GOOD BYE RAGHU RAI THE GREAT PHOTOJOURNALIST FROM INDIA

 

Today, in the brief and indifferent cadence of BBC news, I read of the death of Raghu Rai. And yet, what stirred in me was not sorrow, but a quiet, almost private smile—like recognizing a passerby in a dream one had forgotten.

It was before the time when the world would come to name its fragility as COVID-19. I had gone, without urgency, to the Kadavumbagam Synagogue in Ernakulam—that patient structure which has outlived the certainties of those who built it. Since the 13th century, it has received prayers that no longer belong to anyone, and lamentations that no longer need to be understood.

Elias, the caretaker—custodian not only of walls but of time itself—said simply, “We have visitors today.”

They entered without ceremony. A tall man, slightly bent into himself, his glasses resting uncertainly above his brow, as though vision itself were a negotiable act. His eyes did not look—they gathered. Beside him, a woman of equal height and composed presence, as if she existed not beside him but in parallel.

Recognition came to me not as a fact, but as a hesitation. I had seen his books, yes—but more than that, I had seen the way he saw. And so I approached him not as one meets a man, but as one acknowledges a way of looking at the world.

We shook hands. It was an ordinary gesture, and therefore complete.

Now he is gone, and yet the moment remains, suspended somewhere between the visible and the remembered—like a photograph that was never taken, and therefore never fades.

ALAIN DE BOTTON. ON LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP AND FINDING ONESELF , THE LAST ONE MOST IMPORTANT

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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kRMcimuuk0Q.

In this talk, de Botton challenges the deeply ingrained romantic belief that successful relationships depend on finding the “right person.” Instead, he argues that this idea is a cultural illusion—one reinforced by films, songs, and modern dating culture—which overvalues instant compatibility and chemistry.

He proposes a more sober, almost therapeutic view: love is not a feeling we stumble into, but a skill we must learn. Compatibility is not the starting point of a relationship, but something that is gradually created through patience, effort, and mutual education.  

A central idea is that we are all psychologically “imperfect,” shaped by childhood patterns that influence whom we are drawn to. We often choose partners not because they are objectively ideal, but because they feel familiar—even when that familiarity includes difficulty or conflict.  

De Botton also critiques the romantic expectation that a partner should intuitively understand us. This, he argues, leads to disappointment and silent resentment. Instead, good relationships depend on explicit communication, tolerance, and a willingness to explain one’s needs.

Drawing on an older philosophical tradition, he suggests that love is inherently pedagogical—a process in which two people gently help each other grow into better versions of themselves.  

Ultimately, his message is quietly radical:

• There is no perfect partner waiting to be discovered.
• Every partner will be “wrong” in some ways.
• The success of love depends less on luck and more on psychological insight, generosity, and sustained effort.

Love, in this view, is not destiny—it is craftsmanship.

A CGM CONTINUOUS GLUCOSE MONITORING, ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENE AND THE LIMITS OF CULTURAL UNDERSTANDING

 

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A CGM, Artificial Intelligence, and the Limits of Cultural Understanding

For the past week, I have been wearing a continuous glucose monitor, a device largely designed and marketed for the United States. During this time, I have been in France.

Two observations have become strikingly clear.

First, the artificial intelligence embedded within these systems—useful as it is—does not yet understand culture. It issued repeated warnings, almost alarmist in tone, predicting adverse glucose responses based on the foods I was consuming. Yet it has no capacity to distinguish where and how that food is prepared: whether industrially processed or carefully crafted within a French home or kitchen.

Not once did these predictions materialize.

( the above recording is over 12 hours ...lunch and dinner and you can see how consistent it is )

After one evening meal—champagne, a glass of Douro wine, a kosher croque monsieur (without ham), vegetable soup, steamed vegetables, and a slice of apple pie—my glucose levels remained remarkably stable. There was no meaningful excursion.

This is not an isolated observation, but a pattern.

It reinforces a broader lesson: foods that appear similar across countries are not metabolically equivalent. An apple pie in the United States is not the same as one in France. Regulatory standards, ingredient quality, and culinary traditions differ profoundly. In France, there is closer scrutiny of additives and chemicals, and a relative absence of highly processed foods in everyday life.

There is also an economic paradox. A well-prepared meal, often including wine, can be obtained here for significantly less than what one might pay in Miami—where industrialized food dominates much of the landscape.

One could argue that my observations reflect some peculiarity of absorption. But that explanation is difficult to sustain when the same individual, consuming comparable foods in different environments, demonstrates entirely different glycemic responses.

Bread is a simple example. In the United States, I approach it with caution. Here, fresh baguettes—made with few ingredients and traditional methods—do not produce the glycemic rise that the device confidently predicts.

Perhaps, in time, artificial intelligence will evolve to incorporate such nuances—cultural, agricultural, and culinary. For now, it remains reductionist, interpreting food as a set of macronutrients, rather than as a lived, contextual experience.

I have been eating with freedom, even generosity—and my glucose has remained stable.

There is a lesson here, not only for technology, but for how we understand food itself.

A FRENCH LUNCH. VIVE LA FRANCE !

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A French Lunch — A Nutrition Lesson for the USA, UK, Australia, Canada, and New Zealand

For a complex mix of anthropological, historical, and geopolitical reasons, English-speaking countries and their former colonies have not fared as well as France—or many of its past and present cultural spheres—when it comes to population health.

Obesity rates (%):
USA – 42.64
New Zealand – 32.99
Mexico – 32.22
Australia – 32.05
Ireland – 30.70
Canada – 28.16
UK – 26.94
France – 10.18

Among high-income nations, only Japan has a lower rate (7.63).

Why is France the leanest country in Europe, with over 60 high-income nations recording higher obesity rates?

The answer lies, at least in part, in a deeply embedded culture of food. In France, food is not incidental—it is central. There is care in preparation, respect for ingredients, attention to presentation, moderation in portion size, and, importantly, the social ritual of eating together.

Our lunch today offered a simple illustration.

Three adolescents were spending their school holidays at their grandparents’ home; two of us joined them. The meal unfolded in the traditional French rhythm—unhurried, structured, and varied.

• Oysters, freshly harvested from the nearby bay
• Two salads: grated carrot and beetroot, both delicate and vibrant
• Chicken in a mild curry with a light cream sauce
• A mash of broccoli and potato
• Several varieties of cheese
• Dessert: fresh strawberries with Chantilly cream
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There was no frying, minimal use of oil, and an abundance of fresh vegetables. Wine, often part of dinner, was absent at this midday meal—another example of moderation.

Before this trip, I placed a continuous glucose monitoring sensor on my skin. It tracks post-meal glucose excursions alongside activity and stress—both relevant, as stress hormones can elevate blood sugar.

After this meal, my glucose peaked at 120 mg/dL, entirely within the normal range.

This is revealing.

It is not merely what is eaten, but how it is prepared, structured, and consumed. The French model—fresh ingredients, minimal processing, balanced courses, slower eating, and social context—appears to mitigate excessive glycemic spikes and, over time, the trajectory toward overweight and metabolic disease.

PS: I do not have Diabetes.

By contrast, the industrialization of food—so characteristic of the United States and widely exported to countries such as the United Kingdom, Australia, Canada, and New Zealand and the petroleum rich countries of the gulf—has been a central driver of the global obesity epidemic. Interesting to observe, in the context of politics, Iranians are leaner than the Arabs of the region.

When I am in Miami, I get very little chance to walk whereas in France, I walk with glee to do my errands, to my cafe, to the supermarche!

PS i arrived in France yesterday. I have walked more in the past 36 hours than the week prior in Miami!  

France offers not perfection, but a compelling alternative: a way of eating that is cultural, deliberate, and, above all, human.

Vive la France.

FEW HOURS AT THE FAIRCHILD BOTANIC GARDEN. MIAMI, FLORIDA

There’s something quietly radical about stepping out of the noise. Not escaping it entirely—Miami does not permit such illusions—but placing a gentle distance between oneself and its glitter, its urgency, its practiced performances. At Fairchild Tropical Botanic Garden, the mind loosens its grip.

For a few hours, thought becomes less angular. Trees soften it. Water absorbs it. Mist dissolves it.

The Japanese have a word—shinrin-yoku—forest bathing. But here, in this curated Eden, it is less a technique and more a surrender. You sit, and something ancient in you remembers how not to strive.

And then, as often happens in these states of quiet receptivity, perception sharpens rather than dulls. The trivialities of daily life—the small vanities, the rehearsed frictions of work and social theatre—return, but altered. Not diminished. Exposed. Their pettiness almost theatrical, their distortions exaggerated, as if seen through a lens that refuses to flatter.

It was in this peculiar clarity that I noticed them.

Two palms. Still. Upright. Watchful.

Sentinels.

Not merely botanical specimens, but presences. And in an instant—without hesitation, without doubt—you recognized them: Copernicia fallaensis. A recognition not of intellect, but of memory lodged somewhere deeper.

And then Cuba returned.

Camagüey—an airport once improbably new, almost untouched by the world’s traffic. The rented car. The long drive toward Minas. The finca—Perú—spoken of in low tones among those who cared about such things. And there, improbably, in the yard of a farmer bemused by decades of foreign fascination, the great palm. His yarey, your pilgrimage.

1997 A different tempo of life. A different version of yourself.

Back in Miami, you walk among companions of that memory—Coccothrinax crinita, delicate and fibrous, and Copernicia baileyana, austere and monumental. Cuba, scattered and replanted, yet still intact in essence.

And perhaps this is what such places offer—not escape, but continuity. A thread between geographies, between past and present selves.

You leave with a small decision, almost incidental, yet quietly firm. To return. Not as a visitor, but as someone who knows the path.

A short drive. A familiar table at Daily Bread. Gyro, Hummus, Taboule  conversation, the ordinary made sufficient. And the girl behind the counter, who studied dentistry in Guantanamo, Cuba. Hope the memory of her native landscape comfort her during this exile 

And somewhere within, the stillness remains—like those palms, standing, patient, untroubled by the passing theatre of human concerns.