The Allure of the Cliche

1. The Journey and the Destination

It's astonishing how often the phrase, “The journey is more important than the destination,” is served up as wisdom in motivational talks, books, and social media posts. It rolls off the tongue smoothly, doesn’t it? It fits into the cultural lexicon so neatly that people rarely stop to question it. But when you actually pause to reflect, you begin to wonder: who are these sages who profess such neat little truths? Have they ever experienced either the journey or the destination? And if they have, how did they land on this one-size-fits-all philosophy?

The truth is, most of them haven’t. In fact, they are the opportunists who have learned to capitalize on the most basic human anxieties—disappointment, failure, and the fear of an uncertain future. They don’t sell insights; they sell comfort. They package life’s chaos into digestible sound bites and present them as universal truths. And who doesn’t want comfort in a world that constantly feels like it's on the brink of unraveling?

But life is far too complex, far too nuanced to be reduced to such platitudes. The "journey" isn't always meaningful, and the "destination" isn't always fulfilling. Sometimes, the reverse is true, and most of the time, both are utterly indifferent to your expectations.

Let’s think about the people who would, quite frankly, disagree with this popular cliché. Imagine the person who endured a miserable journey—a slog through difficulty, frustration, and perhaps even despair—only to arrive at a beautiful, fulfilling destination. For them, the destination is everything. The journey? A necessary evil.

On the other hand, take someone who experienced a magnificent, life-affirming journey—a period of learning, growth, and joy—only to arrive at a disastrous, soul-crushing destination. For them, the destination nullifies the beauty of the journey. They would much rather have stayed on that golden path, never arriving at all.

In fact, the journey-destination binary assumes that these experiences are static, singular events. But in reality, the journey is often fragmented, punctuated by micro-destinations along the way. And the destination is never final—it’s just another stop on an ever-evolving path. Who are these opportunists, then, that profit from distilling such complexity into bite-sized wisdom for the masses? More importantly, why are we so eager to believe them?

2. Crafting Illusions for the Masses

Opportunists thrive on ambiguity. They know that the majority of people are uncomfortable with uncertainty, with the open-ended nature of life’s questions. The need for answers—for meaning—is a fundamental human trait. So, these opportunists, whether they’re authors, motivational speakers, or so-called life coaches, manufacture meaning from vapid clichés. They offer quick fixes and market them as deep insights.

And here's the kicker—they don't just sell you ideas; they sell you identity. When you adopt their phrases, you’re not just buying into a thought, you’re buying into a way of seeing the world. You become the person who believes “the journey is more important than the destination.” You become someone who looks for “life lessons” in every misstep and setback, all the while missing the larger point: not every journey is a lesson, and not every destination is worth the struggle.

In this way, these opportunists aren't just profiting off your vulnerability; they’re actively reshaping your perception of reality, urging you to view life through a lens of shallow wisdom, which obscures more than it illuminates.

3. Where Does Meaning Truly Reside?

This brings us to a more metaphysical question: Where does meaning reside? Is it in the journey, the destination, or somewhere beyond both? The journey and destination are simply coordinates in the space-time fabric of our lives, but meaning transcends those points. It’s neither confined to the steps you take nor to the place you arrive. Meaning, like Turiya, the fourth state of consciousness in Vedantic philosophy, exists in a space beyond waking, dreaming, and deep sleep. It lies in the space between—the interstices where human experience intersects with the ineffable.

What if the journey and destination are both illusions, both mere artifacts of a linear perception of time? In this view, neither is inherently more valuable than the other. They are constructs we use to make sense of an existence that is, at its core, fluid and non-linear. We impose meaning onto events, paths, and outcomes, but those meanings are subjective and mutable. They are reflections of our internal states more than they are truths about the external world.

In parapsychological terms, this could be likened to the idea of thought-forms or tulpas—mental constructs that take on a life of their own. The journey and destination, as concepts, are thought-forms we project onto the vastness of existence. And just like thought-forms, they can be empowering or limiting, depending on how much credence we give them.

4. Are We Creating Our Own Realities?

Taking this a step further, consider the parapsychological implications: Are we, in essence, creating the very realities we experience by subscribing to certain beliefs about journeys and destinations? The mind is a powerful architect of reality. If we believe the journey is all-important, we will emphasize every struggle, every challenge, and every setback as part of a necessary growth process. If we believe the destination is paramount, we will fixate on outcomes, perhaps to the detriment of enjoying the present moment.

But what if both are simply illusions? What if life is more like a Möbius strip, where journey and destination are one continuous flow, indistinguishable from each other? In such a worldview, the act of problem-solving, of navigating life’s complexities, is itself the destination. The solution is not a point you arrive at but a process you inhabit. The question then becomes not "How do I get there?" but "How am I experiencing this moment?"

Here, we enter a territory that many opportunists would shy away from—because it’s messy, it’s uncertain, and it doesn’t sell as well as neat phrases. But this is where the true richness of human experience lies—in the ambiguity, in the spaces between certainty and doubt, between progress and setback, between journey and destination.

5. Life as an Endless Loop of Non-Lessons

Here’s the satirical twist: What if life is not about lessons at all? What if the very idea that every struggle teaches you something is just another thought-form we’ve been conditioned to believe? Think about it. How many times have you gone through an experience only to realize there was no deep lesson at all—just randomness, chaos, or sheer dumb luck?

This isn’t to say that learning doesn’t happen, but rather that not every experience is designed to teach. Sometimes things just happen, and we scramble to impose meaning on them after the fact. The opportunists want us to believe otherwise because a world where every journey teaches something is a world that feels safer, more controlled. But life isn’t controlled. It’s messy, unpredictable, and, most of the time, indifferent to our desires for neat conclusions.

And yet, it’s precisely in this messiness that life becomes so deeply, richly human. The lack of inherent meaning gives us the freedom to create our own. The absence of fixed lessons allows us to interpret our experiences however we choose—or not at all.

6. In Search of the Unmanufactured Truth

Where does that leave us? If the journey and destination are constructs, if the lessons are not guaranteed, and if meaning is as fluid as water, what is left? The answer might be unsettling: uncertainty. But uncertainty doesn’t have to be terrifying. It can be liberating.

By rejecting the opportunists’ neatly packaged truths, we free ourselves to engage with life on our own terms. We can stop looking for meaning in every corner and start living for the sheer experience of it. And in that experience, we might just find something deeper than any cliché could ever offer—an authentic connection to ourselves and the world around us, unfiltered by the need to impose meaning.

The next time someone tells you that "the journey is more important than the destination," feel free to question them. Perhaps neither matters. Or perhaps, both do. The beauty lies in the ambiguity.

-- Pradeep K (Prady)

The Creator is The Child of Her Creation

Author's Note:

This post has been brewing in my mind for years. My first attempt to capture these thoughts dates back to 1997, but after just five paragraphs, I realized something important: no matter how well I might articulate it, human language can never fully express the simplicity behind these ideas.

That realization nudged me toward poetry. It was through poetry that I began to explore these concepts, which culminated in some of my best works under the title "The Endless Chasm." A few of those poems have already made their way onto this platform. Interestingly, I used the same title when I launched my blog in 2005.

But prose, somehow, kept calling me back. I wanted to express these ideas in a way that felt comprehensive and true. Every time I found a gap in my expression, I'd take a break, only to return again later. I often felt like I was close, but not quite there. Still, bit by bit, I gathered my thoughts and gradually shaped them into what you’re about to read.

Now, at the milestone of turning 50, and nearly 27 years after my first attempt to put these ideas into words, I’ve decided it’s time to stop chasing perfection. Instead, I’m sharing this compilation as it naturally unfolded in my understanding. It reflects my thoughts on:

• The idea that the creator is born from creation itself

• The concept of Turiya and its profound implications through the Trilokesh lens

• The cyclical connection between Turiya, Shiva, and Shakti

• An exploration of the Swayambhu concept and its role in our experience

• How Yoganidra can help us experience the Swayambhu within

This is not perfect, nor final. But it’s honest and complete in its own way, and I’m excited to finally share it with you.

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Divine Pair—Born of Each Other

We often perceive creation as something that flows from the creator, a one-way street where the act of bringing forth something new shapes the external world. But what if this process of creation doesn’t just affect the external? What if the act of creation redefines the creator themselves?

This isn’t merely philosophical speculation; it’s something deeply spiritual, something we see in the most profound aspects of existence. Take Shiva, for instance. Known as Swayambhu—self-born. Yet the paradox is striking: Shakti, his cohort, is both the force that gives birth to him and remains his constant companion. Together, they represent the inseparable unity of energy and consciousness. But this isn’t just a symbolic relationship—it's the very fabric of life itself.

In the same way, Vishnu and Lakshmi, or even the relationship between Shiva and Vishnu, echo this idea. Each divine pair, while distinct, is intertwined so deeply that one cannot truly exist without the other. One gives rise to the other, and yet the other completes the cycle by nurturing the first.

And here is where the profound idea emerges: the creator is the child of her creation. This isn't a metaphorical thought, but an actual process of transformation. As the creator brings forth something into existence, she is changed, reshaped, and redefined by what she has created. The act of creation rewires the mind, reshapes emotions, and even shifts the spirit of the creator, making her the product of the very thing she has manifested.

The Turiya

This takes us to a deeper truth—the Turiya, the fourth state of consciousness. In Yoganidra, this state of awareness exists beyond the waking, dreaming, and deep sleep states. It's the eternal awareness, the source from which all experiences arise. The waking state, like the physical world, is what we see most clearly, but it’s only one layer. Beneath it lies the dream state, filled with visions and emotions, and deeper still is the state of deep sleep, where thoughts lie dormant, unmanifested.

Yet the Turiya—the ever-present awareness—remains untouched, watching over all three states, giving birth to them, yet transcending them entirely. It is the Trilokesh, the ruler of the three worlds, and in this context, Shiva's declaration makes perfect sense: “I am not that which is; I am that which is not.” 

Shiva's statement captures the essence of this transcendent reality. He is not the form but the formless; not the creation, but the canvas upon which creation unfolds. The idea here is that every form, every thought, every creation arises from a state of no-thingness. This is the Turiya—the space from which all things emerge and to which all things return.

Think about the process of creation itself. Every painting springs from an empty canvas. Every thought rises from the silence of the mind. The canvas, the silence, the deep sleep state—they are not mere voids, but potent spaces teeming with potential. They hold the capacity for all forms, all thoughts, all dreams, and yet they themselves remain untouched by what arises within them.

Shiva is this eternal canvas, this formless foundation. Creation flows from him, just as thoughts rise from the deep sleep state. But in the very act of creation, something remarkable happens—the creator, too, is transformed by what has been created. The process of creation isn’t one-directional. It loops back, reshaping and redefining the creator.

Shiva, Shakti, Turiya—The Cyclic Interconnection

This is why the concept of Shiva and Shakti is so powerful. Shakti, as the creative force, brings the universe into being. She is the energy that manifests, while Shiva is the consciousness that holds space for it. And yet, as she creates, she changes Shiva. The two are eternally bound in this dance of creation and transformation, where the creator and the created are inextricably linked. It is through creation that the creator, too, evolves.

In this way, the creator becomes the child of her creation. The creation influences, transforms, and redefines her. This isn’t limited to divine figures—it happens with artists, thinkers, and anyone who brings something into the world. Every time we create, we give birth to something new, and in doing so, we birth a new version of ourselves.

And then, just like the creator, we return to that empty space—the Turiya, the blank canvas, the silence from which all arises and all returns. Creation, like life, is cyclical. We are both the painters and the paintings, both the dreamers and the dreams.

This cyclic nature of creation and transformation is reflected in the very essence of the Turiya state. The Turiya is not merely a higher state of consciousness but the substratum of all states. It is the trilokesh—the lord of the three worlds of wakefulness, dreaming, and deep sleep. These three states correspond to the physical, mental, and emotional planes of existence, just as the Sattvik, Rajasic, and Tamasic moods represent purity, activity, and inertia, respectively.

Yet, Turiya itself is beyond all of these. It is free of the shifting tides of consciousness that ebb and flow through different states and experiences. Just as Shiva remains unmoved while Shakti dances, Turiya remains untouched by the worlds it holds within. It is the ultimate freedom, the ground from which all creation springs but is not bound by any of it.

We see this concept mirrored in Vishnu and Lakshmi, where Vishnu sustains the cosmos while Lakshmi provides the energy for that sustenance. It is the same dance—two forces in perfect harmony, feeding each other, transforming and being transformed. And yet, they exist in a state that transcends their individual roles, much like Shiva and Shakti, each giving birth to the other through the act of creation.

To bring this into a more relatable human experience: when you say, "Thoughts just flow through your mind, and if you're observant, you can pick up on them," you are speaking to the process of creation. But thoughts don’t arise in isolation. They come from somewhere deeper, a space that is free of thought but full of potential. In many ways, thoughts are like waves, and the Turiya is the depth of the ocean. The waves rise and fall, but the depth of the ocean remains still. It is vast, untouched by the turbulence of the surface.

In the same way, every form comes from the formless. Every thought, every creation, springs from the silent, infinite space of potential. We return to this space in deep sleep, where all thoughts dissolve and the self is reabsorbed into the Turiya. From this state of deep stillness, the mind awakens into the dream state, and finally into wakefulness, where we engage with the world again.

This cyclical movement mirrors our relationship with creation. We create, we engage with our creation, and we return to the stillness of our inner canvas. The creation, in turn, reshapes us. And then the cycle begins again.

Creation Itself is Enough

The Bhagavad Gita touches on this when it speaks of Nishkama Karma—action without attachment to the fruits of the action. The action itself is enough. The creation itself is enough. It changes the creator, not because of the outcome, but because of the act of creation itself. Just as a painter is changed by painting, a thinker is changed by thought, and the universe changes as it unfolds.

The Turiya, then, is not an isolated state. It is present in all things, in all acts of creation and transformation. Just as Shiva is not only the formless but the form, just as Vishnu is both the sustainer and the creation, so too are we both creators and the created.

And this is why, in truth, the creator is the child of her creation. Through the act of bringing something into existence, she is reshaped, redefined, and reborn.

Swayambhu

This brings us to the true essence of Shiva being Swayambhu (self-born). The idea is not merely a literal birth without parents, but a deeper understanding that the act of creation itself is a form of self-birth. Just as Shiva is called Swayambhu not because he exists without cause, but because he continually arises out of his own being. His birth, his existence, is not separate from his own nature—it is the constant act of renewal and transformation.

In this sense, Swayambhu signifies a being who, through the endless cycles of creation and dissolution, continually gives birth to themselves. They are self-sustaining, self-evolving, just as the creator is constantly reborn through their own creation. The creator, like Shiva, is both the origin and the outcome, forever emerging from the essence of their own being.

Thus, Swayambhu is the perfect realization of the Turiya state—the unchanging ground from which all change arises. The creator, whether in the act of thought, art, or cosmic transformation, is self-born in every moment, forever renewed by the process of creation.

Swayambhu Interplay in Practice

As we step back from the metaphysical canvas we've painted, let's explore the idea of Swayambhu in a more intimate and personal way.

In every moment of self-reflection, whether through our creative endeavors or our interactions with others, we act as both the creator and the created. We shape our understanding, our character, and even our destiny—while being simultaneously reshaped by these very acts of creation.

For instance, think of a moment when you've been deeply absorbed in a creative project. The more you pour yourself into it, the more it transforms you in return. You start as one version of yourself, but by the time the work is complete, you find yourself subtly changed, perhaps more attuned, more aware, or even entirely different in perspective.

This is Swayambhu in action—creation as both process and transformation. And it extends beyond the individual: entire societies, cultures, and even the world itself are constantly recreated through the collective act of living.

The process changes the creator, but the creator also defines the process. This interplay is what makes the idea of Swayambhu so potent.

Perhaps there's no better example for swayambhu than a thought. Sitting with the stillness of the Turiya. In this moment of stillness, nothing has been born yet. Creation hovers like a breath held too long—pregnant with possibility but without shape or direction. The formless state, or Turiya, is the primal void from which every thought, every form, every emotion arises. It is not the void of absence but of boundless potential, where everything exists as a latent possibility.

The stillness here isn't emptiness; it's the pause before a thought becomes manifest, before the painter dips their brush into the empty canvas. It is in this deep quiet that Shiva, the Swayambhu, is truly understood—not as a figure, not as a deity confined to image, but as the eternal force that births himself from within, from the womb of the formless.

Just as every painting arises from an empty canvas, every form must return to the formless. Here, we encounter the true meaning of Swayambhu—the creator born of herself, an energy that draws its existence from a space beyond creation, untouched by time, mood, or movement. 

Yoganidra: Realising The Swayambhu Within

In daily life, the notion of Swayambhu—the self-born—echoes a timeless truth: every thought, every action we take, is both a product of what we are and a force that reshapes us. This cyclical process of becoming, much like Shiva’s self-renewal through creation, reflects a universal pattern that we can tap into with conscious awareness. Through Yoganidra—a practice that brings us closer to the Turiya state—we learn to observe this dance of creation and transformation from a space of stillness.

When we allow ourselves to settle into the deep quiet of Yoganidra, we enter that same canvas of potentiality from which everything emerges. Here, we can witness how our experiences, actions, and even our thoughts come from the formless and return to it. This helps us realize that we, too, are constantly birthing ourselves through our choices, responses, and reflections.

But Yoganidra offers more than just an understanding of the process—it offers the power to direct it. By observing the patterns of the mind, by watching the creation of thoughts and emotions, we begin to understand that just like Shiva, we are not bound by what is. We are the space from which everything arises, the Swayambhu within.

-- Pradeep K (Prady)

The Almighty and the Wall: A Paradox of Power and Possibility

Author's Note:
As a reader, your judgement is always right. However, this post isn't what it may initially seem. Therefore, do not judge it by the first few paragraphs; read it entirely before reacting. Many thanks.
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There’s a question as old as time, one that whispers through the corridors of human thought. It’s a question that lingers, not on the tongues of the devout nor the lips of the skeptical, but somewhere between—where belief and doubt quietly observe one another.

If the Almighty, in His boundless power, can do all things, then could He build a wall so tall, so impenetrable, that even He cannot climb it?

It’s a simple question. And yet, it opens a door to a mystery far deeper than we might first realize. If He can build such a wall, does that not make Him powerless before it? If He cannot, then perhaps His power has limits after all?

This is not just a riddle for the scholars or a puzzle for the philosophers. It is a reflection of the human condition itself—a mirror held up to our understanding of power, control, and the nature of creation. Because at its heart, this paradox is about more than walls or omnipotence. It is about the boundaries we all face, even in our moments of greatest strength.

We, too, build walls, don’t we? Not of stone or brick, but of decisions and desires. We create, in our own lives, situations and choices that sometimes grow larger than we can handle, outcomes that outstrip our own intentions. In many ways, the question of the Almighty’s wall is our question—whether we believe in a higher power or not. It asks us to look at the nature of creation and control.

What happens when what we’ve brought into existence—our own walls, our own choices—begin to limit us? When they rise so high, we can no longer see over them? Are we still in control? Are we, like the Almighty in the paradox, suddenly powerless before what we have made?

Perhaps the deepest lesson of this paradox is not about divinity at all. Perhaps it is about humility. For the very act of creation—whether by a god or by a human—carries within it the risk that what we create might surpass us. That it might defy us. In building the wall, the Almighty doesn’t lose power. He simply becomes a participant in the unfolding story of His creation, just as we do.

And isn’t that the most human thing of all? The realization that power is not about dominance or control, but about the willingness to face what we’ve created, to stand before it and know that sometimes, true strength lies not in climbing over the wall, but in acknowledging that it exists at all.

Here, the theist may find a god who is more than just a figure of infinite power—He is a being who understands the limits that even He cannot escape. And the atheist may see in this question a reflection of humanity’s own journey—how we, too, are bound by the walls we build, yet are defined by how we respond to them.

The paradox remains: Can the Almighty build a wall He cannot scale? Perhaps the answer is not in whether He can or cannot, but in the simple, profound truth that even the limitless are shaped by the things they create. Power is not diminished by the existence of boundaries—it is defined by how we understand and embrace them.

-- Pradeep K (Prady)

The Evolution of Choosing the "Right" Life Partner: 1990 to Beyond*

Choosing a life partner probably has always felt like trying to navigate through a foggy road with a map that's missing half the directions. Over the years, from the early 90s to today, our methods of choosing that special someone have evolved—perhaps even mutated—thanks to technology, social norms, and a hefty dose of confusion. Let’s take a light-hearted stroll through these decades, where you might find that love, in all its forms, has only gotten stranger, but no less fascinating.

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1990s: The Age of “Family First”

In the 90s everything seemed so much simpler. Well, sort of. In Britain, chances were high that you’d meet your future spouse in a cozy pub, perhaps over a pint while arguing about which football club had the best shot at the Premier League. Across the Atlantic, Americans were falling in love over coffee and pie in diners, all while channeling their inner 'When Harry Met Sally' fantasies. Life was straightforward; so was love, or at least that's what people told themselves.

In Latin America, romance came with a side of family. Courtship, or El Noviazgo, involved entire households. Sly glances, subtle gestures—always under the watchful eye of parents and relatives—kept things proper, or at least publicly so.

India, meanwhile, was still dominated by arranged marriages. Matrimonial ads in the newspapers read like shopping lists: “Wanted: Educated, fair-skinned bride from a respectable family. Must know how to cook.” And thus, the great Indian matchmaking machine kept churning, parents at the helm.

Over in China, where respect for elders and family was paramount, love followed a predictable, arranged path. Matchmakers still held the reins, and woe betide anyone who dared to veer from tradition. Meanwhile, in Japan, Omiai meetings (formal introductions for marriage) were a regular feature, though hints of rebellion toward love marriages were beginning to stir.

Metaphor of the Era: Choosing a partner in the 90s was like ordering a meal from a set menu—limited options, but you trusted it to be good for you. Your parents did, anyway.

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2000s: The Dawn of Digital Romance

Welcome to the 2000s, where technology awkwardly knocked on the doors of courtship. In the UK and US, Match.com made its debut, where suddenly, browsing potential partners online felt as groundbreaking as the invention of sliced bread. Pubs and bars still held strong, but if you had a dial-up connection, you were possibly flirting through email.

In the Hispanic world, the rise of online communities was starting, though Telenovelas still had an unshakable grip on people’s notions of love—passionate, dramatic, and full of unspoken family feuds. Family remained a steady influence, but digital flirtations began to creep into courtships.

In India, websites like Shaadi.com and BharatMatrimony opened the floodgates for matrimonial match-making. Families clung to their tried-and-true criteria of caste and education, but now with the exciting addition of “online profiles.” The phone call with potential in-laws began with, “I saw your profile online,” which was both terrifying and thrilling.

China, though dipping its toes into the online pool, held firm to the matchmaking tradition. Even so, a few brave souls dared to venture into chat rooms to find love. In Japan, the rise of gōkon (group dating parties) and dating cafes ushered in a slightly more relaxed approach. Dating websites quietly began to emerge like timid cherry blossoms.

Metaphor of the Era: Dating in the 2000s was like upgrading to an early-model smartphone: a few new features, but you still couldn’t shake the old habits.

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2010s: Swipe Right and Step into Chaos

The 2010s will forever be known as the “Swipe Right” decade. Tinder, Bumble, Hinge—you name it, they took the romantic wheel and drove it straight into a world where “the one” was a mere swipe away. In the UK and US, casual dating turned into a well-oiled machine, where pub meetups were swiftly replaced by app notifications: You’ve got a match!

Across Latin America, mobile dating apps made their way into daily life, though the backdrop of traditional values remained. Couples juggled between tradition and modernity, with a quick prayer for Telenovela-worthy love sprinkled in.

India was now juggling between parental pressure and the growing independence of the Tinder generation. By this time, Shaadi.com had found itself competing with Bumble, and “modern” Indian parents started using matrimonial apps with the same fervor as their children used dating apps.

China saw the explosion of dating apps, but also the rise of “marriage markets,” where parents advertised their children’s eligibility in parks—because nothing says modern love like your mom waving a sign that reads: PhD. Seeks wife. In Japan, career-driven singles embraced online dating with open arms, blending tradition with efficiency, as is the Japanese way.

Metaphor of the Era: Dating became like ordering sushi from a conveyor belt—you just hoped your choice wasn’t already taken by the next swipe.

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2020s: Welcome to Algorithmic Love

By the 2020s, love was no longer in the hands of Cupid but rather the hands of an algorithm. Apps claimed they knew what you wanted in a partner better than you did. Compatibility tests, swipe patterns, and even your music playlist were all fed into the digital matchmaking beast.

In Britain and America, couples joked that their dating profiles were now more comprehensive than their CVs. In Latin America, the Catholic Church still blessed relationships, but a swipe to the left was far easier than finding a confession booth.

In India, families started to accept the digital revolution. Tinder profiles that mentioned “family values” were trending, and Shaadi.com now featured sections like “Lifestyle and Horoscope,” to balance millennial independence with ancestral wisdom.

China, ever pragmatic, perfected the art of digital love, while still holding fast to marriage markets and familial involvement. And in Japan, “solo weddings” (where women marry themselves) were on the rise—a testament to the complexity of modern relationships.

Metaphor of the Era: Finding a partner in the 2020s was like asking Google for restaurant recommendations—you didn’t always know what you wanted, but you trusted the algorithm to figure it out.

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2030s and Beyond: The Future of Love

The unpredictable future. But we can always extrapolate. Financial advisers do it all the time, so who can stop me? Here's what I think may happen.

In 2030, selecting a partner will likely involve virtual reality dates where you and your potential mate are AI-curated based on everything from genetic compatibility to shared Netflix preferences.

In the UK and US, holographic dates over dinner will be all the rage, where the awkward first-date silence is filled by an AI assistant whispering fun facts into your ear about your partner's favorite hobbies.

Latin America might see AI matchmakers who analyze your family tree for compatible marriages, ensuring both love and family approval.

In India, matrimonial apps may partner with astrologers, offering real-time horoscope updates based on planetary shifts during your chat.

China, with its obsession for efficiency, might introduce state-sponsored AI matchmaking services—where romance meets bureaucracy. And Japan? Expect robot companions in the dating market, where they’ll make ideal partners for the workaholic crowd.

Metaphor of the Future: Dating in 2030 will be like selecting a partner via Amazon Prime—complete with one-day shipping and easy returns.

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There you have it, from arranged marriages to algorithmic matches and beyond. Yes, we’ve come a long way, but no matter how much technology advances, the real challenge remains the same: love, like life, still remains unpredictable.

-- Pradeep K (Prady)

* This post is based on my own observations, but other people's experiences ;-)

The Dam of Shamelessness

"The rivers of shame can only be blocked by the dam of shamelessness!"

—Pradeep K (Prady)

Yes, I quoted myself. That's how shameless I am.

Shame: a word that sends shivers down the spine of anyone who's ever encountered a nosey neighbor, a judgmental aunt, or even a slightly overenthusiastic colleague. Whether it's something as simple as forgetting to mute yourself during an important Zoom meeting or as profound as being caught in a public embarrassment, shame has always had its way with us. But what if I told you that there's a secret weapon against shame, a hidden treasure of human resilience that has been passed down, albeit quietly, through the generations?

The answer lies in shamelessness—not just any shamelessness, mind you, but a refined, dignified shamelessness that helps you weather the raging floods of societal judgment. It’s a strategy, nay, an art form that few have mastered, and fewer still have recognized for its true value.

Think of the average Indian wedding, as a case in point. It’s not just a marriage between two people; it’s a celebration where everyone’s insecurities and embarrassments come to light. Aunties will shamelessly ask newlyweds the question that has plagued the ages: "When will you give us good news?" Well, obviously this is not a request for a weather update.

Yet, the veteran bride or groom knows this: the only way to survive such moments is to build your own dam of shamelessness. Smile, deflect, move on. Without it, you’d drown in the rivers of shame, with every awkward laugh or uncomfortable question adding to the tide.

Of course, a bigger monster looming in our lives since time immemorial—a particularly Indian affliction—is the eternal question: "What will people say?" Uncle Ramesh buys a bright yellow car? "What will people say?" A cousin takes up pottery instead of engineering? "What will people say?" You're still single at 30? "What will people say?!"

Let me tell you, people will always say something. If you keep trying to control the flow of their opinions, you'll be flooded with shame until you can barely keep your head above water.

Enter the dam of shamelessness. In this case, it takes the form of proudly showing off your yellow car, inviting the whole extended family to your pottery class, or even announcing your singlehood as if it were a personal badge of honor.

No river can erode a dam built of confidence, humor, and a generous dose of "I don’t care."

But it’s not just in India where the power of shamelessness shines. Whether you're in Mumbai or Manhattan, shame takes on many forms, but the key to blocking it remains the same. Take any celebrity scandal—there’s a scandal, a social media uproar and then, like clockwork, comes the strategic post: "I’m learning and growing, thank you for your patience." You see, while ordinary folk like us might retreat into hiding after a public misstep, celebrities have their own blueprint: construct a dam. Let the criticisms flow around it, while you sit, dry as a bone, sipping coffee and waiting for the tide to recede.

Jokes apart, shamelessness is, in some ways, a survival mechanism in today’s hyper-connected, hyper-judgmental world. With social media platforms turning everyone into instant judges, the rivers of shame flow faster and heavier than ever before. A poorly worded tweet, a fashion embarrassment at the wrong event, a harmless mistake blown out of proportion—all are common causes for public shaming. But the secret to surviving it? Learn the fine art of laughing at yourself before anyone else gets the chance.

Imagine you post an ill-advised picture of yourself in mismatched clothes, and the comments section starts to fill up with merciless ridicule. Now, you have two choices—either let the river sweep you away or construct the dam of shamelessness by replying, "I was clearly too ahead of fashion trends. You'll catch up someday!" The tide recedes, the critics move on, and you, my friend, have blocked the river like a pro.

Whether it's nosy relatives, social media mobs, or the inner critic that lives rent-free in your head, remember: you control the dam. Sometimes, the best thing to do is to simply let the waters flow, unbothered, around the fortress you've built.

And when people ask you how you stay so dry amid the floods of judgment and shame, you can always smile, nod knowingly, and say, "Oh, it’s simple. I just built a dam."

-- Pradeep K (Prady)

Earth Isn't a Place for Humans

Step right up to the Human Zoo, where the admission is free, but the exit fee might just be your sanity! Here, on display in their natural habitat, we have the most peculiar species on Earth: humans. Forget exotic animals—these creatures are endlessly fascinating. From their bizarre mating rituals (ever heard of dating apps?) to their survival instincts that involve ignoring the expiry dates on yogurt, humans are nature’s finest comedians.

Take, for example, the grocery store safari. What was meant to be a five-minute milk run quickly escalates into an endurance race, complete with shopping cart jousting and the eternal struggle to find the perfectly ripe avocado—only to give up and grab a bag of chips instead. And don’t even get me started on group projects, where teamwork often resembles a chaotic game of “Who Can Do the Least.”

So, buckle up and grab some popcorn, because navigating the absurdities of human life is always a wild ride. You won’t find this level of comedy on Netflix, I promise.

While humans do excel at inventing things to make life easier, sometimes these innovations lead us straight into a comedy of errors. We've all seen those inventions that seem brilliant at first, only to leave us scratching our heads. Take, for example, the electric shoe polishers you see in hotels. They seem like a great idea until you realize that most people still prefer the old-school method with a brush and polish tin.

Then there are the tech gadgets that make you question whether anyone bothered to test them before selling them to the public. Who can forget that infamous "smart" water purifier that kept sending alerts to your phone every time someone drank water? Yes, because in a country where water scarcity is a real issue, what we really need is a daily reminder of how often we sip from our own bottles.

And let’s not forget the hilarious product reviews on shopping sites. You know the ones—where enthusiastic customers rave about their new "automatic chapati maker," only to find out it produces something closer to frisbees than fluffy rotis. Human creativity is boundless, but practicality sometimes takes the scenic route.

Speaking of the scenic route, our outdoor adventures often become tales of comedic disaster. For example, camping should come with a giant disclaimer—“Proceed with caution: May result in unexpected disasters and regretful memories.” Sure, we all love the romantic idea of sitting by a campfire, roasting marshmallows, and gazing at the stars, but reality often turns that dream into a comedy of errors.

Consider the case of Rajesh, who confidently went camping with his friends, only to realize he had no idea how to pitch a tent. Spoiler alert: by the end of the night, his tent resembled more of a collapsed lung than a cozy shelter, and he found himself huddled under a tree, shivering through the night. Then there’s Priya, who decided to bring her culinary skills to the great outdoors—only to discover that neither wild animals nor her fellow campers were particularly fond of her gourmet paneer tikka that got scorched over an uneven campfire.

And let’s not forget the endless debate between traditional camping and its luxurious cousin, glamping. Glamping is essentially for those who enjoy the idea of being in nature—as long as nature includes Wi-Fi, air conditioning, and a plush bed. Why rough it in the wild when you can experience the great outdoors from the comfort of an air-conditioned tent with all the amenities of a 5-star hotel?

Maybe it’s time we reconsider traditional camping altogether for the safety of everyone involved—or at least require a crash course on how not to trip over your own tent stakes while trying to show off your "survival skills." After all, nature is stunning on its own; it doesn’t need our slapstick comedy routines to make it more entertaining.

And as we bumble through our everyday human experiences, Mother Nature seems to be laughing along with us. When it comes to nature, humans are about as competent as that friend who adopts a pet, only to realize they can’t even keep a cactus alive. You know the type—excited about the idea of turning their desk into a lush jungle, but panicking when the office plant starts to droop. Spoiler alert: it’s usually because they forgot plants need water.

Take the office plant saga, for example. We bring these poor things into our fluorescent-lit cubicles with dreams of creating a mini rainforest, only to watch as they slowly wither away, probably from boredom. It's not that we lack good intentions—just the skill set to match. And then there’s that one time you got ambitious and tried growing herbs on your windowsill. Remember the hopeful basil that turned into a crispy relic of your gardening ambitions? Yeah, that didn’t end well.

And weekends? Oh, they’re our chance to tackle the wilds of our backyards. Armed with optimism and a rusty trowel from last year’s garage sale, we march into battle with Mother Nature. A few hours later, we stagger back inside, covered in dirt, sweat, and a deep sense of regret, realizing that planting isn’t just tossing seeds around and waiting for magic.

So, while our thumbs may not be as green as we’d like, at least we can laugh about our gardening disasters. And hey, if that office plant is still hanging in there despite us, maybe there’s hope after all.

But then, welcome to the comedy club of climate change, where Mother Nature has decided to showcase her own stand-up routine with every unexpected weather twist! While we humans fret over melting glaciers and rising pollution levels, the Earth seems to be sitting back with a grin, saying, "Oh, you thought you were in control? Watch this!"

Take India's infamous monsoon season, for example. Ever noticed how it rains exactly when you least expect it—right in the middle of a hockey match or just when you’ve left home without an umbrella? It’s as if nature is playfully reminding us, “Nice try planning your day around the weather, but I’m still in charge!”

And what about those random weather surprises? One moment, you’re basking in cool winter mornings, and the next, you're sweating through an unexpected heatwave in December. Or better yet, that bizarre summer hailstorm that turns your front yard into a mini snowfield, leaving everyone scratching their heads. It's as if the environment is playing its own prank on us, just to keep things interesting.

But perhaps Mother Nature's favorite joke is when she throws in those unpredictable twists—like flooding the streets the minute after you've washed your car, or sending a gust of wind just as you hang your freshly laundered clothes out to dry. So, the next time you find yourself grumbling about the erratic weather or unexpected climate events, remember—nature’s just having a laugh. Maybe it's time we joined in on the fun too!

Well, as we fumble through our misadventures, there’s another species that might be observing us from afar—aliens. If they exist, they’re probably steering clear of Earth, and who can blame them? After all, have you seen our reality shows and social media challenges? If I were an alien cruising through the galaxy in my high-tech spaceship, I'd hit the warp drive the moment I picked up signals from Bigg Boss or the latest bizarre trend on Instagram.

Imagine this: a group of aliens gathered around their galactic travel guide. They flip to the section on Earth and see a chapter titled, "UFO Sightings and Other Human Oddities." The first line reads, "Humans claim they've spotted us—what they actually saw was their neighbor flying a kite too close to a drone." Cue the extraterrestrial laughter! Alien humor must really be out of this world, but they’d probably get a kick out of our confusion.

Add I that the general chaos on our planet. From climate debates that resemble a poorly written soap opera to viral challenges that involve people doing dangerous stunts for likes, it’s no wonder the aliens are giving us a hard pass. They’re probably thinking, “Why risk landing on a planet where people willingly eat chili powder just for views?” So the next time you spot a suspicious light in the sky or think you've seen a UFO, it might just be an alien making a swift exit from our global circus!

At the cosmic level, it's clear that Earth isn’t exactly the poster child for harmonious living. From our hilarious misadventures with nature to our questionable innovations and cringe-worthy reality shows, we humans seem to have perfected the art of chaos. But hey, that’s what makes life on this little blue planet so entertaining, right?

Let’s wholeheartedly accept our cosmic misplacement and learn to laugh at the absurdity of it all. After all, humor is the one thing that keeps us grounded—or at least stops us from pulling our hair out when nature strikes back or when our camping trips go hilariously wrong. And who knows? If things get too wild, there’s always Nebulon-5*, a place where the grass might actually be greener, and the aliens might just welcome us with open tentacles.



* Nebulon-5: A peaceful, civilized haven in the Milky Way, home to three distinct planetary life forms, and now offering open tickets for earthlings. Cosmic coordinates available upon request—just ask in the comments.


-- Pradeep K (Prady)

The Happiness Hustle: Unmasking the Great Contentment Con

(Satire alert)


In a land not so far away, nestled between the Mountains of Misery and the River of Routine, there lay the Kingdom of Contentment. Or so it was called, though few who lived there could claim to have ever seen this elusive state. The citizens of this kingdom were like the rest of us: busy, bewildered, and forever on the brink of a nervous breakdown, despite the kingdom's promising name.

In truth, Contentment was a place of constant turmoil. You see, the King—let’s call him King Perpetua—had long declared that happiness was the birthright of every citizen. Naturally, this decree set off a chain of events that plunged the kingdom into perpetual discontent. For when happiness is promised, it becomes an obsession, a quest, and ultimately, a commodity.

Enter the alchemists. These weren't the traditional alchemists who busied themselves with turning lead into gold. No, these were the Alchemists of Happiness, the self-proclaimed purveyors of eternal bliss. They roamed the kingdom in brightly colored caravans, each more garish than the last, peddling their wares to the desperate masses. Their potions came in a variety of flavors: "The 10-Step Elixir to Joy," "Gratitude Tonic," and "Mindfulness Mead," each promising to unlock the secrets of perpetual happiness.

Of course, these potions were nothing more than cleverly marketed mixtures of snake oil and wishful thinking. But the citizens, forever in search of that elusive contentment, lined up to purchase them with the fervor of pilgrims seeking salvation. Each morning, they would gather in the marketplace, clutching their gold coins, ready to trade their hard-earned wealth for a vial of hope.

And hope, it seemed, was always just one vial away.

In the royal court, King Perpetua watched with a mixture of amusement and concern. He had long ago discovered that the quest for happiness was the most effective way to keep his subjects distracted from the more pressing issues of governance. So, rather than curb the activities of the alchemists, he quietly endorsed them, granting licenses to those who promised the most outlandish results.

But as the years passed, something peculiar began to happen. The citizens, having tried every potion, attended every seminar, and read every scroll on the subject, started to grow weary. They had followed every alchemist’s advice to the letter, and yet happiness remained as elusive as ever.

It was then that a new figure appeared on the scene: a mysterious stranger known only as The Sage of Enough. Unlike the alchemists, The Sage carried no potions, no scrolls, no step-by-step guides. Instead, he wandered the streets with nothing but a simple question: "What if happiness isn’t something to be found, but something to be let go?"

Naturally, this approach was met with skepticism. After all, the alchemists had taught the citizens that happiness was a prize to be pursued, a destination at the end of a long and arduous journey. The idea that it might be something simpler—something already within them—was as shocking as it was heretical.

Yet, despite their doubts, the citizens began to listen. Slowly, they realized that the relentless pursuit of happiness had been their undoing. They had become so fixated on the idea of finding it that they had forgotten to live it. The more they chased after it, the further it seemed to slip from their grasp.

The Sage’s teachings spread throughout the kingdom, much to the dismay of the alchemists. Their caravans, once overflowing with customers, began to dwindle. The citizens, it seemed, were starting to understand that happiness wasn’t a potion to be bought or a secret to be unlocked. It was something much simpler—a byproduct of living, rather than the goal.

And so, the Kingdom of Contentment began to change. The citizens still gathered in the marketplace, but now they came not to buy, but to share. Stories, laughter, and the occasional loaf of bread were exchanged, and the alchemists, now out of business, took up new trades—bakers, blacksmiths, and the like.

King Perpetua, for his part, was relieved. His kingdom was finally living up to its name, though not in the way he had expected. The pursuit of happiness had ended, not with a grand discovery, but with a quiet acceptance. Contentment, it turned out, wasn’t something to be chased. It was something to be realized, often when one least expected it.

And so, life went on in the Kingdom of Contentment, where happiness was no longer an obsession, but a quiet companion—always present, if only one stopped long enough to notice.

-- Pradeep K (Prady)