“Stick with the company.”

“Be loyal to your boss.”

“Stay the course.”

But in the real world — especially in business — loyalty is not a strategy.

It is a lever. A trade. A currency. Nothing more.

And the man who forgets this ends up staying in a burning house — because he once called it home.

The truth is this: companies are not loyal. Markets are not loyal. Investors are not loyal.

They are rational. They are opportunistic. They will back you when it suits them, and walk away when it doesn’t.

The entrepreneur who believes otherwise gets blindsided.

The employee who sacrifices endlessly for “the family” culture finds himself laid off when budgets tighten.

The partner who sticks to a dying venture out of loyalty drowns with it.

Loyalty feels good. It’s comfortable. It delays hard decisions.

But comfort kills agility — and agility is what keeps you alive in business.

Here’s what the best do:

They remain loyal to principles, not personalities.

To outcomes, not old relationships.

To future opportunity, not past history.

They know when a client is no longer worth the effort.

When a co-founder’s vision has drifted.

When a market has moved on.

And when it’s time to walk away, they walk — without guilt. Without apology.

Loyalty is best when it is conditional, conscious, and reversible.

Given as a loan — not a lifetime sentence.

In business, no one rewards you for staying too long in a burning house.

They remember the ones who knew when to step outside and build something new.

A way to describe the chaos.
The confusion on the battlefield.
The uncertainty in strategy.
And the blindness of those who command.

But today, the fog isn’t just a consequence of conflict.
It’s a tool.
A weapon.
And worse, a product.

In the age of screens and scrolls, war isn’t just fought with guns and jets.
It’s fought with hashtags, graphics, shouting anchors, and dopamine-pumped montages.
When there is a skirmish on the ground, there’s a storm in the feed.

One side claims it shot down two enemy jets — but there’s no wreckage, no footage, no clarity.
The other says it destroyed a strategic port — only for locals to go live from the docks, waving at the camera, ships quietly anchored behind them.
A “massive retaliatory strike” trends at 8:05 PM — while satellite images show nothing new.

And far from the frontlines, people rub their hands with glee.
Hundreds, even thousands of kilometers away — in drawing rooms, offices, and WhatsApp groups — there’s a sense of excitement.
They’re not in danger.
They’re not in doubt.
They’re watching a show.

They forward unverified clips.
They yell over dinner.
They tweet like it’s a sport.
“Teach them a lesson,” they say — and refresh for the next episode.

Because today, war is content.
And the audience is hungry.

The Newsroom Becomes the Battlefield

The fog used to rise from the battlefield.
Now it’s piped directly into our homes.

Newsrooms blare fake war sirens, not once but through entire segments.
Anchors, red-faced and breathless, shout over simulated explosions and ticker tapes screaming BREAKING.
Glowing maps. Countdown clocks. Flashy graphics. Manufactured adrenaline.

Peace activists are shouted down.
Experts asking for de-escalation are mocked or cut off mid-sentence.
A guest suggesting diplomacy is labeled “anti-national” before they finish their point.

Disagreement was once a sign of democracy.
Now, it’s treated as betrayal.

The louder the anchor, the higher the ratings.
The more unhinged the rhetoric, the more viral the clip.

And the people watching?
They begin to mimic the tone.
Their feeds grow hostile.
Their opinions harden into slogans.

The shouting isn’t just on the screen anymore.
It’s inside us.

We once talked about the Accountability Chain — the fragile but essential link between truth, governance, and public trust.

But in today’s hyper-manufactured climate, that chain isn’t just broken — it’s being actively dismantled.

• Governments spin selective truths.
• Media packages it into palatable theatre.
• Citizens consume and repeat — louder, harsher, more blindly.

Truth is no longer a civic responsibility.
It’s a narrative tool.
A tradable coin in the marketplace of public sentiment.

And in all this noise, no one is asking the obvious:

What security failure allowed this to happen in the first place?

Who missed the warnings?
Where was the breach in intelligence, protocol, diplomacy?

Accountability isn’t just about what happens after a conflict.
It’s about what failed before it even began.

But the moment the sirens go off in the studio, the questions vanish.
The chants begin.
And the performance takes over.

The New Face of War: Noise, Not Clarity

Today, every ethical line is crossed with a confident excuse:

“This is information warfare.”

They say:

“We must win the perception battle.”
“We’re fighting on all fronts — physical and digital.”
“Lies must be met with stronger lies.”

But when everyone lies, who’s left to believe?

When every voice shouts, who hears the truth?

And when war itself becomes performance — who are we?

Just spectators.
Clapping for explosions that never happened.
Cheering for victories we don’t understand.
Performing rage for people we’ll never meet.

Because today, war isn’t about territory.
It’s about mindshare.

And the fog?

It doesn’t just hide the truth anymore.
It replaces it.

We can explain emotions with hormones.Predict behavior with algorithms.Simulate love. Automate care.There’s an app for sleep, a podcast for grief, a dashboard for purpose.

We’ve become brilliant at responding to discomfort.But somewhere along the way, we forgot how to question it.

The questions that once shaped civilizations—Who am I?What is worth suffering for?What does it mean to live well?—now feel like they belong to a different time. Or worse, to a different species.

Because comfort has taken over.Not just our homes or our chairs—but our entire idea of the good life.

Pain is now seen as failure.Sadness a malfunction.Stillness an error.

We mistake silence for absence.And any hesitation for a bug to be fixed.

We call this progress.But it might just be an escape.From depth. From contradiction. From ourselves.

Dostoevsky saw this long ago.He gave us the Underground Man—not to romanticize suffering, but to remind us that being human was never supposed to be clean, optimized, or easy.

This man doesn’t rebel for the sake of drama.He rebels because everything around him seems to demand a performance.A performance of happiness.Of moral clarity.Of being well-adjusted in a world that quietly empties the soul.

He prefers dissonance to delusion.Pain to pretense.Silence to small talk.

Because somewhere in the rush to feel better, we lost the ability to feel truthfully.

We cleaned up the outside.And in doing so, made the inside uninhabitable.

Now we’re left with a strange paradox—A world full of stimulation.And a growing hunger for something real.

Not another insight.Not another feature.Just the space to sit with the mess we tried so hard to edit out.

Its central message? Be kind. Always.
The mole says it. The boy echoes it. The horse confirms it.
It lands with emotional weight, like a gentle reminder from a simpler world.

But here’s the reality: kindness is beautiful.
It is necessary.
It is the social glue that keeps people from falling apart.

And yet, in the real world—especially in India—it is not enough.

The Real World Is Not a Watercolour Painting

India teaches early: softness without boundaries leads to bruises.
Pliability without discretion leads to regret.

Autowalas overcharge. Contractors delay. Bureaucracies stall.
The world does not reward perpetual sweetness—it exploits it.

Kindness here must coexist with discernment.
Not manipulation, but wisdom.
Not aggression, but clarity.

There’s a well-known Hindi saying:

“Zyada seedha aadmi ya toh thagha jaata hai ya toh maara jaata hai.”
(The overly straightforward person either gets conned or crushed.)

Many stories prove this: the over-trusting vendor, the employee who never speaks up, the entrepreneur who gives and gives until there’s nothing left.
Kindness without boundaries becomes a sugar cube in a river—it dissolves and disappears.

In Business, Kindness Is Not a Strategy

The film claims kindness is “the most important thing.”
But in business, that doesn’t quite hold up.

Investors don’t extend runway because of kindness.
Customers don’t tolerate sloppy service because of intent.
Teams don’t follow leaders who are merely nice—they follow those who are clear, fair, and firm.

Kindness might open doors.
Performance keeps them open.

In leadership, kindness must pair with accountability.
Compassion doesn’t mean compromise.
Empathy doesn’t excuse incompetence.

So, What’s the Real Lesson?

The film captures a yearning—for warmth, for connection, for softness in a world that often feels too sharp.

But yearning must evolve into practice.
Otherwise, it becomes escapism.
Aesthetic therapy.
A nice quote framed on a wall, while the world remains unkind.

True kindness must grow roots.
It must know when to bend and when to stand tall.
It must serve justice, not just comfort.

Be kind.
But also, be discerning.
Be kind enough.

That’s the lesson worth carrying.

We assume a lot of things in India.

We assume people want what we want.
We assume people will act rationally.
We assume that what worked in the West will work here too.
We assume we know India—because we live in it.

And that’s where the trouble begins.

Assumptions are the comfort food of builders.

They’re quick. They feel good. They let you move fast. But if you’re trying to solve a problem in India—especially one that intersects with caste, cash, class, or culture—you don’t need speed. You need accuracy.

Let’s take a few examples:

1. The English Trap

Startups often build interfaces and marketing in English, assuming their “Tier 1” audience is the core. But 90% of India is outside that world. And increasingly, the aspirational Indian isn’t looking for Western polish—they’re seeking local pride, in their own language.

The real Bharat doesn’t just want “access.” They want dignity. They want the app that gets their idiom, not just their location.

KYA #1: English ≠ educated ≠ wealthy ≠ digital.
Break the loop.

2. Digital Payment = Adoption? Not really.

The world assumes India has leapfrogged into fintech paradise. QR codes everywhere, UPI thriving. But adoption ≠ depth. Many kirana stores still settle only at the end of the week. Hawkers may use UPI, but prefer cash when they can. The system is used, yes—but it isn’t trusted in the same way.

KYA #2: Behavior ≠ Belief.
Just because someone uses your product doesn’t mean they trust it.

3. Modern ≠ Urban ≠ Western

A tribal woman in Bastar might be more “modern” in her values—around nature, collaboration, motherhood—than a Delhi VC founder who runs a modern tech company but maintains rigid caste expectations at home.

KYA #3: Location ≠ worldview.
India’s soul is not located in geography. It’s encoded in contradictions.

4. The Myth of One India

There isn’t one India. There never was. There’s a layered salad of 100 Indias, each with its own hierarchies, beliefs, and social tightropes. A product that works in Jaipur might flop in Jabalpur. A women’s health campaign in Bangalore might offend the very people it’s meant to help in Bhopal.

KYA #4: Pan-India ≠ Universal appeal.
Test everything. Translate carefully. Context is not optional—it’s everything.

5. The NGO Fallacy

If you’re building for the poor, don’t assume pity is the entry point. Most people don’t want to be “helped.” They want to be seen. They want to be paid on time, respected as equals, and spoken to with honesty.

India doesn’t need more saviors. It needs partners.

KYA #5: Empathy ≠ sympathy.
Your users are not waiting for your vision. They have their own.

So, what do you do instead?

You Kill Your Assumptions (KYA).

Like this:

• Talk to real people—not just “user personas”
• Co-create, don’t parachute
• Listen before launching
• Prototype small, observe deeply, pivot honestly
• Always ask: Who is missing from this room?

In India, every assumption is a blindfold.

You can build fast on assumptions.
Or you can build well by killing them.

One leads to applause.
The other leads to impact.

Choose wisely.

Most people don’t need a new goal.
They need a new standard.

You’ve probably heard the phrase: “If you want better results, do better.” But RYS flips that on its head: If you want better results, expect more from yourself. Raise Your Standard.

It’s not about ambition porn or motivational quotes on a coffee mug.
It’s about the quiet, unrelenting decision to stop accepting mediocrity in any form — from yourself, your habits, your environment, your team.

The Standard Is the System

Standards aren’t goals. Goals are what you want.
Standards are what you refuse to live below.

A goal says, “I want to write a book this year.”
A standard says, “I write 500 words every morning, no matter what.”

A goal says, “I want a better body.”
A standard says, “I don’t eat junk when I’m stressed.”

A goal says, “I want to grow my company.”
A standard says, “We don’t ship half-baked features or ghost our customers.”

When your standard rises, your default changes. You don’t need willpower every time. You’ve hardwired the new baseline.

But Isn’t That Exhausting?

No. What’s exhausting is negotiating with yourself daily —
Should I go for a run? Should I take that call? Should I finish this deck?

When your standard is clear, there’s no negotiation. There’s just execution. And freedom.

The tiredness most of us feel isn’t from overwork.
It’s from under-commitment. From standing in the middle of the road, unsure.

RYS Isn’t a Hack. It’s an Identity Shift.

Ask yourself:

“What am I tolerating that’s clearly below my potential?”

It could be the people you allow around you.
The way you spend your evenings.
How you show up to meetings.
What you accept as ‘good enough’ in your work.

Raise Your Standard is not a rallying cry for perfectionism.
It’s a reset button.
It’s a personal revolution.

It says: I’m done being okay with things that drain me, bore me, or dilute me.
I choose quality — not just in results, but in process.

Start Small. But Start.

• Don’t aim to wake up at 5am. Start with no snoozing.
• Don’t vow to build a billion-dollar company. Start with responding to every email like it matters.
• Don’t fantasize about a six-pack. Start with not lying to yourself about your diet.

The details don’t matter as much as the stance.

So the next time you’re tempted to make a to-do list, pause.
Ask instead: “What is the standard I want to live by today?”

And then?
RYS. Every damn time.

Ever wondered what your brain is doing while you’re zoning out, sleeping, or intensely focused? Welcome to the mystical terrain of BATDG Waves — an iceberg-shaped map of the mind, dividing the conscious from the subconscious with just five letters.

Let’s break down the acronym: B.A.T.D.G.
Each letter stands for a different type of brainwave: Beta, Alpha, Theta, Delta, and Gamma (though Gamma isn’t in this visual, we’ll sneak it in later). These waves represent different frequencies of brain activity, each tied to a specific mental state.

The diagram (that charming bat isn’t just for show) shows an iceberg model — where the tip above water represents our conscious mind and the vast base hidden below is the subconscious. Like all good metaphors, it’s hiding more than it reveals.

The BATDG Breakdown

B – Beta (14–20+ Hz)

• State: Alert, focused, logical thinking.
• Waveform: Fast and choppy.
• Location on iceberg: Tip-top. Conscious thought.
• When you’re here: You’re reading this blog, solving problems, attending meetings, overthinking dinner plans.

A – Alpha (7–14 Hz)

• State: Relaxed, meditative, light trance.
• Waveform: Smoother, slower.
• Location: Just below the surface.
• When you’re here: Meditating, daydreaming, right before you fall asleep or after you wake up.

T – Theta (4–7 Hz)

• State: Deep relaxation, creativity, emotional processing.
• Waveform: Slower and more flowing.
• Location: Deeper subconscious.
• When you’re here: In dreams, hypnosis, or those strange moments between sleep and wakefulness when you get your best ideas.

D – Delta (0–4 Hz)

• State: Deep, dreamless sleep.
• Waveform: Slowest and most powerful.
• Location: Bottom of the iceberg.
• When you’re here: Unconscious, but still processing and healing. Your brain is doing its night-shift cleanup.

(Optional G – Gamma, 30–100 Hz)

• State: Peak consciousness, integration, high-level cognition.
• Where is it?: It’s not on the chart, maybe because Gamma is less about levels and more about across levels. Think of it as the connective tissue of awareness.

Why the Iceberg Matters

The drawing cleverly places Beta waves above water, in the conscious realm — the land of decisions, judgment, and stress. But the real power lies below: Alpha to Delta. This is where intuition, healing, imagination, and memory reside.

Ironically, the more we chase Beta states for productivity, the more we disconnect from the subconscious depths where creativity and insight live. BATDG reminds us: real transformation happens not by thinking harder, but by thinking less— by diving below the surface.

One Bat to Rule Them All?

The bat in the top left corner? Possibly a metaphor for the night — or the mind navigating through dark, unseen territories. Bats use echolocation; perhaps that’s what we’re doing with these waves — pinging the void for answers.

Final Thought: The TPM Scale?

On the right, there’s an empty bar marked “TPM” — maybe “Thoughts Per Minute”? A subtle nudge: less isn’t lazy, it’s lucid.

The invitation here is clear: Don’t just live at the tip. Explore the rest of your mental iceberg.

But finishing? Finishing is hard. Finishing is messy. Finishing requires confrontation—with your taste, your talent, your time, and your own inconsistency.

That’s why the idea of a “Finish Up Weekend” feels both obvious and radical.

No clients.
No emails.
No doomscrolling.
Just you. And that thing you once promised yourself you’d finish.

Maybe it’s a half-written short story.
Maybe it’s the prototype for a side hustle.
Maybe it’s finally organizing that 600-tab Notion dashboard you thought would make you productive.

Whatever it is, it’s yours.

The brilliance of Finish Up Weekend isn’t just in the name. It’s in the permission it gives. To block the world out for 48 hours and focus entirely on something that matters to you, not your employer, your deadlines, or your notification drawer.

It’s also in the shared accountability. Knowing someone else is doing the same—hunkering down, closing loops, removing friction—adds a layer of quiet momentum. You don’t want to be the one who shows up Monday with excuses instead of a screenshot.

And in an age where starting new things is glorified and shipping them is rare, a ritual like this could be an antidote. A new micro-culture of finishers. People who don’t just ideate, but follow through.

Because there’s a different kind of joy in completing something.
Not perfect.
Not viral.
But done.

And done, as they say, is a gift to your future self.

Have a half-done project tugging at your sleeve?
Pick a weekend. Grab a friend. Shut the noise.
Finish the damn thing.

What project would you bring to your own Finish Up Weekend?

The Four Stages of Competence is one of those deceptively simple models that packs a lifetime of wisdom into four steps. It doesn’t just describe how we learn a skill; it offers a lens into how we become the kind of person who is good at things. And more importantly, how we become blind to what we don’t know.

Let’s walk through each stage.

1. Unconscious Incompetence

“You don’t know that you don’t know.”

This is where every beginner starts. It’s not just lack of skill—it’s lack of awareness that a skill even exists. The person who can’t swim and doesn’t think it’s a big deal. The executive who doesn’t realize emotional intelligence is a thing. The entrepreneur who thinks marketing is just posting on Instagram.

This is the most dangerous place to be—not because you’re unskilled, but because you’re unaware. It’s the Dunning-Kruger pit.

The antidote? Humility. Curiosity. Feedback loops.

2. Conscious Incompetence

“You know that you don’t know.”

Now the lightbulb flickers. You attend a workshop, watch someone code, or try to cook a simple meal… and realize how much you suck. This is when awareness kicks in—and with it, discomfort.

It’s also the most fertile stage for growth. But many people quit here. The pain of realizing your incompetence is too much for the ego.

The people who stay are the ones who learn. Because now, finally, you’re teachable.

3. Conscious Competence

“You know that you know.”

This is the awkward adolescent stage of mastery. You’ve learned the skill. You can do it. But it takes effort. It’s slow. You’re mentally ticking boxes as you go.

This is the language learner who can hold a conversation—but only if they mentally translate each word. The developer who can write decent code—but needs to double-check syntax.

You’re capable, but not fluid.

Deliberate practice lives here. So does repetition, coaching, and process. This is where you build the muscle memory required to level up.

4. Unconscious Competence

“You don’t know that you know.”

Welcome to the flow state.

You’re not thinking about your skill. You are the skill. The pianist doesn’t think about scales. The speaker doesn’t rehearse sentence structure mid-talk. The coder doesn’t Google “for loop syntax” anymore.

You are competent without conscious effort.

But here’s the twist: this stage can make you a bad teacher. Because you’ve forgotten what it’s like to not know.

That’s why the best coaches often hang out in stage 3—they’re good enough to perform, but still close enough to the struggle to explain it.

The Climb Never Ends

Here’s the punchline: every time you start something new, you go back to stage 1. The ladder resets. You might be a master chef, but if you start writing fiction, you’re back at “unconscious incompetence.” That’s the deal.

The goal isn’t to get stuck at the top, nor to avoid the bottom. The goal is to climb, again and again, with grace.

Because awareness isn’t just about skill—it’s about who we are when we don’t know.

And that’s where growth begins.

Specifically, those tiny hotel soap bars, no bigger than a credit card, wrapped in enough plastic to survive a nuclear event.

You know the ones. You check into your room, maybe after a long flight. You find a neat little bar sitting on the sink like a soldier awaiting orders. You tear it open, give it a quick lather, and… that’s it.
One use.
Maybe two if you’re disciplined.
And then?
Straight to the trash.

Here’s the thing:
The manufacturers know.
They know that 90% of that soap’s life will be spent sitting there, slowly drying out, or being tossed half-used into a bin. Yet they still dutifully design, produce, and distribute millions of them every year.

It’s not incompetence. It’s not carelessness. It’s designing for discard.

The point was never that the soap bar would be fully used.
The point was that it would be available.
There. Present. Making you feel cared for. Hygienic. Safe. Even if you barely touch it.

In product development, there’s a hidden lesson here:
Sometimes the function of a product is not what you think.

The soap bar isn’t just a cleanser.
It’s a signal.
It tells you, “We thought about you.”
Even if you don’t finish it, even if you barely use it, the soap served its real purpose the moment you saw it.

It’s the same reason most car owners have spare tires they’ve never touched.
Or why high-end gadgets ship with velvet bags no one ever uses.
Or why luxury brands sell handbags so delicate you’d be insane to actually carry them daily.

Utility isn’t always the goal.
Sometimes it’s reassurance. Status. Presence. A little nudge to your limbic system that says: you made a good choice.

The tragedy, of course, is that the soap bar, unlike the spare tire or velvet bag, is actually useful.
In a better world, maybe we’d have a communal soap jar that refills itself like magic. (Or a tiny “hotel soap seed” you plant in water to grow a full bar overnight.)

But for now, the poor travel soap will continue its short, tragic life: born in a factory, flown across oceans, briefly admired, hastily unwrapped, used once, and abandoned forever.

A reminder that in product development — and maybe in life — it’s good to ask:
Am I building something to be used…
or just something to be seen?

And more importantly:
Would I want to be the soap bar?