The upcoming US Presidential elections, set to take place in the next few days, seem both simple and complex. Simple, because it all boils down to just one state – Pennsylvania. In the 2020 elections, Joe Biden struggled to scrape through five swing states – Pennsylvania, Georgia, Michigan, Wisconsin, and Arizona. These five states determined the results of the last two elections. In 2016, Hillary Clinton lost all of these states to Trump, while in 2020, Biden won all five against Trump. Although it initially appeared that these states would play the same role this time around, a closer look at the electoral map suggests that it will ultimately come down to Pennsylvania, where the tipping point lies for both candidates.

Georgia and Arizona appear to be leaning towards Trump, while Harris may take Wisconsin and Michigan. Even as I divide these states into two camps, I am more confident that Trump will secure his two states, while Harris may face difficulties in securing hers. It’s possible that Harris may falter in Wisconsin, a state that Biden won by only twenty thousand votes. This implies that if just ten thousand of Biden’s votes shift to Trump, it would result in a win for Trump. Nevertheless, if I adopt an optimistic forecast for Harris, this is how the electoral map appears:

On the other hand, the elections are complex because it is difficult to determine which way the wind is blowing. As seen in both 2016 and 2020, Trump performs better in actual results compared to opinion polls. However, pollsters now claim to have adjusted for this discrepancy, and this year’s polls are said to reflect a more accurate picture. What is that picture? That the elections remain unpredictable.

The only thing going well for Trump is that he is as unconventional as any candidate can get. He has always come across as unpolished and brute, which is what half of the US loves. This quality is sufficient for all of them to ignore any number of fallacies he may show. Democrats have hardly found a way to deal with this. Neither their reason nor their articulation is pleasing enough for his supporter to reconsider his support. When Trump is on the ballot, the US does not vote as per the standardised en-blocs of pro-guns or anti-guns, pro-abortion or anti-abortion, or pro-tax cuts or anti-tax cuts. It comes down to perceptions that societal groups have of Trump.

Donald Trump is an absolutely fascinating candidate. He possesses characteristics that one may dislike but cannot ignore. Whatever the election results may show, he may, for historical purposes, become the biggest exception to voting patterns in the US. He attracts a notable share of the black vote, despite his racial stance and his opponent being half-black. He receives strong support from the working class, a demographic that Democrats from Clinton in 1992 to Obama in 2012 claimed. Immigrants from Mexico and India support him despite his call for “America for Americans”, a clear attack to what the right sees as un-American.

He is a resilient man with a level of impunity unmatched by any other candidate. He is evaluated with the same tolerance as a drunk driver, to whom we feel grateful if he avoids a crash. Meanwhile, Kamala Harris is more akin to a sober Formula 1 driver who would face intense scrutiny for every minor error while driving a hatchback through a crowded street. No reality show will ever come close to the drama of this year’s elections.

All the experts, pollsters, and commentators are scrambling to say anything definitive because there is nothing definitive about this election. Some discussions, especially on the 538 Podcasts, have even gone on to look at the weather forecast of Philadelphia, the capital of Pennsylvania, to see if it would rain on the election day, the 5th of November. And if it does, it is likely that Trump may win because those who are likely to vote for Harris may not be motivated enough to beat the rain and go out to vote. I am sure some analyst will soon release a detailed margin of vote-shift for every millimeter of rain Pennsylvania receives. Truly, we have saturated all data points.

With only a few days remaining, I am engrossed in everything related to the US elections. As in 2020, my body clock has adjusted to the New York time zone. And just as I did in 2016, I am hoping that Trump will be victorious once more — not for any policy reasons, but because his presence in the White House would make America interesting again.

When I was about five years old, my father was transferred to Nandikotkur in Kurnool District in present-day Andhra Pradesh. The Residential building was on the back side of the Court and quite aloof from the town or even the main road. It was so further back from the Court that it was hardly even part of the Court complex. The entire empty area around the house was a dense forest. But the area immediately around the house was vacant land. My parents did not have a past-time, so they planned to plough the vacant land and plant some farms. This was not some kitchen garden. It was at a larger scale.

In the three years and a few months that we stayed there, we had grown groundnuts, kidney beans, pigeon peas, and several vegetables on a large scale. The produce would be filled in large gunny bags, much of which was eaten by us throughout the year, and some was given to close people.

On the sides, we also planted some fennel, banana plants, tomatoes, brinjal, bottle gourd, chillies, peas, etc. All of these would be used for daily cooking. I was highly interested in the growth of every single plant and would track it almost every single day. One distinct memory is that I had sowed some Tamarind seeds at the back of our house, one of which sprouted and grew well. By the time we left that place, in the year 2001, the plant was almost as tall as I was then. Of many things that I felt sad about leaving, one was this Tamarind plant which I called mine. Even my parents would call it “Asad ka imli ka jhaad”. It was my friend that grew up with me.

I had so much affection for it that, after we were transferred from there, someone from the staff at Nandikotkur court would call my dad to wish on New Years’ or Eid, and I would prod him to ask about my plant. They even went to see it and verified that it had become a tree. When I first got a computer at home, in the year 2004/2005, it had dial-up internet which was as slow as a snail. I had downloaded Google Earth and was fascinated with how I could see the entire planet by swiping the cursor. One of the places I had browsed was Nandikotkur. I went to my school and then to my house. I zoomed into my house to check the backyard. I could not see the specific trees, but I could see the general area which had several trees. I was sure that one of those trees was my tamarind tree. I was emotional to see it. It meant a lot to see it grow to such density and height. From a small seed that I had sowed, the plant that sprouted went on to become a healthy tree.

I am sure that tree lives to this date. I check Google Maps again and I can see that it is there. It must be there. I am certain that it has a wide canopy with its shade as sweet as a warm blanket on a cold winter day. I know that it must be home to several chirpy birds which built their nests in the arms of the branches with the twigs that fall from this tree. They must also be feeding on the sweet tamarind that it produces year after year. The seeds of that tamarind would’ve led to a lot of such plants to sprout. I hope the tamarind harvest is taken by the residents of the houses nearby and they make a sweet pickle out of it. I hope the tang of the juice that comes from its tamarind makes their food a bit more tasty. I hope there are kids who climb it to play peek-a-boo or to bring down a kite that’s stuck in it. I hope there’s a swing tied to it with kids challenging each other as to how far in the air they can swing. I hope there’s a mother roaming around the tree with her baby in her arms. I hope there are a few old ladies who draw a Ludo chart and play the game using the half-split seeds of the same tree. I hope it gives shelter to those who are tired from the struggles of life. I hope it provides respite to despair and hopes to dreams.

I hope it lives for eternity and meets me in heaven after I die.

This blog has been a quiet place where the sound of each page of my life turning would echo. Here, I have chronicled both events I go through and my thoughts on them. But it’s been a while since I have done that. This long hiatus which lasted several months is based on a good reason. There are things that have happened in my life that made my heart beat a little faster than it did before. It was both uncontrolled as well as self-induced. Uncontrolled because I was responding to life without much choice. Self-induced because I liked being in such position so much that sharing it might jinx it away. I would be lying if I say that this fear has gone away now. It stays, and I have accepted that it shall continue to stay.

I write this as I sit in my room on a pleasant winter evening. I look out of the window to see plenty of trees, both still and alive. A custard apple that awaits to ripen and a guava that shines yellow with the calm sunlight falling on it. I am in a town called ‘Luxettipet’. I have been transferred here, quite out of turn, from Mancherial. Evidently, the High Court doesn’t want any place which has only one court to be vacant, and since Luxettipet was vacant for about two months, they could flick me right in its lap. At first, I was taken aback. But once the dust settled, I was thankful for this change. The serene town has peaceful people and calm surroundings which so many would envy.

The Court here has good infrastructure. A building which looks like a Court, Advocates who care about their clients as they should, and a staff that’s both cooperative and understanding. Mancherial was similar in much of these, except for the glaring lack of infrastructure. At every Lok Adalat, when I would summon over a hundred accused caught in Drunken Driving cases, I was afraid that the building would collapse with their weight like it was hit by a 9.0 magnitude earthquake. They even dug out a hole across the floors in that shaky building to construct a lift. I wouldn’t be surprised if a few of these accused even fell in that hole without us even being aware of it even to this day. Most of my workout for the day would be climbing the building with chipped-off steps and crossing the busy road to meet the District Judge having juggled through the high-speed vehicles. While getting down the steps, I thought it would’ve been rather easier to go to the roof and jump from there with a parachute to glide down with a soft landing straight into my car.

But all that is gone. I get to walk to the Court in seconds since the chamber door opens in the house compound. The mornings are calm and the evenings are happy. I have many reasons to be thankful to the Almighty and this is one of them. And, God willingly, this is just the start.

A day is at its sweetest at dawn. The pink hues with hopeful birds chirping away to pleasant pastures and the silence of the calm skies as the breeze brushes through the leaves of confident trees make life blissful. The pursuit is not just of happiness, but of peace. Peace which warms the heart. Peace which imbibes hope. Peace which creates security. And peace which makes one feel blessed and loved.

My life dawned a few months ago as I met one piece of peace. A piece that completes me in a way I never thought I could be complete. A person who accepts me for everything I am, which I must admit, is a big ask. A girl who is as cheerful as a bright rainbow and as caring as a soft lullaby. A star that shone for my dawn.

We got engaged to be married on the 28th of November. And I eagerly wait for the day we start living together. My life – check that – our lives will never be the same. May we be blessed with all the happiness and love. May the Almighty keep every evil eye away. May we be together till our dying breath. And, for us, may everything be better than what we wish.

Ameen.

What does it take to be a mother? The physical and emotional energy that a woman has to spend for nine long months carrying a baby can neither be measured nor quantified. This does not mean that women have to be patronised or patted on the back for what they do. The State must only provide all resources to ensure that the health of both the mother and the baby are at their best throughout. All this looks fairly simple. But, it is not.

Way back in the second year of my college, I had written a paper for the Law & Poverty course (click here). It looked at the Right to Abort and the various strands of arguments to support and oppose it. While the US discourse talks about liberty, privacy, and undue burden, the Indian law has a fairly simple motivation. As Parliament passed the Medical Termination of Pregnancy Act in the year 1971, it was said that this law will help reduce the population boom simply because of all the abortions that will now take place. Neither bodily autonomy nor personal liberty was to be seen in this discussion. Despite this, there is no absolute right to abort in India. For the right to be exercised, a woman has to prove either grave injury to her physical or mental health or that the child may be born with serious physical or mental abnormalities. Failure of contraceptives or that the pregnancy was a result of rape are additional grounds mentioned in the law.

Surely, there is much to be desired in the Indian law. Recognising the right to bodily autonomy within the ambit of personal liberty will be a step toward upholding Constitutional Morality. On the other hand, the US seems to have stepped back from it.

Dobbs v. Jackson is a dreadful read. It is all too glaring that the majority had decided what conclusion they must reach and used plenty of illogical means to get there. The prime basis for not recognising the Abortion right is the absence of such a right in the “deeply rooted history and tradition of the country” for it to be included in the “ordered liberty”. And the question is: why does it have to be deeply rooted? Surely, you can defend racism, sexism, and heteronormativity by simply stating that they are too deeply rooted to frame any right against them! This is a real threat since Brown v Board of Education (which outlawed segregation) and Obergefell v Hodges (which recognised same-sex marriage) can also be held to be per incuriam simply because they identified rights which were never deeply rooted in the American history.

Then there is a question of “ordered liberty”. The Fourteenth Amendment speaks about liberty, but does not mandate it to be ‘ordered’. This innovation that liberty has to be ordered is a sly standard to curtail substantial liberty. Roe v Wade spoke extensively on the potential life, i.e., the unborn child. For them, the balance of interests was tilted in favour of the woman in whose body this potential life grew. But in Dobbs, the majority shrugs away from looking at this balance. They throw the ball back to the State Legislatures which will decide whether or not a woman has control over her own body for another life to grow. In doing so, they proudly claim that the question has to be answered by the people which increases the democratic process. No one seemed uncomfortable in throwing a question of individual liberty to the mercy of the majority!

Dobbs has unabashedly attacked Roe on five direct counts: nature of court’s error, quality of reasoning, workability, effect on other laws, and reliance interests. It says that Roe created a winning side and a losing side. And this losing side (the pro-life) lost their democratic right to approach their representatives to express their interest in a specific law on abortion. It is dubious how the Court curtails the interpretation of liberty and curbs the bodily autonomy of women simply because the electors cannot approach their representatives with their views. And with this, they created another losing side – the women who have unwanted pregnancies, but are forced to carry on with them simply because it is no more their choice to do otherwise.

Dobbs put the rights regime back to what it was in the year 1973. With the young judges appointed by Trump playing by the script, the Supreme Court may take another 49 years to set the course right. The same court which has influenced the courts across the world has taken a step into darkness. And if Dobbs too has the same influence over the courts of the world, many countries may follow where the US seems to go. This is the biggest legacy that Trump leaves for the decades to come. Of all the walls that Trump wanted to build, this is the strongest one yet. Generations will suffer trying to jump over it, and the gloom will last until it is taken down.

6th of August, 1996 was an odd day in the city of Chandigarh. Outside the Court of Judicial Magistrate, a band assembled to sing tunes of victory. This was a Police band which is regularly summoned to public functions either to commemorate National Holidays or to pay respects to a high dignitary. But its purpose on this day and at this place was drastically different. It was to play their music and rejoice at a judgement slated to be pronounced that day in favour of the accused acquitting him of all charges. The glaring irony in this spectacle is how the Police Band, which is a part of the Police Department, had gathered to celebrate the failure of the Prosecution.

Things did not go as planned. The accused – Mr Kanwar Pal Singh Gill – was convicted and sentenced to rigorous imprisonment of three months for an offence under Section 354 and of two months for an offence under Section 509. KPS Gill was the ‘supercop’ who had been instrumental in washing away much of the Khalistani separatists by conducting Operation Black Thunder, and it was a setback for this towering ruthless IPS officer to be brought down by Rupan Deol Bajaj, the not-so-powerful IAS officer. The Court held that the allegation that Gill had slapped Bajaj on her bottom in an elite party of civil servants was proved and Gill had to serve his time in the clink. Of course, there were three stages of appeal after this, which went on to reduce the gravity of the sentence, ultimately erasing the imprisonment and leaving only Rs. 700/- as a fine and Rs. 2 Lac as compensation to a women’s rights organisation.

The entire case, which took almost two decades from the incident to the judgement of the Supreme Court, relied on the outrage of ‘modesty’. Modesty. It’s a word that I do not understand. What is it to have modesty and how does one take that modesty away from the other? With what act and after what point do we say that the modesty of a woman has been ‘outraged’? Why is it that only women are blessed (cursed?) with this modesty? Are men so inherently immodest that we must refrain from even ascribing modesty to them?

I am often required to examine the accused and frame charges as a part of my day job. This examination entails questioning the accused as to whether he has committed the offence as alleged or not. Since most are not familiar with English, I do this either in Telugu or Hindi. Unfortunately, I have not found an equivalent phrase for ‘outrage of modesty’ in these languages. I could ask someone to give me the best translation for it. But before I do that, I ask myself if I can explain ‘outrage of modesty’ to describe what it means. If not in any other language, can I, at the very least, do it in English? I fail again.

There are two issues I have with not having any clarity on this. One, I am unsure how and what standard I must use to try the accused who have been charged with such offences. The safer way is to simply stop looking for the line where modesty turns into immodesty, and rather focus on whether an act falls on the wrong side of such line or not. Two, I am uncomfortable with the reality that everyone – the bar, the police, the litigants – is so eased into the use of ‘modesty’ as they throw the word around without knowing the meaning of such a word. What does it say about the legal profession that we use a word to charge, try, and convict the accused without even understanding the meaning of that word? And more importantly, what does it say to the women who are victims of harassment to say that what was done to them is a crime, not because their space was violated without their consent, but because they possess some ‘modesty’ which is ‘outraged’?

It is said that the language that such colonial laws use has Victorian semantics and morality. We have neither tried to replace such language nor attempted to understand it. And for Rupan Deol Bajaj, it proved to vindicate her stand. It was found that her modesty was indeed outraged and the same had to be punished. But the narrative is not all that comforting.

In an interview cited in an article titled ‘The Modesty of Mrs Bajaj’ by Martha Nussbaum, Bajaj said, “I am not a woman from the roadside. I have had 6,000 men working under me.” Similarly, in a different interview with the Tribune, she said, “I just had to carry on. It was essential for the dignity of my office. If I had not protested then who is supposed to, my class IV employee or peon?”

Well, yes, ma’am! You had to carry on. But so should a class IV employee or a peon or a ‘roadside’ woman. Let us not bestow a higher standard of modesty by the office one occupies, but respect them for the human beings they are. While we may struggle to find the meaning of ‘modesty’, we must agree that it is not desirable to prescribe different notions of modesty by the class or caste of a woman. If doing away with Victorian Morality is a bit much, let us at least apply the same morality to everyone equally. Until then, not every Gill will be caught.

“Hey! Are you going to be free this weekend? Let’s catch up on a call!”

Sure. Offer extended. Gladly accepted. Consensus ad idem reached. And… the contract is never performed.

Lately, this has been the story with most of my friends. Until a few years ago, I used to be the free one, while all my friends were busy riding the capitalistic bulls by their horns. I’d complain often that they have no time to spend a few minutes to talk about nothing. Cut to now, I am that friend. When I promise that I’m going to call someone and catch up, I fully intend to deliver on it. And when such time comes, I fail. What is worse is that I fail not because I forget, but because I am lethargic.

Picking up the phone and calling someone shouldn’t take much effort. But, I’ve begun to feel that a phone call has become more arduous than it should. Our technology has progressed so much that you can call a person on WhatsApp, Telegram, Signal, or just a normal phone call. And for some reason, it looks easier to tie a string between two empty matchboxes and communicate. Every App has so many call drops that exhaust you as you attempt to re-connect.

The call drops – you call back immediately and they call back immediately – busy tone on both sides. Again, you call back another time and they call back another time – busy tone on both sides. So, you realise that the other person is trying to call you back, which means that you should give some rest and not try to call back. Unfortunately, the other person had the same realisation. And none of you calls each other for about two minutes. But then, you think that maybe now is a good time to call them back. And again! They too think the same. You call back and they call back – busy tone on both sides. Fuck, I give up!

Why haven’t these Apps or mobile companies figured out that when two people call each other at the same time, they both wish to talk to each other, and hence, their call should simply connect without requiring any phone ring? Why does an offer always need an acceptance to work out? An offer which is matched by an offer of identical terms should be an agreement. At least, when it comes to phone calls!

I rant about phone calls because I don’t have much else to whine about. I’ve had a brief sigh of happiness lately which has made me grateful for everything I have and everything I am. There was no particular trigger for this. A random walk on the roof under the light of a full moon helped dawn the idea that happiness is not always found naturally, and that you should count all the blessings to feel it. There is always someone worse off than you. I mean, I recently complained about how hot the weather is, but then, I look at the hellish heat wave sweeping Northern India which is far worse than what is here.

There’s not much to be done this summer. It is odd that we barely took up our positions and they sent us off on a summer break. But I’ll happily accept any such vacation that comes my way. I have started taking some classes for a group called ‘ILPA’. Just as I did last year, I’ve planned about ten classes of three hours each to teach the Constitution. Eight of these classes are done, and I must admit that they haven’t been an enjoyable experience. I am unable to understand the exact reason for this, although I sense a glaring lack of interest in most of the students. I’m sure they have their day jobs and come home tired, making it tough to concentrate and be alert in an evening lecture. But it is not very encouraging to see sleepy faces yawn from the very first minute of the class, even before I start speaking. Some entertain themselves as they talk to people around them and barely pay any attention, some bring in their food and eat as they listen, and some get too comfortable lying around in their bed wearing sleeveless banyans. And it shows that they aren’t paying attention when they ask me to repeat what I just explained for an hour.

I don’t care much about students who lack seriousness. God knows, that of the thousands of students I taught for CLAT, barely a few ever paid attention. For the rest, my classes were as good as cheap stand-up comedy. The standard Pareto principle applies to even such classes. That is, eighty percent of the class pays minimal attention, while the rest twenty percent learns. That equation is true in almost every class, and this makes competitive exams a little easier since the competition is only amongst the twenty percent.

There’s a separate species of students who require special mention. These are those who collect every bit of information regarding the exams, the syllabus, the prep-strategy, and more importantly, the notes. In every session they attend, they have standard questions for every teacher they meet. How to study? Which notes or books did you follow? How much time should we spend every day? How many times should we pee per hour? How can I seek attention and impress the rest of the class that I already know a lot? How can I give examples of other top rankers to show that I know them personally and I am well connected? How can I find love to fill my hollow heart? etc. I call them the Scarecrows.

The Scarecrows have all the information they need. Many a time, more information than they need. But, they are extremely incompetent when it comes to sitting their asses down and studying. That, they can never do. They are always on the lookout for a mentor just to feel confident that they are being guided on the straight path. Hardly do they realise that their engines have not even started. They required every shortcut possible, but how about simply putting their hours to study? No, thank you!

When the Scarecrows ask me for any help, I breathe hard in exasperation. And I realise that it is easier to tolerate call drops and overcome the hurdles of inefficient mobile networks than push these Scarecrows to work.

Aitedaal. Moderation. The Middle Path. It is a skill which is way easier said than practised. We are perennially on a ledge with everything in life that it takes surprisingly little to push us off of it.

I realised that when I was dipping my Marie Gold in some hot tea. For the life of me, I can never figure out the right amount of time it needs to be kept submerged to ensure that the biscuit soaks up enough tea to add flavour without compromising its structural integrity. If you pull the biscuit too fast, it stays crisp and won’t benefit from the tea. Keep it for long and you will see it breaking and collapsing into the teacup like some dead star turning into a black hole. And then, you have two options: One, wait till you finish all the tea, turn the cup upside down, and jerk it enough for the mud-like biscuit residue to fall into your mouth. You can also hold the cup in that position and keep your mouth wide for a while to get some assistance from gravity and hope that it slides down. If it doesn’t, make your finger crooked and scoop it all up. The second option is to simply get a spoon and fetch the biscuit with it. But it doesn’t work if you’re too lazy.

All this is just to exercise moderation with dipping biscuits in tea. Now, imagine what it must be if you try moderation with everything else you do.

What doesn’t stay in moderation is the temperature. We barely made it to the month of May and nature turns us into a medium-rare steak. On top of that, I stay in a city which is known for its open cast mines and power generation. If at all I get a call to record a Dying Declaration of a burn victim, my first question to the doctor will be to ask how many degrees beyond two! Because second-degree burns are what everyone already has and is the default way of life here. The burning loo that blows ensures that.

The hours post the sunset are not kind either. I sometimes wake up in the middle of the night to check whether I am sleeping on a mattress or inside a cooker, and I find that it is always a cooker. I turn and twist in an attempt to fall back to sleep. The heat continues to radiate from what should be called a memory fume mattress.

I saw this heat somewhere else. The markets. All that unfounded optimism of the last two years which took stocks to an unseen high seems to be collapsing. With inflation raging high and the threat of the US Fed Reserve and RBI hiking their rates to control it, the foreign investors are likely to pull out and the domestic corporates are likely to freeze expansion. The war in Ukraine is as hot as it was at the start and the end is not in sight. Even the most risk-averse mutual funds seem to be dipping. All the short-term investments, invariably, turn long-term. It is as if I have started to plan for my retirement, something that is over three decades away!

As I turn passive towards markets, there is so much I look forward to. The FIDE Candidates, the Leclerc v/s Verstappen fights in Formula One, and more importantly, the mid-term elections in the US which are undoubtedly going to give away the Senate, and in all probability, even the House, to the Republicans as Trump re-spawns. All this is sufficient to keep my mind occupied, especially as I struggle to sleep.

I do attempt to sleep, but the mind wanders. It is its job to do that. Imagination runs amok which either helps spend leisure time or fuels creativity. All that keeps me sane. But the pursuit of moderation always remains unaccomplished. I have resolved many a times, and I do it again, to actively be conscious of how much time and effort I put into anything I do. Whether I succeed or not, I shall report on this blog as and when I must. There ought to be a day when I figure out for how long I should dip a biscuit in my tea.

Summers look the best when it’s winter, and winters look the best when it’s summer. You are never content with what you have – like all things in life. I realised this last night when my watermelon had too many seeds. Being too tired of dissecting them with my tongue, I resigned and started chewing the seeds. I would do this even as a kid until I was scared straight by being told that eating those seeds will make watermelon plants sprout in my tummy. But now, if there is any wisdom that I gained as an adult, I know that it does not happen. What else has this wisdom taught me? Meh.

I have more complaints about the summers. I say this as I sit in a hot and humid afternoon realising that maybe global warming is becoming practically noticeable. But again, I do have an AC in my chambers and that gives me refuge from the loo that blows outside.

It has been a few days since I took charge in Mancherial. Despite all the complaints I had about being posted far away from the city, I now realise that Mancherial is nothing less than a city. My mark of a place being urban enough is the noticeable presence of huge shopping malls, fast-food chains like KFC, and a huge cluster of corporate multi-speciality hospitals which resemble five-star hotels. All the socio-economic data shows that India does not have enough doctors proportionate to its population, and I wonder if this data skipped the census of medicos in Mancherial since this place has enough doctors and hospitals for a city five times as large as this. If I could do a side-hustle, I would set up a hospital (at least a dental one!) and mint money the way all hospitals here seem to be doing.

On the other hand, this place surely lacks enough courts. Though it has seven in number, two are vacant and two have trainee officers. The burden on the rest might overwhelm them and possibly create some indifference simply because of the enormity of pendency. But that’s the pain, I hope, will soon reduce.

I was at the Academy in Hyderabad for the last four months. It was hectic. I am not sure if I can complain about this as most of the burden was self-imposed. In all of that din, this blog developed some rust. Much has happened in the world since the last time I wrote here. From Russia attacking Ukraine, Will Smith attacking Chris Rock, Komaram Bheem attacking the British, and HDFC attacking HDFC, it was hard to keep up with all the news. There is so much I want to tell myself and I will try to do that in the coming weeks.

For now, I must note that the last two weeks have been hectic as we set up a new house here. Since the Government Residence has been vacant for several years, it appears to have been occupied by some invisible unearthly beings. I would’ve cleaned it up and moved into it, but I am not too intrigued to witness any paranormal activity that surely goes on there. Finding a private house for rent was not easy. We liked two spacious apartments, but both denied after finding out that I am a Muslim. My staff said that the resident will be a Judge. They said, “Sure! But he is still a Muslim!” In all of this, what was most surprising was that I didn’t feel any outrage. Not even an iota of feeling unequal. I have become immune to all the hate, thanks to the regular vaccines given to us in the name of Hijab and Halal. Welcome to new India, I guess!

Although buying all things new for the new house does good damage to my bank balance, it is exciting to pick and choose things to buy. With all this, I have gained market knowledge of most consumer goods, not something I would otherwise need. Refrigerators cost more than they cool, and Microwave Ovens cost more than they heat. And when the news yells at how inflation has been cruising on a global level, I place a hand on my pocket and mumble – ‘I know.’

Did you know that some people have a gene type that causes them to taste coriander like soap? I didn’t, until a week ago. This is because they are super-sensitive to chemicals called aldehydes. But why is this relevant to anything I do? It’s not. Unfortunately, it’s the only thing I learnt in the last month. That’s because all the time I spent was just that – spent!

I moved to my village a month ago since the ineffective third wave of the virus chased us away from the city. Considering how brutal the second wave was, I must admit that I was scared. Fortunately, it did not cause much mayhem. It looks like people have not just developed immunity, but also an attitude of nonchalance. The virus is just another cold. We haven’t defeated it, but we’ve learnt to live with it.

The time spent in the village is lovely for two reasons: One, there is absolute silence all through the day and night. There is no cacophony of loud children testing the sturdiness of window glass or the annoying scream of Royal Enfield’s modified silencers which shakes your soul as it passes by. For someone who loves quiet as much as I do, village life is the best way to extend the lifespan. Two, the calm days here give plenty of time to think. Think about what? Nothing. And that’s the most important thinking one can do. To think about nothing.

Unfortunately, I have to move back to the city to resume my sessions at the Academy. It is a struggle since given a choice, I would rather cocoon myself than move about people exchanging pleasantries. The one thing I learnt since Covid hit us two years ago is that my default is not a people person. It takes hard work to muster up the energy and converse with people. That does not mean I hate doing it. Once I start on with it, it is enjoyable. It is a weird combination that I cannot articulate. I am not a great believer in Zodiacs, but there is something about being on the cusp of Cancer and Leo. You’re neither here nor there – an introvert and an extrovert, both at the same time, without being an ambivert.

In all the nothingness, I managed to read three books in the past month. ‘A Man Called Ove’ by Fredrick Backman was beautiful. Since I had already read his ‘Anxious People’ a few months ago, nothing was surprising to see how well Backman writes. After Elif Shafak, he comes pretty close to being the writer I admire for how well the story is weaved. I wish there was a genre named for books by such writers. These are writings that have a good mixture of a sublime and emotional storyline to which you can relate, but so well balanced with a good standard of humour. I have begun to appreciate such stories, especially after the horrible read of Shubhangi Swarup’s ‘Latitudes of Longing’ which takes you deeper than you are prepared to go with no point of return. Although Khaled Hosseini is not that bad in this regard, his writing has never charmed me as I don’t like my mental state to be taken out for a ride and self-induce hypotension.

Thankfully, the other two books were both non-fiction – always my first genre of choice. One was an uninspiring read of ‘Policymaker’s Journal’ by Kaushik Basu which is a haphazardly written diary of an economist who appears to have solutions to every problem without much pragmatism. I have generally detested Economists for their pretentious intellectuality with which they are ever ready to shoot down every policy, but at the same time whine about problems proposing no practical solutions. There are many reasons I dislike Economists, and Kaushik Basu just gave me another.

The last of the three books was ‘Peril’ by Bob Woodward. Written in his unique style of dramatizing routine events, it records the end of Trump’s Presidency, the disorderly transition, and the first few months of Biden’s Presidency. Although there is nothing new to learn for a US politics buff, the way he narrates the events keeps you engaged and makes it a good read. It is akin to watching a suspense show on Netflix, except that you already have all the spoilers and know how the story ends.

If I had more time in the village, I would’ve dived into some Agatha Christie classics and one by Elizebeth Kolbert called ‘Under a White Sky’ which I half-finished. Hopefully, it can be done in the coming days since my headspace is likely to be free. As much as I resent the move back to the city, I have little choice. Life continues. But, can I wear a good ironed shirt at the top and almost nothing at the bottom? – Not anymore!