Tipu Sultan: The Saga of Mysore’s Interregnum, 1760–1799 – Vikram Sampath
Tipu’s ascent to power was accidental. His father Haidar Ali was a beneficiary of the benevolence of the Maharaja of Mysore. But in a series of fascinating events, the Machiavellian Haidar ran with the hare and hunted with the hounds; he ended up overthrowing his own benefactor and usurping the throne of Mysore from the Wodeyars in 1761. In a war-scarred life, father and son led Mysore through four momentous battles against the British, termed the Anglo-Mysore Wars. The first two, led by Haidar, brought the English East India Company to its knees. Chasing the enemy to the very gates of Madras, Haidar made the British sign such humiliating terms of treaties that sent shockwaves back in London.
In the hubris of this success, Tipu obtained the kingdom on a platter, unlike his father, who worked up the ranks to achieve glory. In a diabolical war thirst, Tipu launched lethal attacks on Malabar, Mangalore, Travancore, Coorg, and left behind a trail of death, destruction and worse, mass-conversions and the desecration of religious places of worship. While he was an astute administrator and a brave soldier, the strategic tact with opponents and the diplomatic balance that Haidar had sought to maintain with the Hindu majority were both dangerously upset by Tipu’s foolhardiness on matters of faith. The social report card of this eighteenth-century ruler was anything but clean. And yet, one simply cannot deny his position as a renowned military warrior and one of the most powerful rulers of Southern India.
Just before midnight, Singapore becomes a city of people going home. The office towers in Raffles Place dim one floor at a time. Restaurants along Orchard Road stack their chairs and wash down the pavement in quick bursts of water. The last shoppers leave the malls carrying small bags and tired expressions, drifting toward bus stops and train stations. But underground, the trains are still running.
Mei Lin always catches the last MRT from City Hall. By the time her shift ends, the mall where she works has grown quiet. The bright shop windows are dark now, and the music that plays all day through the corridors has finally stopped. Only the low hum of the air-conditioning remains. She moves slowly through the empty space with her cleaning cart, wiping fingerprints from railings and smoothing a damp cloth across marble floors that will shine again in the morning.
Cleaning teaches you to notice things. You notice the small evidence people leave behind: half-finished bubble tea cups, lipstick marks on paper napkins, shopping bags abandoned beside benches when someone decides they no longer want what they bought.
You notice the way teenagers gather in small circles on the floor, even when there are empty chairs nearby. And sometimes you notice the way people stand in front of the restroom mirrors longer than necessary, staring at themselves as if trying to recognise the person looking back.
At eleven forty-five, Mei Lin takes the escalator down into City Hall Station. The platform feels different at that hour. The daytime rush has dissolved, leaving only scattered commuters waiting quietly. Their footsteps echo softly against the tiled floor.
“Last train towards Jurong East arriving in two minutes.” Mei Lin boards the same carriage she boards every night and sits near the middle. From there, she can see almost everyone. Not that anyone notices her. A cleaner is easy to overlook.
Across from her sits a nurse in pale blue scrubs, her head tilted back against the window, drifting in and out of sleep. Two construction workers stand near the door speaking in Tamil, their laughter low and tired. A pair of students whispers in Mandarin, their faces illuminated by the glow of their phones.
The train pulls away from the station. Outside the window, the tunnel slides past in long dark streaks. Mei Lin watches the reflection of the carriage in the glass. Rows of passengers floating faintly against the darkness.
Public transport is a strange intimacy. Strangers sitting inches apart. Sharing the same air, the same journey, the same tiredness. Yet somehow still alone.
At the next station, two young men step into the carriage and sit opposite her. They look like office workers, white shirts slightly creased, ties loosened, but something in the way they sit suggests the day has not gone well. “I still haven’t told my mother,” one of them says quietly. “About what?” the other asks. A pause. “That I quit the bank.” The train rattles softly through the tunnel. “You quit?” his friend says. “Two months ago.” “Does she know?” The young man shakes his head. “No. She wouldn’t understand.”
Mei Lin lowers her gaze to her hands. The conversation continues in soft voices. The young man talks about expectations. About how everyone assumes your life is stable once you have the right job title. About the quiet exhaustion of waking up every morning to a life that feels slightly borrowed. “I sat at that desk every day pretending to be someone else,” he says finally. His friend studies him for a moment. Then he says quietly, “Maybe everyone is pretending.” At Toa Payoh, the train slows, and the two men step onto the platform. The doors close. The train moves again.
For the rest of the journey, Mei Lin keeps thinking about that sentence. Pretending. She has done that herself. When relatives ask what she does for work, she tells them she works in “facilities.” It sounds more respectable that way. She does not say she empties bins and wipes fingerprints from mirrors. She does not say she has watched office workers cry quietly in bathroom stalls. She does not say she has overheard countless phone calls: apologies, arguments, and quiet confessions whispered into phones late at night. There are many things people do when they think no one is watching. And she has watched them all.
At Bishan, a woman in a beige blouse sits beside her and begins speaking softly on the phone. “I think I’m going to disappear for a while,” she says. Her voice is calm. Too calm. Mei Lin glances sideways without turning her head. The woman listens for a moment. “No, nothing dramatic,” she says quietly. “I just need to step away from everything.” A pause. “Yes,” she says finally. “I’m tired of pretending.” When the call ends, she stares silently at the dark window. The reflection of the carriage floats across the glass: tired faces drifting through the tunnel like ghosts. So many people moving quietly through the night.
The next evening, Mei Lin boards the last train again. Same carriage, same seat. Across from her sit two young office workers talking loudly. “I swear,” one of them says, scrolling through his phone, “some people just give up in life.” His friend laughs. “Yeah. That’s how they end up cleaning floors or something.” Mei Lin looks down at her hands. The skin is rough from years of detergent and disinfectant. For a moment, the familiar flicker of embarrassment rises. Then she remembers something. Every night, she sees things these men will probably never notice.
The nurse falling asleep after a twelve-hour shift, the migrant workers sharing food from the same plastic container, the teenagers whispering dreams they have not yet told their parents, and the quiet kindness of someone offering a seat to a stranger. She sees the city not as it pretends to be: efficient, successful, and endlessly moving forward, but as it truly is. A thousand private lives brushing past each other in silence. At the next station, the doors open again.
Across the carriage sits the woman from the phone call the night before. This time, she is drinking bubble tea and scrolling through her phone. Alive. Ordinary. Just another passenger on the last train. Their eyes meet briefly. For a moment, Mei Lin hesitates. In twelve years, she has never spoken to anyone on the train. She has only listened. Only observed. But tonight something shifts. Perhaps it was the young man who left the bank. Perhaps it was the quiet confession on the phone. Or perhaps it is simply the realisation that the city is full of people pretending to be fine.
She leans slightly toward the woman and says gently, “Long day?” The woman looks up, surprised. Then she smiles. “Yes,” she says.
The train hums softly through the dark tunnel. For a while, they sit in companionable silence as the carriage rocks gently along the tracks. Outside the window, their reflections drift together in the glass. Just before midnight, Singapore becomes a city of people going home. And sometimes, somewhere between one station and the next, two strangers remember that even in a crowded city, loneliness does not always have to travel alone.
The Mountain Is You: Transforming Self-Sabotage Into Self-Mastery – Brianna Wiest
This is a book about self-sabotage. Why we do it, when we do it, and how to stop doing it—for good. Coexisting but conflicting needs create self-sabotaging behaviors.
This is why we resist efforts to change, often until they feel completely futile. But by extracting crucial insight from our most damaging habits, building emotional intelligence by better understanding our brains and bodies, releasing past experiences at a cellular level, and learning to act as our highest potential future selves, we can step out of our own way and into our potential.
For centuries, the mountain has been used as a metaphor for the big challenges we face, especially ones that seem impossible to overcome. To scale our mountains, we actually have to do the deep internal work of excavating trauma, building resilience, and adjusting how we show up for the climb. In the end, it is not the mountain we master, but ourselves.
Communication might seem simple, even automatic. We talk every day, texting, posting, and chatting. But effective communication? That’s an art and an essential adult skill that too often goes unlearned. Whether you’re navigating friendships, family, or the workplace, knowing how to communicate well is your secret weapon. It shapes how others see you, how you solve problems, and how you build trust.
Communication is more than talking. Most people think communication means just speaking or typing words. But it’s much bigger. It’s about connection. It starts with listening, really listening. Active listening means giving your full attention, not just waiting for your turn to speak. It’s about understanding the other person’s point of view, even if you don’t agree. This kind of listening builds respect and opens the door for honest dialogue.
Here’s the catch: active listening is hard. We’re wired to react quickly, defend our ideas, or zone out. But if you want to communicate better, you have to slow down and focus. Put away your phone, make eye contact, and ask clarifying questions. These simple moves show you care and help avoid misunderstandings.
People often think being polite means being vague or avoiding hard truths. That’s wrong. Being clear and direct doesn’t mean being rude. It means expressing your thoughts and feelings plainly while respecting others. Instead of bottling up frustrations or hinting around, say what you mean calmly. For example, say, “I felt upset when our plan changed last minute” instead of “You never stick to plans.”
Avoid blaming or attacking language. Use “I” statements: they focus on your feelings without accusing the other person. For example, “I feel overwhelmed when emails pile up” works better than “You’re bad at organising.” This reduces defensiveness and keeps the conversation productive.
Your body language says just as much as your words. Eye contact, posture, facial expressions, and tone all carry messages. Crossing your arms might signal defensiveness; avoiding eye contact can seem evasive. These cues shape how your message is received. If your words say one thing but your body another, people pick up on the mismatch. Be aware of your nonverbal signals and try to keep them open and relaxed. Nod when listening, smile genuinely, and lean in slightly to show engagement. These little things build connection and trust.
Not every message fits every medium. Some things are best said face-to-face, where you can see reactions and use tone and body language. Texts or emails suit quick updates or simple questions. But sensitive topics, conflicts, or complex discussions often need a voice or in-person talks to avoid misinterpretation. For example, don’t text someone about a serious disagreement. It’s easy to misread tone, which can escalate tensions. A phone call or meeting lets you clarify instantly and keep emotions in check.
Communication isn’t one-size-fits-all. How you speak to your boss differs from how you chat with friends or family. Consider culture, age, personality, and context. Some coworkers prefer direct emails, while others appreciate casual check-ins. Paying attention to these cues shows emotional intelligence and respect. Also, be mindful of differences in communication styles. Some people are more reserved; others are outspoken. Meeting people halfway and adapting your style builds a better rapport.
In the workplace, communication is money and influence. Clear communication prevents mistakes, aligns teams, and drives projects forward. It also shapes perceptions of your competence and leadership potential. Those who listen deeply, speak clearly, and handle conflicts calmly are more likely to succeed.
Job interviews, meetings, emails, and presentations all demand strong communication. Practice summarising your ideas briefly and backing them with facts. Avoid jargon or filler words that dilute your message. And don’t forget to ask questions; it shows interest and helps you understand expectations.
Some believe good communicators are born, not made. That’s misleading. Communication is a skill. You can learn, practice, and improve. Another myth is that talking more makes you persuasive. Often, the opposite is true. Listening better and saying less with clear intent wins respect. Technology has changed communication but not replaced fundamentals. Emojis and memes don’t substitute for empathy and clarity. Use digital tools wisely, but don’t rely on them completely.
Communication often breaks down because of fear, assumptions, or distractions. Fear of judgment can make you hold back; assumptions can cause misunderstandings; distractions reduce focus. Address these directly. Build confidence by starting small. Don’t assume others know what you think. Clarify. Repeat. And be patient; effective communication takes effort and time.
The art of communication is a lifelong journey. There’s no finish line. But every conversation is an opportunity. Reflect on what worked, where you stumbled, and how to improve. Seek feedback honestly. Read books, watch talks, or even practice in front of a mirror if you must. Remember, communication is about connection, not perfection. Be real. Be respectful. Be clear.
Happy birthday Singapore! Today is Singapore’s 61st National Day. Today, as I think back on my journey on becoming a Singaporean, I realise that every National Day is a reminder that a nation’s story is written not only through landmark moments, but through the everyday lives of the people who call it home. It’s found in neighbours looking out for one another, in hawker centres filled with conversations, in the many cultures that coexist so naturally, and in the quiet confidence that tomorrow can be better than today. Wishing Singapore many more years of peace, progress, and unity.
Today’s quote is from acclaimed American minister and author best known for his influential book, The Power of Positive Thinking, Norman Vincent Peale. His quote reminds us that while we cannot always control our circumstances, we do have influence over how we perceive and respond to them. Our thoughts shape our attitudes, our attitudes influence our actions, and our actions ultimately determine the direction our lives take. The quote is not suggesting that simply thinking positively will make problems disappear. Challenges, disappointments, and setbacks are an inevitable part of life. Rather, it highlights the power of perspective. Two people can face the same situation and experience it very differently because of the way they interpret it. One may see only obstacles, while the other sees possibilities for learning, adaptation, or growth.
Our thoughts also influence our behaviour. If we constantly tell ourselves that we are incapable, we are less likely to take risks or embrace opportunities. Conversely, when we cultivate thoughts of hope, resilience, and possibility, we are more willing to persevere, solve problems, and keep moving forward. Over time, these choices create meaningful changes in our lives. The quote also encourages mindfulness. Many of our thoughts are automatic, shaped by habit and past experiences. By becoming aware of them, we gain the ability to question unhelpful patterns and replace them with more constructive ones. This isn’t about denying reality; it’s about choosing a mindset that helps us respond to reality more effectively. Ultimately, changing our thoughts doesn’t alter the external world overnight, but it does change the way we engage with it. And that shift in perspective can transform our relationships, our decisions, and our sense of purpose.
This week also marked a quiet but meaningful milestone in our family as BB completed his first week at his very first full-time job. It was a week of introductions, orientation, learning new systems, and beginning to understand the rhythm of a completely new environment. There wasn’t much “real work” yet, but perhaps that’s exactly what first weeks are for — learning names, finding your footing, and slowly building confidence. Watching someone step into adulthood is a curious mix of emotions. There’s pride in seeing them begin a new chapter, nostalgia for the years that passed so quickly, and hope for everything that lies ahead. Every career begins with a first day, and every experienced professional was once the new person trying to remember where everything was. Here’s to the many lessons, friendships, and opportunities that will grow from this humble beginning.
This week, verse 4.42 talks about doubt having a way of appearing wise. It disguises itself as caution, preparation, or careful thinking. Yet there comes a point when endless questioning prevents us from moving forward. During the Kurukshetra war between the Pandavas and the Kauravas, as Arjuna stands paralysed by uncertainty, Krishna does not tell him to wait until every answer appears. Instead, he urges him to cut through doubt and act.
Many opportunities in life require us to move before certainty arrives. We apply for the role before knowing the outcome. We begin the project before knowing if it will succeed. We take the first step before seeing the entire path. The opposite of doubt is not blind confidence. It is trust. Trust that we can learn, adapt, and continue moving even when the future remains unclear. Sometimes courage is simply taking the next step despite not having all the answers.
This week, I also learned that detachment means making complete peace with the truth that life unfolds as it’s meant to. It allows you to move through life without getting caught in the web of fear. Instead of resisting the flow of events or trying to force outcomes, you release the need for control. You give your best to whatever comes your way, and then allow the rest to take shape on its own. When you’re in a state of true detachment, you align yourself with the natural harmony of life. All things change. We can’t make circumstances unfold exactly as we want. Once you internalize this, you achieve calmness and inner stability, and you become free to experience every beautiful moment without clinging or attachment.
Memories and Such 