Lately, I've been noticing the grandma figure cropping up in products and experiences in a hyper-curated, hyper-packaged, manufactured-feelings kind of way — cueing and spoon-feeding how I'm supposed to feel about ajjis. I came across three or four different snack brands, all selling me some version of 'grandma's authentic taste'. "Ajji House" by Subko has been a bit of a talk of the town — a hip new spot to hang out, sip global specialty coffee, and soak in young Bengaluru energy. Why is there suddenly an ajji-shaped hole in branding consciousness that everyone’s scrambling to fill? And she’s ajji, she’s paati, she’s naani — not just any generic grandma designed for mass consumption. She’s regional and culturally textured.

I recently visited Subko's "Ajji House" cafe near Double Road in Bangalore. It's an old house restored into a cafe. It retains much of its original character and layers in narratives to create a space where the stories feel almost tangible. The seating, walls, photographs, and passages all seemed to hold fragments of the past. Much of it was subliminal — my mind automatically filled in the blanks of what was framed and left behind. The interiors felt like a snapshot, preserving a moment for as much as the physical restoration would allow. The food offered was fairly modern interpretations of popular Indian and global snacks. The brand story of Ajji House centres around, Kamalamma, and how she bought this home in a 1953 government auction to help her son access better education at Bishop Cotton Boys' School. Over time, this house became the centre of family life and childhood memories. Eventually, the family moved on, but the nostalgia stayed — and now it powers a brand.

This "Ajji House" story presents an ajji who appears to be a woman of remarkable independence and resources — someone who valued education, had a clear vision for her son's future, and had the financial and social capital to purchase property in the city center in the 1950s. But this is not a typical story. It's an upper-middle-class story — one that’s legible and palatable to modern, aspirational urban consumers. The ajji here is remembered because she fits a certain narrative: empowered, independent yet nurturing — and aligns with what a brand can comfortably market in today's urban cultural landscape.

Wipro Foods calls its traditional packaged snacks brand "Granamma," featuring an ajji as the brand mascot. "Granamma" appears to be a portmanteau of "Grandma" and "Nanamma/Amammama," which are Telugu terms for grandmother. There's Sweet Karam Coffee, another snacking brand with an endearing "paati" as its face — a Tamil term for grandmother. If Subko’s Ajji House tells the story of a specific, independent, upper-middle-class ajji with a name, a house, and a legacy, Wipro’s "Granamma" represents the opposite end of the spectrum — we don't know anything about this ajji beyond her approving smile. She’s never named, contextualized, or connected to a real history. She stands in as a feel-good placeholder for trust and tradition, reduced to a mere symbol built on the subconscious shortcuts we associate with trust, purity, and nostalgia.

Across India, food brands routinely co-opt the mother or grandmother archetype. It's always the same story: an ever-caring, ever-loving feminine figure whose life revolves around the culinary needs of the family — and of course, she expertly fulfils them. These stories don’t portray real mothers or grandmothers; they present what capitalism wants them to represent, so you'll buy whatever these companies are trying to sell.

Branding reduces complexity to a narrow, limited snapshot of the story it wants to tell. Simplification always involves exclusion. In doing so, it omits a lot and selectively shows a version of reality that is convenient and deemed memetic enough to sell whatever it wants to sell. This pattern has been critiqued in academic and media commentary — for example, in "Deified Mother in Indian Ads: Idealised Image and Ethical Issues," published in Communication Today in 2016. Nearly a decade later, the trend hasn’t faded — if anything, it has intensified, now with a nostalgic wrapper, showing just how entrenched and commercially rewarding this symbolic shortcuts continue to be.

Now, branding isn't the problem. However, the storytelling is and it's too powerful to be handled with lazy thinking. The problem lies in repetition: when the same archetype is chosen and repeated over and over again, it suggests that only one kind of woman, one kind of story, is worth remembering. Over time, this repetition shapes public consciousness by turning a marketable narrative into cultural truth.

There are women who hate cooking, or are bad at it. There are people who aren’t moms or grandmoms, but cook anyway. What about the mom who cooks simply because she has no choice — stuck with a mundane, thankless task no one else at home will do, or even help with? There are tired, grumpy ajjis. Tired, frustrated moms. Tired, frustrated daughters. Working women with no time to cook. Maids who cook to earn a living. There are countless stories that connect food to a wide range of identities — across gender, familial roles, class, and age. But the myth we keep repeating — the one that brands default to — is the one that propagates the status quo by reinforcing a narrow ideal and preserving the assumptions baked into gender roles and class expectations.

I remember a Kannada poem I read back in junior college — P. Lankesh’s "Avva." It stood out because it didn’t offer the usual glorified image of motherhood. Instead, it gave us a real woman: flawed, complex, tired, and human. Lankesh presented a raw and unflattering portrayal of his mother, challenging the idealised image of motherhood so often seen in society, media, and literature. The poem explored the burdens and realities of motherhood, the nuances of the mother-son relationship, and the unspoken emotional weight that real women carry. In stark contrast to the smiling, nurturing archetypes used in branding, Lankesh’s mother had depth. Not all maternal love is soft-edged and photogenic — and that’s exactly what makes it real.

One may argue — why bother telling these messy but honest stories instead of the helium-balloon, happy-as-hell caricatures that seem to have universal appeal? Sure, branding is about selling, and businesses want to appeal to as broad a customer base as possible. But do these myths really resonate as widely as we assume? What happens when we keep repeating them without question?

By flattening complex maternal experiences into emotionally soothing symbols, we erase entire spectra of real lives. This symbolic reduction doesn’t just distort memory — it disciplines behaviour. It teaches women what kind of motherhood is loveable, what kind of labor is valuable, and what kind of legacy is worth preserving. Over time, it scripts gender roles into culture as common sense.

As Roland Barthes writes, “Myth is a type of speech.” Branding turns culturally and emotionally complex women — ajji, paati, amma — into mythic figures, stripped of context and contradiction. They are no longer people with inner lives, but symbols made to sell comfort. The feel-good shorthand hides exhaustion, resentment, class difference, and coercion that shape many real women’s experiences in kitchens. It erases the fatigue of the maid cooking someone else’s food, or the working mother heating a frozen meal after a full day of unpaid and paid labor. Branding that constantly leans on feminine nostalgia doesn’t honor women — it confines them to the roles they were once forced into. It keeps us telling the same story. And in doing so, it stops us from imagining better ones.

The grandma branding trend might also be tapping into something generational. Millennials and Gen Z — more individualistic and busier than the Gen X and boomer generation — often carry a quiet guilt about drifting away from older relatives. They know they owe them time and memory, but maintaining real connection is hard. The emotional frameworks have shifted. Older generations don’t always understand the pace or complexity of modern life, and younger people often feel too scattered to bridge the gap. In that space of tension, branding steps in. It’s easier to connect with a soft, smiling ajji on a label than confront why we haven’t called our real ones. The mythic ajji becomes a comforting stand-in — one who doesn’t challenge, misunderstand, or demand anything back.

This could also be a cultural counter-reaction. With global snacks and fast food saturating the market, perhaps there's a sincere urge to reclaim something "ours": a longing for rootedness, for continuity. But when that urge gets funnelled through the same tired image of a smiling, sari-clad grandma, it stops being about reclaiming tradition and starts becoming a performance of it. The nostalgia is real — for childhood snacks, for cultural pride, for continuity — but the story we reach for is insincere, tired and boring. The longing is valid, but the story is lazy.

Honest stories would recognise that food, care and culinary labour show up in many ways - a son cooking dinner for his working mom, a grandmother ordering in to spend time with her friends (yes, she has her gang of friends over), or murukku munching with Netflix— there's no dearth of ideas here. The world is your oyster. There are so many stories to tell — real and imagined, mundane and surprising that reflect who we are and who we want to become. Stories with the power to shift how we see family, labour, identity, and care. If we want better culture, we’ll need better stories — and a little more courage in choosing which ones we tell.

Fin

People often use "luxury" and "premium" interchangeably, but they aren't quite the same. "Premium" typically refers to high-quality products and services superior to normal market standards, but not necessarily unique or extremely exclusive. Think of a Mercedes-Benz E-Class. "Luxury," on the other hand, implies exclusivity, rarity, and symbolic value beyond mere practicality; consider a Rolls-Royce Phantom. Of course, what's considered premium or luxury can vary significantly based on a country's purchasing power and personal context. One person’s premium might be another person’s luxury. This article explores whether digital products that are inherently built for scale can ever embody luxury.

As a millennial, I'm from a generation of designers raised on minimalism, consistency, accessibility, and lean, fast, reliable experiences. I come from a school where stylised Dribbble shots were dismissed as disconnected from reality: beautiful, yes, but not pragmatic.

I remember thinking flat design was sleek when it first arrived. I was fascinated by the modular, sharp, boxy, and somewhat sterile look of the Windows Metro aesthetic. It was unlike anything I'd seen. It convinced me to buy a Nokia Lumia phone. It made me feel unique. I loved the flat colour palette and the big bold typography. Some saw it as a downgrade from Windows Vista's Aero. Metro ultimately failed due to unintuitive gestures, poor scalability, and clunky execution. However, the flat aesthetic gained momentum. Design systems became mainstream practice.

UI design today is at a turning point. The skeuomorphic era was quite cool. Dramatic, perhaps even silly to some, but emotionally engaging for sure. Over the years, minimalism and flat design became the dominant approaches, placing a lot of emphasis on simplifying visuals into basic shapes and colors. Rectangles with rounded corners became the staple ingredient of design. Accessibility and scalable design systems became a standard, especially with the rise of digital products for global audiences. The digital aesthetic of the last decade was shaped by cost constraints, limited processing power, linear logic, and slow internet speeds.. Along this path, we lost something vital.

Everything now feels predictable, safe, monotonous, and ultimately kinda boring.

But what if constraints weren't holding us back anymore? If we decided to push the boundaries of “digital deluxe”, where could UI design go? What could throwing a lot of money at UI design achieve today?

To understand what pushing these boundaries might mean, let's first consider what defines digital versus physical surfaces. Think about the digital "surface." It's flat, trapped under glass; it holds information and facilitates abstract tasks. Sure, we add animations, transitions, shadows, and other visual tricks, but ultimately it's still a faux 2D reality. It engages our minds but doesn't quite engage our senses.

In the physical world, a surface is about how something looks, feels to the touch, reflects light, ages, and wears. But physical surfaces don't hold information or facilitate tasks with the versatility and dynamism of a digital interface. The physical world has its limitations, just like the digital one.

Call it subconscious biophilia, but humans have a deep-rooted affinity for natural textures and forms. It's not that digital surfaces should mimic the physical world literally. Our perception of the physical world begins as abstract metaphors before becoming tangible sensory experiences. Think about the words we use: "smooth" can describe both physical textures and effortless experiences, while "rough" applies to gritty surfaces and challenging situations alike. Or consider how we call an interface "clean" when it feels simple and organised, or say a workflow is "fluid" when it moves naturally without interruptions. Our minds naturally create metaphors first, then apply them to sensory and abstract experiences alike.

So why the disdain for the synthetic? Instead of obsessing over emulating real-world textures perfectly, why not fully embrace synthetic abstract qualities and push their boundaries intentionally? The digital and physical worlds are connected by metaphors and abstractions. Perhaps the real innovation lies not in mimicking nature but in thoughtfully blending the natural and synthetic worlds, tapping into metaphors that resonate deeply with us as humans.

Back to the original idea.. what could “digital deluxe” be? Consider luxury physical products: a Rolex Daytona Paul Newman is not exactly standard gear for an airforce pilot. Louboutins aren’t everyday errand shoes. Philippe Starck’s iconic Louis Ghost chair, while visually striking, isn't designed for prolonged sitting comfort. Luxury often sacrifices practicality to signal exclusivity and status. Should this be the template for digital deluxe?

The most expensive software and apps today are likely to be specialised industry tools, enterprise data systems, fintech/trading softwares, or government and military applications. Unlike physical luxury products, digital interfaces are rarely as exclusive or limited to narrow contexts. At best, apps can strive to be somewhat premium if they offer superior service or a better user experience compared to the market standard. Yet most apps struggle to be premium because their design languages remain monotonous, predictable, and fail to rise notably above market standards. Given the scale at which apps operate, prioritising style over substance is rarely justifiable or sustainable.

There's no real "premium" or "deluxe" tier in the world of software apps. Even if there were, it would mean serving hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of users. That's a far cry from the handful of people who’ll ever own a Hermès bag or a limited-edition Patek Philippe. Digital experiences, no matter how premium, can’t replicate the exclusivity of physical luxury. In a way, digital products are inherently anti-ultra-deluxe. Most apps make money from scale and not exclusivity.

There might be rare exceptions, such as exclusive dating or social apps targeting celebrities or ultra-high-net-worth individuals. However, these niche apps rarely scale significantly, and exclusivity alone seldom translates into substantial revenue or a even truly luxurious experience when it comes to digital apps.

Apple recently faced backlash for its "liquid glass" design language. It's bold and certainly stands out, but it isn't particularly novel or innovative. Apple has always positioned itself as premium at best, and the liquid glass aesthetic leans too heavily into style over substance. While prioritising style can sometimes be justified in luxury products, this aesthetic is neither premium nor luxurious. It lacks the exclusivity, originality, and uniqueness necessary to justify compromising usability. At Apple's immense scale, prioritising aesthetics at the expense of usability makes even less sense.

Mass-produced “cool” aesthetics quickly lose their charm, slipping from exclusive to annoying to kitsch within hours of using the product. The aesthetic is only part of it. True exclusivity hinges on scarcity, specialness, and an intangible sense of uniqueness. When something meant to signal exclusivity becomes widely accessible, it feels off. Apple's latest UI might unintentionally signal the onset of digital kitsch. With advancements like generative AI, technology could push creative boundaries in far more meaningful ways.

We're now free to imagine radically different possibilities. Imagine a UI surface organically adapting to each user's unique needs, tastes, moods, or context. Currently, it's still trapped under glass, holding information and facilitating tasks. But what if interactions and information felt tactile, responsive, and alive? Could an interface naturally evolve over time to become uniquely yours? Could a UI genuinely reflect individual uniqueness instead of treating everyone identically? Can we reclaim what we've lost—excitement, individuality, messy richness—and still keep it accessible? We've barely explored what tech can truly achieve in engaging our senses rather than mind. Does the ultra-deluxe-bougier-than-bougie UI really have to stop at layers of glass stacked upon more glass?

Fin

This is my second movie review. I don’t really want to “review” the movie as such. I want to convince you to watch this movie, maybe. Is that a better thing to do? I don’t know. I’ll just talk about bits I found interesting and you decide. You know what.. just read this after you’ve watched if you care about spoilers. Okay.

I’m ditching AI. Learn to live with bad grammar, poor spellings, stupidly placed commas, poor choice of words, and missing words here and there. Maybe you’ll miss all this horrible English in teh post-ChatGPT-fied world. Enjoy while it lasts.. if you can.

Now, coming to the movie. Today, I’ll be reviewing Under the Shadow. It’s a 2016 Persian-language psychological-horrorish-thriller by Babak Anvari. I know a spoiler-free review is a good review. But the fun about talking about this movie lies in interpreting it. So, I’ll share my thoughts without revealing plot points as best as possible.

The movie revolves around Shideh, a young woman, and her daughter Dorsa, who live in Tehran. Her husband is sent away to serve as a doctor in the Iran-Iraq War, and we don’t see him much in the movie. As a husband, he is absent for the most part, and he didn’t seem great, to be honest. The film starts with Shideh requesting the college authorities to allow her to complete her medical education. They reject her request, citing her political activism as the reason she is no longer allowed to pursue her studies. Several years have passed since she was barred from college. She now has a kid and everything. I think the husband is an asshole because the only time we see him, he’s fighting with Shideh, blaming her for not completing her studies. According to him, Shideh wouldn’t have gotten into activism if she really valued her medical degree. We see Shideh hiding her medical textbooks from her husband and others several times. She has unresolved ambitions and is frustrated about not being able to complete her degree. She doesn’t want any reminders of her lost dreams. But it could also be that, in the society she lives in, reading medical books is considered criminal since she’s barred from medical education. We can’t know for sure. It is also possible that the husband is the kind of character who might out even family members as “traitors.” We can’t know for sure. But he kind of gave that energy.

We see Shideh in a hijab when we are introduced to her as a traditional Muslim woman, and very soon, we find out that she is anything but that. She wears Western clothes, has short hair, and works out to Jane Fonda tapes on TV. It’s almost like she lives a double life. She lives according to societal expectations outside of her house. But inside her home, she lives on her terms. This, I think, is the central theme of the movie. Her home is her little haven. Within the confines of her house, we see Shideh almost content with her life. The tensions keep escalating outside, yet she remains resolved not to move out of her home. Her husband keeps asking her to travel to his parents’ home, where it is safer. But we see Shideh resolved not to go. As viewers, we keep wondering why she is staying in such an unsafe environment with her daughter. Initially, we’re almost on her side. But as the movie progresses, the terrors of war keep getting more and more real. Soon, the neighbors start vacating the building one by one. And yet Shideh refuses to leave.

Even in war-torn Tehran, Shideh prefers to stay home with her daughter rather than move in with her in-laws. For most of us, it makes sense from a physical safety point of view to move out. But for Shideh, moving out of her home could mean giving up on her freedom and performing familial and societal roles that she isn’t really super keen on. We are introduced to the escalating situation through the increasingly concerning behavior of her daughter and the Djinn. It’s the neighbor who first introduces us to the Djinn, planting a seed of fear. The neighbour is also sort of like the flag bearer of the old world thinking and values. Very strange things begin to happen. There are some legit jump scare moments. Watch out for those! Is the Djinn real? Is it a psychological manifestation of her trauma and fears? I personally think the Djinn is very much her internal anxieties. But the Djinn also situates Dorsa at the center of Shideh’s conflict. Dorsa is an annoying and difficult child, to be honest. There are times we see Shideh lose her cool with Dorsa. Very ripe setup for mom guilt. Dorsa and her doll become a key element. The doll, in my interpretation, represents innocence, which is slowly being chipped away by the horrors of war and the supernatural elements creeping into their lives. When the doll goes missing, Shideh’s sense of control and security starts to unravel even further. It’s as if the loss of the doll signifies the loss of normalcy, the final straw in a life that is becoming increasingly chaotic.

The house, though increasingly dangerous, represents the one place where Shideh can still be herself—wearing Western clothes, exercising to Jane Fonda, defying the traditional expectations of her society. The external threat, whether it’s the bombs or the Djinn, mirrors the internal struggles she faces as a woman in an oppressive society.

The ending of Under the Shadow is as ambiguous as the rest of the movie, and I won’t spoil it for you. But I will say this: the film leaves you with a sense of unresolved tension, much like Shideh’s life. There are no easy answers, no neat conclusions. Though she does embrace her maternal survival instinct, we don’t know exactly the kind of life she builds for herself and her daughter.

This movie has the traditional elements of a horror movie with its eerie, creepy vibes and jump-scare moments. But it’s much more than that. I think it’s more about the existential struggles of a woman with hopes, dreams, and ambitions in an oppressive, war-torn country where physical, psychological and personal freedoms are to be defended and fought for.

Hello world, since I watch a lot of movies, I’ve decided to start sharing my thoughts on the ones I’ve recently enjoyed, starting with this one. If you liked this movie or have any recommendations for me, feel free to reach out. I’d love to hear your thoughts!

I Saw the TV Glow is a movie to be felt, not seen. Even as I attempt to write about it, the mere effort of putting words to my feelings makes my thoughts collapse from many into a murky, singular one. Maybe the wrong one. Maybe one I don’t entirely understand. That’s the vibe of the movie.

Watching this movie, I relived remote memories from childhood. The movie is much more, though. I can’t say I relate to the gender conflicts it explores, but I get the crisis of identity. I could empathize with the parts I couldn’t directly relate to, and I related to most of them. Choosing who you want to be in a limitless world is a weird trip. The world feels so vast and uncertain that you can end up feeling lost, even indifferent, but still stuck with these constant reminders to define yourself. And in all that, what if you can’t trust what you think you know about yourself? What if you don’t trust you? Internal experiences that cannot be settled by the external world. The more the movie presses on the question of who you are, the more unsettling it becomes, and in a world so vast and indifferent, the idea of never really knowing how to find yourself feels all the more isolating.

That deep yearning to experience is most potent in childhood, and TV was the perfect escape. Watching kids like you, or better yet slightly older ones, living dangerous, heroic, and mysterious lives while you were stuck in the mundane reality of sleepy middle-class life. It was a life you could never have but longed to escape into—a teen’s fantasy that gets negated, almost turned into a joke, as the realities of growing up and everyday life kick in. I find it tragic. It’s like a dream dies.

Loneliness growing up can either depress you or gift you with a vivid imagination. Sometimes both. A lonely childhood sobers you for life. The comfort of melting into the TV late into the night. And with every new show, I remember how I’d get a fresh idea, a new possibility of who I wanted to be in the world. It was exciting. Every show and every movie unlocked a new identity I could try on.

The movie takes this feeling from childlike curiosity to a satisfying kind of anxiety, then escalates into a full-blown crisis of identity. The last few moments, in particular, felt heavy. I felt sorry.

Now and then, it hits me how so many people live lives full of wishes, dreams, and talent, but none of it is realized. I don’t really care much for people who never dream and go on to live normal lives. There’s no crisis in that. But those who dream and never achieve those dreams, it’s tragic. Worse still are the ones who don’t even accept what they desire or live in a haze, never fully able to grasp their dreams, let alone make them a reality.

Overall, I Saw the TV Glow is a hazy, vibey, surreal, and sentimental coming-of-age movie about gender and identity. You should watch this movie because you never know what a movie might reveal about you—and this one just might, too.

It seems like everyone wants to be seen as an expert on the internet these days, and I understand why. Of course, there’s social validation in being seen as knowledgeable, and that feels good. But, with generative AI on the rise, becoming an "expert" has never been easier or more profitable. It's a new kind of faux expertise which is more about curating ideas rather than coming up with original thoughts.

In 2012, the book "The Internet as a Factory and a Playground" captured the dual nature of social media. It was seen as a place for connection, creativity, and self-expression but also as a platform where our creative work, thoughts, and data were exploited for profit. At that time, the concept of a creative economy was not fully realized, and users had little control over the value they were creating. Platforms benefited the most, while users gained very little in return. Slowly but surely, the internet came to accept the idea that platforms exploit our digital labor, no matter how non-labour-like or fun it may seem.

The rise of the creator economy has shifted the power back to users to an extent. You can own your own social media factory. Times have changed now. With the rise of generative AI, this shift has only accelerated. Now, individuals can build their personal brands and pose as intellectuals, thought leaders, or cultivated thinkers without doing the real work. AI has become a shortcut, allowing people to boost their intellectual capital with minimal effort, and to monetize through personal branding, sponsorships, and an ever-growing online following. Expertise has become a form of social currency that opens doors, making it more desirable than ever.

The Subversion of Expertise and Pursuit of Influence

The expert community is quite unhappy with how generative AI has given rise to a new type of pseudo-expert—individuals who lack genuine deep expertise but are skilled at using AI to up their intellectual reputation. These individuals are neither experienced professionals nor complete beginners. They fall somewhere in between and use AI to generate ideas, add a touch of cleverness, and create the appearance of depth and polish.

We are in an era where expertise is no longer protected by an elite few. Expertise is being subverted on social media, which I think could have been the start of something exciting honestly. Why should the elites control anything! But unfortunately, those subverting expertise aren't the ones furthering knowledge. Instead, they are diluting credibility and homogenising thoughts and opinions across the internet with their lazy, low-effort, self-satisfied posts.

Does AI-generated content pass off as genuine content without people noticing? In today's post-truth world, where misinformation and fake news are rampant, the answer may be surprisingly yes. Ordinary people confuse these AI-masked experts for real experts, and real experts may not bother calling them out.

To some people's annoyance, pseudo-experts flood social media with hollow content to game the system, hoping that "frequency + superficial expertise" will grow their influence. And in many ways, it works. Social media runs on supply and demand. Not everyone is looking for deep, well-researched insights. Sometimes, people just want surface-level wisdom—quick, relatable bites that allow them to switch off their brains but still feel the satisfaction of intellectual engagement. These quick takes play directly into System 1 thinking, where ideas feel instinctively right because they confirm pre-existing beliefs.

Meanwhile, System 2 thinking, which requires deeper, slower, and more reflective analysis, takes more work to cultivate. It's uncomfortable and takes time, so it's often neglected. Pseudo-experts thrive in this environment because they offer ideas that seem right and feel right without demanding the kind of intellectual rigour that deeper insights require.

The pursuit of influence online is also about gaining social and intellectual capital. Social capital involves building networks and relationships—being liked, followed, and included in important conversations. Intellectual capital is about establishing credibility and authority—being respected for what you know and contribute. When people use GenAI for their content, they're not just trying to keep up; they're striving to position themselves as thought leaders whose ideas are worth following. It's about strategic self-presentation. People are leveraging AI to climb social and intellectual hierarchies and fast-track a level of influence that would typically take years to build. And while this might seem harmless, like everything else on the internet, it changes the very nature of authenticity online. When people use AI to inflate their intellectual capital, they manipulate and shape perceptions in ways that don't reflect reality.

Consent, Control, and Incentives in the Age of AI

The question of consent is crucial when it comes to training AI. In the past decade or so, awareness around data protection has risen, especially with GDPR protecting users' interests. Users don't tick the "I agree" box on terms and conditions as readily as before. But what could possibly incentivise anyone to allow their ideas and creative labor to be fed into these massive AI systems?

For individuals still trying to build a following, GenAI is an opportunity and a great tool. It provides an easy way to keep up with the constant demand for content creation and to engage more frequently with audiences. However, AI poses a threat to individuals with unique voices and intellectual capital that sets them apart. When AI can absorb and replicate your ideas, style, and thought process, protecting what makes you unique becomes difficult. In the past, plagiarism was a known risk, but there was always the possibility of fighting back—calling out those who copied your work and demanding credit. Now, with AI systems quietly training on your content, there's no clear recourse. Your intellectual capital is fed into the system, and there's no way to retrieve it or claim back the originality that makes you, you.

And that brings us to a tough question: how do you put a price on someone’s intellectual identity? It feels weird to think you could slap a dollar amount on something so personal. But, at the end of the day, it’s better to have creators paid for their contributions than expect them to just let their data be used for free. Especially for individuals with years of cultivated interests, ideas, and expertise, as well as creatives, some form of recognition and meaningful incentive to contribute is key. It’s hard to put a price on originality, but it’s even harder to justify using someone’s ideas without giving anything back.

Gatekeeping Ideas

As GenAI evolves, we may see more creators begin to gatekeep their ideas. For those who have built their influence on originality, it's no longer all that safe to share freely. The risk isn't just that someone might steal their ideas—AI will learn from them, replicate them, and dilute their value.

This could lead to a future where the most valuable ideas are kept behind paywalls or inside private communities. Ironically, the platforms that once promised to democratize creativity may look towards intellectual exclusivity, where only a privileged few have access to the best ideas.

For creators, this means navigating a tricky balance between visibility and protection. Sharing too freely may cost them their originality, while keeping their ideas locked away could limit their reach. In a world where AI constantly learns, the question becomes: How do you maintain control over your intellectual capital?

The line between authenticity and performance is more blurred than ever. Some will continue to thrive on their originality, while others will ride the wave of AI-generated content, posing as experts and thinkers. Fake it till you make it. May be those faking will eventually make it as real experts too if put to good use. But, majority are not in it for knowledge. So, likely not. For now, the algorithms reward bite-sized, frequently posted superficial wisdom. But in the long run, who knows? Maybe the ones who stand the test of time will be those who offer more than surface-level engagement—those who bring depth, originality, and something real. Or maybe not. Algorithms don’t seem to care about that for now.

The challenge for experts is clear: How do you protect your intellectual capital, and cut through the noise of AI-generated pseudo-expertise?

Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in this content are my own and do not represent those of my employer or any affiliated organisations. I used AI for assistance with grammar and editing to ensure clarity, but the ideas presented here are entirely mine.

The Karnataka job reservation bill draft is a populist and regressive policy steeped in cultural and economic protectionist rhetoric, claiming to create more job opportunities for locals. The proponents argue for the protection of local workers, while opponents advocate for the rights of workers from other states to seek employment where opportunities exist. Some view the bill as more about earning political brownie points and stoking the idea of cultural dominance than genuinely improving job prospects for locals.

When it comes to policies, the predominant political ideologies play a significant role. If a particular state has mostly progressive people, getting support for progressive bills is easier. However, if the state has a diverse mix of people aligning with various political ideologies—from liberals to conservatives to neoliberals and protectionists to anarchists and everything in between, it becomes about who can convince the most people, among many other factors. Public debate, which is integral to this process, allows for the exchange of ideas and the building of consensus. In such a diverse political landscape, the challenge lies in finding common ground and addressing the concerns of all groups, ensuring that policies are inclusive and representative of the population's varied interests. Karnataka has no singular ideology that represents the needs of its people. The mishmash of perspectives from across the political spectrum in this debate has been interesting. Even though I lean towards progressive values, the multifaceted nature of this debate points to valid concerns and contradictions on both sides. Here's my two cents on the matter.

I want to cover the basics first. The influx of migrants can create competition for local workers in job markets, but this issue arises primarily when there is a labour surplus. The degree of this surplus varies depending on the specific skills required and the sectors in question. Given the poor literacy, there is always an oversupply of unskilled and low-skilled workers. Migrants fill many jobs that local workers are unwilling to take. No data or surveys analyzing the skill gaps in Karnataka inform this bill – the proposal is mostly a one-size-fits-all solution.

One might wonder if selectively accepting migrants based on supply gaps in different skills and sectors would be a better approach. However, free markets are dynamic and self-correcting. This is also true for labour markets, with the supply and demand for specific jobs rising and falling all the time. The workforce adapts to this change organically. For instance, professions like typists, telephone booth operators, and bank tellers that existed years ago have disappeared today, with those workers reskilling for new roles. With such a diverse and varied workforce of migrants and locals, why focus on limiting migrants rather than leveraging all available people and letting the free markets do what they do best - optimally allocate people to jobs? Also, why isn't the government prioritizing establishing educational infrastructure to reskill or upskill local labour instead strategically? Needless to say, hiring not based on merit kills competition, creates no incentive to be competent, drags down productivity, and hurts the economy overall.

Some might get inspired by how certain countries address labour shortages by selectively taking in highly skilled migrants and using language proficiency tests for better cultural assimilation and think it makes sense to apply this idea to inter-state migration in India. However, applying this idea to inter-state migration in India is both impractical and contradictory to our constitutional principles. Gatekeeping at the state level contradicts India's foundational concept as a union. As privileged citizens of India, we don't need gates to regulate movement within the country; it is our right to move and settle where we want, as guaranteed by Article 19(1)(d) and 19(1)(e) of the Constitution. Moreover, states lack the infrastructure for selective measures like language tests. The majority of internal migrants play integral roles in low-skill jobs that are crucial to the economy. Any gatekeeping measures put in place can prevent them from accessing these jobs, especially if they are uneducated or lack government identification. Additionally, learning new languages as an adult can be incredibly challenging, especially when not literate.

The government's attempt to address the decline in Kannada speakers and local unemployment through a single policy is misguided. These are distinct issues that require different solutions. It may be tempting for the locals to introduce policies to make learning Kannada mandatory for employment as if it's the ultimate answer to cultural assimilation. However, it's not just migrants; local urban populations are also among those not speaking Kannada. Cultural capital is a more powerful driver of language adoption, inspiring genuine interest, whereas imposing a language by mandating it relies on fear of punishment. The entertainment industry plays a crucial role in developing cultural capital. For example, the popularity of Korean cinema, TV shows, and music has led to increased enrollment in Korean language courses worldwide. There is a need to nurture and support Kannada artists and to create an environment to celebrate and showcase Kannada through compelling and accessible mediums such as cinema, music, literature, and other cultural artefacts. This is how the cultural capital of a language is built and sustained and how cultural pride can be achieved.

Who should this bill benefit? The traditionalist and liberal narratives both claim to advocate for economically disadvantaged workers and ordinary people. However, their approaches and underlying logic differ significantly. Traditionalists speak for the local population, while liberals advocate for migrants. But aren't they both exclusionary in their approach? One group excludes based on geography, while the other does so based on merit. The concept of 'merit' is often invoked in the context of high-skill sectors such as IT, where those advocating for merit-based hiring are the most vocal in this debate. However, what does 'merit' mean for a low-skilled job where competition is based on who can do the most hours of work for the least pay?

The protectionist viewpoint is that our cities are over capacity, and the influx of migrants has drastically influenced our culture, leading to the alienation of some locals. Neither the migrants nor those who employ them take measures to integrate or assimilate them into our culture. The migrants are willing to take jobs that locals don't want or to work for lower wages, thereby driving down wages. Additionally, they drive up rents and stress the infrastructure, as housing and infrastructure are not keeping pace with the influx of people to the city. Some of these concerns are valid or at least deserve some thinking and consideration. Why is the government's instinct to hit the brakes rather than introduce policies focused on urban planning, infrastructure investment, and affordable housing as required?

On the other side of the debate, liberals support migration, the freedom to move, seeking a better quality of life, diversity, and embracing people from all walks of life. Neo-liberals believe that migration has an overall positive impact. They argue that migrants make our cities more productive and that our economies cannot grow without migrant workers. They are not concerned about migrants stealing the jobs of locals and believe it's only fair if lazy, unmotivated, and unskilled individuals are at a disadvantage. Competition is good for the economy, and free markets are self-correcting. Most economists agree that any intervention would distort the labour market and reduce productivity. They view the economics of migration as a positive-sum game. Even though migrant workers work for lower wages and often face exploitation at times, they believe that their quality of life, both here and back home, improves overall. As for the locals complaining about culture, language, and alienation, the liberal perspective would draw our attention to the rampant xenophobia. This perspective argues that the issue does not lie with the migrants but with those who are intolerant of cultures different from their own and resistant to change.

Many believe that xenophobes don't deserve anyone's empathy and are truly deplorable. However, there are different shades of xenophobia in India, and it can sometimes stem from ingrained beliefs and a lack of exposure rather than malicious intent. For instance, consider an elderly grandmother in rural India who has lived her entire life in a homogenous community with limited interaction with people from other regions or backgrounds. She may hold certain biases or prejudices simply because she has never been exposed to different cultures or ways of life. Her views are not born out of hatred but from a lifetime of living within a narrow cultural framework. While this form of xenophobia is still problematic and can contribute to broader societal divisions, it lacks the intentional malice seen in more aggressive forms.

The harmful xenophobic behaviours in a city like Bangalore manifest as random harassment from local troublemakers, hostile remarks, violence on the streets, as well as uncooperative attitudes from locals, including public/government officials. Conversely, migrants are also xenophobic and hold prejudices about locals. I'm sure most of us have experienced a situation where both groups of locals/migrants refuse to communicate in a common language like English in colleges and offices, insisting on using their native languages instead, oblivious to how it can exclude and alienate others in the group. Some of these behaviours are unhinged because these actions have no consequences. While harassment and violence can be taken to legal resolution, laws cannot protect us from general hostility and rude behaviour.

India is a complex society where differences in class, caste, language, region, and economic status can easily lead to conflicts among people. Surprisingly, the country has managed to not disintegrate into numerous territories of "us" versus "them". Indian people are highly vulnerable to rhetoric that exploits these tensions. This issue isn't limited to Karnataka or Bangalore; it exists in every state in India. Efforts to create unity in diversity have been ongoing since independence, and we still struggle to embrace this concept. Xenophobia is a concern, and uncontrolled migration amplifies these tensions. It's a regressive ideology, but it can't be ignored. Policies need to be forward-looking and consider the future implications. Simply throttling migration is a band-aid approach that pleases the xenophobes temporarily. A more sustainable and long-term oriented approach would address the root cause, such as uneven development and opportunities across different states. This could prevent people from needing to leave their homes and cultures behind to earn basic livelihood. We must implement measures to reform and address the underlying values and beliefs that trigger these tensions. A diverse country like India, founded on the principle of unity in diversity, cannot afford to resist cultural reformation. It is imperative that we embrace this idea in both policies and as citizens.

My journey from a Kannada-speaking childhood to the current linguistic landscape of Bengaluru, my hometown, mirrors the city's physical expansion. Growing up, Kannada was the dominant language in public spaces. It was the language of my childhood. However, as an adult, I find myself navigating a very different linguistic landscape. In many of Bengaluru's IT neighborhoods, the gradual replacement of Kannada by Hindi and English as the predominant languages has led to a growing sense of alienation among the city's original residents. This linguistic transition has been disorienting for many, stirring a sense of nostalgia as we witness this shift in our beloved city.

Regrettably, the nostalgia has turned into violence for some. There are speculations that these acts are politically motivated. Regardless, vandalism and fear are increasing under the guise of linguistic activism aimed at preserving and promoting Kannada culture. While some believe such aggressive tactics are necessary, they only instill fear rather than genuine interest or affection for the culture. This has created an atmosphere of intimidation and resentment, widening the conflicts between locals and migrants. It's important to remember that migrants contribute to the economic opportunities in the city and, ultimately, the nation. So, why hate them? These coercive methods are not just ineffective; they are also detrimental to the cause they claim to champion.

Language preservation is not about imposing a language; it's about fostering a sense of pride and connection. Tactics like vandalism and coercive laws are counterproductive to this goal. Instead, we can draw inspiration from the legacy of our cultural icons like Kuvempu, Bendre, and Karnad, as well as filmmakers like Girish Kasaravalli. They didn't force Kannada onto people; they invited them into its rich world through the irresistible allure of their art. This is the essence of cultural capital—an approach that celebrates the culture and draws people in, fostering a genuine interest in the language.

Culture holds more sway than legislation and coercion when it comes to preserving languages. The rise in global popularity of South Korean entertainment, from the viral hit "Gangnam Style" to the international success of films like "Parasite" and TV shows like "Squid Game," is a prime example of cultural influence. As a result, there has been a significant increase in the number of people enrolling in Korean language classes worldwide. This is a clear demonstration of the natural pull of cultural capital. By investing in preserving, reviving, and enriching cultural artifacts like Kannada cinema, literature, music, and art, we can attract and engage people more effectively than through vandalism or any coercive method. Our aim should be to win hearts and minds through the power of our cultural contributions, not through fear or resentment.

We must move beyond coercion and focus on long-term cultural revival and engagement to truly honor and preserve the Kannada language and culture. The government of Karnataka and pro-Kannada activists should redirect their efforts toward nurturing the arts, supporting artists, and promoting our culture on global platforms. We can achieve this by creating spaces where Kannada is not just taught but experienced in its full glory through theater, literature festivals, film screenings, and art exhibitions. By doing so, we can leave behind a legacy that future generations will not only remember but also be proud to embrace and carry forward. The future of Kannada is not in intimidation but in its potential to inspire globally.

The cultural timeline of risk-based games in India

Games of stakes have deep cultural roots in India. The Mahabharata revolves around a game of dice that rewrote the fate of kingdoms. Historically, gambling in India was not just for leisure but was often intertwined with festivals and rituals. Diwali card parties are a famous tradition that dates back to the belief that Goddess Parvati played dice with her husband, Lord Shiva, during Diwali.1 It is believed that gambling during Diwali brings good luck throughout the year.

However, British colonial rule in the 19th century brought about strict laws, with the Public Gambling Act of 18672 prohibiting running public gambling houses which is applicable even today. This might have contributed to the prevalent moral stigma and scrutiny surrounding gambling activities. Post-independence, gambling regulations were mostly left to state jurisdictions, leading to a patchwork of laws across the country.

Fast forward to today, RMG sector surged in popularity during the pandemic lockdowns. The online gaming industry in India was projected to reach an astonishing INR 231 billion by FY253. With over 90 million paying users4 and some even pursuing gaming as a profession5, the outlook for the industry seemed very promising. As the lines between leisure, luck, and livelihood grow increasingly indistinct, there's mounting concern for the financial and mental well-being of its participants. Given the addictive nature and substantial financial risks that come with RMG, the call for judicious regulation has never been more urgent.

The Government's Stance on RMG Taxation

The GST council has recently made changes to the RMG tax policy, which includes a 28% tax on Contest Entry Amount (CEA) and a 30% TDS on player winnings6. One of the major concerns is the decision to tax the CEA (Contest entry amount) instead of the Gross Gaming Revenue (GGR). The primary objective of GST is to levy tax on value addition. Real Money Gaming (RMG) was previously categorized as OIDAR, but it is now reclassified with luxury/sin goods such as tobacco and yachts, and equated to gambling, which undermines its value as a technology-centric product. Although CEA taxation may be appropriate for gambling, it is not appropriate for RMG, which primarily offers technological solutions. The proposed policy suggests a lack of nuanced understanding of the industry.

The proposed tax reforms by the government seem to be aimed at generating more revenue. The government stands to gain a 47.78% revenue increase by increasing the Gross Gaming Revenue (GGR) tax from 18% to 28%. On the other hand, by taxing the Contest Entry Amount (CEA) at 28%, it could increase its revenue by a whopping 318.80%. This move is bad news for the RMG industry, which already operates on thin profit margins. Such an aggressive tax structure could render many RMG companies unviable. In the quest for higher revenue, the government may harm the very industry it seeks to benefit from.

Regulating for Responsible Consumption:
Lessons from Alcohol's Regulatory History

"Drink responsibly. Game responsibly. Enjoy responsibly" - These pieces of advice reflect society's aspiration to strike a balance between personal freedoms and well-being. India's history with regulating alcohol can offer useful lessons for developing sensible policies around gaming.

In ancient India, alcohol was part of many rituals and celebrations. Society relied on cultural norms to guide moderate consumption without the need for rigid laws7. The Abkari policy, introduced during British rule to boost revenue, escalated alcohol prices due to taxation. This shift burdened the vulnerable, driving them towards cheaper and often illicit alternatives. These unregulated alternatives were frequently unsafe, leading to severe health issues, addiction, and even fatalities. Moreover, the search for affordable intoxicants pushed many to fall victim to unscrupulous traders and illegal markets, exacerbating crime and further destabilizing already impoverished communities.8

States like Gujarat and Bihar adopted total alcohol bans under Gandhi's influence, who advocated abstaining from alcohol as a means of resisting British revenue-generating tactics. While the bans were well-intentioned, they led to a series of unforeseen consequences. Over time, in places like Bihar, corruption manifested in bizarre ways – there were claims of rats allegedly consuming vast amounts of confiscated alcohol.9 Additionally, these bans paved the way for dangerous, illegal alcohol substitutes.

Goa, in contrast, took a balanced approach. Recognizing the cultural significance of traditional drinks like Feni, they opted for a path that allows traditional industries to continue while integrating sensible modern regulations.10

When we examine India's history of alcohol regulation, we can observe that extreme actions such as imposing high taxes or prohibiting alcohol entirely, frequently result in unintended negative consequences. Conversely, a balanced and well-informed approach generally yields better outcomes - a valuable lesson to keep in mind for devising better gaming policies.

Game of Skill vs. Game of Chance is Not a Useful Debate

The long-standing debate about games has always centered around the difference between skill and chance. Almost every game requires a mix of both factors. For instance, even sports like cricket that are typically considered skill-based are subject to chance-based factors such as weather, pitch, player's form, team dynamics, etc. Most games, including real-money games, do not fit this binary classification. To a beginner, poker may seem like a game of chance but experienced players use complex strategies and skills to win the game.

Frankly, I think this whole debate is distracting and not useful. To develop better policies and ensure the well-being of people who engage in real-money gaming apps, categorizing such games as "Games involving Financial Risks" may be more useful. This allows us to frame problems better, draw insights from similar areas such as mutual funds, and identify ways to protect individuals from financial risks while they enjoy these games. The user base of these games is vast and diverse, ranging from highly skilled players to vulnerable groups such as minors, low-income, and low-skilled players. A good policy for such games is one that protects vulnerable players while allowing responsible adults to engage safely.

Is online poker really all that terrible for society? 

Many people have a negative perception of online poker, thinking of it as just a vice or a risky form of entertainment. However, it's much more than that. Online poker is a game that requires critical thinking, strategic foresight, and mathematical prowess, setting it apart from games of pure luck11. It's not just about bets and wagers; the online poker industry drives job creation, fosters technological innovation, and boosts government coffers through tax revenue in regulated regions12. The game's inherent challenges offer valuable life lessons, such as resilience in the face of setbacks, reading human cues, disciplined decision-making, and the importance of financial and time management.13

Despite the advantages, there are also some significant concerns that need to be addressed. Online poker addiction can lead to mental health problems, damaged personal relationships, and financial instability. High stakes can translate into substantial losses, particularly for those who misconstrue online poker as a source of income14. Additionally, minors may be inadvertently exposed to the game online, without fully understanding the implications of playing.15

Online Poker can be both beneficial and risky. However, its societal value depends on its consumption and regulation.

Finding a Middle Ground: Policy Proposals for "Games Involving Financial Risks"

The increasing popularity of "Games with Financial Risks" highlights the need for a balanced and thoughtful policy framework. To reiterate, an effective policy should aim to maintain the longevity of the gaming industry, safeguard its varied user-base, and generate reasonable income for the government. A user-centric policy should prioritize shielding susceptible players while enabling responsible adults to engage safely and securely. Here are some ways to achieve the right balance:

Protecting the Vulnerable:

• Age Restrictions: Implement a rigorous verification process to ensure no minors access RMG platforms.

• Skill and Income-based Limits: Introduce a tiered system setting deposit and loss limits based on a player's skill and income bracket.

Ensuring Ethical Communication, Design, and Marketing:

• Transparent Advertising: Marketing should accurately depict RMGs and not portray them as steady income sources.

• Ethical Design Principles: Avoid manipulative elements pushing players into excessive risks.

• Mandatory Warnings: Continuously educate and remind users about financial risks, ensuring they are consistently informed.

Rigorous Regulations and Compliance:

• Combatting Illegal Platforms: Implement stringent measures against offshore and unregulated platforms.

• Balanced Gaming Environment: Establish strict licensing protocols and regular audits, ensuring a responsible gaming ecosystem.

Balanced Taxation:

• Taxing on GGR Instead of CEA: Advocate for Gross Gaming Revenue-based taxation, ensuring government revenue without suppressing industry growth.

• Rational Tax on Winnings: Introduce a threshold, like taxation on winnings above Rs.10,000.

• Support for Small Gaming Enterprises: Offer tax breaks or incentives, championing innovation and diverse market participation.

• Tiered Taxation: The more the risk, the more the tax.

Current Impact and Forecast

The new tax model is set to take effect on October 1st, 2023, and it's already significantly impacting the Real Money Gaming (RMG) sector.16 The consequences of this policy change are evident:

• Around 500+ professionals have been laid off.17

• Three companies have been forced to close down.

• The potential for foreign investment has become uncertain.

The RMG industry is expected to face an ongoing economic downturn, which may result in more layoffs and company closures18. While some companies are challenging the policy through legal battles19, the emergence of unregulated platforms may pose a threat to both these efforts and consumer safety. The industry may see market consolidation, which could lead to only a few platforms surviving and the closure of numerous small companies, which comprise 95% of the industry20. This may have a ripple effect on related sectors such as 5G and advertising as well.

The government and private companies may launch public awareness campaigns to promote responsible gaming. Despite the government's decision not to reconsider the policy, they may be compelled to do so in the face of negative impacts and opposition. Multinational companies may hesitate to invest in India if there are ongoing setbacks or legal disputes.

Conclusion

The challenges currently confronting India's Real Money Gaming (RMG) sector underscore a symptomatic disconnect between policymakers and industry stakeholders. However, there are successful examples of collaboration between governments and different sectors of the economy worldwide that we can learn from. For instance, the EU involved key industry leaders when drafting the GDPR, resulting in a well-balanced framework that protected individual rights while ensuring industries implement and adhere to the policy in the long term21. Similarly, Singapore engages in ongoing public-private dialogues to ensure its policies remain forward-looking and grounded in on-ground realities. If India adopts a similar collaborative approach, it could lead to policies that better align with the industry's aspirations and benefit society.

Fin

Historically, the appeal of owning media ventures for influential individuals drawn towards steering the public discourse has been strong. From the newspaper empire of William Randolph Hearst, which dominated 20th-century America, to Rupert Murdoch's global media reach, the desire to leverage media as a tool of influence is a recurrent theme. This trend is not just limited to Western countries. In India, wealthy magnates like Gautam Adani of the Adani Group are increasingly marking their territory in the media landscape, exemplified by the recent acquisition of the established news network NDTV.

Elon Musk's recent takeover of Twitter and subsequent rebranding to 'X' may appear as just another eccentric move or a narcissistic display in his ongoing endeavor to influence technological progress. However, it represents more than just that. In this article, I aim to unpack the nuances of this surprising transition, from the chirpiness of 'tweets' to the foreboding 'X,' and explore its significance for the platform's identity, public discourse, and broader societal implications.

X: Elon Musk's Pompous Parade of Ownership

Elon Musk, a name synonymous with frontiering technology, is a complex figure who never shies away from pushing boundaries. From space travel with SpaceX to electric vehicles with Tesla to tunneling technology with The Boring Company, Musk has a penchant for projects that many consider audacious, even impractical. Musk's ventures are grand in scale, requiring not only technological breakthroughs but also regulatory support. They often stir public discourse, a fact that might have played a part in his interest in acquiring Twitter, a platform central to online conversation.

The rebranding of Twitter into 'X' unmistakably signals Musk's assertive declaration of his ownership, ushering in a new, though uncertain, vision for the platform's future. This change invites us to examine what this signifies for the future of this platform and the democratic ethos that Twitter has long been identified with. Will it continue to be a place for open, unfiltered discourse, or will it transform under the influence of its new owner?

Musk's commitment to uphold 'X' as a 'democratic platform' remains somewhat nebulous. He was known for his meme-fueled engagements and controversies on the erstwhile Twitter. His nonchalant attitude towards consequences occasionally landed him in trouble, as evident from the SEC investigation and penalties following his tweet about privatizing Tesla. Despite publicly advocating for free speech, his actions sometimes contradict this stance, particularly when faced with criticism or unfavorable media coverage. These instances suggest that Musk may not hesitate to leverage the platform to promote his own interests and express his opinions without restraint.

As he takes the reins of 'X,' Elon Musk's approach to managing the platform might differ from his personal use, with a primary focus on strategies to improve growth and profitability. These could range from preserving Twitter's democratic essence for better user engagement to implementing policy and algorithm changes or even overhauling the entire business model, given his outspoken interest in pursuing an "everything app." Musk's belief in technology's transformative power and his ambitious vision for a super app may underpin his view of Twitter's rebranding as a necessary disruption on the path to innovation. Nevertheless, it is essential to consider that external factors, such as regulatory scrutiny, public opinion, and user behavior, will also play pivotal roles in shaping the platform's future.

Time will unveil the impact of Musk's stewardship on 'X' and his true intentions. As spectators in this grand narrative, we can only watch and speculate how Twitter's transformation will unfold under Elon Musk's ownership.

The Changing Face of Media Takeovers

Studying history offers valuable insights into the present, enabling us to discern patterns that recur and aspects that evolve over time. Media takeovers have historically influenced public discourse and information flow, shaping our understanding and opinions. Rupert Murdoch and his influence on the media industry he built is a case in point. His extensive media empire, consisting of newspapers, television networks, and other outlets worldwide, exerted significant control over the editorial direction and public discourse.

Unlike traditional media platforms where influence was primarily through editorial control, today's social media platforms like 'X,' with their user-generated content, present a different landscape. The impact of media takeovers on these platforms may not look the same as it did for traditional media. The massive number of users and the democratic nature of content creation on social media platforms make it challenging to puppeteer the discourse. The influence takes the form of content moderation policies and the rules governing the algorithms that dictate what users are exposed to.

A distinct shift from the past is how media takeovers are now signaled. Historical media takeovers often led to changes in the platform's tone and ideology, but these shifts were subtle, without significant visible signs or a rebranding exercise. This lack of signaling created a disorientation among users, who continued to trust the platform based on its previous ethos, leading to a trust deficit when they noticed a shift in tone. In contrast, in the case of 'X,' the changes were overt and came with a rebranding exercise, signaling impending changes and preparing users for the new direction.

The assertive declaration of change is a bold message to the users: The house rules have changed, and the power rests squarely in the hands of 'X.' This transparency, while ostensibly inviting users into the process, also reveals the stark power dynamic at play. Despite this clear signposting, users could still find themselves on unstable ground, similar to audiences of traditional media who fretted over changes in editorial direction.

While these explicit signals are inescapable, users need to be alert to more subtle shifts that may emerge over time – the way 'X' might moderate content, shape the rules and algorithms that govern user experience. As we navigate this new era, users must demand that their voices, rights, and agency are not overshadowed within the sphere of influence 'X' now commands.

Decoding X: A semiotic perspective

In 2006, Twitter took flight as the Internet started finding its footing, and the world was beginning to dip its toes into social media. The optimism of this time was palpable – we were full of anticipation for the possibilities that the Internet and social media could bring to our lives. 

Twitter introduced itself with "Larry the Bird" as its logo, set against a pleasant blue backdrop. With its innocent, friendly, and welcoming outlook, Larry embodied the optimism that mirrored Twitter's original promise as a platform for self-expression and individuality and fostering connections based on shared interests and causes. As something that can fly across borders, the logo embodied the democratic ethos of the Internet and the freedom it represented. Over the years, the logo evolved from a naive and cartoonish representation to an iconic and minimalistic symbol, but its core symbolism of freedom and connection remained intact.

Over time, however, the platform's unfolding story didn't quite pan out as intended. Rather than living up to the optimistic promise of fostering unbridled expression and connection, Twitter morphed into a complex mess, a relentless stream of trivial opinions, attention-seeking antics, unbridled self-promotion, divisive debates, hate speech, trolling, misinformation, and abuse. In response to this, Twitter underwent a visual overhaul in 2020, housing its logo within a gritty, street-art, punk-inspired aesthetic. This was not merely an aesthetic shift but an embrace of the raw, activist undertones that had seeped into the platform. It bore the markings of street activism and low-cost printing vibes, featuring dual-tone colors and dot patterns reminiscent of rebellious posters pasted on city walls. Amidst this visual change, 'Larry the Bird' persisted, symbolizing Twitter's aspiration to preserve the platform's original promise in the face of prevailing challenges.

Now, we've entered the era of the "X," and Twitter's still as toxic as ever. For semioticians, naming is no trivial exercise. It carries weight and meaning, communicating specific values and attributes. It's a part of a larger narrative that a brand weaves about itself, resonating with its audience's cultural understanding, needs, and aspirations. So, what does "X" communicate about Twitter's narrative?

Let's go down the rabbit hole and see what "X" could signify - 

• In films and books, "X" often represents a character with a hidden or mysterious identity. "The X-Files" or "X-Men," anyone?

• In computing, "X" signifies a close command, an exit, or an error.

• In physics and astronomy, "X" symbolizes unknown quantities or mysterious phenomena.

• In different cultures, "X" is often associated with death or danger.

• In mathematics, "X" is a placeholder for an unknown variable.

• "X" often signifies the past, as in 'ex,' or extreme things.

• And on the Internet, it has an association with pornography.

• The list goes on. But, most fall in the spectrum of something unknown or vague to something negative.

The "X" seems less a nod to the platform's multifaceted users and more an emblem of Elon Musk's personal imprint. The platform that was intended to amplify the voice of the many now revolves around the whims of one. One can't help but wonder: Where do the users truly fit in this new chapter?

Beyond the Fresh Coat of Paint

Addressing Twitter's problems is no mean feat, especially through technological means. When it comes to free speech and bad actors, the ideal of democracy might be an overly optimistic, utopian notion, assuming too much fair play. It's a gnarly problem that spawns more complications with each attempted solution. Maybe there's no light at the end of the tunnel, and it will continue to be a dumpster fire. Despite the platform's current state, I found Larry the Bird logo inspiring. It served as a reminder of Twitter's original promise: a platform for free speech, connections with like-minded individuals, and an opportunity for change-making and supporting causes. Even the post-2020 aesthetic was inspiring, hopeful about the platform's potential for change for good and citizen journalism. 

The "X" ushers in a future that's vague, undefined, pessimistic, and ominous. It reminds users who really wields the power — not them, but the platform (specifically the new owner, Elon Musk). Unsurprisingly, users are voicing their disapproval by rating the app with one star on the app store. The "X" sign was taken down at the Twitter headquarters following the backlash and legal complications. As the app navigates through changes, possibly evolving into an "everything app," I wonder: Do I want to be part of a product's future that touts an unknown "X" as its symbolic commitment - a brand promise?

Designers often invest several months of effort and thought into crafting branding that promises an inspiring, forward-thinking vision for a product. A month after Twitter's rebranding, its core essence remains unchanged despite its striking new black facade. This entire situation makes me question if we overestimate branding's influence on users and the product. Could branding, at times, just be a hollow spectacle… an empty charade?

Fin.

Note: The opinions expressed herein are solely mine and do not reflect those of any affiliated entities.