I learned two things today. One, some conversations, like writing, edifies you despite its banality. And two, it is better to first turn to philosophers for consolation, and only then and if only absolutely necessary to self-help books.
It started with a conversation with my wife over lunch which winded down to fifteen year-olds being sent to coaching centres to prepare for entrance test for medical or engineering courses, or sometimes both.
(Not that we always talk like this, but that I noticed recently that I bitch too much about others, and I suspect I’m on my way to become the miserable old man; bitching about everyone in general won’t be much of a bitching, after all.)
A scene in the Malayalam movie, Om Shanti Oshana, which we watched yesterday set the right context:
In a scene that combines magic realism and the predictable predicament of many teenagers in Kerala…
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