Childhood memories
My flatmate and I were pitying all the poor kids that had to travel along the approach road to our apartment complex that housed an ICSE syllabus school on some really shady transport buses on a road that had more craters than the Lebanese airport runways did after the Israeli onslaught on them.
Talk changed from the usual mundane routine stuff of how much I owed my flatmate, who has involuntarily become my ATM, since I feel too lazy to go all the way to one to withdraw any money, preferring to transfer funds over the net instead, to something more interesting.
I was telling him of how traumatized those children would have been, with being thrown around in the bus on that road like a sardines in a can, and of how they would all probably turn out to be disgruntled future managers of some tech company, ruining the lives of all those around them. It wasn’t too late, all they needed was better transport to prevent their delicate psyche from getting injured.
We then began discussing about how it was in our school days, when we had huge TATA buses that picked us up from our designated stops, where the younger ones would be waiting with either of their parents in tow, and the older ones would be alone, this freedom of going to the bus stop on their own after being taken there by their folks for the first few years of school, being something worth looking forward to.
Our school had only two route buses that covered two halves of the city and managed to make it to school in time for us to reach the morning assembly. Mysore was a small city a decade ago, and that made life easier for a whole lot of people – parents, school authorities as well as us children.
The rides were eventful most of the time, as eventful as a whole bunch of children on a bus without parental control could be, and there were the usual fights for seats, and for opening and closing the door for children to climb in, a duty that was usually entrusted to someone who was deemed competent enough by the ‘driver-uncle’, and consequently, the alpha-male in the bus.
Yours truly did get the honour of being the ‘door-keeper’ quite a few times, until someone’s nose got in the way of an opening bus door, and the driver-uncle thought I was incompetent of that task, and the role of the alpha male of the bus would then be passed over me to go to the puniest female in the bus who wasn’t even capable of turning the handle, but was forced to do so nevertheless. Anything, to avoid me damaging more nostrils.
I learnt something from this incident that most of you are probably learning on the job or through shady email forwards – if you do something badly, chances are, you will not be asked to do it again. This is among one of the best case scenarios to avoid work and still get paid for coming to the office to blog and abuse your co-workers in a code language that they cannot understand. Or for that matter, a language that nobody else can understand. We all like to be that way sometimes.
The school bus was also an interesting place for pre and post school hours socializing and fighting. This was the place where some of my friends found out that I had a crush on this girl who was a year ahead of me, and decided to make my life miserable about it because they were in her class.
Apart from the fact that I thought she was cute, I also thought in class 2 that she had nice shoes (which seemed to be among the criteria for my ideal woman back then), not the usual navy-blue canvas shoes that we were required to wear to school as part of our uniform, but some thick-soled, cool black shoes that I was surprised she could wear without being cautioned by our teachers who checked for errant uniform violators and made them run around the school grounds twice before packing them off to class.
In a fit of foolish chivalry, I had even made up my mind to run around the school grounds each day on her behalf, should she ever have been caught for her offense. But I guess that never happened because she could, like most other women, get away with most things. Us men wrongly assume that women are the weaker sex.
I am being engulfed by a million little memories that are pouring through my mind about everything that transpired in my school-life, though the one that my folks talk about most is my first among many forays into delinquent behaviour, which caused my family a lot of shame and embarrassment (or so I had thought back then) and even drove me to a point where I thought of thinking about quitting school and running away to join some farm.
The blogging universe would have been a better place, had I been strong-willed enough to do that.
As kids, an inherent fascination with catapults was but natural. An attempt to ask my folks for one usually resulted in them fantasizing about the worst case scenarios of buying me one. ‘What if you take someone’s eye out with that thing?’ or ‘What if you hit someone and that person beats you up for it?’ and so on and so forth.
A whole lot of tries to come up with handmade catapults using rubber-bands and Y-shaped branches meticulously broken off trees that we could reach up towards also came to nought, since they weren’t anywhere near the robust ones that I had seen other kids have, which their parents managed to buy them, or nearly as durable, since either the rubber-bands or the twigs broke within one or two tries of intending to take someone’s eye out.
Us suppressed pranksters on the school bus then resorted to one thing. We used to take strong rubber bands and roll up paper torn out of our ‘rough notes’ book and hit passers-by on the road from inside the bus. The feeling of hitting some poor unsuspecting person on the road when he least expected it, with a tightly-rolled wad of paper gave us children on the bus an incomparable adrenaline rush.
Back in class 6, we took this activity of ours very seriously, and performed extensive R&D during our lunch breaks to come up with the right kind of rubber bands and the correct type of paper that was light and could, at the same time travel a substantial distance as well when released, without tearing up when we would eject it off the rubber-band.
Coaxing my Mum that I needed rubber bands for playing during our lunch break was quite a torrid task, since she suspected that I was up to no good, a Mom-radar that each mother has right from the time she manages to give birth to us ungrateful wretches. However, being susceptible to the pleadings or her kid, she gave in and was convinced that this was a new addition to our ‘cops and robbers’ game during the lunch break wherein we would also hit each other lightly with these paper projectiles.
Harbouring a fantasy that her good-for-nothing kid, who did not show any promise or propensity towards anything that wasn’t anti-social for the first 10 years of his existance, might still be able to do something good like join the state-level archery team or something, my Mum relented and actually went shopping with me for the ‘disco’ rubber bands, the same ones I used a decade later to tie up my pony tail, during which she accompanied me to shop for them yet again. Some wonderful things, thankfully, never really change. Touchwood.
We had a points scoring system of sorts, I think, on the school bus, and took great pleasure in reliving each moment of each passer-by’s reaction who was stuck by our blows. We, naturally were the good guys, out to teach the bad people a lesson. The bad people were usually pedestrians who couldn’t chase the bus, and were not concentrated in the vicinity of any of the places where our school-bus used to stop.
When paper and rubber bands were not enough to vanquish the forces of evil, we resorted to using unripe sapotas and tamarind seeds that were painfully collected from around various places like the school nursery (for plants, not kids) in small polythene bags and sun-dried to perfection so that they could cause maximum damage when thrown out.
The gulf war in Iraq happened around the same time, and we started calling these ‘missiles’ that we threw out as ‘scud missiles’ and ‘patriot missiles’, or whatever else caught our fancy. Sometimes they were even called the ‘Bhramastra’, if the previous sunday had a particularly gripping episode of the Mahabharata shown on TV.
Our reverie was invariably short-lived, and came to a crashing end when one of the people in our army chose to hit a cyclist with a fruit on a road that was very close to our school’s. The evidently angered cyclist decided to give chase, and stopped our school bus and told the driver about our shenanigans.
To cut a long story short, our bus driver did not have to do much to identify the guilty ones, and our parents telephone numbers were noted, and they were called for an audience with the headmaster, at school. A special announcement was made in the school assembly that the school bus would now be running only for children from classes 1 to 4, and everyone else had to make their own arrangements.
The teacher also did mention that those who really wanted to have target practise could join the NCC a couple of years in advance and play with rifles, and please could we leave the passers-by alone.
The next few days until the end of the academic year were absolute hell on the school bus, with the driver making us sit next to him in front, and giving us dirty looks all the time and rubbing in the fact that we were caught red-handed.
My folks were also terribly disappointed with me, and felt that I was on my way to being a terrorist. This was before Al-Queda happened, though I made sure they would take their words back, once they figured out that flying planes for target practise would never be my thing.
I had thought that my world as I knew it would never be the same again, specially after being caught and punished so badly for something I knew was wrong, but did all the same, to explore my anti-social side. I found out later, though, that everyone places information unrelated to them in the short-term memory part of their brains, and that things got back to normal at home and at school in a couple of weeks, though I never did really think of throwing something out of the school bus at someone ever again.
Walk of Shame ? Definitely not!
In a fit of extreme cheapness, I have also decided to cash in on this issue and write about it. You don’t wanna read it? Fuck off, I don’t care.
Guess that didn’t really work. Whatever, nevermind. You’re kind and patient and all that jazz and blah blah.
In the 110th minute, during extra-time, Materazzi pinched Zidane’s nipple, as was evidently seen on the camera, and also said some nasty stuff about Zidane’s mother and sister, as Zidane claimed in a press conference later on. A sudden rush of blood to his head literally tilted it forward and made him involuntarily bump that Italian buffon on his chest.
Anyone making a unilateral attack of sorts on someone dear to you should deserve that and more.
What happened next will go down in the annals of footballing history and will be remembered by everyone in our generation for quite some time. The refree saw red, showed Zidane the red, and Zizou walked off the football pitch, never to come on it to represent les bleus again.
The most poignant vision is that of him walking down the players tunnel with the World Cup trophy standing there, in all its resplendent glory, and nobody deserved to get it more than him.
Things unfortunately never turn out the way you want them to. Some eternal optimists say that this is the beauty of life. The eternally optimistic people who still haven’t jumped onto the cynic bandwagon have a separate place in hell reserved for them, for being so naievely stupid.
For all its worth it, Zidane is great. Ask his national team. Ask the Juventus fans, ask the people at Madrid who commemorated his exit in his last game by having all the players wear a special jersey that said ‘Zidane 2001-06′ close to their club logo on their chest.
He does not need another World Cup victory to prove to anyone that he is among the world’s best. It was his final game, and he will be remembered much more now than he would have, had he not reacted to it.
Going out in a blaze of glory on your own terms is much better any day than to succumb to niceties and turning the other cheek.
Marco Materazzi, rot in hell.
To hell with appeasement or being a pacifist.
Free as a Bird!
I finally get to watch the video thanks to Youtube.com, though I somehow don’t know why I hadn’t done so before. Better late than never.
This was coupled with the stuff I had read about the video before, that you can also check out here. You have to sift through quite an intesting bit of Beatles trivia before you do get here, but its well worth the perusal.
Really arbit, so far as posting goes, but I am way too excited about having seen this amazing video!
The Reality TV thing will continue…keep waiting! I shall do full justice to that soon enough!
Reality TV isn’t what it used to be!!!
(Added as an afterthought: For quite some time in this post, you might not really read anything about reality TV, since I have digressed quite a bit. Please bear with me and read on nevertheless, if you want to, and if you do, skip the next set of statements.
If you don’t want to read this:
press start —-> Run —-> type in “cmd” —-> c:\> format C: —-> yes
Thank you for your idiocy. The world would be a better place without me knowing you existed!)
There is something nice about visiting a foreign country at the expense of the company that one is working for. A skinny brown Asian guy in a sea of Nordic Caucasians stands out like a peanut in a bowl of diamonds, metaphorically speaking…or wait, ain’t that a similee?? Nevermind.(thanks Kodes!)
My company sent me to Norway, one of the three Scandinavian nations (the other two being Sweden and Denmark, thanks Suri!), and for a first time foreign trip for someone who couldn’t possibly imagine going to this part of the world with the kind of exchange rates that his national currency provides him with, this place has been quite a good one to start off with!
Technically challenging work, a whole new experience of different work culture and all that yada yada yada that I was given as motivation to accept wanting to go to Oslo notwithstanding (yes, I chose not to ask for the trip myself though avenues were available, because that would be tantamous to begging), I have definitely experienced a paradigm shift in my outlook towards things in general.
Being half the world away (to cheaply quote an Oasis song title and fit it to context) from every single person or group of people that has ever been relevant to me, or that I have known, its been quite a task to actually stick to being a social animal, with the exception of the occasional direction asking spree, which was also done away with once I acquainted myself with the place, and was able to figure out that I was good at reading maps and not getting lost too frequently while hiking in the picturesque woods.
The hotel where I have been living at has a whole lot of other foreigners too. People from Poland, Estonia, Lithuania, Latvia, Sweden, Thailand and yours truly from India. Language, in most cases has been a barrier, and with the exception of the occasional discussions about relative prices of beer and cigarettes in our respective countries and about football in general and the football World Cup specifically, there hasn’t really been much to talk about.
I was initially a little bewildered that there were no Norwegians at the hotel, but I then figured out that most of them go out of the country for a 4-5 week vacation during summer (right about now). The sun does not set until 11PM at night, and rises as early as 3AM. I still haven’t seen the stars, who have been my otherwise constant companions back at home as I looked heavenwards for exercising my neck muscles, or as I lay down on my terrace in a mild alcohol-induced stupor, thinking of a lot of vague stuff.
One important lesson learnt: if you have an east-facing room, draw the curtains across the window before you go to sleep. Otherwise you might end up waking at 4-30AM and get ready in a rush to ensure you’re not late to the office on your first day, only to kick yourself in the butt later after looking at the time. This happened to someone very familiar and someone real stupid. No prizes for guessing who.
Keeping oneself preoccupied on the weekends despite going solo is not such a hard thing, because Oslo city is a wonderful place that has a lot of interesting sights and sounds. Check out my photoblog for more on that.
Its on the weekdays after work that it sometimes gets real hard to figure out what to do. After the obligatory exploration of the entire area was dispensed with, there was this gaping void that was present right after the time I returned to my hotel room until the time I prepared dinner and crashed.
One of the things I had initially zeroed in on doing was to pick up a few phrases of the local language here. After learning about most of the phrases that were used in everyday life, including “Which of these bathrooms has a water spray in addition to the obligatory toilet paper, because in my part of the world, we’re not really comfortable with anything but water to do the needful?“, and feeling pretty smug, I decided to go ahead and take in some common food related words that might prove helpful while browsing through some restaurant menu that I was checking out, so that I did not order anything I could not digest.
This was easily accomplished, as I went about my task in a huge supermarket that was close to my hotel room. I learnt the words for yoghurt, beer, cake, chicken, beef (to avoid as much of it as was possible) , onion, cabbage, radish, dental floss, shoe horns, body odour and so on, and was feeling good at the progress I made, until I inadvertently strayed into some aisle that stacked tampax without realizing it and was observed by some women there that gave me looks so dirty, I just crumbled to pieces. I’m still searching for my medula oblongata and my sense of humour.
With everything else tried and tested, I safely went about into my final retreat, the last hope for my time killing exercises, the beautiful and lovely television. If you’ve been stupid enough to have read my archives, you’d have chanced upon some posts of me extolling its virtues.
There are lesser number of channels being aired on cable TV here, mostly because of the fact that people speak lesser languages unintelligible to most other social groups in the country. Hence there are telecasts in Norwegian, Swedish, French and English only.
MTV airs South Park and this brilliant comedy cartoon series called “Drawn Together“, which is a spoof of reality TV shows, with a whole host of cartoons in it that are drawn together, so to speak. South Park you know of, Drawn Together is wacky and is something I will sorely miss when I will not be able to watch it. MTV Europe also has extremely low content, with the Mary J Blige version of U2′s “one” being aired atleast thrice every hour.
There are a whole host of other channels that air television shows from the US. CSI, CSI:Miami, CSI:New York are three shows that I find surprisingly entertaining with the only redundancies being in their respective titles. I also manage to get to watch The Simpsons. Cartoon Network, however, has all its content dubbed into Norwegian. Boo hoo!
In a complete 360 degree turn-around, I even ended up watching shows that I would never have thought I’d ever bother to see, a few years or even a few months ago……………..
What startling revelations will you get to read in my next blog post?
How much more boring can this get??
For the answers to all your inane questions and then some, keep that firefox tab locked onto my blog site!
Fuck, way too much TV.
Read more in the next post.
Trivial Pursuit!!
Simply put, it tells me if the reader has arrived at my blog directly, as a result of my not-so-subtle shameless self-promotion, or if there are other sources that have brought them here. Many thanks here to all those people that I’ve conned into linking my blog on theirs. Too late!!
There are other really interesting search keywords that have brought people to my blog, and some of the search queries are pretty befuddling. For more proof -
- inject gluteal
- gluteal injection & nurses
- scared of injections
- mandira bedi fan club
(what the?????)
- teri behan ki
(search query put in by someone with a lot of imagination so far as cuss words are concerned)
- painful butt injection
- Mysore mallika (myway search)
(dude, search for a porn movie correctly, you don’t even know its fricking name. What a retard!)
- Bee Sting BDSM
(Now isn’t that a candidate for the thing that most of us are least looking forward to!)
- excuse for being off work after wasp sting
(nice, I like the way you think!)
- hot pic of mandira bedi in cricket commentary
- enjoy injection woman gluteal
(downright gross)
- things that make you say whoa
- Himmesh+Reshammiya News May 31
- MLK jr. “I had dream”
- “Hari Hari”. Oh D-uh!
- fishing, chinki
(too weird to comment on. I wonder what the search query was actually supposed to look for?)
- are mallu nurses in bangalore neat
(prospective match-making aspirant’s query. Sure, they’re neat, I hope. At least for your sake)
- Free Kamasutra sites
(Now how the hell did my blog come up on such a search query?? Am I dropping way too many more terms and names than is required?)
- pain while sitting, swollen gluteus
- “inspiring questions”+creativity
(sorry, lacking in both)
- south park(revenge sucker)
Now, I have a hunch that whenever people type the queries listed above, they will be directed to my blog with greater frequency. It is but a vicious circle, that!
Thank God for the sitemeter, for having tracked what sort of other weirdos inhabit this planet.
I will keep updating this list….watch this space!
Gawd TV!
A new place to stay, in a very nice locality, albeit with a pathetic approach road, is what has happened, to put it in a nutshell. One of the many wonderful things about this new place is that one of my flatmates, Kutty, has brought over his TV, thereby ending two years of painful agony that yours truly had to endure (sometimes by choice, sometimes by compulsion) for not being in the hallowed presence of what some really jealous people call the Idiot Box.
Anyway, now that my ‘condition’ has been remedied, so to speak, I have gotten back to what I do best, next only to spending my time at the office pretending to work, while actually typing out shit like this, in the fervent hope that some moron like you will read it and find it funny. If your ego is fragile, please don’t read the previous sentence, it might not do you any good.
Oops.
Anyway, just kidding about that. The very fact that you’re able to understand complex sentence construction to an extent where every single thing I says isn’t even mildly comprenhesible says a lot about how well your English teacher has taught you in school and also about your levels of perseverance at reading absolute horsedung online, not to mention your exemplary comprehension levels.
Back to my joyful reunion with the TV, albeit not mine. Same difference, though.
With work, commuting and long and mostly happy telephone conversations and somewhat intense playing at the Woodrose club, the lovely television is seldom awarded with my presence for more than an hour before somnolence gently creeps over me.
The other night when I was watching TV, VH1 specifically (they had a Greenday Storytellers’ special, which I’d highly recommend you watch if you can), and there was a commercial break in the interim during which I was able to randomly channel surf. I found out that there are no Shakeela movies being telecast on TV, the rumours are untrue.
In addition, I chanced upon this channel I have been seeing all too very often without ever bothering to acknowledge its presence on my television – God TV. This time they were showing an ad with a few guys standing in flowing robes standing in St.Peter’s square as some music, some techno stuff or some disco stuff was being played in the background.
In this part of the post onwards, I am going to abuse the TV channel, though I must state that I am venting my ire only on those people who came up with the channel, and not against faithful believers or God. Believe me when I tell you, I am afraid of God’s retribution, and hence I shall not bother to ruffle his/her feathers.
What sort of idiots would want to come up with a channel like God TV, eh? Imagine the content manager of the channel, or whatever he is called, having to scan through each and every single line of the Bible for inputs on what to do for new material. This is probably the only channel where they propagate the funda that its cool to have re-runs.
We have re-runs and we’re damn proud of it! We believe that repeated content will enhance the viewer’s faith and propagate our message further!
As a friend of mine pointed out, the very presence of God TV is for the cable operator to proudly claim that he is supplying us with more channels than we can possibly watch, nevermind the fact that its absolutely unviewable even by people who have gone without watching the lovely television for two whole years! The TV channel is a filler that people use before being able to go from one channel to another.
Another possible reason for its existence (one of the very few present) could be for pseudo-pious kids to be pretending they’re watching it at night, while all they are really doing is to wait for their folks to get out of the room so they can slip in the porn CD and watch it to their libido’s content. Instant gratification!! Well, almost.
For those that tend to disagree with my viewpoint, try watching Benny Hinn or some other TV evangelist talk, and you will know exactly what I am referring to. Religion is a very personal thing and every person should have the right to follow it as per his/her wishes. Coaxing people via a stupid television channel to try and stretch the definition of piety beyond tolerable means is blasphemy by itself.
Do I see you turning off your comp in disgust to go watch God TV?
Rarest Opportunity!!!!
(Notice how I see man, to denote us males of the species and not women, since graffiti has probably never been their thing. Correct me if I’m wrong, though!!!)
John Gutenberg then invented the printing press, and printed Bibles, and the Holy Bible went on to be an all-time best-seller. Some people speculate that it was not so much because of how popular the book was, but because it had the distinction of being the first one to have been printed, and the extreme hype propelled its stellar sales. If only I could turn back time, maybe I’d have Vatsyayana’s Kamasutra printed out first, just to see if the rumour was true!!
The power of the written word has been used as an effective communication tool, and has led to the success of a lot of enterprises. The P&T departments of various nations, newspapers and media magazines, and of course, Abdul Karim Telgi, among many others all owe their good fortunes to the written word.
One fine day, Sabeer Bhatia and John Smith decided that they wanted to impress women (or maybe men, I know not and I don’t care either!) and hence thought of a novel concept – that of sending and receiving messages over a network, in a very nicely packaged manner. As a dedication to their repressed homosexual urges towards each other, they decided to name it ‘hotmail‘, very ominously sounding like, you know, ‘hotmale’.
Emails, as these messages were subsequently referred to as, have now caught on in a big way, and have changed and redefined the lives of people as we know it today. Instant communication, free, easy, fast and convenient. Getting porn from eightly different websites after signing up at only one has never been easier. One would think that viagra sales and average weiner sizes (atleast in places with reasonable internet access) would also have been boosted due to the incessant spam mails that one receives about libido increase and cheap cialis and viagra. This is apparently the next report that the studs at some major consulting firm are working on as a holiday project, after preparing reports based on detailed studies regarding the emergence of India and China as the dominating superpowers on the world stage in a few decades from now.
As with a whole lot of other innovations, the email evolutionary curve has now started going downhill, with incessant usage by people not qualified to get within ten metres of a keyboard. A brilliant forward that I received from a buddy of mine goes to illustrate just that.
Hi,
People are interested in rare things, now this is common. People are interested in rare events, which is common too. What’s not common and rare is attending a session by *****. This is because Firstly chance to attend *****’s session is rare. That to session on ******* is still rare. Hence, I am sure your interest is double by now because of this rare event presented by a rare person in the unique presence of ******* like you. Yes!! You are invited to make this event a rare one. Make this event successful in such a way that very rarely we get know such success.
Certain words have been blanked out to protect the identity of the people in question, so that you don’t go ahead and strangulate them.
Please come and visit this post as often as possible, and make this blog post successful in such a way that very rarely I will get to know such a hit rate.
Balls of Steel
The ad portrays the situation from the viewpoint of a 30-something year old person who has probably been stressed out enough by his line of work to contemplate wanting to just let go and start something afresh or do something without being restricted by a whole lot of bounds, including that of having to supervise, or be supervised and monitored.
There are a whole lot of people who’ve been disgruntled enough with the Indian IT industry to want to take that leap, and perform a trailblazer act of sorts and charter their own course of life. Some of them take up further studies either in the form of an MS in the states, or undertake their MBA from a leading institute within the country.
The end result of either undertaking results in the subject in question leading himself/herself back to square one, by probably working in some allied field, that runs the risk of leaving them as disgruntled as they were when they decided to quit, though with a substantially ballooned up compensation.
(To digress a little, why is our salary referred to as compensation? Something to seriously contemplate.)
There are very few people that one would’ve heard of, who is actually at peace with the sort of work they do, and would enjoy working in the same place for the rest of their lives. This is an assumption, call it a blatant extrapolation if you will, that I have made, based on the general rants that I have heard from a limited section of people who aren’t happy with what they’re doing.
The general discontent is more the norm than the exception. The only thing that probably keeps a whole lot of people going is the security, primarily financial, that probably provides a safety net and compensates for everything else that the job isn’t.
In my opinion, (and you’d concur when I’d say humble), it really takes guts for someone to break away from the system, and attempt to do something that lays more emphasis on the satisfaction of a job well done (guaranteed, if only for the efforts put in, because it is a labour of love) as opposed to the safety net that a mundane job would provide.
I was wondering, sometimes, if I would have the courage to want to do something like this. I eventually figured out that I will definitely do it, but once I have attained financial stability. Playing it safe seems like the only option.
However, there are some people out there who have decided to take the plunge on their own, and a colleague of mine has done just that.
My admiration for his efforts is not a reciprocal thing reeking of sycophancy,for him having filled out and uploaded my resume on the monster job site, for me to look for greener pastures, but is a sincere attempt at trying to highlight his courage.
Having worked for two years in the It industry, our man, Sachin (thatzhisneihm), has decided to call it quits. He would have completed two years in the tech industry at the end of June, but he chose to leave the organization where he was at a month earlier, simply because he wanted to watch the FIFA World Cup.
After a well-deserved month of drowning himself in the magic of the beautiful game, he plans to start a venture of his own, a website of sorts, the details of which are still under wraps.
Being the football crazy guy that he is, he has come up with a WC toolbar that you can download and use here.
Amusingly enough, when asked for the reason for quitting his job, he had the chutzpah to say that it was for taking time off to watch the World Cup, something which is probably still flabbergasted the poor person unfortunate enough to take his exit interview (some procedural requirement in organizations as a last-ditch attempt at wanting you to stay on even after you’ve made up your mind to escape).
There are other instances as well, of people walking away into the sunset, far away from the mundane throes of a not-so-satisfying job, to move onto something they really enjoy doing. Sidin Vadukut is once such example, though our Footie man here is a babe in the woods in comparison with the blogging stud, who has more extensive credentials to back him up, combined with (probably), substantial capital that he’d have amassed at his consulting job. Takes a whole lot of balls, nevertheless to rely solely on his book, and his other ventures for a living.
More updates on our friend, in the posts to follow. Good luck, Sachin.
