In 2000 October, I turned 24. I'd been thinking about this event for quite some time: about 11 years to be precise. Since it coincided with the Millennium, it meant something to me. I associated it with a coming of age, almost. I’d spent long summers idling on a hammock staring at trees, birds and prehistoric buses from my crow’s nest on a Calcutta highrise. Passing jet planes enroute to distant locations reminded me of an England where I’d spent many summers growing up. I wondered and worried about where I would be when I was old and sane.
On my 24th birthday, I found myself in B-school with a 100 other wide-eyed wonderers. The next few years flew past in a crazy blur of jobs, flights, marriage, more flights, more jobs, cars and multi-ethnic food. Then 32 came. It was summer in Reading. A house, a home as my wife calls it, but also a yearning for better things. The promotion, the perks, the fancy job-title, the branded watch, the ultimate driving machine sitting in the underground car park ready to be let loose upon the world in ambitious fury, the compulsory trips to India and home cooking, doting parents, wary relatives and old friends who never got jealous. And yet. One asks oneself (aka Old Jack in the eponymous move): ‘What if this is as good as it gets?’
I put down my constant aggravation and moanings about the future to my b-school regimen. The steady drone of wisdom emanating from a bearded Socrates wielding chalk and a goodly volume. ‘If you’re getting comfortable, you’re getting slack. Time to move on. Look for the next best thing.’
But then – what if this is the next best thing? What if in this constant search for ‘better’ in today’s catalogued and glossy paperback version of life, I’m losing sight of Here and Now?
As I type, I grow increasingly aware that my dusty monologue is beginning to bear an uncanny resemblance to the suicial rant of a man with mid-life crisis. So I say: “Enough of this poison: let me seek the antidote!” I'm off to the hills and dales of Derby this weekend. The BBC weather service - frightfully accurate as always - has predicted snow on the hills. So I'm packing my gloves, picnic hamper and ample wife into the car and hitting the high-road. See you soon!
On my 24th birthday, I found myself in B-school with a 100 other wide-eyed wonderers. The next few years flew past in a crazy blur of jobs, flights, marriage, more flights, more jobs, cars and multi-ethnic food. Then 32 came. It was summer in Reading. A house, a home as my wife calls it, but also a yearning for better things. The promotion, the perks, the fancy job-title, the branded watch, the ultimate driving machine sitting in the underground car park ready to be let loose upon the world in ambitious fury, the compulsory trips to India and home cooking, doting parents, wary relatives and old friends who never got jealous. And yet. One asks oneself (aka Old Jack in the eponymous move): ‘What if this is as good as it gets?’
I put down my constant aggravation and moanings about the future to my b-school regimen. The steady drone of wisdom emanating from a bearded Socrates wielding chalk and a goodly volume. ‘If you’re getting comfortable, you’re getting slack. Time to move on. Look for the next best thing.’
But then – what if this is the next best thing? What if in this constant search for ‘better’ in today’s catalogued and glossy paperback version of life, I’m losing sight of Here and Now?
As I type, I grow increasingly aware that my dusty monologue is beginning to bear an uncanny resemblance to the suicial rant of a man with mid-life crisis. So I say: “Enough of this poison: let me seek the antidote!” I'm off to the hills and dales of Derby this weekend. The BBC weather service - frightfully accurate as always - has predicted snow on the hills. So I'm packing my gloves, picnic hamper and ample wife into the car and hitting the high-road. See you soon!
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