Journey to the centre of the earth

He continued reading Bukowski- it was disgusting , sometimes depressing and at times dark. Yet Bukowski had that something magnetic. Guess waking up for last 2 days at ungodly hours to climb volcanoes was taking its toll. His routine – Wake up at 2:36 ; drink red bull; skip brushing and went of droopy eyed  to climb volcanoes.

A day before he woke up groggy eyed sharp at midnight  and got into the dilapidated jeep, which blasted some Indonesian songs. None of words made sense, until the band started playing ‘someone like you’ with this Indonesian tempo and something moved inside him. The two hours ride dozed him off , and he went into a trance. where he would be painfully answering what ifs and fighting his conscience and then the brakes of car would wake him up. He would look out of window, into dark,  for next five seconds he would remain disoriented, having lost time and space continuum. It happened twice or thrice before they reached  the base camp of volcano after an hour. He put on his head mounted torch light and switched on , it blinded the other occupants of small room – mining workers who were warming themselves over log fire, preparing for their first trip . His guide passed him a gas mask and added ,

– see if it snugly fits , the gases down the crater are pretty intense.

Which meant the disposable N95 masks would not be sufficient and this one made him feel semi claustrophobic, and auditioning for breaking bad.

They walked on in dark,  the black road stretched menacingly ahead of them. Three day old moon was shining up and high. It had rained last evening and the ground was soggy and yellow stones shone which shone with the focus of headlight.. On both sides there seemed to be infinite forest and when he would swivel his head , one would have seen the bushes and creepers and green and brown rusted bark.thickening and vanishing in darkness.  With that headgear he felt transmuted to some console game where his mission was to surreptitiously invade  into enemy’s  territory.

The ascent was plenty at times and he would feel his thigh muscles flexing with each steps, and he slapped a stick on note on his mind,

– fuck the elevation I have been working out , this gonna be easy it’s  just 3 kms !

As if response someone pleaded halt, apparently the guy with 94 kgs on his body and 6 feet frame needed the first of many breaks to come.

He felt his heart pounding like a teenager heart would have seeing Monica bellucci for first time.

It took a whole 3-4 minutes to get back to regular rhythm from tachycardia. The group of five continued , he got other three to walk in front of him in a single file.

– am gonna be your shining beacon

And swivelled his headlight to trail his frontman steps, the light made an perfect white circle, and synchronised with the footfall of young Japanese accountant in front of him.

Soon the vegetation gave away and the they could smell sulphur in the air, it burnt their nose slightly and overworked his overworked lacrimatory glands,  He tried to remember lessons from his high school about sulphur and only incident he could remember was some chap putting old sulphur box in sink and the sulphur burnt like fire in Dante’s inferno. He put on his gas mask , and braced on the slope , but with the gas mask on and with heaving heart and water dripping down eyes it was difficult to breathe. He took off the mask and took a deep breath and allowed his olfactories to get used to the smell of burning sulphur.

– was it SO2 or SO3 ?

 They reached the top of crater and it was dark sand dunes – instead of sand it was some dark soil. Black dust rose in air and through his hair. They have given on breathing sans mask and got accustomed to wet droplets that came from exhaling inside the mask.

At a certain distance lot of folks flocked at the perimeter of the crater , thick fumes arose from inside and it was still dark in the sky, he peered down into even more darkness mixed with dense fumes . There were snake trails left by lava going deep down into the crater,like hundreds of giant lava snakes  thousands have wiggled down the slope only to vanish into the famed sulphur lake. Their guide hustled them into an imperfect circle formation and asked them to check their shoes. He was confused what was there to check on the shoes, his hiking boots worked perfect, waterproof and the maker had a legacy of being in production in France serving at World War I.

– I checked those shoes a thousand time before making that hefty purchase, mister. He thought.

His friend undid his shoe laces and retied then for a snug fit, and the guide instructed

– it’s a difficult climb down and is legally forbidden . You take a wrong step and you fall and die

DIE ! and he laughed and he was again confused if it was joke but didn’t have heart to ask.

They started their ascend down , on rocks and incomplete rocky pathways.Often someone shoe skidded and for a nanosecond everyone would freeze. The presence of tourists and occasional miners gave them the needed comfort zone. The other japanese chap put on his goPro with head mount. If only Frodo had a go Pro things would have been easier in Lord of the rings, and Mr. Tolkien would have moved in his grave seeing his epic getting this modern hardware add-on. It took them another thirty minutes or so to reach the very bottom of crater, the source of fumes was a tiny yet potent one. The camera enthusiasts started with their tripods and hundreds worth of digital SLR. When the burst of fumes settled down, lo and behold, the blue flame  of Kawah Ijen. It was pristine, pure yet so unworldly.

Lured by this unearthly blue,  he continued down to the source, carefully marked his steps with the white light, slipped twice on a soft sulphur rock. He reached the source and sulphur gods acknowledged him. He inhaled before holding his breath, and closing his eyes , and turning away from the source. It was too late he tasted sulphuric acid in his mouth, it was bitter and acidic.An olfactory nostalgia time warped him twelve years back to school in Varanasi.  They stayed around for another 2-3 hours there, and decided to go back, they were exhausted. Sulphur had given  him a nagging headache right between the eyes, and yet it abided a bit when he thought of poor miners.

–  C’est la vie !


It still wasn’t very clear to him. He was loitering, a usual sunday morning, made himself the lousy nescafe premix coffee did his experiment, adding little bit of cream and shaking contents in a mixer it produced rich foam. Adding a circular dollop of chocolate sauce for presentation purpose. And took an obligatory instagram, for he has been keeping himself busy with instagrams these days, following well known and not-so-well-known photographers, few friends and few celebrities. It had a charm of its own, last time he was discussing with her cousin in London, so what would have Conan Doyle posted as a Instagram from his 21 baker street, Hyde park. He did not got a very convincing reply, or the one he was looking for. “You can’t always get what you want”, was playing in his mind in loop since last night, it was sort of answer to his life questions. And yet to get this epiphany , in a the rolling stones concert was something : tipsy with red wine, shiraz to be precise, was not the best wine,  but then always better than a beer. They don’t serve scotch in concerts. There was other part of the song, but if you try hard, you’ll get what you need. He was still trying to figure out what he needed.

The haze was back in Singapore and it hung over the city like a gossamer, a translucent veil to the beautiful urban visage. It was only when you entered through it , you would have felt  your nostrils burning or that bbq smell. The clouds were back, and it rained, it rained after 3-4 weeks, it cleansed everything and anything and bought jauntiness to the monotonous urban landscapes, through the wet gossamer. Nature had its own photo filters, and rain was the best one. Soon the petrichor would be in air, and what better day to have a coffee and jot down. He quickly ran through cafes in his mind, the one in Orchard, the hardware one in some corner, the one in upscale Tiong Bahru and the one in east coast park. He dismissed all of them, owing to distance.

– May be if I  just get that french press back here at least will not die thirsty on sundays.

His roommates were switched on xbox and he resisted the temptation to go there and shoot through M1 at enemies in a scottish highland castle.

It was midnight already

– oh man, the time fucking flies so fast. He cursed that fucktard for sharing reuse of plastic bottles, no seriously, get a life man, get beyond these walls of Facebook. He cursed another one instagraming, although he knew he was hypocrite in his accusations yet they all seemed to be well placed – hyper targeting as the marketing folks in 3 piece suit would have termed it, ohh its not 80s anymore, marketing blokes with a jacket and a denim would have retorted to.

– Our hyper targeted advertisements are best in the class and promise best ROI for your investment.

He had this sudden whim and exigency  of watching aurora borealis in Norway, as if the phenomenon would cease happening from next year. It has to be this year man, say what, we go in fourth quarter, when the days are small and the night is dark and lights are bright in north of northern hemisphere.

– Yeah we can take all those unfinished books with us.

He acknowledged the silent pain in the core, yet proudly metaphorised it to medal of honour for callisthenics.

Brave new world

It was already a new year and 10 days into it , he realised it was gonna be an eventful one…nothing was constant he was dealing in dynamicism…and all those last few months efforts were now paying of… he was up at 4 am in the morning, having failed to realise that he missed a good movie by Vishal Bharadwaj, and ideally that would have been a perfect sequence watching Vishal Bharadwaj followed by Martin Scorsese and may be over the weekend he would have topped it up with theatre show, some Portuguese one…He wondered how the fuck one comes up with subtitles in theatre. He remembered old days in Hyderabad, when for the first time he went to theatre knowing that it Anurag Kashyap’s production , only to be smitten by french indian – kalki. It was surreal , and he often wondered how Kalki was his favourite in bollywood industry , which was basically filled with bimbos with fake size , and a model figure and who the heck cared for acting. He might have gone on and on , mentioning the new breed of actors, directors in Bollywood.

But then there were few definitely. There were quite a few things on his plate, he tried to emumnerate them, he silently ventured up through stairs only to realise all the devils in the house were finally sleeping, there was some sleep around the corner of his eyes and if one would have looked through an opthalmoscope, pun, one might have found some of it. Was this ending as another of the post where the author reminiscences and reminisces , and after jotting paras of bullshit smugly gets back to his bed…oh how he missed his bed, he had gone fucking tired of sleeping on floor or getting relegated to couch, but may be it was for good. He realised there are things one must do for the family…

Also his trips to India have always been eventful, be it silently gazing at the albatross (or were they seagulls ) on the ferry to Elephanta caves, only in the midway he realised that he has been duped by promise of shivlinga… the one that he intended to see was Ajanta, nonetheless who cared…there was as always mad rush at Gateway of India, people flocking around , and he …he was still searching around for dustbin. He suddenly realised that the darkness was eerie, and it was only disrupted by the typewriter application he has installed on his macbook air, yeah he was a bloody show off. He was still struggling with this Screinever software, lets play Mozart …no Beethoven for the tired eyes and soul…there came the first yawn of the night…was it you, Beethoven…I mean its been just 1:56 minutes… he was hungry …no he wanted something to chew on…which would have meant brushing for second time this night… man would anyone back home realised that it was Fur Elise when door bell rang in teenage.  It was seriously odd time to play and write, but then the desolation of a writer. Also weren’t early morning moments best ones to write… He tweeted some self proclaimed tweet and wondered about the world imagined by Aldous Huxley and George Orwell…twitter …he was definitely from Aldous Huxley’s brave new world… ( his friends in United states timezone were pinging him or what sapping…oh boy !! The music was surreal, it calmed his senses , encited that calm feeling where you just wanna close your eyes and shuffle through memories or just lay there on sand… he was calmed and ready for his sleep 🙂 He also thought that it would be good to finally get that Sandman comics series , and better start reading Neil Gaiman until someone corners him. <Wink wink> But aint Neil Gaiman godlike, what was that quote on new year … the piece that makes you oddly optimistic about life…and also his new year wishes for his fellow

May your coming year be filled with magic and dreams and good madness. I hope you read some fine books and kiss someone who thinks you’re wonderful, and don’t forget to make some art — write or draw or build or sing or live as only you can. And I hope, somewhere in the next year, you surprise yourself.
…I hope you will have a wonderful year, that you’ll dream dangerously and outrageously, that you’ll make something that didn’t exist before you made it, that you will be loved and that you will be liked, and that you will have people to love and to like in return. And, most importantly (because I think there should be more kindness and more wisdom in the world right now), that you will, when you need to be, be wise, and that you will always be kind.
And for this year, my wish for each of us is small and very simple.
And it’s this.
I hope that in this year to come, you make mistakes.
Because if you are making mistakes, then you are making new things, trying new things, learning, living, pushing yourself, changing yourself, changing your world. You’re doing things you’ve never done before, and more importantly, you’re Doing Something.
So that’s my wish for you, and all of us, and my wish for myself. Make New Mistakes. Make glorious, amazing mistakes. Make mistakes nobody’s ever made before. Don’t freeze, don’t stop, don’t worry that it isn’t good enough, or it isn’t perfect, whatever it is: art, or love, or work or family or life.
Whatever it is you’re scared of doing, Do it.
Make your mistakes, next year and forever.


le train de pensées (the train of thoughts)


Act I, Scene 1
Monte Carlo, Monaco

She was sitting all by herself, as lull as the wooden bench she sat upon, while the world went by. It was the busiest corner of Monaco – garden overlooking the grand casino. The pigeons frolicked around, incongruous of her intent gaze which had infinite sadness ! He slowed down his pace, wondering what was wrong with the lady on the only bench in park. Had he known french and been more gregarious, he would have chatted casually, but nien !
He quickly concluded that the high, fast pace life of this part of the world had its own victims. The septuagenarian walked slowly across the road for the chihuahua was not helping.It wanted to smell some litter and the old chap dragged him forward mocking his strength. As he was jotting it down, it occurred to him why there were so many old folks with pets ? Other than the ‘purse keeping’ the pet was in vogue and unè fashion statemente

Act 1, Scene 2
Train to Nice

La belle on his right was fervently playing with the squashed cigarette, she would take out mirror frequently and adjusted some feature of her visage that probably she thought was inadequately worked upon. She continued fidgeting with the tobacco stick, and rushed with a force as train came to halt in “nice-riquer”. Smokers often have a limited chalance for anything when they are seized by insatiable desire for Nicotine
The train continued its journey parallel to ‘the azur coast’. The empty seat was taken by the young couple, the boy looked in mid twenties and was holding the stick, probably a sports’ injury, and his girlfriend failing to find any empty seat happily sat on his lap. the couple was happy as couples in love are, they laughed , they kissed and joked around , there was a general bon homie around.
The writers attention shifted to his nearly dead legs, with all the walking and that too in hiking boots , which he had proudly purchased once his old faithful Caterpillars  gave away, after five years of service. To say that he was sad, losing them, would be an understatement. Yet he was at peace with his new palladiums, well enough of materialistic divulge. Coming to Côte d’Azur had rekindled the lost writer in him , seeing the french culture experiencing their mannerisms, idiosyncrasies , he had ample stuff to jot about (and probably that’s why Anurag kashyap came to France to finish his script for GOW-2).

Act 1, Scene 3
Protagonist Mind
-“But milord that was Paris , the writer here in question didn’t even want to go to Paris and instead resorted to staying in French Riviera , as English would have said”
– Sustained ! Do you have anything to refute that
– Yes , milord ! Isn’t Paris clichéd
– but that’s like jumping to preconceived conclusion . Camus wrote in Paris , so did miller and others writer that you swore to ??
– yeah may be , but given the short duration and his agnosticism to urban landscapes …
And for the same reason he didn’t like Monaco it was like urban
– or he felt like bourgeois there ?
– may be , but the fact remains same, he would have ..

Did Antibes passed by !!! Fuck !!
There was adrenaline flashing on a distant building in neon lights and it wasn’t antibes , inot or valentine-louset-place. Something French.


PS : I hope readers will ignore the not-so-pathetic titular attempt of luring French crowd.


Wasn’t there someone named John Galt?

It was three hours since mid noon, roads were desolate and asphalt shining bright. It was dry with thermometer reading 40 degrees. The usual clutter of Godowlia and flood of juntaa was missing. There were few fruit vendors braving the summer sun to quench the primal need of roti-kapda-makaan.  Policeman from the security forces guarding the entry-exits, tussling against the afternoon ennui , dozing on and off. Their metal chamber was cooled by an old rusty pedestal fan which creaked in rebellion, asking for a voluntary retirement. Apparently although it was three am  the galis were cool like a tropical forest clearing canopied by old houses from either side, strewn with organic and inorganic refuse. He ventured deep into Vishwanath gali. A bull greeted him, with a vigorous swaying of his horns, ‘wanna tussle?’

“Fear not , it won’t hurt”, someone added from an adjoining clothes shop, sensing his uneasiness and probably knowing that the lad wasn’t frequent to galis.

He had learned the typical sound made by cowherds in Rajasthan to guide cows around. He tried and inferior version of this acquired learning , and surprisingly it worked. The bull calmly retreated to its own world.

There was a rush of old memories, they moved around in his head. The idli guy at the entry of gali. The sweet shop ‘Kunju Saav’ which made sweets specific to vrat, and what a diversity he had. A small shops selling local handicraft goods , benarasi sarees and brass utensils. There was another one which sold beads and rudraksha beads. He tried to remember when was the last time he was here, but his memory failed him. He ventured into the rudraksha shop.

“No no, not from Nepal. We buy directly from Indonesia. Nepalese rudraksha is dwindling, Indonesia is filling in the gap”

Do you have 1-2 faced rudraksha bead?

Actually there is nothing like one or two faced bead, its very rare. Usually people go for 16-17 faced one”

Oh really ! Can I have a look ?

He observed the 16 faced rudraksha bead, and tried to understand the hullabaloo around it.

One hour later he was back to Godowlia chauraha, the rising body temperature got him into a state of trance, there was quietude and everything became slow the way he liked. There was rush now and the road was like a mad rush to eternity. Everyone wanted their five minutes of heaven.

Scene 2

There was an old couple trying to pull a cart loaded with long bamboo stems. It was way too bulky for them and their age didn’t help them out either.  She felt sorry for them when he was still surmising the precarious swinging of the loose end of bamboos, might hurt someone or scratch the automobile.  The on goers drove cautiously around it , muttering under their breath. He silently admired her sensitive side,  may be he had lost touch with his emotional side and cared more for logic and reasoning. He remembered quote by ayn rand

You know how people long to be eternal. But they die with every day that passes. When you meet them, they’re not what you met last. In any given hour, they kill some part of themselves. They change, they deny, they contradict–and they call it growth. At the end there’s nothing left, nothing unreversed or unbetrayed; as if there had never been an entity, only a succession of adjectives fading in and out on an unformed mass.


For what was logic sans emotions, it was a chicken-egg question . Yet when he saw the front tyre of hand pulled cart hobbling up in the air from weight, and the old sexagenarians struggling against inertia,  it caught him offguard. His old sweating wife struggling, yet pushing it from behind.  But as often it happens we let these moments go and rather than helping the troubled , we keep it in our head. Alas ! C’est la vie

May be when they say karma et al it might be true, who knows. He was just trying to rationalize his inaction.  Wasn’t there someone named John Galt?

Foreign native digressions

He was hesitant to go inside, it had started to get too nostalgic in there. A calm yet shrieking silence prevailed around post marriage ceremony, only challenged by the faint but constant hub dub of an electric generator. There were few cars coming and going , their harsh headlights tearing through the darkness. From his childhood days, he hated the lacklustre, the unceremonious wrapping up of an event. Guest departing, tents getting wrapped up , long haul trolleys taking away the furnitures and lights. The place which was teeming with laughs and smiles, of heavy perfumes and ittar, would be as desolate and quite as morgue.  He remembered that a similar sight would conjure up after college festivals and events.

– Probably thats what happens when one dies – packing up ! But as they say cest la vie (such is life).

But there was not much digression on cest-la-vie, for the latest blinding light was of his friend’s car. Thus ended his brief moment of epiphany, and thanks to apple’s smartphone ( and a pinch of right hemisphere), he saved some of it in words.

 Little did he know that ditto same feeling would impunge his first week  after his vacation in India. Singapore felt too dull, like a saltless cuisine , after his India trip. The hum-drum, the halla, the liveliness was in stark contrast to this nation’s systematic inertia. He missed his homeland.
Today :
The ennui at office reminded him to similar bored feeling during his school days. It was like revisiting the same monotonous routine after eons, yet he was able to pinpoint the same old ennui of school days.   The sad part was that everyone seemed oblivious to the fact , no one was complaining. May be it was classic case of stuck in ‘Maya’ as they describe in Hindu scriptures. But this corporate ‘maya’ was strangling him. A throbbing monotonicity was building up in his brain challenging him to ‘turn on, tune in and drop out’.
Rewind to 19 days back 
2 Feb
He was flummoxed at the ensuing crowd, and the majestic evening scenery at the vast banks of Ganges.  Although only 1 hour before he was proclaiming my gonna-be-atheist attitude to an old friend, yet the whole scenery of the Kumbh Mela captivated and enthralled him. He had read somewhere that Kumbh’s attendance exceeds over 50 millions devotees. !!
– Fucking big number!!
So far this vacation had been a calm composite one. He had expected India to surprise him after 13 months abroad, but it didn’t.  Things move too slow in this part of the world.  Only thing out of place was his initial  urge to get down from taxi and start dusting New Delhi’s flyover railings. The dust has been overwhelming. It took him some time to grow accustomed to Indian capital, and by the time he got down near Akshardham Temple, his original self had been returning. It was good to see advertisement hoardings in Hindi. Some familiar and some new faces on print ads. Someone reading this might reduce the feeling to oh-yet-another-foreign-return-banter. But truth has been told. Delhi had disappointed him lately, and it was his first time that he was more than glad to leave Delhi, without hanging around for few days.
Moving across towns and cities of Uttar Pradesh, which might as well be least developed state of India, with reins in hands of goons and dons, there seemed to be no respite in sight. Owing to recent happenings (read Delhi gang rape ) the Indian within him had been tortured, and was now raring to come out to do something. He was quickly shuffling through stacks of ideas to an extent that he had started romancing with an idea of writing civil services exams, but leaving the perfect-Singapore life needed some more weights on the scale.
The sun was high, and there was a some breeze that one encounters during winter end in India. It was serene and the flannel shirt provided a much needed sheer. His mind was largely blank, and he was enumerating an acquaintance he made in high-court-city of east UP. How he is pursuing a goal to become a IAS officer? To which came an expected reply, “it’s useless, the unlimited power corrupts the officers”.
14 Feb
Fast forward to Varanasi. The traffic was going berserk and random. It would have flabbergasted NNT. A particular gust of dust cloud blinded him beneath his rimmed glasses. He was recuperating with the dust, when a truck horn jolted him and responded with a cuss. In spite of all the bodily unpleasantness, his heart was at peace. His soul was at ease. It had been …some 395 days… since he had last came here, and he had missed these blaring horns… the humdrum, the liveliness… the random bovines on roads, and the extreme motion which would have looked like a vigrous brownian motion from a great height. Singapore seemed like a distant utopia, he read someone blaring out on Singaporeans, hating their kiasu spirit et al, in last month’s GQ issue.
“I should now really get that power goggles for driving here”, he thought, finally clearing the dust off his eyes.  (Btw still need to get hands on that last copy of his mother’s novel  “heat & dust”). A different feeling had dawned when he met his college friends after ages, few after what…5 years…his mind was like…dude is this it? But then by that time effects of Shiva’s Prasad also had started empowering his thinking.
Near Dasaswamedh ghat there was infinite queue of juntaa and faith,thanks to Kumbh mela. All for, ten seconds of ‘darshan’ of deity. Although having been brought up in the religious capital, logically his emotions were not justified. But few years away from this religious capital of India, had instilled seeds of doubt, rather questions  in his mind. Now he had started dissecting religious beliefs with a logical reasoning, and quite often they had been defeated with logic. Yet the faith is one thing which has defeated many atheists and non-believers. (And then ofcourse there was ongoing MahaKumbh)
Buying books at his favourite book store near Assi Ghat, he lamented yet another aspect being missed , the literary and artistic upper hand of the city. Being a bibliophile buying a book in ‘x’ dollars would fetch 4 books in equivalent INR , and much better ones than those available back in videsh…    (to be continued)

Choose life !!

The time was running too fast. It has been already 3 weeks into 2013, and he was lackey, it was like he was still referring to a slow wristwatch. Only seeing at calendar made him realize ..Whoa !!

Although there were quite a few happenings, he thought of chalking out prospective blog posts
the great midweek hangover of Thursday, and how I got over it
Band of brothers
mylo-xyloto HD
Dr. house
weekend trip to HK/Macau

He took a deep gulp from his coffee mug, the coffee was dark and sinful. It was early in the day, and his mind was already asking him what-is-life questions? Why people marry, isn’t that a vicious circle, you are born, spent like quarter of century loitering around in social norms, then fall in love, get married , create offsprings…take care of them and then die peacefully (well the last part is pretty much probabilistic)

Suddenly Irvine Welsh makes sense, surprisingly without the drug culture portrayed in Trainspotting (fugging nice movie it was !! )
Choose life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a fucking big television, Choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players, an…

The song “my body is a cage” also gets relevant.
But the big question still persists, maybe this is what they say in self-help book, you will wake up one day on your bed, look around yourself and think “what the fuck am I doing with my life?”. No don’t get me wrong, that morning is still waiting. I think I read it first in a book a CEO friend gave me, I am missing the name…(check Goodreads) …see that’s what social media and internet age has done with us millennials. We have answers for almost anything, give us five minutes, and we can read through Web Pages and give tangible answers. But something that is amiss is….well…if I would have known it, then I would qualify for a millennial. May be spirituality … may be more tangible expression of religion, now being agnostic, it defeats me sometimes when people get overly attached to religion and start basing most of their actions on it. Or when they give me that-look , when I say something that agnostics/atheists say.
(coffee sure makes mouth dry, shouldn’t we have extra-hydrated-coffee)

Well the good thing is that Quora launched its blogging platform, so that saves me from hunting around for a perfect tech blogging platform.
Get my musings of my left brain here
If I am moody enough to start updating one more blog…another good news is being in India for 15 days, I can again take on pledge of updating 15 posts. Should be a good incentive ?
As one of my friend says, thats what happens when you move into corporate , (as if I was writing prolifically when I wasn’t in corporate )

Trainspotting - choose life

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