Sunday Posts

We are the stories we tell about ourselves. I am one of those writers in search of a story. That story has not appeared, yet. But I am always crafting one. In this, it is not the start that confounds me. It has already begun - I am in it! The reason I have never written because I can not end it.  Because I lack courage. Around me, so many stories begin and end everyday. In fact, I also see beginnings are endings too. But I still can't write about it. Happily-ever-after is cliché, death or departure is beyond contemplation, something dramatic is too unreal! In that sense, I live in the precipice of the story, that kind of safe bourgeois existence where nothing really should happen. Therefore, I am just going from chapter to chapter. But the script is becoming quite predictable now. Characters seem to be desperate for something to happen now. The narrative is becoming one of those overextended TV series whose writers have run out of ideas. Something got to happen - and I am waiting. ...

London has been burning, quite literally, for the last few days. A mob took over its roads and attacked its shops and people. Police, stretched thin across the city, rushed from place to place, ineffective in the face of the new generation rioting coordinated on Twitter. Fire Services, struggling with a number of major fires in the city and the suburbs, were out-manned and out-witted. Politicians, London's Mayor and Britain's Prime Minister among them, had to cancel holidays and fly back to London. Strange images of burning houses and littered streets emerged in the world media. The usual bliss of London life disappeared: An unusual unease reigned. This may turn out to be an inflection point of sorts in history. The riots are unexpected, because this was not prompted, despite what was initially claimed, by anger of a particular community. Yes, this started from the shooting an armed black young man in North London, but the violence elsewhere was crowd-driven, coordinated thr...

I am trying to keep awake and survive at the same time. Sleep is much like death, admittedly. The problem here is boredom, though. It is a dull morning, like the usual English mornings when Spring wants to come but Winter wouldn't still give away. One of those middle of the week days when the optimism of the start is lost but the weekend is still too far, and the carry-on spirit is faltering in the middle of the predictability of life: The 8:33 train, the walk on London Bridge, the unsmiling receptionist, the creaky lift, culminating finally in the usual hustle and bustle of office life, accentuated, in anything, by the birth-pangs of these words, only the noise of typing. Coffee isn't helpful, because that may drive away sleep but brings the awareness of death closer: And dosing off is no good, as, apart from the public spectacle, it mollifies sleep but makes me unaware of death and irrelevance. So I try writing, which does all the things - make me look busy, generates suffi...

There is one thing about being in London: You can't call the difference between freedom and slavery. Like, not being able to tell whether the glossy tabloids mark the freedom of opinion or the complete subjugation of heart, whether it gives or deprives us of opinion. It is a bit like not knowing whether it is pleasure or pain we get catching the morning 7:45 train to come to office; it gives us the daily bread, but not the way the Lord would have liked (if he was kind). For me, the struggle is many dimensional - considering that the reason why I want to stay in London is to keep my freedom. To keep reinventing myself, to be the king of fresh beginnings, to pursue my dreams as they come without having to bother about what people will say. There is whole web of things around money: After doing a few years (as in Jail), it dawns on you that even the money can be equally liberating and subjugating. The particular place I like about London is Hyde Park. Indeed, speakers' corner is l...

I return to my 100-day project, yet again. This is all a game, so it is, but this keeps life interesting. So I go again. This 100-day project is different from the previous one. There is a certain sense of freedom in it. I am much less constrained from what I was a few months back. I am free to pursue opportunities as I see them. I can do things, not just talk about it, at work. Overall, I am starting this period with a sense of optimism and hope. Of course, we are living in a particularly bleak time otherwise. Tomorrow, George Osborne is scheduled to read out his emergency budget. This will mean, from the noises made by the Tories, a full-fledged return to monetarism, which will possibly mean a retrograde turn for Britain. Indeed, retro is chic, but no one seems to have much enthusiasm for any of that now. If anything, the pseudo - Tories like Nick Clegg will finally be outed, and Liberal Democrats as a party, as they vote for this budget, will be consigned to history. I do believe ...

The British Media spent most of the last month complaining out the 'anti-British' rhetoric in America. Led by President Obama, many senators and public intellectuals were overtly critical of BP's handling of the Oil spill in Mexican Gulf. The company looked clueless on how to contain the spill and several attempts failed and only a somewhat partial solution seems to have been achieved after two months of efforts. The extent of the disaster makes Exxon-Valdez looks tiny - one Exxon-Valdez a month, as one of the TV commentator puts it. The problem in the British media was none of this disaster, and the fact that this will severely affect the ecosystem and livelihood in an entire region, but that the American rhetoric on BP's responsibility threatens British jobs and Btritish dividends etc. True, BP is one of the premier companies in Britain. One pound in each seven pounds paid in dividend by British companies come from BP . They employ thousands of British workers, an...

I am thrilled today. I know which compartment of my train from Moorgate stop right in front of the exit of Liverpool Street station. This meant I walked a little less, but may be not - because I had to walk those extra steps anyway while getting on to the train. But, still a small victory: I have saved about 30 seconds and the hassle of walking through the gathered crowd waiting to get into the train while I get off. That was surely smart! But, may be, it is just my lucky day. I got onto the same train I get on to every day, at 8:26 from Croydon , a busy commuter suburb on the South of london , but today, amazingly, I got a seat. This was just lucky, someone got off at a station in the middle [they never get off, at least from this particular train] and the girl standing next to the seat did not want to take the vacant seat. That was so unusual! This almost looked tailor made to make this a happy day for me. As the departing passenger packed his bags and slided past me for the stati...