Death happens. We ignore it, if we can. When we can’t, as is in the case of celebrities like Sridevi or a loved one, we rush deep into denial, frantically looking for scapegoats to explain the freak occurrence. And then we move on.
In a time when even your phone doubles up as your camera, your assistant, a pastime, a distraction, a recorder, and an addiction, can people get away by doing just one job? Multi-tasking is the only thing worth pursuing. You can’t be a single-function watch anymore.
After 50, fast-fashion brands are passé for old-fashioned folks like me, and what the hell am I still doing with those crop-tops and coloured tights? I can sense millennials grasp at my audacity. You see, if I refuse to abide by this cultural construct, I’ll promptly be labelled as yet-another-hilarious casualty of the “mid-life crisis”.
Watching your grandparents age is like processing the end of time, the folding of a document that is now so far back in history that even the possibility of its survival becomes a joke. It is an eventual loss that you can anticipate – but can you ever be prepared for it?
Being a runner-up in a world that places an unbending prestige on being the absolute best at everything is like being a dusty cassette in the time of Apple Music; an expiry-date-laden book shop in the age of the immortal Kindle; wholly redundant.
The sex life of new parents is like Donald Trump’s brain – it’s non-existent. If it does exist, it is rare, awkward, and revolves around the bowel movements of your child.
Most of us are terrified of becoming one with the crowd, but what that invisibility has allowed me, in terms of agency and freedom, has turned out to be invaluable.
Iciest regards from the North Pole! Santa has taken the time to pen down an open letter (as is the hottest fad these days) and it’s addressed straight to us.
Despite sporting the familiar trappings of most nature documentaries, Our Planet’s tone is markedly more urgent. While shows like The Crocodile Hunter and Planet Earth provided stunning retreats into the bosom of the wild, in Our Planet human presence and activity looms like an impending storm-cloud.