A Cup of Tea & Biscuits

By now, it ought to be obvious to anyone that is even remotely acquainted with me that I am addicted to swimming. It is my one vice that I latched on to some eight years ago, and nothing else has come even close to giving me the same type of elation or satisfaction. But this post is not about swimming or pools. It is about how that addiction grew, rather, leaped into my latest hobby.  Scuba diving. Photo by  Mitchel Wijt  on  Unsplash Snorkeling fascinates me, though I’ve never done it. Going anywhere that I can’t see the bottom simply terrorizes me. And yet, in March 2019 I received my  PADI Open Water Diver  certification, and just three days ago, after 9 dives, also got my  Dry Suit Specialty  certification. Photo by  Emily Morter  on  Unsplash Why did I do it?   I, who finds touching crabs distasteful and downright creepy, genuinely shocked by anything with tentacles, cringing at the sight of grey shrimp and scaly fish. What could have possibly possessed me to f

Also adapted & published on  Medium .   Photo by  Viktor Forgacs  on  Unsplash Let’s start with some quick math. 50 minutes twice a day is 100 minutes per day, which is 500 minutes a week, and 26000 minutes in a year. 433 hours is roughly the amount of time I spend in a year commuting to and from work. Sure, taking into some reduction when I’m in a different city with a shorter commute — 20 minutes each way — and also my vacation time, it’s still about 315 hours or 13 days a year spent on a train or bus getting to and back from work. Time is valuable, whether you use it to get some work done, “me” time, napping is totally up to you. But I think of these 13 days quite as additional time in my everyday life, 100 minutes I’ll never get back, and choose to make the best of it. Mass transit being my chosen method of commute — I am talking of trains and buses running within cities, not those the suburban ones — for nearly a decade now, I’ve come to es

Also adapted & published on  Medium .   My first memory of swimming is that of inhaling chlorinated water, rising sputtering for breath while simultaneously trying to expel a blocked ear and sinus, and still, gasping for breath, lifting one arm after the other, pushing my head back down and powering through to the end of the line. As a child of 6–7, it was not my definition of fun. I could indulge in a nice steaming mug of malted chocolate milk and warm clothes at the end of it, but waking up early in the morning during summer break and practicing on an empty stomach, or spending a few hours every evening after school and then smelling like bleach was not appealing. Flash forward fifteen years. I have a membership at a gym with a pool in every location and it even influenced my choice of apartments. For the past six years, I have gone to the pool 4–5 days a week and planned schedules around my pool time. 25 minutes of throwing myself in a vat of water wit

Also adapted & published on Medium . I’ve maintained very stringently a stark line between my professional and personal life since I began my career fresh out of college 6 years ago. I’m happy to say that it has remained so - the experiences leak through as they should and I’m more naturally myself personally than I can ever be professionally. This is true for everyone. Anyway, my career was on its natural run, and I have moved on from a starry eyed developer to a managerial role. This has always seemed to me, a very natural progression of my career (I even recall telling my first manager that in 4 years, I saw myself leading a project and team). It happened. Now, two years in, I have learned, grown, changed, adapted and placed myself in the path of doing all of it in a continuous rhythm. I share a few things that have helped me in this venture - from those around me, with a flavor of my mind as well. Always listen. But don't stay quiet all the time. One of the fi

I am afraid. Thirty-two thousand feet in the air, warm and comfortable in a blanket, some coffee, a drink and food at hand, the only confession I can make and admit to myself is that I am terrified. Of all the things I just left behind and the choice I’m hurtling towards. My heart is in my throat right now and I cannot stop the tears that I keep dabbing away. Less than an hour ago, I boarded a plane from Chicago to Seattle. As I went past security, a TSA agent asked me if I was heading home. I found myself tongue-tied. I was leaving home. A place I made my home in and going away. A conscious decision, I should add, but I was still leaving. For nearly 6 months now I’ve known this was bound to happen. Two months ago I signed certain papers and it became official. As I revealed the news to those closest to me, it slowly began to sink in that I wouldn’t see them again. Some of my best friends had already left Chicago and while I felt their absence keenly, it never struck me as a fina