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Get yourself together

About a month ago, I landed at Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport in Atlanta, cleared immigration and found my checked-in luggage. It took half an hour, mostly because the airport had diverted the passenger flow via a longer route towards the exit. My final destination, a friend's place in the suburbs, was approximately 40 kms away. I entered a free airport shuttle bus and was deposited at the domestic terminal 10 mins later. A short amble, an automated train ticket and an escalator brought me to the MARTA platform where a train awaited. 50 minutes later, I was at a dining table, exchanging stories with a grin, over a glass (and more) of whisky. Public transport journeys don't get any smoother.

About a week ago, I landed at CSI Airport in Mumbai, cleared immigration and found my luggage. It took about an hour, most of which was spent waiting for my bags to arrive. My final destination, home, was approximately 13 kms by road. I opened up the OLA app which claimed a taxi …
Recent posts

Standing on Higher Ground

Charles Bukowski said numerous things, most of which can safely be bundled into the misanthropy box. One of his less acerbic observations was on the passage of time; as we grow older, things or patterns start to repeat themselves. It made sense to me this September, both from a professional and a personal viewpoint.

After 2.5 years, I have changed agencies again. The now previous workplace had a soothing everyday cadence that's hard to come by in this day and age of cutthroat competition and digital marketing mass hypnosis. I came to know a lot of people there and was friendly with quite a few of them. Be it the admin staff, canteen chaps, colleagues or general hangers-on, I could and did walk in every day meeting, greeting and occasionally smiling. It is a rather addictive, pleasant pattern of life.

Yet, the work I did was more than boring, frustrated at every stage by the convoluted thoughts, selfish agendas and downright egotistical pigheadedness of clients. My colleagues and …

Ain't Right

To the world, yesterday may have been one of the best sporting days ever. Personally, it was one of the saddest.

Willing Roger Federer on during matches is no longer about me being a fan of his tennis skills or amiable personality, both of which he seems to still possess in spades. No, the experience of Fed has become a selfish, bizarre quest for validation. Meandering aimlessly rather than marching purposefully through my mid-30s, it's 'oh-so-sweet' to see a man in my age bracket - Fed turns 38 soon - continue to kick ass across various surfaces, ruthlessly dispatching a stream of younger, fitter but clearly not better players, to the locker room, chastised.

Fed winning is a victory twice over. Firstly, served with a healthy dollop of Schadenfreude on the side as he rules the roost over young whippersnappers. And secondly, an "I'll have what s/he's having" a la When Harry met Sally while Fed quietens the mob that's constantly going on about getting …

Shadows of Ourselves

I've never believed in that nonsense about the universe conspiring to make good things happen to/for me. Say that it's probably cooking up ghastly stuff against me and I'll wholeheartedly subscribe to that idea.

Maybe I was wrong.

I was inveigled into an early morning work meeting today. Trouble was that I was out of town over the weekend. However, I manfully attempted to make it for this jolly coven by taking a 6 am bus back into the city. Around 8:30 am, the bus shudders to a halt on the highway. Some convoluted mechanical issue meant that we'd have to be shipped off in other buses, depending on how many seats were available. In these situations, I can't help but admire the combative nature of old biddies and geezers. One minute, they'll be ensconced in their seats with the fixed resignation of old vegetables in the back of the fridge. The next, they'll be hotfooting it for spare buses like Spartans at the Battle of Thermopylae.

I waited by the side of t…

Get Busy Living

As I type this, Irony is calmly slitting its wrists. Because it already knows what I'm about to say. So, let's help Irony along and carry on.

I am a big fan of privacy on the internet. Yes, this is being hosted on Blogger. Send some nice flowers to the funeral. Magnolias perhaps. Anyway, I work in an advertising firm so I know about some of the shenanigans tech firms, ad firms and media behemoths are pulling when it comes to recording things people do online. In a way, they might as well, since humanity seems to be doing precious little offline. In a whole different way, I don't get it. And, I shall attempt to explain with an example.

Earlier this evening, I realised something had to be whipped up for tomorrow's lunch. I like cooking but making food on Sunday evening has a different appeal. It gives me an excuse to mix myself a drink or two, fire up the Bluetooth speaker and trawl through my music collection to provide a background score to my vegetable massacre. The …

When we were young

Once upon a time there existed a peaceful neighbourhood in Pune called Aundh. Perhaps the almost magical somnolence was related to being far from the maddening crowd. Kids cycled to schools, adults sauntered along the kadappa-paved footpaths to shops and, true story, cows could spend afternoons patiently browsing at one corner of Parihar Chowk. The police workshop was a buzzing hive of activity during the day but the massive tree and creeper cover provided plenty of shade for sparrows, owls, squirrels, mongooses and cuckoos.

The city fathers, operating on the principle that all good things must come to an end, eventually turned their beady eyes towards this slumbering haven and dealt the coup de grace in a jolly roundabout maneuver popularly known as Hinjewadi Infotech Park. Cut to more recent times, where the same neighbourhood is now a chaotic hellhole choc-a-bloc with traffic, all of which seems to be headed to a plague spot called the Westend Mall. While assholes parade up and d…

Truck Turner

This is a journal-ish post, cobbling together various floating topics under one hat.

On cooking

I've been pottering around kitchens on a regular basis since 2006. In all that time, pasta has never once been on the menu. The reason is trauma. You see, over 17 years ago when a Masterchef was someone you'd only meet in high-end hotels and the only famous Oliver I knew was the Twist fellow... let me get to the point; videos of cooking instructions did not feature in my life and recipe books were my mother's domain. Yet, I seem to have found some reason to crave Mac-n-Cheese. It must have been damned compelling because I can't for the life of me remember. In any case, macaroni was procured from the local grocers, cheese was shredded or cubed (I forget) and, watched by a highly amused & bemused mater, I tossed the macaroni into boiling water. Half an hour later, the two of us peered into the pot, at each other and quietly agreed that we had two years' supply of glue. O…