After a long time, I finally remember what Sunday afternoons are about – listening to Rachmaninoff / Tchaikovsky, reading the newspaper and dozing off when you want to, waking up suddenly to discover it’s only 4:00pm and lie back and enjoy the afternoon sun streaming through the fluttering curtains and the cool breeze from the fan whirring away conscientiously, with unfailing regularity.
Investment Banker (by day)
I am a living cliché; like thousands of my compatriots. I have been through the usual routine: became a computer engineer; almost started my career as one; chucked my plum IT job to do an MBA; became a banker instead.
I am a closet-environmentalist. I exhibit shades of socialism, but I am mostly a capitalist. I am a fatalist. I am a minimalist; ironically, I am also verbose, which should be evident by now.
I am a photographer because I can take cool photos with my point-and-click. Or so other people tell me. I am a writer because I write “good stuff” on my blog. (My mother thinks they are valiant attempts at writing. Disappointingly, I am inclined to agree.) I also tend to exaggerate.
Often, I tell stories to make a point, and change my mind half-way and decide not to. This, understandably, irritates my friends. A lot.
I have been accused of being a good public speaker, because I write well. The logic overwhelms me, and gives me stage-fright off stages. I love to play football. I love to run.
I am a has-been quizzer, pretending to be otherwise, the kind I especially hate. I cling on, especially because I could have been an is-now.
I still haven’t gotten used to my long limbs, or my large head or for that matter, my receding hairline. I don’t think I ever will. I find people who call me handsome, funny, and at times, weird. (Weird ranks among one of my favourite words. Cute, on the other hand, is the worst euphemism I have come across.)
I also like laughing at myself. It reminds me that fate has been kind to me; which gives me a huge inferiority complex and makes me feel guilty as hell when I see street-urchins. I use clichés a lot, and I love being repetitive.
I was also fascinated by random events. Was. My fascination was brutally killed when I was told a random number is “…neither a number nor random. It is a bijection between events …” The corpse has only burrowed deeper since.
Speaking of random, ωηωεκ doesn’t mean anything. Under duress once, I had to expand it to What No-one Will Ever Know. Luckily, my single-digit IQ terrorists were satisfied with that, and I lived to tell this tale.
I have also been fascinated at different points of time, by airplanes, pens, computers, digital circuits, statistics and writing. I had this terrible fascination for footnotes once, till I heard about Lee Iacocca’s legendary 80-page footnote.
(In front of the statue of Yuri Gagarin)
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