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.

I stopped wondering about the world a long time ago. Even this waking life feels no different from a dream—strange, layered, quietly unfolding—especially if one watches carefully. Of late, I have neither been travelling a lot nor pursuing any agenda that would make me particularly relevant to the world. And yet, life continues to bring remarkable people into my orbit—many from distant continents, many who carry the unmistakable weight of achievement with an effortless grace. Meeting Srinivas Attili was one such moment.

Srini Attili, as he is called, is the Executive Vice President of the Civilian Business Group at Science Applications International Corporation (SAIC), a major American technology enterprise headquartered in Reston, Virginia. SAIC operates across multiple sectors, supporting federal agencies and state and local governments. Its portfolio is vast, its reach significant.

But what struck me about Srinivas Attili was not abstraction; it was clarity. In a world that often confuses innovation with progress, he speaks in terms of execution, trade-offs and outcomes. The approach is deceptively simple—build enterprise and mission IT capabilities that are reusable, replicable and resilient. Layer onto this the intelligent application of AI—not as a buzzword, but as a tool to enhance productivity and bend the cost curve.

Attili’s worldview is striking in its simplicity. “There are no mysteries,” he says. “What we call problems often arise because we are investing our time, money and effort in the wrong things.” Optimising the wrong thing, he suggests, is perhaps the most seductive trap of all.

His journey began far from the corridors of global technology leadership—in Narsipatnam in Anakapalle district, Andhra Pradesh. It was a landscape of quiet abundance and silent struggle. Frugality was not a choice but a way of being, practised even amidst nature’s bounty, where every resource was respected and nothing taken for granted, because abundance came only through relentless labour.

In such places, aspiration does not announce itself loudly; it germinates quietly, often waiting for a moment of ignition. For him, that moment arrived when a government-sponsored technology camp was conducted in his town. He enrolled. That single spark was enough. What followed was a trajectory shaped by curiosity and discipline: a bachelor’s degree in computer technology from Nagpur, a master’s in computer science, and an MBA in the United States. He went on to build a career across institutions such as PwC, IBM, Deloitte and McKinsey & Company—before stepping into leadership at SAIC. 

Yet, for all this global exposure, his philosophy remains grounded.

“Understand the problem before fitting a solution,” he says. “That is how you earn trust, stay relevant and deliver outcomes that endure.” He follows the startup and venture ecosystem closely, but his interest lies less in the novelty of technology and more in its translation—how ideas move from promise to operational reality. This is where many innovations falter. Execution, not imagination, is the true differentiator.

For Attili, long-term impact is not measured in quarters or headlines, but in systems that endure. One such example dates back to 2003–2004, when he helped build a portal for the U.S. Army. It allowed deployed soldiers to access education from over 100 universities through a single interface—a simple yet profound act of enabling individuals to use a benefit they had earned.

Over the years, he has witnessed waves of technological change—eBusiness, on-demand services, microservices, APIs, blockchain, cloud computing, and cybersecurity. Some trends faded; others became foundational. His lens, however, remains consistent: Does it solve a real problem? And does it endure?

On artificial intelligence, he is equally clear-eyed. AI, in his view, is not about automating workflows solely for efficiency. At SAIC, they refer to ‘mission threads’—use cases that must function reliably at scale, over time. AI must not merely execute; it must learn, adapt and improve. It must become a living system.

But Attili’s sense of mission extends beyond the corporate sphere. His association with nonprofits like Global Grace Health—focused on cancer screening and outreach to the poor in their communities—reflects a deeper commitment to human well-being. It was this shared thread that led to our meeting.

He is also mentioned as a quiet force in Dr. Chinnababu Sunkavalli’s book, Live for a Legacy, which I had the privilege to co-author. His visit to Hyderabad, and the time we spent together at Dr. Chinnababu’s home, felt less like a formal meeting and more like a conversation that lingered—like a cup of tea whose warmth stays long after it is finished.

When I asked him for advice for Indian technology entrepreneurs, he articulated a framework of elegant simplicity—the ’three E’s’: Experience of the mission; Expertise in technology; and Ecosystem orchestration. This, he explained, is about integration—connecting partners, aligning platforms, and helping institutions extract value from what they already possess. “Blessed are the mission integrators”, he said. Those words stayed with me.

Integration, in his view, is not merely technical. It is deeply human. Imagination, compassion, interpretation, articulation—these are not soft skills; they are the very forces that enable integration. Without them, excellence remains elusive. Whether one is a homemaker preparing a meal, a farmer tending crops, a teacher shaping young minds, or a nurse caring for the ill, the difference lies in seeing the act not as an isolated task, but as service to a larger cause. In that shift, peace emerges.

AI, then, is not an end. It is an enabler. A compass. A vehicle. Used wisely, it sharpens our ability to serve. Used blindly, it amplifies our confusion.

There is, perhaps, a larger intelligence at play—a quiet evolutionary force that nudges reality towards purpose. We may not fully comprehend it, but we sense its direction. And in that unfolding, human beings remain uniquely placed—not as masters, but as participants.

As I listened to Srini speak of integration—of mission threads, ecosystems and enduring systems—I could not help but reflect on our own landscape in India. Ours is, in many ways, a fragmented system. Each Ministry often beats its own trumpet. Departments tend to become domains, and domains quietly harden into fiefdoms. For a vast nation of extraordinary capability, there is still no institutional equivalent of Science Applications International Corporation—an entity that exists to integrate, to harmonise, to make the whole greater than the sum of its parts.

In far too many places, “our way is the highway” remains the unspoken doctrine. And so, despite undeniable progress—new flyovers arching across cities, skyscrapers rising with confidence, shopping malls redefining consumption—the deeper questions persist. The poor are not only poor; they are often underserved, even unserved. Primary education struggles for attention. Primary healthcare access is uneven. People like farmers, agricultural labourers, fishermen, etc.—the invisible backbone of the nation—continue to live their own fate, as spectators to a narrative of development that unfolds around them but not always for them.

They watch speeches. They watch cricket matches. They witness the symbols of growth. But beneath their feet, the water table recedes. Yet even as they remain on the margins, global supply chains quietly enter their modest kitchens—bringing both opportunity and disruption. It is not intent that fails; it is, more often, the failure to integrate.

What we need today are not merely technologies—or policies drafted in isolation—but integrators: individuals and institutions with the capacity to see across silos, align incentives, connect disparate systems, and carry outcomes through time. Most organisations rarely fail because they lack ideas. They falter because they scale what should never have grown, sustain revenue that adds little value, and defer the hard choices that clear thinking compels. In the end, success does not belong to those who know more—it belongs to those who connect, choose and act in time.

We need Srinis. Not as exceptions, but as a growing tribe. Men and women who understand that true progress lies not in isolated excellence, but in orchestrated harmony; who recognise that the real power of AI—or any technology—emerges only when it is embedded within systems that serve a coherent purpose. Progress is not about building more systems. It is about making systems work together. That is the work that lies before us. May many more like him rise.

I count it among the quiet privileges of my life that I live in Cyberabad, that curious frontier of Hyderabad where glass and code rise together, and where the pulse of the contemporary world beats with an almost inaudible insistence. Yet, even here, amid the measured rhythm of machines and meetings, there comes a moment when the mind turns restless in its own enclosure—when the walls of one’s study, however familiar, begin to feel like a narrowing horizon.

It is then that I step out, not so much in search of diversion as in search of renewal, and find myself drawn, almost instinctively, to institutions—those living spaces where thought gathers, where ideas are not merely spoken but shaped, contested, and, in their quieter moments, allowed to become the future. These visits unfold as small, inward journeys—intellectual pilgrimages, if one may call them so—where the act of arriving is itself a kind of reflection.  

Of all such places, the International Institute of Information Technology Hyderabad has, over time, become a point of gentle return. There is, upon entering its campus, a peculiar stillness—not an absence of activity, but a presence of thought. The corridors seem to hold a subdued resonance, as though they remember conversations not yet concluded, and discoveries not yet made. One walks through them with a certain attentiveness, sensing that beneath the visible order of classrooms and laboratories there moves an undercurrent of inquiry, of possibility, of futures quietly assembling themselves out of the discipline of the present.

During a recent visit, I found myself lingering through an entire forenoon with Vineet Gandhi, who leads the Centre for Visual Information Technology. Conversations with researchers have a cadence of their own—they seldom declare their destination at the outset. The meeting, arranged at the behest of Deepti Gaddam, Managing Director of Ozone Hospitals and a successful technology curator, began almost ceremonially with introductions. Then, as if yielding to a deeper current, it unfolded through stories of journeys and ideas. What is termed ‘incubation’ in computer science revealed itself, in that room, as something more intimate—a quiet humanisation of technology.  

Vineet’s own journey seems to trace the quiet arc of a new generation of global Indian scientists. Born in Pipar City (पीपाड़), a small town in Jodhpur district, and schooled in Ajmer, he carries within him that early geography of modest beginnings, which so often widens, rather than limits, one’s horizon. From there, he moved to the Indian Institute of Information Technology, Design and Manufacturing, Jabalpur, graduating in 2009, and soon after, as if answering a larger summons, left for Europe on the prestigious Erasmus Mundus programme. 

Within the CIMET consortium—Colour in Informatics and Media Technology—Vineet’s education unfolded across intellectual and geographical landscapes, weaving together disciplines and cultures into a single, evolving inquiry. His master’s programme unfolded as a passage across borders—one semester in Spain, another in Norway—each landscape offering not merely a change of place but a shift in intellectual temperament. By the time he arrived at the National Institute for Research in Digital Science and Technology in France to complete his thesis, the journey had already begun to assume the quality of a quiet synthesis. It was there that he remained to pursue his doctoral work in applied mathematics and computer science under Rémi Ronfard, a pioneer in the intriguing field of Computer Theatre—where storytelling does not merely borrow from computation, but is reshaped by it, finding new grammars of expression at their intersection.

 In 2015, Vineet returned to India, as though completing a wide arc, and joined the International Institute of Information Technology – Hyderabad as a Senior Research Scientist. Over the years, he has grown into a steady and thoughtful presence within its research community, and today, as an Associate Professor, he contributes to its vibrant ecosystem in visual computing and artificial intelligence. Alongside his academic work, he serves as Chief Scientific Advisor at Animaker Inc., where his insights flow outwards—translating the abstractions of computer vision into tools creators across the world use, often without pausing to consider the science that enables them.

This dual inhabitation—one foot anchored in the reflective quiet of academia, the other stepping into the restless terrain of real-world innovation—suggests a new form of scholarship. The researcher is no longer confined to the slow, solitary afterlife of published papers; knowledge now seeks embodiment, moving outwards into platforms and products that subtly reshape how the world sees, tells, and remembers its stories.  

Listening to Vineet in person, whom I had previously knownonly through the media, I became aware—almost with a certain humility—of how little I truly understand of media technology. My relationship with cinema has largely been that of a spectator, one who receives images as they appear, without perceiving the intricate and invisible machinery that gives them form. And yet, in that moment, it seemed that behind every frame there lay not only technique, but an entire architecture of thought—patient, precise, and quietly transformative.

For me, digital media long remained a distant, almost mythical realm beyond engineering. Steve Jobs changed that perception—building Pixar into a pioneer of digital storytelling, and later reshaping not only music, but also how it was produced, distributed, and valued through the iPod and iTunes. In doing so, he showed how computation, creativity and narrative could converge to redefine entire creative industries.

 Today, as we watch television or scroll through digital media, certainty itself seems to waver: is what we see real or fabricated, truth or simulation, human-made or machine-generated? These questions have stayed with me as I work on The Mirror and the Maze, my new book about a post-truth world—an environment in which objective facts recede, and perception is shaped more by emotion, belief and repeated narratives than by verifiable reality. Technology has given us the power to simulate reality—but with it comes a deeper philosophical unease about what reality now means.

Yet this uncertainty did not arrive overnight. The modern world has already lived through a quiet cognitive revolution—brought about not by books, but by cinema. While books, for centuries, remained the preserve of the literate and even within that, a reflective minority, films crossed those boundaries with ease. They spoke in images, emotions, and archetypes, reaching millions simultaneously, imprinting ideas with a force that text alone rarely achieves. Cinema did not merely entertain; it reshaped perception itself, training societies to see, feel and believe through narrative.

At the heart of every memorable film lies a story—an emotional thread that binds image to meaning and moment to memory. Films like Mayabazar and Mother India have shaped a civilisation’s sense of heroism and duty, while The Godfather and The Wolf of Wall Street expose the darker undercurrents of power. Even the recent Dhurandhar reflects the anxieties of nationhood, where visible narratives meet unseen forces.

And yet, beneath these varied expressions, something remains unchanged. Technology may refine the instruments of storytelling, but the human hunger for stories is insatiable, for we continue to seek the meaning of our own existence. What gives a film its life is not the apparatus, but the story it carries—a quiet bridge between what we see and what we feel. A great film is one in which the audience finds something of themselves.

My conversation with Vineet Gandhi unfolded in his modest chamber, suffused with the unmistakable stillness of a scholar’s workspace. On one wall stood a large, old-fashioned green board rather than the whiteboards in vogue today. He uses dust-free chalk sticks imported from Japan. “A couple of sticks last an entire semester”, he said, almost as an aside, with a gentle smile.

Before I left, he placed a few of those chalk sticks in my hand as a parting gift, thanking me for coming—small objects, yet curiously weighty in their suggestion. They seemed to remind me that, for all the sophistication of artificial intelligence and digital media, learning still begins in simplicity: a teacher, a board, and an idea slowly taking shape through the movement of a hand.