The apple pie The one in which I attempt to find a replacement ISP Sometime in February 2026, Odido (the erstwhile T-Mobile NL, now owned by Apax and Warburg Pincus) found itself in trouble. No, not the failed IPO situation. They had exposed the data of 6.2 million customers
In August of 2023, I had finally made my way to a place on my bucket list - Machu Picchu, and it was glorious. Sometime in the middle of the clambering, kisses from alpacas (I, too, am a herd animal) and limitless Pisco Sours on my way back to Cusco,
**Poke** **Squint** **Poke again** I could do this forever, you know. Hello again, long dormant repository of most of my thoughts, many of my feelings and 90% of my young creativity. And all of this before Substack, Medium and professionally written/AI edited articles were a thing. I am afraid
I am an outsider in every country I find myself in. In the Western world, they see a brown Indian woman who comes from an exotic land filled with colour, spices and promise. "We LOVE Slumdog Millionaire," they say, happy to talk about that foreign land of heat,
He didn't understand why she didn't love him. He'd tried everything the book had told him to. Step 1: Neg the girl "You know, you'd look half-decent if you lost 5 kilos. And maybe, get a rhinoplasty." Step 2: Establish
My friends tell me I am always in a mad rush to change things, people, the world - both things I can influence and things I can't. I know that. It manifests itself in the impatience (that has also quadrupled during my 8 years in McKinsey) with which
She strips the linen off the shikifuton, moving on to the pillowcase. Wet. It is all she can do to run out of the room and give voice to her silent agony. Instead, she folds the futon, takes the linen and puts it to wash. And then, she walks out
That's the sand of time, slipping away, As you try to greedily hold on to everyday. The smudge of your memory on the horizon, Is fading into legend; the words, they are done.
We drink from the chalice of forgetfulness, And dance the mute minuet of sorrow. Is it true that our eyes confess, How we dread the dawn of the morrow?
Or Don't Panic. Just take me to your leader "Hi, my name is Peter, aged twenty three, I have a terrible fear of growing up", says he. "Not very different to other millennial men," I laugh, "you should fit right here then."
And, these players? They sit through the morose night, Watching their listless life pass by in a flickering, For the game belongs neither to the player nor the played, It belongs to the restless regrets of the unmourned morning.
Her screams were like those of a bird of prey. "Don't touch me. Just leave. Just LEAVE." He was threatening her, "You do know it's your fault, don't you?" I was awake in my bed, at 3:30 AM listening