After my recent interaction with one of my mentors, who wanted me to read the book Thinking, Fast and Slow, I’ve realised I’m basically a high-functioning Ghajini. For years I thought I was a rational, corporate-standard human being. Turns out I’m just a vetti boy in a Raymond suit, trying to pass off as an intellectual.
Auto-Pilot:
Auto-Pilot runs 95% of my life. He’s fast, restless, and reckless — the kind of guy who thrives in chaos. He is the cause and also the fixer of the problem. He is that jugaadu banda who will get you anything to get by. Not the most efficient, but chal jaata hai types.
He’s the reason I can dodge cows and bikes in city traffic like ninja, but also the reason I walk into a room, stare at the wall, and forget if I came for my phone or a glass of water. He quit smoking one day and, almost by accident, handed me back my old passion — writing. Suddenly, chaos had a soundtrack again.
Logic:
Logic is supposed to be the IAS officer, the CEO, the one who could have been anything, only if he wished. But he’s unbelievably lazy. He only wakes up when it's incredibly urgent. Maybe for tax calculations, investments, or when Amma asks why I haven’t “settled down” to convince her with a justifiable excuse. Bust, most of the time, he just peeks out, sees Auto-Pilot burning the candles, mutters “Chalo, jab zaroori padega, tab dekha jaayega,” and goes back to sleep.
The Drama of Losing
Finding my old diary with my ex’s photo tucked inside is pure nostalgia. I flip two pages, smile, relive hours on those missed moments, and then move on. But losing that diary? That’s heartbreak. That’s me searching for that diary through every rack of my cupboards and flipping the house upside down, sprinting like Dhanush in Raanjhanaa, lungs bursting, chasing Sonam Kapoor as the train pulls away.
We don’t actually care about winning; we just hate losing with a passion. The joy of rediscovery is fleeting, but the pain of loss sticks like Fevicol.
Memory, the Exaggerated Me
There’s the “Me” who lives the day, and then there’s the exaggerated “Me” who tells the story later. The first Me experiences life in real time — the food, the laughter, the travel. But the exaggerated Me is a director, a scriptwriter, a magician who edits the reel.
I spent six blissful days in Georgia — snow-clad mountains, countryside, beaches, blondes, wine, weather, perfect 10/10. Yet the last hour at Tbilisi airport was chaos. And when the exaggerated Me narrates the trip, he doesn’t talk about the mountains or the wine. He waves his arms, raises his voice, and says, “Avoid Tbilisi during Ramadan or Bakrid holidays, man, the airport is a nightmare.” One bad ending erases six good days. That’s how memory exaggerates, dramatizes, and rewrites the script.
The Illusion of Control
I look at EMI dates, gold loan reminders, and random curveballs of targets at work I know are out of reach, but yet convince myself I’m the Captain of the ship. “Koi nai mamu, sab control me hai,” or “Paathukkalam.” In reality, I’m just a guy on a raft in a monsoon flood. Logic is asleep, Auto-Pilot is rowing with a spoon, while EMI drags on, gold loan piles up, and targets are met with miserable numbers.
The Bottom Line
We aren’t captains. We’re passengers with loud imaginations. We feel the pain of losing more than the joy of finding. We let one bad hour erase six good days. We’re not rational — we’re biological glitches wrapped in Raymond suits.
But here’s the twist: quitting smoking gave me back my pen. Writing became my oar. Even if the diary is gone, the stories it carried are alive in me. So next time you see me floating toward the waterfall, just know Auto-Pilot is in charge, Logic has checked out, and the exaggerated Me will be waiting at the bottom — with a story in hand, not a photo in a pocket.
Till then, Cheers and Adios.
