Songs of the not-so innocent

Dear reader, I do not have adequate words to explain the last two months. I wrote the previous post to commemorate Diwali, the festival of lights. Along came the universe to blow the lamps out, leaving life in twilight. If you think I'm being histrionic, don't read any further. It's been a little over 60 days since my father died suddenly, likely a victim of Covid's long-term effects. Over 10 months his lungs deteriorated swiftly and silently, culminating in a 23-hour stay in the ICU, a phone call to me from the hospital at 3.23am, a 5-minute drive during which I prayed he was okay and the one infinite moment of seeing him in bed even as the doctor broke the news of a massive cardiac arrest.  A sequence of numbers marking time; a diadem of black pearls weighing my head down since 3.30am on the morning of 29th October 2022. My father was human and god knows he had his faults. But it was impossible to remain passive when facing the crowd at the cremation; a sea of humanit

Dear reader, Accompanied by stray and wishful thoughts masquerading as wisdom, my 40th year approaches with relentless inevitability. Diwali day feels like an opportune moment to put down some of these fancies; maybe they will cast illumination and bring clarity later. Today, we received a couple of couriers and it made me sorry for those who have no choice but to work while the rest of the city parties or holidays. Over the years, I've been accused of financial frugality bordering on asceticism. There's no traceable inflection point for this habit; perhaps I simply aped my grandfather who was notorious for saving like a neurotic pack-rat. But, I've come to appreciate rather than question it, as it's given me the freedom to walk away from professional irritation.  The best kind of job is one where you don't face redundancy. I guess that could just as well mean choosing the right profession to target in college. The alternative is to quiver with the fear of a pink

Dear reader, It's been a while, yet there hasn't been much to write home about. On a handful of occasions over the past 6 months, my fingers would hover over the keyboard as I wondered about the originality of my thoughts. The piece would subsequently die a quiet death. And today isn't an attempt to get back on the wagon and write more frequently. If ignorance is bliss, then knowledge is agony, in particular, the acute awareness of how unfit you are. Spotting myself in the mirror and becoming increasingly unhappy with the view, I bit the bullet and enrolled in a gym recently. I've been researching a bit on the effect of exercise on the body. You can check them out here and here if you like.  Before the monsoon took over, I did go cycling regularly but not enough to challenge my body. Besides, with the Metro work contributing to nightmarish traffic in my neighbourhood, it simply wasn't pleasurable. There are some great free circuit training apps but here, the issue

Dear reader, If you've never heard of Moore's Law , I would suggest that ignorance is no longer bliss so you ought to peruse the subject. After all, we exist in a world that's sandwiched between him and Murphy . I have railed against my experience of Moore's law before but compared to what I discovered today, the radio incident was nothing. If you live in the average Indian house, take a gander at the nearest tube-light. Is it a smart, sleek Anchor (or any other) branded piece accompanied by a circular tube with double pins on either end? Well, that blameless, perfectly functional design has gone the way of the dinosaurs. What's amazing is how many years the earlier style of holders with starters, bigger tubes and what-have-you hung around our homes. The slim tube design was revolutionary when it came along. And here's the jolly bit - its extinction is only to be discovered in convoluted ways. Let me explain the bullet I've taken for you, dear reader.  A fe

Dear reader, March was as busy as February seemed not to be. Work or home, the stench of desperate urgency permeated the air on all fronts. Or, perhaps the miasma emanated from the open drains in Whitefield, Bangalore where I had the misfortune to recently spend some time. To say I have fond memories of the place would be a downright lie and not good form so early in this post. Once upon a time, Bangalore was a lovely city (even with privileges checked), distinctive enough to find regular mention in geography texts of my youth as the 'Garden city' and 'Lake city' of India.  Unfortunately for Bangalore, our country's IT experiment began there and it was the first proverbial lamb that fell to the slaughter model of urban planning . I won't bore you with litanies about the traffic or drastic change of climate. Instead, let me tell you a bit about Kenneth Anderson , an Anglo Indian native of Bangalore who called most of South India's jungles "home" f

Dear Mr. Warne, You may dislike the formality of that address and insist on being called "Shane". Alternately, being the old-school guy Gideon Haigh described, you may approve of the respect. Either way, it'd be on your terms. Almost everything involving you was.  Was. I use that word in disbelief. It's futile to reconcile with the fact that you are now of the past. You were such an important part of my youth; what still seems like my cricketing present. So, your death feels unfair. As if you turned a part of my cricketing memories from colour to black-and-white. A final unplayable delivery, sir.  No author, family or friend; ultimately only you truthfully know what special compass guided such a remarkable life. To a shy, self-conscious, self-doubting, self-loathing guy like me, you were an irreconcilable meteor in cricket's night sky. Burning brighter and more intensely than any other celestial body (some of the things you did indeed seemed godlike) and unlikely

Dear reader, Count yourself amongst the fortunate if this post finds you well. Covid is sweeping through the country so effectively, I wish 'development' would take inspiration from it. Few seem to know whether we're in the throes of the Delta or Omicron variant and fewer care. I used to think the statement "we're all going to get it" was dripping in glibness. Now, it sounds prophetic, although the former suggests I'm not as cynical (realistic?) as I believed. Family, friends and a motley crew of others were infected and thankfully, recovered or are in the process of doing so. Yet, I struggle to understand how the situation will evolve towards an endgame. The WHO, which I don't find too credible, continues to prognosticate on new variants and vaccines, but falls predictably silent when it comes to questioning infection rates and any related numbers in the Middle Turd-dom, Bear-dom or every other dumdum autocratic nation. However, comfort or righteous g

May, 2018. One afternoon, stroller bag in tow, I entered the perennially air-conditioned confines of Mumbai International Airport, relieved to get away from the oppressive heat. Though I'd travelled rather extensively for the average Indian, butterflies flitted and floated around in my tummy because my next destination was both exotic and unusual. Yangon, Myanmar by way of Bangkok, Thailand.  Some places have such a mystical quality. They do to me, in any case. This sense of fascination was what led me to Cambodia. 10 years later, it was conspiring to take me to India's forbidden neighbour. Plagued by authoritarian rule, oppression and bloodshed for decades, I'd first heard of the country from my grandmother when I was barely 5 years old. This was back when our Mumbai building hadn't been redeveloped and was a 2-storey rabbit's warren of 15 homes. Pati was talking about the histories of our neighbours and had reached the very last one - Flat No. 15.  Mrs. A, the eld

Dear reader, I hope the first post of the new year finds you well. Unlike me, however, as the inevitable has occurred. To my absolute lack of surprise, 5 days of adhering to a compulsory work-from-office (WFO) policy has gifted me a positive COVID infection. And before you say anything like "Oh, everyone's going to get it so it's okay" I invite you to experience a night of explosive diarrhoea, one of the lesser talked-about symptoms. Usain Bolting to the loo every half hour will leave you exhausted, dehydrated and figuring out a way to fit the mattress in the bathroom; not something you'll forget in a hurry.  Am I surprised that the virus got me, after I managed to dodge it successfully for nigh on 2 years? No. You see, it's hard to process the breathtaking brazen idiocy of insisting on WFO when cases are rising so steeply but a single-owner company can get away with coldblooded crap like that. They're hiding behind the fig leaf of government mandates whi