Songs of the not-so innocent

Any conversation about Bombay generally includes the following - the unbelievable crowds, the distances people usually have to travel, train schedules, the weather and of course, rents.  Sometime in the future (assuming the Mayans are wrong), there will be a whole school of finance and architecture dedicated to the hyper-inflated, flagrant violation of decency and humanity that is the Bombay rent scenario. Since the number of people who've discussed, debated and despaired over it is beyond count, I won't waste your time with grandiloquent phrases about it. Bombay rents are inexplicably high.  A space that, in any other city, would be reserved for the broom cupboard, will, in Bombay, have 2 beds and a desk parked in it, accompanied by an oily-looking broker holding a sign saying "Paying Guest accommodation - strategically located next to Whatchamacallit Station and Stinkstohighheavenwadi". Price negotiable (which means, you could have the bed depending on the sale

There's a pretty simple test I use to see whether my work+job+workplace is bringing me any semblance of happiness - the morning email emotion. When I'm remotely satisfied with the state of my employment, checking work email for the first time in the day holds no terrors. It is just something I do every morning. Like brushing my teeth. So ingrained in routine that I don't have to think about it. If new emails appear from colleagues, clients or heaven forbid, bosses, its OK. I'll do what is needed. But, the moment the job becomes unpleasant, the work email acquires a different hue. To be fair, it takes a fair amount of time and the collapse of a lot of variables before I reach that state of unhappiness. Still, once that line has been crossed, there's almost no going back. Like the classic snowball gag, it can only go downhill, steadily becoming bigger and more destructive until it reaches the bottom where the village that is my career, slumbers uneasily. If remot