The Joy – and Humiliation – of Being a Beginner Again

There is something wonderfully inconvenient about learning something completely new later in life.

At work, people almost always expect me to know what I am doing. Underwater? The fish have no such expectations! And my dive instructor certainly didn’t.

As careers progress, we gradually surround ourselves with things we know. Titles, experience and familiarity create a comfortable competence bubble.

Even when I don’t know something, there is usually a logical thought process that, if followed, will hopefully get me to the answer. I spent a significant part of my career in banking and payments and now find myself focused on retail and manufacturing. The industries, requirements and even the lingo may change, but somehow, they remain within the “known realms.”

Then I decided to do something where grey hair had absolutely no significance—and, if anything, the rigidity that came with it probably didn’t help! I became determined to get my Open Water scuba certification along with my children. There was just one small problem though, wwimming. For someone who could sink almost instantaneously in a swimming pool, I must have been every instructor’s dream student – or would it be a nightmare? With considerable effort, sweat and persistence, I eventually managed to swim 20 metres non-stop.

The big blue world beckoned.

The first dive into the ocean…

We started with the e-learning modules, which I attacked with great dedication. I was the first in the family to finish and scored 90%. A small confession: probably one of the few times in my life that I have ever scored so high! So, there we were, academically qualified and ready for our first practical session. Along came our instructor, probably a little more than half my age, who proceeded to explain to me how to breathe.

Breathe?

Surely, after all these years, that was one skill I could confidently claim to have mastered.

Then came the pool. With all the gear strapped on, a frightening thought suddenly entered my head, what if I drown? Pat came my daughter’s reassuring response that “scuba is basically professional drowning.” This was anything but sobering.

Our instructor then gave us what, to him, were probably very simple instructions. The rest of my family seemed to understand them effortlessly. I thought I did too. Theory was easy. Practice involved remembering to breathe, equalise, check my air, monitor the pressure and somehow control my buoyancy—all at the same time. And I wondered why something supposedly called “neutral buoyancy” felt anything but neutral. On land, I always multitask. Underwater, breathing alone seemed a perfectly adequate contribution. Then there was equalising. And ensuring that water didn’t keep seeping into my mask. And remembering my newly acquired skill of clearing it when it did. A small discovery much later: during my last two dives, I realised I hadn’t been tightening my mask sufficiently in the first place!

Experience, apparently, arrives after you need it.

And then there was my fascination with the air gauge. My instructor politely explained that I had “big lungs.” Once we surfaced, it was only natural to compare how much air everyone had left. My instructors and daughter: 90–110 bar. My son, who was initially a little nervous: 70–80.

Me? Hovering majestically around 40–50.

Apparently, I had not merely been scuba diving. I had been personally supporting the compressed-air industry. In my defence, apart from one 35-minute dive, I managed not to shorten everyone else’s underwater time, and we completed our full quota of around 40 minutes.

Then there was the small matter of my eyesight. Apparently, having difficulty seeing on land wasn’t challenging enough. I decided to try it 18 metres underwater. And strangely, this is where scuba became even more fascinating. Underwater, everyone has limitations. Everyone depends on a buddy. Everyone communicates differently. There is an interesting equality to it. Of course, following everything my instructor was trying to communicate was that much more challenging for me.

Maybe I couldn’t even know that 90% of the creatures were even there around me. But the 10% I could was more than worth it. And my success rate improved dramatically when it came to sharks! With a dedicated instructor guiding me, I was taken to a spot where two white-tip reef sharks were nearby, and I saw one of them.

Face-to-face with a predator

All of this left me thinking about something much bigger than scuba. When did we last willingly become bad at something?

Children do it constantly. Successful adults? Well, perhaps that’s an altogether different topic best avoided! As we grow older, we gravitate towards things we are competent at because it is comfortable. 

Beginning again isn’t. For it means asking stupid questions. Making mistakes, feeling foolish, and accepting instructions from someone who may have a fraction of your age and several times your expertise.

And perhaps that’s precisely why we should do it. Beginning again teaches humility. The older I get, the more I value occasionally doing something that reminds me how much I don’t know.

I started scuba because I wanted to explore another world. What I unexpectedly discovered was the pleasure of being a novice again.

I still have a lot to learn underwater. My buoyancy can improve and my air consumption most certainly should! 

And that’s exactly the point. After nearly three decades of being paid for experience, it feels surprisingly good to be a beginner again. Onwards—and downwards—to 30 metres… 

79 Years of freedom: Are We free Enough To Disagree?

At 79, I don’t believe the question is whether India has succeeded or failed. To me, India remains very much a work in progress—walking, sometimes running, occasionally stumbling, but certainly on the path to success.

As expected, yesterday WhatsApp became extraordinarily patriotic. Videos and messages arrived from folks one hadn’t heard from since the last such occasion. And, of course, there were the many prescriptive and doomsday messages, which I deleted with equanimity…

Last evening, a few families caught up for dinner. There were enough of us with divergent views on the current dispensation, its policies and the overall prevailing environment. And, with that, enough and more debates and disagreements ensued.

Disagreements apart, one thing was clear: none of us was any less Indian, nor did any of us mean ill to the nation.

Let me sneak something in here, though. I love conversations that are objective, without conveniently adding “context” merely to defend a point already made. When I see bias creeping in, I smile and let it go. But then, just maybe, the person across the table is doing the same with me—for I may have the blind spot too!

After reading from and about the many stalwarts who strove hard for our independence, it is obvious that they shared an objective while often taking vastly different paths towards it. And, boy, what ferocious disagreements they had! Between Ambedkar, Bose, Gandhi, Nehru, Patel and Savarkar, there were probably more hues of opinion than even 256 shades of grey could accommodate. There was certainly no homogeneous view about the path India should take towards freedom, or subsequently towards development.

Freedom is my right to question any or all of them—and to allow others to do so with the same spirit.

Perhaps democracy requires us to practise three freedoms.

The freedom to speak.

The freedom to disagree.

And the much harder one—the willingness to allow others to exercise the first two without immediately questioning their intelligence, motives or patriotism.

Social media has given every Indian a printing press, a television studio and, occasionally, the confidence of someone who has read neither side of the divide.

Democracy isn’t tested when we agree. It is tested by what we do with disagreement.

And perhaps we should “let a hundred flowers bloom” – although borrowing that phrase from Mao to make a case for free expression does come with a rather large historical asterisk!

One thing, though, I would like to claim that I always listen patiently to opposing views. My family may wish to exercise their democratic right to disagree.

Perhaps maturity as a democracy isn’t about everybody reaching the same conclusion. It is about reaching different conclusions without concluding that the other person is an enemy.

So, yesterday I stood for the flag and celebrated the extraordinary, argumentative, frustrating, chaotic and fascinating nation that is India.

And I listened to someone I disagreed with.

Perhaps, at 79, that’s also a small celebration of freedom.

Is the Problem My Eyes, Your Finger (Index) or the Nod?

…of course, the problem is my eyes, for starters. That’s precisely why I ask for help in the first place.

One of the most common forms of assistance I receive begins with great enthusiasm and ends in complete confusion. Occasionally, it is accompanied by a skeptical look which, ironically, I don’t see but “feel.”

“Srini, it’s out there.”

“Where?”

“Out there… see that building? Right there.”

Me (silently): “Ah… so there is a building there.”

And I nod politely, pretending I’ve understood.

For me, the most dangerous words in the English language are:

“Over there.”

A close second is, “Just there.”

Then comes the silent nod.

Many a time during conversations, I’ll say something and wait for a response. Have you heard Silence? I am still waiting. The other person is nodding enthusiastically. I am still waiting. Eventually, the realization dawns: nodding is a remarkably ineffective form of communication.

I have often wondered whether sighted people secretly believe that pointing and nodding are universal languages.

Just yesterday I asked my wife where a bowl was. “It’s there,” she replied. I instinctively asked, “Where exactly is there? Thankfully, “there” happened to be behind the ghee bowl, and my fingers eventually discovered it. Proof yet again that my fingers have developed far better navigation skills than my eyes – and please do not let your imagination loose! 

Restaurants provide another adventure. The first thing I usually need after arriving is the washroom. What can I say? When a good restaurant is over an hour away, nature has impeccable timing. The directions? “Go straight… it’s behind the red curtain.”  Now, I am fairly sure someone once told me that bulls can’t see red.

On one memorable occasion, armed with confidence and very little direction, I marched straight into the ladies’ washroom before executing one of the fastest retreats of my life—mercifully before anyone had reason to ask awkward questions.

Finding my way back to the table is another story altogether. If I’ve forgotten how many tables, I passed or how many turns I took, out comes my phone. I then perform what I like to call the “purposeful wandering act,” hoping someone from my family spots me before I accidentally join another dinner party.

Airports, however, are where confidence meets reality. Recently, I decided to walk to my boarding gate independently using my Meta glasses. The plan was simple. The glasses would identify the gate and then guide me there. Unfortunately, the display board looked just as blurry to Meta as it did to me. Technology and I had simultaneously surrendered. Thankfully a friendly CISF security officer rescued both of us.

A little secret here: after years of travel, I’ve memorised the layouts of most major Indian airports. I now walk through them with great confidence. Whether I reach the correct gate is an entirely different matter.


The reality is this: good intentions are abundant. Useful directions are comparatively rare. Most people genuinely want to help. They simply haven’t paused to think about what helpful sounds like.

Instead of saying:

“It’s over there.”

Imagine saying:

“Walk about ten steps. You’ll find a pillar on your right. Turn left, and the lift is the second door.”

One sentence helps, and the other offers independence. There is a world of difference.

And because I couldn’t resist, here’s a Limerick to end…

When things were quite out of sight,
I asked someone, “Left or the right?”
They answered, “It’s there!”
Wondering, I sighed, where?

And mumbled, sir, there is a problem slight

History Never Whispered. We Simply Stopped Listening.

People often ask me why I spend so much time reading history. After all, we already know how the story ends.

Rome falls.

Empires collapse.

Wars are fought.

Treaties are signed.

Nations gain independence.

Sometimes, only to be divided again.

Spoiler alert: nobody lives happily ever after.

Yet I keep returning to history—not because I want to memorise dates (which, I must confess, I am rather hopeless at), but because I want to understand people. Why did events unfold the way they did? What motivated individuals and nations to make the choices they did? And perhaps most interestingly, how have the interpretations of those events changed over time?

The more history I read, the more convinced I become that while technology changes every decade, human nature changes every few centuries… if it changes at all.

I often wonder when this fascination with history began. What I do know is that the more I read, the more I realise just how little I actually know. Every new book reminds me that what I have learnt is merely the tip of an enormous iceberg.

Whether it is the civilisational journey of India across the millennia, the rise and fall of the Mongols, European history, the two World Wars )it is a different matter that I call the first one just a “Great War” rather than a World War), East Asia, or the creation of modern nation states in West Asia, every subject reveals yet another layer waiting to be peeled. History, I have realised, is an onion with no end.

The reading list keeps growing. The Story of Civilization (an absolute must for any armchair critic like me), Revolusi, The Balkans, India: A Sacred Geography, The India They Saw, The Golden Road, A History of the Ancient Near East, A Line in the Sand, Jerusalem, Armies of Sand, along with biographies and autobiographies of Bose, Churchill, Deng Xiaoping, Gandhi, Nehru, Savarkar, Zhou Enlai and many others. Then there are books like An Era of Darkness and Imperial Twilight…

At this point, I have probably bought enough history books to qualify for honorary membership of several publishing houses. The challenge now is not buying them—it is finding enough years to finish reading them!

These books have done far more than teach me history. They have challenged assumptions I didn’t even know I held, while reinforcing others with greater conviction.

I am reminded of the African proverb:

“Until the lion learns to write, every story will glorify the hunter.”

Or George Orwell’s observation:

“Who controls the past controls the future. Who controls the present controls the past.”

Every historian brings a perspective. Every generation asks different questions. As geopolitical realities evolve, so too do historical interpretations. Reading multiple viewpoints doesn’t necessarily tell us who is right; it helps us arrive at better-informed opinions.

History isn’t a museum exhibit or an artefact to admire from behind glass.

It is a mirror.

When we read about civilisations, leaders, revolutions or inventions, we are really reading about ordinary people making extraordinary decisions whose consequences continue to shape our present.

Then there are the irresistible “what ifs.”

What if Hulagu Khan had not been recalled while marching towards Egypt after sacking Baghdad?

What if Hitler had pushed on to Moscow differently?

What if Savarkar had successfully escaped at Marseilles?

What if Gandhi had not called off the Non-Cooperation Movement after Chauri Chaura?

History cannot answer these questions, but they certainly make for fascinating conversations.

Across all these centuries, the tools have changed.

Human emotions have not.

Fear.

Ambition.

Greed.

Hope.

Curiosity.

These have survived every civilisation.

One of the biggest lessons history has taught me is this: reading one book gives you information; reading five books gives you perspective.

Some historians admire empires.

Others dismantle them.

Neither is necessarily wrong.

Neither is ever complete.

The truth usually lies somewhere in the conversation between them.

History rewards curiosity, not certainty.

Whenever I finish a history book, I rarely come away with more answers.

Instead, I find myself with better questions.

And perhaps that is the real value of reading history.

I often wonder: is the past merely a reflection of the future, or is the future simply another chapter of the past?

I have stopped reading history to discover who was right.

I read it to understand why intelligent people, looking at the same facts, could sincerely arrive at completely different conclusions.

Perhaps if more of us did that, we would spend a little less time arguing about the past…

…and a little more time learning from it.

The Most Expensive Words in Business: “We’ve Always Done It This Way…”

One of the more fascinating observations after nearly three decades across industries and roles—largely centred around technology—is this, it’s not how much technology has changed that surprises me. It’s how little human behaviour has.

Every organisation has that one sentence capable of stopping innovation and progress in its tracks with “we’ve always done it this way.” I sometimes wonder if it is engraved—perhaps in invisible ink—right at the entrance of every office.

A few months back, when I joined my current organisation, I noticed something interesting. Every proposal to a prospective client included a “pilot phase.” In fact, it was so institutionalised that it existed as a milestone in the sales CRM. Naturally, I asked why.

The answer was simple and familiar, “that’s how it’s always been done.” We decided to remove the pilot phase from our proposals. Almost immediately, the conversation with clients changed—and so did the order values.

Only later did I understand the origin of this practice. A few years earlier, when the organisation was still evolving, the pilot approach helped us learn, de-risk implementations, and avoid over-commitment. It made perfect sense then. But over time, that thoughtful precaution had become… hard-coded.

Today, the word “pilot” has quietly exited our lexicon—and our revenue cycle has become meaningfully shorter.

Going back a few years, I recall a conversation with my Executive Assistant—fresh out of business school—who asked a simple question: “why are we so conservative in our social media communication, especially when we’re trying to attract young talent?” Our instinctive response? Yes, you guessed it right, “we’ve always been this way.” That’s when it struck me that I was part of “this way.”

The irony was that we had built a genuinely vibrant workplace, with strong employee engagement and plenty of recreational initiatives. But none of this was visible externally – or for that matter, perceived internally! Within a month, we changed course. We expanded beyond our internal portal, became active on Instagram and Facebook, and began showcasing employee stories and experiences.

The result? A noticeable shift in how we were perceived by potential hires and, interestingly, even by our own employees.

Let me go further back about two decades to my time at one of India’s largest banks. We were evaluating outsourcing a significant operational function (incidentally, I was leading the initiative). The move promised substantial cost savings and a clear improvement in service levels. But the reaction was… dramatic. “It’s like selling the family jewels,” someone said. Here’s the quiet irony: most of the sub-activities were already outsourced. All we were proposing was to consolidate them under a single partner. Yet, reframing the same reality proved far harder than analysing it. Eventually, the decision went through. Today, that model is not just accepted—it is standard industry practice.

So, what’s the essence here?

1.      Experience is invaluable… until it becomes inertia. The very experience that helps us solve problems can also convince us there is only one way to solve them.

2.     Technology changes faster than habits. We talk about AI, automation, and digital twins. Yet many organisations still make decisions exactly as they did fifteen years ago.  (Tsk tsk. Ironically, some now find it easier to converse with AI agents than challenge their own processes. I’m still somewhere in between).

3.     Great leaders don’t have all the answers. They simply ask better questions. (I’m still working on that).  One of the most powerful questions I’ve come across is “If we were starting this company today, would we build it this way?

And perhaps this says it best: “Progress begins the moment experience becomes a guide instead of a prison.”

To summarise – its’ about letting go of yesterday’s certainty. Innovation isn’t always about inventing something new. Sometimes, it’s simply having the courage to stop doing something old. 

The GST bonanza is so taxing

The Indian Government rationalized the GST (VAT) structure thereby reducing the prices of most goods and services. While this is expected to give a fillip to consumption, with an introduction of a 40% sin goods category not everyone is rejoicing though…

With complex rates all in the bin

Consumption is what we hear is in

As sales are set to tee off

Hearing many a scoff

Saying it’s so taxing for us to now sin

The Coffee Day Limerick

It is just over a month since CoffeeDay and i realised i did not post my Limerick out here.

Everyone is sipping Matcha and talking wellness. As for me I am still chasing clarity one filter coffee at a time…

Yes sir, on this is what we all grew

The best, I say is this heady brew

Of the South Indian filter kind

The talk is of a healthier find

What Ma(t)cha nothing but coffee is my view

Blind Musings – My Unseen Journey


It’s taken me 18 years to put words to this journey. For those who know me, you’re aware – and many still aren’t, by the way – that I’m visually impaired, legally blind even. This comes with a quirky benefit: a ₹1 Lakh income tax deduction!

This series (hopefully, there will be more!) aims to capture the random thoughts of a visually impaired person. While brevity is key, as Morgan Housel wisely puts it, I wanted to set the stage upfront. Why now? Perhaps it’s an attempt to show that life always throws curveballs, and it’s about dealing with them as they come, living life to the fullest without making a big deal out of it. After all these years, I know my experience isn’t unique, nor am I doing anything extraordinary. But if sharing my journey helps even one person, it’s worth every word.

Eighteen Years Ago: The Shift

December 2006 and January 2007 were peak times for me at the bank. I was riding high, playing a crucial role in bringing mobile banking to India – a novelty back then. That’s when I noticed an occasional blur in my left eye. I’d always prided myself on 6/6 vision, yet secretly hoped for spectacles, thinking they’d make me look intelligent and smart. I got the specs, but they made no difference. I blamed the lens quality until that day in April 2007. During an office presentation, I closed my right eye and realized my left eye saw nothing. Concern turned to alarm. An ophthalmologist diagnosed optic neuritis, a “benign” condition, and prescribed steroids. But instead of improving, my optic nerve atrophied within a month. Doctors were stumped, calling it a “freak condition” with no cure. Ironically, my eye pressures shot up during steroid treatment because I was a “steroid responder”. Throughout this, I felt surprisingly calm. When the final verdict came, I was cool. My only immediate adjustment? Aiming my camera with my right eye. (Did I forget to mention I loved photography and driving?)

The World Starts to Tilt: October 2007


Then, on October 29th of that same year, my world nearly crumbled. With only one good eye, any minor change was glaring. During another presentation, I felt something was wrong with my right eye. Panicked, I rushed to an ophthalmologist. Days before, during Dasara shopping, I’d felt a subtle shift that had tensed me. This doctor confirmed all was “well,” but I knew better.

My cousin’s wife connected me with a senior ophthalmologist. His verdict: “computer stress syndrome.” I pleaded with him days later, “Doctor, I was fine even when I lost my left eye. Something is definitely wrong.” He suggested an MRI. This was my breaking point. I was devastated, crying daily in the bathroom to shield my family. My career, just taking off, felt over. I envisioned my wife burdened with everything. But then, on the morning of my MRI, after nearly a week of despair, something shifted. Amidst tears, I suddenly stopped. I vowed then and there: I wouldn’t cry. I would live my life, and I would ensure my family was fully cared for. The decision to be happy was made. I vividly remember speaking to my CIO the day before, tears streaming, telling him I didn’t know where life was headed. But after that bathroom epiphany, I was all smiles. Inside the MRI, I imagined being in a techno club with all those beats! Back at work, I entered a meeting, cheerful. When my CIO asked if I was okay, I told him, “No, but I’ve decided to be happy, come what may.”

The Unseen Path and a New Normal

What changed in me? I attribute it to the Advaita philosophy I’d begun following. The belief that we must move on, be stoic, and that the Dharma of life is to live, resonated deeply. So, in December 2007, when I lost central vision in both eyes – effectively blind for practical purposes – it took about two months to adjust. By February 2008, I was working with a screen reader on my laptop and phone. Technology became my saviour.

Backtracking a bit: after my “normal” MRI but worsening vision, I visited L.V. Prasad Eye Institute in Hyderabad. They also thought I was fine, “imagining things!” Returning to Mumbai, I was hospitalized under excellent doctors, only to be given more of my “favourite” steroid. The outcome after four days? Worse vision and soaring eye pressures.
Next stop: Sankara Nethralaya in Chennai, late November. My vision had plummeted from 6/6 to 6/24. They, along with a famous neurologist and neuro-ophthalmologist, recommended Multiple Sclerosis treatment, despite my lacking other symptoms. We also got a hint of a rare genetic condition called LHON, affecting central vision. But doctors dismissed it.
Back in Mumbai, I was treated with immunoglobulins. Three days of non-stop IV resulted in a swollen hand. Just before Chennai, we’d even tried an Ayurvedic eye hospital in Cochin, where they, too, professed helplessness. 

.
By December 24th, my acuity charts read 6/60. The head of neuro-ophthalmology at Sankara Nethralaya was taken aback; I was a specimen” referred to the head of research. More MRIs ensued, and I learned about countless conditions. The good news: no brain tumour. No LHON traits (whatever that meant). The only suspect: an unknown virus. When told it would take ten days for a “culture test” requiring a scrape from inside me, I decided to let the intruder stay.

So, by the end of 2007, I was no longer someone with normal vision. I was visually impaired – later realizing I qualified as “physically handicapped,” which has granted me that ₹1 Lakh tax benefit ever since.

The “(Un)Wired” Brain

Back in Mumbai, my doctor’s description of my condition resonated: “The bulb is fine, but the wiring got messed up!” I hadn’t known blind people could look like me, and I was adapting without much fuss.

Tough times reveal true well-wishers. I’m incredibly grateful to the many good Samaritans – friends, colleagues, work associates – who went out of their way to find a cure, a solution, or simply make me feel at ease. Thank you all, from the bottom of my heart. One such soul referred me to Mayo Clinic in the US. After sending samples from India, their doctor sent his best regards. My test reports, over 100 pages, astounded me – how could so many tests even exist?


Until 2011, my condition was called “Idiopathic optic neuropathy with central scotoma,” which essentially meant, “We’re idiots and we don’t know.” Perhaps it was that virus after all? Not quite. One final test remained. After moving to Gurgaon, I took a gene test (only one hospital did it back then) for genetic, including mitochondrial, conditions. In April 2011, I was rebranded: LHON. Leber’s Hereditary Optic Neuropathypatient. Relief, at least, to have a name, though no cure. Our egos were inflated, my wife and I being the only ones sure it was LHON all along.
LHON is a mitochondrial mutation that cuts off blood circulation to the optic nerve, preventing signals from reaching the brain. I was fascinated how a mutation could affect the same areas within a four-month interval! I consider myself an atypical case of a rare condition; senior doctors confirmed I manifested none of the LHON traits. After 18 years, I’m still searching for someone in India with the same condition. Life’s Curveballs: Lessons Learned. Before diving into my experiences as a visually impaired person, I want to emphasize a few points that I believe are crucial when life throws the unexpected: grab it by the scruff of the collar.

When I thought work was impossible, I met Hari, a fully blind IBM employee who was a top performer and MBA topper. That set me thinking: I should be thankful for my peripheral vision, which helps me navigate sidewalks and avoid tables. (Though transparent glass doors are another story – I’ve walked into enough of them! Once, a hotel doorman held a door open, and I still walked straight into the glass. And navigating stairs, especially with unusual markings like in a Johannesburg mall, is a nightmare.) I also saw videos of a blind Google engineer excelling at coding.

Here are my takeaways:

• No Self-Pity: The worst reaction is feeling wronged by the world or God. Life serves good and bad to everyone. Accept it, move on. Life is finite; the longer we wallow, the less we live.

• Seek Empathy, Not Sympathy: Once you ditch self-pity, you won’t seek sympathy. You become stronger, and the world views you more positively. (I hate negative spirals!) However, a bit of empathy and understanding of our context is always welcome.

• Limitations mean workarounds: The first step is accepting the situation, then finding adjustments. I loved driving, photography, and reading. I had to accept these were off-limits, at least for now. (More on getting back to books, and hopefully driving and photography, in a future post!)

• Hold onto Hope: I wake up daily hoping for a miracle or a scientific cure (the former seems more likely!). We live on hope; positivity is good. But until then, remember life’s Dharma.

The New Normal: Personal Adjustments

Starting January 2008, my vision gone, I began adjusting and acclimatizing to tech tools for productivity and phone management. I cannot thank my wife enough for her unwavering support and for going the extra mile. My eyes look normal, and I don’t typically announce my impairment. Saying “visually impaired man,” I’ve realized, can lead people to think I’m arrogant or a weirdo when I don’t respond to their greetings or look “through” them. So, to appear like a “nice person,” I used to look down or to the side when people walked by my office cabin. My wife even chastised me for looking straight at people, fearing women thought I was ogling them – if only I could actually see them!

Mental markers are crucial in familiar settings, but beyond a point, they’re impossible. Following people to a location – like the restroom – became a vital trait. (Yes, I’ve accidentally walked into the ladies’ room three times, thankfully escaping before much damage was done!)
In unfamiliar settings, asking for help is non-negotiable. I travel frequently, including internationally. Putting myself at the disposal of airline staff is the best approach. A bonus perk: boarding and immigration are a breeze! For years, I was shy, struggling alone, then having to stop strangers for help – it was mentally draining.

Voice recognition is an innate skill for people like me, not just for machines. When I can’t make out who’s in front of me beyond a couple of feet, the only way is to wait for them to speak and match their voice to my internal “database.” I love sports – Formula 1, Test Match Cricket, Rugby. To follow them, I sit about 10 cm from the TV/screen. It’s become so normal I don’t find it odd. I was off movies, but recently, I’ve started watching a few good ones the same way.

At work presentations, unable to see projections, I have no choice but to ask what’s being said. I also cram information or write large notes. People say I have an elephantine memory, but it’s pure necessity. I recently listened to a book (Livewire, I think) where the author explains how the brain adapts, dedicating more space to faculties used more often. I couldn’t agree more.

Frustrations and the Road Ahead

Despite all the positivity and constructive adjustment, frustrations abound. You must shrug them off and move on. There will be times when people – even family – ask or mention something as if it’s clearly visible. In those moments, the amygdala takes over, and arguments are inevitable. No matter how hard you try, these situations will arise. While technology has made a huge difference, the world is becoming increasingly visual, and accessibility testing by companies is often poor. I plan a separate post on this soon.

To conclude, no single challenge should derail a life. I consider myself successful, enjoying travel, books, limericks, and news. BTW, my new passion is to be certified in scuba diving for which I have enrolled into swimming classes, for starters!Professionally, if you’re good, impairments don’t matter – unless they genuinely hinder output. With hundreds reporting to me in my current role, I’m as normal as anyone else.

So, live life to its fullest. We are here for an infinitesimally tiny speck of time.

The Daughter’s 18th Year Poem

I have been writing limericks for a while now. However, for my daughter’s 18th year I did get a bit emotional and ended up writing a long poem. many of the verses are contextual and refer to specific instances over the past few years. The daughter and other family members did seem to like – er, love – what I composed.

Was it not just the other day

I was hoping it were a girl 

N god gave us the little pearl 

Thinking, a smile’s come my way 

Ten hours we waited in anticipation 

For that shrill cry to rend the air 

Did you hear me say “this is not fair”

As I ponder about your next destination

You, our little darling fresh as a rose

Staring at all of us with purposeful eyes

The wife and I nodded, what a prize

As I look around the time is getting close 

And when it was time to crawl

All you did was roll and roll 

Wonder was being a rebel the goal?

I look at you now, standing so tall!

To make you eat was quite a feat 

There was none without a frown  

How could we get you to gulp down

I know now you’ll love the treat 

Growing up with Barbie you were as delicate

Did I see signs – or hope – of a tomboy  

Be it that, you were always coy 

When I look up the one I see is a sophisticate 

The question arose what would you want to be

A designer, photographer? Was it fine 

Said we follow your heart and you’ll shine 

It’s the age, the urge to go out and be free 

My dear daughter you’ve reached that age

When  the world calls you an adult 

Surely, it is a time to exult 

Proud we are as you get to the big stage 

Eighteen years, they just rolled by 

It does seem the time is but flat

For it was yesterday we gave you a gentle pat 

As you laze the countdown’s begun  for you to fly 

My dearie, I know it is now your time under the sun  

Knowing one day you’ll be able to cross the road

And, Of course, you will be able to handle the load 

Sweet girl, go out, cross the sea, have loads of fun