Used books are wonderful. They’re democratic, affordable, and pleasantly scented with the aroma of previous owners who apparently read while eating toast. They also contain ideas, which is more than can be said for most of the things that clutter our online shopping carts.
This year, though, something unusual happened. I wrote a book.
And now I find myself in the very funny position of saying, with as much humility as one can muster while holding a paperback with one’s own name on it: if you’re planning gifts for the holidays, consider giving people… brand-new ideas wrapped in a book that’s been deliberately priced like a used one.
Welcome to Agentland is my small attempt to explain AI agents to everyday people. It isn’t written for futurists, but for anyone who wants to understand what on earth is happening inside their inboxes and apps. The book is warm, curious, and entirely free of diagrams. It even contains jokes. (The diagrams union refused to participate.)
When I was 10 or so I first learnt about computers and its possibilities by stumbling into an essay by Sujatha in Dinamani kathir. That stayed with me for years. This book is my attempt to do something similar.
Now, I should warn you, giving someone a book these days is a radical act. In a world where most things are designed to be swiped, binged, skipped, replayed, sped up, slowed down, or recommended “because you watched something vaguely similar in 2018,” offering someone a book is like handing them a small paper shield and saying:
“Here hold this. Use this to defend your attention for a few minutes.”
And what better time than the holidays? That magical period when people are doing one of the following:
waiting for cookies to bake
waiting for relatives to arrive
waiting for relatives to leave
waiting for the New Year’s countdown while pretending not to be sleepy at 10:17 p.m.
During these moments, a book, an actual book, is a marvelous thing. It sits there patiently, asking nothing of you except perhaps the occasional chuckle and a warm lap to rest upon. It does not autoplay. It does not suggest the next chapter based on your reading history.
So if you’re looking for a small, thoughtful holiday gift, for a teenager wondering about the future, a spouse curious about AI, a friend who still remembers life before infinite scrolling, or even yourself, consider gifting this little field guide.
Kindle works. Paperback is ideal. The audiobook is on the way, for the ones who prefer their ideas narrated while folding laundry.
Welcome to Agentland. A book that wants nothing more than to distract you, briefly and delightfully, from the algorithms trying to do the same.
i wake up before the alarm ’cause the birds don’t believe in schedules. they just sing like rent’s paid and peace is permanent.
i stretch my body like signing a treaty between my bones and the daylight.
coffee first ’cause prayer without caffeine is too abstract.
i check the inbox: yesterday’s emails look back at me like old regrets and i tell them, hush, we’re learning patience today.
outside, the mail truck coughs up news, bills, and a coupon for twenty percent off miracles. i don’t need them i got faith in clean laundry and good neighbors.
the kid upstairs is dribbling a basketball called hope the rhythm reminds me that meaning has a beat, not a footnote.
they say the examined life takes time but look, i just found eternity between two slices of wheat toast.
i butter it slow. i breathe. i let the light do its quiet sermon on the kitchen wall.
no gurus needed i’ve got the gospel of groceries, the meditation of morning drives, the philosophy of ironed sleeves while rahman sighs on 98.3 fm.
if i ever get famous, i want it to be for how i looked at a monday and smiled anyway.
’cause really, this simple life, this ordinary glory, is already a masterpiece if you’re awake enough to sign your name on it.
a note
this pretend poem reads like a cold day in november, and that’s how it came on a sunday morning after that strange borrowed hour we call daylight savings time. between the first filter coffee and the day’s first chores, somehow i was thinking about the examined life, that old socratic phrase that’s followed me for twenty-five years but never once got examined.
it always sounded noble, but hard to live. to examine life, you have to stop it and if you stop it, you’re gone. so maybe the trick is not to stop it, just to stay awake inside it. to see it clearly for a moment, between inboxes and toast. that morning gave me one such moment. i thought if i didn’t catch it, it would slip away like most clarity does. also this time i tried to use the word [’cause] purposefully across the whole verse to create a poetic symmetry.
somewhere, ms subbulakshmi was singing, and the light from the backyard was kind.
i didn’t think much of it just poured what was left in the glass onto that dusty stem that hadn’t bloomed in two years
it leaned, tired like it had decided silence was easier than trying again
i wiped the leaves with my shirt told it, “you still here, huh?” and went on making coffee
by the time i came back one leaf had straightened itself like somebody remembered how to stand
i don’t know what to call that miracle, mistake, or maybe just faith that refused to resign
either way i left the window open that day, and the wind came in, smelling of unborn rain, saying everything i couldn’t anymore
a note
all i wanted to say was this is yet another poem, or maybe yet another paragraph pretending to be yet another poem. i don’t know. what i do know is poetry is the hardest thing that ever can be (until i learn how to play a violin). every word here feels like it costs a million bucks. if a picture is worth a thousand words, then in a poem, i think a single word has to be worth a thousand pictures.
this one took me longer than i expected, and even now i don’t think it’s finished. maybe poems never are. maybe they just stop themselves somewhere.
if you guessed it right, this isn’t about the plant, or the watering person, or even the coffee. i was trying to see if i could write something that carried a subtext while, on the surface, it stayed about a mundane, everyday thing.
so yes, it’s a selfish act. one person, one plant. but maybe that’s how bigger things begin. i wanted to believe in something that still had a little green left in it.
This could be fiction. Or maybe not. Perhaps it was stolen from a family WhatsApp group on a Deepavali day in 2025. No one knows who exported it, or why. Nothing really happens here. Only messages, forwards, fireworks, emojis, and noise.
Family, fireworks, forwards… andbackwards.
Seen by all. Blue Ticks Blind.
Vaidhya Family 💥🪔
(Chat Excerpt: Oct 20, 2025 12:00 am to 11:59 p.m. IST)
Mithra: splitting what akka? the Diwali bill at Edison Saravana Bhavan? 😂 thought u two share one bank account lol
Ravi: lol savage 😂
Revathi Akka: 🤣🤣
(Anu seen 8 mins ago)
4:38 PM
Priya: anyway see this meme guys 😂 📸“Neighbours still bursting bombs”
Gayathri Chithi: 😂 same here!
Appa: please don’t burst inside house also 😡
5:05 PM
Ravi: wait one sec… Karthik left group at midnight 😳
Mithra: ohhh ya i saw that too 😮
Ravi: Anu? all ok?
Anu: ✌️
Revathi Akka: such cool attitude 😎 festival mode on 😂
Priya: cheer up yaar, cold weather blues.
6:12 PM
Gayathri Chithi: eh wait what you mean splitting pa? serious ah?
Anu: yes, Chithi. calling mood illa.
Gayathri Chithi: ok ok I message later ❤️
6:35 PM
Amma: Appa calling Anu now. wait
7:05 PM
Ravi: maybe small fight guys. happens.
Mithra: ya couples fight festival time 😂
Priya: everything will settle.
7:18 PM
Revathi Akka: look at my diya photo 😍 📸
Ravi: superb lighting 🔥
Mithra: vibe 🪔
8:10 PM
Gayathri Chithi: still no reply from Anu 😕
Ravi: give her time la.
Priya: sending positive vibes ❤️
Cousin Vivek (Dallas): Happy Deepawali fam 🎆 Halloween in 10 days 🎃
Mithra: dual festival goals 😂
8:52 PM
Suresh Athimber (Madurai): Hello you guys kidding me ah? She is saying she having divorce and you all sending photos? 😡 This is why I hates WhatsApp. all fake peoples.
Gayathri Chithi: 😳 wait what divorce??
Ravi: 😶
9:02 PM
Revathi Akka: Athimber pls calm down. let Appa Amma talk first.
Mithra: 😔
9:43 PM to 11:59 PM
Priya: 😂 new meme – “When boss gives work on Tuesday after Diwali” 📎
we strike a match against the edge of yesterday, and suddenly the dark forgets its name.
this is the world remembering how to see itself.
lamps lean forward like curious children, asking the night if it still believes in forgiveness.
somewhere, a flame whispers into another flame, and the air blushes, ashamed of its own silence.
quietly, we light what was always burning, beneath the soot of our forgetting.
dear diwali, or whatever you call that small impossible moment when light chooses you back.
a note: i’m still not sure if this is a poem or few overconfident sentences pretending to be one. i wrote it on a walk, with rahman’s 99 songs looping in lossless audio. 99 songs is such an underrated album, every track has that unmistakable rahman style of slow poison. this thought came as i was listening to sofia number from that album. so thank you rahman, madhan karky, srikanth hariharan, and whoever invented headphones. diwali nostalgia kept colliding with the song’s longing for hope. i didn’t really write this, it sort of arrived. a small self-reminder that hope and kindness and clarity don’t appear fully formed, they keep practicing their return. part nostalgia, part rhythm, and a little bit of light finding its way back.
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