Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow

August 17, 2026 Leave a comment

Author: Gabrielle Zevin | 476 Pages | Genre: Fiction | Publisher: Knopf Publishing Group | Year: 2022 | My Rating: 9/10

“What is a game?” Marx said. “It’s tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow. It’s the possibility of infinite rebirth, infinite redemption. The idea that if you keep playing, you could win. No loss is permanent, because nothing is permanent, ever“
― Gabrielle Zevin, Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time; 
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, 
Signifying nothing.

This famous passage is a soliloquy spoken by the title character in William Shakespeare’s tragedy Macbeth (Act 5, Scene 5)

Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow by Gabrielle Zevin is a novel about two friends who make video games together, but to describe it merely as a story about gaming would be as misleading as describing Moby-Dick as a novel about whale hunting. Zevin’s masterpiece is an exploration of creativity, friendship, ambition, grief, identity, and the fragile ways in which human beings love one another without always knowing how to express that love.

When I first picked up the novel, I expected an engaging literary story set against the backdrop of the video game industry. A few chapters later, I realised that the games were merely the canvas. Zevin was painting the extraordinary complexity of human relationships and the strange ways in which we create worlds, both real and imaginary, to survive the one we inhabit. Zevin understands that every act of creation, whether writing a novel, composing music, designing a game, or building a company, is an attempt to answer one of humanity’s oldest questions: how do we leave something meaningful behind? The medium, in this case video games, becomes almost incidental. The real story is about people trying to make worlds because they often struggle to inhabit the one they have been given.

The story follows two childhood friends and extraordinarily gifted individuals, Sam Masur and Sadie Green, whose lives become intertwined through collaboration, separation, misunderstanding, and extraordinary creative success. Their relationship defies easy categorisation, as they are not conventional lovers or just friends. They are collaborators, rivals, emotional anchors, and occasionally strangers to one another. Zevin refuses to reduce their bond into the familiar romantic template that dominates contemporary fiction. Instead, she asks a more difficult question, that can two people become the defining relationship in each other’s lives without ever fitting into society’s conventional definitions of love? That question becomes the emotional centre of the novel.

Reading their story reminded me that the people who influence us most are not always those we fall in love with. Sometimes they are the ones who challenge us intellectually, provoke us creatively, infuriate us endlessly and yet remain impossible to erase from our lives. Some relationships cannot be explained because they are not meant to fit into conventional categories. They simply exist, shaping us in ways we understand only in retrospect.

Having spent much of my own professional life designing programmes, developing products and trying to build ideas into reality, I found these sections deeply familiar. Every creator knows the strange mixture of excitement and insecurity that accompanies making something new. You begin with certainty. Halfway through, you become convinced the entire idea is flawed. Then, somehow, persistence carries you to the finish line. Creation is less an act of inspiration than an act of endurance. That may be why the novel resonated so deeply with me. It understands that building anything worthwhile, whether a business, a social movement, a novel or even a meaningful life, is emotionally expensive. Every achievement extracts a cost that outsiders rarely notice.

Popular culture often celebrates the myth of the solitary genius—the lone inventor, the brilliant artist, the visionary entrepreneur. Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow dismantles that myth. Great creations emerge not only from talent but from friction where ideas are challenged, egos bruised, compromises negotiated, and failures endured. Sam and Sadie create remarkable games because they disagree passionately. 

The novel treats video games as an art form deserving the same intellectual seriousness traditionally reserved for literature, cinema, or painting. This is perhaps the novel’s most refreshing contribution. Too often, games are dismissed as entertainment or escapism, but Zevin recognises that games are narrative architecture. They are spaces where people rehearse choices, explore identities, confront loss, and imagine alternative futures. The novel argues that games possess a unique emotional power because they require participation. Unlike readers or film audiences, players make decisions. They fail, they try again, they persist, and in that sense, games resemble life more closely than almost any other artistic medium.

Another remarkable strength of the novel is its understanding of friendship. Contemporary fiction often privileges romance as the highest form of intimacy. Friendships frequently exist only to support romantic plots. Zevin reverses that hierarchy and makes friendship the central emotional relationship, possessing every complexity usually reserved for marriage or romance. Sam and Sadie hurt one another in ways that only deeply significant people can. Their conflicts rarely emerge from malice. Instead, they arise from silence, assumptions, pride, and emotional immaturity. Zevin understands that relationships often fail not because people stop caring but because they become incapable of communicating what they most need to say.

The supporting characters deserve equal appreciation, particularly Marx Watanabe, whose warmth and emotional intelligence provide a necessary counterbalance to Sam and Sadie’s intensity. Marx embodies generosity without becoming sentimental. He possesses the rare gift of seeing people as they are rather than as they wish to appear. In many ways, he becomes the novel’s emotional conscience.

What impressed me most was the novel’s refusal to produce heroes or villains. Every major character behaves selfishly at times and generously at others. They make admirable decisions alongside regrettable ones. Zevin understands that adulthood rarely consists of moral certainty. Instead, it is an ongoing negotiation between personal ambition and responsibility toward others. Relationships remain ambiguous because real relationships often are. Love does not always seek possession. Friendship does not always remain stable. Success does not guarantee happiness. Closure, when it arrives, is partial rather than complete.

By the final page, I realised that the book’s most profound insight had very little to do with technology or gaming. It was about the people who make us more creative, more courageous and more ourselves. The greatest masterpieces we produce are rarely individual achievements. They emerge from conversations, collaborations, disagreements and relationships that leave permanent fingerprints on our lives.

Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow deserves its reputation as one of the finest contemporary literary novels not because it speaks to gamers but because it speaks to anyone who has ever created something, lost someone, pursued an impossible ambition, or struggled to articulate love in all its imperfect forms. Gabrielle Zevin has written a novel that is intellectually stimulating, emotionally devastating, and quietly hopeful. Long after finishing the novel, I found myself thinking that the most important creations in our lives are often not the products we build, but the relationships that make those creations possible. Everything else is temporary. The worlds we imagine together, however, continue to echo, tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow.

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Poetry in a cup

February 9, 2026 Leave a comment

My love for cappuccino goes back 25 years, when a friend of mine took me to a fancy cafe for coffee and cake. Until then, I had only enjoyed Nescafé from those old coffee machines and served in paper cups. One sip of this elixir, which was creamy, velvety, and audaciously flavourful, and I was ruined forever. This coffee in a ceramic mug not only brought a new flavour but won my taste buds and heart for all eternity. It was proof enough that nirvana sometimes comes with foam.

Since then, Capp, as I affectionately call it, and I have been the best of buddies. I have made new friends, dated, had breakups, found my startup partners, discovered new employers, hired employees, pitched to clients, met strangers, mentors, mentees, colleagues, inventors, professors, and who’s who over mugs of cappuccino. Capp has been my best mate during my ‘me’ time. Capp has helped (and continues to do so) me think, innovate, write articles and poetry, introspect, and just be me.

Capp has played roles that most people reserve for therapists, advisors, or wise friends. It has seen me through emotional crisis, creativity bursts, writer’s blocks, existential questions, and Mondays. It has provided intellectual companionship, whether I am solving crosswords or writing a new blog post. Every time I’ve needed clarity, I have found it swirling somewhere between the foam and the last sip. Forget meditation, real introspection happens when your hands are wrapped around a warm cappuccino mug, and you’re staring into the nothingness like a philosopher lost in thought.

I think Cappuccino is one of the greatest social equalisers ever invented! At almost all the cafés, you’ll find students, entrepreneurs, artists, engineers, poets, procrastinators, and people pretending to work, all looking thoughtful and slightly existential when holding a cappuccino mug. Over the years, I have met strangers who later became collaborators, collaborators who became friends, and friends who introduced me to even more cappuccinos. If networking had an official beverage, Capp would be printed on the business cards. At this point, if LinkedIn allowed a ‘coffee quotient,’ mine would be among the highest across generations.

But beyond work, people, and the illusion of productivity, Capp has been the guardian of my ‘me-time.’ While the world insists on shouting through notifications, deadlines, and existential adulthood, a mug of cappuccino quietly reminds me to breathe. Those quiet moments in cafés with just me, Capp, my lit B & H regulars, a notebook or iPad, or a newspaper are where most of my thinking actually happens. Poems, ideas, reflections, plans, memories, confessions, and stories have all been brewed with Capp as my thinking cap. If a cappuccino had consciousness, it would be quietly judging me for the number of drafts I’ve abandoned midway, and they now decorate the ‘Notes’ app in my iPhone/iPad.

There is a ritualistic romance to the warmth of the mug, the gentle collapse of foam, keeping the coffee art till the last few sips, and the world slowing just enough to let me feel human again. Somehow, every sip feels like a reminder that life doesn’t unfold only through big milestones, but often, it’s held together by tiny pauses over coffee.

After a quarter of a century, my love for cappuccino is still burning bright, even though I have tried its other cousins. But I always return to Capp because Capp is comfort, consistency, creativity, and companionship poured into a single mug. So, here’s to the witness to my chaos, the co-author of my ideas, the soundtrack to my solitude, and the warm friend who has been present in more chapters of my life than any human possibly could. If love could be brewed, steamed, and topped with foam art, it would taste exactly like this.

And after 25 years, I’m still not done sipping.

Stressed, blessed, and cappuccino-obsessed, that’s my motto, I confess!

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120 Bahadur 

January 12, 2026 Leave a comment

Genre: War Drama | Year: 2025 | Duration: 160 mins | Director: Razneesh Ghai|  Medium: Theatre (PVR Cinemas) | Trailer: HERE | Language: Hindi | Cast: Farhan Akhtar, Raashil Khanna, and others | My rating: 3.5/5

Favourite Dialogue: “Unka khoon uss mitti mein zaroor milega sahab, aur jo khoon milega who unki chhaati ka hoga peeth ka nahi”

120 Bahadur is based on the real-life sacrifice of the 120 soldiers of Charlie Company, 13 Kumaon Regiment of the Indian Army at the Battle of Rezang La during the 1962 Sino-Indian War. It chronicles the extraordinary courage of 120 Indian soldiers who stood their ground against 3000 Chinese troops. The film focuses on Major Shaitan Singh Bhati (played by Farhan Akhtar), showcasing the grit, sacrifice, and valour of soldiers fighting in the brutal cold and high altitude of Ladakh. The story is narrated through the memories of a surviving soldier, and it unfolds as a tribute to the heroism of a band of brothers whose courage came at the highest cost.  

The film’s strongest suit is its war sequences and immersive realism. The battle sequences at Rezang La, rifle fire, bayonet charges, final close-quarters combat, the harsh terrain, bone-chilling cold, and the almost claustrophobic desperation when ammunition runs out are realised with a fierce intensity that’s rare for many modern Hindi war films.  The film features brilliant cinematography by Tetsuo Nagata, with breathtaking shots of snow-covered mountains, freezing desolation, and the starkness of high-altitude warfare.  The film mostly avoids glorifying war for its own sake and is a sober portrayal of the events. This sincerity gives the film humility as it doesn’t frame itself as a triumphant spectacle, but a respectful tribute and remembrance. 

Farhan Akhtar delivers a thoughtful performance. He largely avoids the larger-than-life histrionics often associated with Bollywood war heroes. Instead, he feels rooted, authoritative yet human, decisive yet burdened.  At the same time, the supporting cast, many of them lesser-known actors, bring the infantrymen to life with grit, camaraderie, humour, and vulnerability. Their messy friendships, small conversations, homesickness, and occasional fears humanise what might otherwise have been just a war drama with guns and trenches.  

However, the film seemed to have weak character development; their individual stories were barely sketched out. This makes certain deaths feel less impactful emotionally, more like casualties on a battlefield than deeply personal losses. Because of that, while the collective sacrifice hits home, personal grief and tragedy often don’t. The film’s narrative isn’t always smooth, as flashbacks to family life, interspersed with the lead-up to battle, sometimes break the tension. The prelude drags at times, and the buildup to the climax lacks the steady escalation that such stories need for maximum impact.  

I felt that the depiction of Chinese soldiers has been overly simplified and tends to lean towards caricature: monolithic, villainous, almost cartoonish, robbing them of nuance or complexity. This weakens the moral weight of the conflict and reduces it to a binary ‘good vs evil’ war movie. In parts, storytelling relies heavily on familiar Bollywood popular drama of last-minute motivational speeches, montage-heavy sequences, formula flashbacks and emotional beats, which keep the film from feeling fully original.  

120 Bahadur is not a perfect film, but it is an earnest, important one. It doesn’t glamourise war, and it doesn’t demand you leave the theatre cheering mindlessly. Instead, it makes you reflect on duty, courage, and sacrifice. As a cinematic recreation of a tragic but heroic moment in India’s history, the film succeeds more often than it fails. Its war sequences are unflinching and immersive; its portrayal of brotherhood and sacrifice is heartfelt; its lead performance is measured and credible.

But beneath the combat and solemn patriotism, it made me think that India’s rural society holds the backbone of India’s defence forces. The film also has a sociological moment where rural identity, class, caste, and nationhood intersect. The men of Charlie Company came largely from agrarian communities, especially the Ahir (Yadav) belt of Haryana and Western UP. Their lives before the war were shaped by farming cycles, monsoon anxieties, livestock, joint families, and deeply rooted village cultures. The film becomes a testament to how rural young men, in search of dignity, livelihood, and service, become the face of national defence but rarely the face of national storytelling.

Despite its narrative shortcomings, 120 Bahadur performs a cultural service of returning Rezang La to public consciousness.

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Tere Ishk Mein

December 15, 2025 Leave a comment

Genre: Romance | Year: 2025 | Duration: 167 mins | Director: Anand L Rai |  Medium: Theatre (PVR Cinemas) | Trailer: HERE | Language: Hindi | Cast: Dhanush, Kriti Sanon, and others | My rating: 4/5

Favourite Dialogue: “Prem mein mrityu hai, mukti nahin”

I have a fascination with morbid romance, where passion is fierce and consuming, love and ruin walk hand in hand, and loss feels almost sacred. After a long time, I totally enjoyed a Bollywood film, Tere Ishk Mein, for its feverish, fractured, and fearless ode to obsessive love and loss. Anand Rai, as Director, and Dhanush and Kriti Sanon as actors have so beautifully portrayed the volatile landscape of love, messy and irrational, dark and bruised. It is a film that is less about romance and far more curious about what happens when love mutates, dissolves boundaries, and begins to reshape identity itself.

The film centres around Shankar (Dhanush), a young man navigating the emotional ruins of unrequited affection. His world is small, ordinary, burning with relentless restlessness, textured with the familiar lanes of Rai’s cinematic universe. When he falls in love with Mukti (Kriti Sanon), it is with the conviction of a man who sees devotion as delusional destiny. Dhanush’s performance is a masterclass. His portrayal of longing, with shoulders slightly slumped, eyes rimmed with unspoken ache, voice cracking in the in-between spaces of sentences, is brilliant. He brings a fragile humanity that compels empathy even when the character’s choices spiral into moral greyness. There are moments when Shankar’s yearning feels suffocating, and moments when it feels heroic. In several scenes, especially those dealing with solitude and heartbreak, the camera lingers on his face with cruel intimacy. He allows vulnerability to show across the frame, leaving behind emotional aftershocks.

The film’s leading lady, Mukti (Kriti Sanon), is a girl caught between affection, caution, and the burden of societal expectations. She is real, flawed, and aware of her own contradictions. Her emotional arc of moving from curiosity to confusion to a painful clarity is one of the more grounded aspects of the film. What stands out is that Mukti is not a passive recipient of Shankar’s affection. She pushes back, speaks for herself, asserts her boundaries, and refuses to become a prop for his emotional turbulence. In many ways, her character reminded me that intensity does not equal righteousness.

Rai’s filmmaking has always been rooted in the everyday—narrow streets, chaotic homes, lived-in locations where life unfolds in all its contradictions. In Tere Ishk Mein, he retains this aesthetic but adds a layer of psychological depth. His director truly excels in designing silences. Some of the best moments in the film are those where nothing is said: an unfinished sentence, a doorway half-shut, a glance held for one second too long. These are the moments when the film transcends melodrama and ventures into introspection.

What distinguishes this film from typical love stories is its willingness to confront the darker territories of attachment. The film does not glorify suffering, nor does it portray persistence as virtue. Instead, it presents a sobering reality that love can be transformative, but it can also be corrosive if it becomes entitlement.The climax, which is raw, unsettling and necessary, is where the film truly earns its place. It is neither triumphant nor tragic in a conventional sense. Rather, it is painfully truthful. It is a rare mainstream film that lets discomfort linger. A must-watch if you enjoy a turbulent exploration of love.

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Art of Gifting Books

November 3, 2025 2 Comments

A few of my friends, family members, and a couple of my colleagues gift me books, often on my birthdays, and sometimes in between. I inherited a love for reading from my parents, especially my mother and my grandfather, both of whom have been voracious readers. I received my first book as a birthday gift from my father when I was in school. It was ‘The History of Western Philosophy’ by Bertrand Russel. 

Few gifts in life feel as personal, thoughtful, and lasting as a book. When someone hands you a neatly wrapped rectangle hiding a world within its covers, the gesture means more than just the promise of pages. It carries thought, intimacy, and a recognition of who you are. A book is not merely a gift; it shows understanding. For a book lover like me, it has always represented one of the highest forms of affection, a conversation without words, a silent connection of minds and feelings.

Books reflect both the giver and the receiver. A book requires careful thought, unlike routine gifts like perfume, gadgets, clothes, or vouchers. This act of choosing is intimate, showing familiarity not just with the recipient’s reading habits but also with their inner lives, beliefs, and hidden thoughts. When a friend gives you a book, they often imply, “This reminded me of you.” That unspoken message carries emotional weight. It suggests that they have seen you through the lens of a character, a philosophy, or a poem. It’s like the giver is handing you a mirror showing part of yourself, which possibly one you hadn’t noticed before.

For avid readers, this connection is unmatched as a new book means a new journey and a new companionship. Receiving it as a gift indicates that someone cared enough to guide you toward that path. I have always viewed books as a form of emotional currency. They are not consumed quickly or superficially; they unfold over days or weeks, creating a lasting connection between the giver and receiver. Each time you open a gifted book, you also revisit the memory of the person who gave it to you.

A note inside the cover, like “Hope you love this as much as I did” or “Read and Reflect,” becomes an emotional bookmark for years. Even after the friendship has changed, the note remains, tangible and unforgettable. The book turns into a keepsake of that moment, of that relationship. In this way, books gather layers of meaning beyond their content; they absorb personal histories.

Unlike many modern gifts that can age or fade, books age gracefully. A book received in your twenties might reveal new insights in your forties. A book of poetry shared during a tough year can later offer comfort. In this way, books outlast their occasions; they evolve with the reader. I have re-read several books in my ever-growing collection over the last 20 to 30 years, and each time, I have gleaned a deeper understanding and gained more from the same pages.

Receiving books from family carries a sense of heritage, adding another layer of intimacy and history. Parents who give books to their children often share not just stories but also values and perspectives. When a parent gifts their favourite childhood novel or a worn copy of a classic, it reflects continuity. It communicates, “This shaped me, and I hope it shapes you too.”

Books create a kind of generational dialogue in many homes. A shelf represents a lineage of thought, with dog-eared pages and underlined passages marking the intellectual footprints of those before us. When you receive a book from a family member, you are essentially invited into their memory, to share their inner world for a while. I often have long conversations with my mother about a book, discussing its theme, author, and philosophy. For a book lover, inherited or gifted books become sacred objects. They may have notes in fading ink, dates marking birthdays or milestones, or the faint scent of another home. They are pieces of family history, connected not just by blood but also by shared words and ideas.

Books exchanged among colleagues hold a subtler but equally significant meaning. In professional settings often focused on efficiency and formality, a book gift feels almost revolutionary, reminding us of our shared humanity. When a colleague gives you a book, it usually reflects admiration or intellectual connection. It might be a management classic that inspired them, a work of fiction that echoes your discussions, or a slim volume of essays that reminds them of your curiosity. This gesture crosses the impersonal barriers of the workplace. It conveys, “I see more in you than just your title. I recognise a mind worth connecting with.”

At a time of emails and digital interactions, such gestures feel refreshingly real. A physical book on your desk serves as a reminder of shared curiosity and trust, sometimes sparking discussions that go beyond work. For a book lover, receiving books is like receiving invitations to journeys, friendships, and moments of reflection. The smell of new pages, the design of a cover, and the promise of a new story all bring joy that few other gifts can match. When people give books to an avid reader, they validate and celebrate a part of their identity. It’s as if they are saying, “I respect your passion enough to contribute to it.” 

Book lovers often remember who gave them which book. Their collections become social maps, each title linked to a person, a moment, or a story. That book from a college friend, that poetry collection from a sister, that biography from a mentor—they all combine to create an autobiography of relationships. Every gifted book is also an act of trust. It assumes that the receiver will take the time, reflect, and engage. By giving a book, one offers not instant pleasure but delayed joy. This trust that the recipient will fully experience those pages is deeply personal. Unlike digital or temporary gifts, books require solitude and contemplation. Receiving one gently reminds us of the value of slowing down in a fast-paced world. Perhaps this is why books promote patience, reflection, and empathy.

Moreover, books can be challenging gifts as they can push the reader’s perspectives, encourage new ideas, or even provoke discomfort. A well-chosen book can disrupt complacency while still showing care. This balance between affection and intellectual challenge makes gifting books a refined art. Over time, a personal library becomes a mosaic of gifts and acquisitions, but the gifted ones stand out. They are the volumes we seldom lend or part with. They carry signatures, notes, or memories that root them in our emotional landscape. There’s something almost sacred about rereading a book that once came wrapped in the hands of someone dear to us. The words on the page remain constant, but their meaning shifts as our memories of the giver change. At times, after the giver is gone, the book transforms into a presence, a voice that still echoes in the silence of our shelves.

Therefore, books are not just gifts; they also extend the presence of people. They traverse time, holding fragments of affection, thought, and memory. A gifted book is both a message and a monument as it says, “I thought of you,” and continues to do so long after. For a book lover, each gifted book is a quiet act of love—sometimes romantic, sometimes platonic, sometimes familial, but always genuine. It is a gift that does not fade and grows richer with each reading. In giving and receiving books, we engage in a timeless exchange, not of objects but of selves. Ultimately, every gifted book conveys one simple yet profound message: I see you, and for any reader, there is no greater gift than that.

(Cover Image: Generated using AI)

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