I knew a guy who took a crack at it, gave it his all, and nearly grasped success. The man in question had a decent academic record from law school and was convinced that he possessed striking physical attributes, which made him stand out amongst his law-school peers. His cheerleaders often commented on his impressive looks and the personality that, they claimed, would be 'wasted' if he pursued the mediocre path of law. Like many others at the law school, he was a cinephile, always eager to discuss Hollywood and Indian classics. He lauded De Niro's performances in 'Taxi Driver' and 'Raging Bull', and Pacino's in 'Carlito’s Way', and he sang high praises for Kulbhushan Kharbanda in 'Arth'. His impersonations of scenes from Big B’s epic 'Agneepath' delighted his friends, earning him heaps of praise for his acting prowess and unsolicited assertions that he was destined for stardom and perhaps the illustrious Manikchand Filmfare Award.
He basked in the adoration, dabbling in local theater productions designed for the young, English-speaking, collegiate crowds of the city. Some of my acquaintances were lucky enough to catch his live performances. While praises varied in generosity, the skeptics simply admired his guts to brave the stage with his... let's say, unique talents.
After law school, he joined the ranks at one of the 'Big Laws' on Barakhamba Road, Delhi. Yet, the seed of stardom had already taken root, and he often envisioned himself far from the plains of Delhi, in the city by the Bay. Following three and a half years of contemplation and nagging self-doubt, he convinced himself of his true calling. With what he believed was enough savings, he took the leap of faith. He vowed never to return to the rat race, determined to honor his own aspirations and the expectations of his law school admirers by making an 'all-in' attempt to penetrate the dazzling world of stardom. Inspired by the Shah of Bollywood himself, he put his faith in the stories of outsiders who had achieved great success based solely on their talent.
Leaving his job and a cushy two-bedroom shared builder-floor apartment in South Ex behind, he moved into a modest one-room kitchen at Yari Road. He joined an upscale gym frequented by hopeful starlets and hired a personal trainer to sculpt his physique to cinematic perfection. He poured more of his nest egg into a respected but has-been actor's crash course on cinema acting, quickly learning that his diction, dialogue delivery, body language, and screen presence needed considerable work. Transitioning to a more intensive and pricier acting program seemed only sensible. Professional photographers captured his portfolio across Bombay, and he spent lavishly on trendy Bandra drip for numerous auditions.
A grueling year of auditions ensued, filled with long lines and brief encounters with dubious individuals and their questionable bargains. He was one in a sea of dreamy-eyed, eager hopefuls, each hungrier and more desperate than our protagonist and mostly without a safety net. Some had even torched their bridges for a one-way ticket to the dream factory.
After almost nine months of relentless door-knocking and rejections for not having the "right" voice or "face-cut", his funds dwindled to nothing, culminating in overdue rent.
At a soiree hosted by a batchmate fresh from a Japanese bank secondment, he reconnected with old friends who had once sung his praises. As they lamented their corporate lives and flaunted their 'aquaracers', while repeatedly trying to impress each other with the stories they picked up or were part of while negotiating some ‘who-give-a-shit’ SHA. For a brief moment, our man was transported back to his law school glory days, where life seemed easy and dreams meant to be conquered. Sharing tales of audition room woes and lines from roles that never were, he found clarity.
The next day, he borrowed money from his brother, settled his rent, and reached out to his old boss—who, as fate would have it, ghosted him. By week's end, his resume was spruced up on Naukar.com, courtesy of classmates, and distributed to the who's who of headhunters.
By year's end, he secured a job at a modest law firm and returned to Delhi — the land of 'Dally Maitro', 'Cholesterol Bhature', and loud mouths. His cinematic aspirations were quietly shelved, his retainer fee a tad below his peers, his passion for film buried in the graveyard of forgotten dreams.
I knew a guy who took a crack at it, gave it his all, and nearly grasped success. The man in question had a decent academic record from law school and was convinced that he possessed striking physical attributes, which made him stand out amongst his law-school peers. His cheerleaders often commented on his impressive looks and the personality that, they claimed, would be 'wasted' if he pursued the mediocre path of law. Like many others at the law school, he was a cinephile, always eager to discuss Hollywood and Indian classics. He lauded De Niro's performances in 'Taxi Driver' and 'Raging Bull', and Pacino's in 'Carlito’s Way', and he sang high praises for Kulbhushan Kharbanda in 'Arth'. His impersonations of scenes from Big B’s epic 'Agneepath' delighted his friends, earning him heaps of praise for his acting prowess and unsolicited assertions that he was destined for stardom and perhaps the illustrious Manikchand Filmfare Award.
He basked in the adoration, dabbling in local theater productions designed for the young, English-speaking, collegiate crowds of the city. Some of my acquaintances were lucky enough to catch his live performances. While praises varied in generosity, the skeptics simply admired his guts to brave the stage with his... let's say, unique talents.
After law school, he joined the ranks at one of the 'Big Laws' on Barakhamba Road, Delhi. Yet, the seed of stardom had already taken root, and he often envisioned himself far from the plains of Delhi, in the city by the Bay. Following three and a half years of contemplation and nagging self-doubt, he convinced himself of his true calling. With what he believed was enough savings, he took the leap of faith. He vowed never to return to the rat race, determined to honor his own aspirations and the expectations of his law school admirers by making an 'all-in' attempt to penetrate the dazzling world of stardom. Inspired by the Shah of Bollywood himself, he put his faith in the stories of outsiders who had achieved great success based solely on their talent.
Leaving his job and a cushy two-bedroom shared builder-floor apartment in South Ex behind, he moved into a modest one-room kitchen at Yari Road. He joined an upscale gym frequented by hopeful starlets and hired a personal trainer to sculpt his physique to cinematic perfection. He poured more of his nest egg into a respected but has-been actor's crash course on cinema acting, quickly learning that his diction, dialogue delivery, body language, and screen presence needed considerable work. Transitioning to a more intensive and pricier acting program seemed only sensible. Professional photographers captured his portfolio across Bombay, and he spent lavishly on trendy Bandra drip for numerous auditions.
A grueling year of auditions ensued, filled with long lines and brief encounters with dubious individuals and their questionable bargains. He was one in a sea of dreamy-eyed, eager hopefuls, each hungrier and more desperate than our protagonist and mostly without a safety net. Some had even torched their bridges for a one-way ticket to the dream factory.
After almost nine months of relentless door-knocking and rejections for not having the "right" voice or "face-cut", his funds dwindled to nothing, culminating in overdue rent.
At a soiree hosted by a batchmate fresh from a Japanese bank secondment, he reconnected with old friends who had once sung his praises. As they lamented their corporate lives and flaunted their 'aquaracers', while repeatedly trying to impress each other with the stories they picked up or were part of while negotiating some ‘who-give-a-shit’ SHA. For a brief moment, our man was transported back to his law school glory days, where life seemed easy and dreams meant to be conquered. Sharing tales of audition room woes and lines from roles that never were, he found clarity.
The next day, he borrowed money from his brother, settled his rent, and reached out to his old boss—who, as fate would have it, ghosted him. By week's end, his resume was spruced up on Naukar.com, courtesy of classmates, and distributed to the who's who of headhunters.
By year's end, he secured a job at a modest law firm and returned to Delhi — the land of 'Dally Maitro', 'Cholesterol Bhature', and loud mouths. His cinematic aspirations were quietly shelved, his retainer fee a tad below his peers, his passion for film buried in the graveyard of forgotten dreams.
So, I noticed my last post got identified as 'Trollish' and got the boot from your forum. Here's the thing...I am just a laid-back scribe, tossing out tales that might echo a bit of real-life zaniness. I believe that this life is a kaleidoscope of the absurd and our journey through this spatiotemporal shindig is a full-blown circus. The only sweetener in our over-steeped tea of existence is the sweet company of our fellow lost souls, a beacon of light in this great void.
Thus, I am bewildered that you choose to muzzle such expressions simply because they ruffle the delicate feathers of your sensibilities. That's a bit much, don't you think? Censorship seems a touch too draconian for our shared experience of absurdity.
Tales from the AbusrdLet's not forget that familiarity is the architect of all our contempt in life. In this illusory world of social media, your affections are as one-sided as a debate in an echo chamber. Take it from one who has sailed these killing fields. On my maiden voyage into the tempestuous seas of digital romance—courtesy of the dating app. I too was smitten by a digital deity whose profile was a symphony of aesthetic pleasure and adventurous pursuits. It almost seemed like a match made in heaven brought together by the whims of the ‘bumbly’ algorithm. It was our mutual preference for ‘Infernal Affairs’ over the Scorsese's remake that did the trick for me.
Our textual dalliance of wit and words culminated in a rendezvous amidst the colonial charm of Colaba. Yet, alas, it was not the face but the intent that was the grand illusion. My enchantress, it turned out, had a very real-world script in mind, with a twist that would have made Mr M. Night Shyamalan blush. I was quoted a clear-cut tariff of Rs. 8000/-, a friend’s price (it seems), for the desired company in the locale of my choosing.
The chivalrous (and almost broke) budding lawyer that I was, I found myself quickly mulling over the fiscal dynamics of this amorous enterprise. With masterful sleight of hand, I furtively inspected the meager contents of my wallet, followed by a fleeting glance at my banking app beneath the table's shroud. But the coffers of a budding legal eagle aren't exactly the stuff of fortunes. As the negotiation unfolded, I found myself in the throes of an absurdist play, where the cost of courtship had been unveiled devoid of any sentimental baggage.
So there I was, retreating to my grand 1 RK, poorer by Rs. 5000/- and my dreams of love punched in the gut. I couldn't help but snicker at the joke life had just played on me. In this bizarre bazaar of ‘lou’, buyers are to beware.
While I'm uncertain if it's the greatest anime of all time, 'Akira' certainly stands out for me. From its compelling storyline, distinctive animation style, and memorable music to its richly developed characters, every aspect of this piece of art/complete cinema captivates me. 'Akira' may resonate differently with each viewer. Some might interpret it as a coming-of-age tale, while others could see it as the rise of a hero against an overwhelming adversary. Personally, I perceive 'Akira' as a representation of the circle of life, symbolized by the post-apocalyptic city of Tokyo (Neo-Tokyo). It mirrors the birth of the universe and takes viewers on a spiritual journey through the medium of anime. Ultimately, it underscores the cyclical nature of existence: rigged to collapse under its own magnitude, only to be born again.
In the early phase of my dragged-out career, I had my own fair share of exposure to the so-called "partner firm." It resembled a spider's web with a cunning matriarch at the center and a dozen seasoned lawyers, like unsuspecting flies, hoping against hope that someday the pie would be cut fairly.
This benevolent matriarch, let’s call her 'the Puppet Mistress,' was an expert at dangling dreams in front of these pros. She led this ragtag team of would-be partners in a dance of hope, always hinting at the tantalizing vision of the promised land: partnership at the firm they started their careers with. A designation to brag about and signal their arrival on the scene. These desperate dreamers were none other than the generously titled Associate Partners and Managing Associates of that hope-dystopia we loved coming to every day.
As the greenest sprout in this forest of disillusionment, I struck up unlikely friendships with a few of these wily old foxes. Our bi-weekly therapy sessions were held at the pride of Lower Parel, 'Ambiance Restaurant Ani Bar'. A place where Blender’s Pride with chakli (murukku) and schezwan chutney flowed freely, where frustrations were voiced loudly, and where promises of greener pastures seemed just a drink away. I sat there, nodding like a bobblehead, absorbing tales of woe and promises never kept.
Shortly after completing my two years at the firm, I started eyeing the exit. Then came the fateful Goa off-site. Between sips of heavily watered-down whiskey and the sound of crashing waves, the Puppet Mistress happily announced a merger with another firm. To say it was a bigger, badder shark in the legal ocean of mid-tier firms would be an understatement. Any illusion of our firm's autonomy was about to be swallowed whole. The only person who seemed to have secured a golden parachute out of this crash landing was our beloved Puppet Mistress.
Three months after this revelation, I had moved out of this firm, but not without pocketing a few friendships. Over time, these connections faded, with only a line on my CV reminiscent of that darkly comic chapter. Word on the street is that the Puppet Mistress took an extended sabbatical and handed her clients (and perhaps her puppet strings) to the new alpha shark. As for my old comrades, they drifted to other firms, which, for all I know, had their own puppet shows and pie-dangling matriarchs/patriarchs. The circle of life, I suppose.
Guilty as charged! I suppose I accidentally enrolled in the 'Charles Dickens School of Elongated Prose’, delightfully constructing sentences that journey across the page like a playful breeze through a meadow, twisting and turning amongst the flowers, casually flirting with punctuation, and dancing lightly over hills of adjectives, in a ceaseless waltz of words! Maybe, one day, I'll master the elusive art of brevity...but until then, buckle up and enjoy the scenic route through my thoughts!
Mr. Sekhri, the journalistic jester of our times, appears to have taken his cue from the Rubika Liyaquats of the media world, those illustrious paragons of the press who've mastered the art of flattering those in power while mercilessly mocking the voices that cry out for justice. It's a circus act that seems to amuse the yuppies fresh out of law schools, who flock to Newslaundry, believing it to be the temple of reason.
This suave-talking, fab India kurta-clad, Doon-educated individual, yearning for a taste of middle-class relatability, delights in preaching his Western brand of righteousness to the masses of India. With a smug countenance that could rival the Sphinx, he dishes out alecky comments to his guests, devoid of even a modicum of empathy for those daring to voice their opinions. In essence, he's the budget version of NOIDA's media, operating with scant funds and an even smaller audience.
His favorite pastime? Talking down to people. He revels in making them feel like intellectual midgets because their thoughts, whether right or wrong in the grand scheme of things (a matter of subjectivity, really), fail to align with his holier-than-thou narrative of political correctness.
In a world that's seen its fair share of such characters, from the Roman jesters who entertained emperors to the jesters of yore who tickled the fancy of kings, Mr. Sekhri stands as a modern-day reminder that, indeed, some things never change.
Your ponderings have unveiled the classic existential puzzle: why does it feel like you're working your socks off while your pals are sipping lemonade under the shade? Allow me to waltz with your thoughts for a moment.
You, my friend, find yourself in the age-old dilemma. While you're navigating the intricate maze called life/job/career, your buddies have chosen smoother paths (seemingly so). Some decided to practice law right in their hometown, making life easier with no rent to worry about and familial proximity to fight off any nihilistic thoughts. Then there are those who've taken the academic route, enjoying the ivory tower of higher education or maybe as a break before they too must join the ranks of us, the valiant warriors of life, who awaken each day to the clarion call of grind and grime.
And, of course, there's that rare breed, the mythical 1 percenters, who luxuriate in the opulence of family wealth and deep market connections. They were never your peers, to begin with, dear friend, so let us not concern ourselves with their state of mind.
Now, as for the matter of relaxation or anger, let me assure you, there's no definitive litmus test to gauge the mental state of your peers. They, too, might be concealing their existential angst beneath a veneer of tranquility.
In essence, you're doing precisely what you're meant to do, given your skills, or lack thereof. Weekends are your well-earned respite, a fleeting oasis in the parched desert of the workweek, and even they are not guaranteed in our line of work.
There exists no grand purpose to any of our endeavours; we merely chase the elusive currency that greases the wheels of life. Money is but a means to an end, and those ends may or may not yield contentment.
So, keep dancing through the labyrinth of this existence, my friend. Life's steps may be puzzling, but the tune, however odd, is uniquely ours.
Bangalore has not only sculpted me into a proficient lawyer but also facilitated a journey of introspection, aiding me in rekindling relations with my somewhat estranged family. A skeptic might ask, "Why adore this city?" I'd retort, "Just look around and take a deep breath."
While the globe might despise the (in)famous traffic of Bangalore, the countless hours I've spent stranded in my car with my family have illuminated our lives with lost sparks of happiness, a much-needed respite from my routine life as a bail-procuring attorney for the quick-fingered pocketmaars of Church Street. This standstill in time and space amidst traffic chaos has allowed me to reacquaint with long-lost friends from a nearly forgotten childhood and diligently reply to the ‘Good morning’ messages from Fufas and Mamas in our extended family WhatsApp group. Gone are the days of ‘talk to ya later’; I’ve evolved into a person who cherishes family values and engages in hearty digital exchanges, all thanks to the times when the clock ticks but the wheels don’t roll.
The relentless and exhaustive negotiations with our cherished auto drivers not only sparked my ardor for judicial combat within the venerable confines of the Mayo Hall Court Complex but also reshaped my character. Nowadays, I greet every ignored reminder for my fees by my clients with a serene smile and open arms.
Certainly, as a sentient being, I harbor my fair share of despair, occasionally skirting the fringes of despondency, but fear not, for there is solace in Bob’s Bar. Whether you're a young professional or a seasoned local in this metropolis of enthusiastic runners, if you can secure even a sliver of space in this sought-after refuge, you'll find the place brimming with divine libations and tantalizing spicy pork fry, proffering yet another reason to relish existence.
In its sprawling expanse, Bangalore has graciously offered me the essentials: the quintessential 'Roti', the occasional 'Kapda', and a deeply mortgaged 'Makaan'. To my cherished city, my anchor and muse—may we remain inseparable, at least until the final traffic light turns green.
My dear, permit me to dish out a spoonful of unsolicited enlightenment. For some, education is more than just a door to wisdom; it’s the golden ticket to a larger life, one peppered with more zest and fewer yawns. Think of it as a transformation – from mundane shirts to suave tailored suits, from watches that demand monthly battery bribes to ones that shimmer without interruptions. Now, if they wish to swap the memories of past struggles, be it their own or their ancestors, for a splash of material luxury, who are we to judge?
Witnessing someone morph into a Patek-wielding, "Taj-only" espresso elitist might seem like watching a Cinderella story. But, while it's easy to dismiss such displays as cries for "look-at-me" validation, don't we all, at some level, yearn for something deeper amidst life's clamor? So the next time you're tempted to side-eye those flashy lawyers, remember, beneath those polished shoes and power ties, beats a heart, perhaps yearning for a smidgen of recognition in the courtroom of life. If that means shedding humble beginnings for a touch of Armani elegance, then so be it. After all, life’s a stage with its own set of dramas and the hallowed halls of law firms? Oh, they’re just another theater.
It's all rather amusing - the debate, I mean. Materialism is as good as spiritualism/asceticism/minimalism, and it’s really just a matter of choice. If a Seamaster or Yacht-master sets your heart aflutter like a teenager with a crush, by all means, splurge. But if your soul resonates with the simple ticks of an HMT Janta or a Casio, then rock that watch with every ounce of your being.
Let those with the material shine in their glory, and those without, have the empathy to appreciate the spectrum's other end.
We Indians do possess a penchant for hyperbolic comparisons—a curious blend of pride and whimsy that adds a certain flair to our mundane existences. To see the world through such a lens isn't so much a distortion as it is a reflection of our cultural exuberance. Sachin Tendulkar becomes our very own "Bradman," and suddenly, Ranchi dons the costume of Mussoorie. These monikers may border on the flippant, but as they say, different strokes for different folks.
Now, brace yourself for an unsolicited tale that serves no other purpose than to dredge up poignant memories and to provide the occasional chuckle. A tale that ends, as all good things do, in the pitch-dark humor of life's absurdities.
Once upon a time in the bustling bylanes of North Delhi (Mukherjee Nagar), I found myself beguiled by a captivating woman completing her Master's in Economics at Delhi School of Economics (DSE). It was a time of passion and academia, a time when I, too, was in Delhi under the guise of an internship. The internship was merely an excuse and thanks to my unparalleled talent for crafting excuses at work, life was beautiful with impromptu dates with this magnetic lady. Our limited resources ensured that the DSE canteen (sometimes Kamla Nagar market) became our social hub—a quirky combination of Café Coffee Day, Nirula's, and Connaught Place, all combined into one quaint establishment. Our gastronomic pinnacle? The budget-friendly 'Mutton-Dosas,' which fueled both our love and malnutrition.
During one of our many nostalgic walks, she pointed out an enigmatic gate adorned with Gothic motifs—forever locked and corroded by time. A shortcut to DSE, its perpetual closure made no sense to me. My inquiry triggered another life lesson from the one who would eventually slip through my fingers. According to the legends passed down by her professors, this "Gate to Nobel" would only swing open to welcome back a DSE alumnus graced with a Nobel Prize in Economics. Ah, a closed gate with grand aspirations—much like the two of us.
Time, that cunning sculptor, eventually carved canyons between our paths. We became two strangers bound only by the fragile threads of memories. A few years later, fate led me back to Delhi for work—a voyage that stretched into a reminiscing weekend. And there it was—the still-locked gate, now sporting a fresh coat of silver paint. Perhaps applied with a touch of desperate optimism, it waited for the day it could welcome home a laureate adorned with Swedish gold.
So you see, DSE remains a sanctuary for the study of economics in India. As for the other departments, I wouldn't venture a guess. But what I can vouch for is that the gate, like many of us, stands waiting—frozen in anticipatory glory, serving as a darkly humorous monument to life's grand plans and harsh realities.
In my not-so-humble opinion, there's absolutely nothing wrong with the bright-eyed newbies of the legal world. On the flip side, it's the creaky old-timers, who seem to think that a good old battering from their seniors was the golden ticket to legal brilliance. How cute!
Their go-to metaphor? "You need the blazing heat of a furnace to purify gold" or perhaps a "stretch to judge how flexible the rubberband is" I'd say it's more of a half-baked excuse than a nugget of wisdom, an attempt to paint their old-school hazing as a badge of honour. I bet the fresh lot can value genuine mentorship and a dash of tough love. However, there’s a difference between that and a senior mistaking their gray hair for a license to play the nightmare-inducing boogeyman.
Cutting to the chase: every profession has its pompous balloons waiting to be popped. I've had the, let's say, "pleasure" of dealing with these so-called legal titans—the ones paraded as the cream of the crop. And boy, have I been left scratching my head! Not to toot my own horn, but we're talking basics here, folks. So, whenever someone starts waxing poetic about the 'golden days of lawyering,' I can't help but visualize a steaming, freshly served plate of... let's just say, a cow's generous donation to our environment.
Lastly, and just for the record, there's not even a shred of empirical evidence that supports the notion that a tormented soul drafts better documents or magically enhances one’s ability to dot the i's and cross the t's.
Greetings, esteemed colleagues and eager beavers of law!
Did a little snooping around here (as any good lawyer does) and found this... quirk. Want to peek into a juicy comment? Too bad, rookie! Looks like we're running on a seniority system. Who designed this, King Arthur's Round Table?
Hold up before you rain down with "Quality over Quantity!" or "Wise old owls only!" - this reminds me of a story. Ever heard of the Magna Carta? Big parchment, lots of freedom talk, but mainly for the rich folks. Imagine a fresh-out-of-law-school chap back then with some brilliant ideas, but... "Shush, kiddo! The grown-ups are talking."
Isn’t it a bit like saying only Dadaji gets the remote, and we all have to watch reruns of 'C.I.D' or 'Suryavansham'... again?
And just for giggles, imagine Socrates here, labeled a 'noob'. "To question or not to question, that is... Oops! Access denied!"
Should we give this policy a second thought? Or just stock up on popcorn and wait for the juniors to start a digital uprising?
Here’s to old-timers, the young blood, and a spoonful of cheekiness!
Growing up in the '90s suburbs of the city of dreams, the term "toxic" was more like a sultry serenade, thanks to that catchy number where our cherished Khiladi Kumar crooned in wonder about the nature of a 'peck.' His immortal line, “Is it toxic or a lovely bliss, your kiss… the enigmatic inebriation... your kiss,” gave the word a charm. Ah, the irony! Fast forward to today, and the easy breeziness of those times has been usurped by the relentless rhythm of the hustle. Our vocabularies have morphed just as our ringtone melodies have.
Now, 'toxic' isn’t just a cheeky refrain but a haunting reality. 'Toxic behavior' or the 'toxicity of a workplace' isn't just out of a song; it's the symphony of a myriad of ill-fated life choices. For some, it’s the ripple effect of dubious parenting, turning darling kiddos into dreaded office trolls hungry for misguided validation. Others might cloak their insecurities in a facade of aggression, dubbing themselves Type A, Alpha, Sigma, or whatever the buzzword bingo winner is nowadays. After all, when the going gets tough, the tough get... toxic!
Ah, the "Real Story," the age-old narrative where the seasoned yet somehow hapless senior partners are utterly at the mercy of a three-month-old associate's behaviour. Truly, it's a marvel that such industry veterans could be so profoundly thrown off course by a newcomer still getting the hang of the office coffee machine. Yes, let’s definitely pin the entire toxic culture on someone who’s been here shorter than a Netflix trial subscription.
While it's truly heartbreaking to think of the unnamed associate's alleged "behavioral issues," we shouldn't lose sight of the real victims here: the woefully insecure senior partners, who have had to hide their inadequacies behind imposing job titles and an arsenal of jargon. So long as we have these vulnerable souls shepherding these top-tier centers of excellence, how could anything possibly go wrong?
Thank heavens for this "Real Story," which lifts the curtain on a tragicomedy starring bewildered seniors and a freshman employee who apparently has the uncanny power to bend the world to his ill will—or not. May the esteemed senior partners find the courage to endure this grievous ordeal. After all, in a world where the survival of the fittest is the name of the game, it's the bullies who really need our sympathy, isn't it?
This revelation isn't surprising, but I do empathize with the young man for his courage and slight naivety in sending that email. While I don't feel sympathy for those he called out, I'm concerned about the potential backlash he may encounter. I hope he possesses the strength to navigate the challenges in a world filled with ego-driven individuals who mask their insecurities with grand titles like 'Senior Partner.' It seems naive of him to expect justice from the very power structures that may have wronged him. I hope he takes some time to reflect and strategize his next steps carefully. The corporate law realm often thrives on the insecurities of these "senior partners" and their acolytes. Over time, one either adapts to this environment or becomes part of the problem.
Noida might as well be rechristened Neo-Tokyo, mirroring not just the neon but the nihilism of its fictional counterpart in Katsuhiro Otomo's magnum opus, 'Akira.' The city's restless youth wander like rudderless rebels, channeling their inner Tetsuos and Kanedas but with a penchant for fisticuffs and profanity instead of psychic powers. Authority figures gaze upon this sprawling dystopia as if waiting for an Akira-level event to sweep it all away, their eyes filled with a blend of confusion and a yearning for lost order.
While the air quality doesn't exactly offer the olfactory delights of a nuclear winter, it does give the uninitiated a teasing whiff of post-apocalyptic perfume. Sure, the city streets may lack those iconic Akira-esque motorcycles, but that absence is more than compensated for by the parade of Cretas and Scorpios, each emblazoned with bumper stickers that scream individuality as loudly as a psychic blast from Tetsuo himself.
So, if you're scouting for a mini-dystopia that comes closest to Neo-Tokyo, look no further than this Trans-Yamuna civilization endearingly and sardonically dubbed "Neeoda." Trust me, it's as if Otomo sketched this urban labyrinth himself, but perhaps decided it was too realistic to include in his manga.
In the past, I witnessed a similar scenario play out. My sister, who conveniently had the hots for another girl—who also happened to be someone’s sister—was in quite the conundrum. After much internal debate and self-doubt, she turned to her ever-wise, perpetually-available, and supremely caring brother (yours truly) for advice on such heart matters. Embracing my role as the doting sibling, I reassured her that these things often have a way of sorting themselves out. Plus, since I knew the brother of the object of my sister's affection, I eagerly offered to facilitate a chat with her. A family and friends gathering provided the perfect backdrop for this talk. But, plot twist! As I approached her, it seemed she was also keen on striking up a conversation with me. We quickly found common ground: both of us were skeptical about Jim from 'The Office' (US version) being the knight-in-shining-armor he's made out to be. We agreed that 'Fight Club' might just be the best film adaptation (even trumping The Godfather) and debated the cryptic ending of '2001: A Space Odyssey.' But what took center stage was our mutual appreciation of my sister's sweetness, agreeing she deserved only the best. Thus began what can only be described as the most whirlwind and chaotic romance of the 21st century. It went strong... for a week. Then, both my sister and the brother of my week-long love interest (who, incidentally, was an old pal) discovered our liaison, leading to a family saga worthy of a prime-time soap opera. Suddenly, I was the villain! Can you imagine? My sister no longer speaks to her "loving" brother, my old friend acts like I'm invisible (claiming I exploited our friendship to woo his sister), and my fleeting flame? She's blocked me everywhere and conveniently relocated for her master's. Probably thinks I'm worse than Jim now.
So here I am, trying to make a living and watching life drift by, wondering... is "Fight Club" really that great?
Life's a battlefield, and right now, you're standing at a critical juncture. Your love interest has taken a different path, charting a new course by switching colleges. It's a reminder that we're all captains of our own destinies. Now it's your turn to seize the helm of your own ship, and here's how I think you should go about it.
First and foremost, let go. Inhale forgiveness and exhale the past. Your former flame made a choice, and so must you. Your focus, my young friend, should be on cracking the life code we call financial independence. Money may not buy happiness, but it offers the freedom to find it on your own terms. You're on the cusp of your final year; it's the perfect moment to hone your skills to a razor-sharp edge, priming yourself to be a force to be reckoned with in your chosen field.
Brace yourself; the industry you're stepping into won't offer you a gentle landing. As a newcomer, you may often feel like you're drowning in a sea of expectations, your capabilities always a notch below what's asked of you. It's a high-stakes arena, and the last thing you need is to get caught in the clutches of your own anxiety. Trust me, in these moments of struggle, the fleeting romantic escapades of the past won't come galloping to your rescue.
In your journey, you'll undoubtedly cross paths with a variety of characters—some genuinely a treasure, but many could very well be the devil incarnate. Navigate with discernment; know when to extend your hand and when to draw your sword. Keep your eyes open, but more importantly, wear your game face. Treasure the comrades who will brave the coming tempests alongside you, for they are your true North Stars.
So, my warrior of life, step into the arena with fire in your belly and thunder in your voice. Take your cue from Nolan's cinematic wisdom: "Rage, rage against the dying of the light." Unfurl your battle cry and march forward, for this, my dear, is your time to shine.
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.
Being robbed at knife-point – or in my rather unique case, screwdriver-point – is an experience few can boast of, and even fewer would want to. On one not-so-magical night, while attempting to return from a day spent jousting in the courts, I vividly recall my encounter with Bombay's infamous 'gardullas' as I made my way back from a tiring session of courtly endeavors to my modest sanctuary in 'Nalla Sopara'. I was nestled in the bosom of my beloved first-class compartment, which on that particular evening, was suspiciously empty. Most days, these coaches are so full they seem on the brink of a dramatic explosion. But that night? It was like attending a funeral for an unpopular relative – eerily quiet and no one you’d recognize.
The hour was encroaching upon the witching time, and the lack of the usual hustle in the coach made my spider-senses twitch. As the train trundled into Mira Road station, I spied a motley crew of gentlemen who looked as if they'd been rehearsing for a heist scene in a B-grade movie. Their poised readiness to board felt like I had an audience awaiting my next move. Trusting my instincts, I sprang to my feet and hastily disembarked, seeking refuge in the adjacent, reasonably populated general compartment.
The universe seemed to smile as I snagged a window seat. Across from me sat three seemingly worn-out souls, whom I mused were just returning from their 9 to 9 grind. Yet, just as I began crafting a heartfelt narrative about these diligent men, Naigaon approached and the plot twisted. One began a loving dance with my wristwatch, another serenaded my phone into his pocket, and the pièce de résistance? The third presented his rusty screwdriver, perhaps thinking I needed a bit of DIY in my life. Their ballet of theft was so swift, it deserved a standing ovation.
As they exited stage left with grace and alacrity, I was left, not with anger, but with an appreciation for their flair. There I was, amidst an audience of weary travelers, pondering the artistry of my own personal pocket-theatre, staged by hardworking men in search of a different kind of payday.
In the grand tapestry of life, everything unfurls just as it should, often with a touch of irony. Drawn from the chronicles of my own existence, I commenced my sojourn into the hallowed halls of law school, already being serenaded by the mocking whispers of male pattern baldness. As destiny would have it, by the time I was poised to embark upon the city of wet dreams – most soggy during the monsoon season – my once proud eyebrows had staged a nearly complete vanishing act. Within the firm, I was bestowed the title of the peculiar pariah. Some jestingly mused whether I possessed some arcane ability to make hair vanish into thin air. And the ladies? Oh, fearing they might be next in line for my hair-vanishing act, began to treat me as if I carried the very plague.
In a twist of fate, I found myself journeying to Kolkata for a week, immersed in the drudgery of a due-diligence exercise. There, as if out of a storybook, I chanced upon what seemed like an elixir: Arnica Plus-Triofer (Triple Action-Hair Vitalizer). The chemist, playing the part of the sage, advised a year of commitment to these tablets and potion. Desperate and hopeful, like a moth drawn to a flame, I zealously embraced Allen’s Arnica Plus.
Alas, six months of unwavering devotion, and I bore a striking resemblance to the protagonist of 'Alag' (2006) - though now with the added charm of a perpetually upset stomach. Thanks to that serendipitous meeting with the chemist, not only do I stand out, but I can now, at whim, conjure gusts of rather pungent air biscuits. Ah, life and its little surprises!
He basked in the adoration, dabbling in local theater productions designed for the young, English-speaking, collegiate crowds of the city. Some of my acquaintances were lucky enough to catch his live performances. While praises varied in generosity, the skeptics simply admired his guts to brave the stage with his... let's say, unique talents.
After law school, he joined the ranks at one of the 'Big Laws' on Barakhamba Road, Delhi. Yet, the seed of stardom had already taken root, and he often envisioned himself far from the plains of Delhi, in the city by the Bay. Following three and a half years of contemplation and nagging self-doubt, he convinced himself of his true calling. With what he believed was enough savings, he took the leap of faith. He vowed never to return to the rat race, determined to honor his own aspirations and the expectations of his law school admirers by making an 'all-in' attempt to penetrate the dazzling world of stardom. Inspired by the Shah of Bollywood himself, he put his faith in the stories of outsiders who had achieved great success based solely on their talent.
Leaving his job and a cushy two-bedroom shared builder-floor apartment in South Ex behind, he moved into a modest one-room kitchen at Yari Road. He joined an upscale gym frequented by hopeful starlets and hired a personal trainer to sculpt his physique to cinematic perfection. He poured more of his nest egg into a respected but has-been actor's crash course on cinema acting, quickly learning that his diction, dialogue delivery, body language, and screen presence needed considerable work. Transitioning to a more intensive and pricier acting program seemed only sensible. Professional photographers captured his portfolio across Bombay, and he spent lavishly on trendy Bandra drip for numerous auditions.
A grueling year of auditions ensued, filled with long lines and brief encounters with dubious individuals and their questionable bargains. He was one in a sea of dreamy-eyed, eager hopefuls, each hungrier and more desperate than our protagonist and mostly without a safety net. Some had even torched their bridges for a one-way ticket to the dream factory.
After almost nine months of relentless door-knocking and rejections for not having the "right" voice or "face-cut", his funds dwindled to nothing, culminating in overdue rent.
At a soiree hosted by a batchmate fresh from a Japanese bank secondment, he reconnected with old friends who had once sung his praises. As they lamented their corporate lives and flaunted their 'aquaracers', while repeatedly trying to impress each other with the stories they picked up or were part of while negotiating some ‘who-give-a-shit’ SHA. For a brief moment, our man was transported back to his law school glory days, where life seemed easy and dreams meant to be conquered. Sharing tales of audition room woes and lines from roles that never were, he found clarity.
The next day, he borrowed money from his brother, settled his rent, and reached out to his old boss—who, as fate would have it, ghosted him. By week's end, his resume was spruced up on Naukar.com, courtesy of classmates, and distributed to the who's who of headhunters.
By year's end, he secured a job at a modest law firm and returned to Delhi — the land of 'Dally Maitro', 'Cholesterol Bhature', and loud mouths. His cinematic aspirations were quietly shelved, his retainer fee a tad below his peers, his passion for film buried in the graveyard of forgotten dreams.
I knew a guy who took a crack at it, gave it his all, and nearly grasped success. The man in question had a decent academic record from law school and was convinced that he possessed striking physical attributes, which made him stand out amongst his law-school peers. His cheerleaders often commented on his impressive looks and the personality that, they claimed, would be 'wasted' if he pursued the mediocre path of law. Like many others at the law school, he was a cinephile, always eager to discuss Hollywood and Indian classics. He lauded De Niro's performances in 'Taxi Driver' and 'Raging Bull', and Pacino's in 'Carlito’s Way', and he sang high praises for Kulbhushan Kharbanda in 'Arth'. His impersonations of scenes from Big B’s epic 'Agneepath' delighted his friends, earning him heaps of praise for his acting prowess and unsolicited assertions that he was destined for stardom and perhaps the illustrious Manikchand Filmfare Award.
He basked in the adoration, dabbling in local theater productions designed for the young, English-speaking, collegiate crowds of the city. Some of my acquaintances were lucky enough to catch his live performances. While praises varied in generosity, the skeptics simply admired his guts to brave the stage with his... let's say, unique talents.
After law school, he joined the ranks at one of the 'Big Laws' on Barakhamba Road, Delhi. Yet, the seed of stardom had already taken root, and he often envisioned himself far from the plains of Delhi, in the city by the Bay. Following three and a half years of contemplation and nagging self-doubt, he convinced himself of his true calling. With what he believed was enough savings, he took the leap of faith. He vowed never to return to the rat race, determined to honor his own aspirations and the expectations of his law school admirers by making an 'all-in' attempt to penetrate the dazzling world of stardom. Inspired by the Shah of Bollywood himself, he put his faith in the stories of outsiders who had achieved great success based solely on their talent.
Leaving his job and a cushy two-bedroom shared builder-floor apartment in South Ex behind, he moved into a modest one-room kitchen at Yari Road. He joined an upscale gym frequented by hopeful starlets and hired a personal trainer to sculpt his physique to cinematic perfection. He poured more of his nest egg into a respected but has-been actor's crash course on cinema acting, quickly learning that his diction, dialogue delivery, body language, and screen presence needed considerable work. Transitioning to a more intensive and pricier acting program seemed only sensible. Professional photographers captured his portfolio across Bombay, and he spent lavishly on trendy Bandra drip for numerous auditions.
A grueling year of auditions ensued, filled with long lines and brief encounters with dubious individuals and their questionable bargains. He was one in a sea of dreamy-eyed, eager hopefuls, each hungrier and more desperate than our protagonist and mostly without a safety net. Some had even torched their bridges for a one-way ticket to the dream factory.
After almost nine months of relentless door-knocking and rejections for not having the "right" voice or "face-cut", his funds dwindled to nothing, culminating in overdue rent.
At a soiree hosted by a batchmate fresh from a Japanese bank secondment, he reconnected with old friends who had once sung his praises. As they lamented their corporate lives and flaunted their 'aquaracers', while repeatedly trying to impress each other with the stories they picked up or were part of while negotiating some ‘who-give-a-shit’ SHA. For a brief moment, our man was transported back to his law school glory days, where life seemed easy and dreams meant to be conquered. Sharing tales of audition room woes and lines from roles that never were, he found clarity.
The next day, he borrowed money from his brother, settled his rent, and reached out to his old boss—who, as fate would have it, ghosted him. By week's end, his resume was spruced up on Naukar.com, courtesy of classmates, and distributed to the who's who of headhunters.
By year's end, he secured a job at a modest law firm and returned to Delhi — the land of 'Dally Maitro', 'Cholesterol Bhature', and loud mouths. His cinematic aspirations were quietly shelved, his retainer fee a tad below his peers, his passion for film buried in the graveyard of forgotten dreams.
So, I noticed my last post got identified as 'Trollish' and got the boot from your forum. Here's the thing...I am just a laid-back scribe, tossing out tales that might echo a bit of real-life zaniness. I believe that this life is a kaleidoscope of the absurd and our journey through this spatiotemporal shindig is a full-blown circus. The only sweetener in our over-steeped tea of existence is the sweet company of our fellow lost souls, a beacon of light in this great void.
Thus, I am bewildered that you choose to muzzle such expressions simply because they ruffle the delicate feathers of your sensibilities. That's a bit much, don't you think? Censorship seems a touch too draconian for our shared experience of absurdity.
Down with the Censorship!!
Our textual dalliance of wit and words culminated in a rendezvous amidst the colonial charm of Colaba. Yet, alas, it was not the face but the intent that was the grand illusion. My enchantress, it turned out, had a very real-world script in mind, with a twist that would have made Mr M. Night Shyamalan blush. I was quoted a clear-cut tariff of Rs. 8000/-, a friend’s price (it seems), for the desired company in the locale of my choosing.
The chivalrous (and almost broke) budding lawyer that I was, I found myself quickly mulling over the fiscal dynamics of this amorous enterprise. With masterful sleight of hand, I furtively inspected the meager contents of my wallet, followed by a fleeting glance at my banking app beneath the table's shroud. But the coffers of a budding legal eagle aren't exactly the stuff of fortunes. As the negotiation unfolded, I found myself in the throes of an absurdist play, where the cost of courtship had been unveiled devoid of any sentimental baggage.
So there I was, retreating to my grand 1 RK, poorer by Rs. 5000/- and my dreams of love punched in the gut. I couldn't help but snicker at the joke life had just played on me. In this bizarre bazaar of ‘lou’, buyers are to beware.
This benevolent matriarch, let’s call her 'the Puppet Mistress,' was an expert at dangling dreams in front of these pros. She led this ragtag team of would-be partners in a dance of hope, always hinting at the tantalizing vision of the promised land: partnership at the firm they started their careers with. A designation to brag about and signal their arrival on the scene. These desperate dreamers were none other than the generously titled Associate Partners and Managing Associates of that hope-dystopia we loved coming to every day.
As the greenest sprout in this forest of disillusionment, I struck up unlikely friendships with a few of these wily old foxes. Our bi-weekly therapy sessions were held at the pride of Lower Parel, 'Ambiance Restaurant Ani Bar'. A place where Blender’s Pride with chakli (murukku) and schezwan chutney flowed freely, where frustrations were voiced loudly, and where promises of greener pastures seemed just a drink away. I sat there, nodding like a bobblehead, absorbing tales of woe and promises never kept.
Shortly after completing my two years at the firm, I started eyeing the exit. Then came the fateful Goa off-site. Between sips of heavily watered-down whiskey and the sound of crashing waves, the Puppet Mistress happily announced a merger with another firm. To say it was a bigger, badder shark in the legal ocean of mid-tier firms would be an understatement. Any illusion of our firm's autonomy was about to be swallowed whole. The only person who seemed to have secured a golden parachute out of this crash landing was our beloved Puppet Mistress.
Three months after this revelation, I had moved out of this firm, but not without pocketing a few friendships. Over time, these connections faded, with only a line on my CV reminiscent of that darkly comic chapter. Word on the street is that the Puppet Mistress took an extended sabbatical and handed her clients (and perhaps her puppet strings) to the new alpha shark. As for my old comrades, they drifted to other firms, which, for all I know, had their own puppet shows and pie-dangling matriarchs/patriarchs. The circle of life, I suppose.
This suave-talking, fab India kurta-clad, Doon-educated individual, yearning for a taste of middle-class relatability, delights in preaching his Western brand of righteousness to the masses of India. With a smug countenance that could rival the Sphinx, he dishes out alecky comments to his guests, devoid of even a modicum of empathy for those daring to voice their opinions. In essence, he's the budget version of NOIDA's media, operating with scant funds and an even smaller audience.
His favorite pastime? Talking down to people. He revels in making them feel like intellectual midgets because their thoughts, whether right or wrong in the grand scheme of things (a matter of subjectivity, really), fail to align with his holier-than-thou narrative of political correctness.
In a world that's seen its fair share of such characters, from the Roman jesters who entertained emperors to the jesters of yore who tickled the fancy of kings, Mr. Sekhri stands as a modern-day reminder that, indeed, some things never change.
You, my friend, find yourself in the age-old dilemma. While you're navigating the intricate maze called life/job/career, your buddies have chosen smoother paths (seemingly so). Some decided to practice law right in their hometown, making life easier with no rent to worry about and familial proximity to fight off any nihilistic thoughts. Then there are those who've taken the academic route, enjoying the ivory tower of higher education or maybe as a break before they too must join the ranks of us, the valiant warriors of life, who awaken each day to the clarion call of grind and grime.
And, of course, there's that rare breed, the mythical 1 percenters, who luxuriate in the opulence of family wealth and deep market connections. They were never your peers, to begin with, dear friend, so let us not concern ourselves with their state of mind.
Now, as for the matter of relaxation or anger, let me assure you, there's no definitive litmus test to gauge the mental state of your peers. They, too, might be concealing their existential angst beneath a veneer of tranquility.
In essence, you're doing precisely what you're meant to do, given your skills, or lack thereof. Weekends are your well-earned respite, a fleeting oasis in the parched desert of the workweek, and even they are not guaranteed in our line of work.
There exists no grand purpose to any of our endeavours; we merely chase the elusive currency that greases the wheels of life. Money is but a means to an end, and those ends may or may not yield contentment.
So, keep dancing through the labyrinth of this existence, my friend. Life's steps may be puzzling, but the tune, however odd, is uniquely ours.
While the globe might despise the (in)famous traffic of Bangalore, the countless hours I've spent stranded in my car with my family have illuminated our lives with lost sparks of happiness, a much-needed respite from my routine life as a bail-procuring attorney for the quick-fingered pocketmaars of Church Street. This standstill in time and space amidst traffic chaos has allowed me to reacquaint with long-lost friends from a nearly forgotten childhood and diligently reply to the ‘Good morning’ messages from Fufas and Mamas in our extended family WhatsApp group. Gone are the days of ‘talk to ya later’; I’ve evolved into a person who cherishes family values and engages in hearty digital exchanges, all thanks to the times when the clock ticks but the wheels don’t roll.
The relentless and exhaustive negotiations with our cherished auto drivers not only sparked my ardor for judicial combat within the venerable confines of the Mayo Hall Court Complex but also reshaped my character. Nowadays, I greet every ignored reminder for my fees by my clients with a serene smile and open arms.
Certainly, as a sentient being, I harbor my fair share of despair, occasionally skirting the fringes of despondency, but fear not, for there is solace in Bob’s Bar. Whether you're a young professional or a seasoned local in this metropolis of enthusiastic runners, if you can secure even a sliver of space in this sought-after refuge, you'll find the place brimming with divine libations and tantalizing spicy pork fry, proffering yet another reason to relish existence.
In its sprawling expanse, Bangalore has graciously offered me the essentials: the quintessential 'Roti', the occasional 'Kapda', and a deeply mortgaged 'Makaan'. To my cherished city, my anchor and muse—may we remain inseparable, at least until the final traffic light turns green.
Witnessing someone morph into a Patek-wielding, "Taj-only" espresso elitist might seem like watching a Cinderella story. But, while it's easy to dismiss such displays as cries for "look-at-me" validation, don't we all, at some level, yearn for something deeper amidst life's clamor? So the next time you're tempted to side-eye those flashy lawyers, remember, beneath those polished shoes and power ties, beats a heart, perhaps yearning for a smidgen of recognition in the courtroom of life. If that means shedding humble beginnings for a touch of Armani elegance, then so be it. After all, life’s a stage with its own set of dramas and the hallowed halls of law firms? Oh, they’re just another theater.
It's all rather amusing - the debate, I mean. Materialism is as good as spiritualism/asceticism/minimalism, and it’s really just a matter of choice. If a Seamaster or Yacht-master sets your heart aflutter like a teenager with a crush, by all means, splurge. But if your soul resonates with the simple ticks of an HMT Janta or a Casio, then rock that watch with every ounce of your being.
Let those with the material shine in their glory, and those without, have the empathy to appreciate the spectrum's other end.
Now, brace yourself for an unsolicited tale that serves no other purpose than to dredge up poignant memories and to provide the occasional chuckle. A tale that ends, as all good things do, in the pitch-dark humor of life's absurdities.
Once upon a time in the bustling bylanes of North Delhi (Mukherjee Nagar), I found myself beguiled by a captivating woman completing her Master's in Economics at Delhi School of Economics (DSE). It was a time of passion and academia, a time when I, too, was in Delhi under the guise of an internship. The internship was merely an excuse and thanks to my unparalleled talent for crafting excuses at work, life was beautiful with impromptu dates with this magnetic lady. Our limited resources ensured that the DSE canteen (sometimes Kamla Nagar market) became our social hub—a quirky combination of Café Coffee Day, Nirula's, and Connaught Place, all combined into one quaint establishment. Our gastronomic pinnacle? The budget-friendly 'Mutton-Dosas,' which fueled both our love and malnutrition.
During one of our many nostalgic walks, she pointed out an enigmatic gate adorned with Gothic motifs—forever locked and corroded by time. A shortcut to DSE, its perpetual closure made no sense to me. My inquiry triggered another life lesson from the one who would eventually slip through my fingers. According to the legends passed down by her professors, this "Gate to Nobel" would only swing open to welcome back a DSE alumnus graced with a Nobel Prize in Economics. Ah, a closed gate with grand aspirations—much like the two of us.
Time, that cunning sculptor, eventually carved canyons between our paths. We became two strangers bound only by the fragile threads of memories. A few years later, fate led me back to Delhi for work—a voyage that stretched into a reminiscing weekend. And there it was—the still-locked gate, now sporting a fresh coat of silver paint. Perhaps applied with a touch of desperate optimism, it waited for the day it could welcome home a laureate adorned with Swedish gold.
So you see, DSE remains a sanctuary for the study of economics in India. As for the other departments, I wouldn't venture a guess. But what I can vouch for is that the gate, like many of us, stands waiting—frozen in anticipatory glory, serving as a darkly humorous monument to life's grand plans and harsh realities.
Their go-to metaphor? "You need the blazing heat of a furnace to purify gold" or perhaps a "stretch to judge how flexible the rubberband is" I'd say it's more of a half-baked excuse than a nugget of wisdom, an attempt to paint their old-school hazing as a badge of honour. I bet the fresh lot can value genuine mentorship and a dash of tough love. However, there’s a difference between that and a senior mistaking their gray hair for a license to play the nightmare-inducing boogeyman.
Cutting to the chase: every profession has its pompous balloons waiting to be popped. I've had the, let's say, "pleasure" of dealing with these so-called legal titans—the ones paraded as the cream of the crop. And boy, have I been left scratching my head! Not to toot my own horn, but we're talking basics here, folks. So, whenever someone starts waxing poetic about the 'golden days of lawyering,' I can't help but visualize a steaming, freshly served plate of... let's just say, a cow's generous donation to our environment.
Lastly, and just for the record, there's not even a shred of empirical evidence that supports the notion that a tormented soul drafts better documents or magically enhances one’s ability to dot the i's and cross the t's.
Did a little snooping around here (as any good lawyer does) and found this... quirk. Want to peek into a juicy comment? Too bad, rookie! Looks like we're running on a seniority system. Who designed this, King Arthur's Round Table?
Hold up before you rain down with "Quality over Quantity!" or "Wise old owls only!" - this reminds me of a story. Ever heard of the Magna Carta? Big parchment, lots of freedom talk, but mainly for the rich folks. Imagine a fresh-out-of-law-school chap back then with some brilliant ideas, but... "Shush, kiddo! The grown-ups are talking."
Isn’t it a bit like saying only Dadaji gets the remote, and we all have to watch reruns of 'C.I.D' or 'Suryavansham'... again?
And just for giggles, imagine Socrates here, labeled a 'noob'. "To question or not to question, that is... Oops! Access denied!"
Should we give this policy a second thought? Or just stock up on popcorn and wait for the juniors to start a digital uprising?
Here’s to old-timers, the young blood, and a spoonful of cheekiness!
Cheers!
Now, 'toxic' isn’t just a cheeky refrain but a haunting reality. 'Toxic behavior' or the 'toxicity of a workplace' isn't just out of a song; it's the symphony of a myriad of ill-fated life choices. For some, it’s the ripple effect of dubious parenting, turning darling kiddos into dreaded office trolls hungry for misguided validation. Others might cloak their insecurities in a facade of aggression, dubbing themselves Type A, Alpha, Sigma, or whatever the buzzword bingo winner is nowadays. After all, when the going gets tough, the tough get... toxic!
While it's truly heartbreaking to think of the unnamed associate's alleged "behavioral issues," we shouldn't lose sight of the real victims here: the woefully insecure senior partners, who have had to hide their inadequacies behind imposing job titles and an arsenal of jargon. So long as we have these vulnerable souls shepherding these top-tier centers of excellence, how could anything possibly go wrong?
Thank heavens for this "Real Story," which lifts the curtain on a tragicomedy starring bewildered seniors and a freshman employee who apparently has the uncanny power to bend the world to his ill will—or not. May the esteemed senior partners find the courage to endure this grievous ordeal. After all, in a world where the survival of the fittest is the name of the game, it's the bullies who really need our sympathy, isn't it?
While the air quality doesn't exactly offer the olfactory delights of a nuclear winter, it does give the uninitiated a teasing whiff of post-apocalyptic perfume. Sure, the city streets may lack those iconic Akira-esque motorcycles, but that absence is more than compensated for by the parade of Cretas and Scorpios, each emblazoned with bumper stickers that scream individuality as loudly as a psychic blast from Tetsuo himself.
So, if you're scouting for a mini-dystopia that comes closest to Neo-Tokyo, look no further than this Trans-Yamuna civilization endearingly and sardonically dubbed "Neeoda." Trust me, it's as if Otomo sketched this urban labyrinth himself, but perhaps decided it was too realistic to include in his manga.
So here I am, trying to make a living and watching life drift by, wondering... is "Fight Club" really that great?
First and foremost, let go. Inhale forgiveness and exhale the past. Your former flame made a choice, and so must you. Your focus, my young friend, should be on cracking the life code we call financial independence. Money may not buy happiness, but it offers the freedom to find it on your own terms. You're on the cusp of your final year; it's the perfect moment to hone your skills to a razor-sharp edge, priming yourself to be a force to be reckoned with in your chosen field.
Brace yourself; the industry you're stepping into won't offer you a gentle landing. As a newcomer, you may often feel like you're drowning in a sea of expectations, your capabilities always a notch below what's asked of you. It's a high-stakes arena, and the last thing you need is to get caught in the clutches of your own anxiety. Trust me, in these moments of struggle, the fleeting romantic escapades of the past won't come galloping to your rescue.
In your journey, you'll undoubtedly cross paths with a variety of characters—some genuinely a treasure, but many could very well be the devil incarnate. Navigate with discernment; know when to extend your hand and when to draw your sword. Keep your eyes open, but more importantly, wear your game face. Treasure the comrades who will brave the coming tempests alongside you, for they are your true North Stars.
So, my warrior of life, step into the arena with fire in your belly and thunder in your voice. Take your cue from Nolan's cinematic wisdom: "Rage, rage against the dying of the light." Unfurl your battle cry and march forward, for this, my dear, is your time to shine.
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
The hour was encroaching upon the witching time, and the lack of the usual hustle in the coach made my spider-senses twitch. As the train trundled into Mira Road station, I spied a motley crew of gentlemen who looked as if they'd been rehearsing for a heist scene in a B-grade movie. Their poised readiness to board felt like I had an audience awaiting my next move. Trusting my instincts, I sprang to my feet and hastily disembarked, seeking refuge in the adjacent, reasonably populated general compartment.
The universe seemed to smile as I snagged a window seat. Across from me sat three seemingly worn-out souls, whom I mused were just returning from their 9 to 9 grind. Yet, just as I began crafting a heartfelt narrative about these diligent men, Naigaon approached and the plot twisted. One began a loving dance with my wristwatch, another serenaded my phone into his pocket, and the pièce de résistance? The third presented his rusty screwdriver, perhaps thinking I needed a bit of DIY in my life. Their ballet of theft was so swift, it deserved a standing ovation.
As they exited stage left with grace and alacrity, I was left, not with anger, but with an appreciation for their flair. There I was, amidst an audience of weary travelers, pondering the artistry of my own personal pocket-theatre, staged by hardworking men in search of a different kind of payday.
In a twist of fate, I found myself journeying to Kolkata for a week, immersed in the drudgery of a due-diligence exercise. There, as if out of a storybook, I chanced upon what seemed like an elixir: Arnica Plus-Triofer (Triple Action-Hair Vitalizer). The chemist, playing the part of the sage, advised a year of commitment to these tablets and potion. Desperate and hopeful, like a moth drawn to a flame, I zealously embraced Allen’s Arnica Plus.
Alas, six months of unwavering devotion, and I bore a striking resemblance to the protagonist of 'Alag' (2006) - though now with the added charm of a perpetually upset stomach. Thanks to that serendipitous meeting with the chemist, not only do I stand out, but I can now, at whim, conjure gusts of rather pungent air biscuits. Ah, life and its little surprises!