The Structure of Drift - A Personal Reflection

In Śānti Parva of Mahābhārata, Kuru patriarch Bhīṣma lies upon a bed of arrows, imparting final counsel to the victorious but shattered Yudhiṣṭhira. This single verse surfaces with the force of a timeless truth: Two logs float on the surface of a great ocean. Moved by currents they do not control, they drift together for a time, touch, and then separate.

यथा काष्ठं च काष्ठं च समेयातां महोदधौ।

समेत्य च व्यतीयातां तद्वत् भूतः समागमः॥

The literal meaning is: “As two logs of wood floating on the great ocean come together and, after meeting, drift apart again, so is the meeting of living beings in this world.” The verse does not interpret the meeting or justify the parting. It records the movement and moves on.

The force of the image lies in its restraint. The meeting is not elevated into something exceptional, nor is the separation treated as a disruption. The ocean continues, the currents persist. Coming together happens when conditions allow. Drifting apart follows by the same logic, both belong to the same structure.

There were people in my life who once felt inseparable, almost familial, and who later drifted away as if that shared past had left no residue. For a long time, I couldn’t make sense of it. Perhaps I carried an unresolved bitterness, less about their leaving than about the apparent ease with which it happened. Encountering this way of seeing i.e. as described in Śānti Parva helped me in reframing it. The departure no longer felt like a negation of what had been, but it felt like its completion. That shift brought a softer regard for those who moved on, and a calmer kind of peace for myself.

Impermanence is treated in this verse as a premise rather than a conclusion. The Mahābhārata does not present transience as a problem waiting for resolution. It treats it as the ground on which life unfolds. Attention is drawn to motion but not to disappearance. 

Indic thought returns to this recognition without softening it. Forms arise and dissolve. Relationships gather and scatter. Time does not preserve what has occurred. In the Śānti Parva, this understanding is voiced amid aftermath—after war, after death, after events that cannot be reversed. It is spoken from within consequence, not from a position of withdrawal.

This movement does not halt at the horizon of human affairs. In the Indic treatment of Cosmology, even universes follow this movement - arise, endure for some time, and finally dissolve. Transience is an underlying pattern by which the very existence expresses itself at every scale. As Bhagavad Gītā simply put it: 

 

सर्वभूतानि कौल्‍येऽस्य प्रभवत्यहरागमे।

रात्र्यागमे प्रलीयन्ते तत्रैवाव्यक्तसंज्ञके॥

“O son of Kunti, at the coming of day all beings manifest from the unmanifest, and at the coming of night they again dissolve into that very unmanifest.”

Seen from this vantage point, relationships resemble meetings rather than holdings. They occur when trajectories cross. Their reality lies in presence rather than duration. The pain of separation does not negate the meeting. It reveals an expectation that the meeting should have remained unchanged. The verse releases that expectation.

The following may appear to be an exercise in optimization, but the intent is slightly different. Also, it needs to be said in this context as it's an overlooked truth: Because time and energy are finite, attention cannot help but be selective. It settles where conditions allow, lingers for a while, then shifts. What matters is not that attention is “valuable,” but that it is transient, and therefore cannot be given everywhere or indefinitely.

When the logs separate, they do not resume the course they would have taken had they never met. The encounter alters their direction, however slightly. Drift continues, but from a different orientation. The meeting leaves a trace without needing to last.

In the Mahābhārata, responsibility does not depend on outcomes remaining intact. Actions are undertaken even when continuity cannot be secured. Bonds are honored without claims of possession. What persists is not the arrangement itself, but the order within which arrangements arise and pass.

Non-attachment, understood in this context, does reflect accuracy. When transience is seen clearly, engagement becomes unburdened by expectations the structure cannot sustain. Action continues within impermanence rather than against it.

Loss appears as part of the same movement that made connection possible. The verse does not instruct or console. It offers orientation. Life appears less as a sequence of acquisitions and forfeitures and more as a series of crossings within a larger flow. Meaning does not vanish under this view but instead shifts location, resting in participation rather than preservation.

The logs do not resist the ocean, nor do they attempt to fix their meeting into permanence. They move within a system that continues regardless of their contact. In that movement, connection and separation no longer appear as opposites. They register as phases of the same passage, carried forward by currents that do not pause and do not erase.

The Law of Biggest Stick - How Scale Determines Justice

Back in 1989, the United States marched into Panama, grabbed President Manuel Noriega on drug charges, and flew him straight to Miami for trial. More than 500 Panamanian civilians died. Whole neighbourhoods were flattened. The Panama Canal remained securely in American hands. And what did they call this? Conquest? “Operation Just Cause” – a law enforcement action. 

That’s the template. Abduction becomes extradition. Bombing becomes precision justice. Occupation becomes “temporary stewardship”. Fast forward to January 3, 2026. The United States runs the exact same play in Caracas. They strike the capital, snatch President Nicolás Maduro and his wife, and announce they’ll “run the country” until a “proper transition”. Within 48 hours Maduro is in a Miami courtroom facing drug charges. Donald Trump beams: “One of the most stunning displays of American military might in history.” 

They didn’t call it an invasion. They called it an arrest. 

While American forces were busy seizing a foreign capital, a small trader in India was getting raided and slapped with penalties for a few thousand rupees of tax discrepancy. One is hailed as justice. The other is branded evasion. The act is the same – withholding something that belongs to a governing authority. The difference is scale, and who has the power to write the story. 

The Legitimacy Test

If an ordinary Venezuelan had bombed government buildings in Caracas, kidnapped the president and declared he would run things for a while – what would we call him? Terrorist. Criminal. Insurgent. 

When the United States does exactly the same thing, we’re having a “debate” about whether it’s justified. That gap – that glaring double standard – is where real legitimacy lives. It’s not about morality. It’s about power. As Thucydides put it over two thousand years ago in the Melian Dialogue: “the strong do what they can and the weak suffer what they must.” Venezuela 2026 is just the latest chapter. 

The same logic plays out with taxes. A salaried employee who under-reports ₹50,000 faces raids, penalties, potential prosecution. A corporation that shifts ₹500 crore offshore gets negotiation, settlements, amnesty schemes. Both withheld money from the state. Scale decides which one is treated as a criminal and which one is treated as “complexity” that deserves dialogue. 

How Scale Manufactures Legitimacy 

This pattern is ancient and repeats with remarkable consistency.

Territorial annexation follows a script, more or less: The U.S. starts a war over a disputed border with Mexico (1846) and walks away with 55% of its territory. Today we call it “westward expansion”. China takes Tibet (1951), framing it as liberating serfs from feudalism. Today it’s an “autonomous region” and any resistance is “separatism”. Both won. Both integrated the land. Both wrote the history books.

Regime change operates similarly: The U.S. invades Iraq (2003) on fabricated WMD claims, kills hundreds of thousands, dismantles the state. Two decades later it’s remembered as an “intelligence failure”, a “mistake” – not the crime of aggression it legally was. The U.S. had enough power to outlast the outrage until the narrative shifted from crime to costly error. 

Gradual encroachment succeeds through fait accompli: China builds and militarizes islands in disputed waters, ignoring an international tribunal ruling (2016), and keeps going. At home it’s “defending sovereign rights”. Abroad there are protests, some sanctions talk, but no real military pushback. If you’re strong enough to finish the job and ride out the criticism, the new reality sticks. 

In December 2024, President-elect Trump declared that acquiring Greenland was an “absolute necessity” for U.S. national security — citing rare-earth minerals and Arctic positioning. When Denmark refused to even discuss selling its autonomous territory, Trump declined to rule out “other options,” hinting at military or economic coercion.

By January 2025, his son was on a “private visit” to Greenland while officials in Washington floated tariff threats to “get Denmark’s attention.” That same month, new noises came out of the White House: talk of “reclaiming” the Panama Canal, pressure on Canada about “51st-state” integration, and tariff ultimatums to Colombia, Cuba, and others across Latin America over migration and trade.

A NATO ally, a major trading partner, and an entire region learned the same lesson: when a superpower wants something you control, alliance and sovereignty become negotiable. The method differed from Venezuela — economic pressure instead of airstrikes — but the logic was identical: strategic value justifies bending the rules, and scale decides who gets to enforce their will.

Russia tried the same in Crimea and faced sustained sanctions – they didn’t have enough economic or narrative muscle to make the world shrug and move on. The U.S. faced no such price for Iraq. Legitimacy isn’t earned through virtue. It’s manufactured through power, control of the story, and time. 

But narrative control isn’t absolute anymore. NGOs, independent media, social media, grassroots voices – they fight back in real time. Colonial powers could take generations to cement their story because information was tightly controlled. Today, powerful states have to manufacture legitimacy much faster and against far more resistance.

The Asymmetry of Law 

International law operates as a power hierarchy, not a neutral system. There’s no impartial judge, no equal enforcement. The Rome Statute goes after African warlords and Balkan strongmen, but has never touched an American president, a Chinese premier, or a Russian leader. Not because they’re innocent – because they can simply ignore the court. 

US Senator Mark Warner put it bluntly: “Does this mean any large country can indict the ruler of a smaller adjacent country and take that person out?” The answer is yes – if they’re strong enough to get away with it. 

Just like tax authorities will happily crush a small trader over minor discrepancies but approach corporations hiding hundreds of crores with negotiation and dialogue. Enforcement follows the path of least resistance – which always means it falls hardest on those who can’t push back. 

Other powers are watching. China can point to Venezuela to justify moves on Taiwan. Russia already uses U.S. interventions to excuse actions in Ukraine. This is the logical outcome when sovereignty stops being a real principle and becomes a privilege of the powerful. 

The Humanitarian Exception Alibi

Could Venezuela be justified on humanitarian grounds – alleviating suffering under Maduro’s brutal regime? Perhaps, if we believed the rationale. But the U.S. happily props up equally brutal governments when it suits them: Saudi Arabia (journalist dismembered, mass executions), Egypt (tens of thousands of political prisoners), UAE (opposition criminalized). Humanitarian concern appears only when it’s strategically convenient. 

If the goal was really the well-being of Venezuelans, there were other options: sustained diplomatic pressure, targeted sanctions on regime leadership, support for internal opposition. The bombing-then-governing route reveals the actual priority: control of resources, influence, and regional dominance. When humanitarian claims are applied this selectively, they stop being principles and become just another weapon in the arsenal. Scale decides which suffering is worth bombing over. 

The Historical Trajectory 

Empires have always worked this way. The British “administered” India rather than “conquering” it. The Spanish “civilized” indigenous peoples rather than massacring them. The framing shifted only when the power relationship changed.

What’s different now is the speed and the contestation. Colonial legitimacy could be built slowly because information was controlled. Today, the U.S. tries to manufacture it in weeks – through quick legal moves, media framing, and the assumption that American courts have universal jurisdiction. 

Will it work? History suggests it can, if the U.S. stabilizes the situation, extracts concessions, and rides out the storm. Panama worked. Iraq became a “costly mistake”. Venezuela will probably follow unless the backlash – international condemnation, economic sanctions, domestic fallout, relentless online scrutiny – becomes too heavy to ignore. 

The information environment has changed. In 1989, most Americans learned about Panama through evening news broadcasts largely repeating official narratives. In 2026, real-time documentation, international perspectives, and counter-narratives circulate instantly. Legitimacy must be manufactured against greater resistance – but it can still be manufactured if you have enough power. 

The Moral Question

Should legitimacy depend on scale? Should the same act be judged completely differently depending on who does it? Most people would say no. We want rules that apply equally to everyone, strong or weak. But the world doesn’t work that way – and maybe never has. 

The small trader and the American president both withheld resources from a governing authority. One faces financial ruin and potential prosecution. The other holds a victory press conference. The difference isn’t their morality. It’s their capacity to impose their version of events and survive the consequences. This isn’t cynicism. It’s recognition of how power operates. The question is whether we’ll build systems strong enough to constrain it.

What Comes Next

Venezuela will be judged by results, not principles. If the U.S. installs a friendly government, secures concessions, and the noise dies down – the precedent is set: sovereignty means nothing without firepower to defend it. 

If it bogs down into endless occupation, regional anger, or domestic backlash – it becomes another “unsuccessful” adventure. Either way, the yardstick remains power, not law. Other powers are taking notes. China sees justification for Taiwan. Russia sees cover for its sphere of influence. Smaller countries learn the lesson: the rules bind you, not them – unless you become strong enough to break them. 

Non-state actors, digital media, international institutions, mobilized public opinion – they add friction. They make legitimacy more expensive and more difficult to fake. That matters. But it’s still not enough to fundamentally change the game. 

Conclusion: Seeing Clearly 

This isn’t about defending Maduro’s regime. It was repressive and corrupt. The point is to see the system we actually live in: one where moral language hides power calculations, and legitimacy comes from strength, not principle. 

As long as we judge the small trader by one standard and the superpower by another, we’re not living under law – we’re living under hierarchy. And hierarchies don’t answer to justice. They answer to force. The ordinary taxpayer and the president deserve the same rule of law. The small evader and the superpower deserve the same scrutiny. 

Non-state actors, digital documentation, mobilized citizens – they can’t yet stop major powers, but they can make power more expensive, more visible, and much harder to dress up as virtue. 

Recognizing this pattern is the first step toward building real counter-power: informed publics, transnational legal pressure, economic solidarity, relentless exposure. The choice is straightforward: keep pretending the system is just, or see it clearly enough to start changing it. 

That change starts by refusing to accept different rules for the weak and the powerful. It continues by building mechanisms that can impose real costs on anyone – no matter how strong – who violates sovereignty or basic fairness. 

The small trader who evades a little tax and the nation that seizes a capital both took something that wasn’t theirs. One was branded a criminal. The other branded it justice. We still get to decide whether that difference reflects morality – or just who has the bigger stick. 

Until we apply the same standard to both, we’re not building justice. We’re just accepting hierarchy and calling it order.

Beneath the Surface: Exploring the Balkans' Layered Reality (Part 2- Albania, Montenegro and North Macedonia)

The Adriatic Balkan region—Albania, Montenegro, and North Macedonia—sits at the edge of Europe, where the Adriatic Sea meets rugged mountains and ancient histories. These countries, shaped by Ottoman legacies and communist pasts, are fragments of a larger Balkan baroque, their identities both distinct and intertwined. 

Albania's rugged coastline and scattered bunkers give it a wild feel. Montenegro is small but dramatic, with a rich history. North Macedonia, with its complex layers of history, tells a story of ancient empires. Together, these three countries form a hidden corner of the Balkans, often overlooked but full of character.

Tirana

I decided to make Tirana, the capital of Albania to be the base location to travel to other countries like Montenegro and North Macedonia. 

Skanderbeg Square

Bunk Art

Montenegro

Montenegro is a small, rugged country squeezed between the Adriatic Sea and towering mountains. Its beauty feels raw and untamed, as if the cliffs are constantly battling the waves below. The sunlight here is harsh, turning the white rocks and deep blue shadows into something vivid yet unforgiving. It has very stunning views (I was told Italy was about 200km which may take 5-6 hours in Ferry from here via Adriatic Sea)

Sveti Stefan

Sveti Stefan, a tiny island connected to the shore by a narrow strip of sand, is a mix of old charm and modern luxury. Once a cluster of weathered stone houses and a church, it’s now a polished resort with pink beaches and fancy hotels. (I was told that one of Pierce Brosnan’s movies was shot here). The pink-sand beaches and dense forests surrounding the beachside villa create an enchanting atmosphere.

Old Town - Budva

Budva is a town torn between its past and present. The old fortress, with its cobblestone streets and domed churches, sits awkwardly next to a modern waterfront packed with neon lights and ice cream shops - It’s a place where history and hustle coexist, sometimes somewhat uneasily. Its old town dates back over 2,000 years - it has seen raise and fall of Illyrians, Romans, Byzantines, Venetians, and Ottomans.

Kotor

Despite the luxurious cruise ships and tourist crowds (quite a few when I was there), Kotor holds onto its ancient soul. The fortress walls, climbing the mountainside like a jagged scar, tell stories of soldiers and empires. Its beauty seems like a rebuke to the ephemeral, a testament to what outlasts empires and their passing fancies.

North Macedonia

The very name Macedonia evokes the names of Philip, Alexander and all the rest of it for many of us. The country feels like a manuscript overwritten so many times that every hill, lake, and stone in North Macedonia seems to hold a story. Nowhere is this more vivid than in the twin towns of Struga and Ohrid, where the past comes alive on the shores of Lake Ohrid.

Struga- "City of poetry" has crystal clear waters

Struga is a small town on the shores of Lake Ohrid. It's a lively place with a mix of old and new buildings, and a strong sense of community. It sits at the mouth of the Black Drin River, where the water spills from Lake Ohrid into a delta.

The Church of St. John

Plavnik Cathedral, a masterpiece of Byzantine architecture

Ohrid (also known as The Jerusalem of the Balkans) is a stunning town on the shores of Lake Ohrid, with a rich history dating back to ancient times. Its old town is filled with old world streets, historic churches, and quaint shops, all surrounded by breathtaking views of the lake.

Samuel's Fortress

The 10th-century Samuel’s Fortress, built by a tsar who defied the Byzantine Empire, looms over the town—a jagged crown of stone that still smells of conquest. The Church of St. John at Kaneo teeters on a cliff, its ancient frescoes slowly fading. But the real wonder is Lake Ohrid itself, one of Europe's oldest lakes, with fossils of ancient creatures hidden in its depths.

Ancient Theater of Ohrid

The beautiful town of Ohrid

The cobblestones near the Ancient Theatre —built by Philip II of Macedon, rebuilt by Romans, buried, and unearthed again still echo with the footsteps of centuries past, a testament to the enduring legacy of a city that has been shaped and reshaped by the tides of history.

North Macedonia's beauty is not in its untouched purity but in its resilience, the way its people and landscapes carry the scars and glories of a hundred generations. Its beauty lies in its imperfections and the stories of generations past. Visiting here feels like stepping into a living legacy.