Every man’s memory is his private literature – Aldous Huxley
Memory is a wonderful faculty. It can make you smell roses in December, as the poet said. In the seventh decade of my life, I have seen and experienced a lot – joy, bliss, love, anger, frustration, purpose, ennui, pride, shame, warmth, cold – if there’s an emotion that has a word to express it, I have felt it. With a beautiful wife and two wonderful children, I have few reasons to complain.
I have traveled the world, met and befriended some wonderful human beings, and I would like to think that by and large I have led a purpose driven life.
I was born in Bengaluru, lived in six states in India and three countries outside India, and have reasonable fluency in three languages, and rudimentary conversational skills in two more. I have dabbled in Telugu poetry, participated peripherally in some cultural and socio-political movements, and I have contributed my share to the on-line squabbles during the early days of usenet groups.
Call me vain, call me delusional, but my life has been as much of a blockbuster as any Bollywood movie – be it the Yash Chopra “chocolate hero” genre or the Salim Javed “angry young man” genre.
So I am taking this opportunity to convert my memories into a technicolor presentation. I have you enjoy reading my posts as much as I am doing while creating them.
Frames of Reference 