e Magus

Every now and then, a familiar surname floats past on my feed—attached to a guitar solo, a zonal cricket match, or a small gallery exhibit. Someone’s son is representing their university in a zonal cricket tournament. Someone’s daughter is performing Carnatic vocals at a college fest. A painting’s gone up in a local gallery. A guitar solo performed at a bar gig has made its way to an YouTube channel or Soundcloud.   These updates are almost always accompanied by a proud caption. But what catches my attention isn’t the post—it’s the parent, for they are my childhood friend. I remember that the dad was once a Ranji-level cricketer who now manages a regional office for a bank. I know the mother who once sketched brilliantly in the margins of notebooks but now heads a Pharma company. Another was an aspiring guitarist in a college band before trading riffs for revenue targets. Their dreams didn’t exactly die. They were deferred . Placed on pause by the demands of a different time. Ours ...

There are three things that triggered this post. One, I’ve been working on a marketing brief for a financial client. As part of it, I’ve been digging into the context of money and wealth. Two, few days back, I was talking to my mom, and she made a passing reference about a relative visiting my native place He is generally treated with high reverence as he has made himself “successful”, and doing good favours for the extended family. Well, how he became successful…that’s a topic for a different conversation. Three, a couple of weekends ago, I met an old friend for breakfast at a Udipi restaurant. After the dosas, puris, and filter coffee, the bill arrived, and like clockwork, we tossed in a 20 rupees tip — less a gesture of generosity, more a tick mark on the social contract. I was left with a nagging feeling on why didn’t I tip more. I thought to myself, if we were at a shiny café where the coffee costs three times more and comes with a heart on the foam, and there’s already a 40 INR s...

Few days back, I was strolling (pun intended) around in a mall looking at suitcases. Nowadays, the market is filled with either the nylon types or the light, wiggly kind—polypropylene hard (or soft?) cases. But not long ago, there was a time when travel meant hauling around weight—literally. Steel trunks that needed two people to lift. I remember, in my childhood, we had either VIP or Aristocrat suitcases that we had to sit on to close the bulging lids. Even the duffle bags we carried had zippers that threatened mutiny. No, they did not come with wheels, and usually the handles gave way every few trips. Luggage had gravity. It said you were going somewhere, and taking everything with you—even the extra just-in-case-we-need stuff. Today, suitcases are different. They glide. They spin. Some even follow you like loyal pets. They’re made of polycarbonate or polypropylene (I don’t know the difference), boast of smart compartments, and weigh next to nothing. These days, when airlines charge ...

There is one thing that is missing from the walls of my home for many years now.   They used to be hung there , steady and visible—watching over time as it passed. I’m talking about — the calendar. You didn’t check a calendar. You glanced at it. As you walked into a room. As you stirred your morning tea. Time was not summoned; it was absorbed. Not just calendars. The rooms included the wall-clocks , the tabletop clocks, and the random wristwatches lying on top of the centre table (we called it teapoy) or on the dressing table. Yes, there was a time when time was all around us. Not hidden in apps or tucked inside phones, but present and visible—on walls, on wrists, in corners of the room. It was ambient. It was as if we were surrounded by physical manifestations of time. While the other devices are still kicking around struggling for relevance, it is the calendars that has disappeared from our homes. Together, they offered a rhythm to life. Time wasn’t just tracked. It was seen . C...