Glass is Fragile

“Life is what happens while we are busy making other plans.”
Allen Saunders (later immortalised by John Lennon in “Beautiful Boy”)

There is an old saying that family reunions nourish the soul.

In our family, they also appear to nourish the stomach.

My brother had just arrived from the United States. My sister had flown in from Australia a couple of days earlier. After three years apart, the airport was filled with hugs, laughter, accusations of growing older, and the obligatory family audit of expanding waistlines and receding hairlines. (On the latter count, I had long since decided to embrace aerodynamic efficiency.)

By the time the emotional reunion had concluded, it was well past midnight.Now there is something about emotionally charged reunions that makes one extraordinarily hungry. Either joy burns calories or airports simply have a mysterious effect upon human metabolism.

Naturally, we drifted towards the Subway outlet.

Now I have always admired Subway.

It is perhaps the closest the fast-food industry has come to representative democracy.Every citizen gets to design his own destiny.No two sandwiches need ever be alike.

The process begins innocently enough.

“Which bread would you like, Sir?”

Italian White. Roasted Garlic. Parmesan Oregano. Honey Oat. Multigrain.

I was already beginning to suspect that choosing a sandwich involved more decision making than selecting members of a Parliamentary coalition .

Having survived the constitutional crisis of bread selection came the vegetables.

Lettuce. Tomatoes. Onions. Cucumbers. Olives. Pickles. Green peppers.Jalapenos.

Each one displayed behind an expansive sheet of sparkling glass, almost inviting one’s stomach to overrule one’s common sense.

Then arrived the sauces.

Honey Mustard. Sweet Onion. Chipotle. Mint Mayo. Tandoori Mayo. Peri Peri Mayo. Red Chilli. Barbecue.

Human civilisation has invented remarkably few things as dangerous as the sentence,

“Go ahead, Sir… all sauces are complimentary.”

No Indian has ever interpreted the word complimentary with greater patriotic enthusiasm.

The sandwich grows.The calorie count becomes an abstract mathematical concept.

The stomach begins applauding.

Meanwhile, the wallet whispers nervously from somewhere inside your trouser pocket.

While I was enthusiastically instructing the cheerful young lady behind the counter to add “just a little more” of practically everything, my eyes wandered upwards.

There, written in large red letters across the glass façade, was a simple notice.

GLASS IS FRAGILE.

For reasons I still cannot fully explain, I stopped speaking.

My sandwich could wait. My thoughts could not.

Three months ago, my own heart had decided that enough was enough.

It began innocently with breathlessness.

I assumed, with characteristic masculine optimism, that it was probably age, weight, stress, planetary alignment or perhaps an unusually steep staircase.

The cardiologists, unfortunately, had a less imaginative explanation.

Within days I found myself on an operating table while surgeons calmly performed what they later described as “putting in some new plumbing.”

Cardiologists possess a wonderfully understated British sense of humour.

To them, open-heart bypass surgery sounds suspiciously similar to replacing a leaking kitchen tap.

The plumbing may indeed have been repaired.

The man attached to the plumbing required rather more attention.

The stitches healed. The scar made itself present.The pain in my body slowly surrendered.The emotional bruises linger rather longer.

But the pain in my mind (and heart) I bore, long after it was felt anymore.

My apologies to William Wordsworth. I honestly do not know what I am reaping with my solitude.

Recovery has a curious way of changing one’s conversations.

Not merely with doctors. But with oneself.

Every heartbeat becomes noticeable. Every twinge acquires an autobiography. Every tomorrow quietly ceases to be taken for granted.

Standing there before a sandwich counter, I suddenly realised that perhaps life itself resembles a Subway sandwich.

The bread is our foundation. Our upbringing. Our values. Our family. Our character.

Without a good foundation, everything else simply falls apart in your hands.

The fillings are the ambitions we spend our lives accumulating. Career. Relationships. Travel. Recognition. Books. Friendships. Photography. Success. Failures that later masquerade as wisdom.

Every one of us keeps asking for “just one more topping.”

Then come the sauces. Not what life gives us. But how we choose to respond.

Some season life with Honey Mustard. Others with Sweet Onion. Some prefer the gentle optimism of Mint Mayo. Others insist on living permanently in Red Chilli mode, convinced that perpetual outrage is a personality trait.

The sandwich changes not because the bread changes. It changes because of the attitude we pour over it.

And then, while we are happily constructing what we believe is the perfect life…

Nature quietly places a notice directly in front of us.

Glass is Fragile.

So is life.

Lean too heavily upon certainty. Pile too many expectations against it.

Mistake permanence for entitlement.

And one unexpected moment reminds us that everything we love is held together by remarkably delicate threads.

Marcus Aurelius once wrote,

“You could leave life right now. Let that determine what you do, say and think.”

He probably wasn’t standing in a Subway queue contemplating double olives when he wrote those words.

But somehow, they fit perfectly.

Perhaps our greatest mistake is believing that happiness lies in constructing the perfect sandwich.

It doesn’t.

The perfect sandwich does not exist. Neither does the perfect life.

What matters is whether we enjoyed making it… Whether we shared it… Whether we appreciated it before it became another memory.

As we left the sandwich shop that night, my stomach was comfortably full.

My surgically renovated heart was behaving rather better than it had been a few months earlier.

My mind, however, had acquired several fresh questions.

Perhaps wisdom doesn’t always arrive dressed as a philosopher.

Sometimes it hides behind a fast-food counter.

Sometimes it is written on a piece of glass that thousands of people walk past every day without ever noticing.

“Glass is Fragile.”

Three ordinary words.

A safety instruction to most.

A sermon on life to one recovering heart.

And somehow, I suspect Nature knew exactly which of us was meant to read it.

 

The Richest Meal of My Poorest Day

 A video shared recently by my sister-in-law about the Sikh tradition of Langar stirred a memory that had lain quietly in a corner of my mind for more than three decades.

It transported me instantly to a chilly November afternoon in Delhi in 1990.

I was then a young Mechanical Engineering student from Bangalore, visiting my parents who were living in Delhi at the time. Like many engineering students of that era, I had made what was almost a pilgrimage to Nai Sarak, that legendary sanctuary of academic books where one could find everything from Strength of Materials to Thermodynamics, often at prices that a perpetually cash-starved student could afford.

My mission had been accomplished. Armed with a respectable collection of engineering textbooks and the confidence that only youth and ignorance can produce in equal measure, I made my way to Chandni Chowk with a singular objective.

To eat at the famed Paranthe Wali Gali.

At that age, my priorities were refreshingly uncomplicated. Mechanical engineering could wait. Thermodynamics could wait. Even the future of Indian industry could wait.

The parathas could not.

Somewhere between Nai Sarak and Chandni Chowk, however, destiny and a professional pickpocket entered into a highly successful joint venture.

When I reached into my pocket, my purse had vanished.

Every rupee.

Gone.

I conducted the customary inspection performed by every victim of a pickpocket. First the right pocket. Then the left pocket. Then the right pocket again, as though the purse might have reconsidered its decision and returned voluntarily.

Nothing.

What remained in my possession was the princely sum of ₹1.50.

Just enough bus fare to get home.

Not enough for food.

Not enough for dignity.

And certainly not enough to explain matters to my strict father.

That last concern was by far the more frightening one.

Hunger was a temporary condition.

A angry disappointed father was a far more enduring phenomenon.

As I stood amidst the noise and bustle of Chandni Chowk, my mind raced through increasingly unpleasant possibilities.

How would I explain that the money he had earned through hard work and entrusted to me had disappeared because I had failed to protect it?

How does a young man explain that he has been comprehensively outwitted by a complete stranger whose entire professional qualification consisted of relieving people of their wallets?

The thought filled me with equal measures of shame, anxiety, and self-reproach.

Meanwhile, another problem was making itself known with growing enthusiasm.

I was hungry.

Not the mild inconvenience that modern people describe as hunger fifteen minutes after breakfast.

I was genuinely hungry.

The kind of hunger that causes the aroma of food to acquire philosophical significance.

The kind of hunger that convinces you that every passer-by is carrying something delicious.

The kind of hunger that makes even engineering textbooks seem marginally edible.

And it was then that I found myself standing before Gurudwara Sis Ganj Sahib.

I had heard of the Langar tradition.

But I knew very little about it.

What I did know was that food was served there.

I remember standing outside for several minutes engaged in a debate with myself.

Suppose they ask for money?

Suppose they discover I cannot pay?

Suppose they throw me out?

My contingency plan was wonderfully sophisticated.

I would explain that I had lost my purse and would return the next day with the money.

In retrospect, this was a negotiation strategy of remarkable optimism for a young man who did not even know where the next day's money would come from.

Eventually, hunger defeated pride.

As it often does.

I entered.

The first thing that happened was that someone handed me an orange cloth and politely asked me to cover my head.

My shoes were taken, cleaned, and placed neatly on a rack.

A token was handed to me.

No questions.

No suspicion.

No interrogation.

No request for proof of income, caste, religion, social status, educational qualification, political affiliation, blood group, or engineering branch.

Only courtesy.

Only kindness.

Only dignity.

I joined the queue.

Around me stood people from every conceivable walk of life.

Rich and poor.

Young and old.

Men and women.

Children and grandparents.

For perhaps the first time in my young life, I witnessed a place where status had been left outside with the footwear.

Everyone stood equal.

Everyone sat equal.

Everyone ate equal.

The volunteer serving food offered only one instruction.

"Eat as much as you want. But do not waste food."

No sermon.

No lecture.

No judgement.

Just wisdom.

Soon a simple meal was placed before me.

Rotis.

Dal.

Kheer.

Nothing extravagant.

Nothing elaborate.

Yet I can say with complete sincerity that very few meals in my life have equalled it.

I ate four rotis.

I remember that detail even after thirty-six years.

Not because of the quantity.

But because every bite carried something more nourishing than food.

It carried relief.

It carried dignity.

It carried acceptance.

And above all, it carried an unspoken assurance that a hungry human being did not need to earn the right to be fed.

Years later, I would remember the story of Abou Ben Adhem, which I had read as a child.

The lesson was simple.

The truest service to God lies in serving God's fellow human beings.

That afternoon in Chandni Chowk, I saw that principle not in a book, not in a sermon, and not in a philosophical discourse.

I saw it in action.

In a volunteer cleaning a stranger's shoes.

In a man serving dal to people he would never meet again.

In a kitchen feeding thousands without asking who deserved it.

In a system built entirely on the radical belief that compassion is not a transaction.

Thirty-six years have passed since that day.

Life has been kind.

The frightened engineering student eventually found his way through life.

I have enjoyed meals in fine restaurants, business hotels, corporate banquets, and places whose menus required almost as much interpretation as my engineering textbooks.

Yet when I think of memorable meals, my mind returns unfailingly to that afternoon in 1990.

I can still taste the dal.

I can still taste the kheer.

But more importantly, I can still taste the lesson.

That kindness given to a stranger is never wasted.

That dignity costs nothing.

That service is perhaps the highest form of worship.

And that somewhere in Chandni Chowk, on a day when I believed I had lost everything in my wallet, I received something infinitely more valuable in return.

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.