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September 09 HerA quiet, beautiful lady. An aquiline nose sitting atop the briefest smile, warm intelligent eyes hiding a perspicacious mind. In an age of the mundane, one of the last breeds of accomplishment, simplicity and hope. She smoked a lot but in her, it seemed less an idulgence or a statement but more a part of her intrinsic 'meh'. My mind's eye always imagined her in balmy old fashioned Bombay, long before it became Mumbai, at sixteen, perhaps or maybe seventeen, lighting up for the first time. She probably had long hair then and was gorgeous to behold in her immaculate skirts and jumpsuits. A doctor of skilled strength and learning, she wore her mantles lightly. It was again like the hairband on her short cropped hair, or the casual stubs of smoke on the table. Ordinary, everyday affairs. Not requiring special attention or treatment. But simply Is.
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Now, the genetic whirlpool has swayed in time to recast the same vintage wine in a healthy, wholesome good bottle. No pearls or blouses, only Benetton T-shirts and raggedy shorts. But, Mendelin was right, the hour-glass will slowly sift the sand. Each passing grain brings out a stronger resemblance than expected. And each woman will become her mother. That in her time, will be her tragedy.
But to be able to look down at our hands, and see our mothers in their lines. That, is what holds the storm together, when everything throws it asunder.
God Bless.
............................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................... October 27 diwali lights..Every Diwali, every year, my sister would painstakingly draw elaborate designs around the house. There would be colours, candles and flowers intricately arranged into small acts of beauty. She'd spent hours labouring over a small neglected corner of the house and a few minutes over the centre pieces with magnificent results. The feminine touch, so to speak, was everywhere. Meanwhile, I'd use the holiday break to catch up on my reading and sleeping.. casually sauntering in and out of the welcome intimacies. It never made sense to me to spend hours over Rangoli which would be washed away in a day or two. It seemed too trivial, too demeaning a pursuit.
Too female. In my utopian world, it perhaps smacked of sterotypes of bindi toting, sari clad, belan laden women. My sister could have been just another dutiful daughter fitting ino the right mould.
So last year, when someone mentioned colours and decoration to a newly married me, I laughed it off. " Nah, not a chance. Not me." I thought and perhaps articulated my disapproval very well.
But this year, something changed. An ideal world is aesthetically authentically pretty. Is it not. Wen we think perfect, do we not think beautiful crystal, silver balls and tinkling laughter. Surely not drab depressing spaces crowding our messy lives.
Or maybe I use words like aesthetics and authentic to defend a sudden liking of candles and roses. :)
Between this morning and evening, a fairytale has been unfolding around me. A thousand lit candles. Aromas of rose, jasmine, chocolate and strawberry. Gentle Pinks and verdant Greens.
Its a Diwali break like no other. One that's left my stereotypes in little bits and pieces yet left me strangely content once more.
Happy Diwali To the Old and the New.. :) March 16 Perspectives..Perspective... a word looping out from a strand of a half forgotten conversation. It all boils down to that one word. Really.
Not who you are. But how you look at things. Not what you do. But how you do it. Perspectives.. Sound and light.. shadows and silence.. they come they go.. we filter images, register words, translate intentions. At the end of the day, we hold up this mosiac to the light of our own eyes and watch the truth emerge. Our own personal truth.. your truth.. my truth.. a credo of kinds.
And if the shades, the differences were well captured, then sometimes, we can take a step back and view the full picture. Look at the different forces, the multihued voices that went into creating that framework, the emotions that gently sloped into the mould, some rushing fiercely in, others lingering, meandering through the hidden crevices of memory to emerge subtly...all to create that painting that glints the sun off the grass as we hold it up, looking with jaded/tired/cynical eyes.
How long do I look at the painting. What all do I see. What do I do with it. Do I wish that maybe insight and perispicacity had never revealed to me the things that I dont want to know. Or am I wise with the knowledge of whispering leaves.
Will this painting now fluff into the air and dissipate into the clouds. And will I look down upon my hands, looking at the emptiness that lurks within... look at them, fine fingered bareness.. and smile in quiet contentment. Will I then turn to look at the green grass around me, feel the wind and turn walk back with the warmth soaking into my back. Is it the sunshine or the painting's beauty that draws a cloak around me, protecting me, loving me. I wonder.
March 07 Closing Lines..He first and I behind, we climbed so high
that through a small opening I saw
some of the turning beauties of the sky.
And we came out to see, once more, the stars.
- Canto 34, Dante's Inferno
Of Babies and Holi..So its spring time again. That beautiful transition between winter and summer when we shed our woolies and don spags with a shawl thrown on.
As warmer bright hues give way to light pastels, along comes a jamborie of colours to help us select from the beautiful palatte unfolding outside our windows. Yep. Holi, it is.
This Holi was not about Bhang and Revelry and Colours. It was a muted one which allowed the innocence of young ones to unfurl tenderly the joy of rubbing 'gulal' for the first time in their tiny hands.
Let me elaborate.. My festival started by awakening to the sounds of an excited eight year old filling balloons and buckets of water. As early morning slowly gave way to lazy breakfasty Sunday newspapers..the excitement turned to grumbly "No one's coming to play with me."
This from a child who had bawled copiously at 4 months to see himself pinked by bratty sisters and at 5 years, had thought he'd get slapped for daring to pour water on his lil di.
Anyways, the grumbles gave way to whoops with two buckets of water steathily splashing on his head from the balcony. And the baby-frowns turned to sulky grins.
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The next child in line was my one year old niece. Daintily dressed, she emerged from the confines of a quiet house to silver faced parents and grubby grandparents. In a world gone mad, she heard familiar voices, but recognised no faces. And bawled her lungs out. However, she must have figured that the only way to save her kin was to jump onto the bandwagon. And jump she did into the lap of her coloured mother and emerged soon after smudgily smiling and cozily pinky silver.
And her Cheeky Aunt stood in a corner laughing. Waiting. For she recognises a kindred soul and knows Holi will be fun with the youngster in the years to come.
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And finally, the reason for this post... a tiny little shy turbanned friend. All of five and wide eyes to boot. He stood still scared in a corner as the world raced to colour his parents and showered them with ice cold water. The Screeches and Whoops brought his safe world crashing down as all authority figures in his life crumbled to gulal. The brave upper lip was twitching. It was a time to flee or cry.
Then came along a dear older friend with a huge Green water pistol. The kind he had been warned against in school. But surely now, he was done for..the water would come anytime soon now. But instead of feeling wet furious splashes and squirts, he saw the boy by his side, showing him how to press the trigger.
First a shy push, then stronger and a final give-it-all-I-have shoot aimed at a cheering Di-di. Yet the distance remained. A safe measure between him and the colours of the world. Then came along two people, a big girl and a small boy, carrying a platefull of Rang. They showed him the dish and asked him to put his hands in it and feel the colours. Hesitantly, he saw his hands turn green..but before his face could turn a further shade of white, the little boy asked him to colour his face. Gently, still fearing retaliation, he applied colour to one cheek and then another. Gradually, the colours of the festival reflected their joy on his face.
I, last saw them, going from one adult to another, gently performing the traditional greeting of the Festival of Colours.
A handful of Gulal. On one cheek and then another. A teeka. And a hug.
Happy Holi..
February 28 S's List..Everything is possible. Any montrosity. All beauty. Anything imaginable can usually be executed.
We just have to be willing to pay the price for it.
For they are right, heaven does come with a price tag attached to it. And if we must partake the pleasures,so must we bear the payment.
Saw Schindler's List yesterday in a rare screening. The auditorium was small and cosy. There were a few chairs but mostly cushions were arranged on the wooden stairs to allow the audiences the vague comfort of physical discomfort. I dont think its a movie most of us would be happy watching in the cushy luxuries of homely armchairs.
I expected the movie to be dark, deary and depressing.
It is a movie that plays in the back of your mind, long after you have seen it. It puts its self in that vague area of subconscious and conscious that you find yourself startled to be thinking about it again. Its random loop slowly interweaves its way in through mundane thoughts of life n work. And suddenly the graphic images come back. And amidst, all of it, a laughing businessman entertaining and living.
A man on his way to becoming an industrialist fighting for his right to production. And his country's army, busy fighting a World War listening to him <amidst generously handed bribes>. Interestingly, it took a Jew to get him there.
Spools of reel slowly etching out his self-bespoonery even as intelligence draws upon him. The subtleties of his charachter shifting to adapt yet silently influence those around him. His ability to read a man for what he's worth. For what his price is.
Paying it as bribes. First for profits. Then using those those to further price a man's soul and his right to life.
The classic words when the negotiation happens with Goethe- the SS Nazi man.
What are those people worth to you.
No, what are they worth to you.
A train misdirected to Aushwitz.
Take 300 other people, instead of the ones on your list. They are just names.
A gamble. It would still be 300 lives.
No. I want those.
What if he lost. He would have lost the chance of saving 300 extra lives.
Played and won. Gave men back their wives and childern their mothers.
And the man, who played the part lost the Oscar to Tom Hanks for Philadelphia.
Lesson: Our sins of present are more important than the sins of our ancestors.
Hanks was incredible too, btw.
A brilliant Classic. February 20 MadnessMadness. Madness. Insanity. Idealism. Dreamer. Visionary. Impossibility. Anarchy. Insanity. Madness. We all need a bit of madness to stay sane. Or do we need a bit of sanity to stay Mad. Who would I rather be. Mssr Sane or Mssr Mad. Or a bit of both. Who is more fun. Who lives life on the edge. Who climbs swifter but falls faster too. Builds castles in the air and then brings in sanity. Execute the worldly responsibilites or play with the demons within. In a world that is getting boringly real, bringing out the madness is good way to stay sane. Need something to hold unto. A vision. A dream. Or perhaps a quirk. Quirkiness. A prized state of being. Whimsical minus the emotion. Sillily Nerdy. With a point. Can be witty. Might think out of the box. Might just be plain silliness. A milder way to walk the edge. Quirk. An intellectualised repositry of risk. Quirk. Look at a word for long enough and it may lose form and meaning. Does that hold true for most other things as well. Try n tell. Can I get back in touch with the madness within. Realism is too boring. February 16 ...in the vanishing blue smoke
a fading genie tells
the petering rain drop
dont be afraid to go
November 05 High on life.. !!!How do I define satisfaction. How do I defend my right to my destiny.
Answers. To questions from well meaning friends. To concerned cousins.
Where do I get those from. How do you answer a polite social question, without getting into the intricate web of intimacies. How do you explain that this is how it is meant to be. And this is right because it feels right. If my life, so far, was a buildup to a point, then this is that nadir.
This is it. For the time being.
There will be more crests, more troughs. More beautiful waves carrying me to the different shores of my life, to different people.
But the tide just came in. Its a beautiful night. And I'm high on life.
This is how it was meant to be. BE.
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If there is a silence below the crescendo, it perhaps signals an approaching storm or an emptiness perhaps. But the cascading music of the waves drowns the silence. Its a beautiful life.
September 26 D's hermitageHow many people do we really need to know?
If a person's thought process is best described by what he does for work- then why not read his book or his balance sheet. Or perhaps appreciate his art. Why the need to talk. To communicate.
If I can increase my knowledge and perception by a simple study, then there would be no need for me to further spend my time. And for many people that is perhaps true. Surface judgements often consist of where a person is from, who their parents are, what education and so on and so forth. In another time, religion and caste were also important. Perhaps still are. But I'd rather ignore them.:)
So if I make a value judgement on surface, I am perhaps wrong. There doesnt seem to be an accurate way of gauging a mind's capability at first glance. Hence the need for investment of time et al.
But I digress here. The need to talk in this instance seems to arise from the need to assess another's ability or ability to hold a conversation. But if your ability or mine for that matter has been amply demonstrated then why the conversation.
Herein, in this space, I believe steps in the requirement for dialogue. If I read your/a book, my thinking (hopefully) goes up a few notches. Contemplation starts. Questions arise. And perhaps wisdom lies in asking the right questions. But I'd sure as hell would want someone to answer them for me as well. God, you listening??? :p
Hence, perhaps the need to debate, discuss, argue. In short, spark up those grey cells.
So some people are needed to provide intellectual fodder for. What about the others. The ones that we hoot with laughter with. Chuckle with. Party with. << I am convinced the two sets cant go together>>
What are they for.
And Im not even going into murky mawkish waters of fine sentiment & emotions here.
Three different subsets. Three different requirements. Call them compartments, if you will.
Human Bondage. And the perils thereof??
So how many people do we really need to know. And how many people do we merely know to need (for whatever reason).
Someone show me the way to a hermitage, please. Or am I aldready there?? September 05 My life de-googledMy life de-googled. demystified. simplified.
tra la la
party time
ye ye ye
wassup
how you doin
im so bored
tada
ttyl
was it meant to be so simple.
really?
July 28 Morning Rain..Its beautiful crazy weather. The kind that makes you feel exhileratingly alive and yet depairs life amidst soddy puggles..the rain shatters itsself on road and man alike.. poolin in hidden crevices of plastic raincoats and runnin down glassy wind shields even as merry kids dance in urban streams of slush & sloth.
It also gently patters outside my window sill, keepin vigil as I spool remnants of dreams into listlessly stolen moments of morning sleep. It comfortingly sweeps all morning misgivings under its wet carpet of rainy day memories.
I wake up happy. Comforted. Reassured that rain is here. The chaos on the roads will be tinged with the motionless madness of honking horns. But there will be smiles amidst flying tempers. And tears amidst raindrops.
She is my ally now. Friend, mentor, guide all rolled into one.
She stays with me as I trudge through the troughs and tredges of decision making. She smiles sweetly as the die is cast. The decision made.
Then she pitters about calming my mind as I approach the inevitable. There is a cup of tea in my hands and a dose of adrelaine in my bloodstream.
The deed is done. She retreats. Silently. Smilingly.
I thank her. And those who came before her, retreating steathily into the darkness preceding the quiet morning rain. Without them, without her, this may never have been.
God Bless You All. July 17 story writing..And she walked off the edge... The water was shimmery n dark. It was a beautiful night. They heard a laugh. Not the tinkling laughter of an social beauty, but the deep throated one of a woman in throes of loving and leaving life. There was a splash. A clean cutting sound of a diver edging through water towards a final destination.
They would remember those sounds later when the police questioned them.
Suddenly, there was a crescendo in the music blaring from the hotelier's party...a few men came running. There were a few frantic shouts. Then two men removed their coats and scrambled off the pier.They surfaced with a woman, in sequinned black, naked in her delight. She was holding a shoe. A pretty pink Manolo.
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Two days later, the hotelier's body was found. July 02 Half read verses..Alack! what poverty my Muse brings forth,
Wonder whether mirrors can save faces or must we only rely on poetry to do the job for us. Guess there are some things,that even Shakespeare couldnt answer. Till then, cheers to cracked mirrors and half read verses..
June 30 Breaking Bad News....How do you break bad news. Is there a right way to do it. What do you say.
Sorry. Your best friend just died.
Sorry. You did not get that promotion.
Sorry. Its over.
Sorry. You are fired.
And then, what do you do. Empathise? Stand stoicly? Or walk away?
Especially, if the news does not affect you as much as it does the other person.
I had to do something similar today. Yesterday, I had swore to myself that no matter what, i would not be 'the bearer' of bad tidings. But the day crept up on me. Took me by unawares. And I found myself doing the unthinkable.
With a nervous flutter of the head and a silly laugh, destroyed hope, happiness & joy. Watch the dance go out of steps and shoulders slump. And hated myself for it.
Is there a different way of breaking Personal news. Professional news. Is there a book of manners to tell us what to do and what not. If there isnt, can one of you write it for me please, instead of wasting good book writing time reading stupid blogs like these. I promise I will endeavour to market it to all my hapless friends caught in the same dilemma.
Will TV channels ever do a cover story... Breaking Bad News...The shorter version is cliched as it is.
Would accusations help. Honesty. What would hurt more. Wouldnt feedback be salt on wounds.How do you console without losing perspective. Detached Rationality.
Hell. Sorry.Take Care. Goodbye.
It ruined my day. And everyone else's too. Is this life.If so, it very well sucks. Thank you please.
A nagging feeling remains. Could I/We have done something to help matters.
June 21 football and combs..So something to do with football is happening on the TV screens in the country. And every living male within hearable distance is attached to the remote control. Even those who privately dont like the game too much and prefer the other national passion, suscumb to the hysterical gorilla party. Maybe it has something to do with beer.. but i suspect that's not the full story.
In the interim, the women either follow the game or cease to exist. Which if i would be a part of the hysteria would be a fair enough deal. Instead i get to stand outside a glass wall and see the frenzied emotions explode splotch splotch inside.
Not fair. I want in too. But not coz Im outside lookin in. But coz it is FUN.
Think about it. Boys get to go out and play football on the streets. Girls are given pretty dolls with long hair to comb even as their mothers plait their little locks. So boys get to learn nuances of teamwork and sportmanship and all that OB gyani s%$& while they kick up dust and each other and have a blast. Little girls on the other hand have to sit still while their moms vent out domestic(read you know what) frusturation on their poor hair; and then practise the same on dumb unanimated dolls. Phooey. Will someone hand me a pair of scissors please.
So these girls grow up to be nice demure ladies who obviously have no idea how to tackle a ball. And boys simply cut their hair to avoid learning how to comb it right.
All this seems to be atleast 65 to 70% conditioning and 30-35% nature. im sure that women who can withstand child birth can surely surely be stronger than what they look. And my mom bears testimony to it by picking up heavy suitcases on those family trips that my dad refuses to let my fragile 'looking' sister even touch. She simply wont pick up anything heavier than a hand bag. And when forced to, will look around beguilingly for help. {Yes, I know, this admission is fatal to the argument that i'm trying to make}
Anyways, the point Im trying to make is that most women dont play sports (atleast in India) coz they arent actively encouraged to. Yes, nature probably intended men to be stronger and more aggressive, but anyone who has seen a cat fight between two girls will probably disagree. And without playing a game, its hard to be interested in its intricacies. I mean how many men go into ecstasies over a sweater pattern. Not that most women i know, know the first thing about needlework anymore.
So, the reason we arent enthused about the World Cup is not coz we dont want to be. But coz we dint play too much ball while growing up. And, that's more a reflection of what society expected us to do, than what we wanted to do. I hated pink as a kid.
In the end,though, we end up being a mirror to our conditioning. Last three shopping trips have been crammed with pink shirts, pink nailpolish, pink sandals.. and hold your breath, pink sunglasses. :)
Point being, can someone pass me the football.. oops the popcorn please. And explain the godd^&* game as well.
May 21 we'a'k end QsArt with responsibility? or can entertainment without purpose be a reason in its self. if it makes me laugh, it probably worth it. but if it makes me laugh and think, then perhaps that's what makes it worthwhile. art which stirs emotion without encouraging thought. can that be merely pop corn or soft candy at worst and propoganda at best? what is the purpose. of wit. of sarcasm. to amuse? or to draw attention to a hitherto unnoticed facet of the same painting. what's the point. what's the purpose. ........................................................................................................................... the most serious question a man must ask is "in what way should one live one's life" - socrates ......................................................................................................................... if a person needs three pairs of clothing..why buy more.. why spend more. is capital investment better than consumption expenditure. what is the optimum point at which the two meet in terms of our salaries, our personal income. more importantly, what are the parameters that condition and constraint the same. is everyone simply going along with the herd. or am i? .............................................................................................................................. why arent more young adults spending their weekend doing something more meaningful than pubbing, partying, hanging out and watching movies.or are those the only kind that i know. why am i one of them too. ............................................................................................................................... are we ready to send our old to nursing homes? will we be ready to go when our time comes? are we thinking about that. yet. why not? ................................................................................................................................ cribbing. thinking.cribbing. blogging. can i stop. please. ................................................................................................................................. ................................................................................................................................. March 19 Lazy lump of a limping lizardI came back to Delhi one summer to find a significant change in the house i spent my vacations in....On the landing between the ground and the first floor had appeared a huge tapestry of a beautiful young man with soulful soulful eyes..An eight by twelve, finely woven piece, it depicted the nude upper torso of a boy with outstretched arms. A gentle smile lingered somewhere. But it was the eyes that got to me. I asked whether it was Jesus and got a hearty laugh from my mama. 'No, but he was the idol of our times.' I let the enigmatic answer pass but the picture stayed with me. At that age, I was more amused by the fact the naked man staring down at us, did so in defiance of the authority of the Grand-dahs downstairs. It was a clear marking of space and leisure. More changes followed. The first floor library, a room primarily used to store quilts and then as an afterthought 4-5 Godrejs of books, got converted into a Den. This time, the nerd in me worried about the safety of my precious reading haunt. But bean bags and a music system followed. All this was new and exciting. Change in a house steeped in tradition is always dynamic for everyone. And there was more than one person coming peeping to see what was happening. Some time later, in a room filled with the smoke of hastily stubbed cigarettes and boom-kaboom of what seemed loud music, my uncle talked of his affair with rock music. He went to college in the States in the 60-70s and the passions which had perhaps germinated in the urban pschye of an Indian engineering college took full bloom there. Music was the loudest of them all. I dint understand music. I still profess not to. But literature, I did. And I was smitten by the beautiful poetry that became song. But in the absence of hard bound lyrics, my interest waned and I veered off the mushy stuff, as I called it, to prose. Simple. Effective. Then, one winter, my newly grown up little cousin put me through the perception trip. I wouldnt have lasted the 25 odd rewinds of 'The End', had it not been adroitly blended with Ayn Rand, Aldous Huxely and a recital of Morrison lyrics. And of course, the memory of that crazily intense look. Anyways, I left for Mumbai and in the whirlwind that followed forgot of the man who zanily inspired my family.. I come back home after three years and the conversation between my twelve year old cousin and his mother goes something like: " Get to books.... you ...lazy lump of a limping lizard..." "Whoa..." "Lazy wha-at of wha-at" " Lazy lump of a limping lizard- I always did think that these rock singers like that lizard king thing that this boy listens to, were maha lazy people. To do nothing but smoke pot and play music all day long. No wonder America is in such a mess these days" <<super super grin>> I see now three different sides of my life.. connected by one single strand. Not just music. But music of a single man.. And now I know why they call him King. Oh. And did I forget to mention the half mad friend who flicks a copy on the life of the man that ''I'' found and proceeds to quote me on it.. Lazy lumps..did I say... March 01 ...solitude gave birth to me
all i have stems from being alone
there is no one to search for me in a crowd
if i move once in tandem with you
i willl forget my own way to walk
-kaifi azmi
the inebriation of alcohol ,what is it?
it lasts for a moment, or maybe the night
and leaves in return an ache in the head
but the poison he drank in the prison of life
caused a smoke to arise from his heart that never left
-kaifi azmi
February 24 Do something that you enjoy and you will never work another day in life.Do something that you enjoy and you will never work another day in life.
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Most Indians dont have a choice when it comes to working to earn their livliehood. Its a matter of sheer survival and enjoyment be damned.
There are graduates working at salaries of Rs 2000 as peons and post-graduates with computer degrees at Rs 3500 to 5000. These are not carefree bachelors with money to blow up. But rather labour entering the workforce with responsibilities to uphold. Young men and women who have aged before their time and on whose strong shoulders must fall the upkeep of families of 5-6 or more.
Is there a way to lighten their burden. Is there possible a more equitable distribution of wealth. The libertarian economics training in me answers - lets increase the pie and the everyone's slice will automatically increase. { a JLN quote which changed the way the 4, or was it the 5 th five year plan was structured.}
But yet a popular character in a famous novel maintains, and I agree with him here, that the only difference that we can make is at an individual level. According to him, the way the system works and the way it is entrenched, it takes far too long for Change to have an impact on the micro level and by that time it is redundant.
So what is the solution. Any answers.
Yes, I can continue to (or try to) focus on my work so that increased profits can benefit all of us. Yes, a bonus makes our eyes gleam in equal intensities. :)
But something at the back of my mind nags me saying that it perhaps isnt enough. Would living simply help.
Is there some truth in Mahatama Gandhi's philosphy of ' there is everything for everyone's need, but perhaps not enough for everyone's greed'. The libertarian retorts with carefully chosen examples that 'Greed is Good'.
Now I'm throughly confused. Investment or Consumption Expenditure. Which is better. The American 'credit card' way of life or the Indian system of frugality.
Without descending into 'holier than thou' economic arguments, let me go back into the title of this piece and see if I can twist it to come up with something that will satisfy my conscience and yet assuage my happiness in my modern/wasteful way of life.
Do something that you will enjoy and that you will never work another day in your life. I see a number of friends who have recently entered the work force and who complain about lonliness and lack of anything to do. For some, idealism dies a sinster death, yet others alleviate their boredom with alcohol, pizza, friends and meaningless conversation. And then there are others like me who will write sanctimonius posts.
I hear of a class mate who organises street kids into friendly cleaners who sparkle neighbourhoods at a small, grateful price from bored housewifes. Yet another friend volunteers to help with the accounts of NGOs. Some of us look into public policy issues relating to Economic Freedom and see how tweaking them can make a difference.
Is there a way to enjoy doing something that would probably bring some meaning into my life and probably make life a little simpler for someone else. Or am i just sermonising coz I have nothing better to do. What can it be and what can we/you/i do.
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