The Fringe Benefits of Failure, and the Importance of Imagination

This speech by J.K. Rowling was shared with me by my favourite teacher Prof. Tareque Laskar. I am forever indebted to him for sharing with me this piece of gem. Today I share it with you with a hope that it brings to the same enlightenment that it brought to me.

Harvard University 375th Commencement Address

J.K. Rowling

As prepared for delivery

President Faust, members of the Harvard Corporation and the Board of Overseers, members of the faculty, proud parents, and, above all, graduates,

The first thing I would like to say is ‘thank you.’ Not only has Harvard given me an extraordinary honour, but the weeks of fear and nausea I’ve experienced at the thought of giving this commencement address have made me lose weight. A win-win situation! Now all I have to do is take deep breaths, squint at the red banners and fool myself into believing I am at the world’s best-educated Harry Potter convention.

Delivering a commencement address is a great responsibility; or so I thought until I cast my mind back to my own graduation. The commencement speaker that day was the distinguished British philosopher Baroness Mary Warnock. Reflecting on her speech has helped me enormously in writing this one, because it turns out that I can’t remember a single word she said. This liberating discovery enables me to proceed without any fear that I might inadvertently influence you to abandon promising careers in business, law or politics for the giddy delights of becoming a gay wizard.

You see? If all you remember in years to come is the ‘gay wizard’ joke, I’ve still come out ahead of Baroness Mary Warnock. Achievable goals: the first step towards personal improvement.

Actually, I have wracked my mind and heart for what I ought to say to you today. I have asked myself what I wish I had known at my own graduation, and what important lessons I have learned in the 21 years that has expired between that day and this.

I have come up with two answers. On this wonderful day when we are gathered together to celebrate your academic success, I have decided to talk to you about the benefits of failure. And as you stand on the threshold of what is sometimes called ‘real life’, I want to extol the crucial importance of imagination.

These might seem quixotic or paradoxical choices, but please bear with me.

Looking back at the 21-year-old that I was at graduation, is a slightly uncomfortable experience for the 42-year-old that she has become. Half my lifetime ago, I was striking an uneasy balance between the ambition I had for myself, and what those closest to me expected of me.

I was convinced that the only thing I wanted to do, ever, was to write novels. However, my parents, both of whom came from impoverished backgrounds and neither of whom had been to college, took the view that my overactive imagination was an amusing personal quirk that could never pay a mortgage, or secure a pension.

They had hoped that I would take a vocational degree; I wanted to study English Literature. A compromise was reached that in retrospect satisfied nobody, and I went up to study Modern Languages. Hardly had my parents’ car rounded the corner at the end of the road than I ditched German and scuttled off down the Classics corridor.

I cannot remember telling my parents that I was studying Classics; they might well have found out for the first time on graduation day. Of all subjects on this planet, I think they would have been hard put to name one less useful than Greek mythology when it came to securing the keys to an executive bathroom.

I would like to make it clear, in parenthesis, that I do not blame my parents for their point of view. There is an expiry date on blaming your parents for steering you in the wrong direction; the moment you are old enough to take the wheel, responsibility lies with you. What is more, I cannot criticise my parents for hoping that I would never experience poverty. They had been poor themselves, and I have since been poor, and I quite agree with them that it is not an ennobling experience. Poverty entails fear, and stress, and sometimes depression; it means a thousand petty humiliations and hardships. Climbing out of poverty by your own efforts, that is indeed something on which to pride yourself, but poverty itself is romanticised only by fools.

What I feared most for myself at your age was not poverty, but failure.

At your age, in spite of a distinct lack of motivation at university, where I had spent far too long in the coffee bar writing stories, and far too little time at lectures, I had a knack for passing examinations, and that, for years, had been the measure of success in my life and that of my peers.

I am not dull enough to suppose that because you are young, gifted and well-educated, you have never known hardship or heartbreak. Talent and intelligence never yet inoculated anyone against the caprice of the Fates, and I do not for a moment suppose that everyone here has enjoyed an existence of unruffled privilege and contentment.

However, the fact that you are graduating from Harvard suggests that you are not very well-acquainted with failure. You might be driven by a fear of failure quite as much as a desire for success. Indeed, your conception of failure might not be too far from the average person’s idea of success, so high have you already flown academically.

Ultimately, we all have to decide for ourselves what constitutes failure, but the world is quite eager to give you a set of criteria if you let it. So I think it fair to say that by any conventional measure, a mere seven years after my graduation day, I had failed on an epic scale. An exceptionally short-lived marriage had imploded, and I was jobless, a lone parent, and as poor as it is possible to be in modern Britain, without being homeless. The fears my parents had had for me, and that I had had for myself, had both come to pass, and by every usual standard, I was the biggest failure I knew.

Now, I am not going to stand here and tell you that failure is fun. That period of my life was a dark one, and I had no idea that there was going to be what the press has since represented as a kind of fairy tale resolution. I had no idea how far the tunnel extended, and for a long time, any light at the end of it was a hope rather than a reality.

So why do I talk about the benefits of failure? Simply because failure meant a stripping away of the inessential. I stopped pretending to myself that I was anything other than what I was, and began to direct all my energy into finishing the only work that mattered to me. Had I really succeeded at anything else, I might never have found the determination to succeed in the one arena I believed I truly belonged. I was set free, because my greatest fear had already been realised, and I was still alive, and I still had a daughter whom I adored, and I had an old typewriter and a big idea. And so rock bottom became the solid foundation on which I rebuilt my life.

You might never fail on the scale I did, but some failure in life is inevitable. It is impossible to live without failing at something, unless you live so cautiously that you might as well not have lived at all – in which case, you fail by default.

Failure gave me an inner security that I had never attained by passing examinations. Failure taught me things about myself that I could have learned no other way. I discovered that I had a strong will, and more discipline than I had suspected; I also found out that I had friends whose value was truly above rubies.

The knowledge that you have emerged wiser and stronger from setbacks means that you are, ever after, secure in your ability to survive. You will never truly know yourself, or the strength of your relationships, until both have been tested by adversity. Such knowledge is a true gift, for all that it is painfully won, and it has been worth more to me than any qualification I ever earned.

Given a time machine or a Time Turner, I would tell my 21-year-old self that personal happiness lies in knowing that life is not a check-list of acquisition or achievement. Your qualifications, your CV, are not your life, though you will meet many people of my age and older who confuse the two. Life is difficult, and complicated, and beyond anyone’s total control, and the humility to know that will enable you to survive its vicissitudes.

You might think that I chose my second theme, the importance of imagination, because of the part it played in rebuilding my life, but that is not wholly so. Though I will defend the value of bedtime stories to my last gasp, I have learned to value imagination in a much broader sense. Imagination is not only the uniquely human capacity to envision that which is not, and therefore the fount of all invention and innovation. In its arguably most transformative and revelatory capacity, it is the power that enables us to empathise with humans whose experiences we have never shared.

One of the greatest formative experiences of my life preceded Harry Potter, though it informed much of what I subsequently wrote in those books. This revelation came in the form of one of my earliest day jobs. Though I was sloping off to write stories during my lunch hours, I paid the rent in my early 20s by working in the research department at Amnesty International’s headquarters in London.

There in my little office I read hastily scribbled letters smuggled out of totalitarian regimes by men and women who were risking imprisonment to inform the outside world of what was happening to them. I saw photographs of those who had disappeared without trace, sent to Amnesty by their desperate families and friends. I read the testimony of torture victims and saw pictures of their injuries. I opened handwritten, eye-witness accounts of summary trials and executions, of kidnappings and rapes.

Many of my co-workers were ex-political prisoners, people who had been displaced from their homes, or fled into exile, because they had the temerity to think independently of their government. Visitors to our office included those who had come to give information, or to try and find out what had happened to those they had been forced to leave behind.

I shall never forget the African torture victim, a young man no older than I was at the time, who had become mentally ill after all he had endured in his homeland. He trembled uncontrollably as he spoke into a video camera about the brutality inflicted upon him. He was a foot taller than I was, and seemed as fragile as a child. I was given the job of escorting him to the Underground Station afterwards, and this man whose life had been shattered by cruelty took my hand with exquisite courtesy, and wished me future happiness.

And as long as I live I shall remember walking along an empty corridor and suddenly hearing, from behind a closed door, a scream of pain and horror such as I have never heard since. The door opened, and the researcher poked out her head and told me to run and make a hot drink for the young man sitting with her. She had just given him the news that in retaliation for his own outspokenness against his country’s regime, his mother had been seized and executed.

Every day of my working week in my early 20s I was reminded how incredibly fortunate I was, to live in a country with a democratically elected government, where legal representation and a public trial were the rights of everyone.

Every day, I saw more evidence about the evils humankind will inflict on their fellow humans, to gain or maintain power. I began to have nightmares, literal nightmares, about some of the things I saw, heard and read.

And yet I also learned more about human goodness at Amnesty International than I had ever known before.

Amnesty mobilises thousands of people who have never been tortured or imprisoned for their beliefs to act on behalf of those who have. The power of human empathy, leading to collective action, saves lives, and frees prisoners. Ordinary people, whose personal well-being and security are assured, join together in huge numbers to save people they do not know, and will never meet. My small participation in that process was one of the most humbling and inspiring experiences of my life.

Unlike any other creature on this planet, humans can learn and understand, without having experienced. They can think themselves into other people’s minds, imagine themselves into other people’s places.

Of course, this is a power, like my brand of fictional magic, that is morally neutral. One might use such an ability to manipulate, or control, just as much as to understand or sympathise.

And many prefer not to exercise their imaginations at all. They choose to remain comfortably within the bounds of their own experience, never troubling to wonder how it would feel to have been born other than they are. They can refuse to hear screams or to peer inside cages; they can close their minds and hearts to any suffering that does not touch them personally; they can refuse to know.

I might be tempted to envy people who can live that way, except that I do not think they have any fewer nightmares than I do. Choosing to live in narrow spaces can lead to a form of mental agoraphobia, and that brings its own terrors. I think the wilfully unimaginative see more monsters. They are often more afraid.

What is more, those who choose not to empathise may enable real monsters. For without ever committing an act of outright evil ourselves, we collude with it, through our own apathy.

One of the many things I learned at the end of that Classics corridor down which I ventured at the age of 18, in search of something I could not then define, was this, written by the Greek author Plutarch: What we achieve inwardly will change outer reality.

That is an astonishing statement and yet proven a thousand times every day of our lives. It expresses, in part, our inescapable connection with the outside world, the fact that we touch other people’s lives simply by existing.

But how much more are you, Harvard graduates of 2008, likely to touch other people’s lives? Your intelligence, your capacity for hard work, the education you have earned and received, give you unique status, and unique responsibilities. Even your nationality sets you apart. The great majority of you belong to the world’s only remaining superpower. The way you vote, the way you live, the way you protest, the pressure you bring to bear on your government, has an impact way beyond your borders. That is your privilege, and your burden.

If you choose to use your status and influence to raise your voice on behalf of those who have no voice; if you choose to identify not only with the powerful, but with the powerless; if you retain the ability to imagine yourself into the lives of those who do not have your advantages, then it will not only be your proud families who celebrate your existence, but thousands and millions of people whose reality you have helped transform for the better. We do not need magic to change the world, we carry all the power we need inside ourselves already: we have the power to imagine better.

I am nearly finished. I have one last hope for you, which is something that I already had at 21. The friends with whom I sat on graduation day have been my friends for life. They are my children’s godparents, the people to whom I’ve been able to turn in times of trouble, friends who have been kind enough not to sue me when I’ve used their names for Death Eaters. At our graduation we were bound by enormous affection, by our shared experience of a time that could never come again, and, of course, by the knowledge that we held certain photographic evidence that would be exceptionally valuable if any of us ran for Prime Minister.

So today, I can wish you nothing better than similar friendships. And tomorrow, I hope that even if you remember not a single word of mine, you remember those of Seneca, another of those old Romans I met when I fled down the Classics corridor, in retreat from career ladders, in search of ancient wisdom:

As is a tale, so is life: not how long it is, but how good it is, is what matters.

I wish you all very good lives.

Thank you very much.


The Book Thief

In the short life that I have lived I have read few books. And from those books only countable have been able to make it to the list of my favourites. Today one more got added to the short list – The Book Thief by Markus Zusak.

Here is a book which I am sure I will read it time and again. If ever I become a mother then I will give this book to my children to read and perhaps grandchildren too. Yes, I even pictured a wrinkled, weak and frail me with sparse silver white hair on her skull, sitting in a wooden rocking chair and sifting through the book.

This book is ageless, just like how the narrator describes Werner to be. Werner, brother of Liesel Meminger and the first person to come in contact with the narrator. The Book Thief – here is a story about words, about love, friendship and relationships, about life and Death, about bravery and humanity.

This is the story which comes straight from the heart. It is filled with a warmth that seeps into the reader even as she eyes through those words that describes snow clad Germany. This story will make you happy, it will make you smile. This story will also make you sad and it will make you cry. It made me cry.

One cannot say for sure whether it has a tragic end because even though there is loss the story ends with a sunshine of hope. The characters are timeless. They will stay with you long after you have finished reading the book. But there is an end to each person’s story. And perhaps that is the reason that even though you are left with a hollow in your heart that usually accompanies the end of each book one reads, there is also a peace and a calm that it tags along and which continues to warm your heart.

All I can say is that today I earned a new friend, a new friend which will stay with me for a lifetime. And even though it is too soon, I wish that when I meet the narrator, he finds me lying amidst the words of this book.

23rd July 2015 – 8.30 am

Now that the hunger has subsided, let’s get down into the stream of consciousness. Travelling in train in the month of July is something I don’t think I have ever done before. And now as I sit in the sparsely populated 2-tier compartment, with people still devouring the depths of a slumber which eludes them during their mundane daily lives, I have finally gathered enough mettle to jot things down.

I would have loved to do it with a pen on real paper. But oh the spoilings of technology. That reminds me he had asked me yesterday about keeping a pen along with me. It had happened while I was giving finishing touches to my packing. It was a question that I had let gone unanswered. I guess it is Murphy at work all over again. I felt the need of exactly that what I had not bothered to pack.

Getting back to travelling in train during monsoons. Its certainly bliss. Especially if you have caught on to enough sleep during the dark hours to wake up at day break. The view from the window is serene. It is all green to the last inch of horizon. The air is cool and fresh and the entire nature seems to be on a weekend mode. Spring definitely is the weekend for nature.

There are the freshly ploughed fields with soil which is not caked but looks beautifully dark after being washed by a night pour. Then there are certain fields which are done with sowing and tiny plants have started to emerge from earth’s surface. Some of them probably celebrating the days when they finally witnessed the sky. They remind me of my own back at home. I am the careless mother to them who are being tended to with utmost love by their father. Yes, of the two of us he is the one with the green thumb. All I do is breath in their freshness and greenness that too for my own comfort.

This journey is turning out extremely blissful. With the company of a heart-warming book I have a vast expanse of green carpet laid outside the window. As the trees run past many things crop up in my head and all of them barely make their presence felt. It seems like a melee of thoughts but a happy one if something like that is even there.

I look at the tiny bird which is flapping its windows with all his might trying to soar to better heights. Then there are those stray skeletons of dwellings standing little away from the tracks which often make me wonder about their stories. There are those huge electronic grids the rows of which go till the horizon. And those hidden shrines and ruins of some small temple hidden beyond the dense wilderness.

All this raises just one urge inside of me and that is to know about their stories. Stories of those farmers who have ploughed all those fields, about those who used to dwell in those abandoned, ruined dwellings and about the million others who walk those small muddy roads, who live beyond the small stations beyond which I cannot see. I wish someone could tell me. I wish Ruskin Bond could tell me.

This is another story

Anika was late. She got caught in the web of the web and got late. She had not planned to put on the dress she had put on. But while pulling out her choice of dress she chanced upon that soft, cotton heap of peach and out of sheer whim she pulled it out and wore it.
When she looked at the mirror she was delighted with what her reflection showed. She dropped the idea of putting on too much makeup and ended up just applying kajal.
Satisfied with the final look she picked up her phone to click a few selfies. She was loving the way she looked. It’s got to be the perfect date look, she thought to herself, he will be totally floored when he looks at her.

It had been years since she had actually made so much effort on her looks for any meeting. She was hoping that he likes it. She was doing it all in order to impress him. Right then her phone rang. It was him. She picked it with a panic.

“You already landed.”

She was supposed to be at the airport by that time. She quickly wrapped up the phone call, picked up her handbag and looked at the mirror for one last look. Something clicked inside her. She picked up the red tube kept on her dressing table and pulled out the brush. One stroke. Yes, now things were perfect.

The kumkum shimmered on her forehead. This time, she wanted the world to know that the guy who held her hand while they walked was the one to whom she belonged.

Life… as we know it

and at times you have to satisfy yourself with the fact that even though it got over, it did happen.

that they lived every second they were given and touched the sky every chance they had.

The day will grow on you
so will your shadows

the person you meet at the end is you.

Few words will remain unsaid,
few will be written but may never see the light of the day,
and rest will be wasted

in the end, everything is overcome and a life is lived.

PS: Lines 2,4 and 6 are by Mr. Irfan Kazi. Many thanks to him for making it so beautiful.



“हम अपना महल यहाँ बनाएँगे।”
“पर भाई, यहाँ पानी आएगा तो महल बह जाएगा।”
“अरे हम पानी पे ही तो महल बना रहे हैं।”
“पानी पे महल!”
“और नहीं तो क्या। हमारा महल पानी के बीच होगा। सबसे अलग, सबसे अनोखा।”
“पर अगर महल बह गया तो?”
“और अगर नहीं बहा तो? अरे तू ज्यादा सोच मत। अगर बह गया तो हम फिर से दूसरा बना लेंगे।”
“और अगर नहीं बहा तो हमारा महल सबसे अनोखा होगा ना?”
“हाँ, सबसे अनोखा, सबसे सुन्दर।”
“पर बह गया तो कितनी मेहनत बेकार हो जाएगी।”
“अरे जब तक बनायेंगे नहीं तो पता कैसे चलेगा।”


Disconnect and you shall set yourself free.

Off late, I get this urge of throwing away my cell phone. Once considered a luxury, the present-day symbol of status, in my opinion, is the cause of all our problems today. Until we have this damned gadget in our hand, we can never gain that peace we so desperately seek.

Today I tried disconnecting. I went for a stroll and made sure to not carry my cell phone. The cautious head said “Oh what if you get some urgent call? What if after you return you find that your family is in a state of panic just because they couldn’t reach you? You know how they are. What if this happens or what if that happens?” I still stuck with my decision of leaving it. Then my cautious mind resorted to more alluring temptations. “What if you struck upon an idea of a story? What if you see something that you want to click? What if you want to communicate with someone?” I became stubborn and despite my mind making all these noises, I walked off.

My mind is one fussy kid who really doesn’t know what it wants. It is fickle. One moment it wants something and in the next it wants something totally opposite. It is really a task to tame it and quiet it. But today I found the key. I disconnected. I did it against the will of my mind.

In the beginning, it whined a little. Tried to distract me, tried to trouble me with alarming thoughts. Then I gave it his favorite lollipop. A bookshop. A quaint little peaceful bookshop. I touched the books. Several of them and then I sat and read three stories – two of Ruskin Bond and one of Anton Chekov. I had previously read one of Ruskin Bond’s story and the Anton Chekov story.

“What is your dream?” a story by Ruskin Bond which I had read long back. A very small story. This story had not made much of an impact when I had read it the first time. But today I read it in a totally different light. Today I took it all and let it seep into the deepest trenches of my existence. It was as if fate had conspired me to read it again. I love the works of Ruskin Bond. He is my favorite author. Today I fell more in love with his words. Today I disconnected and got connected to a love long forgotten.

The second story – “The Bet” by Anton Chekov. I remember reading this story when I was a school kid. I had loved this story from the first read. There were many stories that i read as a child, but there are three stories that have remained with me. These were “The Bet” by Anton Chekov, “The Gift of Magi” by O’ Henry, and “Love Across the Salt Desert” by Keki N. Daruwalla.

It had been long since I had read these stories. Years long. And today, by some divine conspiracy I stumbled upon this thin collection of short stories by Anton Chekov and the first name in the content list was “The Bet”. And that was how I revisited a lost love.

Somehow both stories spoke of freedom. Each spoke of freedom in totally contrasting contexts. But the eventuality was that they spoke of freedom. I don’t know if it’s my current state that is reading too much into mundane things, but I want to take it as a sign. This disconnection restored my peace. It calmed my restless mind. And here I am back with this menacing gadget, pouring my heart and happiness out.

Yes, there is a beautiful and different kind of happiness in this tranquility. And I am savoring and lapping up every bit of it. I disconnected and i reconnected myself.

“live long my friend,be wise and strong, but do not take from any man his song” ~ Ruskin Bond (What is your dream?)

The Final Nail

What a weird strange day! She was all happy when she woke up and the day went on smoothly until… Until she saw the pic. 

It was a beautiful pic. A pic where a father held his new born daughter, lovingly looking at her and the mother too looked with all contentment at the two people in her life. They were beautiful together. She saw the pic and slowly a tear trickled out of her eye. A painful smile spread across her face. 

Somehow she felt so less. A lot of her strength had gone into bringing herself to the point where she was. She was finally taking a shot at being happy. She was finally starting to feel that she was not worthless. But at that moment everything failed. The confidence, the courage that she had managed to built seemed to be crumbling. At that moment she wanted to jump off from some high rise building and put an end to the miserable thing that her life was. 

But then she looked at the the smile of the small baby. A new life. A beautiful new life. “And you are jealous of her?” a voice called out. 

“No, I am not jealous of her. How can I be? She is precious.”

“Then what is it? Aren’t you happy?”

“I am happy. I am very happy.”

“You are sad too. You cannot lie to me.”

Silence prevails…

Her eyes once again brim with tears.

“You are sad that he has really moved on? You expected him to be stuck with your thoughts still?”

“No. I just…”

“Or is it some lost hope of past? You wanted to be there right?”

“I had once…”

“It wasn’t for you, dear. Even you know that. You unnecessarily have jostled all this while with the subconscious guilt that you ruined his life. You haven’t ruined his life. Look at him. He is complete now. You paved way for his happiness.”

Tears roll out of her eyes, as she heaves a silent sigh.

“You always tell right, that not everyone is here to stay. Each has a part to play and they do that and then go away. Its the same with both of you too. You always knew you weren’t meant to be. The conviction that you have now, the vision, that strong connect. It was never there.”

“You have unnecessarily bogged yourself all this while for his unhappiness. But the truth is he is happy and the proof of it is alive, breathing and kicking. Look for yourself.”

“Don’t feel that you don’t have that what he has. You are destined for much better. You have your felicity. You have a better horizon to look forward to. A horizon that you can paint with your own colors. A horizon that will be yours and yours alone.”

“I know you are not sad. You are happy. Its bittersweet. It is ok for it to be so. But seriously, today put in the final nail into that coffin. You know that what you have gained is far far far better and more than what you have lost. So now go and live… and love.”

She slowly wipes the tears from her cheeks, pulls out her phone and takes a last look at the pic smiling at it. Then she deletes it, opens a different window and starts typing, “I Love You…”

I Live !

So many notes trashed.
Words typed and then backspaced.
Stories aborted. 
Stories abandoned.
Feelings not worded.
Thoughts that did not materialize.
Songs that were loved but never saved in playlist.
Letters that were unwritten.
Letters that were written but not sent.
Gifts that weren’t bought.
Calls that were not made.
Messages that were not sent.
Places that weren’t visited.
Money that wasn’t spent.
Those bags and shoes that weren’t bought.
Diary and pens too.

I have my own share of them.
Everyone has.
Some I regret. Most I don’t.
I still live.
Trying with all my might, to protect the good.
Overlooking the bad.
Striving to not add to anymore regrets.
I do all that which makes my heart smile.

I eat.I walk.
I work.I love. 
I live.

The Battles of the Civils

Post lunch sessions – the time when Ms. Sleep is out there, with all her fanfare, luring you to embrace her. And you sit there smitten by her looks, waiting for one chance to reach out and hold her hands. But then the cold vibes of the devil reaches you. “Mister you are approaching enemy’s territory. Step back !”
You hear a gunshot. And a battle starts. A battle, to keep your eyes open. A battle, to concentrate on the screen that sits in front of you. And you know you cannot afford to lose this. You have to win. So what do you do?

I open MS Word and write this. Occasionally pressing alt and tab keys just to give my charade the touch of authenticity. One should always keep 7-8 work files open at any given time. And master the use of alt and tab. Believe me, this comes in very handy when anyone approaches you.

Hey there, this is my first post from my new work place. I write this at my utmost comfort as I work on MS Word all day long. Poets of the Fall playlist is playing on youtube in the background. All this because I am too bored to start scripting what I have to. Some damned fictitious Mossberg Company wants me to calculate their working capital, quick ratio and current ratio.

Ok! Did I hear any of you gasp in horror? “Oh My God she is letting out confidential details of her work!” Cut the drama there. You really have no clue what I actually do, so just chill.

Yaar… I thought Wednesdays were supposed to be the most productive day of the week. What is up with you dear Wednesday. Why are you so tiresome today. Half of the office floor is on leave. And rest of them are buried in their own laptops and systems tic-ticking away their day. I am also doing something similar.
But this particular script that I have to start is weighing me down. But eventually I will have to do it. So I guess I will stop my free flying here and get back to duty. You people also stop reading the blog and get back to your work. Don’t worry dude… the day is soon gonna come to a close. Don’t let your hopes waiver. Keep fighting!

Have a brave post lunch session.

PS: I’ll am actually risking to open blogger and posting it right now in office.