One Roti and the Collapse of Platform Capitalism

 A meditation on Indian jugaad, negotiated compliance, and why no system survives first contact with the subcontinent.

I recently heard a story so magnificently Indian in its ingenuity that I am still unsure whether to admire it, fear it, or nominate it for a Padma Shri in Applied Improvisation.

Apparently, there exists a delightful little loophole in the food delivery ecosystem.

Here is how it works.

A customer places a microscopic order on *omaXo.. Something economically tragic like one solitary roti costing ₹40. The sort of order that makes the restaurant chef stare briefly into the abyss and reconsider his career choices and ponder over his Roti Kapda Makaan!

Then comes the masterstroke.

The customer directly telephones the restaurant and places the actual order separately via UPI:
Paneer makhanwala . Veg kolhapuri. Butter Naan. Jeera pulao. Gulab Jamun. Enough food to sustain a medium-sized well eating family.

The restaurant, now liberated from *omaXo. commission structure and smelling operational freedom, quietly packs the entire feast together with the lonely roti.

The unsuspecting *omaXo delivery executive arrives.

He sees: “One roti.”

He picks up: “A gastronomic rehabilitation programme”

And proceeds to deliver it dutifully.

Thus:

• the customer gets cheap delivery,
• the restaurant avoids commission,
• and *omaXo unknowingly becomes a charitable logistics NGO.

When I heard this, I did not laugh immediately.

I first experienced a deep patriotic pride.

Because this, ladies and gentlemen, is not fraud.

This is civilisation.

This is thousands of years of subcontinental adaptive intelligence expressing itself through Paet Pooja  logistics.

The Indian mind occupies a fascinating space in the evolutionary spectrum. Give an Indian a system and within ten minutes he will identify:

1. the loophole,
2. the workaround,
3. the cheaper vendor,
4. the uncle who knows somebody inside,
5. and a cousin who has “done this many times.”

The West builds systems.

India builds methods to survive systems.

This is why every Indian software engineer eventually becomes either:

• an architect,
• a consultant,
• or a man explaining tax-saving strategies at weddings.

Our relationship with rules is deeply civilisational and almost spiritual in nature.

The average Indian does not regard rules as rigid instruments demanding obedience. We regard them more as preliminary recommendations issued by optimistic authorities unfamiliar with ground realities.

To the Indian mind, every rule is essentially the opening offer in a long and culturally enriching negotiation.

Take queues, for instance.

In many countries, a queue is treated as a sacred geometric construct representing equality, discipline, and social order.

In India, however, a queue is better understood as a loose philosophical arrangement indicating the approximate location of human intention.

The accomplished Indian does not “break” a queue. That would be crude.

He gradually transcends it.

This ascent toward the front is typically achieved through a sophisticated blend of:

·       strategic body angling,

·       emotionally charged facial expressions,

·       simulated urgency,

·       sudden recognition of a distant acquaintance near the counter,

·       or the timeless phrase:
“Swalpa Urgentu .. Adjust Maadi…”( it’s urgent kindly adjust)

There also exists the advanced Indian queueing technique known as “proxy occupancy,” wherein one human being physically occupies space on behalf of six relatives currently parking the car, buying pani puri, or materialising mysteriously from nowhere at the exact moment tickets become available.

Traffic behaviour is even more magnificent.

In developed nations, lanes are considered binding traffic disciplines.

In India, lanes are viewed more as inspirational artistic suggestions painted decoratively upon the road surface by a hopeful government.

The Indian driver approaches a traffic signal the way an experienced chess player approaches the middle game:
with aggression, intuition, tactical improvisation, and complete confidence that everybody else will somehow adjust.

Indicators are optional.
Rear-view mirrors are philosophical.
And the horn functions less as a warning device and more as an instrument of constitutional expression.

Our roads operate on an invisible doctrine best summarised as:
“Maximum movement through minimum consensus.”

And yet, against every known principle of engineering, urban planning, and occasionally physics itself, the system somehow continues functioning.

Not efficiently, certainly. Not elegantly, unquestionably.

But with a kind of chaotic survivability that leaves foreign visitors emotionally exhausted and traffic theorists reaching for medication.

India does not solve disorder.

India develops immunity to it.

The great paradox of India is this:
our systems survive precisely because our people have become experts at operating around them.

This “jugaad mindset” has genuine strengths.

It creates:

• resilience,
• adaptability,
• entrepreneurial instinct,
• survival intelligence,
• and the ability to repair a ceiling fan using wire, faith, and a YouTube video.

An Indian stranded in Antarctica with only a pressure cooker and two Allen keys would somehow establish tea service by evening.

But the same mindset also quietly sabotages scalability.

Because once a loophole becomes profitable, “cleverness invites competition.”

The moment one restaurant discovers the Zomato roti strategy, three neighbouring restaurants will improve it, digitise it, and circulate it on WhatsApp with the caption:
“100% working trick.”

Soon:

• one roti becomes half a roti,
• somebody creates a Telegram group,
• somebody starts selling “premium loophole consulting,”
• and eventually a startup founder in Bengaluru raises Series A funding for “hyperlocal commission optimisation ecosystems.”

At which point *omaXo finance department begins sweating through quarterly earnings calls.

And this is why so many beautifully designed systems in India eventually resemble emotionally exhausted schoolteachers.

Every policy triggers a national brainstorming exercise on bypass mechanisms.

Toll booths?
FASTag misuse.

Railway waitlists?
Tatkal warfare.

Office attendance systems?
A man holding six ID cards near the biometric scanner.

Buy one get one free?
Entire family arrives separately.

Taxation?
Our chartered accountants are essentially strategic defence analysts. Defend your money earning theirs ….

Somewhere, deep in the Indian subconscious, there exists a belief that:
“If a system exists, it is probably overcharging us.”

And therefore bypassing it becomes not dishonesty, but moral balance restoration.

Naturally, this creates magnificent unintended consequences.

Because there is also the other side of the *omaXo loophole.

Imagine the delivery executive, after transporting what appears externally to be “one roti,” decides midway that the aromas emerging from the package represent destiny calling him personally.

He opens the packet.

Consumes the Paneer Makhanwala.
Destroys the veg kolhapuri.
Achieves spiritual closure through the Gulab Jamun.

And delivers precisely what the app officially recognises:
one roti.

At which point the customer cannot even complain honestly.

“Saar , baki order yelli ? (where is the rest of my food?)”

“Correctaagiye ide saar … Vondu roti Alva …(What rest, sir? App shows one roti.”)

And thus, in a single glorious transaction, Indian jugaad consumes itself.

Which, if one thinks about it carefully, may actually be the most Indian ending possible.

 

The Heated Horse of Desire: Growing Into “Baanigondu Elle Ellide”

 There are some songs we merely hear. And then there are some songs we slowly grow into ….usually after life has delivered enough philosophical uppercuts to leave us sitting quietly in a corner, staring meaningfully into the middle distance.

“Baanigondu Elle Ellide…” belongs emphatically to the latter category.

For years, I listened to the song because it was beautiful, soulful, and because Dr. Rajkumar possessed that rare ability to sing even profound despair with remarkable dignity and excellent diction. Like most people in youth, I nodded appreciatively at the philosophy without actually pausing long enough to understand it. Youth, after all, is nature’s way of ensuring that human beings remain confidently foolish long enough to reproduce, take loans, and buy vehicles beyond their means.

But age is a ruthless editor of illusion.

More recently, after undergoing a major surgery and finding myself abruptly inducted into that ancient and humbling order of mortals who suddenly realise that His will is supreme, cardiologists are strangely persuasive, and human beings are considerably less indestructible than their annual health-check postponements would suggest, the song has begun to speak to me differently.

And perhaps more truthfully.

The opening itself unsettles us with a question that appears simple until life insists on answering it personally:

> “Baanigondu elle ellide… ninnaasegelli kone ide…”

Does the sky have a boundary? And where, indeed, do human desires ever end?

That line lands very differently once one has spent enough years chasing ambitions, validations, promotions, gadgets, social respectability, impossible timelines, and occasionally one’s own misplaced spectacles. The horizon, rather annoyingly, recedes each time we approach it.

And then comes the line that, in my opinion, contains more wisdom than entire airport-bookstore management sections combined:

“Aaseyendu bisilu kudure yeke eeruve…”

Why do you ride the heated horse of desire?

What an extraordinary metaphor. Desire is not portrayed as comfort, but as an exhausting ride beneath a merciless sun. We gallop furiously toward fulfilment, perspiring with determination and self-importance, only to discover that the destination itself was largely conceptual.

The song never condemns ambition. It merely asks …. with extraordinary gentleness …..whether we are truly seeking meaning, or merely running because stillness frightens us.

In many ways, it reminds me of A Streetcar Named Desire. Tennessee Williams explored the fragile tension between illusion and harsh reality, between cultivated appearances and the primitive compulsions quietly governing human behaviour. Blanche DuBois survives through illusion. Stanley Kowalski tears through illusion with brutal force. Desire itself becomes both propulsion and destruction.

And somewhere between Williams’ streetcar and Rajkumar’s heated horse lies the entire human condition.

Both works understand something uncomfortable: human beings are creatures of longing. We construct dreams, narratives, ambitions, identities and emotional theatres around ourselves because reality, in its unvarnished form, is often too stark to endure continuously.

But while Williams presents this tension with devastating cruelty, “Baanigondu Elle Ellide” approaches it with compassion. It does not mock human weakness. It understands it.

And then comes the second stanza  perhaps among the most compassionate truths ever written in Kannada cinema:

“Harushavonde yaariguntu helu jagadali…  

Hoovu mullu eradu untu baala latheyali…”

Who in this world is blessed with only happiness? Every vine of life bears both flowers and thorns.

There is no melodrama here. No rebellion against suffering. No dramatic declaration that destiny has been unfair. Just quiet acceptance. The song reminds us that joy and sorrow are not opposing visitors arriving at different times. They are permanent co-tenants occupying adjacent rooms in the same house, occasionally borrowing sugar from each other.

And perhaps that is why the recurring word “nidhaanisu” feels so profound.

Slow down.

Pause.

Reflect.

Life is not asking us to win every race. Sometimes it is merely asking us to notice the road before enthusiastically accelerating toward another unnecessary destination.

As I grow older ,and particularly after this recent surgical adventure involving a level of intimacy with mortality that I had not actively scheduled into my calendar , I find myself recognising many bitter truths with greater clarity. Curiously, the answers to several questions that troubled me appear to have been lying quietly before me all along, concealed inside this song, patiently waiting for me to mature enough… or suffer enough… to finally understand them.

And that, perhaps, is the true greatness of this composition.

It no longer merely entertains me.

It comforts me.

It steadies me.

It explains life to me gently, without judgement, and with the profound humanity of an elder who understands that the heaviest truths are best spoken softly.

In youth, we listen to this song casually.

With age, illness, ambition, loss, recovery, medical reports, existential crises in supermarket billing queues, and increasing familiarity with words such as “lipid profile,” we slowly begin to grow into it.

Or perhaps more accurately, we slowly begin to grow into ourselves.

The Songs of Childhood Never Leaves Us

Some songs do not merely stay with you. They quietly take up permanent residence. They do not ask for rent, they do not announce their arrival, and they certainly refuse to leave. They wait patiently, sometimes for decades, and then one fine day they tap you gently on the shoulder and say, “Remember me?”

That is exactly what happened recently when I came across a video of a young girl singing Uthi Uthi Gopala. Within seconds, I was no longer where I was. I was transported back to the mid-seventies, to a small house where mornings began not with alarm clocks, notifications, or motivational podcasts, but with my father’s voice.

My father sang Uthi Uthi Gopala to wake me up for kindergarten. Not once or twice, but unfailingly, every morning, with a sincerity that suggested Lord Krishna himself might take personal offence if I overslept. At that age, I had no idea who Gopala was, why he needed waking up, or why my own awakening appeared equally critical to the cosmic order. All I knew was that mornings sounded gentle, reassuring, and safe.

Uthi Uthi Gopala (Wake Up, Wake Up, Gopala) is a beautiful Marathi devotional song sung by Pt. Kumar Gandharva, with lyrics by Bal Kolhatkar. It is an early morning invocation to Lord Krishna, describing the break of dawn, the stirring of nature, and preparations for worship with incense, lamps, and offerings. We still have the vinyl record at home, a tangible reminder of a time when listening to music was an act of intention. You took the record out, wiped it carefully, placed the needle with reverence, and then you listened. Not while scrolling, not while multitasking, but properly. Perhaps that is why the music stayed.

Kumar Gandharva’s Original

Alongside it lived another permanent resident of my mornings, Ghanashyama Sundara. The words themselves mean “the dark-hued, beautiful one,” a lyrical description of Lord Krishna. Written by Kavi Honaji Bala and famously sung by Lata Mangeshkar in the film Amar Bhoopali, the song paints vivid scenes of rural dawns: cows stirring, women walking to the river, the village slowly coming alive, all held together by the quiet, magnetic presence of Krishna. Even if you did not understand the poetry, you could never miss the mood.

Ghana Shyama sundara

As a child, I understood none of this. And yet, the songs worked flawlessly. They calmed the mind, softened the resistance to waking up, and prepared one for the day ahead. In retrospect, they were performing serious emotional labour, without once demanding acknowledgement or compensation.

Then time, as it always does, moved on. Childhood quietly packed its bags and left without a farewell speech. In its place arrived adulthood, which did what it does best. It complicated things.

Mornings were no longer about waking up to a familiar voice or a gentle melody, but about alarms that sounded suspiciously like rebukes. Days began with lists, deadlines, meetings, and the persistent feeling that one was already late for something, even when one wasn’t quite sure what. Faith became more structured, occasionally conditional, and frequently postponed. Silence became rare. Calm became a luxury item. Courage was no longer something you woke up with; it had to be consciously summoned, preferably after a strong cup of coffee.

Adulthood has a remarkable talent for convincing us that we are too busy to pause, too practical for poetry, and far too sophisticated for the simple magic that once carried us through the day. It replaces morning prayers with calendar alerts, devotion with deliverables, and then confidently calls this arrangement “progress.”

Somewhere in all this earnest complexity, those old songs slipped quietly into the background.

Years later, when I returned to them and finally understood their lyrics, they felt even richer. What I feel now, when I listen to Uthi Uthi Gopala and Ghanashyama Sundara, is prayer, calm, reassurance, and a quiet courage for the day ahead, all wrapped into melody. They do not insist on belief. They simply offer steadiness.

There is a line attributed to the writer Robert Brault that captures this beautifully: “There are some things we never really get over; they become part of who we are.” Music from childhood does exactly that. It embeds itself so deeply within us that it resurfaces when we least expect it, often when we most need it.

And there is another truth that becomes clear with time. When you finally go back to your old music, you realise it wasn’t the old music you missed, but your childhood. The music is merely the key. The door it opens leads to a simpler time, when mornings were slower, voices were gentler, and faith existed without explanation.

Sometimes it takes an unexpected moment, a shared video, or a child’s unselfconscious voice to unlock memories we did not even know we were carrying. One such moment recently sent me gently, and without warning, back to my own childhood.

Some journeys do not require tickets, luggage, or time machines. They only require the right song, heard at the right moment, usually in the early hours of the day, when the world is still quiet enough to listen.

My Cousin Ananth . In Remembrance

 

My earliest memories of Ananth take me back to childhood, to the long and eagerly awaited annual trips to Mangalore for Ganesh Chaturthi. Along with my father, mother, little sister and little brother, I would join the rest of the family in what was always a joyous celebration. Cousins, uncles and aunts gathered together, the whole house buzzing with energy. One of the highlights was the procession to the idol maker’s shop, where we brought home the sacred Ganesha idol. The air was filled with laughter, teasing, and the sound of footsteps that carried both devotion and delight.

For Ananth and me, the real contest was always over the clay mouse that accompanied Lord Ganesha. We both wanted it, as if the little mouse carried a magic of its own. Since the original mouse had to be immersed along with the idol, Ananth’s father, who was also my father’s elder brother, would carefully make an extra clay mouse so that neither of us went away heartbroken. To us as children, those mice were not trifles but treasures, proof of the small but sacred battles of our youth.

Once, in our boundless creativity, we even decided to make our own Ganesha. We took one of Ananth’s play dolls and stuck a clay trunk on it. To our young eyes, it was a proper idol, though looking back now I smile at the thought of that misshapen creation. Yet the memory is precious, because it reminds me of how Ananth and I shared not just festivals but imagination, innocence and laughter.

Tragedy entered his life early, with the passing of his mother when he was only four. But life also gave him a blessing, for my uncle married again, and his new mother raised Ananth as her very own son. He grew up surrounded by love and carried that love with him into everything he did.

One memory that always makes me smile is of his Munji, the sacred thread ceremony. In those days there was a tradition that the boy would briefly be without clothes while the priest prepared to dress him in sacred garments. All of us cousins were waiting eagerly, determined to tease him for it all day. But Ananth was cleverer than us. He quietly slipped away earlier, and by the time we cousins gathered he had already gone through the ritual privately. We never had the chance to tease him. That was Ananth even as a boy, always a step ahead, always composed, always wise in his own way.

As we grew older, distance and studies carried us away from Mangalore and its festivals. Yet when Ananth finished engineering and began working in Bangalore, our paths crossed again. He quickly learnt the ropes, built his career, and established himself. But what always stood out was his deep sense of responsibility. For every family function, whether it was a wedding, a Munji or Ganesh Chaturthi, Ananth would be there, working quietly in the background, ensuring that everything went smoothly.

At my own wedding, when the day was full of rituals and exhaustion, it was Ananth who not only ran around to retrieve my brother’s delayed baggage but also made sure that my bride and I were kept hydrated. He would slip us cold juices and water with a quiet smile, never drawing attention to his efforts. That was Ananth’s way of showing love, not through big declarations but through small, thoughtful acts that made all the difference.

Ganesh Chaturthi, celebrated each year under the leadership of my cousin Nagendra Anna, was another place where Ananth shone. He was the backbone of the celebration, making sure the ornaments were polished, the arrangements complete, and above all that the idol was adorned with beauty and care. Thanks to him, our idol was always admired and remembered. His devotion to Lord Ganesha was not just ritual but heartfelt. He built a collection of idols in his home, and alongside this devotion he also cultivated interests that reflected his patient and meticulous nature. He was a passionate numismatist with a remarkable coin collection and a philatelist with a wide range of first day covers. His mind was curious, his hands skilful, and his heart quietly full of devotion.

And then came the morning of September 20th. Without warning, Ananth was taken from us. At only forty eight, he felt giddy, collapsed in the restroom, and was gone before any of us could even grasp what was happening. A sudden brain haemorrhage ended a life that was so full of vigour, care, and quiet strength. Even now I find myself in shock, repeating the question that has no answer. Why him, and why so soon.

The Bhagavad Gita reminds us that the soul is eternal. In Chapter 2, verse 20, it says:

न जायते म्रियते वा कदाचि
नायं भूत्वा भविता वा न भूय: |
अजो नित्य: शाश्वतोऽयं पुराणो
न हन्यते हन्यमाने शरीरे || 20||

na jāyate mriyate vā kadāchin
nāyaṁ bhūtvā bhavitā vā na bhūyaḥ
ajo nityaḥ śhāśhvato ’yaṁ purāṇo
na hanyate hanyamāne śharīre

“For the soul there is neither birth nor death at any time. It has not come into being, does not come into being, and will not come into being. It is unborn, eternal, ever-existing and primeval. It is not slain when the body is slain.”

These words are meant to give us strength, to remind us that what we lose in body we do not lose in spirit. Yet grief does not always heed wisdom. I find myself weeping without tears, silently rolling through memories of clay mice, crooked Ganeshas, sly escapes, and thoughtful acts. In mourning Ananth, I am reminded of my own mortality. His life, though short, was filled with meaning. He lived as a son, a cousin, a devotee, a collector, a helper, a doer, and above all, as a man who gave of himself to others.

Like all of us, Ananth had but one life to live. He lived it beautifully, not in search of grandeur, but in service, in devotion, and in love. That is no small achievement. It is, in fact, a life well lived.

Ananth, you will be missed in every festival, in every gathering, in every memory. Adieu, dear cousin. May your soul find peace in the embrace of the divine, and may the love you gave so quietly and fully remain with us forever.