Skip to content 
There is a peculiar ritual that plays out in every Indian drawing room, every tea stall, every WhatsApp group, every college debate, and every dinner table argument. Someone will say something has gone wrong — a pothole that has been there since the UPA government, a hospital that turned away a poor man, a job that went to someone’s nephew, a temple that was built where a school should have been — and within minutes, the conversation will converge on its familiar diagnosis:
Corruption.
Sometimes it is politicians. Sometimes it is bureaucrats. Sometimes it is the system. Sometimes it is those people, and depending on who is speaking, those people could be any caste, any religion, any class, any party. The vocabulary may shift. The villains may rotate. But the diagnosis nearly always stays the same. It is they, not us.
We are very, very good at diagnosing symptoms.
We are spectacularly bad at finding the root.
The Litany of Symptoms We Have Mistaken for Diseases
Let us be honest with each other for a moment (note: this kind of honesty that rarely survives social settings but let’s try, shall we?)
India’s problems, as most of us catalogue them, go like this:
Corruption. Politicians who sell their vote. Contractors who water down concrete. Safety inspectors who look the other way for a price. Traffic police who pocket fines. The government servant who will not move a file unless something moves into his pocket first.
Casteism. The invisible (and often very visible) architecture of birth that determines access to education, marriage, dignity, safety, justice, et al. it is not a relic, not a figment from history. It is in the present, in the today, and is volatile and active.
Religious Bigotry. The ease with which a crowd can be assembled in the name of God to do things that God of any faith would be appalled by. The weaponisation of personal and social identity, or the festival that turns into an active act of provocation. The temple, the mosque, the church, all enlisted in a war none of them declared: all to serve the interest of a few who will benefit, maybe with more media exposure, maybe an election ticket.
Governance Failure. Our roads are arteries that connect potholes. Highways exist only on paper. The scheme that existed only in an election speech. The ministry that moves at the speed of a snail. The law that is brilliantly written is catastrophically implemented in a free nation. Rulemakers forget that before the name of the country is even mentioned in the Constitution, the first words it declares are “We, the people…” It does not say: “We, the government…”, nor “We, the judiciary…”, nor “We, the media…”
An Immoral Media. The studio that treats outrage as a product, manufactures it nightly, sells it as news, and calls the transaction journalism. Intelligent people who seem busier putting themselves on a pedestal and perhaps preening in front of the mirror every day.
A Blind Justice System. Where the wealthy buy delay and the poor suffer injustice; where a man can spend fifteen years in an undertrial cell for a crime he did not commit; where bail is routine for the powerful and a life sentence for the powerless. The laws are written for a colonised country and implemented in a free nation. ‘Ignorance of the law cannot be an excuse’, the law says but you will find it difficult to unearth a lawyer or a judge who knows each law, rule, principle, or case law.
A Bribe-Taking Bureaucracy. Where service delivery is transactional at every level. Where the right to a ration card, a birth certificate, a land record, a pension, must be paid for twice — once in tax and once in bribe. An IAS or State Civil Services officer who sits at the head, yet for nearly 80 years, they have not been able to weed out corruption from their offices. Do these civil servants choose the IAS or the state civil services because they wanted to escape the helplessness they see around them, or to serve the country? Have they been warned against the moral corruption beget by power? Why do those who stand up to politicians find themselves transferred to remote postings? Why don’t bureaucrats have a sense of integrity and pride in their work? Has kowtowing to political leaders bent their spine?
Language Divide. A country of twenty-two scheduled languages and hundreds of dialects, where the mother tongue can determine the ceiling of your ambition, where English fluency is not a skill but a class marker, where a child in a Hindi-medium school and a child in a convent school inhabit different Indias entirely. And yet, woe betide anyone who says there are two or more Indias. A country where people are more interested in whose language is better, forgetting that language is meant for communication, to build bridges not barriers.
Economic Disparity. Where eight people own as much as the bottom six hundred million. Where the gig economy worker and the hedge fund manager both live in Mumbai but might as well live on different planets. A country where the country’s per capita GDP is a slap on the face of most Indians. A country where per capita GDP was as abysmally low even when its national GDP was the highest in the world during the Middle Ages (which attracted Europeans for ‘only’ trade).
Brain Drain. The best minds, nurtured at great national expense, board a plane at twenty-five and build someone else’s future. They don’t do this because they are unpatriotic. But because the conditions here would crush them. They have seen their parents being crushed. They chose different.
This is a formidable list, and every item on it is real. Every item deserves its own book, its own policy paper, its own protest movement.
But here is the question that first-principles thinking demands we ask before we do anything else:
Are these the causes? Or are these the effects?
Because a doctor who treats fever with ice packs and never asks what is causing the fever is not a doctor. He is a manager of discomfort.
Going to the Root: The First Principles Approach
First-principles thinking, i.e. the discipline of stripping away assumptions and inherited explanations until you reach the bedrock truth from which everything else is built, is brutally uncomfortable when applied to your own society. And to yourself.
Because what it tells you is this:
Every institution is made of people. Every system is made of people. Every corrupt bargain requires two people. Every act of bigotry is performed by a person. Every road not built was a decision made by a person. Every bribe has a giver and a taker, both of them people.
So the question is not: what is wrong with the system?
The question is: what is wrong with the people who make the system?
And before you recoil at the implied misanthropy of that sentence, let me be precise: i am not asking what is wrong with them as human beings. I am asking what is wrong with what they were given. What they were taught. What they were made into — by their families, their schools, their streets, their temples and mosques, their television sets, their peer groups.
Because here is what developmental psychology, neuroscience, sociology, and a thousand years of human observation all agree on:
You are, in the most fundamental sense, the product of your genes and your childhood environment.
Not entirely. Not permanently. Change is possible — it is one of the most beautiful things about human beings. But you begin as the product of what you were given. And what most Indians were given, across class, across caste, across religion, is a childhood environment that failed them in specific, measurable, and catastrophic ways.
The institution most responsible for that failure has a name.
We call it school.
The Great Indian Misunderstanding of Education
Ask any middle-class Indian parent what they want from their child’s school. The answers are predictable and, in their own way, heartbreaking:
Good marks. Good rank. Good college. Good job. Good salary. Good match.
This is not a life philosophy; it is a production line specification.
The Indian education system — from the colonial-era rote-learning architecture that we inherited and never truly dismantled, to the modern coaching-factory model that has colonised childhood from age four — has one design goal: to produce a credentialled worker. Someone who can sit in a seat, absorb information, reproduce it on demand, and be useful to an economy.
This is not education. This is training. And even as training, it is increasingly mediocre.
But the deeper catastrophe is what it does not teach.
The Things School Never Taught You
Let us make a list: a very specific and highly uncomfortable list.
School did not teach you how to think. It taught you what to think specifically, what to think so you can answer the exam question. It did not teach you to question premises, to reason from evidence, to hold two contradictory ideas simultaneously and work out which one is closer to the truth. Critical thinking was not a subject. It was, if anything, actively discouraged by a system that rewarded correct reproduction and penalised deviation.
School did not teach you how to fail. In a country that treats academic marks as a proxy for human worth, failure carries an existential charge that it simply should not bear. Children who fail exams are treated as children who have become failures (i am not even going into the tragedy of student suicides here). The result: a generation of adults who are terrified of being wrong, who cannot admit mistakes, who confuse the ego with the truth, who will rather double down on a bad decision than admit they made one. A corrupt bureaucrat who cannot admit he has been taking bribes for twenty years is not just greedy. He is also someone who never learned to fail with grace.
School did not teach you self-awareness. Nobody sat you down and said: here is how your mind works. Here is how your emotions influence your decisions. Here is how your biases (and all of us have them) distort your perception of reality. Here is how to watch yourself think. Here is the difference between a feeling and a fact. Here is what solitude is for. The examined life that Socrates considered the only one worth living was not part of the curriculum.
School did not teach you civic responsibility. Not as an abstraction, not as Constitution chapter three, not as answer to question no. 7 in the exam. But as lived practice: this road is yours; this park is yours; this river is yours; the person sleeping on that footpath is yours — your fellow citizen, your moral concern. The garbage you just dropped: pick it up. The queue you just cut: you just told the person behind you that your time is worth more than theirs. What gives you that right?
School did not teach you self-discipline. Real self-discipline; not the coerced compliance of the uniformed child who will be punished for speaking out of turn, but the internally generated, autonomous discipline of the adult who makes hard choices because they align with their values. The ability to delay gratification. To resist the comfortable lie. To do the difficult thing because it is right and not because someone is watching.
School did not teach you courage. The courage to stand in a crowded street and tell a mob that what they are doing is wrong. The courage to refuse a bribe even when refusing costs you. The courage to report your colleague, your neighbour, your relative, your priest when they do something genuinely wrong. Moral courage, which is the rarest and most important type of courage, was never mentioned in school curricula.
School did not teach you empathy. Not the saccharine version, not the Mahatma Gandhi, Swami Vivekanand, or Mother Teresa poster on the classroom wall, but the hard, practical, daily empathy that asks: what is it like to be the person across from me? What is this SC/ST/OBC/Dalit student experiencing in my classroom? What is it like to be a woman in this street at night? What is it like to be born in the wrong village, to the wrong family, speaking the wrong language? Empathy is not sentiment. It is the cognitive and moral capacity to expand your circle of concern. Without it, every identity-based atrocity in human history becomes possible.
School did not teach you about money. Not economics as a subject. Not GDP formulae and balance of payments. But the personal, practical relationship between human beings and financial resources. Things such as how to save, how to spend, how debt works, how compounding works, how economic desperation makes people do things they would not otherwise do, and how financial literacy is the single most consistent predictor of freedom in adult life.
School did not teach you your own history honestly. It taught you a version of history that was curated for nation-building, scrubbed of complexity, drained of nuance, and stripped of the parts that might make you uncomfortable. A history that does not honestly reckon with caste violence, with the collaboration of elites with colonisers, with the atrocities committed in the name of religion, with how ordinary people participated in extraordinary injustice, is a history that will never produce citizens who understand how injustice works and how to resist it.
Everyone Loses When Religion Replaces Ethics
This deserves its own section, because it is perhaps the most sensitive and the most important.
Many Indian children do receive some form of moral instruction. In the morning assembly. In the religious education class. In the home. In the temple, the mosque, the gurudwara, the church.
But here is the problem: morality taught as religious compliance is not morality. It is obedience.
Do not lie — because God is watching, and God will punish you.
Do not steal — because the karma will come back to you.
Be kind to the poor — because you will get merit in the next life.
Respect your elders — because that is what our tradition says.
These are not moral arguments but transactional instructions dressed in spiritual clothing. And the moment the transactional calculus shifts, the moment someone believes that no one is watching, or that the karma can be offset by temple donations, or that their elders are wrong, then the entire moral architecture collapses. Because it was never built on genuine moral reasoning, but rather on compliance and reward.
Moral reasoning, the type that produces citizens who behave well in the dark, who hold the line when holding it costs them, who treat strangers with the same consideration they treat their family, is built differently. It is built through a process that asks: why is this wrong? And accepts no answer that begins with because God said so or because our tradition says so.
Why is corruption wrong? Not because Lakshmi won’t visit your house. Because it diverts resources from people who need them to people who are already powerful. Because it is a tax on the vulnerable. Because it is a lie, performed transactionally, that corrodes the trust that makes societies function. Because every rupee in a government official’s private account is a vaccine that was not administered, a textbook that was not printed, a child going hungry, a road that was not built.
These are the moral arguments, what children should be taught.
Instead, we taught them to be afraid of the divine. And when the fear fades (and it fades in most adults somewhere in their twenties) nothing replaces it. No principle, reasoning, or deeply held conviction that the right thing should be done regardless of who is or isn’t watching.
The result is a society full of adults who are religious and immoral simultaneously. Those who perform the ritual and then go back to cheating, who fast on Ekadashi and bribe on Monday, who listen to the Gita or Koran and turn away the poor at the door.
You Are Not Born Corrupt. You Are Made That Way
This is the most important insight in this entire essay, and you should sit with it for a moment.
The child who grew up watching his father offer five hundred rupees to the traffic constable so that the family did not have to be inconvenienced learned something that morning. He learned that rules are for people who cannot afford to break them. He learned that the system is a negotiation, not a structure. He learned that the right move — the intelligent move — is to work around the rule, not within it.
He was not taught this. It was not in a textbook. It was transmitted through observation, through imitation, through the accumulated weight of lived example. And that lesson, absorbed at seven or eight years old, will shape how he operates at forty.
The girl who was told, in school and at home, that her purpose is to be a good daughter and then a good wife and then a good mother learned something about her own worth. She learned that her inner life — her ambitions, her questions, her dissatisfactions — is secondary to her relational functions. She learned, in the deepest possible way, that she is instrumental rather than intrinsic.
She was not taught this in a direct lesson. She was immersed in it, through curricula that kept women in supporting roles. Through teachers who called on the boys first. Through textbooks where scientists and leaders and explorers were all, somehow, men. Girls go from being daughters, to wives, mothers and grandmothers. What is lost in the process is a tragedy beyond words. We have silenced the more resilient, the calmer, the more practical half of the human species. What hope do we have?
The boy from the dominant caste who was never made to truly confront what that dominance has meant, historically and practically, for the people his community has oppressed, grew up with an understanding of fairness that has a convenient blind spot at its centre. He is not a monster. He was never equipped with the tools to see what he might otherwise have seen.
You cannot be better than what you were given unless someone, somewhere, gives you something better.
That is what education is for.
What Education Actually Means Stripped to First Principles
The word education comes from the Latin educare — to draw out, to lead forth. Not to pour in. Not to fill up. Not to credential. To draw out what is already within.
Real education, in its oldest, most rigorous sense, is the project of making a full human being. Not a unit of economic production. Not a religious devotee. Not a bearer of cultural tradition. A full human being, capable of:
- Thinking clearly: following an argument, spotting a fallacy, distinguishing between evidence and assertion, maintaining a position under pressure, and abandoning it under evidence.
- Feeling correctly: naming your emotions, understanding what drives them, not being ruled by them but not being severed from them either, extending your emotional imagination to include people unlike yourself.
- Acting with integrity: in alignment with genuinely held values, consistently, even when consistency is costly, even when no one is watching.
- Contributing deliberately: understanding that you live in a web of relationships and institutions that depend on the quality of each person’s participation, and taking that responsibility seriously.
- Growing continuously: treating yourself not as a finished product but as an ongoing project, capable of revision, improvement, and repair.
This is not idealism but a design specification for the kind of adult that makes a society work.
And almost none of it is taught in Indian schools.
The Underlying Problem
The larger unseen problem with education is something called the Education Cycle. You may even say, it lies at the core of the problem. This problem is not only Indian, it global, and yet no one talks about it since it remains lost amidst nostalgia and the self-righteousness of those in power.
What the education cycle means is that the curriculum that is being taught to kids at present was created by adults who were educated under different circumstances. The world was different, rules were different, social norms were different. These people who wrote the books for today’s kids read books written by people 2-3 generations older than them.
Ask any 50+ years old senior official today – in politics, bureaucracy, judiciary, media, in international corporations, in educational systems – about what they were taught, and you will get a completely different worldview and education from the present. And since our childhood and young adult years form the bulk of what we believe we have learnt and take as gospel, these senior officials find it hard to detach themselves from their formative years when they are faced with current situations. The social environment also plays a role in deciding their thought foundations. This is why the books they write and the curricula they devise feel so out of place in the modern world. The world for which they are writing and creating education systems no longer exists.
The writers and education system officials are coloured by what they were taught as the truth. No wonder parts of history are expunged, rote learning is still in place, schools and education boards worship exams, and the exasperating college entrance tests still exist.
Technology right now is advanced enough that IITs can partner with local colleges and smaller universities to break down admittance barriers. They can train the lecturers and professors on the IIT pedagogy and let the students of these other institutions learn from the IITs through distance classroom learning. However, this is not happening or even in the works. Why do you think that is?
I have covered this more in my book, The Religion of Life. (This is a shameless plug if you want to read the book. It’s available on Amazon as an ebook and on Kindle Unlimited, among others.)
The Compounding Catastrophe
Here is why this matters so urgently, and why the education failure is not just one of many Indian problems but is foundational to all of them:
The effects of an education system compound — exactly like interest, but in reverse.
- A child who is not taught to think critically becomes an adult who cannot evaluate a political speech and who therefore votes based on identity, not past records or results achieved or not.
- An adult who votes on identity elects a politician who governs on identity.
- A politician who governs on identity has no incentive to build institutions because institutions require citizens who hold them accountable, and citizens who vote on identity don’t.
- Institutions that are not held accountable become corrupt.
- A corrupt institution requires bribes to function.
- A citizen who learned in childhood that rules are negotiable pays the bribe.
And the circle is complete.
Now try the same chain with civic responsibility:
- A child who was never taught that public spaces are a shared responsibility becomes an adult who drops garbage on the street.
- An adult who drops garbage on the street does not vote for an MLA or mayor who builds better waste management because the adult does not believe that public infrastructure is connected to his personal behaviour.
- An MLA or mayor who does not face accountability for public services does not build them.
- A city without functional waste management produces disease.
- Disease falls hardest on the poor, who cannot afford to live away from it.
- The poor, badly educated themselves, do not organise to demand better because organisation requires literacy, civic understanding, and the belief that your voice matters.
And the circle is complete again.
Now, run it with gender:
- A girl who is taught that her value is relational, as daughter, wife, mother, internalises a diminished sense of her own authority.
- A woman who does not believe in her own authority does not stand up when she should. Does not report. Does not resist. Does not run for office. Does not lead.
- A society where women do not lead at full capacity operates at half its potential.
- Half-capacity societies are poor societies — in every sense of the word.
And the circle is complete again.
Every chain. Every vicious cycle. Every seemingly intractable Indian problem. Follow it back far enough and you arrive at the same place: a person who was not equipped, by the education they received, to be the citizen that a functioning society requires.
Now Let’s Come to the Really Hard Part
Everything i have written so far is systemic. It is about institutions, curriculum, culture, and policy. It gestures at governments and policymakers, and school administrators and reformers.
That is necessary. But it is incomplete.
Because here is what i know about how real change has always happened in human history: it has never started with institutions. It has always started with individuals who decided to be different.
The most important thing to take away is this:
If you are reading this, this means you are one of the educated ones. And that comes with a burden.
Not the burden of guilt. Guilt is useless. It is self-indulgent and paralytic.
The burden of responsibility. The responsibility to close the gap in yourself first, and then in your family, maybe in your circle, and then in whatever institution or community you touch.
Because whatever the Indian education system failed to give you, you can give yourself and the next generation. The material exists. The opportunity exists. And unlike previous generations, you do not have the excuse of inaccessibility. The entire accumulated wisdom of humanity — every philosophy, every psychology, every moral framework, every mistake of history — is available to you at a cost that is essentially zero.
The question is not whether you can access it.
The question is whether you choose to.
The Mirror Test
I want to ask you something, and i want you to answer it honestly to yourself, in the stillness that honest self-examination requires.
When you are alone — genuinely alone, not performing solitude on a wellness retreat, but actually alone in the 3 a.m. version of yourself that has no audience — what do you see?
- Do you see someone who thinks carefully before forming an opinion, or someone who has inherited opinions and defends them as though they were their own?
- Do you see someone who treats the people around them — the domestic worker, the delivery driver, the security guard, the autorickshaw driver — with the same fundamental respect they show their boss, their in-laws, their peer group?
- Do you see someone who has examined their own biases around caste, around gender, around religion, around class and done something about them? Or someone who performs progressiveness in public and maintains prejudice in private?
- Do you see someone who takes care of their body, their mind, their relationships, their surroundings with the quiet, undramatic discipline of someone who understands that self-respect is enacted in small daily choices?
- Do you see someone who speaks less and does more? Who has opinions but also has actions? Who does not outsource the moral responsibility for their society to politicians and influencers while doing nothing themselves?
These are not comfortable questions. I know this because they are questions i asked myself. And honestly, the answers were not flattering.
But this is what self-awareness is. This is what the education system should have given you: the habit of honest self-examination. The willingness to look clearly at what you find, without flinching, without flattering yourself, without immediately reaching for the comforting narrative of external blame.
The corrupt politician you despise was someone’s student. Was someone’s child. Was someone, once, with the same open and unformed potential you once had. What was done with that potential (and more importantly, what was not done) made him what he became.
You are still making what you will become.
The Arithmetic of a Life
Here is the number i want you to carry with you:
36,525.
That is the number of days in a hundred-year life. And most of us will not get a hundred years.
Against the backdrop of the universe — 13.8 billion years old, home to two trillion galaxies, operating on timescales that make the entirety of human civilisation look like a rounding error — you are allotted a cosmic instant. The difference between your life and no life at all is, by cosmic measure, approximately nothing.
And yet here you are. Sentient. Self-aware. Capable of love, reasoning, creativity, and moral courage. The only life form we know of that can look at the universe and ask: what does it mean? What should I do with this?
That is not nothing. That is perhaps the most remarkable thing we know of.
So what do you do with the 36,525 days?
You can spend them producing and consuming and scrolling and complaining and blaming. Many people do. The system invites it. The media is built for it. The algorithms profit from it. It is, in the most literal sense, the path of least resistance.
Or.
Or you can spend them becoming. Continuously, stubbornly, unglamorously becoming.
A better thinker. A more honest person. A more empathetic neighbour. A more disciplined worker. A more courageous citizen. A more present parent. A more self-aware human being.
Not for the legacy — though honestly, legacy is not nothing. Not to be seen — though being seen is not nothing either. But because the internal experience of becoming is the fullest form of being alive that human beings have access to. Because the alternative — standing still, blaming the system, waiting for a politician or a policy or a messiah to fix what is fundamentally a question about how you choose to live — is to squander the rarest resource in the known universe.
Your consciousness. Your time. Your singular, non-replicable life.
The Individual is the Unit of Change
This is the conclusion that first-principles thinking demands, and it is both empowering and unnerving:
India’s problems will not be solved by a new government, let alone the existing one.
Not because governments don’t matter for they do, enormously. But because governments are made of people. Bureaucracies are made of people. Courts are made of people. Corporations are made of people. Hospitals and schools and media houses and NGOs and neighbourhood associations and families are all, at their most granular, made of individual human beings who make individual choices, thousands of times a day, that accumulate into what we call the system.
You cannot fix the system while leaving the people unchanged. And you cannot change the people while leaving education unchanged.
But you can start with yourself. You can take the education you were denied and give it to yourself through reading, through reflection, through the practice of deliberately examining and revising your assumptions. You can take the civic sense you were not taught and enact it anyway — in how you drive, in how you line up, in how you treat the person who serves you. You can take the moral courage you were not trained in and exercise it, maybe in small ways first, then larger ones, building the muscle that atrophies in the absence of use.
And then — and this is the part that compounds in the right direction — you can refuse to replicate the failure with the people around you. In how you raise your children. In what you model for them rather than what you preach at them. In the conversations you have with your students, your employees, and your younger siblings. In why you vote for a good person. In whether you choose to speak up when speaking up costs something.
This is not some inspirational poster optimism. This is the hard, slow, structural work of civilisation-building which has always happened one person, one decision, one day at a time.
What We Owe Ourselves and Each Other
The education system failed most of us. Some more than others like the children in a government school with no teachers, or those in a madrassa with no science subjects, or the ones in a convent school with no discussions about social history. In one way or another, it has failed almost everyone.
That failure is not your fault. You were a child. You took what you were given.
But you are no longer a child.
And the continuation of that failure — the decision to remain exactly who that system made you, to reproduce its blind spots and its silences and its comfortable evasions — that is a choice. And it is yours.
So choose.
Choose to be curious rather than certain.
Choose to be uncomfortable rather than stagnant.
Choose to extend your care beyond your immediate circle: to your street, your city, your country, the human beings whose lives your choices affect, even when you never meet them.
Choose self-discipline, not the punishing, joyless version, but the version that is an expression of self-respect: I will take care of my mind. I will take care of my body. I will take care of my relationships. I will take care of my environment. Not because someone is watching. Because I am someone worth taking care of.
Choose honesty, directed first at yourself. The admission that you do not know. That you were wrong. That your opinion is an inheritance, not an achievement. That the story you tell about yourself is, in parts, flattering fiction.
Choose moral courage. The kind that stands in the street, or in the office, or at the dinner table, and says: this is wrong, and I will not pretend otherwise, regardless of the social cost.
Choose, in the deepest sense, to be educated.
Not credentialled. Not trained. Not merely informed.
Educated. In the old sense. Drawn out. Made fuller. Made more capable of seeing clearly and feeling accurately and acting with integrity.
Do all of this because India does not need a better political class: they are just us in power or in the opposition. India needs better citizens. And the only way to get better citizens is through better education. And the only place better education starts right now, today, for you is with the decision to educate yourself.
The classroom let you down. The system let you down. The politicians let you down. The media let you down.
That was yesterday.
Today is yours.
What do you choose to do with it?
In a trillion years of universal time, your 36,525 days are a whisper. Make them say something worth hearing.
Share this if it made you think. More importantly, let it make you act.
About the Author
Chirantan P.B is the author of The Religion of Life. He writes about first principles thinking, psychology, philosophy, and the interconnectedness of them all.
