We rarely talk about what happens next to these people who didn’t just save the world, but had to burn themselves to the ground to do it. When the war is won and the dust settles, what happens to the person who was forced to become a weapon?

I recently finished Tasha Suri’s The Burning Kingdoms trilogy. The denouement of the 3rd book, The Lotus Empire, reminded me a lot of the closing sequences of The CW show The 100. (No, really, it’s not that tortured and it is that deep). There is a shared, brutal truth in these works. The real reward for some leaders isn’t a crown or a seat at the table. It is the return of their humanity, earned through a very specific, often solitary, kind of isolation. It is the transition from being a symbol for the masses to being a private, anonymous citizen.

SPOILER ALERT for both The CW’s The 100 and Tasha Suri’s The Burning Kingdoms trilogy

The Sin-Eater’s Fate

In the final moments of The 100, Clarke Griffin stands in a throne room on the planet of Bardo facing a metaphysical trial for the fate of the entire human race. Clarke’s journey in The 100 has always been defined by the impossible choice. By the series finale, she has become the ultimate Sin-Eater. In the middle of the trial, she executes the villain, Bill Cadogan. To the judge, it looks like simple vengeance - the same old human lust of blood for blood.

But for Clarke, it is her final, most ruthless calculation. She knows that Cadogan - a man who spent centuries stripping his people of their emotions and freezing them in cryo-sleep - will fail the test. By killing him, she stops a disaster in progress. It is then through the parallel efforts of others that the species is finally allowed to "transcend."

It proves to be a devastatingly lonely victory for Clarke. The rest of humanity transcends into a hive-mind of eternal light; an existence without pain or death. Clarke is left behind. She is sent back to a regenerated but completely empty Earth.

Clarke is barred from paradise because she took on the moral stains required to hold the gate open for everyone else. Her journey across an empty planet - walking through the skeletal remains of the original drop ship and the silent forests she once bled to protect - is the ultimate penance.

The Burden of the Crown: Malini

By the end of The Lotus Empire, Empress Malini has been “burned away” by her own ambition and the ruthlessness required to win. She has spent the entire trilogy consuming the “rot” of her family line and the violence of her throne.

Malini wins the war and wears the crown, but the real resolution is her eventual departure. She realizes that the golden palace is just another cage. She leaves the throne behind and travels to a quiet part of Ahiranya. There she finds her great love Priya by a secluded lake. Priya has survived as a semi-divine guardian of the land, a “Yaksa-born” entity whose life is tethered to the magic of the earth itself.

It is Malini’s final act of abdication - choosing to be a person in a quiet corner of the world rather than an icon, lauded but not loved - that is her reward.

Journey to the West

Likewise, Prince Rao chooses to reject the machinery of the state and to walk away into the unmapped West with Sima, his most trusted commander and equal. This isn’t a retreat of cowardice; it is a purposeful abandonment of ‘legacy’ in favor of just being a man. Rao realizes that as long as he stays within the empire’s borders, he will always be a Prince, a symbol for others to use. By choosing the fringe, he chooses his own soul. However, Rao’s choice is made possible largely because Malini was willing to be the monster of the story.

The Women Who Burned the World

The burden of the Sin-Eater is the throughline between Clarke Griffin and Empress Malini. They are the women who made the choices no one else would, staining their souls to ensure their people’s survival. Clarke is the Wanheda (Commander of Death) in a world that has transcended death; Malini is a ruler of fire in a kingdom that needs peace. They are defined by the fire they wielded, and it leaves them scarred and separate from the very people they saved. Their tragedy is that they were so good at surviving the war that they nearly forgot how to live in the peace they created.

The Human Anchor

This is where the concept of an “anchor” becomes the only thing that saves these characters from total dissolution. Without a human anchor, these leaders would just drift into the divine or the monstrous. For Malini and Priya, their connection at that quiet lake is the mortal space where they are allowed to be just themselves, away from the spirits and the crown. Their love isn't just a romance; it is a refuge from the weight of their crowns and the expectations of their subjects. Priya is the home Malini finally allows herself to have.

For Clarke, the anchor arrives in the final scene on a beach. Just as she is about to accept that she will live out her days in solitude, she finds that her core friends - the very people for whom she fought - voluntarily descended from paradise. They gave up immortality to grow old and die with her. Their return is the ultimate “thank you” for her sacrifice. They are telling her that they know she had to stay behind so they could go forward but they would rather be in the wreckage with her than in heaven without her. They choose dirt and mortality over the light, just to keep her from being alone.

The Anatomy of a Bittersweet Reward

We call this a reward because for a hero who has been a weapon for too long, the greatest gift isn’t “happily ever after” - it is the right to stop fighting. It is the transition from being a savior to being… normal (sortuv).

By keeping their memories and their finite lives, these characters attempt to reclaim the humanity they sacrificed to win their respective wars. They choose the messy, painful, beautiful reality of mortal life. In the end, the individual conflicts between their pasts and futures are a tie. They are all free. They still carry the weight of the past, but they carry it in the company of the only people who truly know who they are. They aren’t the ones who burn the world anymore; they are finally allowed to live in it.

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I recently unfollowed someone on Instagram. (oooooooohh!!)

It wasn’t a dramatic exit. There were no grand speeches, no burning of bridges in real time. Just my finger hovering over a button, a moment of hesitation, and then the digital severance. They had been posting sporadically for a while, but every time they did, it was a fresh volley of anti-Muslim content. Memes disguised as “questions.” Vids stripped of context but heavy with implication. The kind of rhetoric that doesn’t just disagree with policy but seems to take joy in the dehumanization of people who look like me, pray like me, and share my name.

The Banality of the Heel Turn

What made it jarring wasn’t simply the content; it was the source. This person isn’t a stranger. We worked together years ago. They are intelligent, well-traveled, and have spent significant time in the Middle East, India, and Southeast Asia. They’ve seen the richness of the religions and cultures they now seem to resent. They aren’t someone I would have pegged as easily recruited by the MAGA-adjacent, bigoted machinery that churns out this stuff by the gigabyte.

And yet, there it was. A slow, steady heel turn into Islamophobia.

I’ve been thinking about the “why” of it. In my post about The Phantom Menace, I wrote about how the most nefarious ends are often hidden behind boring headlines - how monsters hide in trade ledgers rather than marching in dramatic, sweeping black capes. Maybe the same is true for micro-radicalization. Maybe it doesn’t start with a burning cross or a hate crime. Perhaps it starts with a quiet grievance, a sense of economic or cultural displacement, and an algorithm that feeds you just enough outrage to keep you clicking until you wake up five years later hating people you once worked alongside.

I’m Exhausted of this Script

I thought about reaching out. I drafted a message in my head a dozen times. ”Hey, I’ve seen your posts lately. Is everything okay? This doesn’t seem like you.”

But then I played out the inevitable script. Their defensiveness: “No, I’m not a bigot. I’m just asking questions! Why is everyone so sensitive?” And then my own reactionary defensiveness rising to meet it: “Don’t you see what you’re espousing? Don’t you see how this hurts actual people?”

It would be a tennis match of talking past each other, a draining exchange where the only winner is the algorithm that keeps us both engaged. I realized I didn’t have the energy for it. Work, Family… I don’t have the bandwidth to be a one-man de-radicalization committee for someone I haven’t spoken to in years.

So I clicked.

This makes two people I’ve cut off in the past six months. It’s not a habit I wear proudly. I’ve always prided myself on being the guy who keeps the door open, the one who believes in “Adda” (sprawling conversations) and welcoming the stranger. I believe in the friction of differing views. I think my daughter needs to see a world where people can disagree without disappearing.

The Micro-Grief of the Digital Age

But there is a line where “differing views” curdles into something that denies my humanity. Even after that line is well crossed, the grief of cutting someone off is still real. It’s a sadness that feels disproportionate to the medium. After all, it’s just Instagram or Facebook. It’s just pixels. But these were people I knew in real life. They were good people, or at least, I thought they were. To see them reshaped by a political machine into something unrecognizable feels like a specific kind of loss - a death of the person they used to be, even if they are still physically here.

One of the most admired, progressive people in my extended circle once admitted to me that their views weren’t always so progressive or admirable. They grew up in a conservative religious environment with little exposure to people of different faiths or sexualities. When they got to college, they met different people and there were those who patiently helped them see the light, so to speak. I imagine it was a process, not a sudden awakening.

I sometimes think about the people who took the time to talk it out with that friend. I feel a lot of gratitude that they did. What if they hadn’t? What if they had written them off? Was it frustrating to make the same arguments, the same points to a new person? And then, presumably, another and another and another. Did they see the seed of some curiosity, some openness in that friend that they didn’t see in others whom they didn’t waste their energy on? And, to give due kudos, how admirable was it of that friend to listen and begin to change their old views.

As I looked at my former colleague's profile, I searched for that same spark - the small seed of curiosity that makes the labor of dialogue worth the cost. I found only the cold certainty of dogma.

A Fortress of Differing Ideas?

We talk a lot about polarization in the USA as a macro problem. We argue about election results, Supreme Court rulings, and the state of democracy. But we don’t talk enough about the micro-griefs. The quiet funerals we hold in our pockets when we realize that a cousin, a former colleague, or an old friend has walked into a fog we can’t follow them into.

In Bengali culture, the mantra of “Lok ki bolbe” (“What will people think?”) hangs heavy over almost everything. It’s a mechanism of social control, a way to keep the circle tight. But there’s another side to it: a deep, cultural aversion to cutting ties. Family is family. Friends are friends. You endure. You tolerate. It’s hard but there can be wisdom in that discomfort.

But tolerance has a cost. And sometimes, the cost is your own peace.

I don’t think unfollowing these people will change the world. They probably won’t even notice. But for me, it was an act of boundary-setting. It was a declaration that the Fortress I’m building for my daughter has walls, and those walls exist to keep out the things that would poison her spirit before she’s old enough to understand them.

It’s a messy, imperfect solution. I’m not sure how much I’m protecting myself versus just hiding. Maybe it’s both. But as I sit here in the quiet of my basement, listening to the hum of the dryer and the distant sound of traffic, I feel a strange mix of relief and sorrow. Relief that the noise has stopped. Sorrow that it had to come to this.

Not everyone we once knew is capable of finding their way back to the light. Some might. Some might not. And in this case, I’m okay with not being the one to drag them there.

For now, the silence is enough.

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Over the years, I have heard of the Islamic Sufi scholar Al-Ghazali, who lived nearly a thousand years ago. He had everything anyone might want - certainty, influence, and a substantial public life - and yet, he collapsed. He quite literally lost his voice. He had to walk away from everything to find his soul again.

Knowing that someone like him broke down makes my own exhaustion and disillusionment feel less like a failure and more like a rite of passage. It has given me a strange kind of hope, even though I’m still standing in the middle of the “not knowing.”

The Soul as a Living Thing

I’ve begun to realize that I was treating my faith like a machine to be serviced, rather than a living being to be nurtured. I’ve started to lean into this idea Al-Ghazali mentions: that the self is like a riding animal. For years, I’ve been a cruel rider. I’ve demanded a constant gallop, never checking to see if the animal was thirsty or if its legs were shaking.

Now, I am trying to be gentle. I am learning that the soul has rights. It’s not easy.

This hasn’t meant doubling my prayers or reading more books. In fact, it has meant the opposite. It has meant leaning into the “Mercy of the Minimum.” I’m trying to strip away the extra layers of guilt and the self-imposed “shoulds.” I am focusing on just the essentials, doing them slowly, and giving myself permission to still be tired afterward. It’s a quiet, tentative peace - the peace of a rider who has finally hopped off the horse to walk beside it for a while.

The Heart is a Mirror, Not a Light

One thought I’ve been carrying with me is Al-Ghazali’s idea of the image of the heart as a mirror. I used to think I had to produce the light myself. I thought if I didn’t feel a spiritual “glow,” it was because I wasn’t “on” enough.

But if the heart is a mirror, then the light was never mine to begin with. The light is already there, shining from a source far greater than me. My only job isn’t to create the light, but to gently wipe away the dust that keeps me from seeing it. Some days, the dust is thick. Some days, I’m too tired to even pick up the cloth. And I’m starting to be okay with that. The sun doesn’t stop shining just because my mirror is cloudy. The Mercy is there whether I can see it or not.

At Peace with the Fog

I used to be terrified of the silence. I used to think that if I didn’t have an immediate answer or a profound feeling, I was losing my way. But Al-Ghazali’s journey suggests that the silence is where the real work happens. It’s the “winter” of the soul, where everything looks dead on the surface but something deep is shifting underground.

I don’t have the “Alchemy” figured out yet. I haven’t transformed my leaden heart into gold. But for the first time, I am not trying to rush the process. I am at peace with not knowing the final destination, because I’ve realized that the path itself is made of Mercy.

I am still searching, and I am still tired; so damn tired. But there is a quiet hope now. It’s the hope that comes from realizing I don’t have to carry the world on my shoulders. I am just a traveler, and for today, simply being on the path - even if I’m sitting down for a rest - is enough.

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Imagine being a king. Imagine being a man so powerful that your name is synonymous with the word “mighty” for three thousand years. Then, imagine losing it all to a rabbit who was just trying to land a joke about a guy in a deerstalker hat. This is the story of Nimrod - the king who became a punchline - and how a cartoon rabbit successfully committed the greatest identity theft in history.

The Original Titan

In the world of the Old Testament, specifically Genesis 10, there is a man named Nimrod. He was the son of Cush, the great-grandson of Noah, and a figure of monumental prowess. The Bible describes him as “a mighty hunter before the Lord.” For millennia, if you called someone a Nimrod, you were comparing them to a titan - a king who built empires in Shinar and Assyria.

Fast forward to these United States of Amurrica. If you call someone a “nimrod,” you are calling them a moron. You are saying they are a “knucklehead,” or a “dolt.”

How did one of the history’s great alpha’s become history’s biggest loser? The answer involves a sarcastic rabbit and the sheer, overwhelming power of Saturday morning cartoons.

The Bugs Bunny “Irony Gap”

The linguistic pivot happened in the mid-20th century, courtesy of Looney Tunes. Bugs Bunny, a character defined by his wit and meta-commentary, frequently referred to his antagonist, Elmer Fudd, as a “nimrod.”

Bugs was being ironic. He was mocking Fudd’s total incompetence as a hunter by comparing him to the greatest hunter in the history of civilization. It was a high-level joke - the 1950s equivalent of calling a slow runner “Usain Bolt.”

The problem? The audience was mostly children. These kids understood the context - Bugs was making fun of Elmer - but they didn’t know the source material. They didn’t see the irony; they saw a brand-new label for a dummy. Within a single generation, the “mighty hunter” was erased, replaced by the image of a bumbling man with a double-barrel shotgun.

Growing up, I also loved Looney Tunes, as most kids do. In the eternal battles of Bugs Bunny vs Elmer Fudd, the great Rabbit calling his nemesis a “nimrod” wasn’t anything to view askew. I knew that nimrod mean eediot. And being Muslim, I would never have read about the original Nimrod. But later on, in the 90’s X-Men cartoons, I was introduced to a time-travelling robot hunter named Nimrod. “Why would the X-Men cartoons name a character a moron?” I thought. Clearly this Nimrod was a feared hunter. Will the real Nimrod please stand up?

The Powerless Pew

There is a fascinating irony here. Mid-century America is often portrayed as a time when the Bible was the undisputed foundation of the home. But even the most well-meaning, Bible-reading parents were effectively powerless against the “Nimrod Effect.”1

Imagine a father in 1955 trying to correct his son: “Actually, Jimmy, Nimrod was a mighty king in Genesis.” It wouldn’t have mattered. Once a word becomes a playground insult, its etymology is irrelevant. In the battle between a 3,000-year-old genealogical table and a wisecracking rabbit, the rabbit wins every time.

It shows that pop culture acts as a more efficient catechism than formal education. It uses humor and repetition to overwrite tradition in a way that “study” simply can’t match. Even if you knew your Bible cover-to-cover, you couldn’t stop the rest of the country from turning your “mighty hunter” into a punchline. The Looney Tunes were simply too big to fail.

The New Catechism

Today, the rebrand is complete. Most people are “nimrods” in the Bugs Bunny sense - confident in their language but totally disconnected from its origins. It serves as a reminder that a culture’s “source material” is always in competition with its entertainment.

The king of Shinar was powerful, but he was no match for a rabbit with a carrot and a sharp tongue. In the end, the Bible provided the name, but Bugs Bunny provided the connotation. And in the American lexicon, connotation is usually decided by whoever makes us laugh the loudest.

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I recently finished W. Somerset Maugham’s magnum opus, Of Human Bondage, and found an interesting parallel in the journey of Philip Carey, the wanton protagonist of the story. Carey is raised in the cold, precise rectory of Blackstable by his uncle, the Vicar of Blackstable, whose religion was more a matter of social propriety than shepherding souls. His religious inheritance is a stick-frame house already hammered together. For the Vicar, the forms of the church were the primary reality, and it was just assumed that the internal presence of God would inherently flow from external rituals. Just as Carey eventually found that his rigid, inherited framework could not withstand the pressures of the wider world, many in the diaspora find that a faith built on cultural memory alone eventually collapses under the weight of secularity’s onslaught.

The Language of the Heart

For Philip, the bondage of his youth was not just the existence of a God who never answered his prayers, but the suffocating, small-minded morality of the parish. This difficulty still hits today as it translates to the steadfast refusal of some to find adaptations for religion in the modern world. When faith is reduced to checklists of permissions and prohibitions, the framework ceases to be a support system and become a series of chains. We find ourselves trapped in a structure where old-world cultural norms play too large a role, and where interpretations of the Qur’an and Sunnah are gatekept in way that feels increasingly disconnected from our lived reality. This legalistic nature acts as a barrier to the Divine; it demands that we prioritize the “forms” over the “feelings”, until the presence of God is buried under a mountain of cultural expectations.

A significant part of Islamic bondage is the refusal to decouple the message from the medium. We are conditioned to believe that in order to understand the Almighty, we must look through a specific, Middle Eastern-centric lens. This makes a kind of sense - after all, Islam originated in Arabia. But even in Arabic, the Qur’an is translated from the mind of God into the languages of Men. Everyone deserves to understand the word of God in the language they speak in their heart.1 When we ignore this, when we give greater credence to the Middle Eastern voice, we treat the Word of God as a regional framework rather than a universal truth. For the believer in the West, this creates a troubling disconnect. Some blindly accept this framing, while others rebel so fiercely that they leave the faith altogether.

The Peace-Maker’s Pattern

Towards the end of the the book, Carey eventually finds an interesting meaning in the example of a gifted Persian rug. He concludes that life has no inherent meaning other than the complexity of the pattern one chooses to weave. While Philip used this to justify an aesthetic atheism, those of us in the “third way” can use it to find a more authentic peace. Making peace with faith in the West requires us to become the weavers of our own internal frameworks. It means recognizing that the “mind of God” is too vast to be contained by any single cultural vessel or any rigid, 7th-century social script. It requires the courage to say that while the traditional heritage of Islam is a beautiful thread, it is not the entire loom.

I believe we must move past the “proxy faith” of our elders and the “bondage” of nit-picky legalism to build a sanctuary that makes sense in our own lives. We shall no longer pray because of a social habit or a fear of the Haram checklist. We pray because we have looked at the vacuum of the modern world and decided to fill it with a particular, chosen meaning. When we stand in the West and choose to remember Allah in the language of our heart, we are not just following an old script. We are building the framework of our own souls, weaving a pattern that justifies itself not by a tradition we were forced to carry, but by the very act of its creation. Faith is no longer a de facto fait accompli; it is a masterpiece of the will.

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Gardner claims he can solve it. As the taxi weaves through San Francisco’s streets, the camera cuts between Gardner’s intense focus and the click-clacking of the plastic blocks. Just as they reach their destination, Gardner finishes the cube! All the colors are perfectly aligned. Twistle is flabbergasted. In that moment, Gardner is no longer solely a struggling salesman; he is a candidate with immense potential. The “magic” hath happenedeth.

It is a great cinematic moment. It is also a lie.

The Myth of the “Natural”

The lie is the idea that solving a Rubik’s Cube is a tell for natural-born genius. In the movie, the cube serves as a visual shorthand to tell moviegoers that Gardner is a prodigy. We are supposed to believe that because he is “naturally” smart enough to solve a 43-quintillion combination puzzle on his first try, that genius will translate to success in the high-stakes world of high finance.

This narrative is comforting because it turns success into destiny. Hollywood loves the “Natural” because the natural is dramatic. It is far more exciting to watch a man solve a 43-quintillion combination puzzle (worth stating the number twice in one article, I think!) in a three-minute taxicab ride that it is to watch him sit at a kitchen table for eight hours/day reading manuals and textbooks. But this framing is a trap. By portraying proficiency as a “gift” that some people just have, we ignore the reality of Craft.

When we treat intelligence as a mysterious, innate, cosmic force, we fundamentally misunderstand that Excellence is achieved through hard work, through the Grind. We trade the reality of that Grind for the fantasy of the breakthrough.

Excellence is a Choice

In the real world, the Rubik’s cube is not solved through flashes of genius. (How many combinations does it have again?). It is solved through algorithms.

To solve the cube, you do not need a high IQ; you just need the patience and fortitude to memorize a series of systems. It is the process of learning specific sequences of moves that manipulate certain pieces without messing up the rest of the puzzle. Whether it is the Layer-by-Layer method used by beginners such as myself or the Cross method used by the more seasoned, it is a mechanical skill. Anyone with average intellectual ability and a browser pointing to ruwix.com can learn to solve the cube in a few hours of focused effort.

The achievement is not marked by being smart. The achievement is having the discipline to sit with the initial chaos and trust the system until it resolves into order. Proficiency is a choice to endure confusion until the patterns become clear. It is a microcosm of professional (or even athletic) skill: you learn the rules, you train the movements, and you repeat over and over and over until they become second nature. And over.

I didn’t grow up going to garbas and playing dandiya Raas. The first time I heard of Raas was in college. After I found myself as part of Pitt’s Raas Chaos team my senior year of college (most likely because I just showed up to auditions), I would literally sit on my bed in my apt and manual move the dandiya through my fingers until I could twirl it without thinking. This was especially critical for my right-hand since I’m a lefty. I was never the strongest on my team, but being part of Pitt’s 2nd-place finish at the Raas Chaos competition at GWU in November 2002 is still a fond memory.

The Copout of the “Genius” Label

But why do people lap up the “Genius” narrative if it is actually inaccurate. Because it protects our ego.

If we believe that solving the cube (or becoming a successful stockbroker, or twirling a dandiya at a competition) requires a “special” persona, then we have a built-in excuse for not doing those things ourselves. We can look at someone else’s success and say, “Well, shucks, I just ain’t Chris Gardner (or Will Smith), so there’s no way I could do what he did.”

The “Genius” myth is a copout. It allows us to avoid the Grind. If success is actually just about doing the boring work - learning the algorithms of a new industry or making extra phone calls or practicing a skill until it become muscle memory - then we are responsible for our own lack of achievement or proficiency. If greatness is a gift, we are let off the hook. But if greatness is a Craft, then our lack of it is a reflection of our own lack of effort.

Systems vs Sparks

The Cube Lie extends beyond the movie theatre. We see it in how we discuss techmology, leadership, even parenting. We look for the “spark” of innovation instead of the “system” of execution.

In the corpy world, for example, we look for the “rockstar” who can solve a crisis with a brilliant insight. But the most successful initiatives are usually the result of people who have honed their skills in communication, risk management, and iterative progress over years and years of project work.

When we value the spark over the system, we create a culture that waits for heroes instead of training practitioners. We wait for the taxicab ride where we can show off, rather than noticing the quiet hours where we actually learn the moves.

The Pursuing of Pursuits

According to the Googles, the real Chris Gardner did not solve a Rubik’s Cube to get his chance at the bigtime. He got his chance because he out-worked everyone else in the room. In his memoir, he describes a life that was far less about magic and far more about the Grind. He made more calls, stayed later, and studied harder than the interns who had the luxury of stables home and Ivy League degrees.

The move title uses the word Pursuit, which implies a chase, a struggle, a sustained effort over time. But by inserting a magic moment like the Rubik’s Cube solve, the film briefly stops being about pursuit and becomes a “chosen one” story. It suggests that Gardner was always destined for success because of his natural ability.

I think the real story is much more impressive and inspirational - a man who was not a natural at Finance but became a Master through relentless effort. He learned the algorithms of the market the same way anyone learns the Rubik’s Cube - one layer at a time.

Solving Your Own Cube

Most pursuits in life, like the Rubik’s Cube, require far more hard work than natural talent to achieve excellence. We look at the jumbled cubes in our lives, our careers, our personal goals, our relationships… and we wait for a moment of “inspiration” to strike. Like lightning.

But life doesn’t work like 1980’s taxicab montages. There are no shortcuts that bypass the need for repetition and study. Life is about finding the right algorithms, practicing the moves, and having the discipline and intestinal fortitude to keep twisting the layers until the chaos resolves into order and success.

If you want to solve the cube, stop looking for the magic moment. Start learning the moves. The pursuit is about being willing to work until you find happyness.

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It is in the fourth book, Tehanu, written 16 years after The Farthest Shore, where Le Guin shifts the definition of agency from the “high” power of the wizard (mage) to the “deep” power of the home and hearth. This is not a story of conquest, but an exercise in how a woman and a child build a fortress from the ruins of trauma and societal neglect. (It is one of the few books I would give a 10/10).

The Domestic as a Bastion: Choosing the Fortress

For the central character, Tenar, agency is initially defined by her rejection of the “High Deeds” of men. Having escaped the suffocating, soul-crushing silence of the her role as High Priestess of the Tombs of Atuan, she does not seek the glitz and glamor of Havnor, the capital of the archipelago; nor does she choose to study the seductive powers of magic. Instead, she chooses dirt, goats, and the hard life of a farm woman on the island of Gont. To the wizards of Earthsea, this looks like a retreat, a women shrinking when faced by the prospect of “greatness”. To Tenar, it is a radical act meant to fortify her own agency and expand her world past the world of the mages.

The framework of Tenar’s healing is built on the repetitive, grounding acts of domestic life. In a world where men use “Naming” to control nature, Tenar uses “Doing” to inhabit it. There is an immense and satisfying agency in the making of bread, the mending of wool, and the tending of a garden. These are the acts that sustain life while the wizards are busy debating the metaphysics of it. By choosing the role of a farm woman, Tenar asserts that her life belongs to her alone, independent of the great myths and tidings of Earthsea.

Therru: Agency from the Ashes

If Tenar’s agency is about her choice to walk away from magic, the character of Therru’s agency existing in mere survival and the simple act of taking up space. Therru is a child who has been literally and figuratively discarded - thrown into a fire by those who should have protected her. She enters the story as the personification of pure trauma, a “burnt child” who exists on the absolute margins of a patriarchal society that views her as broken and unmendable.

The framework of Therru’s healing is slow and agonizing. Her agency does not come from a magical restoration of her sight or her skin; Le Guin deliberately refuses to “fix” her with a spell. However, every time she chooses to speak (however seldom) in her raspy broken voice, to walk into the village, or to trust Tenar, she is rebuilding her shattered life.

Her silence is not a lack of power, but a protective cocoon. When she eventually speaks her True name - Tehanu - it is not a gift granted by a mage like Ged, she finds her power by connecting her suffering to the “Old Powers of the Earth,” proving that the victim’s voice can carry more weight than the Archmage’s staff.

The Collapse of the Heroic Pedestal

The arrival of Ged - broken, powerless, and stripped of his Archmage status - serves as the ultimate test for the two women’s frameworks of healing. In the old Earthsea, Ged was the center of the world’s agency. In Tehanu, for much of the book, he barely wants to go on, sleepwalking through his life, prodded by events and finally by Tenar.

Ged’s struggle is that of a man who must find himself, his agency, without the awe-inspiring power and authority he once commanded. He has spent his life as a “Doer” of great things; now, he must learn the agency of “Being”, of “Existing” simply for the sake of existing. He must learn to be a man who chops wood, who cares for a child, and who accepts the protection of a woman.

The framework for Ged’s healing also rests in his newfound (and long overdue) relationship with Tenar, a partnership based on vulnerability rather than hierarchy. By stripping Ged of his magic, Le Guin forces him to build a new self-image that is not dependent on being “the best” or “the only.” His agency is reclaimed only when he stops trying to be a hero and starts trying to be a human.

The Confrontation with False Power

The villain of the book, the wizard Aspen, represents the antithesis of this healing framework. Aspen has all the traditional powers of a mage: he has spells, he has status, and he has the “authority” of Roke, the island where wizards are trained. Yet, his power is entirely parasitic and misogynistic. He uses his magic to diminish Tenar, to mock her “ordinariness,” and to attempt to strip her of her speech.

The conflict between Tenar and Aspen is a battle between two different types of agency. Aspen’s agency comes from the will to dominate life - to bind and break. Tenar’s agency is the ability to remain whole despite the binding. When Aspen tries to curse her, he fails not because Tenar has a stronger spell, but because he fundamentally cannot understand that a soul that may not place value in that which he himself values. He cannot name her because she has already named herself through her work and her love for Therru.

The Old Powers and the Dragon

The climax of the book, involving the dragon Kalessin, serves as the final stone in these frameworks of healing. The dragon does not come to save a damsel-in-distress or to reward a HERO®. It comes because of the kinship between the child and the dragon - a bridge between the human and the ancient, primal world.

In this moment, the agency of the (so-called) meek is vindicated. The wizards of Roke are left behind, staring at the sky, while the woman and child engage in a conversation with the oldest force in the world. The healing is complete when the framework of the hearth is expanded to include the entire sky.

Conclusion: The Strength of the Hearth

Ultimately, Tehanu argues that true agency is found in the places the world deems “unimportant” and “mundane”. It is found in the endurance of the survivor, the labor of the caretaker, and the silence of the broken. Le Guin reminds us that while the old world may eventually perish in the fires of industry, the hearth, tended by those with the courage to heal slowly and fitfully, is the true center of the world.

Agency is not just the power to change the world; it is the power to remain yourself within it. For Tenar and Tehanu, that is the most difficult, and most beautiful, framework of all.

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It’s the oldest song in the book, and frankly, the remix is sooo tired. From YouTube vids to Tiktok to newspaper editorial pages, previous generations of men - the Silents, the Greatests, the Boomers, and even the early Gen X’ers - have made hay by criticizing the men who have come after them.

The modern, younger man is “soft.” He is “overly sensitive.” He spends too much time staring at screens and not enough time fixing carburetors or, presumably, winning world wars. The common refrain is that true masculinity has eroded, leaving behind a generation of fragile, effeminate shadows of their fathers.

But before we internalize this critique, we need to realize that this “crisis of manhood” is a historical broken record.

5,000 Years of “Back in my day…”

This isn’t a modern phenomenon; it’s an ancient tradition of insecurity. Thousands of years ago, the Sumerians and Babylonians scribbled on clay tablets about the “rotten, godless, and lazy” youth of their day.

In Ancient Greece, the critiques were more artistic but no less cringe-inducing. Plato was clear in The Republic, grumbling that in a declining society, the “young man is just as good as his elder” and that fathers begin to fear their sons because they lack “proper” restraint. Even the Roman poet Horace complained in 20 BC that “our fathers, viler than our grandfathers, have begotten us who are even more unrighteous.”

For five millennia, the “hard” men of the past have looked at their sons and seen a decline. Yet, civilization is still here. The only thing that has actually “declined” is the specific brand of rigidity each generation mistakes for strength.

The Comfort of the Domain Clash

The defining dynamic of previous generations of men was their dogged commitment to domestic ineptitude. The script was simple: Men worked in the public sphere (the domain of “important things”), and women managed the private sphere (the domain of cooking, cleaning, child-rearing, and emotional support).

This was a profoundly comfortable arrangement for men. They could claim “leadership” while simultaneously abdicating responsibilities.

The Greatest Generation and the early Boomers were not “equal partners.” To be an equal partner means that when the work outside ends, the work inside begins together. It is to recognize that the work of the private sphere was indeed work of its own, worthy of as much respect as work of the public sphere.

Instead, for these critics, “fatherhood” was often defined by its absence. A father was a distant provider, a disciplinarian, an authority figure who emerged from behind the newspaper only to settle disputes.

When these men critique younger men for valuing “work-life balance,” they aren’t critiquing a lack of ambition. They are critiquing a refusal to inherit their negligence. They are criticizing the fact that younger men look at their corporate bosses and say, “I won’t let your deadlines erase my presence in my daughter’s life.”

Even when the motivation was not overtly chauvanistic, adhering to a traditional definition of masculinity is inherently brittle. Allow me a story about my father. Now, I loved my father and I will always miss that he never had an opportunity to know his fourth grandchild. He did the best he could, which is all that we can reasonably ask. But my mom once told a story wherein she asked my father to get a bottle of milk ready for one of us. He responded that he didn’t know how to do that.

Understand that this was a man of the highest intellect; a man who could argue anyone to almost any conclusion in his day. He wasn’t even a stranger to the kitchen either. My father was the one who first took me through cooking a chicken curry (with deshi aromatics & spices, with some split peas and potatoes). Yet he froze at (or fobbed off) the idea of simply pouring milk into a saucepan and warming it up over the stove, then pouring it into a bottle. And I don’t think he ever changed a dirty diaper.

The Fragility of the Alpha-Male Protector Performance

The critique of modern “weak” masculinity heavily relies on the image of the “physically dominant protector.” In this myth, traditional masculinity is about muscle, grit, and defending the citadel against an external enemy.

While physical courage is admirable, it is also episodic. True strength - resilient strength - is enduring. And nothing reveals the fragility of traditional masculinity like being asked to nurture a sick child, soothe a grieving teenager, or honestly navigate a complex emotional conflict with a spouse.

Many of the old guard didn’t engage in these tasks because they deemed them “women’s work,” but perhaps the deeper reason was that they were too difficult. They lacked the emotional stamina, the patience, and the vulnerability required for genuine connection. It is far easier to win a corporate negotiation than it is to de-escalate a toddler’s meltdown or honestly tell your partner, “I am afraid.”

This is where the hypocrisy becomes deafening. The generation that claims younger men are “sensitive” and “weak” is the same generation that was absolutely terrorized by their own feelings, viewing any emotional display other than anger as a threat to their masculine performance. True toughness isn’t suppressing your emotions; it is mastering them so you can be a rock for your family, not a roadblock.

A Softer, But Far More Resilient, Strength

Thus, the thesis of modern fatherhood: The definition of true masculinity must expand. We reject the zero-sum game that claims care is incompatible with strength.

The standard of manhood should not be: Can you throw a punch? The standard should be: Are you a safe, nurturing harbor for the people you claim to love?

• True masculinity is nurturing: It is realizing that bathing your child, making dinner, and managing household cleaning are not tasks you “help” with; they are the shared bedrock of a functioning family and a loving partnership. (Wifey, if you're reading this, I swear I'm doing my best!;)

• True masculinity is sensitive: It is possessing the emotional intelligence to sense tension, validate feelings, and connect with your spouse and children at a deep, human level.

• True masculinity is building: It is using your ambition not just to amass personal status, but to actively construct a life that is softer, more connected, and more sustainable than the one you inherited. It is choosing presence over prestige.

The next time an elder looks down their nose and makes a comment about the “softness” of modern men, remember the image at the top of the post. On the left - remember the sterile, unapproachable “leadership” that past generations of men. Then look at the image on the right - at the messy, complex, collaborative, and joyful reality of modern, involved fatherhood.

The critics of yesterday aren’t criticizing weakness. They are witnessing the birth of a masculinity that is far stronger and far more resilient than they ever dared to be. We aren’t going backward; we are building a foundation that will actually hold.

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The Whimsical Detour of 2006

Looking back at that 2006 Eid, I can still feel the cold London air and the energy of the morning. I walked down the Maida Vale, following a stream of brothers in festive attire. I knew there was a mosque a few blocks away from my flat:

I went in and sat down and they were doing the normal chanting before prayer starts. Then everyone got up to start prayer and each person placed a small rectangular flat stone in front of him/her. There were a few in a bookshelf type thing so I took one and did the same, thinking oh well maybe this is to mark personal space or something. Then the prayer started and the imam (who was wearing a turban?) did the opening “Allahu akbar”. In our ‘normal’ Eid prayer, they do that like 5-7 of those in a row and between each, most people let their hands drop to the side. This time, they only did one and then started Al-Fatiha and everyone kept their hands down by their sides. d’oh!! Then the mass chanting starting. [Read the rest at Jollybengali.net]

The realization hit me: I was in a Shi’a mosque.

At the age of 26, my world was much smaller. I remember a flash of genuine confusion, followed by a wave of sheepish amusement and not a little fear. I was a Sunni guy who had accidentally “crashed” a Shi’a congregation. I spent half the prayer wondering if I had committed a major social faux pas and the other half trying to mimic the differences in the rhythm of the movements as quickly as they happened. There was something undeniably funny about the situation - me, the guy trying so hard to understand the “stones” and history of London, couldn’t even find the “right” mosque.

But as the prayer ended and the hall filled with “Eid Mubarak,” I realized nobody noticed or cared. The confusion dissolved into a sense of shared warmth. I had expected tension and a barrier, but I found a mirror.

The Passage of Time: 2006 vs. 2026

Twenty years of Ramadans have passed since that morning. This past Saturday, as I celebrated Eid ul-Fitr 2026, the backdrop was no longer the Thames, but the Three Rivers of Pittsburgh.

The distance between these two Eids is measured in more than just miles. In 2006, I was a traveler; today, I am a husband and a father to a two-year-old daughter.

The restless, analytical energy that once drove my travels has been channeled into building a home. These days, I have a fantastic group of friends - something that eluded me in London - even if I don’t see them as much as I would like because my wife and daughter rightfully take precedence.

I still feel that old itch to live overseas again. The wanderlust hasn’t died; it has simply evolved. Back in London, I couldn’t have made a permanent life because I was essentially alone. Now, I know that as long as my wife and daughter are with me, we could make a life anywhere.

A Hard-Won Peace with Faith

Perhaps the most significant change since 2006 is the evolution of my faith. Back then, I had a lot of quarrels with Islam. I was exhausted by the nitpickiness of many Muslims and the intransigence that seemed to creep into the Deen. I couldn’t stand the obsession with the “correct” Islam and the rigid rules attached to every article of faith.

To be honest, I still can’t stand the nitpickiness. But I have finally made my peace with it. I’ve realized I can safely ignore the noise and find a version of faith that feels true to me. Over the past few years, I have developed a consistent habit of praying four to five times a day. It isn’t always on time, and it might not satisfy the critics, but it is mine. It is a grounding practice that provides a steady compass rather than a rigid cage.

The amusement I felt in 2006 has matured into a deep sense of peace. I can see the different traditions within Islam as a source of richness. (And if they run counter to the rigidity of the Wahhabification of the Muslim Ummah, all the better!) That accidental morning in London was actually a precursor to the way I live now: with a faith that is expansive but private and grounded. I have learned that the “wrong” mosque doesn’t exist when you are there for the right reasons.

The View from Pittsburgh

Celebrating Eid in Pittsburgh in 2026 feels like a culmination. As I look at the skyline - a city that, like me, has reinvented itself from an industrial past to a tech-driven future - I feel a profound sense of alignment.

I think back to that 2006 version of me, standing in a London street, staring at a stone and wondering what it was for. I want to tell him that he doesn’t need to decode all the markers to belong. The meaning isn’t in the clay or the specific architecture of a mosque; it is in the intention (niyyah نِيَّةٌ) of the heart and the people you share the day with.

Twenty years ago, I was lost in a Shi’a mosque in London. Today, I am exactly where I need to be in Pittsburgh. The “confusion” of the past was just the beginning of the clarity I feel now.

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Towards the end of J.R.R Tolkien’s The Hobbit, Thorin Oakenshield lies dying and says to Bilbo Baggins, “If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world.” It is a wonderful epiphany although it arrives only after the damage has been fully done.

In her brilliant analysis, Thorin Oakenshield and the Perils of Restored Authority, Genny Harrison argues that Thorin was undone not simply by a case of greed. Instead, his was the failure of a leader who believed his “legitimacy” was self-evident - that because he was the rightful heir to the Kingdom under the Mountain, Erebor, he did not need to adapt to present-day circumstances after returning to power. He was a man trying to overwrite a living world with a hollow and long-since perished world. He had no plan for governing after Smaug perished and his kingdom was restored, ie. what happens after “Happily Ever After”.

I recently learned of the sociological concept of Distinction pioneered by Pierre Bourdieu through the TikTok account of Rickie Ho. By combining Ho’s and Harrison’s analyses, we can paint a rather disturbingly accurate portrait of the modern Desi diasporic experience. For immigrant or American-born Bengalis and Desis, the struggle lies betwixt the “hoarded gold” of an inherited cultural status and the “food and cheer” of a life well-lived.

The Mechanics of Distinction

According to Ho, Bourdieu’s conception of Distinction is often described as the way we use taste and “legit” culture to signal placement within social hierarchies. It’s not just about what we dig, man; it is about using those preferences to exclude others.

In traditional, formal Western environs, Distinction might look like knowing which fork to use or preferring opera over pop. In the Bengali & South Asian diasporas, it is weaponized through the idea of “Authenticity”. It is the “Arkenstone” of the community - a shiny marker of legitimacy used to end all arguments. If you speak the language perfectly, if you eat with your (right) hand using the right technique, if you possess the right degrees, if - if - if, then you are “distinguished”. If you don’t, you are a lost and pitiable ABCD (American-Born Confused Desi) or a Coconut (Brown on the outside, White on the inside).

Thorin (bhai) in the Diaspora

Harrison writes that “institutions built around grievance often preserve the story of what was taken more carefully than they prepare for the reality of return.”

This is the central struggle of the Bengali-American experience. Many of our first families to arrive in the West (and especially in the USA after the lifting of immigration restrictions) did so after rather traumatic, to put it lightly, events - Partition, war, economic displacement. Like the Dwarves of Erebor, our “Kingdoms” survive in songs, plays, genealogies, and the repetition of a history of loss. We carry an “inherited authority” in our minds, a version of The Culture® that stopped changing the year that our parents or grandparents boarded a plane. (This is also true of those who later willingly immigrated for economic opportunities, not simply out of displacement).

The danger in Thorin’s plans, as Harrison identifies, is when we try to “restore” that authority without first “coming home” to see how circumstances in the motherland have truly changed. We see this when parents insist on cultural standards or restrictions in behavior, dress, identity, or expression that no longer exist in Kolkata or Dhaka. We see it when the “Bengali-ness” of our peers is judged based on how well they mimic a past they have never lived and only intermittently, if ever, glimpsed. We become culture warriors defending a ‘hoard’ of cultural capital rather than shepherding a living, breathing, changing, dynamic community.

The comedian Vir Das also touched on this topic in one of his specials:

“Your parents version of India does not exist. It’s archaic. It’s gone. ... Come home. Come home and witness modern India in all our chaos but also our infinitely larger beauty, come home. And if you’re not going to come home, never lecture us from abroad about what it means to be Indian!” - YouTube Shorts

“Dragon Sickness”

Thorin’s true “Dragon Sickness” was an inflexible, defensive personality, not simply a love for gold. He refused to recognize the claims of the people of Laketown - folks who had built lives in his and his kins’ absence and who had a real and tangible need for money and resources after supporting his assault to retake the mountain. It should be noted that Hobbits such as Bilbo weren’t affected by Dragon Sickness because of how much they valued home and hearth.

In our own lives, this sickness manifests itself as a refusal to acknowledge the reality of our present environment. When we prioritize “distinction” - the need to be seen as the proper (or “bhodro”) kind of South Asian - we ignore the actual needs of the people around us. We ignore, to the peril of all, the mental health struggles of our people because they don’t fit this “distinguished” narrative. We ignore the creative paths that don’t promise “hoarded gold”. In short, we buy into the Model Minority Myth.

Harrison writes, “The system recognizes only possession and defiance. Adaptation is treated as surrender.” This is the tragedy of the rigid immigrant household, or the gatekept community. To adapt to the “new world” is seen as a betrayal of the “Mountain.” But as Thorin eventually discovered, holding the mountain means nothing if you have burned every bridge just to get there.

A Jolly Bengali in a Bhodro (Proper) World

This is why the concept of A Jolly Bengali is more than just a catchy name for a nom de plume; it is my attempt to subvert both Thorin’s “restored authority” and Bourdieu’s “Distinction”.

To be “Jolly”, in a parent culture that deifies propriety, is to choose “food and cheer and song” while we are still alive to enjoy such things. It is a declaration that my culture is not a hoard to be guarded, but a meal to be shared. Value, culturally, comes in how we adapt our inheritance to make the world better, or merrier.

Beyond the Mountain

Harrison concludes that Thorin’s arc endures because it shows how easily and willingly we are led to the same slaughter time and again. I see it with new immigrants who come to this country years after my family did and think that they can do things “better” than the poor sods, like us, who have gone “native” in Amrika. They will attempt to move forward, “dignified, convinced and certain”, only to lament the damage once it is done; just as my family has done. Only time and tide will begin to heal those wounds and then the cycle will repeat with another batch.

But we do have a choice. We can be like Thorin, slavishly devoted to a legacy that demands that we remain unchanged and exclusionary. Or we can heed his final words. We can realize that the gold - the status, the distinction, the authenticity - is naught but hollow and ash. It doesn’t rebuild lives. It doesn’t sustain us.

The throughline is clear - Authority without self-reflection is just a fancy name for blindness. Let’s value the song and food over the hoard.

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The world is a jagged, unforgiving place. To walk through life in the modern era is to navigate a minefield of “bad actors,” systemic ugliness, and the exhausting weight of a 24-hour news cycle that feels like a slow-motion car crash. It is easy - perhaps even seductive - to adopt a posture of cynicism. We call it “realism” to protect ourselves. We believe that by keeping our heads down and our hearts guarded, we are somehow better equipped to handle the chaos.

But if we allow this darkness to be the only lens through which we view our existence, we surrender the very thing that makes being human worthwhile: the electricity of the present moment. Life is far too short for the “Bhadralok” or Stiff-Upper-Lip brand of stoicism - that joyless reserve that demands we treat victory like a business transaction and life like a series of grim obligations.

The “Act Like You’ve Been There Before” Fallacy

We see this joyless spirit most clearly in the ethos of traditional American baseball, a sport often suffocated by its own “unwritten rules.” For decades, the baseball establishment has preached a gospel of restraint. The mantra “act like you’ve been there before” is used as a cudgel to beat the personality out of the game. If you hit a walk-off home run, you are expected to trot the bases with the emotional range of a man filing his taxes. To flip your bat is a sin; to scream with delight is “disrespecting the game.”

This attitude isn’t just boring - it’s a rejection of life itself. It assumes that the thrill of victory is something to be managed rather than felt. Contrast this with the 2026 World Baseball Classic. While the rest of the world treated the tournament like a global block party, Team USA treated it like a skirmish. We saw players refusing to shake hands with club teammates because they were now the “enemy.” We saw pre-game speeches from Navy SEALs and “Front Toward Enemy” shirts hidden under jerseys.

This isn’t “business-like” - it’s a comically vapid brand of militaristic cosplay. When Bryce Harper tied the final with a dramatic home run, he didn’t celebrate with the unbridled ecstasy of a kid in a sandlot; he gave a military salute and pointed to the flag patch on his shoulder. It felt less like a sport and more like a recruitment ad. In a tournament designed to celebrate a global pastime, the US stood alone, masquerading as toy soldiers while everyone else was having fun. Venezuela played with a literal drum in the dugout, turning every base hit into a street party. The Italians reached the semi-finals fueled by underdog spirit and espresso. They didn’t act like they’d been there before; they acted like they were alive, right then, in that fleeting second of glory.

The Bad Bunny Lesson: Joy as a Radical Act

This celebratory spirit isn’t limited to the diamond. Look at Bad Bunny’s Superbowl halftime show. Amidst the high-pressure, billion-dollar machinery of the NFL, he brought a vibrant, unapologetic (but symbol-filled) energy that felt like a street party in San Juan. He didn’t come to “perform a duty”; he came to manifest joy.

Bad Bunny’s performance represents a vital truth: joy is a radical departure from the pessimism-disguised-as-realism that so many fall prey to. In every endeavor of life - whether you are coding a new app, leading a Scrum team through a difficult sprint, or simply cooking a meal for your family - there is a choice. You can approach the task with a dour, “workhorse” mentality, or you can infuse it with the “upbeat.”

The pessimist says, “Why celebrate? The world is still burning.” The realist (the true realist) says, “Because the world is burning, the celebration is the only thing that matters.” Joy is not a denial of the ugliness; it is a defiance of it. To be happy in a world designed to make you miserable is an act of rebellion. When we lean into art, music, and joy, we aren’t being “disrespectful” to the seriousness of life - we are protecting our souls from being crushed by it.

The Sabre-Rattling Shadow

There is a direct throughline from the joyless “toy soldier” baseball of Team USA to the broader political environment. We live in an era where the antagonism and belligerence of US foreign policy has become a cultural personality trait. We see it in the “America First” rhetoric that views every international interaction as a zero-sum game of dominance.

This sour, saber-rattling philosophy robs life of its color. It replaces diplomacy with threats and cultural exchange with isolationism. When our national identity becomes synonymous with “on guard,” we lose the ability to play well with others - literally and figuratively. The WBC final against Venezuela wasn’t just a game; it was a microcosm of this tension. On one side, you had a nation playing with heart, rhythm, and collective spirit. On the other, you had a team acting like Green Berets in a dugout.

When we prioritize “looking tough” over “feeling joy,” we become the “America Alone” that the headlines warn us about. We become a nation that has forgotten how to dance because we are too busy checking our peripherals for enemies. This militarism of the mind seeps into everything, making us more suspicious, more defensive, and ultimately, more miserable.

Embracing the Agony and the Thrill

We should be as loud in our defeat as we are in our victory. The “agony of defeat” is just as much a part of the human tapestry as the thrill of the win. To suppress one is to dull the other.

The “business-like” approach to life and sports often feels like a shield against vulnerability. If you don’t show how much you care, it hurts less when you lose. If you frame a game as a “war,” you can hide behind duty rather than admitting how much you simply love the game. But what a hollow way to live. We should want the bat flips. We should want the tears. We should want the athletes - and the professionals in every field - who point to the sky and scream because they know that tomorrow the world might be ugly again, but today, they are gods.

Conclusion: Flip the Bat

Life is difficult, yes. It is full of bad actors and dangerous tides. But the “act like you’ve been there before” crowd - and the “toy soldier” crowd - are both missing the point. We haven’t been here before. This specific moment of joy, this specific victory, this specific song - it is unique and it is dying the moment it is born.

So, flip the bat. Dance in the dugout. Scream until your lungs hurt when the music hits. Whether you are on a baseball field in Miami or in a home gym in the suburbs, refuse to let the dour “realists” win. In a world full of bad actors, the most radical act of rebellion is to be unashamedly, vibrantly happy. Don’t just act like you’ve been there before - act like you’re thrilled to be here now.

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If you’ve followed my journey over at jollybengali.net, you know that I’ve spent years navigating the space between worlds. I’m an NYC-born, Pittsburgh-raised Bangladeshi “Chimaera” married to a wonderful Indo-Guyanese woman, raising a rambunctious little daughter - a mix of identities that shouldn’t quite fit together but somehow do.

I’m the guy who can pivot from a deep dive into Islamic history to a breakdown of Pitt’s NIL spending or why Liverpool FC is more than just a club. I’m a suburban dad who still remembers the “Club Kid” days, and a Scrum Master starting to explore the impact and potential and dangers of AI.

Why Substack?

For a long time, my website has been my “Fortress” - a place where my thoughts are archived and protected. But as any writer knows, a fortress can be a lonely place. I’m starting this Substack to find the “Frontier” - the place where conversation happens, where ideas are shared, and where I can connect directly with you.

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What to Expect

I’ll be cross-posting the best of my work from the main site to Substack. Expect a mix of:

• Culture & Identity: Reflections on the Bengali-American experience.

• The Steel City & Beyond: Tales from the 412, from the Cathedral of Learning to the gates of Acrisure Stadium.

• Philosophical Musings: Using the lens of literature or pop culture to make sense of modern life.

One Last Thing...

In the world of the Chimaeras, diversity isn’t just a buzzword; it’s a survival mechanism. Whether you’re here for the sports, the history, or random babblings, I’m glad you’ve joined the journey.

YNWA (You’ll Never Walk Alone),

- Maher S. Hoque, A Jolly Bengali

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