A watchman in our society, on an average, lasts 3 months. Just when we get a hang of each other's eccentricities, he disappears. So you have to start all over with the new man. 'Don't ever ring my bell twice... I carry my bags myself, thank you... '. And so on. +

Bill Bernbach, the most quotable of all the advertising Gods, once said, "It's not a principle till it costs you money.' It is only as an entrepreneur (I wish there was a less ostentatious word for this), that I fully understood the genius of that simple sentence. +

Every now and again, you meet a moral dilemma. They are the most troubling kind. Unlike the 'sambar daalke ya alag?' variety of dilemma. I'm talking about business opportunities that come with the faint, or not so faint, whiff of blackness in the lentils. +

We live in a grayscale world. Viewed through multi-hued glasses. A world where doctored and engineered have unflattering meanings. Forget about squeaky clean, nobody even seems to be scratchy clean. Even hallowed seems like a typo for hollowed. +

Shouldn't we take briefs at face value? After all, we are communicators, not investigators. Shouldn't we take shelter behind caveat emptor? Pass on the legal responsibility to the client and the rest to the customer? +

We are sloganeers and image makers, aren't we? Paid for our cleverness. Not for our, what's that word, scruples? That word is always a bit elusive. +

We are a people with pliable moral and ethical standards. Chalta hai, jugaad, we are like this only, kindly adjust, tedhi ungli, patli gully are cute verbal disguises for dishonesty. Taking liberties with the letter of the law has alway been okay. +

To us the law is not a diktat. It's a challenge. Like escaping from a mystery room. We rewrite and re-interpret the laws for ourselves in a more amenable, comfortable, acceptable, practical, convenient, benevolent manner.
+

And then we make abiding by this rewritten legal framework our way of life. In fact, we've made it a very cool thing as well. Giving and getting proxy at attendance, fudging a concession form, traveling by bus and claiming air fare, padding up travel expenses... +

... borrowing petrol and medical bills, copying in exams, getting rent bills from your own Dad, taking payment in a spouse's name, paying part in black, buying without a bill, using peons and office cars for personal work, bribing a traffic cop, ... +

... using the services of a tout at the RTO, greasing a TTE's palm, finding a railway contact to release EQ for non emergencies, buying booze and washing machines from the army canteen, getting fitness and sickness certificates without check ups... +

Rana's mother insisted he call his father Pitaji. Not Papa, Baba, Babuji, and definitely not Daddy. 'But Ma,' he used to complain, 'this is the 21st century, not pracheen Bharat'. 'That's why I'm not asking you to call him Pitashri', she would retort. +

On the other hand, Sweety's mother, a very modern lady indeed, made sure she (Sweety) called her father Daddy. He didn't mind being called anything. Pop, Dad, Baba, Daddykins, Popsy.. as long as he got his quota of hugs and kisses from his darling daughter. +

Rana grew into a strapping young man. Earning raised (but respectful) eyebrows, when his friends heard him call his father Pitaji. But Pitaji deserved that honour. For he was an honourable man. +

He worked long night shifts at a distant factory 6 days of the week. At home, he was kind, loving, and indulgent during the few hours he was awake. His wife cherished his diligence, discipline, and devotion to her. She fed him well, and made sure he got his rest. +

Every morning at the factory, he'd hand over duty to Daddy, the Day Manager, and head home. Daddy worked all day till Pitaji returned to relieve him. On Wednesday, both of them took a much deserved break, when the factory had its weekly holiday. +

My father likes to brag. Specially about his athletic abilities. Truth is, he does manage to catch the toast before it falls to the floor. At half his age, I can't do that. "Keeper's reflexes", he says. The rest of us exchange 'there he goes again' glances. Mom just smiles. +

We've heard his 'I could have played for India' story a few times. About how one dropped catch in a crucial match cost him his India berth. How he quit the game after that. And became an actuary. Instead of people studying his stats, he studied theirs. +

It's true that his keeper-reflexes have saved many a pickle jar, egg, and tea cup. He has thumbed his nose at gravity so often. we jokingly call him Rakesh Sharma. He'd have preferred Kiri or Rod or Alan. +

Here's his story. Years ago, his team was one wicket away from victory. The opponents two runs away. The pitch was crumbling. Dogra bowled a beaut. The ball pitched and reared up. It took the bat's shoulder and sailed towards him. That was the India cap flying into his hands. +

Tragically, along with the ball, a clod from the disintegrating pitch flew up too. Dad's eyes stayed on the clod. While the ball mockingly wafted by him. And rolled over the rope. It was a catch Kachra could have taken. +

This isn't a story set in the year everyone loves to hate. In fact, that was a pretty good year for Rahul. It suited him well. He was anyway an expert at staying indoors and shunning human company. +

He liked nothing more than to make two packets of Maggi using three sachets of tastemaker, a cup of tea brewed for precisely 150 seconds, and then settle down on his chair that was specifically chosen because it could rest the plate and cup on its broad arms. And a book too. +

He'd sit there and think thoughts like 'Even my name is so lame. It's the default option every copywriter uses while writing an ad about a young executive. Don't they know most Rahuls are in their fifties now?' +

Anyway, what I am about to narrate happened a year before the big bad one. On the day that the world has arbitrarily decided to burden with great import. New Year's Eve. A day that really meant nothing to Rahul. But late that evening basic arithmetic caught up with him. +

He had run out of tastemaker. There were six packets of noodles on his shelf, their throats slit, robbed of their magical sachets with the mysterious powers. Sealed with rubber bands, the packets stared back blandly at Rahul. +

Offered a guy a ride from Yaba to Obalende this morning. Just as we're approaching Alagomeji, uncle asked me if he can drive. Said he's not comfortable being driven by a woman. I parked and told him to come and take the wheel. Once he got down, I just zoomed off. Arrant nonsense

Funny thing is the guy is quite young. He can't be more than 25. How can someone that young have this sort of mentality?

I actually did not think that the guy could have wanted to get away with my car at the time. Now that I think of it though, that's a big possibility. We need to be careful out there. These thieves now have different ways of operating

One wonders how long Lord Frost will retain his new position. The personnel decisions made by the PM are nothing if not frequent, ruthless and mercurial.

The whole affair is very curious. While I am sure that Lord Frost’s elevation owes much to his relationship with the PM and the perceived success of the Brexit negotiation, it is very curious indeed that allegedly it took a threat to resign to secure this new role.

A role which is needed (although might have been structured differently) but was to a large effect previously undertaken (with reasonable success) by Michael Gove who one might imagine may not be entirely happy with this diminishment of his responsibilities.

What might have happened to have resulted in this dramatic and to some extent destructive move (which appears to have been played out in the context of a wider struggle that saw Oliver Lewis (previously Lord Frost’s (LF) negotiation deputy)?

The original sin, of course, is the agreement to the Northern Ireland Protocol. Who knows who did what to who or thought what about what but my speculation is the PM either did not understand the consequences of the Protocol or was assured they could be successfully addressed.

@Suman68082748 @thetwinkwolff @x_karran_x @Sunil9130 Lets stop the criticism guys. The lad is good. Losses happen. Losses to unranked players happen too. As do wins vs top 10ers. Let's accept both. Remember Sumit and the likes of him are the best we have. See the bigger picture please.

@thetwinkwolff @x_karran_x @Sunil9130 When the Europeans or South Americans were getting quality practice and tourneys week in week out at reasonable costs, our kids were playing on dung courts or learning outdated serve and volley on grass. Appreciate the fact that the last 10 years have been a hell lot better than

@thetwinkwolff @x_karran_x @Sunil9130 the 10 before that. Real change can't come in a day or even in 10 years. So let's grit our teeth and bide our time till we have an organic self sustaining system in place.

@siyer30 @SportaSmile @Cric_Writer @RomilShukla @amanthejourno

@thetwinkwolff @x_karran_x @Sunil9130 @siyer30 @SportaSmile @Cric_Writer @RomilShukla @amanthejourno Tennis is my favourite sport in the universe. Has always been. Will always be. I was in love with Steffi and Pete a lot before I fell for Sachin. And while I would love every toddler in my family to play sports professionally, I won't encourage them to pursue my favourite sport.

@thetwinkwolff @x_karran_x @Sunil9130 @siyer30 @SportaSmile @Cric_Writer @RomilShukla @amanthejourno It will be career suicide. In other sports, I can actually plan for my ward to be the next Lin Dan or the next Tiger Woods or the next Schumacher even from a base in India. With tennis, in 2020 I can't do that realistically. Just doesn't adds up. Even for total freaks of nature.