I lay defenceless. All I could do in that supine position was to wait. The cracks on the ceiling couldn’t be more clear. Normally, these would not be a spectacle one would stare at meticulously. But given the context, they had more meaning than they would otherwise carry. With my heartbeat that could be felt in my head, I sincerely hoped that the ordeal would end the soonest. Sadly, it wouldn’t.

The Dentist came back to the chair and claimed his tiny tools – a steel instrument which curved at the end and a tiny spear that could puncture the deepest point of your heart in an elegant swish that would make a ballerina jealous. I hadn’t considered that to get my teeth cleaned, I’d have to surrender myself to a stranger with such dangerous weapons in such a vulnerable position that I wouldn’t exist to question him if he chooses to slit my throat for fun. Sure, he has a degree in Dental Surgery. But, does he have a soul which prevents him from misusing it? I’m about to find out.

After plenty of gargling and spraying the water in the tiny basin next to me, I was all ready to have the flak removed and get some shining white teeth. I asked him if it was going to hurt, to which he said “only if you think!” And now, how can I not think about it? To numb the pain, he produced a tube of transparent ointment from thin air, squeezed it a little, and applied it to my gums. This, as I learnt, is called ‘Benzocaine’. What I did not learn by then was that I was not supposed to swallow it. As it slipped down the throat, it was too late to realise that instead of taking sensation away from the gums, it had made the throat and the inner part of the tongue so numb that I couldn’t feel it anymore. It’s almost as if the Dentist did use his tiny tool to slit my throat.

But I didn’t say a word. Not only because I didn’t want to take the risk of a conversation when sharp objects were touring my mouth, but also because I simply couldn’t speak anymore. The anaesthetic gel had petrified the throat and the tongue that arises from the throat. So I stared at the cracks on the ceiling.

The drill started poking holes at the bottom of my teeth. Since I had come this far, I couldn’t change my mind about being chiselled like some delicate porcelain. How bad can it really be? And if thousands are getting their teeth cleaned every single day, this ought to be a simple process despite the ongoing gloom. Yeah… right! But boy, the gums started bleeding. The pain was real. Evidently, the ointment that was supposed to numb the gums did not do it since it slipped away to a more sloppy place. Well, now what!?

I closed my eyes as a reflex, hoping when I open them up, I would realise that it was just a dream and no one was torturing me by my molars. As the pain sent jitters through my body, I had to hold on to something to contain the shivers. After swinging my arms for a while, my right hand found something soft and spongy to grab. I clutched it stiffly and didn’t dare open my eyes lest I see more blood sprinkling off my mouth. This went on for a few minutes, or what seemed like an eternity. When the drilling machine shut, I opened my eyes, only to notice that what I had held onto was the Dentist by his hair. We looked into each other’s eyes as I slowly let go of his hair. It would’ve been romantic, had it not been incredibly painful.

As I got out of that pretend-guillotine chair, I could feel my throat and could use my sense of speech. But the gums hurt. I made quick work of paying up and driving down to my house. Was it all worth it just to get some clean teeth? I can never be sure of that. However, what I regret is not pulling the hair off of the Dentist’s scalp and giving him an iota of pain that he made me go through. Well, there’s always a next time!

This very time, last year, there was hope. Hope that the year 2020 will be known for all the bad and it will only get better from there. The change of the calendar year would give a break from the unsavoury present and take us to better times. Covid was only a once-in-a-lifetime phenomenon that would disrupt only a cursed year, right? Well, wrong!

The year 2021 has really proved to be 2020+1. This year can make 2020 look like a rookie in making lives miserable. If nothing, there was some wishful thinking at the end of 2020 that the pandemic would be over and we will get back to the normal. But now, as 2021 ends, we’ve long forgotten all that hope, and created a normal. We’re at Omicron. But this is surely not the end. We may soon exhaust the Greek alphabet, but the mutating virus continues to spread.

All this is what everyone’s going through and my reality is no different from that of others. But, for me, that is not all. There’s a weird sense of both hollowness and satisfaction I feel with where I am in life. It is as if I am waiting for something to happen, not knowing when and what. I tried articulating this to myself and failed. So I’ll save myself the trouble of making an attempt to put it in this written word here.

All I do these days is attend classes at the Academy which try to indoctrinate us with what we must know to be efficient in our career. I often wonder how the State machinery puts up a façade of being all mighty, while not being strong enough to prove it. Despite its public stance of ‘Maximum Governance and Minimum Government’, the State desires to be as powerful as it can be. (Un)fortunately, it cannot be very strong.

There is always some incoherence between how powerful the State is and how well it is held accountable. There are some extreme cases: North Korea – where the State imposed a ban on laughter to mourn the 10th death anniversary of their former leader – or Saudi Arabia which stands tall as an autocratic monarchy overliving its time in the era of modern democratic nation-states. It is not that the other countries do not want to be a North Korea or Saudi Arabia. It is simply their inability that halts them from becoming the Big Brother they all desire to be.

The Indian case is of being neither here nor there. For those outside the Government, any public official may look as wielding too much power with too less accountability. But for those inside the Government, there is a gulf between how they are perceived by the people outside and the actual power they command. These officials are held back by their shackles and the threat that they may display against common citizenry is stronger than what it would be if such threat is realised. This power is only strong enough to tackle the weak. When it has to confront those with considerable economic or social capital, it falters.

It is here that I find myself wear this façade. Although the Judiciary is independent and autonomous as an organ, the internal hierarchical accountability is severe. But the higher you move in the hierarchy, the more disproportionately the autonomy widens. The fact that the Impeachment Articles of the Constitution have not once been used successfully against a High Court or Supreme Court judge speaks volumes. However, this is not the immunity a ‘subordinate court’ judge enjoys.

The case of lower judiciary is one of too much accountability. It requires some impossible balancing between the expectations of the High Court, the Bar, and the Parties that appear before us. Since you cannot make everyone happy, you are bound to be in the bad books of at least some. How powerful these some are will determine how well you do in your career. While you are juggling with all the stakeholders with ostensibly opposing interests, the room for you to take more initiative becomes narrow. You may become apprehensive to pro-actively do something, lest your good intentions are mistaken as means to some iniquitous ends. If at all this happens, you may reserve yourself only to do the time and do sufficiently enough not to be questioned on laxity. When questioned, all you need to find is an alibi for non-performance.

All this is uneasy. But what makes me worried is the possibility that I may join the rut and fit-in so well to become too comfortable. Here’s to hoping that it does not happen. Not so soon, at least!

Life has become hectic. The tragedy is that there is barely any physical activity, but the day drinks up all the energy the body generates. I wake up every day to get dressed and rush to the Academy. The long drive through the traffic is timed as if it is a mission in GTA Vice City. I manage to reach only minutes before the reporting time, something that has become a routine. Despite the worrying hurry, I haven’t taught myself to start early from the house to make sure I have the comfort of time to breeze the drive. Nonetheless, this is only the start of a very long day.

It is a task to be cooped up in cushioned-up chair with barely any space to stretch my legs. Do it for six hours a day and you start to change as a person. Perhaps, this is an occupational hazard that isn’t spoken about the job I have. As this goes on every day, there was point when I decided that I really needed a break, only to realise that it was a Tuesday that day and I had four more days to reach a Sunday. I find respite in that my batchmates are good people. Generally, that is. I have been warned to not be embroiled in anything bitter and play safe if and when any disagreements crop up. If the first fortnight is anything to go by, I have been reasonably decent in doing this.

More importantly, I realise that every batchmate I talk to has a story to be told. For most, it was no walk through a flower-laden path. Some struggled with their family expectations, while some were tested by time. For many, reaching the Academy is an achievement they’re deservedly proud of. It has been the result of their hard work over the years and they are living the dream they dreamt all the while.

All this makes me humble. My story is unlike anyone in that room. A story that has left scars, something that you would know if you’ve read this blog over the past year. But listening to those who have given so much to stand where they do, I really thank my stars and feel grateful to have had a good life. I’ve cried and whined in so many of my texts that I post here. Not now. There’s much to thank Him and the privilege I’ve been blessed with.

Before I was summoned to the Academy, I had to do full-time work presiding my court at Mancherial for nine days. At first, it left me puzzled to find how an untrained Judge would be sent off to preside in a real court with no guidance. But in the hindsight, I realise that the sessions at the Academy now wouldn’t have made as much sense without the experience of those nine days. Barring some bail applications, remands, and interlocutory applications, I did not do any major work then. But just the feel of looking around and presiding the court helps put much of these training sessions in context, so much so that when a thing is discussed, I do imagine it happening in the same courtroom I frequented for that short span. This is akin to watching the movie before reading the book, something that helps ease pressure on your imagination as the brain can access the recent memory to frame the scene.

Over these weeks, however, my beard has grown faster than my wisdom. This is not because I fancy a bushy beard, but simply because I haven’t had the time to trim it. I have a little more than three months of this routine to follow and I hope to learn enough to operate independently as I conduct the court. Until then, I must smile, breathe, and more importantly, trim my beard.

It was as random as it could get. As I got fed-up with the routines, I planned to fly away to some peaceful place for a few days. I did it with Aymen who has been a great companion throughout. This is the chronology of what we both did over the five days from 24th October to 28th October.

Day One

The easiest way to reach Visakhapatnam is to fly. This flight route is special to me for a couple of reasons. First, while I stayed in Visakhapatnam for four years from 2003 to 2007, flights were considered a luxury. As someone whose age recently turned double digits, I often wondered what it must be to take a plane. Whenever we wanted to travel to Hyderabad, we always opted either Godavari Express or Visakha Express for an overnight journey. Rarely, we would also take Konark Express which had some ungodly timings.

Second reason is that the first flight I ever took in life was on the Visakhapatnam-Hyderabad route. It was the now-defunct and merged Alliance Airlines which made us wait for over 5 hours beyond its scheduled time to take us on its Boeing 737 for a one-hour ride. I loved it and was upset that it ended too quick.

Today, we flew to Visakhapatnam. We landed at 12.05 at a cute airport which has turned into an international one, unlike the last time I was here when it only had flights to couple of cities within the country.

I had pre-booked a Zoom Car which arrived on time at the airport. It is a Swift which is both appropriate in size and also comfortable. I realise now that driving on your own is an independence worth every rupee, a feature I’d make a regular in all my future tours. We zoomed straight to Araku in about four hours, passing by the picturesque valleys and slopes. The temperature dropped gradually as we increased our altitude to the point that the evening breeze at Araku was chilly.

On the way to Araku

We checked into the Haritha Hill Resort which I pre-booked due to it being the top place to stay on TripAdvisor. It was a decent room, although a little more hygiene would’ve been better. But the balcony, which was as big as the room, had an amazing view spanning the step-paddy fields in the foreground and forested hills in the backdrop. The visibility was relatively good, something that’s going to drop the next morning due to dense mist.

The view from the balcony

Day Two

We woke up early, even before the sunrise, something we’ve done on all days of this trip. That is surprising because neither my friend nor I are known for waking up early. We did our Fajr prayers and headed to the hotel breakfast. Our first stop today was Borra Caves. These are naturally-formed caves which are a result of water with high Humic acid dissolving Calcium Carbonate (limestone) and hollowing out the hill. I’ve been here before, almost 15 years ago, only that this time, they looked much smaller to me that they did the first time.

Limestone Formation inside Borra Caves

As the water drops from the very high roofs of the cave, it creates Stalactites from the above. The water dropping creates the Stalagmites on the ground. Eventually, both these merge to form pillars. As the shapes resemble several Hindu deities, the caves have a new place of worship coming up every few years. The water from the caves flows out and joins the Gowsthani River in the valley, which creates a mellow and humble view as it fills the valley.

Inside Borra Caves

The introduction at the gate of the caves said that the caves were ‘discovered’ by one Mr. William King in the year 1807. The fact that the ‘discovery’ is credited to a non-native is, in itself, offensive. It shows how the perspective these primers give out is the narrative of the colonisers, even to this day. It is also offensive to all the native inhabitants who would have frequented these caves for several centuries.

Gowsthani River in the valley adjacent to Borra Caves

As we leave the caves, we head back to Araku valley. We hunted down a place which would offer good ‘Bamboo Biriyani’ – a usual, and not so special food, whose only distinction is that it is made inside a Bamboo stalk over coals instead of a utensil. Evidently, this is more accessible and efficient for the local inhabitants, the tribal population which resides in the forests.

The Biriyani or the Chicken Kababs were not as good as they were hyped up to be. They had a distinct Bamboo odour, which I could’ve done without. It is simply a novelty in the way it is prepared, but not something that would excite the taste buds. We were glad we tried it and even more glad that it is out of the way. We had hogged up enough to make us fall asleep as early as the descent of the dusk.

Preparation of Bamboo Biriyani

Day Three

The day started with another early morning rise. With nothing planned for the day, we decided to go to a nearby village which was spoken about in several The Hindu articles on Araku. A village named ‘Baski’, about 40 minutes away from the valley. Thank God again for a self-drive car and my propensity to love driving it around, we soldiered up to leave for Baski.

As we left Araku, the roads became confusing. Google Maps made it even more confusing by showing roads where there were none, and not showing roads which we could see in front of us. We resorted to the old-fashioned ask around at every corner method. The trip itself was quite beautiful. With the cool breeze brushing past the mountain slopes, the very low density of population around, and surprisingly, the good quality roads, made it for a nice drive. We stopped by several times on the way, where I found a view resembling the Windows XP default background, plenty of ‘touch-me-not’ which we touched a lot, paddy fields planted in step-agriculture format that Araku is known for, and tiny creeks with cold water flowing through the rocks.

Step-Agriculture on the way to Baski

Windows XP Background?

Baski, in itself, is a humble village without much to differentiate from all the other villages around. But the drive made it all worth it. As we made our way back to Araku by the afternoon, we were hungry without being tired. At a random hotel, we stopped for some Prawn Biriyani, which was, better than we thought. With nothing planned again, we wondered where to head next and decided on the Tatiguda Waterfall at Anantgiri, about an hour away from Araku.

Tatiguda Waterfall at Anantagiri

The water fall was highly accessible, both at the head and at the pool below. With hardly anyone around, we could laze around digesting the lunch that filled our stomachs. With a few more picturesque step-fields of paddy around the waterfall, the view was serene and peaceful. After taking enough time to explore, we headed back to the hotel, again falling asleep by the dusk.

More Step-Fields of Paddy

Day Four

As we felt that we had done what there was to do in Araku, we changed our plans and headed back to Visakhapatnam. Doing this, we did waste some money as we had booked our hotel at Araku for all four days. However, before we left Araku, we had two small stints to do. One, we went to the Coffee Museum which gave out the history of how Arabica Coffee was found in Ethiopia, Yemen, etc. and was brought by Baba Budan to Chikmagalur, eventually reaching Araku barely 20 years ago. This also involved buying too much coffee and chocolates at the souvenir shop, the quantity of the purchase, we realised much later, was unnecessarily a lot.

Coffee Plant at the Coffee Museum

Two, we paid a visit to the Tribal Museum. Yes, a Tribal Museum. Now, when you call something a ‘museum’, isn’t there a presumption that whatever being showcased there used to exist historically and is extinct now? The name aside, what was in the museum was doubly offensive. All it had was a collection of model figures showing how the tribal population conducts their daily routine. It was surely very far from the truth. It depicted what outsiders would see and made the most stereotypical image of the tribes. We had no choice but to check-out of it the fastest we could.

With these two done, we started our drive back to Visakhapatnam. The drive was much faster as I focussed on getting to the city as soon as possible. On the way, we stopped at Galikonda Coffee Plantations which had a pretty stretch of Coffee plants growing in the canopy of Teak trees laden with the wines of Black Pepper. It was a good stop and something we would’ve almost missed. With the plants bearing green Coffee berries, the slopes made for some good pictures.

Choosing a Coffee Bean to Pluck

Zooming in on a Coffee Bean

As we reached Visakhapatnam, we headed straight to recently famed ‘Raju ka Dhaba’ on the Rushikonda Beach. It is known for its Prawn Biriyani which ran out of stock. Their Chicken was not a choice as the waiter told us explicitly that it is not Halal. He okayed the Mutton, but my appetite was not so broad as to take a risk. We resorted to their ‘plain biriyani’ with some prawns and fish fried, the safest option when the meat being Halal is under issue.

Following this, we walked the Rushikonda Beach. There is something about the sea that is always over-whelming. I have stayed in Visakhapatnam for four long years and never did I look at the sea without pausing for a few seconds. The massive water body invokes emotions that I can barely describe. I praise God for the wonder the sea is and I wish to visit it as often as I can.

In the late afternoon, we drove up to Kailashgiri Hill. It is a place very close to my heart as we would frequent it on every other weekend. The view from the Hill of the sea and the entire city is a must-see. I tried to trace out my house from the top of the Hill. I could spot the building around by the terrain, but much of what I know from 14 years ago isn’t the same anymore. We drove down the hill and headed to my house. It was a surreal feeling there. I was numb, barely able to feel much as nostalgia struck me without any warning. I went to the rooftop of the house and looked around as memories gushed in. There was barely any space between my stability and tears.

We then drove to the Andhra University campus where I visited the Tennis Courts I trained at for over two years. I even spotted my coach who was hitting rallies with a kid. With so much nostalgia bearing so heavy on me, I dismissed the idea of going up to him and saying a Hi. I watched him and several kids knock balls back and forth, and simply left when it all got too much.

Tennis Courts I used to train at

We went scouting for a hotel and found one on the RK Beach at a very convenient location. After checking in, we went to visit the Submarine Kusura Museum and the Tupelov 142 Aircraft Museum, both of which were very pleasant. We took a calm walk on the RK Beach and hit the room soon.

Day Five

We woke up late, finally back to our usual self. As my friend wanted to sleep in for longer, I took a bath, had breakfast, and went to the beach to take a stroll. The previous day’s nostalgia was deeply painful. I walked a stretch of the beach, sat around, and stared at the unending waves that are always magical to witness. From the Dolphin’s Nose on the right to Kailashgiri on the left, the visibility was clear. One could see several ships in the distance waiting for their turn to enter the narrow harbour. I headed back to my room after a couple of hours, packed up and left.

As we had a few hours left for our flight, we went to the natural habour the city is famous for. I climbed the hill where rests a great Sufi saint – Syed Ishaq Madani – who is the etymology for the name ‘Visakhapatnam’ derived from ‘Ishaqapatnam’. I offered my Zohar prayer at the Mosque here, with a heavy heart and gratefulness for the privilege and freedom I’ve been blessed with. We then climbed a nearby hill called the ‘Rose Hill’ which had a large Christian Missionary surrounded by a Mosque and a Temple. The view from both the hills was beautiful. We witnessed ships departing from the habour, being tugged away and escorted by tiny boats. I would’ve liked to stay there for much longer, but for the flight we had to catch.

Dargah of Ishaq Madani (RA)

Ship being tugged away at the harbour

With some more time left, we headed back to ‘Raju ka Dhaba’. We proved unlucky again as their Prawn Biriyani ran out again! We ate what we could find and started our drive to the airport. On the way, I stopped by at my school. The nostalgia punched me again and it was pretty strong. I made a short work of taking a picture and getting back into the car. We reached the airport, dropped the car, and headed to take our flight.

Cute Dog enjoying the waves at Rushikonda Beach

This completed a pleasant trip I am very happy that I did. If I were to do this again, I would like to do it exactly in the same order that I did this time. Until then, I’ll hide the nostalgia and cherish the memories.

Over the last decade, I have developed keen interest in US politics. From subscribing to NYTimes to reading books on the subject and watching the daily late night shows, the US politics has become a constant in my life. This is surely weird considering I have no self-interest and haven’t even as much as visited the US once in my life. Which raises the question – why. What is it so special about it all?

At first, I thought it was the way the news is packaged in the US that makes it very exciting. This is also why the US history is more engaging – simply the way it has been written, depicted in movies or documentaries, and referred to in daily conversations. The news too is spiced up, thanks to the entertaining CNN and the outraging Fox. The Late Night shows, all the way from David Letterman and Jon Stewart to today’s Seth Meyers makes it pleasant to watch.

To add to this, the US system of democracy is fairly simple. With a basic understanding of the voting interests and the electoral college, one can get a quick hang of it. It surely helps that they fight on non-issue issues which don’t visibly seem to be of any concern in India – abortion, guns, and beer-drinking Supreme Court nominee. Each issue is looked with only two possible options, that is, either you are in support of something or against it. Thanks to the dual-party system, this has been even simpler.

But in all of this attraction, I missed the most important reason that makes me like US politics. It is the fact that politics at home is both fear-inducing and evil. In case of US, you tend to watch a show play on because you have no stake in it. It is a reality show where both sides launch their punches and it is fun to watch. It keeps you entertained. But in India, you are that person who has the threat to be punched. You are a stakeholder and the politics determines your insecurities and dignity in the society.

No one plays the identity-game as well as Indian politics do. There is neither any luck involved nor any madmen. If anything, it is only made to look like things are unplanned. For every person getting lynched to every outrage on Twitter, it is all carefully orchestrated. And the entire force is against you. It instills fear, which is exactly what it is intended to do. They win because your fear grows as the days pass. What seemed too far to be reality a few years ago is the reality today. We have developed the tendency to take in that reality and make it the new normal, much credit to our short-term memory which made us forget what India was barely a few years ago.

But it is going to get better, right? Wrong. It isn’t. There is no one who is in the field with the purpose of making it better. The absence and silence of those who can right the ship only shows complacency and defeat. For every such event which sends jitters through our spines, the liberals who flaunt their poetry will quote some lines from Faiz or Habib Jalib. This is done to strengthen our belief in a false sense of hope that we are going to change things for the better. I’ve heard and read every line used to show rebellion, and I am very tired of them.

I hate Faiz. There, I said it. Okay, maybe I don’t hate him as a person. He endured a lot in Zia’s Pakistan and survived. But, I do hate his poetry. Because his poetry gives unnecessary and, to be blunt, extremely useless shield against those who target you. That when you hear ‘Hum Dekhenge!’, you are enbolbed in your spirit and clench your fists as if you are about to leave your house and march down the roads towards revolution. But, you don’t. You simply restore your blood pressure and go to sleep. Tomorrow is another day. And I wonder – Faiz sahab! Kab Dekhenge?

The great Iqbal said, “Utho! Mere Duniya ke GhareeboN ko Jagaa do! Kaakh-e-umara ke Dar-o-deewar hila do!” (Raise up, go awaken the downtrodden of my world! Shake the walls of the castles owned by the rich!). But, Iqbal sir! Who is going to wake them up? If anything, your lines prompted somber sleep where we merrily dream that someone is going to descend from the skies and wake the masses up to do what is right. The sleep is sound and your sound induces sleep. And in that sleep, boy, I love to see how Joe Biden stutters.

Is the pandemic done? It is, but it isn’t. Throughout the last year, we were hoping that once the calendar on the wall is replaced with the one of 2021, our troubles will fizzle away. It was as if the year digits 2020 were cursed and we simply had to spend enough time for the year to end. But here we are, in the last quarter of 2021. And all the worries remain.

Since November of 2020, I have been anticipating a market crash. When Nifty reached 12,000 then, the economic indicators of our country and the prospects of it in the near future all seemed very bleak. Despite this, the markets kept raging. When the average PE Ratio of Nifty or Sensex is around 17, it is considered to be a healthy market. This is to say that each share in a company is valued 17 times the earnings such share will generate. When this number reached 25 in January this year, the crash looked eminent. On what hope will the market overvalue its assets to such extent, especially when the pandemic rages on with no end in sight!

But, boy, was I wrong! A few days ago, Nifty aced 17,000 with an average PE of 41! The crash that I was so confident of coming has not come. Not yet, at least. I have now resigned to the fact that a crash may never come, while at the same time, knowing fully well that a crash comes when you give up on the fear that it is about to come. So, maybe, the market might crash. But because I am now anticipating it again, it may not crash. What a mess.

Irrespective of how markets behave, we can all agree that the economy has been badly hit. Our fiscal deficits will increase, credit ratings will decrease, and institutional investors will play around as they short-sell and make the retail investors cry. With the decreasing revenues of the Government, there will not be sufficient funds for social welfare, something that is first to take a backseat, unless there are elections around. The rich have become richer with people like Adani successfully round-tripping his own funds through foreign investors in an effort to hike the valuation of his hollow entities. And the poor have become poorer.

In times like these, it makes sense why Karl Marx so strongly believed that one should give according to his capabilities, and take as much as he needs. Some may put in more than others, but everyone shall receive what they need. On the outset, it appears to limit initiative and individual liberty to make his own wealth. But this is a societal approach and surely has strong moral resonance. Even if it does feel desirable, it appears to be good only in theory and not practice. The extreme experiments with ostensible Communism in countries such as USSR have helped negate the ideas.

To give to each what one needs, there must be adequate supply. If there’s one thing India must be proud of, it is that we do have plenty of supply. As far as nutrition goes, barring a few products such as edible oil, we have what each of our 140 crore strong population needs. Despite this, if we continue to suffer with malnutrition, the blame squarely falls on the processes and systems responsible for running supply chains to deliver it to the last-mile. But, neither this responsibility will be discharged nor will there be any accountability for this.

As is often said, it is more important to have an honest society than to have honest individuals. There are multiple ironies seen as those who have power do not use it, those who do not have power will never get it, and those who have power and want to use it will escape with the alibi of non-performance. Building an honest and accountable society will surely solve many of these issues. But how does one create such society is not something I know. As one person starts playing to his own interests, others will follow and do what is self-serving to them. In all this, Adani will create an empire, markets will reach new heights, and those without necessities will be left wanting.

As a nine-year old boy, my dreams were entirely different to what the reality turned out to be. I had started playing Tennis, not for recreation, but with an aim of reaching the professional levels. In the year 2002, when I had picked a racquet for the first time, there was barely anyone worthy of name in India who made it big in the sport. Sure, there was an odd Leander Paes, Mahesh Bhupathi, or the Amritrajs. But none of them ever won a major title in the singles category. Even when Sania Mirza became big, she reached her best singles rank of 27 before comfortably shifting all her focus to doubles.

Clearly, my dreams were stupid. But you expect nothing more from a single-child whose doings at everything are the attention of the entire family, both immediate and extended. It was a genuine aspiration to play high-level Tennis and win a Grand Slam. The path looked simple and easy because that’s what I was told all along. Again, stupidity.

In all of this, there was one man who made me both strong and weak at the same time. Roger Federer. Strong because he seemed to be doing what was impossible. The ease with which he played, the meticulous footwork which goes unnoticed unless you pay close attention, the versatility of his game to perfect every single shot from serving aces to driving half-volleys with tight angles, and the focus with which he played every single point leaving no chance to his opponents to wag their tails. In July 2003, just before I was about to turn ten, this man had won his first major title at Wimbledon. It was just his first, for he would go on to win another nineteen!

But Federer also made me weak because he was the gold standard to turn my dreams into reality. It was unquestionably obvious that I am thousands of miles away to what he does. Barring a few like Nadal and Djokovic, the best of the Tennis world collapsed one after another before him. And if that is what it takes to win a slam, then my dreams are beyond stupid. For this, I hated him.

This hate had grown over time. Every time I would watch him play, I’d try to find some flaws in his game just to make him more human. Whenever he served the ball into the net or hit an unforced error, I felt a little happy to see that he is not invincible. It was all to convince myself that even he is not absolute perfect. Because to make him that absolute perfect would be to place him at a pedestal that I can never reach. And this made me support Andy Roddick, his main rival in those years from whom he had snatched the Rank 1 spot.

Nevertheless, despite his occasional errors on the court, the results did not change. From 2003 to 2007, he won a solid twelve major titles, only to be stopped short of two more by Nadal at French. The more he won, the more I hated him. The more I hated him, the more I loved him.

Eventually, when I hung my racquet in the year 2008 after several bouts of failures, I realised that I am not cut out for the sport. I neither have the muscle strength nor the agility required to perform at a higher level. More importantly, I had to choose between school and Tennis. In India, this is entirely a Hobson’s Choice. And as I left Tennis, it pained me to even watch it on TV. I avoided every Tennis related news for a few months because they would bring tears just to think that I had created humongous castles in the air that would shatter like a bubble-pop.

Then came January of 2009. The Australian Open. I did not watch. But I had seen the results in the news. A sobbing Federer crying away with so much pain that he could not even complete his concession speech as the Runner-up, only to be consoled by the winner, Nadal. Suddenly, the tables had turned. My disdain turned into admiration, envy turned into praise, and hate turned into love. To such extent that I resumed watching Tennis only because I wanted to watch Federer play. At the Wimbledon that very same year, I found myself supporting Federer against Roddick, something that was unthinkable a brief while ago. He won. And his victory at French gave him the Grand Slam – winning of all four majors – a level of excellence which only a few in the sport reached. Somehow, my life felt complete.

Over the next few years, I followed his career with a sharp eye. I would even tabulate the ATP Ranking points on my own, only because they would be updated on every Monday and my lazy weekends would not want to wait till then. This would go on until July 2014.

July 2014. My heart skipped a beat when I saw that Mahesh Bhupathi is organising the International Tennis Premier League, a hybrid team competition based on the format of IPL Cricket. In Team India, he placed Federer. And to play his matches in this event, Federer would come down to New Delhi. This made my spine jitter. I was ready to sell myself away to get a chance of witnessing the maestro in flesh. Thankfully, I didn’t have to do that and my savings of Rs. 17,000/- did the job to get me a fairly proximate seat in the Indira Gandhi Stadium.

The event was in December 2014. I had a scheduled internship with the law firm which recruited me. I told them that I have a moot to attend to, a part-lie as the BCI Moot I did was actually in November. I could delay my joining at this internship and flew away to Delhi. After all these years, I could see the man that influenced my life like no other.

After an extensive security frisking, I was pushed by the crowd into the Stadium. I saw that a blue Tennis court shone bright, but I had to figure where my allotted seat was before the crowd became thicker. As I took my seat, I took my mobile and saw the time, to see how much of it is left before he would grace these courts. Over an hour. I then looked around and noticed the two men knocking balls on the court. I zoomed my eyes to see who they were. The vision became blurry and the world seemed to lose a few colours. Tears slipped down my cheeks and I lost all energy. It was Sampras and Federer.

He was on the court to warm-up before the real act which was to take place an hour later. After a few minutes, he ended his rallies and walked towards the exit. I got up and ran towards him. I was at the higher pedestal of the ground-level exit through which he would pass. He came close, looked around and waved with a smile at everyone who was there to cheer him. For a good one second, he stared straight at me, and the next, he looked beyond and away. Fuck.

My heart was shattered. How can he simply not know or recognise who I was! I grew up with him. In a world where I barely had any friends, he was the constant that took most of my time. Not for months, but for over a decade! I spoke to him when he was the screensaver of my Windows XP. I cried when he did at Australian 2009 and I laughed when he did at French 2009. He was always there, but suddenly he wasn’t!

It took me a while to realise that I am too small – a nobody. That for him, he has thousands of thousands who consider him as important part of their life as I did. And suddenly, from knowing someone so close and so well, I went down to being just another ‘fan’!

For the next three days, I watched him play with so many other greats – Djokovic, Ivanisevic, Sampras, etc. But I regretted taking all this pain to come see him because the view was better from behind the screen. The hopeless facade was comfortable and shouldn’t have been shattered. At that moment, it came to me that I didn’t want to love him anymore. That I didn’t want to be his fan or admirer. That I didn’t want to cherish him for his grace, talent, and results. I only wanted to be him.

So stupid.

The law of diminishing marginal utility says that for each additional unit of consumption, the marginal utility gained decreases. To make it simple, when a hungry person eats a few apples, the first apple will give him the most satisfaction. The second will give him lesser satisfaction than the first, the third will be lesser than the second, and so on. This is a simple concept taught as early as in the 11th standard economics.

However, money is considered a general exception to this rule. The logic being that a human is inherently greedy and the more money one is given, the more he may pursue. And this exception also has exceptions. There may be many who feel satisfaction at their wealth and don’t find the need to seek more of it. But there are certainly those who amass as much as possible and always look at those with a higher pool in an effort to match or beat them.

Considering that, as a general rule, one may never feel content with what they have, it is important to identify the urge to make more money. This should be done keeping in view what one has already made for himself. A little restraint and some frugal spending will ensure that money becomes an exception to the law I mentioned above.

This is not to say that making money is a vice. In fact, it is admirable to have income and wealth goals. Our society seems to have painted every person who looks for ways to make money as someone filled with greed. This is neither reasonable nor correct. Looking to earn is good, as long as one adopts an ethical behaviour, such as to pay all the dues he owes, respects the dignity of labour of people who work for him, discharges liabilities, and regularly helps those who are in need of assistance.

At the same time, it is also important to realise the utility added by increasing one’s wealth. You need a basic minimum for a good luxurious life. But once you have all that you need, your additional income does not affect your living standard. A person with a net worth of two crores may have similar life style as one with five. If someone wants to earn much more in an effort to use his wealth as power, then it takes a lot more to do so. You will have to change your life goals and start the pursuit of becoming an Ambani, something that is impossible for most of us. And the bracket between a basic luxurious lifestyle and becoming a billionaire is too huge to travel.

Nonetheless, amassing a lot of wealth may be to upgrade one’s lifestyle, but only ostensibly. For example, none of you reading this would know if I am typing this post on a budget laptop costing 15K or a MacBook. Similarly, the basic functionality of all high-range smartphones is, more or less, the same. Surely, it is good to invest in something which gives commensurate utility. But is it worth it to spend too much for the same, or even a marginal increase of utility? I think not. If one does that spending irrespective, this could be conspicuous consumption, something Veblen spoke about as his critic of capitalism.

Conspicuous consumption is a reality and leads to aggressive consumerism. But, boy, isn’t your life hollow when your source of happiness is the display of high-end devices and cars! This is a desperate call to rescue oneself from the void of insecurities and reclaim their lives to live on their own terms. But having said that, if a costly purchase is a source of happiness for one’s own self, without the aim of provoking envy in others or to show it off as a social position, it is entirely acceptable.

I think of all this as I battle with myself whether I should get an iPhone or not. It’s been almost three years since this question has been bothering me. I do have a MacBook and I realise the ease of its operation, but an iPhone is too much spending when a good Android phone does everything as effectively. I recently purchased a Shure MV7 microphone and I feel that I’ve done enough of extravagant purchase for the month. This is in the hope that it acts as an investment that should last long enough to justify its cost.

After the recent iPhone 13 launch, I was secretly happy that it has no new feature attractive enough to fire-up my urge to get it. No matter how much I may ponder over this in the coming days, I am certain that I will not get an iPhone. Because if I do buy one, I fear that I may regret being a spendthrift I never wanted to be, and maybe, not enjoy the iPhone the way one should. Hence, the easiest decision is no decision.

As Yazid, the disgraced son of Ameer Muawiyah, claimed the throne and declared himself a Caliph, several letters pleaded with Imam Hussain ibn Ali to march down to Damascus and dethrone Yazid. These invitations were based on the agreement between Muawiyah and Imam Hassan which spelled in clear terms that after Muawiyah’s reign, the legitimate claim to Caliphate will be of Hassan’s younger brother, Hussain.

Most of these letters were from Kufa (south of Baghdad, in Iraq). To test the waters and ensure that these messages were credible, Muslim ibn Aqil, a cousin of Hussain, was sent down to Kufa. His exciting welcome coupled with thousands of people declaring their allegiance to Muslim ibn Aqil made him write a letter to Hussain assuring him that the invitations from the people of Kufa are to be trusted and that he should arrive as soon as possible to meet the people of Kufa.

This letter had departed. Hussain, as desired by his cousin, started his march to Kufa. He arrived in Karbala only to find out that Muslim ibn Aqil was brutally killed as he uttered his last words – I wish I could tell my brother Hussain that the people of Kufa have shown their real colours.

The rest, of course, is well-known history. From being made to suffer for a drop of water to the eventual assassination, Hussain and the brave men and women who accompanied him fought a war they never planned to fight. They gave up their lives because to agree to unjust rule based on tyranny and the rejection of ideas that Prophet stood for was not what they could tolerate. They left the Earth victorious, leaving an example of how history remembers not those who oppress, but those who speak-up.

With the unfortunate spread of terror from ISIS, Al-Qaeda, and the Taliban, the horrific genocide in Palestine to the racism and communalism that is engulfing the world, we witness another re-incarnation of Yazid. As peace is compromised with gross violations of human rights, equality, and justice, the world awaits a Hussain ibn Ali.

May we all imbibe the spirit and ideas that the great Hussain held high. May freedom and liberty wipe out oppression and guarantee peace. May every human be treated as just that – human and equal.

Found “Writer’s block”

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It is necessary to have people around you. Friends make life easy and give you the security you often need. Some do more than what is needed to keep you sane. And some may simply exist. But what makes a friend a good friend?

In materialist terms, someone who helps you with what you need whenever you need is good. Surely, someone who is an emotional support through all your life events is even better. And the one who spends hours to talk and shares your pain is best. But what if you have a friend who does not do any of this?

In one of his famous couplets, Ghalib says:

ye kahāñ kī dostī hai ki bane haiñ dost nāseh
koī chārasāz hotā koī ġham-gusār hotā

What kind of friendship is this that my friends have turned to preaching!
I wish there was one with solutions, wish there was one to share the pain!

Lately, I have been pondering much about the friends I’ve had and I wish to have. In general terms, I have been fortunate to have a good number of friends and never felt the need to have more. To talk for several hours on each call about all the nothing is a habit that I developed with many. But, a few of these have started to trouble me.

A couple of days ago, a decade-long friend asked me what I feel about the Taliban in Afghanistan. As an ardent believer in modern liberal democracy, it was troubling for me to see how horribly people have been clinging on to planes and falling from the sky to their painful death. This was one of those times where I chose to turn myself off from all the news and ignore these events, because of how helpless they make me feel. Having thought all this, I gave this friend an opinion on this situation.

That opinion was that the Taliban may try to be not as bonkers as their ISIS cousins. While both are an afront to humanity and Islam, Taliban now may try to show that they are moderate in an effort to claim legitimacy from the west. They have already declared that they will respect women rights (under Sharia law, whatever their interpretation of ‘Sharia’ is) and press freedoms. This is, and surely will be, simply what they say, and not what they actually do. At their soul, they are nothing less than terrorists who do not deserve to have any power to govern over any people or land.

This opinion was lost in communication. And this emotionally invested friend accused me of going soft on this issue and not caring as much as I should. To this, my true answer was that it was not an issue I would like to care about, simply because of the emotional toll it takes on me. It is the same reason I don’t think much about the ISIS oppression in the North Africa and East Asia. It is for this that I avoid reading all news of Uighurs and Rohingyas. Because as a second-grade citizen of a third-world country, I do not have any voice or power to change what is wrong. And it is a convenient escape to simply not indulge in what I cannot change.

But the accusation that I was not loud enough in calling out the terrorism of Taliban was deeply troubling. Why must I stand-up for every single injustice that happens around the world? Did I ever hold anyone accountable when they did not care about the reckless bombing of Palestine only a few months ago? And simply because one didn’t care enough to speak up, would it fair for me to accuse that person of condoning those attacks? No.

In this political atmosphere, it has become too difficult not just to speak, but also to not speak. That you have to prove your ideas by announcing them every time. It is exhausting to utter each word with calculated measure, and any silence may be interpreted to mean acquiescence.

After much thought, I felt it safe to not have friends who, rather than being a desirable friend who acts as a support, go on to make life hard for you. All this, in return for the care, time, and compassion I invested for over a decade. And it is in this light that I chose to end a few friendships which have been proving to be a bane to my otherwise fortunate and peaceful life. I hope life proves better off without them. For sanity. For peace.