Every Life is a Collection of Stories

Yesterday, I conducted a storytelling session titled “Stories that Stays”. I asked my colleagues to share a story that had stayed with them over the years.

The responses were fascinating. Some recalled stories from school textbooks, others mentioned films or web series that had left a lasting impression. One colleague, however, shared a lived experience from a village she had visited years ago and stayed with her.

The purpose of the exercise was to introduce what I call the “simple story arc”. Every story has three parts: a beginning, a moment of change, and an ending where someone or something is transformed. We don't remember stories because of what happened. We remember them for the change they brought about. It’s this very change that makes their story memorable.

During the session, I casually mentioned that all our lives are simply a collection of small stories. I also quoted one of my favourite dialogues from the film Anand: "Babumoshai, zindagi badi honi chahiye, lambi nahi." The beauty of that dialogue isn't just in the words. It's in what happens after you truly understand them. Once its meaning sinks in, you are no longer the same person you were before hearing it.

After the session ended, I found myself reflecting on the stories that have quietly shaped my own life and one memory surfaced almost immediately.

In 2018, I was documenting the Kerala floods. We travelled through the flooded backwaters in a small boat, passing broken homes, submerged roads and families trying to salvage whatever little remained of their lives. Many were desperately searching through mud and debris for documents like Aadhaar cards and identity proofs because without them, rebuilding life and accessing government support would become even more difficult. They had lost almost everything. In many ways, they had even lost their identity.

My most lasting memory of that journey wasn’t the destruction but the generosity, love and care. It reminded me of humanity. Despite their unimaginable loss, family after family invited us into whatever remained of their homes. One elderly woman looked at our boat under the scorching afternoon sun and said, "Please come inside. I have boiled some rice. We can eat it with salt. You need a break and sweet water to drink." Her house had been destroyed. She had almost nothing left. Yet she still had enough compassion to offer some stranger a meal. And I had enough of packaged water bottles for myself. 

This journey changed something within me. It redefined what resilience looked like. It taught me that generosity is not measured by abundance but by the willingness to share, even when you have very little. The days I spent in the field and relief camp left an imprint that has never failed. The change was invisible to the world, but it became part of who I am, shaping how I see people, stories and meaning of service.

                                                  

                                       

Celebrating Onam at the relief camp.

Two years later came another chapter that changed all of us. The Covid-19 pandemic. I often say this, "Pre-covid and post-covid time is not same for any of us."

It was during those months of isolation that I began noticing stories more carefully. While the world was counting cases and reading headlines, I found myself drawn to the quieter stories of strength, survival, loss and hope.

I think the first story I wrote was about my domestic help, Sapna. She wasn't coming to work during the lockdown, but we stayed in touch over phone calls. Every conversation left me amazed. She spoke about uncertainty, financial struggles and everyday challenges, yet there was never a trace of self-pity in her voice. Instead, there was optimism. There was humour. There was an unwavering belief that tomorrow would somehow be better. The circumstances were difficult, but her spirit refused to be defeated.

This touched me back then and stayed with me because it reminded me that resilience often lives in ordinary people whose names never make the news. I’ve moved to a different place now, she don’t work with us anymore but we still catch up occasionally over calls. I remember how strong and beautiful she is, so true to her name.

Then came another life-changing experience that I never saw coming, what we in the storytelling for development world would call a truly transformative part. I started learning Hindustani classical music. What began as a curiosity slowly became a discipline, and eventually a way of living. Today, under the guidance of my Guruji, I continue that journey as a student, discovering that music is as much about becoming a better human being as it is about learning notes and ragas.

People often assume that learning music is about finding your voice. In reality, it first teaches you to listen. To listen to the tanpura. To listen to silence. To listen to your own breath. To listen without rushing to respond.

Riyaaz has taught me patience in a world that celebrates speed. It has taught me that progress is often invisible, that some days the voice refuses to cooperate, and that showing up every single day matters more than perfection.

But the greatest lesson has come from my Guruji. Beyond music, he has taught us humility, discipline and surrender to the art. In every class, I have realised that learning is not about accumulating knowledge. It is about letting go of the ego that makes us believe we already know enough. Somewhere along this journey, music stopped being something I practised. It became a lens through which I began experiencing life itself. I’ve changed.

If I were to identify the biggest story of my life that continues to unfold every single day, it would be the story of being a parent. My daughter has quietly changed me in ways I never anticipated. She has taught me to slow down, to notice the wonder in ordinary moments, and to see the world through curious eyes again. Every stage of her childhood has become a new chapter in my own story.

Perhaps that's why I believe people are the most important element of any story. Places set the stage, events create the conflict, but it is people who give stories their meaning and make transformation possible.

Looking back now, I realise that the stories that have transformed me were never the loudest ones. They weren't always dramatic or extraordinary. Most were quiet moments. A sentence spoken by an old woman. A phone call with Sapna. A dialogue from a film. A music lesson. A pandemic and many more…

Each one shifted something inside me. This is what life really is.

Not one grand story, but hundreds of small ones. Stories that teach us, humble us, challenge us and slowly shape who we become.

And maybe that's why storytelling matters so much. Because every story we tell has the potential to change someone.

Just as someone else's story once changed us. 

Beyond Notes and Messages: My reflections on listening, connection, and change

At first glance, my profession as development communicator and my passion for music seem worlds apart. One focuses on social change and public engagement; the other on art, tradition, and expression. Yet, I’ve come to realise they share more than we might think.

The biggest lesson music has taught me is the importance of listening. Before musicians learn to perform, they learn to listen deeply, to their guru, fellow disciples, and even to silence. In development communication, we create messages for the people we hope to reach, but that requires a deep understanding of their realities, aspirations, and concerns. Good communication, like good music, begins with listening.

Musicians spend years revisiting the same raag, phrase, and composition, discovering something new each time. Social change works similarly. People rarely change because they hear a message once. Change comes through consistent engagement, trust, and reinforcement.

At the same time, development communication offers valuable lessons for musicians. It reminds us to think about audiences, accessibility, and storytelling. This does not mean changing the music to suit every audience. Rather, it means recognising that listeners arrive with different levels of familiarity and understanding. A brief introduction, a story, or a thoughtful explanation can deepen a listener's experience without compromising artistic integrity. In many ways, the relationship goes both ways.

What fascinates me most is that both fields are ultimately about transformation. A piece of music can leave someone seeing the world differently. A communication effort can shift understanding, behaviour, and even social norms. Neither succeeds simply because information is delivered.

Both succeed when people are moved.

Perhaps that is where these two worlds meet. One teaches us how to touch hearts, and the other teaches us how to reach them.

Stories that Move People: Rethinking Communication for Social Change

A few months ago, I participated in the Social Norms Dialogue where highlights of a study “Deep Dive: A Country-Specific Exploration of Evidence on Programming for Adolescent Girls and Young Women in India” were shared. The name tag from that event still sit on my desk and today, as a communicator, one question came to my mind again: what truly makes people change their minds? 

I’ve often seen that it isn’t facts, statistics, or campaigns alone that shift social norms. It’s personal stories, the ones that make people see themselves differently.

Over the years, I’ve come to believe that communication for development is not just about informing people; it’s about moving them. That’s why I find the approach of entertainment-education so powerful. It uses narrative and emotion to spark reflection, challenge stereotypes, and open up conversations that data alone cannot. When we combine empathy with storytelling, we reach places where instruction rarely does — the heart.

From Broadcast to Belonging

Our communication world has changed drastically. The days when one television show or radio message could reach everyone at once are gone. Today, people receive stories through hundreds of fragmented streams such as short videos, reels, chat groups, community influencers, and local WhatsApp networks. Audiences are no longer passive recipients of content; they are active participants, interpreters, and even creators of meaning.

This shift has deep implications for how organisations like communicate. We can no longer think only in terms of campaigns that speak to people; we need narratives that speak with them ones that travel across multiple platforms, resonate within community circles, and invite audiences to add their own voice.

I’ve seen how this happens in small but powerful ways, such as a village-level dialogue turning into a local song, or a WhatsApp discussion sparking a neighbourhood cleanliness drive. These moments remind me that the most effective communication is not top-down; it is networked, participatory, and emotionally real.

Harnessing the power of Shared Voices

Influence today often comes from trust, not authority. A local youth leader, an ASHA worker, or a community champion can be far more persuasive than a formal campaign message. The new landscape of social communication allows us to build ecosystems of storytellers, people who can take a message and make it their own.

I imagine a campaign where each audience finds its own entry point, a short film that inspires reflection, a relatable community voice on Instagram that normalises dialogue, or local champions who lead digital challenges rooted in collective action. Every piece becomes a thread in a larger tapestry of change.

By leveraging these micro-influences and community narratives, we can reframe what behaviour change communication means. It’s not about dissemination alone; it’s about creating ripples of dialogue that flow through networks of trust.

From Communication to Conversation

Traditional campaigns often measure success by numbers: how many people we reached, how many messages we delivered. But I’ve come to value a different measure: how many conversations we sparked.

In my experience, social change unfolds through a rhythm — we inspire, we empower, we activate, and we aggregate.

• We inspire by telling stories that challenge old beliefs.
• We empower by making people part of the story.
• We activate through small, doable actions.
• And we aggregate when these scattered voices come together to create momentum.

This cycle mirrors community-driven approach where dialogue becomes data, empathy becomes evidence, and participation becomes transformation.

Reimagining future of Development Communication

As we deepen our work across gender, health, climate, and livelihoods, our communication approach must evolve with the times. We must think not in terms of messages, but of narrative systems where the digital and the grassroots communication blend seamlessly.

That could mean experimenting with participatory media, co-created storytelling, listening to understand sentiment shifts, and scalable storytelling models that humanise policy and programme goals. Technology will help us scale, but it is storytelling that will keep us grounded in humanity.

At its core, the communication vision should always be about inclusion, ensuring that people are not just subjects of change, but authors of it. As I reflect on how far we’ve come and how rapidly the world of communication is evolving, one truth feels clearer than ever.

Real change begins when someone sees their own life in a story and decides to rewrite it.

Rest Should Not Need Justification

Let me start with a disclosure: I don’t have PCOD, endometriosis, or any medically “serious” condition linked to periods.

I just have regular, painful periods.

Do I hate it? Absolutely.
Do I want it? Not anymore.
Does it show up anyway? Every month.

And here’s the thing, there’s nothing heroic about working through that pain.

Every month, millions of women quietly show up to work while their bodies are asking for rest. At the very least, there should be an option: period leave, period WFH, something that allows rest. We are not “Super Women” We don’t need that label. We need basic accommodation.

I’m writing this sitting at my office desk at 8:30 a.m., on my period, in an empty office, doing exactly what I shouldn’t be doing. Working. Pushing through. Pretending I’m fine.

And that irony isn’t new.

Over the years, I’ve thought a lot about what organisations can realistically do. Not the ideal. Just the bare minimum. Because in a country where empathy still feels like a policy upgrade, even that is a stretch.

From where I stand here’s what “bare minimum” looks like:

1️⃣ Give the leave.
Even if many of us won’t fully take it. Because something will come up. Someone will call. We’ll probably log back in anyway even in period-stained pajamas.
But the option matters. It signals that the organisation acknowledges reality.

2️⃣ Be kind.
Not performative kindness. Not “take care :)” followed by a deadline reminder. Just… basic human trust.

3️⃣ The part we don’t talk about enough.
The weird, hidden phase of period productivity. There are days when my dopamine shoots up, and I’m suddenly on a roll. Hyper-focused. Over-delivering. Saying yes to things I absolutely don’t need to say yes to.

Why are we negotiating with our own bodies like this? Period rest should not need justification in the first place?

I’m still guilty of managing everything at my best and my worst. But at 43, probably on peri-menopause phase, one thing is clear: period leads to lot of uncomfort and the organisation must acknowledge that period issues are real.

Because if organisations are going to benefit from my time, my energy, and even my hormones, the least they can do is recognise that my body is part of the equation.

The Illusion of Knowing: Are We Thinking Less in the Age of AI?

Recently, I went to a friend’s place, and she was terrified to see a silverfish. She believed that it was too dangerous for humans. I, being a zoologist, knew that silverfish are harmless, but without trusting my academic knowledge, I asked Siri.

This made me reflect on the pattern we are living in these days. I avoid using ChatGPT for my child’s homework when she is around, but I do refer to it for a fourth grade school homework for my own ease. I also use it for quick grammar correction. This is still fine. What made me think more is how some of my friends are using ChatGPT for medical clarification and needs, especially for taboo topics like menopause.

During my recent visit to an ENT clinic, I saw a couple decoding their medical reports related to pregnancy so that they could ask the correct questions during their consultation with the gynaecologist.

The question that triggered me to write this is: are we really aware of how AI works?

AI tools, such as ChatGPT, are incredibly smart chatbots that can generate text responses to a vast array of questions. What sets them apart from older chatbots is that their responses aren’t pre-programmed. Instead, they use supervised machine learning to figure out the most sensible order of words based on what they have learned from past conversations and information available on the free internet (i.e., they are continuously learning).

What is important to note here is that AI can have biases. These are systematic discriminations built into AI systems that can reinforce existing biases and make discrimination, prejudice, and stereotyping worse. Bias in AI models usually comes from two things: how the models are designed and the data they are trained on. Sometimes the developers who create these models may have certain assumptions, which can cause the models to favour particular outcomes.

AI bias can also develop because of the data used to train the system. AI models work by analysing large amounts of training data through a process called machine learning. These models identify patterns and connections in the data to make predictions and decisions.

When AI algorithms detect patterns of historical bias or systemic disparities in the data they are trained on, their conclusions can also reflect those biases and disparities. And since machine learning tools process data at a massive scale, even small biases in the original training data can lead to widespread discriminatory outcomes.

Further, AI chatbots like ChatGPT are trained to have a positive bias towards the user. They may lean towards comfort and reassurance. They can sometimes provide more information than is needed, but because they are always available, we tend to look for ready-made, non-customised answers.

Another thing that bothers me is how AI-based algorithms constantly feed me one type of content that I may have seen three or four times, while not showing contradictory viewpoints. This came up in a casual conversation with my husband when he mentioned something viral, and my response was, “Your and my social media feeds are different based on our interests.”

But even within a particular interest area, I would like to see multiple opinions and contradictory viewpoints, not just content similar to what I have liked or interacted with in the past. Getting similar feeds actually reinforces the idea that this is the most accepted opinion because many others seem to believe the same. What we often fail to realise is that it is the algorithm that makes us believe that what we are thinking or interacting with is correct.

AI-based algorithms in social media act as “virtual matchmakers” that analyse billions of data points to curate personalised feeds designed to maximise user engagement and retention. Instead of showing posts in chronological order, these systems use machine learning to predict what content you are most likely to interact with next.

               The Human Responsibility: Al is a tool for access, but it must not replace curiosity or independent judgment.

Perhaps the real question is not whether AI is useful or not but whether we are using it critically. AI can be an extraordinary tool for access to information, but it should not replace judgement, curiosity, or the willingness to question what we see and read. In a world increasingly mediated by algorithms, the responsibility to think independently still rests with us.

Beyond Algorithms: What Humans in the Loop Made Me Think About AI and Humanity

Sometimes a film stays with you not because of its scale, but because of the quiet questions it leaves behind.

For many days I have been thinking about how AI has slowly taken over our lives. It is easy and accessible, and we increasingly depend on it for everything. From simple questions like “Is silverfish harmful?” to more complicated ones such as reading medical reports and suggesting prognosis.

I have often felt that AI carries a positive bias. It leans toward comfort. It tends to optimise reassurance. At times it offers more information than we actually need. Yet because it is always available, we turn to it for ready-made, non-customised answers.

I recently watched the film Humans in the Loop, which made me reflect on how easily we assume technology, especially AI, is objective, precise and free from human prejudice. We often treat algorithms as neutral decision-makers guided purely by logic and data. The film quietly unsettles this assumption.

It reminds us that AI systems do not emerge in isolation. They are built from datasets drawn from the real world, a world already shaped by social hierarchies, cultural assumptions and historical inequalities. The people who collect, classify and label this data bring their own perspectives, experiences and limitations to the process. As a result, the technology we build inevitably carries traces of our biases, priorities and blind spots.

In that sense, AI becomes less a purely technical system and more a mirror. It reflects societies that produce it, the things we choose to record, the categories we create and the ways we interpret the world around us.

But what stayed with me even more was the deeply human layer of the story. The tender and evolving relationship between a mother and her daughter navigating life, work and dignity in changing circumstances.

Another touching thread in the film is the quiet bond between humans and a porcupine. It is not dramatic or loud, yet deeply moving in its simplicity. The porcupine does not speak in words, yet it communicates in its own way through presence, instinct and gentle guidance. In one of the most memorable moments, it becomes almost a silent companion, guiding the way out of the forest, as if reminding us that the natural world often understands paths humans struggle to see.

That relationship feels tender and almost sacred. It challenges rigid lines we draw between humans and animals, intelligence and instinct, civilisation and wilderness. The film suggests that connection, trust and understanding can exist beyond language or categories.

In a world where we constantly classify and label everything, from data points to living beings, the porcupine’s quiet presence becomes a powerful reminder. Sometimes wisdom comes from simply observing, listening and allowing nature to guide us.

The film also made me wonder about something beyond technology. How often do we label people around us based on limited understanding? Much like the data labels that train machines, our perceptions and assumptions shape how we see others, sometimes unfairly, sometimes incompletely.

In that sense, the film is as much about humanity as it is about artificial intelligence.

Thank you, Aishwariya, for introducing me to this thoughtful and layered film.

On Lineage, Learning, and the Guru–Shishya Bond

My social media feed has been full of discussions around lineage and discipleship these days - a conversation that, to me, seems to have grown much larger than it perhaps needed to be.

I am very new to learning a classical art, but age-wise old enough to understand certain things. My relationship with my Guru is very sacred, even without the sacred thread ceremony. The ceremonial Gandha Bandhan, I believe, is only for selected disciples who are deeply sincere, willing to dedicate themselves to the art, and capable of carrying forward their Guru’s legacy. I do not fit into that category, but the Guru–Shishya bond between me and my Guruji is no less meaningful.

Why am I writing all this?

It comes from my own experience as a student of my Guruji, Pandit Gaurav Mazumdar ji, who is one of the senior disciples of Pandit Ravi Shankar ji. 

What he teaches us is not simply what Pandit Ravi Shankar ji taught him. Rather, it is what he has absorbed from Pandit Ravi Shankar ji together with what he learnt from his father and his Guru Pandit Nandkishore Vishwakarma ji, from his cousins, and from a great deal of indirect learning through radio and other sources.

My Guruji is the person from whom I learn, my Guru is Pandit Gaurav Mazumdar. I address his Guruji, Pandit Ravi Shankar ji, as Guruji as well. I call Guruji’s mother Maa, his wife is Guru Ma to me, and I love his daughter like my own child.

What I want to highlight here is this: if you learn from a disciple of a well-known musician, you may be part of that gharana, but you are not a direct disciple. It really hurts me when some of Guruji’s students (I am consciously not using the word disciple here) promote themselves by mentioning Pandit Ravi Shankar ji as their Guru, without mentioning Guruji’s name at all. This clearly suggests that they are using a name for their own fame rather than respecting the bond between Guru and Shishya.

The Guru–Shishya bond is incredibly sacred. The spark I see in Guruji’s eyes when he talks about his Guruji is truly remarkable.

A Guru does not simply teach the art; a Guru teaches the art of living.

Pandit Ravi Shankar ji did extraordinary work in bringing Indian classical music to the Western world, but his beliefs about Hindustani music remained deeply traditional. His daily routine was disciplined — he never missed his riyaaz, his walks, or his reading. His meals were also at fixed times. Much of this discipline is reflected in my Guruji’s personality.

A true disciple of Ravi Shankar ji would never publicly say that their riyaaz is mood-based, and they would always maintain decorum on stage. 

It saddens me to see how paid promotions attempt to justify certain things, and how, in this social-media-algorithm driven world, with its built-in biases, it becomes difficult to know what the actual truth is.