The Unwritten Promise - Part 2 of 2

The idea of "writing our story" simplifies a deeply complex and layered process, and I think that's what makes this kind of discussion both fascinating and necessary.

If there's one truth we all realise and accept at one point or another, it's that life is far from a clean slate where we simply get to write what we want. For one, nothing in life is absolute. It all depends. There are several known and hidden factors on which everything else is in flux. Let's examine just a few.

Nature vs. Nurture

The tension between what we’re born with (our genetic makeup) and what we experience (our environment) shapes so much of who we are. Some of us might have natural aptitudes for certain things—an inherent knack for music, athleticism, or analytical thinking—but without the right environment to nurture those talents, they might never develop. Conversely, someone without an inherent gift might excel through sheer hard work and support. But what about those who are born into environments that don’t allow growth, or worse, suppress it?

I think this tension often creates the illusion that we’re less in control of our stories than we’d like to be. In truth, control is never total—it’s a spectrum. The extent to which we can shape our lives depends on the opportunities we’ve been given, our capacity to seize them, and sometimes sheer luck.


Predestination vs. Free Will

This debate is as old as philosophy itself, and there’s no clear answer. Are we the masters of our fate, or are we following a path already laid out for us? I tend to think it’s a mix of both. Some aspects of our lives—where we’re born, who our parents are, the economic and social conditions we inherit—are predestined. But within those constraints, there’s room to exercise free will.

The problem is that free will is often limited by circumstance. It’s easy to tell someone to “write their own story,” but if they’re facing systemic oppression, poverty, or deep psychological wounds from past experiences, their ability to “write” becomes constrained. Overcoming those barriers takes extraordinary effort, and not everyone succeeds.


The Influence of Early Experiences

Our childhood and adolescence are especially crucial because that’s when our identities are being shaped. Family, friends, education, and even random events contribute to the “default settings” we carry into adulthood. By the time we reach a point where we can consciously rewrite our narratives, we’re already working within the framework those early influences have built.

Some people are fortunate enough to grow up in environments that encourage independence and resilience. Others might spend their entire lives undoing the damage of an unstable or unsupportive upbringing. Can they rewrite their story? Sure, but it’s harder, and it often requires outside help—therapy, mentorship, or simply finding the right opportunity.


It All Depends!

Yes, it absolutely does. There’s no universal blueprint for human experience. What works for one person might not work for another. Some people thrive on structure; others rebel against it. Some find meaning in hard-won success; others are content to follow a path of least resistance.

The idea that “it all depends” can feel unsatisfying because we want clear answers. But I think that’s where the beauty of being human lies—in the contradictions, the unpredictability, and the endless variability of experience. It’s why no two people’s “books” are ever the same, even if they start from similar circumstances.

So Where Does This Leave Us?

Maybe the real message isn’t that everyone gets to write their story from scratch, but that we can all try to write at least something. Even if the opening chapters were written for us, even if the world edits as we go, there’s always a moment—a paragraph, a line—where we can take control, however fleeting it may be.

-- Pradeep K (Prady)

The Unwritten Promise * - Part 1 of 2

Every morning, life hands you a blank page. What will you write on it today?

The truth is, life doesn’t come pre-written. It’s not a finished book passed down to you with a fixed story, no matter what anyone tells you. Instead, it’s a collection of empty pages, and you’re holding the pen. Yet, so many of us hesitate. We copy what others have written, afraid that our own ink might smudge, that we’ll spill something imperfect and ruin the page.

But isn’t that the point of writing your own story? It’s yours. Messy, bold, scared—it doesn’t matter.

Think back to the first time you learned to ride a bicycle. You probably wobbled and fell. You probably scraped your knees more times than you care to count. But you didn’t stop trying. The thrill of riding free, even for a few seconds, outweighed every fall. Somewhere along the way, though, we forget that. We stop pedaling for the joy of it and start avoiding risks. We become so afraid of falling that we don’t even try to move forward.

The world is a vast library. And each of us is meant to contribute a unique book to its shelves. Some people write bold adventures. Others write quiet, contemplative poetry. But the tragedy isn’t in writing badly. The real tragedy is in leaving the pages blank because of fear.

So here’s the truth: nobody is coming to write your book for you. No teacher, no boss, no parent, no guide. You hold the pen. You choose the words. And it’s okay if it’s not perfect. It’s okay if you blot the page or scribble things out. What matters is that you write.

Start small. Start scared. Start with one honest sentence. But start.

Because every blank page isn’t emptiness. It’s possibility. And the younger you start filling those pages with your truth, the thicker and richer your book becomes. So, stop copying. Stop waiting. Start writing.

No one else can write the unwritten promise of your life.

-- Pradeep K (Prady)

* Please note that this is just one side of a debate. I shall soon post a refutation to this. Playing the devil's advocate with yourself helps you clear your mind.

The Unseen Audit of a Lifetime

The Unseen Audit of a Lifetime

It was a day like any other until it wasn’t. I had just settled into my favorite corner of existential inertia—armed with a cup of lukewarm tea and vague regret—when a soft cough shattered my solitude.

Looking up, I saw a figure seated opposite me, legs crossed with the casual authority of someone who belongs, despite never being invited.

“Who are you?” I asked, unsure whether I should be alarmed or flattered by the sudden company.

“I am the Auditor,” they said, producing a ledger that seemed to shimmer between parchment and pixels. “You may call me… well, Auditor will suffice.”

“An auditor? Of what? My taxes are clean, mind you, though admittedly, I might owe the universe some karmic interest.”

The Auditor gave a dry smile, flipping the pages of their ethereal tome. “Not your taxes. Your life. I’m here to review what could have been.”

“Oh, lovely,” I muttered. “A celestial auditor of ‘what-ifs.’ Next thing you’ll tell me you’re Chitragupta, the celestial accountant himself.”

The figure paused, as though weighing their words carefully. “No,” they said finally, “I’m not he. I’m me.”

I raised an eyebrow. “How enlightening. Do you moonlight as a poet, by any chance?”

“No, but you might have,” the Auditor replied, gesturing at the ledger. “See here? In 2004, you considered writing a collection of verses inspired by your morning commutes. You never did. One could argue the muses dodged a bullet, but still—a missed opportunity.”

I felt a twinge of embarrassment. “I wasn’t inspired enough. Buses don’t exactly scream poetry, you know.”

The Auditor tilted their head, a flicker of amusement crossing their otherwise inscrutable face. “True. Buses scream other things—horns, impatience, occasional obscenities. But inspiration isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s hidden in the rust of an old handle or the rhythm of a swaying strap.”

“That’s quite profound,” I said, grudgingly impressed. “You should consider becoming a motivational speaker. But I did publish a few the very next year in my blog."

The Auditor’s smile grew sharper. “Ah, yes. The Endless Chasm. The first 18 to see the light of the world. But for such a free and open platform, they didn't reach any farther than four people.”

“Well,” I said defensively, “wonder how you can blame me for that. I did everything I could.”

“Indeed,” they replied dryly, making a note. “Though, if you’d publicised it more vehemently, it might have led to a viral blog. But no matter. Let’s move on.”

And so, the review continued, the Auditor flipping through my life’s unfulfilled possibilities with a mixture of bureaucratic efficiency and unsettling wit.

Occasionally, they’d pause to offer commentary.

“2018: You thought about taking a calligraphy class but decided it was too much work. Pity. You could have mastered the skill that could later have put you in the limelight. Fame is a strange beast.”

"Well, I had taken the class," I defended myself. "My belief that I could be good at it had stemmed from the point that my handwriting in school used to be quite oriented toward it. But I had hardly handwritten anything since I had graduated in 1997. And that had taken a toll on my handwriting. By 2018, my fingers didn't quite obey my mind. I couldn't sign my cheque book accurately, let alone continue calligraphy classes at the rate they were charging."

“2020: That brief lockdown epiphany about starting a garden? Gone with the wind. Or rather, gone with Netflix.”

Now, this was equal parts humiliating and hilarious.

At one point, I leaned back and said, “You know, for someone who’s not Chitragupta, you sure seem to have a lot of opinions.”

The Auditor smiled again. “Opinions are free. It’s the what-ifs that cost you.”

“Opinions are free,” I said, leaning forward with a smirk. “That’s because they’re like a-holes—everybody has one.”

The Auditor raised an eyebrow. “Charming. Did you come up with that gem yourself, or did it tumble out of the collective cesspool of humanity’s wit?”

I feigned offense. “I’ll have you know, that’s a classic. Timeless, even.”

“Timeless, perhaps,” the Auditor said, brushing an invisible speck off their ledger. “But not entirely untrue. Although, in your case…” They trailed off, flipping to a page that seemed to glow faintly.

“What? What about my case?”

“Well,” they said, tapping the page, “you’ve had plenty of opinions. But for someone who thrives on the limelight and relishes the stage, you’ve spent an unusual amount of time waiting for opportunities to come to you instead of chasing them down.”

“That’s not true!” I protested.

“Oh, really? Shall we revisit September 22, 2010?”

“What happened on September 22, 2010?”

The Auditor adjusted their glasses, their gaze sharp yet oddly amused. “You came across a flyer for a storytelling slam. The theme? ‘Moments of Madness.’ You were excited, inspired even. But instead of signing up, you went home and spent the evening reading online reviews about whether the venue had good parking.”

I blinked. “Well… my friend was to drive me there, so then parking was important. I couldn't tell him to just park anywhere and expect—”

“Don’t bother,” the Auditor interrupted, snapping the ledger shut for dramatic effect. “The truth is, you talked yourself out of it. And now, here we are, a decade later, with ‘what-ifs’ hanging off you like cobwebs.”

I sighed, grudgingly conceding the point. “Fine. Maybe I’ve missed a few chances here and there. But it’s not like I’ve spent my life hiding under a rock.”

“True,” they admitted, opening the ledger again. “And that brings me to another missed moment. Chess.”

My ears perked up. “Chess?”

“Yes,” the Auditor said, scanning the page. “You’ve always wanted to take formal chess lessons, haven’t you? Sharpen your skills, learn the finer strategies, maybe even compete. But no, the local chess schools have an arbitrary rule: ‘Only kids allowed.’” They looked up, their expression half-sympathetic, half-teasing. “Imagine that—a mind ready to explore Sicilian defenses and Queen’s Gambits, turned away because it doesn’t fit the age bracket.”

“Now, hold on,” I said, feeling both seen and slightly irked. “That’s not exactly my fault. I wanted to join. It’s not like I chickened out.”

“Of course not,” the Auditor agreed, their tone uncharacteristically soft. “But here’s the thing: You could have started your own chess circle. Found a private coach. Played with friends. Yet the idea of bending the rules—or creating new ones—never crossed your mind. And so, the board remains empty.”

I fell silent, not entirely sure how to respond.

The Auditor smiled faintly. “Don’t worry, I’m not here to make you feel bad. Life’s greatest games are often played without a board. But chess… well, it could have been interesting.”

“Is this supposed to inspire me to go out and buy a chess clock?” I asked dryly.

“Not necessarily,” they replied, standing up. “It’s just something to think about.”

As they turned to leave, I called out, “Wait! Aren’t you going to tell me how I did? Pass or fail?”

They glanced over their shoulder, a faint smile playing on their lips. “Life isn’t pass or fail. It’s graded on a curve—and you’re the one holding the pen.”

And with that, they were gone, leaving me alone with my now cold tea, my existential inertia, and a sudden, irrepressible urge to visit the nearest chess academy and demand an adults-only class.

-- Pradeep K (Prady)

Between the Tick and the Tock

The day began with an unusual silence. Much of what remained was rubbish, but for him, it was useful rubbish. There were no guarantees about what he would get out of this exercise. Perhaps nothing in the worst case. He was okay with that, as he knew there are hardly any guarantees in life. His main concerns were: a gnawing doubt about the nature of the peculiar silence; about how to express it; about what he should do if it tried to engulf his entire being.

The most difficult aspect he was grappling with was about how it had so naturally come to bear upon him that morning. It was there when he woke up, hung around as he brushed his teeth, stuck with him as he went through the morning chores, and remained comfortably nestled within his mind, so to speak, ever since. All the outwardly noise on one side, and his awkward silence on the other. And they seemed to balance each other.

Wherever did it come from, this weird silence? Had it a purpose? A motive? Had it a reason to acquire his mind that morning? Would something change? Had something changed? Was he slave to it? Was it his slave? He wanted to talk about it, but it had caught his tongue. After all, it was the eerie silence in itself.

It was formless. Like water. But it took any form when required. Also like water. The distant horn of the morning locomotive train: the silence bracketed it's ends. The constant ticking of the wall clock: the profound silence ruled the time between the tick and the tock. The shrill shriek of an ambulance siren on the road: enough to stop lively hearts into a grave silence. It was everywhere, from the bed to the toilet to the bathroom to the kitchen; to the unfolding of the yoga mat and to it's ultimate rolling away; to the calls and honks of the vegetable and fish vendors  on their regular morning rounds on bikes around residential apartments; to the angry shout of the bus conductor and the equally angry retort by the passenger. It took all forms, but remained untouched by them. It remained... Silent.

He took a deep breath in. Held it for two seconds. Let it out. Again. What was this? What was going on? Was the stress of life getting to him? Was he finally beginning to lose it? Or was it something else -- an answer to his prayers perhaps? He knew it was other than normal. But was it abnormal, subnormal, or supernormal? How would be know? Would he know? Did he want to know? What he badly wanted to know now was what he should do.

He stood in his tiny balcony, peering out at the world beyond the iron grill. The sun was almost overhead now, glaring down at the parked cars, the dusty road, and the occasional stragglers walking with deliberate slowness under the burden of heat. A crow sat on the edge of a streetlight, picking at something unidentifiable and no doubt unpleasant. Life, in its cacophonic, bustling way, continued. And yet, the silence within him persisted, untouched by the clamor of the city.

He leaned on the railing, his fingers gripping the cool iron bars. The questions came again, louder now. What was he supposed to do? His thoughts, usually chaotic and varied, were unusually sharp today, focused on this one enigma. The silence wasn’t just present—it was present with intent. He could feel its weight, its steady gaze. It was waiting for him to... respond? Engage? Surrender?

Something stirred in him, a flicker of something old and buried. A memory, not sharp, but vivid enough to draw him away from the present moment. A younger version of himself stood in a classroom, staring at a question paper. The final question had been unusual, one that required more than rote knowledge to answer. The teacher, a stern-faced man with a love for riddles, had said something then.

"Sometimes, the question isn’t there to be answered. It’s there to make you think. To make you pause. To make you... listen."

He shook his head. Listen to what? There was nothing but the silence. And then it hit him.

He wasn’t listening to the silence. He was trying to fight it, analyze it, assign it a purpose. But what if... what if it didn’t need one? What if it was simply there, waiting for him to step back and let it be?

He stood straighter, suddenly more alert. Closing his eyes, he let the world fade away. He didn’t try to name the silence or break it. He let it sink in, filling the cracks in his thoughts, wrapping itself around the doubts and worries that usually clamored for space. And in that moment, he realized something startling. The silence wasn’t an intruder. It was his.

For years, he had drowned it out—through work, through distractions, through the noise of a life that demanded constant action and validation. But now, it had crept back in, uninvited but not unwelcome. And it had a message, one he could hear clearly now.

"You’ve been running. Stop. Stay. Be."

It was the simplest thing, yet the hardest thing. He opened his eyes, a strange calm settling over him. The silence hadn’t disappeared—it was still there, as steady as the breath moving through his lungs. But now, it was no longer an enemy. It was a companion.

He smiled faintly. It wasn’t a resolution, not entirely. The questions still lingered, and he knew they would return. But for the first time, he felt equipped to face them—not with answers, but with acceptance.

The day unfolded as days do, indifferent to personal revelations. But something had changed within him. And as he sat down with his tea that evening, watching the same crow hop on the same streetlight, he realized he wasn’t afraid of the silence anymore.

It was his.

-- Pradeep K (Prady)

The Forest in Every Seed

I cannot call it when I see it,
For the seed is beyond my ken;
Every time I call it, all you see are
Hundreds of leaves and my pen.
---

Quite frankly, that's about the crux of what I want to present today. Whether I'll make sense or not remains to be seen. Trying to put words to something as subtle as a seed—the potential, not yet realized, the idea not yet shaped—is like trying to capture the whole of a forest by sketching a single leaf. The more I try to explain it, to give shape and form to what is, by nature, formless potential, the more the words sprout and stretch, reaching for something vast, complex. Each sentence I write seems to demand a root system of its own, branching off into meanings that multiply and deepen, growing beyond my control.

It’s as though every time I try to hand you the seed, what you grasp is a sprawling woodland: trees fully grown, leaves fluttering in the breeze, shadows cast on the forest floor. The richness and expanse of this imagined landscape seem to stand in for the seed itself, masking that quiet, still potential I had meant to share.

In truth, the power of a seed lies in its silence, its humility. It doesn't shout to the world, “I will be an oak!” or “Here stands a forest-in-waiting!” No, the seed simply is. It holds its possibilities tightly, quietly, so quietly that words can barely trace its shape. And yet, in attempting to describe it, I feel like I’m dragging the whole forest into view, pulling down branch after branch, obscuring the very thing I wished to reveal.

I appreciate that simplicity is the most complex idea to grasp, because it defeats the intellect, and we need the intellect to grasp ideas. But it is only simplicity that truly matters, from which everything else—including the intellect—is born.

Perhaps that is the irony of expression—each time I name the seed, it blooms in the mind of the reader, and soon enough, there’s a wilderness where there was once only a thought, a tiny spark, a quiet kernel of potential. Consequently when I want to show you the seed, all you see are the rustling leaves and my silent pen.

-- Pradeep K (Prady)

We Used to Wear Clothes; Now We Wear AI

For several decades, life had been simple: we dressed up, threw on clothes, and stepped out the door. Our only concern then used to be the weather. Now, here we are, wrapped in something that’s not quite fabric but seems to cling to us just the same—something woven with data and machine code, tighter than the coziest sweater. We’ve stopped just wearing clothes; now, we’re wearing AI.

This invisible “outfit” fits snugger than we might like, doesn’t it? It picks our playlists, finishes our sentences, and nudges us about our next meeting before we’ve even started our coffee. Some days, it feels like having a very keen assistant—and on others, a nosy aunt who won’t let us forget our step count or calorie intake.

And just like with any fashion, some folks wear it differently. You see them scrolling confidently, every choice fine-tuned by an algorithm that seems to know them better than they know themselves. They’ve got AI like a custom-tailored suit, all smooth lines and perfect fits. Then there are those of us in “one-size-fits-all” AI, shuffling around with suggestions that don’t quite fit, feeling a bit overstuffed as it yanks us toward online deals we didn’t ask for.

But here’s the funny thing: no matter how it’s dressed up, AI can’t quite mimic us. Sure, it can help us choose a movie or suggest a new restaurant, but can it remind us of that time we laughed so hard when milk came out of our nose?

As we continue strapping on our AI each day like the newest accessory, maybe it’s worth remembering that no machine can mimic the spark of choosing the unexpected. AI might be brilliant at spotting trends, but it doesn’t know what it feels like to break them. It hasn’t yet mastered the magic of being delightfully, imperfectly human.

I don't wear AI, but if I did, it would never be without that most essential layer—the one that lets me be my unpredictable, overly sentimental, occasionally clumsy self.

— Pradeep K (Prady)