Bushido (The way of the warrior)

Raj Basumatary had been introduced to Bushido long before he even knew the word. Growing up in Assam, he had started learning martial arts as a boy—first through traditional Bodo wrestling by the riverbanks, then Shotokan Karate, and later, as he grew older, Wing Chun, Jeet Kune Do, and Krav-Maga. 

His first teacher, an old schoolmaster who had studied Karate in Japan, had once told him, “Martial arts are not just about fighting. They are about knowing when not to fight.” That lesson had shaped him, guiding him through the streets of Guwahati, the pressures of IIT Kanpur, and eventually, the corporate world of New Jersey, where battles were fought not with fists but with words, strategies, and patience.

Now sixty, Raj still lived by Bushido, the way of the warrior. Not with a sword, but in every decision he made.

His day began before the sun rose. In the basement dojo of his suburban home, he moved through Chi Sau drills, flowing seamlessly from one motion to the next, feeling the invisible force of an opponent. His side kicks and stop kicks were sharp, his breath controlled. His movements had slowed with age, but they had become more refined—no wasted energy, no unnecessary strength.

By the time he emerged upstairs, his wife, Manisha, was making tea.

“Still training like you’re twenty?” she asked, handing him a cup.

Raj smiled. “Still fighting battles.”

But today's battle would not be in the dojo. It would be at work.

As a senior architect in a global tech firm, Raj had spent decades solving problems, designing systems, and mentoring younger employees. But now, a younger executive, Neil Carter, was trying to sideline him from a major project—one Raj had spent months refining. Neil was aggressive, charismatic, and eager to prove himself.

Raj had seen men like him before. Quick to rise, quicker to fall. Because they mistook aggression for strength.

The afternoon meeting was where the battle would take place.

Neil had already begun speaking when Raj entered the boardroom. He controlled the room with his energy, pushing for a revised approach, subtly implying that Raj’s design was outdated. The leadership team listened, some nodding along.

Raj sat quietly, observing. Rei—Respect. Meiyo—Honor. Chū—Loyalty. These were the principles he carried, even here. He did not rush to defend himself. He waited.

When Neil finished, Raj leaned forward. His voice was calm, steady.

“This project isn’t about one person’s vision. It’s about what works.” He paused. "Neil’s proposal is ambitious, but ambition without foundation leads to failure. The modifications introduce instability. We are not just designing a system—we are designing trust, security, and longevity."

Neil smirked. "With all due respect, Raj, the industry is changing. We need to evolve."

Raj nodded. "Evolution is necessary. But even in evolution, there are rules. If you ignore the fundamentals, you don’t evolve—you collapse."

Silence. Some of the senior leaders exchanged glances.

Linda Shaw, the head of the board, finally spoke. "Raj, what do you propose?"

Raj laid out his case—not with aggression, but with precision. He explained the risks, the alternatives, the balance between innovation and stability. He did not overpower. He simply let the logic take hold.

By the end of the meeting, the decision was clear. The project would follow Raj’s original roadmap, with his recommended safeguards.

As the room emptied, Neil lingered.

"You fight well," he admitted.

Raj met his gaze. "A warrior wins by not losing."

That evening, Raj sat in his backyard, sipping tea under the cool New Jersey sky. His battles had changed over the years—no longer fought in dojos or competition rings but in boardrooms and negotiations.

But the way of Bushido was the same.

Discipline. Honor. Patience.

And the quiet strength of a man who walked his path, no matter the battlefield

Dreams Within Dreams: An Odyssey of the Mind

 

Vienna, Virginia – January 31, 2025

After a long day on a business tour, I finally retreated to my hotel room and poured myself a glass of rich, velvety red wine. With each sip, the fatigue of the day softened, replaced by a growing sense of wonder. As reality gently blurred around me, I slipped into a labyrinth of dreams—a journey reminiscent of the layered realms in Inception, where each dream cradles another, and the lines between time, memory, and existence dissolve.

In the first layer of my dream, the calendar turned back to the year 2000. I found myself once again in our suburban Burlington home, a place imbued with the hope and innocence of new beginnings. The sound of my toddler daughter’s laughter filled the air, intermingling with the joyful clamor of a housewarming celebration. Our close friends—still dear to our hearts even as their children have grown—gathered in warm camaraderie. Soft music played in the background, and every corner of our home whispered promises of a bright future. I recalled that night, buoyed by too much wine and the magic of the moment, surrendering to a carefree, intoxicating revelry—a tribute to the spirit of youth and celebration.

Yet, as the echoes of laughter waned into the quiet of night, my dream began to shift. I found myself alone on a creaking sailboat, caught in the grip of a fierce typhoon along the infamous "roaring 40s"—a stretch of ocean where the sea unleashes its wild, untamable force. The storm was relentless, its towering waves and swirling darkness mirroring an inner tempest I could scarcely comprehend. From the roiling depths emerged a monstrous hydra—a creature drawn from ancient lore, reminiscent of the beast Hercules once battled in Greek mythology. With each head I struck down, eight more sprang forth, a haunting symbol of how our deepest fears and unresolved challenges multiply when we dare confront the shadows within.

In the midst of that harrowing moment, I murmured to myself, “This isn’t real—it’s only a nightmare. I can’t defeat this hydra with brute force; perhaps I must outwit it. I just need to wake up.” Amidst the tumult, a familiar, gentle voice broke through the chaos—a memory of my wife chiding me as I tossed and sweated in sleep, her playful remark, “Maybe you had too much to drink.” Her soft reminder of home and the warmth of that Burlington evening became my beacon, guiding me back from the storm. Gradually, I withdrew from the tempest and the relentless hydra, as if drawing strength from the cherished images of a simpler, loving past. The tumultuous sea quieted, and the nightmare faded into the embrace of memory.

The final jolt came with the shrill ring of my hotel room’s alarm, waking me at 5:30 AM. The cool light of 2025 returned, and the lingering taste of red wine served as a bittersweet echo of my nocturnal odyssey.

In those quiet early hours, as the world slowly stirred awake, I sat with the profound mystery of my experience. Each dream, each layered vision, had revealed a fragment of my inner truth—a reminder that our past forever shapes our present. I wondered, with a mixture of awe and introspection, what had stirred within me to conjure such a mystic journey. Was it the quiet yearning for the innocence and warmth of earlier days, or perhaps a deeper call from the hidden recesses of my soul? The question lingered in the stillness, as enigmatic as the dreams themselves, inviting me to explore the uncharted depths of my own inner world.

Abhimaan

 They say when you translate something into a different language—say, from one of the Indian languages to English—it loses its punch. The depth, the essence, the very soul of the word gets diluted in translation, much like tea left to steep too long, turning bitter instead of fragrant.

Certainly. Indeed. Language is not just about words; it carries culture, history, and emotion. One such word that English has failed to capture is Abhimaan. It’s not exactly pride, not exactly ego, and certainly not quite anger. It is softer, more tender, almost like an unspoken ache—a longing for the one you love to recognize your hurt, to come searching for you, to bridge the silence with an understanding glance.

Yesterday, on our way to get groceries, my wife and I—married for nearly thirty years—had a disagreement. No, not even that. A mere difference of opinion, as trivial as whether we should get the organic or the regular tomatoes. But in long marriages, even the most trivial things can carry the weight of a history filled with love, companionship, and a million small sacrifices. And so, as it often happens, we both withdrew into silence.

Back home, I retreated into my kingdom—the basement. My refuge. It’s where I work, read, and indulge in my small rebellions—an occasional drink, a sneaky smoke, always ensuring the ventilation is just right. My wife stayed in our bedroom upstairs, her workspace in our suburban New Jersey home where we now lived as empty nesters. Our children had flown the nest, carving their own lives elsewhere.

But don’t mistake us for weary old souls. No, we still have fire in us. I still believe I could set off on a grand adventure, traversing deserts and lost civilizations like Indiana Jones, and she—she still has the beauty to make heads turn, looking every bit like Rani Mukherjee in her prime. And I? I love my wife.

She had an appointment she couldn’t avoid, and I—being the tech geek that I am—monitored her departure. The moment she left, I took care of the things she would usually remind me about. I walked our dogs, fed them, grabbed a quick bite, and then… I waited.

Waited for her to come home. Waited for her to look for me.

And she did.

That was all it took.

A few minutes after returning, she came downstairs, pretending she needed something. She didn’t say anything about the silence that had lingered between us all day. She didn’t ask why I had buried myself in work, or why I hadn’t come up on my own. Instead, she stood at the door and said, “The dogs wouldn’t eat properly. Did you feed them too early?”

It was a small thing. A pretext. But I knew what it meant.

That is abhimaan.

Not anger. Just the quiet yearning of the heart, the longing for the other person to reach out first.

It reminded me of that classic Manna Dey Bengali song:

"Eto raag noi, eito abhimaan… E shudhu barai moner taan."

This is not anger. This is abhimaan. This is the pull of the heart, a quiet call to be understood, to be sought after.

I smiled to myself as I stood up, brushing invisible dust off my jeans. “They ate just fine,” I said, following her up the stairs.

The silence was over. And love—unspoken, ever resilient—remained.