abhijit1981's Blog

Category: Nostalgia and Musing

  • Is This Worth My Roar??

    When I was a kid, around six or seven, I remember being utterly enchanted by a children’s magazine called Tinkle. Where Chandamama, Balhans, Parag, Nandan, and Lotpot were all wonderful in their own ways, Tinkle felt like it belonged to a different league altogether. It wasn’t easily available in our town, so I used to walk to the library just to read it. Even now, I can’t quite believe how, with his modest means, my father managed to get me subscriptions to every children’s magazine I ever wanted. Comics were negotiable, but magazines—those he never said no to. They arrived tucked inside the morning newspaper, and the anticipation of unfolding the paper to see whether today was the day was a joy like no other.Perhaps that’s why, even today, I still read Tinkle on my Kindle. It takes no more than a few minutes, but whenever I open my Kindle, I somehow end up opening Tinkle first. And the other day, I came across a story that stayed with me.A lion was walking through the forest with his young cub when a rabid dog suddenly appeared, barking and snarling. The lion didn’t even turn his head. He simply walked on, majestic and unbothered. After a while, the cub asked, “Papa, you are the king of the jungle. Why didn’t you teach him a lesson?”The lion stopped and said gently, “What glory is there in defeating a mad dog? Tomorrow, the animals won’t say, ‘There goes the mighty lion.’ They’ll say, ‘There goes the lion who fought a rabid dog.’”We live in a world full of barking dogs—snide comments on social media, curt remarks from relatives, strangers eager to pick a fight, old friends who have become old wounds. Most of them aren’t even rabid; they’re simply bored, hurting, or hungry for attention.The question is rarely can we respond. Of course we can. The real question is: should we? And what will it cost us?Every battle, even the ones we win, takes something from us—time, energy, sleep, peace. A part of us lingers on that battlefield long after the fight is over, replaying the scene, sharpening retorts for next time. If the prize isn’t worth the price, then we haven’t won; we’ve only lost more slowly.Nasrudin once said, when told that a butcher had insulted him, “When a dog barks at the moon, does the moon bark back?” The dog tires itself out. The moon keeps shining.Life will always have its butchers, its mad dogs, its kicking donkeys. They are part of the scenery. Our task is not to silence them but to remember who we are in their presence.I’m not suggesting withdrawal or passivity. I’m saying: pick your battles. Fight for something worthy—your dharma, your loved ones, your purpose, your awakening. Suffer, if you must, for something magnificent.Before you let anything unravel you, pause and ask yourself: is this worth my roar?

  • From Land Yachts to Lean Machines: The Turning Point of 1973

    Once upon a time, Americans drove what could only be described as land yachts.

    These were not just cars—they were statements. Massive in size, often as large as small trucks, these vehicles defined the automotive culture of the 1950s through the early 1970s. Inside, they were drenched in luxury—leather, wood, chrome, plush carpets, and glass. Comfort, status, and opulence mattered far more than efficiency.

    Under the hood, these machines carried enormous V8 engines—5 to 7 litres in size. Yet, despite their scale, they were not particularly efficient or powerful by today’s standards. Fuel consumption was high, but few cared. Petrol was cheap, and abundance was taken for granted.

    Dominated by the “Big Three”—Ford, General Motors, and Chrysler—the American automotive industry thrived on this philosophy.

    Meanwhile, Japanese automakers quietly entered the US market with a very different approach. Their cars were small, simple, fuel-efficient, and affordable. At the time, they were dismissed as “toy cars” and struggled to gain acceptance.

    Then came 1973.

    The world was shaken by the oil crisis, triggered by geopolitical tensions during the Yom Kippur War. In response to US support for Israel, Arab members of OPEC cut off oil supplies to the United States and other Western nations.

    The impact was immediate and dramatic.

    Fuel prices surged nearly fourfold. Petrol, once cheap and abundant, became scarce and rationed. Long queues formed at petrol stations. People waited hours for limited fuel. The government imposed a national speed limit of 55 mph to conserve energy. Even public buildings reduced lighting to set an example.

    For the first time, Americans were forced to confront a new reality—fuel was not infinite.

    This shift changed everything.

    Suddenly, the appeal of large, fuel-hungry land yachts faded. Consumers began to value efficiency, reliability, and affordability—the very strengths of Japanese cars.

    What was once dismissed became desirable.

    Over the next two decades, Japanese automakers like Toyota and Honda steadily gained market share. While American brands remained strong, their dominance was no longer absolute. The monopoly had been broken.

    The oil crisis did more than disrupt fuel supply—it reshaped consumer behaviour, industrial strategy, and global competition.

    1973 vs Today

    There are echoes of 1973 in today’s world, with geopolitical tensions again influencing energy markets. However, key differences exist.

    Today, global oil supply is far more diversified. The United States itself is now one of the largest producers. Other major contributors include Saudi Arabia, Russia, Canada, and China. Unlike the 1970s, supply is no longer concentrated in a few regions.

    Additionally, the world now relies on a broader energy mix—natural gas, nuclear power, and renewables reduce dependence on crude oil alone.

    While oil prices remain volatile, the likelihood of a sudden fourfold spike, as seen in 1973, is lower in today’s competitive and diversified market.

    Final Reflection

    1973 was not just an energy crisis—it was a wake-up call.

    It taught industries and nations a fundamental lesson:
    efficiency, resilience, and diversification are not optional—they are essential.

    And perhaps, in a different form, that lesson still echoes today.

  • A Career Built on Logic, A Life Turning Toward Meaning

    Between What Pays and What Is True

    For most of my adult life, I did everything I was supposed to do.

    I studied a serious subject. Built a respectable career.Worked across countries, functions, and hierarchies. Delivered outcomes, savings, improvements.

    From the outside, it looked like success.

    From the inside, something else was unfolding.

    Over time, I began to feel a quiet dissonance—not with work itself, but with the way we define worth.

    I watched intelligent, sincere people burn themselves out in the name of growth. I saw organisations speak of values while rewarding only numbers. I noticed how the language of “more” slowly replaced the language of “enough”.

    And somewhere along the way, my enthusiasm thinned—not from laziness, but from honesty.

    What surprised me most was this: Even when roles paid well, my energy didn’t return.

    That’s when I realised something important:

    The problem was not effort.
    The problem was alignment.

    I found myself drawn, almost involuntarily, toward quieter questions: How does the mind work?
    Why do we chase validation? What does meaningful contribution actually look like?

    These questions didn’t help my CV. But they helped me understand myself.

    Today, I stand at a threshold—not rejecting my past, not romanticising the future.

    I honour what my career gave me: Structure. Discipline. Systems thinking. Perspective.

    But I no longer want to trade my inner truth for external approval.

    I am learning to build a different relationship with work— one where insight matters more than intensity, where contribution doesn’t require self-betrayal, and where earning a living doesn’t mean losing oneself.

    This is not a dramatic reinvention. It is a quiet recalibration.

    And perhaps that is what midlife truly asks of us: Not to escape responsibility,but to meet it with awareness.