling’ is not only possible, but happening all around us.

I have yet to see anyone who has changed personally. Actually, I don’t believe in this idea of ‘change’. In fact, my doubt is more fundamental. What does it mean to be a ‘Better Person’? Isn’t becoming better inherently subjective, shaped by culture, context, and personal values? For some, it means cultivating compassion and empathy; for others, it might mean gaining confidence, shedding destructive habits, or finding peace with oneself. Regardless of the specifics, self-improvement implies movement away from past limitations and toward a higher ideal.

Change is seldom straightforward. The inertia of habit, fear of failure, and the comfort of the familiar can all conspire against us. Shame and guilt may keep us rooted in old patterns, and sceptics—both internal and external—may insist that ‘people never really change’. I prefer terms like ‘awareness of our inner world’ that keep radiating outwards, as in the behaviours and words we speak, our voice, tone, speed, and fluency, or the hindrances.

Why give a common-sense assessment of one’s strengths and weaknesses, and then attach a high-sounding name to it? Dialogue with trusted friends has always helped people. Community, mentorship, and professional guidance are invaluable. Who can deny that small, consistent efforts lay the groundwork for lasting improvement? The root problem of our times is isolation. Mistakes are inevitable; learning from them is key. You need good people around you to help you correct your mistakes, not your nemesis.

While the metaphor of ‘unboiling the egg’ suggests radical reversal, true personal growth often involves integration rather than erasure. We cannot unlive our childhoods or forget our traumas, but we can reinterpret, reframe, and rise above them. Like the egg’s proteins, our minds may always bear traces of their former shapes, but that need not define us.

There is no denial of the fact that the story of unboiling the egg is now a symbol of possibility. Scientific progress mirrors personal growth: what was once thought unchangeable can, through persistence and the right tools, be transformed. Though we cannot return to some untouched, original state, we are not prisoners of our past. Mental conditioning can be examined, challenged, and, to some extent, undone.

Becoming a better person is not only possible—it is our birthright as adaptable, learning beings. The process may not be easy or complete, but each step toward greater self-awareness, compassion, and freedom from harmful conditioning is an unboiling of sorts: a reclamation of potential, a renewal of hope, and a testament to the endless capacity for change within us all.

Hyderabad was settled 500 years ago amid the vast expanse of stones and dust, a plateau beneath a hot sky. A part of it now bursts with high-rise glass towers, where the sun is mirrored when rising and setting. This new part is called Cyberabad, as though Hyderabad—rooted in time immemorial, bazaars and minarets—has reincarnated without dying. The great corporations—Microsoft, Google, Amazon, and Facebook—have come here with their vast encampments: shining fortresses of light. All of this, spun like a web around the institute, IIIT Hyderabad, where a handful of visionaries once sowed the first seeds.

There, among them, is P. J. Narayanan—PJN, as both his friends and students call him. From the quiet town of Alwaye to Kharagpur’s corridors, to Maryland’s cool libraries, to the laboratories of Bengaluru, his path was drawn, like a thread stitched carefully through decades. At CAIR (Centre for Artificial Intelligence and Robotics) in Bengaluru, he imagined pixels turning into moving scenes, reconstructed forms, and possible worlds inside a machine.

Among the pioneering faculty at the International Institute of Information Technology, Hyderabad (IIIT-H), PJN established the Centre for Visual Information Technology (CVIT). Patiently and steadily, he attracted brilliant students every year—the best among the brightest minds, restless with youth, hearts alight with questions—making it the largest of its kind in the country, breathing life into algorithms that see, imagine and remember. Thanks to him, if there is any other place in the world outside Silicon Valley in the US where AI technology truly comes to life, it is here.

In the realm of vision, machines learn to create depth from flat images—faces, streets and temples rising from two dimensions into three, as though a ghost of the real were summoned from the shadows. From the trembling of motion, structure emerges; from the flicker of pixels, entire worlds stand upright. In the realm of graphics, light lingers, refracts and bends its way across hidden surfaces; scenes ripple and shift like landscapes glimpsed in a dream.

Deep inside the humming chambers of the GPU (Graphics Processing Unit), armies of numbers surge and scatter—graphs shifting, strings unravelling and reweaving, patterns clustering like constellations and neural nets shimmering like webs spun overnight. What was once hidden now opens, clear and flowing, carrying the mark of PJN and his students.

When I learnt that he was stepping down from the directorship of the CVIT after completing two glorious terms, I found in him not even a shade of retirement, but the radiance of continuance. He spoke—gently, almost as though teaching a class again—of information technology as the arc of intelligence: how myth and metaphor evolved into mathematics; of Alan Turing’s sober challenge, the Dartmouth dream, and Deep Blue toppling Kasparov like a chess piece fallen in history’s great game.

And as PJN spoke, I witnessed his steady, unrelenting river of thought. From the all-knowing gods, demons and sages of old legends, through the rule-based logic, and now the neural networks that mimic the mind itself—what an incredible journey of intelligence! Now, it is in our pockets through smartphones, in the cars that drive us, and the Chatbots that answer whatever we ask. AI, PJN said, is not something at the door, knocking; it has slipped inside already, rearranged the furniture, set the clocks to its own time, and taken possession of the house.

“Should we be afraid?” I asked. For the air is thick with whispers—robots are replacing men, AI biases buried in data like stones that trip the unwary, inequalities sharpened, not softened, by automation’s hand. PJN chuckled—soft and unhurried, as though the worry were a child tugging at one’s sleeve. Fears, he said, cannot halt a sunrise. The birds who love the dark may complain, but the light comes—inevitable and indifferent. Our task is not to stop it—it cannot be stopped—but to shape it, so that it illuminates and does not blind.

It was here that our common roots in the Defence Research and Development Organisation (DRDO) surfaced. What about the great Public Sector Undertakings (PSUs) that have, for decades, formed the backbone of India’s industrial sector? Steel, coal, oil, power, railways—these were once temples of progress, but today, they stand on the threshold of a new revolution. How should they face this dawn of Industry 4.0, where machines learn, sensors whisper, and algorithms anticipate?

PJN’s words felt like counsel: PSUs must not retreat into nostalgia or fear. They must embrace indigenous technologies—crafted for Indian conditions, by Indian hands—and reskill their vast workforces so that machinists and welders become supervisors of robots, interpreters of data and partners of algorithms. The choice is simple: ride the tide of AI and robotics, or be left in their gushing wake.

I thought then of a steel plant in Durgapur, where predictive algorithms could halve the energy used in furnaces, making them not only more cost-effective but also cleaner. Of ONGC deploying drones that sweep across pipelines, spotting hairline cracks before disaster strikes. Of the Indian Railways’ running locomotives, whose sensors continuously report to central dashboards, predicting failures days in advance. Of BEML, supplying earthmoving machines across the global South.

These are not fantasies; they are glimmers already present. What they need is scale, commitment, and above all, faith in India’s own ingenuity. In that moment, I felt that PJN’s voice—measured, prophetic—was speaking not only to me, but also to managers of PSUs, to policymakers, to unions and to young apprentices just joining the shop floor.

When at last I rose to go, I placed my hand in his, and it was as if I touched not merely a man, but the distilled patience of years—the engineer who took a leap in frontline robotics, who became a teacher, the teacher who became a guide, and the guide who remains a sage. No clamour for power, no scent of self—only the quiet, luminous wish: that humanity, with all its frailties, might walk alongside its machines; not behind them, not beneath them, but together, into a future still unmade. The future does not have a blueprint; it builds upon what has been done. It has to be formed every day of our lives, with our own hands, minds and mistakes.

The Industry 4.0 of India must not be a job taker but a job creator. Over the years, we have become addicted to cheap imports. “Why develop when it is available?” is a defeatist mindset. While private companies, driven by profits, may do whatever it takes to make them rich, PSUs must do what makes the country strong and generates employment. I imagine a second innings of PJN, decisively tackling PSUs and making way for change as effortlessly as Moses parted the Red Sea.