Taking Stock

Foreword: Apologies for the painful pun. As you already know, it has never been my intention to hurt people, except my neighbours (who don’t qualify as people anyway) but there is something about the world these days that forces you to take notice. I mean, there’s so much going on out there: there’s the economy (all right, there’s not much going on there, I’ll give you that), politics- America just elected its first coloured president, life- there you just lost a second of your remaining life, etc. But let’s cut to the really important part: movies. I watched, with sadness, the latest Bond movie and I’ll be damned if I don’t tell you about it.

I know it became one of the biggest earners this year but, really, a Bond in love? A Bond that does not ask for newer, bigger, meaner gadgets, doesn’t bust his car twice, doesn’t even introduce himself- “Bond, James Bond.” And people LIKE it? WHAT is wrong with the world? Luckily, Tom Cruise wasn’t in it or I wouldn’t have known it from Jerry McGuire. No, that’s not true. I would have cried less in JM.

Between all this, the Mumbai attacks happened. Right in the glamour capital of India- where the biggest and the brightest stars reside. And that has raised interesting questions. Its one thing to write a facetious blog, it is quite another to credit an event involving more than 60 hours of pure terror with “interesting questions”. Allow me to explain. India, to the uninitiated (I have no idea who that is, since the entire world and its mother-in-law has strong feelings about it but in keeping with Holmes’ advice, we never discount the possibility of the improbable), is a country of more disparity than a Benetton ad. Maybachs run on streets that also serve as people’s homes. This time it was the not just the man on the street who bled, but also the man in the rear seat of the Maybach (possibly staining it irredeemably, but that’s another story). Terrorism suddenly shifted from being SEP (someone else’s problem- H2G2) into your own manicured front lawn and that pissed people off. How come these no-good politicians (who grace our page 3 dos, get our illegal farm houses legalized, straighten that pain-in-the-ass customs officer, and/or clear the mess involving that illegal immigrant domestic help- do you know how tough it is these days to get kitchen help?) cannot ensure our security? Off with their heads. I must admit, I loved Suhel Seth’s rant on a news channel. That guy sure can talk. The passion you feel for a situation when you nearly lose your life in it lends you poetic eloquence.

Well, it’s not quite funny. Or maybe it is. Depends on whether you have a dark sense of humour. So what does it mean for “the system”? Nothing, really. There were some candle light vigils by women toting Gucci bags, corporate India’s appeals for private security- which happened to be a “Central government issue”, a rather funny incident involving a chief minister and the father of a brave commando who lost his life in the attacks and oh- a very strong address by the Prime Minister who really should be lending his voice for Mickey Mouse in the next Disney movie. Nothing against the Prime Minister, really- just that he would me much more useful building a statistical model for the way out of this recession than leading a billion semi-literate people with more superstitions than food in their belly. But I digress. We are not here to talk about Economics professors caught in the crossfire of political ambitions. We are here to talk solutions; only, in this case, I don’t have them.

I am a cynic- and if you didn’t know that already, stop smoking that thing you still have from Woodstock. So let me tell you that there is no solution. I would love to be wrong, trust me, but that doesn’t look likely. As I see it, we will soon return to business as usual, salute the indomitable spirit of Mumbai (whatever that means), hold a few meetings chaired by different “political types” in the “honour of the brave men that laid down their lives to save ours” and return to devoting countless hours of parliament time to the newest statue in some godforsaken park. The thing that really saddened me about the attacks was that the MPs among the hostages came out alive. At least we could have had a silver lining to the whole episode. Bullet-proofed Maybachs will continue to run on streets lined with half-fed people, intellectuals will exhort the nation to take voting seriously (and choose between the devil and the deep sea), and the elite from south Bombay (no, that’s not Mumbai) will begin to invite politicians to their farmhouse parties again. All will be well with the world. Till the next attacks happen and we’ll go through the whole drama again. I just hope we reinvent some of the parts so it doesn’t get too boring.

I almost forgot to tell you that I am a romantic too. In fact, I’m as cynically romantic as I am romantically cynical. So I do have a solution. Captain Nemo (if you don’t know who that was, don’t bother) said, “Desperate situations need desperate measures” and I think what we need is a revolution to massively revamp our politics. Democracy, clearly the ideal form of government, presupposes an inherent ability, intellectual and otherwise, among citizens. Evolutionists will tell you, that is not a clever assumption. Hence the Big Brotherly approach of the political class to coach the masses into “democracy readiness” which really means vote for whoever can most sway your passions. By definition, passions are irrational; hence they can only engender irrational results. See exhibit (A), the governments of India- past and present.

Our task reduces, essentially, to education. In fact, that is the one silver bullet that can cure India. Now notice the irony here- education, securely in the government’s plate as a state function, when repaired can serve to dislodge the powers that be. Does it surprise you, then, that our education system continues to be abysmal? This is where we can come in and make a difference. Systemic change is more likely to come about from an effort to educate people and arm them with the ability to think rather than react to impassioned pleas, than lighting candles and holding protest marches. Unless you have pretty girls in short skirts leading them.

MBArking on an Atlant-ic Odyssey

Foreword: By now you were probably scouring the obituaries to see if I’ve finally had the decency to tie a stone round my neck and jump into the nearest overflowing manhole and I really hate to spoil it for you, but, like the French say, c’est la vie. No, I didn’t get abducted by aliens, did not travel in time to see if we’re really descendents of telephone linesmen and salesmen and certainly did not get arrested (really, believe me!). I’ve instead been through what some people call a life changing event. Of course, I refer to the fact that I have tried out a new brand of detergent and it removes the toughest stains (and the clothes are oh so soft!). Otherwise things are pretty much the same, except that I quit my job and moved to Atlanta to pursue an MBA.

After five years of being on a vacation, for no honest man would call a software job that, I decided to get serious about my life. After a dark, cold period of intense deliberation (53 seconds), I realized the world wasn’t ready for the motive force that lies trapped within my human form. And by definition, being serious isn’t much fun anyway; so I joined b-school instead. Here I am, back in school after what seems like a lifetime spent drinking free coffee (oh how I miss free coffee!) and mark my words, things can get tough in here! I have always been a believer in the theory that you always make time for what you want to do: over and above all other demands on your time. I’ve been told by many, including my faculty, that an MBA is different in that you rarely have sufficient time for all that you need to do! One week into the programme, I can tell you that it is true and believe me, we have just about begun ambling along.

If you’re an MBA aspirant and (yet) you’re reading this (don’t you know the number of GMAT takers has increased by over 40% since last year?), don’t get disheartened. No sir, panic! Rethink, is it worth it? You go through the incrementally challenging tasks of taking the GMAT, writing the applications and finally appearing for the interviews to do what? Lose your job and pay (and how!) for getting stressed? If that isn’t masochistic, I don’t know what is (listening to Britney Spears comes close, but we are talking grad school, remember?)

As always, you can rely on this blog to pose questions. But anyone can do that. We don’t run this thing to expand intellectual capacity, we run it for answers. Answers that even someone on the glamorous end of the intelligence number line can digest and assimilate. So here are a few reasons why you should still go for it:

1. Experience: Imagine being in a room with representatives from almost every cultural and professional background there exists. And then imagine them sharing their points of view with you on the most critical business problems of the world: the choice of topping to use with your bagel, for example. I can tell you the wealth of insight is simply phenomenal and you almost always end up more enriched than before.

1. Experience: Imagine being in a room with someone who shares a name with some famous expert in a field. And you think it ironical that they are in the same field as the biggie, till you realize that they are the same person. You don’t feel that smart for a few moments. (Notice any smart comments here, mister?)

1. Experience: Imagine depending on a few strangers for getting you through your courses in a highly competitive and stressful environment. Imagine your wife giving birth to your son half way across the world and the first people you can share the news with, in person, are these. And this really happened. Even cynics like yours truly feel overwhelmed. But only for a short while, there are always more pressing matters at hand. Like Economics homework. Or that babe in the see-through blouse.

1. Experience: Imagine having gone through the week on a total of less than 10 hours of sleep. And then on Friday evening, you consume enough beer to knockout an army of sumo wrestlers. In one aha moment, you see the way to world peace.

1. Experience: … it.

Note: All the above reasons are numbered one and labelled ‘Experience’ on purpose. When you are me, you do not make tyops.

What are you doing here?

Foreword: I mean, this blog has not been updated in ages! Why would you even want to check? For all you know, I could be dead in my 312 square feet apartment with maggots feasting on my body and remarking that they really hate the taste of software engineers. Or, I could be involved in a major planet saving enterprise which, sadly, is so critical that it must not be talked about. Like playing Ludo against myself. But now that you are here, I might as well make it worth your while (yeah right!) .

I’m on a constant quest to improve myself. Hahahahahahahahahaha… Hell that’s funny. Everybody knows I’m perfect. I just thought that would be a neat way to catch those of you who aren’t paying attention. Anyway, I recently read an article that talked about the 13 Ps of purpose. Yeah it was one of those quizzes that, if you know the answers to, you don’t need and if you don’t, you can’t use anyway. Broadly meant as a compass to chart your life (damn, I can sound lofty!), it asks two sets of questions: where are you? And where are you going? If you can answer those, I have a third one: what are you doing here? I’m going to attempt to answer these here. (Notice how I use the phrase “attempt to answer”, instead of “going to answer”? No, this is not the result of new found humility, it is for those not paying attention. Gotcha!)

Where am I?
I am (or, at least was at the time of writing this) in front of my computer wondering whether having Maggi for dinner for the 217th consecutive weekday would impact the local cereal farmers and my digestion adversely.

Having dispensed with the disgustingly petty, let me now tell you where I am, philosophically. I am NOT at the crossroads in my life. In fact I have never been at any crossroad, as it were, in my entire life. The to-be-done has been done and continues to be done without fuss, thanks largely to a high fibre intake. In the not so alimentary department, I have become an existentialist, meaning, I can conduct an entire conversation in halting, disconnected sentences while looking over my company’s shoulder. Also, I have found out that trust is what you are at the receiving end of when your one-year-old niece puts her head on your shoulder when you pick her up. Or that could be goo on your shirt. Depends on whether you are a romantic.

Where am I going?
We have already established that I am not at or near any crossroads and as far as I can see (three feet, without my glasses) I’m probably going straight ahead. Which, in a macro sense, is not true, what with the earth’s rotation, revolution and the curved space-time. Why do you want to know anyway? Is this query purely a manifestation of your underlying insecurities? Heck, I’ll tell you nevertheless: I am going on an ego trip. In fact, I’ve been on one for as long as I can remember (umm, what was I going to say here?) and the journey has been fun, including the bathroom breaks. I don’t quite know about the future, even Einstein didn’t, but I am certain it cannot be more obnoxious than I am. Meaning, I will survive it, but will it survive me? But, this is not about me. (Like hell it is! Got you again, you moron! You have the attention span of a teenager thinking about sex in class.) Oh, and since you must have the insignificant details, you will survive it too.

What am I doing here?
Now this is the one that, I must confess, has me completely stumped. Why have I not been handpicked by Bill Gates, Larry Ellison and Warren Buffet to take over their sorry business empires, yet? Have these guys completely lost it? Frankly, I thought they had the vision to spot talent. Or is it that the sheer magnitude of my abilities has paralyzed their once enviable mental faculties?
But that is quite all right, for there is important work to be done. Like waltzing with my one year old niece. Pum pum pum.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get my counters out of the base. Ludo beats the crap out of chess.

Writing Wrongs

Foreword: A lot is wrong with the world. Of course, you cannot be expected to do anything about it, but I must and I will. I may not be able to correct every little problem, for I’ve been a little tied up these days (what with the Australian open, the cricket series down under, Academy and Grammy awards and the like), but rest assured, I will fix the howlers. Starting with the fact that I actually have to work these days. Like they say, charity begins at home.

I received a lot of flak about the previous post (wrong!). People said I was being crude and insensitive (no contest), especially about babies. That’s another thing that needs correction. So, I promise to coach them on my unique perspective on human values. They learn, fine, otherwise they get berated in the next post (sweet!).

There seems to be an epidemic of weddings (dead wrong!). Everyone I know seems to be in a rush to marry as if bridal makeup is about to disappear from the face of the earth. However, this brings to light the pre-wedding jitters that plague them. Many a bride or groom to be experiences them and spends countless hours shopping or watching football or both (my condolences). Hell, righting this wrong is not only important it also needs to be done quickly. I think I’ll devote the rest of this post to fix this.

Right, before we jump right in, there is a blatant right I must acknowledge. It is so obviously, meticulously, unblemishedly, accurately correct that I can only state it, without qualification: there is a racehorse, a participant in the Hyderabad Derby, called Spinoza.

Back to the point. Lets understand the psychology of individuals about to marry. Obviously, now that they are sober, they cannot, for the life of them, understand why they decided to get married in the first place. It seems like one of those jokes you started that come round to bite you on the butt. Suddenly, you can’t see the humour in them anymore. But wait, let me not add insult to injury. I’m here to give solutions or at least solace.

So now you’re having second thoughts. You think you’re not ready for a commitment of this magnitude, and you have no idea how it will pan out. You begin to remember all those differences of opinion you’ve had (including the black eye last Valentine’s day), and you think, “what if this person isn’t right for me?” Or “will it work?” Or “will JK Rowling write another Hogwarts adventure?” The answer is obvious. The black eye proves the female has her heart in the right place. Or if you are female and your boyfriend gave you one, he believes in gender equality. In either case, they are wonderful people and probably don’t deserve to marry you, but its not a fair world anyway. So go right ahead.

Fact is, you don’t know what is right for you. Like all that broccoli. That hasn’t turned out too bad, has it? I mean I have been feeding tons of it to my dog: all that my mother ever served in those generous portions, and look how much his coat shines. Apparently it IS good for you. Which proves, without a shadow of doubt, that dog is a man’s best friend. Especially when faced with broccoli or other trying situations, perhaps even an impending wedding. The point I’m trying to make here is: don’t bother your miniscule intelligences with all that thinking and re-thinking. You won’t get it right. If you were suitably armed in that department, you wouldn’t be in this situation now. So lie back and enjoy. Or at least act like you are enjoying it. It will give hope to the others almost in your shoes.

Now lets concentrate on getting you prepared for the big event. I am a big believer in books and I know just the texts for this occasion:

• “Getting Married” - George Bernard Shaw. The fact that Shaw himself never married shows how much of an authority he was on the topic. Also, it’s a very thought provoking read, especially around the chapters when he advocates polygamy.
• “Superman” - DC comics. If you are a man, you already worship the man of steel. Continue to do so. That is the closest you can get to adventure now. If you are a woman, thats the closest you will to a man in shape now.
  
• “The Critique of Pure Reason” - Immanuel Kant. If, ever, you get cocky and think you are beginning to understand what this is all about, read the first 5 pages (that’s all you’ll ever get to anyway). You’ll know what I mean.

There isn’t enough time to read the first and the third and you’ve already read most of the second. How prepared do you feel? Hmm.. I can understand. You need to talk to someone. I’ll send my dog over. Please feed him some broccoli.

Hope that helps.

Flights of Fancy

Foreword: What happens when a rather sedentary smart alec travels around 10000 km in a space of 30 days? You get his unique (and gifted) point of view on matters concerning travel and life. Rejoice, brethren, for you are going to partake of my phenomenal insights. Whether you like it or not. Between a family emergency and my annual vacation, I logged some ten thousand of the frequent flier kilometres and faced with insomnia, cramped economy class seats and an unfriendly digestive system, had the opportunity to observe the world passing by. Here’s a collection of some memorable episodes.

What is with airlines? No, seriously, what is with them? How do they manage to maintain a density of 2.78 goo-dribbling, sonic boom generating and otherwise being a thorough pain in the you-know-where infants per ridiculous row of economy class seats? What about me forces them to seat me next to an indulgent mom travelling with shipping containers full of redolent diapers, baby food, teething rings, baby snaps and as if that were not enough, a complete human mini specimen including a larynx? (The part that REALLY irritates the hell out of me is how they manage to get all of that in one piece of cabin baggage!) And why on earth does that little guy have to be the inter-galactic champion of vocal strength? So, you’re an evolutionist? Tell me this, how is it that evolution has still not managed to provide a mute button for infants? Oh! You’re a creationist, are you? Why did God, in his infinite wisdom, not equip the little angels with volume control? Don’t get me wrong. Like every other nice guy, I like a diapered, rubber-sheeted, well powdered and perfumed baby lying on his abdomen and cooing at less than 80 decibels at no less than 100 feet. It is just that I’m particular about how I like them.

If you thought babies are the only things that airlines choose to accost me with, you’re dead wrong! The other thing that gets my goat is the airline accent. Even if I am lucky enough to be seated farthest from the lone infant on board, I can never manage to shut out the weird airline accent, which is like nothing I have heard in India. Every carrier manages to recruit air-hostesses and even pilots who sound like they were born in Peru, abducted by wandering Eskimos and forced to spend their formative years in Scandinavia, then sold off into slavery of the oil Sheikhs of the middle least and finally given a course in phonetics by the Chinese. Nothing even remotely connected to India, unless you consider the silk-route. Why do they do that? Is that their idea of a cosmopolitan appeal? Or are those stewardesses and pilots simply sneaking out all the airline candy and eating them ALL the time? Honestly, somebody get them to talk like normal people!

Which reminds me, my heart went out to a poor girl who was sporting this ugly welt on her cheek. My blood boiled at the thought of the brute that would do that to her. Then in walked another stewardess with the same welt. Then another. Obviously, the brute was on a roll here. That sounded outlandish, even to yours truly, so I checked again. Sure enough, the welt was their idea of rouge or whatever it is that you apply on your cheek bones to make them appear as if you’ve been at the receiving end of some stiff domestic abuse. OK, so you’re a low-cost airline and cannot afford expensive make-up tips for your employees. Do everyone a favour: save on the rouge (or whatever, see above).

Do I sound cynical and caustic? I’m sorry. Let me tell you about this incident that can almost be called romantic. On one flight, I was lucky enough to be the only one on a row of seats. Just before the doors closed, a very pretty girl walked in, looked right at me and smiled. I smiled back. Then she started coming towards me, looking on either side, apparently trying to locate her seat. I looked at the two vacant seats next to me wondered: will she? Won’t she? As it turned out, she did. She walked right up to me and said, “Sir, please fasten your seatbelt. We’re ready for takeoff.”

Oh wait! I forgot to tell you about the train journey. Kolkata (Calcutta, earlier) happens to be the end of my flight and the beginning of my train journey on my way home. What makes Kolkata Kolkata is its people. I have already gone on record with my opinion about them: I wish the men were half the men that the women are. Sure enough, I saw evidence, yet again, on the station. I saw this guy: seven-footer, built like a truck, the kind you’d apologize to thrice if you happen to brush past, with his head bowed and listening to some really unpleasant words from his four-foot something wife. As if that was not enough, the lady made it a point to underscore her words with rapid jabs to the man’s ribs, which were a trifle higher than her head. Can’t blame the woman too. After explaining how to check your name on the reservation charts about 6 times, and reaching the cerebral equivalent of mishti-doi, you’d get irritated too.

The point being, if you aren’t an expert at reading reservation charts, it’s not advisable to marry in Kolkata. And yes, whatever you do, when you have your little bundle of joy, don’t board that plane I’m on. I mean it.

There’s a Bug in that Cockroach!

Foreword: Light shall scare away the darkness; the right shall triumph over the Left, Mrs. and Mr. Karat notwithstanding; and the scheming developer shall beat the project plan. Thus, ladies and gentlemen, here I am. A lot has happened over the past few weeks, but don’t worry, I’m not planning to make this an information-packed power-post. It will be as devoid of any utility as everything about this blog has always been.

Recently, researchers at the University of Brussels introduced a miniature robot among a colony of cockroaches to observe them closely. How the Belgians can ever make anything other than chocolates, discreet banks and knives, given their huge demand and the ridiculous size of their population, is completely beyond me. But I digress. The said miniature robot looked like a matchbox that has been on the road at the same time as Britney Spears and yet succeeded in wresting leadership of the colony. Proving, in the process, that not looking like a cockroach is an essential leadership trait. Is Rahul Gandhi listening?

But that’s not what is bothering me. Personally, I have always had a lot of respect for cockroaches, particularly their uncrushable, er, spirit. They have preceded the human race by millions of years and on account of not using the roads of Delhi at the same time as Blueline buses, are expected to exist long after. Being of discerning temperament, dear reader, you will realize that the roach must clearly outrank humans in terms of intelligence. The point that settles it for me is that I am yet to see a cockroach wearing cargo trousers. Imagine my unrest, then, when I realized that even the mighty cockroach had been fooled. My view of the world, based on an intellectual pyramid with cockroaches and yours truly on top, followed by the average humans in the next few rungs and finally credit card salesmen making the rather wide base, changed radically. Now I’m at the top, alone. That’s when I discovered absinthe, but that’s a different story.

Leadership is a subject I have long been interested in. Then, when one of the oldest species on earth decided to entrust their leadership with a robot, and a not too good looking one at that, I was bound to be concerned. So I decided to devote my considerable mental faculties to analyze this anomaly. After stimulating my intellect with half an hour’s worth of Ekta Kkkapoor’s deadliest, I concluded that she was REALLY sick and that there was a mother-in-law to blame somewhere in the cockroach-crisis. That’s when I laughed at my folly. Being such an evolved species, cockroaches have done away with the concept of the said relative, exchanging her for a case of the house’s best at the wedding party. Consequently, cockroach marriages last a whole lot longer than the case.

After considerable thought and strategic inputs from the said bottle of absinthe, light dawned on me. Damn! I had forgotten the curtains yet again. So I just turned the other way and slept off. And the cockroaches? Well, they were probably running an experiment on the effects of crazy observations on the overeducated. The results are hard to interpret: there are way too many cockroach droppings on the report to read it.

The last I heard, the robot roach had deluded itself into believing that it was a real cockroach and raised strong objections to the report. Arundhati Roy has already promised support to it against exploitation by the government. Mrs. and Mr. Karat expressed their sincere regret that such a thing still goes on in the land of Mao. On being reminded that Belgium was not the land of Mao, Mr. Karat philosophically allowed, “Only their chocolates are perfect.”

From Bad to Verse and Now (How)?

Foreword: So, I have gone from dishing out crap to actually writing “sensitive” verse. What next? Am I maturing as a writer and finding hitherto unexplored genres interesting? Should you expect a romance novella next? Maybe, one that ends in a tragedy? Or maybe, a sensitive portrayal of the new age man finding his feet in a world of changing perceptions and looking to women for guidance? (HAHAHAHAHA, I laughed so hard at that one, my saliva ran up my nose). Actually, none of these. The poem was just a passing fancy. Besides, I have authored a few unprintable ones in my time and just thought of including one on the blog, for better or for verse. And its that time of the year again when I’m just loaded with work and have nothing interesting to write about. But fear not, even when I’m so hard pressed, I think of you, loyal reader (please don’t mention the kidnapping and sedation now).

I was throwing out some junk the other day and came across this piece I had written a few years ago. I realized it was not just sufficient to throw it in the garbage in the real world, and decided to do so in the virtual one as well. Therefore I am putting it up here. (That, incidentally, is called a self-deprecating sense of humour. Works great with the chicks. See, there’s never a moment when you don’t learn something from this blog. I should probably rename it “The Temple of Sophia”.) In those days I took myself seriously as a writer and some of that presumption (now that presumption is very different from this one) can clearly be seen in it. I was in the process of self-discovery (yak yak yak) and very close to finding the genre that would be my true calling (which, as you all know, is crap). Anyway, see if you can take back a lesson or two and/or notice the beginnings of extreme irreverence here.

A Father to Son talk

The young eagle had called on his old father early in the morning. They sat like they had often done, father on a slightly raised branch and the son beneath. The times, though, were not quite the same: the father was no longer the strong vital eagle he had once been and the son, too, was no longer a fledgling, having matured into a fully-grown eagle.

As they sat today, with the sun’s slanting rays just about beginning to reach them, the son knew that this would be the most important talk they would ever have. More important, even, than the one when the father had taught him to capture a darting rabbit. He recalled, fondly, the many times when they had had similar meetings discussing the best ways to catch rats, moles, wild rabbits and sometimes, snakes. He remembered the rush he had felt when he had caught his first mole. He would dream of the day when he would grow up to be like his father, hunting majestically. The day had indeed come and he had set out to make a mark for himself.

But all was not well and this was what the meeting was about. The father opened his eyes and looked tenderly at his son, proud at what he had grown into. The son let him savour the moment and then spoke, “Father, I need your advice. My life does not seem to be going anywhere. When I was a kid…” At this time the father broke in, “you were never a kid son. A kid is a young goat and bleats. You were an eaglet, and look at what a fine eagle you have become.”

“Yes, sorry. When I was an eaglet, I could not wait to grow up and hunt for myself. I thought I would love every moment of it and never tire of it. It was so, quite so, for some time. But now I hardly feel like hunting. Sometimes I even think of turning vegetarian.” The father gave an involuntary shudder at this blasphemous thought and spoke as his father had once done. “What you are going through is not unnatural, though the turning vegetarian seems peculiar to your generation. It is natural eagle tendency to wish to be something you are not. Hence your wish to grow up quickly. Add to that, what you perceived as freedom of the grown-ups. You couldn’t wait till your wings were strong enough to support you and once they were, there was no looking back. You are a magnificent flier and I must say, you’ve done quite well for yourself. But now you have grown used to what you do. As a child, to your romantic imagination, hunting and flying were important and perhaps symbolic of maturity and fulfillment. Your life as you lead it now has become a chore for you. You have realized the futility of flying to the moon (your childhood ambition) and go where no eagle has gone before. (Despite his obvious wisdom, the father was not aware that the part of Apollo 11 that landed on the moon was called Eagle.) Son, when we lose our dreams to reality, disillusionment sets in and that is what is wrong with you. You have realized that your childhood dreams were just that and there is a void in your life now. Ordinarily, that is a temporary phase before you settle down with a family. Then the daily grind becomes meaningful, as a means to provide for your loved ones. But I don’t want that to happen with you. I want you to lead a wholesome life with your family being the support while you pursue your dreams, not an excuse to surrender to reality. Like the great white eagle said, when your dreams dash to the ground, pick up the pieces and construct your reality with them. Your reality will retain the colour of your dreams and the fragrance of your innocence.

The point, son, is that your life needs a new dream. All your old ones are either achieved or unachievable. You need new ones that will inspire you to live your present to the fullest. Just be honest to yourself. Dream away and let your wings beat only to achieve them. Then happiness will be yours.”

The son sat deep in thought. Finally he smiled and thanked his father and flew off. On the way, he remembered his father’s parting words, “And yes, when you sing, sing at the top of your voice and when you dance, dance like no one’s watching. ”

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P.S.: I can’t believe the father didn’t include “when in doubt, hold your fart” in his parting words.

P.P.S.: And I can’t believe no one added a comment to the previous post saying “from bad to verse (or maybe worse)”!