By Suvir Saran
New Delhi [India], January 18 : It was one of those quiet evenings when conversations at the dinner table took an unexpected turn, leaving you with thoughts too heavy to dismiss, too profound to ignore. My brother, Samir Saran, President of the Observer Research Foundation, a man who maps geopolitics and global trends with a sharp mind and a hopeful heart, paused mid-meal and said, almost casually, "You know, everything comes down to just two things--fear and greed. The rest is inane."
I looked up, startled by the simplicity of his statement, and yet, as his words settled, they felt undeniable. Fear and greed, he said, are what define us--our decisions, our desires, and our denials. They are the architects of power and its excesses, the gatekeepers of access, and the undoers of trust. And as he spoke, my mind wandered to something he had said earlier that evening, a metaphor he had used to explain how the world operates.
"The world," he had said, "is like a DTC bus."
If you've ever waited at a Delhi bus stop, you'll know exactly what he means. A DTC bus, swaying and heaving under the weight of too many passengers, creaks to a stop in front of you. Its insides are a chaos of elbows and knees, crushed saris and dangling briefcases, the stale scent of humanity packed too close for comfort. But if you're on the outside, waiting under the unforgiving sun, you don't see the discomfort, the jostling, the lack of air. All you see is a chance--a ticket to wherever you need to go.
From the outside in, the bus is salvation. A lifeline. A doorway to your next opportunity, your next destination. You push forward, desperate to climb aboard, willing to ignore the protests from within. But once you're inside, something shifts. The bus, now unbearably crowded, begins to feel claustrophobic. The heat becomes oppressive, the people at the door an inconvenience. "No room!" you shout, your voice a shield against the next wave of passengers. You plant your feet firmly, forgetting what it felt like to stand outside, waiting and yearning.
Isn't that how we live our lives? From the outside in, the world is a place of opportunity, hope, and access. It's a bus we want to be on, no matter how packed it is. But from the inside out, it becomes a fortress we want to protect. We hold tightly to our comforts, our privileges, our spaces, and tell ourselves there's no room for more. It is, as Samir said, human nature--a reflection of our fear of loss and our greed for more.
This dynamic isn't confined to a crowded bus or a bustling city. It permeates every layer of our existence. In the workplace, it's the senior colleague who resists sharing their knowledge, fearing the rise of younger talent. In politics, it's the global powers that tighten their grip on resources and decision-making, wary of emerging nations like India that demand a seat at the table. In personal relationships, it's the refusal to open up, to share our vulnerabilities, to let others in. And the irony is, the more we cling to what we have, the more we lose--trust, connection, and the chance to grow.
I remember a moment from my school days, a story that stayed with me because it taught me the value of making room. Ms. Sabiha Hashmi, my art teacher, was a woman of extraordinary dedication. Her classroom was always full, not just with students but with life--paint-smeared aprons, half-finished canvases, the quiet hum of creativity. One day, a new girl joined our school, the daughter of a famous actor, and she wanted to join our already brimming art class. Ms. Hashmi, overwhelmed by the sheer number of students, suggested the girl try another class instead. But some of us, noticing the nervous hope in her eyes, spoke up. "Let her join us, ma'am," we said. "She's just moved here. It will be good for her."
Ms. Hashmi paused, clearly exhausted, but then she smiled. "You impress me," she said. "You could have kept this space for yourselves, but you want to make room for her. That's how life should be lived."
Her words stayed with me. They reminded me that inclusion isn't always easy--it takes effort, empathy, and the willingness to sacrifice a little comfort. But it is the only way forward. Without it, we stagnate. Without it, the bus stops moving.
And yet, in the world we live in today, inclusion feels like an uphill battle. The systems we've built--nations, corporations, communities--are designed to keep people out rather than let them in. We see it in immigration policies that prioritize fear over compassion. We see it in workplaces that reward competition over collaboration. We see it in global institutions that resist change, clinging to outdated hierarchies rather than embracing the fresh energy of new voices.
But what if we flipped the script? What if we saw the bus not as a cramped space of competition but as a shared resource, a vehicle for collective progress? What if those of us who are already inside remembered what it felt like to stand at the door, waiting for someone to make room? What if we challenged our fear and tempered our greed with generosity?
The truth is, the journey matters as much as the destination. And the bus, no matter how crowded, can always make space for one more. It doesn't take much--sometimes just a shift in perspective, a willingness to see the world from outside in rather than inside out. Because from the outside, you see hope. You see possibility. You see the chance to move forward. From the inside, all you see is what you might lose.
And isn't that what we fear most? Loss. The loss of control, of certainty, of the small comforts we've carved out for ourselves in a world that feels relentlessly uncertain. But the truth is, when we make room for others, we lose nothing. Instead, we gain connection, perspective, and the profound joy that comes from knowing we've helped someone else move forward. We gain trust--a currency far more valuable than the fleeting power we hold when we close the door.
As Samir said that evening, "Fear and greed make or break the world." And he's right. Fear and greed are what keep us from opening the door, from making room, from sharing what we have. But they are not insurmountable. The antidote lies in trust, in connection, in the belief that what we share is far greater than what we hoard. It lies in remembering that the person at the door is not a threat but a fellow traveler, someone whose journey is as urgent, as meaningful, as our own.
So the next time you find yourself on a metaphorical bus--whether it's a position of privilege, a circle of influence, or a seat at the table--ask yourself this: Am I guarding my space, or am I making room? Am I looking at the world from inside out, or outside in? Because when we choose to look from the outside, we see the world not as it is, but as it could be--a place of opportunity, access, and shared humanity.
The bus will always be crowded. But it will also always be moving. And when we make room for others, we move not just forward but closer--to each other, to our potential, to the kind of world we all deserve. (ANI/ Suvir Saran)
Disclaimer: Suvir Saran is a Masterchef, Author, Hospitality Consultant And Educator. The views expressed in this article are his own.