Dear Gobar (hereinafter referred to as "Not-Your-Real-Name"),
Greetings from the land of green rookies and life's perpetual students. I trust this missive finds you luxuriating in Bhopal's embrace. You see, as my freshly minted degree attests, I'm still a novice navigating this thing called life. Now, you may be told by well-meaning, glassy-eyed optimists that "everything will be okay." Such a phrase, I find, translates almost perfectly into "Not-Your-Real-Name."
That 'cream of the corporate' you seek is nothing but a cheap lubricant that your eventual boss/partner/senior/client is eagerly waiting to liberally apply on you (or yours) for every misstep and blunder you make in your romantic ballet of errors. But fret not! Over time, this grotesque lubrication might just become your brand of moisturizer. You'll grow accustomed to its slick sheen, perhaps even find a perverse sort of enjoyment in it. Soon enough, you'll be brandishing your workaholism like a badge of minor honor before your non-lawyerly acquaintances. "Behold," you'll declare, "how thoroughly I've acclimated to my pitiable yet oddly comforting grind!"
As for your feelings of unbelonging at NILU Bhopal, let me offer a modicum of hard-earned wisdom: Rush not toward judgment. The existential boat you find yourself on—be it a yacht, a dinghy, or a rusting submarine—will in due course reveal the fundamental pointlessness or, dare I say, the dizzying complexity of everything and nothing. And perhaps, just perhaps, that will become the cosmic joke you needed all along.
Greetings from the land of green rookies and life's perpetual students. I trust this missive finds you luxuriating in Bhopal's embrace. You see, as my freshly minted degree attests, I'm still a novice navigating this thing called life. Now, you may be told by well-meaning, glassy-eyed optimists that "everything will be okay." Such a phrase, I find, translates almost perfectly into "Not-Your-Real-Name."
That 'cream of the corporate' you seek is nothing but a cheap lubricant that your eventual boss/partner/senior/client is eagerly waiting to liberally apply on you (or yours) for every misstep and blunder you make in your romantic ballet of errors. But fret not! Over time, this grotesque lubrication might just become your brand of moisturizer. You'll grow accustomed to its slick sheen, perhaps even find a perverse sort of enjoyment in it. Soon enough, you'll be brandishing your workaholism like a badge of minor honor before your non-lawyerly acquaintances. "Behold," you'll declare, "how thoroughly I've acclimated to my pitiable yet oddly comforting grind!"
As for your feelings of unbelonging at NILU Bhopal, let me offer a modicum of hard-earned wisdom: Rush not toward judgment. The existential boat you find yourself on—be it a yacht, a dinghy, or a rusting submarine—will in due course reveal the fundamental pointlessness or, dare I say, the dizzying complexity of everything and nothing. And perhaps, just perhaps, that will become the cosmic joke you needed all along.
Yours in shared existential folly