Neither this nor that - then what?

They say the left brain is all about logic, language, and math.

The right? Imagination, emotion, and the big picture.

One breaks the world into parts.

The other connects them into patterns.

Interestingly, those traits often show up in our politics.

People with a strong need for order, rules, and clear structure?

They tend to lean conservative — left-brained in style.

Those more open to ambiguity, empathy, and change?

They often lean liberal — right-brained in tone.

Of course, no one lives fully in one hemisphere.

Our brains aren’t silos — they’re symphonies.

But somewhere along the way, I think we took the left-right brain metaphor

and turned it into a society-wide identity war.

We chose a side — and sometimes forgot to keep the whole.

⚖️ Balance Isn’t Neutrality

People talk about being centrists these days.

Some mean it with integrity: “I listen to all sides.”

Fair enough.

But sometimes, “centrist” just means:

“I don’t want to take a side.”

It’s a position of avoidance, not balance.

Let’s be honest — there’s no such thing as a value-free center.

There’s no “centrist policy” that exists in a vacuum.

Every real-world stance — on speech, economy, justice, education —

emerges from values that lean somewhere.

The so-called “center” is often a place where values overlap,

not a magical realm of neutral truth.

The real question is not where you stand, but what you stand for — and why.

🔄 When Both Sides Make Sense

Some of my values lean right: I believe in discipline, responsibility, and the power of tradition when it’s rooted in love.

Some of my values lean left: I care about inclusion, dignity, and the right to challenge what no longer serves us.

And I know many people who live with that same inner tension —

not because they’re indecisive,

but because they’re honest.

They’ve stopped trying to “pick a side.”

Instead, they live in the middle of the dynamic —

grounded in values, not in tribes.

🚨 The Danger of Extremes

Take anything to an extreme and it collapses in on itself.

• Far left? You risk perversion — ideals without structure, boundaries erased in the name of progress.

• Far right? You risk intolerance — structure without empathy, purity enforced at the cost of peace.

Extremes operate like single hemispheres —

functioning without their other half.

But the brain doesn’t work well like that.

And neither does a human.

And neither does a democracy.

🧭 So Where’s the Real Center?

It’s not in between.

It’s beyond.

The real center isn’t the fence.

It’s the meeting point where clarity, conviction, and compassion live together.

It’s not neutrality — it’s integration.

It means asking:

“What value is alive in me right now — and how do I live it with integrity?”

That’s not a weak question. That’s a wise one.

It’s not indecision — it’s discernment.

🧩 In the End

I’m not left.

I’m not right.

I’m not center.

I’m an aspiring thinker with values.

I struggle to uphold them — daily.

I try to anchor in emotions and feelings,

to reclaim my mind from the grip of reactivity.

And I know I’m not alone.

There are many who walk ahead of me —

quiet giants of clarity and compassion.

I watch them with respect, not envy.

I tread forward — cautiously,

but with enthusiasm —

trying to expand my humanity

one value, one moment, one breath at a time.

Not just a dog story

She was ten.

The dog on the screen had just died.

Tears welled up in her eyes, and I sat beside her — silent, heavy-hearted — unsure if I should comfort her or just sit there in that small, unbearable honesty.

That was the moment I knew.

We would get a dog.

But this isn’t really about the dog.

It’s about her.

She still has a dog toy she’s kept in near-perfect condition since she was a baby.

She invents names for me — strange, funny, sometimes musical — each one somehow sweet. They make me laugh, disarm me, draw me closer to the person I forgot I could be.

She moves through the world with a quiet grace. She can turn down chocolates without a second thought. In public, she becomes my advisor, my mirror. She offers tips. And sometimes, with nothing but a glance — that corrective eye-whip — she resets my entire behavior.

I’ve heard it said that a daughter is God’s proof of love for a man.

Whether or not that’s universally true, I know it’s been true for me.

She climbed my shoulders before she could read properly, treating me like a mountain. She turned my back into her reading couch. She never asked permission — she just trusted I was safe. And that trust began transforming me.

She started asking for a puppy years ago. But we were planning to relocate, and I didn’t want to leave a pet behind with family. I also wasn’t sure I was ready. I’ve always loved dogs, but something from childhood — something I still can’t name — made me hesitant. I remember the dogs in my grandfather’s home, always tied up. I hated it, but I never spoke up. Maybe I didn’t have the courage. Maybe I absorbed that helplessness and carried it forward.

Only much later did I begin to make peace with that part of myself — starting with Joy, my friend’s enormous St. Bernard. That friendship cracked something open.

Still, when my daughter asked, I deflected with jokes. A robot dog, I said — no poop, no pee, no problem. But behind the humor was a reluctance I didn’t know how to confess.

And then came that scene on screen. Her tears. Her silence.

That’s when my hesitation ended.

Once we moved and settled, we brought home an incredible golden retriever pup.

From the first day, he softened the edges of our lives. He brought warmth and rhythm. And in one of those gestures that only a child makes without ceremony, she let me register him with AKC as his dad. That was her gift to me — not just the dog, but the role I would grow into.

Sometimes she implies that I love him more than I love her. But she’s wrong.

He came into our lives because of her.

She is the source.

Not everything I know about love or patience came from her — but much of what I’ve come to live more honestly did. The softness. The listening. The slowing down.

Not through instruction.

Through presence.

She didn’t demand change.

She inspired it.

Fatherhood, I’ve learned, isn’t about shaping someone else.

It’s about being shaped — slowly, silently — by someone who trusts you without conditions.

If it is true that a daughter is God’s proof of love for a man,

then I have been loved more deeply.

From Tin Cans to Soundscapes: The Birth of Nick Zetki

It was 2004—21 years ago—when I first composed a tune by mouthing it aloud. With the help of a talented friend, Seizo, who brought it to life on the keyboard, we gave it musical form. I was thrilled. But somewhere along the way, I let that project go.

Growing up, learning music was a distant dream. In the economic conditions of my family, singing classes were a luxury. It was already a stretch that they put me through an English-medium school. Besides, in our village, there was no music teacher in sight.

Yet, the love for rhythm was alive in me from the beginning. I remember being five years old, asking my grandfather to punch holes in an empty Farex baby formula tin. I’d string a rope through, wear it around my neck, and mimic the street drummers I heard from afar. The moment I heard the beat, my feet moved. I ran to them—fascinated.

These drummers lived on the outskirts of the village. At the time, I didn’t understand why they were pushed away, why they lived separately. Later, I learned the reason: caste. That cruel invention of our society. I abhorred it. I defied it whenever I could—by inviting them into our home, by honoring them in my heart. They were, and still are, my heroes.

Dan du du dum, dan du du dum,

dan dan du tutudu tutudu tutudu…

To me, that was divine. I am a devotee of sound.

I drummed on anything I could find—a table, a tin, a bucket. Anything.

Years passed. Life moved. Merit-based America lifted me, and with it, a desire returned—to revive the passions of my childhood. I pursued them, then got distracted. But something shifted in late 2018. I began a second innings—picking up acting, writing, directing. One by one. What followed was seven intense years of creative rebirth, sometimes guided by intention, more often sparked by necessity.

As an independent producer, I relished the freedom—but I also faced constraints. Waiting on collaborators, navigating extended turnaround times—months in most cases, and even a year in one—pushed me to adapt. Craft after craft, I learned to a professional degree. Fortunately, I never believed in excessive specialization. Whether in the IT industry or in art, I’ve always felt that a human being is naturally a generalist.

My wife and daughter both sing beautifully. It’s pure joy to hear their voices fill the home. By last year, having taken my projects significantly forward, I felt a strong pull to finally learn singing and composing.

That’s when I began learning under Soundarya—a terrific teacher, my guru, and a true force of nature. She has a powerful philosophy: "If you can talk, you can sing." It might sound simple, but in her voice, it becomes a bridge to confidence.

Soundarya doesn’t just inspire—she helps you learn faster by meeting you exactly where you are. As a young girl in India, driven purely by passion, she once took a 10–12 hour bus ride just to reach a city where she could learn Western music. That alone tells you what she’s made of.

Her dedication today is no different. She pushes past her own limits to match her students’ commitment—and often exceeds it. She wants to reduce the time it takes for us to learn, and she walks that extra mile with grace. Through this article, I pay my heartfelt tribute to her.

It’s my dream to sing alongside my teacher on a stage someday soon.

instagram.com/singerkrsoundarya

Around the same time, I discovered Cubase, Ableton, and other traditional and modern DAWs. I also found guidance from generous YouTube mentors—especially Ethan Davis, creator of the channel Complete Producer, whose clear teaching helps me build a foundation for music production.youtube.com/@CompleteProducer

It reminded me of another late realization: how slowly I’d embraced technology. The iPhone launched in 2007. But it wasn’t until 2009, when my friend Nishant showed me a silly game—tossing paper into a dustbin against the wind—that I got my first iPhone. I never downloaded that game, but I loved what the phone could do.

More recently, the rise of AI in music hit me like a shockwave. Early last year, my wife told me that a colleague of hers had sent her a song—completely written and composed by AI. That stunned me. But I didn’t go there. What is creativity if someone—or something—does all the work for me?

Still, after many attempts to move my music singles forward—facing extended wait times—I began to wonder: What if I could use AI to support, not replace, my process?

So I experimented—lyrics by me, tunes mouthed and then shaped using AI technology.

And thus, Nick Zetki was born—after deep reflection on the ethics of using AI in the creative process.

The name itself is an anagram of Citizen KK—a fusion of my identity with the tools of our time.

I didn’t want technology to replace me. I wanted a new medium. This avatar emerged from the tension between technology and soul, speed and sincerity.

For me, Nick Zetki represents a commitment to original thought while respectfully embracing collective innovation. To keep that integrity clear, I chose to credit Citizen KK for lyrics and Nick Zetki for the final musical arrangement—honoring what is mine and what is co-created. It’s a space where instinct meets intelligence—human and machine in honest collaboration.

Nick Zetki is more than an alias—it’s my way of honoring my roots, embracing the tools of today, and telling stories that carry the pulse of real people.

Right now, I’m working on many Tamil-English singles that blend native folk rhythms with ambient synth textures—a tribute to the street drummers of my childhood and the global citizen I’ve become. Some of these songs are for our films. Others are standalone singles. We record both in the U.S. with local talent for the English versions and in India for the Tamil ones. I’m also pushing my own boundaries by composing full English-only versions for the first time.

In this journey from tin cans to soundscapes, from the alleys of caste-segregated villages to cross-continental music labs, I’ve come to realize:

Art finds a way.

It always has.

Nick Zetki is not just a brand. It’s a promise—that no matter the constraint, I’ll keep showing up—with sound, with soul, and with sincerity.

To create not just for the sake of output, but to stay true to the rhythm that has always lived inside me.

And to keep learning—formally and humbly—so I can honor the craft, and the countless musicians who have spent years mastering the art of composition.