The Sultan of Swing- Part II

Eagle Studios sounded a shady enough name for a film studio in Uttar Pradesh. I hadn’t heard of a Film City anywhere above the Aravalis, and it was with this sense of doubt that I entered the vehicle that was to take us there. Past acres of land supporting omnipresent apartment buildings, the Sumo lunged and leaped to a more open road, to the relative relief of my seemingly claustrophobic co-passengers. The road was finally smooth, and I reached down for my water bottle, before the oily teacher from the previous night’s dinner gasped “What is that huge golden statue of Lord Shiva?”. I smirked at his self-answering question, and continued to look for my bottle, as the driver explained in his gutka-chewing sideways voice, “Gulshan Kumar’s studios. T-Series, you know? Lots of good music.”

We reached the venue after five more minutes- in the final stretch, the car had once again gone off that good road, and hit bumps that propelled our heads through the roof, almost. I mentally patted myself on the back for not having had too heavy a breakfast, and stepped out to a building not very different from the ones surrounding it- only a storey or two smaller. An overly-fancy fountain welcomed us to the side entrance of Eagle Studios. A neat garden on our right was full with smartly-dressed school kids. Across the salmon facade of the building, near the edge that bent away to the even more fancy front entrance, stood a small table bearing a water container and a coffee machine. Huddled around it, and up ahead in front of it, were a group of teachers, chattering politely. I noticed a couple of lookers in there, but was disappointingly reminded that I had no one to point them out to. A dinner and breakfast didn’t give enough time to make acquaintances, and my partner seemed anything but interested in the fairer sex (I’d heard he was committed; I hadn’t much of an idea of the class one year senior to mine).

The guy who’d accompanied us asked us to wait as he ran inside screaming on his walkie-talkie. Before anyone could move, I grumbled to our teacher “Look, none of them are wearing blazers. Why are we being forced to wear them when they’re not part of the school uniform? I’m burning in here”. “Oh, come on, don’t be a baby. When they’re inside, even they’ll be wearing theirs. Don’t be impatient. You can take it off if you’re not comfortable now. But once we’re inside, you better be in that green coat!” As I continued to make a face, a couple of people beckoned us inside. The otherwise dully-coloured walls were replete with movie posters, with a small glass-framed plaque below each showing the year and room it was shot in. I could only spot a few I knew- Mrityudaata and Shahrukh’s Chamatkaar, amongst others. The irritatingly catchy title tune of the eponymous TV series started playing in my head. Trying to shake it off, we walked on towards the lounge, where we could watch the proceedings, as a huge applause resonated from the wall beside us. A few metres ahead, a door opened, and out he walked. “Phew! That was a close one, wasn’t it?”. He seemed to be talking to no one in particular. We walked into the lounge, where faces with contrasting emotions stared at us from cushy sofas. I was still smiling in the glory of finally seeing the man I’d previously only admired on television. The nine of us took some spots, and looked to the guy who’d ushered us in. “Sonia will be here in a few minutes. She’s the producer. Yours is the first episode tomorrow morning; the first one for the South Zone. Make yourselves comfortable.” We snuggled into the couches, as the crowd from the previous episode barged into the now-jam-packed lounge: it was time for the West Zone finals of the ESPN School Quiz 2003...

The next morning began with me complaining about our blazers again. “This is my brother’s. It hasn’t been used for almost five years, and just barely fits me. When we joined in the winter and wore this, we weren’t even allowed to go in with this! And now, suddenly, it’s the pride of the school. Those Chennai schools don’t even have ties, for goodness’ sake, forget blazers! They’re fine with coming with their collar buttons open, but we have to wear blazers. Show-offs, I tell you!” My partner calmly heard all of this, and proceeded to have his breakfast in relative peace after that...

Our episode was good, our teacher said. “You shouldn’t have gone for the win, though. Respectability could’ve been fought for. I mean, after last year’s -1, -6 isn’t...”, he stopped as I glowered at him. “Sir, in quizzes, you go out to win. If not, try keeping your school’s pride intact by giving a good show. I know -6 is a horrible score to end up at, but do you intend to insult our commitment out there?”. As soon as I said that, I feared a harangue, and bigger problems at school, but he smiled and said “I know you guys gave your best. Don’t worry, you’ll do much better next time, I know”.

Then, it happened. Harsha Bhogle (yes, it’s him centimetres from you, I pinched myself) came out of nowhere, patted us on the shoulders, and said “That scoreboard doesn’t always tell the true story. You’re a good team, DPS Vizag.” He smiled and walked to his room. My day was made, or so I thought.

As our teacher walked back to the lounge, I and my partner stayed back for water. The water cooler in the studios was just outside the main set where the episodes were shot, almost obscured by the stairs. I passed my partner a glass, and a clear voice said from the top of the steps “Yaar, thoda mere liye bhi paani lena.” A long flashy pair of black pointed boots strutted down, topped by a blue denim jeans. A tight black shirt clung to a tall muscular body, and as that left hand with a Rolex watch came for the glass in my outstretched hand, I finally saw the face with the sunglasses. It was unmistakeably clear, yet distinctly unreal, that the Sultan of Swing, and ODI cricket’s highest wicket-taker had just said “Thanks, man!” to me and shook my hand. Wasim Akram stood for a moment sipping, when Harsha walked back and said “Ah, so you’ve met the man already! Come, everybody, let’s go have a little intro session in the lounge”. The word had spread, and before they reached the lounge, Wasim was bombarded by pens and scratchpads. My teammate had run to find his bag, too. I still stood at the water cooler, dazed. I never even got an autograph, or even a photo. But, I somehow, couldn’t care less.

The Sultan of Swing- Part I

The round, friendly Kashmiri at whose once-home we were staying called out to us all from downstairs, and I shouted from the couch to my companion in his bed: it was time for dinner. Ever since we had been driven from the Hazrat Nizamuddin railway station after an exhaustingly boring forty-hour train ride to this quaint little three-storey guest house, I had been starving. While the others all crashed to sleep, my hunger kept me up through the three hours or so till dinner. As I sped downstairs, a dozen other fourteen-year-olds and a handful of adults stood waiting near the steaming, but closed containers. As one bespectacled, oily-haired adult groaned “It’s a good ten minutes past nine. Late again. When will we sleep?”, the round Kashmiri’s even rounder wife turned up panting. “The curd you wanted. The helpers mixed things up in the morning. I had to set the milk again, and...”. “Alright, alright! What do we have today?”, barked another teacher in front of me. As the Kashmiri with the greying beard and wizening, yet bright hazel eyes took off the lid, I breathed loudly Kamal ki kakdi. The teacher turned around as if I’d cursed him in French, but the man with the lid in his hands was glowing through the steam. “Lotus stems in spicy red gravy, sir”, I answered to no question from the teacher, quickly adding before he could point that out “A Kashmiri specialty”. He walked away to get himself rice, and as I served myself, the host couldn’t hide his glee. “Are you South Indian? Then how do you know about our dish?”, he asked. All I came up with was “I like food, from anywhere.” He moved along to tell me about their chicken special, when my vigorous shake of the head brought a slight dip in his spirits. “You’re vegetarian, too? Those people should’ve told us they’re sending all South Zone people here. They always...” “My friend here, though, will love this”, I said quickly as I dragged my partner, who was then told the story of how tender the chicken needs to be in Hindi tinged with Punjabi. He nodded on and smiled nervously, even though he couldn’t get a word. I couldn’t afford distractions as I poured ladle upon ladle of piping-hot rajma onto my plate.

One would have to be as dumb as Paris Hilton’s Chihuahua to not notice the tension in the air. The large portico behind the guest-house’s entry gate served as the dining area, which was torn through the middle by a silence best described as killer. An occasional spiteful glance here and there would be met with equal acrimony: the two sides mentally murdered each other repeatedly. Before we could think of a way to avoid it diplomatically, we were right there, in that deserted centre. Stuck in no man’s land, we had to decide which side to take. As my partner nudged me in the side to help decide, I made the soundest decision I could think of: stay close to the food. Our choice was made, and we, too, were now being quartered and battered in the other side’s mind. I went up to the nearest soul who didn’t look like homicidal, and asked why there were two sides looking at each other like wolves about to tear into each other. He replied with a question- “Where are you from?”. As quizzical as it seemed, I answered Visakhapatnam. “Didn’t they put the Andhra guys in another place?”. I wondered how long till I’d have answers instead of more questions. After three more, he bothered to help me. “Those cocky asses- they’re all from Bangalore. Think they’re like bloody Americans. Keep making fun of us for no reason. Think that 50Paisa guy is cool, and we’re not...” and he launched into a tirade of expletives, ending in Tamil. I nodded on, carefully picking out the chillies from my raita, and swallowed one when he asked “You’re with us, right?”. I grinned and said “Bloody Northies put too many chillies in curd, don’t they?”, earning his widest smile and silently praying to God for mercy.

For as far as I could remember that early in the morning, I woke up in a room before anyone else did for the first time ever. My roommate and partner proved to be a tough log to shake, and I was all clean, dressed and ready when he finally got up. It was five minutes to the end of breakfast time, and he rushed down with me as a thinner crowd stood having buttered bread and boiled eggs. I could notice no one of the Chennai side from last night and my partner yawned loudly. “Here comes another one from In Da Club”. That comment elicited a roar of laughter, as more jokes, almost all ending with da or something to with Rajnikanth, ensued. We took a corner and spoke softly in Telugu, when one of them walked up to us and said “You guys aren’t speaking Tamil. Not from Chennai?”. “No, we’re from Visakhapatnam, actually.” “Come on, you mean Vizag! Don’t make it so long! Hi, I’m Easwar.” Sides were asked to be chosen again, and we side-stepped again, but the rest of the meal did go smoothly. Both the sides weren’t too bad actually, and when my partner asked me who I preferred, I couldn’t pick one.

Before we left to crash in front of the TV again, I went up to the landlord and asked where we’d be taken, and when. He said “Those who had their slots today are gone already. All but two Chennai teams, and most of the Bangalore crowd. It’ll come back to pick you all up in about two hours. You’ll be going to Eagle Studios. That’s in Film City, Noida. Not too far from here.”

(To be continued)

Blistering Bus Blues!

The dithery Whiteline slows to a trot a few metres short of the majestic Lal Quila as indigenous salesmen raid the bus, selling everything under the moonlit sky from two-week-old coconut slices, eerily crunchy papads and family-shaped toothbrushes to paradoxically marketed “Sacche Dilli-waalon ke liye sacchi Dilli ki guidebooks” and stainless gold chains and rings for ten rupees. The three-strangely-dressed-man-strong cabin crew pulls in anyone within their hands’ reach through the non-existent doors, sometimes calling for worried wives’ angry wails, which barely matched the cacophony of the same crew’s shouts of “Naveda, Naveda, Naveda! Kale Khan, Nizamuddin, Naveda!” . The even more strangely dressed conductor begins his swagger-filled strut through the crowded corridor of uncertainty, throwing bloodshot bullets from his eyes whenever asked for the price of the ticket, when not shooting sugary greetings at his beloved(s) on the phone. All those manners are forgotten in a moment (déjà vu) when the driver slams the brakes, prompting a barrage of expletives from both men- one at the other, while the other at a poor brother who forgot to see the red light earlier. The golden-nosed Himesh croons carelessly from helicopters, auto-rickshaws and what-not as these scenes play on, supplying an apt background music as the three capped fellows in front of me whisper on each of their phones “All day, all night- mujhe yaad sataye teri”. I switch on my phone’s radio to escape the nasal onslaught, only to run into Kylie Minogue expressing her desire to chiggy-wiggy with Akshay Khiladi Kumar. As I desperately try to make head and tail of that song, the rest of the channels disappoint, too, when not screaming into my ears- “Happy Choti Diwali!”. Sector-37 couldn’t come any sooner, and I got down, thanking the invisible stars for ensuring I got there without further mental/musical damage. Lady Writer, fast becoming my circumstantial favourite song, kept me busy before Ma, Big B and I got to our new home, somewhere in the almost-deserted urban jungle that is Greater Noida. I direly regretted not recharging my phone, but vowed to get in touch with everyone I always call each year on Diwali as soon as I got back to R. Meanwhile, as I get down to writing this post, Pa cheerily informs me that I’ll be travelling to Delhi from Noida by bus on my way back. The song automatically playing in my head treacherously switches to Mann ka radio tu sunle, mann ka radio...

(Originally published on October 18^th 2009, at 0202 hours)

What's in a name?

The end of another calendar year is near. Ergo, so is this blog’s first anniversary- better known as the first bloggiversary. And, less than a month before the D-day, the blog’s name has been changed as notified in the previous post but mostly ignored. Hmph. I guess that’s because I never explained the change. Well, here goes...

Yours truly was sitting in this delightfully warm room in Noida, and with the cable’s limited capability, was reduced to watching a half-hour ‘news’ report on how four friends hacked another friend to death during a drunken night out. Infotainment at its very best, one might say. Another might just throw up on him. But, one might just deftly change the channel, to a totally unintelligible Tamil channel and then decide to just shut the idiot box for good. This is exactly what I did, as I sat down to type out one of my longest posts. And, change was the thing on my mind, as I thought up more interesting about-me’s for Orkut and Facebook, and this page wasn’t spared too, as I thought ‘The Geek speaks... or rather types!’ wasn’t even a joke any of the Big Bang Theory quartet would’ve appreciated, and, Amy Lee, Shawn Michaels, The Rock, Jena Malone (who played Christopher McCandless’s sister in ‘Into The Wild’) and a few other arbit crushes and idols crossed my mind, and, the next thing I know, I have a new title for this webpage! Of course, implementing that change, and publishing that post, were 8 hours of sleep and a 4-hour flight away. But, then, after that patient wait, spent dreaming about playing the Sultans Of Swing guitar solo in front of my tenth grade batch, and reading the in-flight magazine twice over (ignoring the stupid lofty ads, of course), the changes were duly made, and they shall stand till the next change of mood comes along, ignoring peacefully the challenges posed by nostalgia, incumbency, and a fetish for choosing easily memorisable dates for occasions.

Whoa! Was that sentence long? Grammatically correct, but the structure was surely something my high-school teachers won’t be proud of. I remember telling one- my class-teacher for two years, and one of my favourites- about my blog. She did express a sense of happiness, pride, and some more emotions you would associate with teachers when you meet them after a long while. But, little curiosity was exhibited. Boy, they do know how to dodge these kinds of situations! Never once was the link to my blog asked for, and lost in conversation, I forgot to give it, too. Sad. I guess I’ll get a banner, or wear a T-shirt, to publicise my blog at my school’s alumni meet. I wonder if I’ll be kicked out unceremoniously. Or worse, not allowed to enter in the first place. But I know it’s a dead idea, anyway- I’d be too lazy and too frugal to get that T-shirt made in the first place. The Black Sabbath T-shirt, on the other hand, is a much better idea. And one I think I am going to go ahead with. Oh, in the sudden change of topic, I forgot to mention- I’ve become a huge fan of Black Sabbath over the past couple of months. But, Dire Straits still rule- Crazy Train was toppled by Brothers In Arms. Tandoori Nights, though, continues to play in the background. If loving you was wrong, I don’t wanna be right... (A highly nasal) Rabba Rabba...

 

By the way, back home, and I haven’t learnt any lessons from all my previous holidays, and continue to sit watching TV series and movies on the computer, when not fulfilling the role of Couch Potato. TV’s seen a sea change, now though. No more K-serials on Star Plus. That’s probably robbed the pleasure, and killed the routine, of many a housewife, and working ladies, too, across the country. I know this is coming very late but I had to experience the change to talk about it- and although the channel listings are full every time I press ‘Guide’ on the remote, the hole left by the removal of these serials, not just on the channel, but in our lives, is yet to be filled. Afternoons and nights aren’t the same anymore. This, of course, has given a great opportunity for the other contenders for the No.1 channel spot to rise, especially when one of them has a Balaji show running on it. But, Bani can never be a Tulsi or a Parvati. I still remember, when we’d shifted to Vizag, and had survived in a house without cable television for a few months (Jai Hanuman, Suraag and Chitrahaar were the saviours then), how everyone had a glimmer in their eyes, when they discussed Mihir’s killing-off, and subsequent bringing-back-to-life. I remember reading in newspapers, that Resident Welfare Associations (RWAs, Noida residents would prefer) had actually taken out rallies in many cities, demanding a change in the story, to bring Mihir back. Considering that, the response to this taking off air of the very same serials, has been quite muted. It’ll also be interesting to see how Smriti Z Iraani and Sakshi Tanwar (thankfully, no numerological name change for her) will come back to try and break away from the moulds of the immortal Tulsi and Parvati, respectively. And also, whether Ekta Kapoor will ever deliver something as legendary as KSBKBT and KGGK ever again- these along with KBC, have been enchanting TV viewers since their almost simultaneous release nine years ago.

Speaking of KBC, in what seems to me as an attempt to regain viewership, Star One is now telecasting ‘Legends of KBC’, a collection of classic celebrity KBC episodes. Interesting it will be, to see whether it does gather eyeballs. What has caught mine, though, are some really interesting advertisements. The Futures General insurance ad, showing how a family helps their elderly grandma blow all the candles on her birthday cake, and the new Airtel ad, with Shreyas Talpade rolling back the years with his father, manage to bring a smile to one’s face, and I consider them to be delightful ads. The new Virgin mobile ad, although not as brilliant as its predecessors, remains characteristically cheeky, and gets the point across, importantly.

 

Sigh! There goes another attempt at a short post! There goes another attempt at a good post! There goes another post... (A sigh of relief may now be let out by you without any reservations)

 

P.S.- Do check out my Orkut About Me. And the status message, too. Puhleez!

P.P.S.- Whatever the post may suggest, I liked Kahiin Kisii Roz (not sure about the spelling) the most, as I had a brief crush on Mouli Ganguly, and for the legendary Ramola Sikand. Just to clear the air, I watch F.R.I.E.N.D.S and Scrubs, mostly, nowadays.

P.P.P.S.- Kung Fu Panda is an awesome movie. Forgetting Sarah Marshall is forgettable. Memento isn’t- condition or no condition. And BBT season two is off the hook!

Where are the mines?

The clock ticks away relentlessly on the bottom left, the targets keep decreasing a little more solemnly on the bottom right, as I click away furiously while analysing the numbers, looking for more squares to flag triumphantly. Sky blue 1s, bottle green 2s, maroon 3s, navy blue 4s, red 5s and the elusive turquoise 6s and black 7s adorn my imagination while I’m trying to eat in the mess, and I know I’m addicted to Minesweeper again. I make continual attempts at breaking my seemingly pathetic expert level time with the touchpad when an exam‘s 5 hours away with a sunrise in between, and I also know I’ve picked the precisely wrong time for doing that. The exams have passed by now though, taking with them a blur of a third semester. I realized, though, over this span of 14 surprisingly short weeks at the insti, that studies really are way more important than the next Prison Break episode, that assignments are to be submitted on time even if you manage to convince 85 in a batch of 86 that it’s OK not to, that I haven’t really changed much in the past few years- some say in the past ten- and that it’s never too late to try ironing my creases.

 ***

I hate using sentences with the word ‘life’ in them whenever it refers to one’s being; I’m too naïve, and it’s too way too early for me to do so. Plus I think things like “What I’ve learnt from life is…” or “Life is…” are for old people. I’ve edited these very lines at least thrice while typing them to make it very clear that they’re heavily opinionated. The word could’ve featured at least four to five times in the previous paragraph, and a few more times in the ones to follow. But it isn’t worth it. For me, it rarely is. I dislike Orkut status messages that say “Mah life’s screwed” or “Life’s tuf” or compare it to female dog, or any similar professions. They’re way too shallow for teenagers to be broadcasting. ‘Life’s like that’ is the only such sentence I like. Not because it’s by AP, but just because it’s too darn simple, and to the point, and so very logical. It’s almost instinctively understood, like ‘My name’s Bond’. Plus, it actually looks and sounds kind-of nice too. Try it.

 ***

For the record, by the way, in the fag end of the semester, I gave up on consuming eggs altogether, and thought it’s not really a bad idea to be a total vegetarian from now on. The guilt consumed me too much and too often for me to continue the habit. Also, I think it’s time I really start thinking seriously about my religion, and spirituality, in general, because talking to myself can only take me so far. It isn’t too hard on me and my schedule, and it can only make a better person.

 ***

One of my favourite pastimes, apart from the aforementioned game, the aforementioned TV series, and repeating long words in sentences, is reading through my past posts, and the comments on them. I love analyzing the changes in my writing- content and style-wise - and also reader reactions and frequency of comments. It’s fun. I actually cringe at the punctuation in my first few posts, and also realise how crazy the incessant brackets made you feel. It brings a smile to my face now that I think of it. And, laughing at the jokes in the comments, even when I know what‘s coming. It really is fun. I remember talking to my master about my blog, and he mentioned about the categorisation of the bloggers we know- the glory bloggers and the true bloggers. And he didn’t take a second to point out that I belonged to the first category. I agreed graciously, after an instinctive first rebuff. Before I forget, glory bloggers are those who post only once in a while, after a lot of editing and only after carefully considering whether their readers would love reading that or not. The second category, on the contrary, refers to those who post as and when they feel like, don’t really care what their readers think- or even if they have any- and stick to the definition of a web log. I guess I do fit into the first category, considering my aims at present, but also considering my shift in mood and content over the past few months, it isn’t long before I seamlessly shift to the latter. Talking of my lazy inactive master, I’d like to ask him, while restraining my impulsive desire to abuse him, to please start reading again. I guess I do fit into the first category!

I’d also like to add, that this habit of revisiting past mutterings, and discussions, extends to e-mails and chats, even those on Facebook- I sometimes copy-paste them and save them as drafts. I’ve also saved a few special mails in the ‘starred’ folder of my Gmail account.

 ***

The fact that I talk so much has made me so very transparent that I fear I may not have anything more about me to add when I’m tagged, if I’m tagged. For those who aren’t insane enough to get to the end of my posts, like AP, who I actually think might not even reach here, I’d like to remind you of my request to start the practice of tagging in the blogosphere again.

 ***

I’m typing this post as I sit in a delightfully warm room in Noida, where I’d reached last night after two bus rides I’d love to write home about. The first was with AP, where I, as usual, had a wonderful time chatting for almost the entire length of the six-hour journey, apart from the few motion-sick minutes where I’d slept with my mouth wide open. We came up with exciting plans for the magazine, ones we’d love to share with the Perusing Poet, who just about missed joining us.

The other was alone on a rickety Blueline, from the New Delhi inter-state bus station to Noida, in which I couldn’t stop raving about and feeling sad for and bad about the capital, at the same time. I was born in New Delhi and had lived 40 kilometres off the capital for about 9 years, before shifting to the city of destiny, Visakhapatnam. It’s been another nine years since, but clocks roll back effortlessly whenever I have a rendezvous with this wonderful mega-polis, and I still can’t understand, leave alone explain, the sheer love and affection I have for it. People who’ve lived here all their lives will probably never get it. Those who’ve shifted to the city might just. It doesn’t matter to me. I still can’t properly answer the very common question ‘What’s your hometown?’, and usually say ‘It’s kind-of complicated’. The feeling I have for Delhi is most efficiently described by this- je ne sais quoi.

 ***

Roaming around in the markets of Noida, it was impossible not to notice the greatly heightened security measures- frisking is mandatory at the entry points of almost every mall- and although it was only a Wednesday evening, and it was two days before a momentous one in India, December 6^th, the sparse crowds were conspicuous, and a fact that didn’t exactly make my first visit to Great India Place very exciting. Reading the news reports over the week, looking at the pictures of rallies all over the country, the news of the candle-light rally at the insti, and many conversations I’d heard or participated in, all pointed to just one thing- we’re all very very united right now. But it’s sad to think that only incidents as ghastly as those of the past week end up in shows of such solidarity and togetherness. I wonder if it really needed to take this horrid event for us to finally rise and demand for change. It’s not an accusation, and it’s not that I’m trying to suggest we’re hypocritical or that I don’t appreciate this unity in any way- it just comes as a question to a simple mind like mine. There’s been enough carnage in the past to instill a sense of doubt as to whether our chosen representatives have been capable enough of protecting our homeland. But, you know what? I love the fact that people don’t care whether the guy wearing that white T-shirt standing beside them is a fish-gobbling Bengali, or that lady in the white top is a chatter-some Punjabi, or that man in that sober white shirt is a Bihari, or even someone from the north-east, or any other arbit place- all that matters is that he/she is wearing white and holding a candle for India and Indians. It’s touching, and makes me proud. If only  we could have the same feeling every single day of our lives. Utopia is a wonderful place…

 ***

P.S.- This is only for those nice guys who… wait, I do have girls reading my blog, or at least I’m trying, or am deluded enough to think so, so… This is only for those wonderful faithful tolerant people who actually did read till here. It’d be nice if you inform me what you think of the name change for the page, if you’ve bothered to notice it, and whether you think I should scrap it.

 

P.P.S.- As much as I tried not to, for a fear of sounding depressing, I couldn’t help mentioning 26/11. It weighed a little too much on my mind.

 

P.P.P.S.- I deliberately avoided using examples with profanities in the ‘Life is…’ paragraph, although the most popular example is such, as popularised by the Wild Bore.