Many moons ago, I interviewed for a job. I had two years of work experience but was applying for a position for which I had no experience. I got the job but that’s not the point here. Many years later, the person who hired me told me he’d called a senior colleague at my former workplace before hiring me. He had been advised, “If you don’t hire her, you will regret it.” This former colleague, Gautam Agarwal and I hadn't interacted very much when we worked together and so, his emphatic recommendation surprised me thoroughly. I couldn’t for the life of me, imagine what made him recommend me so strongly but I was grateful for his behind-the-scenes support. To me, he was an unlikely ally. There are others like Mahima Sharma who was a colleague at my last workplace. Ours was an equation like many others. We worked together but had no other contact. A few years later, she quit our common workplace and launched her own consulting business and website, The Think Pot. A few years later, I quit the news media business too and started blogging. I found unwavering support from Mahima in the form of tips and tricks, and sharing my posts on social media and to friends and family. I was and remain very touched by her genuine concern and active cheerleading of my work. It's a truism that if you want to know who really supports you, start a small business or a blog. It’s certainly proven true in my case. I have seen many ‘friends’ shrink away from ever liking a post even though they view everything at lightning speed. At the same time, there are folks like Mahima, Shruti Pushkarna and Vidisha Pandey whose genuine support and engagement I cherish. Today, we live in silos—some imposed, some chosen. And often, we mistakenly assume everyone standing within our current bubble is on our side while those we don’t engage with, are not. How wrong we are when we think this way. Sometimes, all it takes to break that illusion is a conversation. I reckon that’s how it began for Ruth Bader Ginsburg and Antonin Scalia. SUPREME BUDDIES The US Supreme Court is a divided house. Every Supreme Court justice is nominated by the President with due consideration to their political leanings and stands on various hot-potato subjects such as immigration and border security, abortion rights and access, gun control, climate change, etc. And given how contentious the debates around these and other such topics are, it was surprising to see a friendship like that of Justice Antonin Scalia and Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg. In the 23 years they served together on the Supreme Court, they represented two ends of the political pendulum in the US. The “Notorious RBG”, so christened by her young fans, anchored the liberal wing of the Supreme Court while Scalia, who had been appointed by President Reagan, led the conservatives. Over the last few decades, the escalating acrimony between the two sides has often spilled from the political realm to the social sphere. Not so for Scalia and Ginsburg. They struck up a friendship over a shared love of opera, good food and wine while serving on the US Court of Appeals for the D.C. Circuit in the ‘80s. Over the years, their families often rang in the New Year together over a meal prepared by Marty Ginsburg. Justice Ginsburg often spoke highly of Scalia, praising his eloquence and how his criticism often helped polish her own arguments. Recalling the first time she heard him speak, Ginsburg said, "I disagreed with most of what he said, but I loved the way he said it.” This unusual bipartisan bond is exemplified by an incident narrated by Justice Scalia’s son, Chris. Shortly before Justice Scalia’s death, one of his former clerks, Judge Jeffrey Sutton, visited him. It happened to be Ginsburg's birthday. Antonin Scalia had purchased two dozen roses "for his friend Ruth," and asked Sutton to deliver them to her. Chris said, “Judge Sutton started teasing my dad…'When was the last time she sided with you in an important 5-4 decision?' Just kind of poking fun. My dad said something, I think, pretty poignant. He said some things are more important than votes." Moments like these trickle into pop-culture, leaving it richer. Rich enough to inspire Derrick Wang to compose an opera named Scalia/Ginsburg. THE SINGER AND HER GUEST Talking of the performing arts, there’s a story about the jazz legend, Ella Fitzgerald before she hit the big-time. This was a time when black musicians, regardless of popularity, were often limited to small nightclubs and not allowed to use the front entrance of the venue. Photo Courtesy: Wikipedia Mocambo was one of the most popular nightclubs in Hollywood in the 1950s, frequented by stars like Clark Gable, Charlie Chaplin, Lana Turner, Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall. The club’s owner didn’t want to book Fitzgerald. A call from Marilyn Monroe changed his mind. Speaking about the incident, Ella Fitzgerald said, “I owe Marilyn Monroe a real debt … she personally called the owner of the Mocambo, and told him she wanted me booked immediately, and if he would do it, she would take a front table every night… The owner said yes, and Marilyn was there, front table, every night. The press went overboard. After that, I never had to play a small jazz club again.” Marilyn Monroe did what few would have done in that age, except perhaps a man like Luz Long. OLYMPIC GRACE During the 1936 Berlin Olympics, Jesse Owens, a black American athlete, fouled his first two attempts in the qualifying round of the long jump. Luz Long, his German competitor, advised Owens to adjust his take-off point to guarantee a safe jump. Owens followed his advice, qualified for the final, and went on to win gold. Long came in second. Then, in full view of the German Chancellor Adolf Hitler who had hoped to use the Berlin Olympics as a platform to showcase the racial superiority of the Aryan race, the blonde-haired Long was the first to congratulate Owens, before taking a lap of honour around the stadium with him. Photo Courtesy: Wikipedia Hitler reportedly stormed out of the stadium and never congratulated Owens on his victory. But more interestingly, Owens, the grandson of former slaves, having won his country four Olympic gold medals in Berlin failed to receive a congratulatory message from his president, Franklin D Roosevelt. I suppose, sometimes, just as one finds allies in unexpected places, those you thought were in your corner, show their true colours. The two athletes stayed in touch until Long’s death in 1943 during World War II. Owens maintained a close relationship with Long’s family after the war, even acting as the best man at the wedding of Luz’s son, Karl. Speaking of his friendship with Luz, forged during the Berlin Olympics, Jesse Owens said, “It took a lot of courage for him to befriend me in front of Hitler… You can melt down all the medals and cups I have and they wouldn’t be a plating for the twenty-four-carat friendship that I felt for Luz Long at that moment.” Such is life—always surprising us by revealing our unlikely allies. Cheers to them all!

I was driving home after running a few errands when a thought floated into my brain: why do some people become kinder and more empathetic after going through a difficult time in their own lives while others don’t? There are, of course, certain personality types who are kinder than others but I’m talking about people who change during the course of their lives. I pondered the question before parking it in my mind, awaiting a response from my subconscious brain. Or for my mind’s resident muse to proceed like a knight moves on a chess board—two steps straight and one to the side. These responses invariably emerge when I’m in the shower, out for a walk or occupied in some other mundane tasks that don’t require a great deal of attention. Why is that? I have an opinion, but that’s a whole other kettle of fish. It could even be another post. Let’s return to what we—my subconscious mind, the resident muse of the side-step and I came up with. It is in no way backed by research. At least, none that I’m aware of. And is likely only one layer of a much more complex idea. Empathy is sparked when you tap into a strand that connects you to another person. It’s often a recognition of either having been in the same boat as them and understanding what they’re experiencing. Or entertaining the possibility of you or a loved one being in a similar situation. This thread of a shared understanding sets empathy apart from sympathy. As author Charles F Glassman puts it, “Kindness begins with the understanding that we all struggle.” ACROSS A NEWSROOM About 8 years ago, I reached out to a colleague who was struggling emotionally after the death of a parent. To make things worse, everything she knew and understood was falling apart around her as well. This included family relationships, work and finances. It was enough to break the strongest of people. I too, had been through a very difficult time in my life a few years earlier, even though it was caused by a whole different set of circumstances. Viewed strictly from a practical perspective, my situation had perhaps not been as dire as my colleague’s, even though it had triggered a complete breakdown. But when I did emerge from it, I became more sensitive to other people’s pain than ever before. I could sense her dismay, confusion and absolute rejection of life as it was. It moved me to see her sitting at her desk, in a bustling newsroom, trying to maintain appearances and keep her job. She looked desperately alone and utterly lost. I had no idea how I could help but I knew she needed it. So, I did what I could without making too big a deal of it. I would ask her to join me for coffee during a break and let her talk about whatever she felt comfortable discussing. I’d check in with her during the work day or we’d step out for a stroll after work. These are all very small things but to someone going through a dark time, they can be the best part of their day. I like to believe that the ripples created by kind gestures can sometimes withstand tides of despair. Perhaps, that’s what author and motivational speaker, Leo Buscaglia meant too. “Too often we underestimate the power of a touch, a smile, a kind word, a listening ear, an honest compliment, or the smallest act of caring, all of which have the potential to turn a life around.” Over time, my colleague became a friend. I’m certain none of this would’ve happened had I not been through my own trials. NO ONE IS IMMUNE We all like to believe that we would be more resilient when knocked over by life’s blows. It’s a nice thought but there are times in life, especially after a major setback, when nothing goes your way and you feel utterly miserable, incompetent and invisible. Such periods of time can shatter the self-confidence of the cockiest of characters and try as they might, their shakiness seeps through the cracks in their façade. Yet, it is through the same cracks that light enters, making them more empathetic, even protective of someone else who is struggling. What then, sets such people apart from those who may have been through their own trials but are unbothered by another’s problems? THE PEAK-END THEORY According to psychologist and Nobel Prize awardee, Daniel Kahneman’s Peak-End theory, people judge experiences based on two factors—the peak which may be the best or worst highlight of the entire experience, and how the experience ends. This impacts how one remembers events. My idea is that perhaps, people with empathy are those who remember not only the peaks and ends of their bad experiences but also, how those events made them feel, especially the frustration, sadness and lack of confidence. And they never let go of the memory of how intense and all-encompassing those emotions felt. They do so, not because they want to hold on to pain, but as a reminder of how pain feels and to use that knowledge as a salve. I read somewhere that it takes a great sobriety of spirit to know your depths and your limits. I’d like to add to that. It is challenging times that introduce us to our limits and depths. When I was struggling, I was taken aback by the forcefulness of my feelings and by the realisation that I was capable of being both better and worse than I could’ve imagined. That knowledge makes one less judgmental of others and more open to others’ insights and experiences. That is why, I hope, you, my reader, will leave a comment to let me know of your own experiences and ideas on the subject.

Having lost their fathers before they were born, Anju and Sudha came into this world on the same day, separated by a few hours, but bound together by sisterhood and an unquestioning love for each other. They are the protagonists and narrators of Sister of My Heart. Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni introduces us to Anju and Sudha when they are six years old and growing up in an all-female household where their mothers and aunt strive to uphold the legacy of the Chatterjees, a respected zamindar family in Calcutta, through sheer grit and clever housekeeping. Anju’s mother, known as Gouri Ma to the girls, is Bijoy’s widow. Bijoy was the only son of the Chatterjee family. Hence, Gouri shoulders the financial responsibilities, running the family bookstore with a tight rein. Abha Pishi is Bijoy’s widowed elder sister who had moved back into the family home years before Anju’s birth. She is the primary storyteller to the girls, indulging their play and mischief. Sudha’s mother, Nalini Ma was married to Gopal, a distant cousin of Bijoy’s. Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni’s writing is rich with metaphors of light, storms, and colour while leaning quite heavily on elements from the fantasy genre such as fairy tales, shooting stars, cursed gemstones and magic serpents. With such imagery and symbols, Sister of My Heart appears very much like a story narrated by girls starting from age 6 to young women in their 20s. Sadly, despite her lyrical style, the author does little to ground this novel in the India of that time. While there are a few passing references to pop-culture, the protagonists never speak of anything weightier than the chudidars worn by the actresses of that time. There are almost no conversations about books, politics or even films, robbing us of a deeper understanding of the girls’ personalities. The author uses the lazy trope of casting the sisters as being temperamentally different from each other but also, completely in sync like Yin and Yang. “I am looking for falling stars. I need two of them, just at midnight, because I must make two wishes. One for myself and one for Anju… Not that Anju believes in falling stars. They are nothing more, she says, than burning meteors, and they have no power to help anyone, not even themselves.” Sisterhood, as expected, is a major theme in the novel. Despite their individual problems, Anju and Sudha stand by each other. The same holds true for the older women in the Chatterjee household who present a united front to the world despite their internal differences. Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni paints a canvas depicting India in the 70s and 80s when the lives and identities of most women were centred almost entirely around men. Anju is the only one who questions patriarchal ideas, and even her questioning is short-lived and quite perfunctory. As a result, it is left to the plot to lay out the patriarchal norms that set different codes of conduct for men and women with the latter always catching the shorter end of the stick in the name of tradition, custom or honour. The female characters find themselves fighting the consequences of choices they never made. While Sister of My Heart suffers from what can only be called an epidemic of weak and confused men, the protagonists, despite enjoying the advantage of sharing their thoughts with the reader, aren’t particularly inspiring either. Even Anju, who is the more independent-minded of the two sisters, comes across as self-involved, short-sighted and confused. Then there is Sudha whose self-sacrificing ways were a bit too saccharine for my liking. She finally discovers some gumption towards the end of the story before slipping into her goody two shoes yet again. The trouble with books like Sister of my Heart is that while they cast patriarchy as the villain, and men and some women as its abettors, their heroines still remained trapped within the patriarchal dichotomy of saint versus vamp. If only, they would take a step forward and frame their heroines as human beings—flawed and brave in the face of real conflicts with no easy answers. Don’t get me wrong. I’m all for sisterhood but Anju and Sudha are more reminiscent of the most fragile of creepers, forever needing to attach themselves to some form of support instead of standing up for themselves. All in all, Sister of my Heart is a quick read but with unmemorable characters and a plot with very little room for nuance and genuine conflict. Also, the author ties up a major plot twist in the last chapter that had reared its head in the middle of the novel with an explanation so obvious that it felt more like a compulsion than a revelation.

I picked up Days at the Morisaki Bookshop expecting a cosy read about small joys and the life-affirming pleasures of forging human connections in a fast-moving world. Sadly, that was not to be. What I got instead was a book that devolved into a corny Hallmark movie with conflicts that practically resolve themselves and characters who are barely even one-dimensional. Satoshi Yagisawa’s debut novel, Days at the Morisaki Bookshop  is about a heartbroken 25-year-old woman, Takako who ends her relationship with her boyfriend because he was coolly two-timing her with a colleague. Given that they all work in the same office, Takako finds staying on at her job untenable and hands in her resignation. Depressed, alone and unemployed, she spends her time mostly sleeping in her rented Tokyo apartment. After a month of hibernating like a miserable bear, Takako receives a voicemail from her uncle, Satoru, who runs the Morisaki bookshop which sells second-hand books. He offers her free lodging in the room above the shop in exchange for opening up and manning the bookshop in the mornings. That gets the ball rolling. The protagonist, Takako is not much of a reader but starts reading out of boredom, finding solace in second-hand books. Her uncle, Satoru introduces her to the neighbourhood of Jimbocho—home to the largest number of second-hand bookshops in Tokyo. So far, so good. However, if you were looking for a relatable protagonist, it’s best to stop looking. Takako is bland and uninteresting and remains so right upto the last page. In fact, all the characters in this book, including Satoru and his estranged wife are underwritten with conflicts so half-baked they’re indigestible. The subplot about the relationship between Satoru and his wife and why she left him takes up almost half the book and yet, has such a tepid and incomplete resolution that I was left wondering if I had missed a couple of pages. I hadn’t. For me, Days at the Morisaki Bookshop read like a not-too-good Young Adult novel even though it isn’t. For a story with a narrator who is at least 28 years old when she begins narrating the story and has been through some life changes, her expression and perspective lack maturity. Add to this, writing that is sorely lacking in specificity, and there’s very little left to enjoy. However, there are some genuinely relatable portions that I would’ve liked more of, like these lines about the special joy of reading second-hand books. “At some point in the past, someone reading this book had felt moved to take a pen and draw a line under these words. It made me happy to think that because I had been moved by that same passage too, I was now connected to the stranger. Another time, I happened to find a pressed flower someone had left as a bookmark. As I inhaled the scent of the long-ago-faded flower, I wondered about the person who had put it there. Who in the world was she? When did she live? What was she feeling? It’s only in secondhand books that you can savour encounters like this, connections that transcend time.” Sadly, the theme of the refuge that books provide is not explored enough. Neither are the concepts of urban loneliness or the importance of choosing one’s own path in life really allowed to develop and add depth to the story . As a result, Days at the Morisaki Bookshop ends up being an underwhelming read.

Leo Tolstoy famously said, “If you want to be happy, be.” Is it truly that easy? Surely, everyone wants to be happy. What is happiness? It’s tough to agree on a single definition except to say that it is subjective. And if you know what makes you happy, do you know how to achieve the conditions that contribute to your happiness? For instance, if your idea of happiness includes being reasonably healthy, then you need to do the basic stuff that promotes good physical and mental health. Yeah, that boring stuff like eating healthy, exercising 4-5 times a week and getting enough rest and preferably, not endangering one’s well-being by going bungee-jumping with sub-standard gear, driving while intoxicated or reading a Chetan Bhagat novel. There’s no coming back from that last one. It’s fatal! GIVE IT A THOUGHT Literary warnings aside, I believe it is important to spend some time with oneself to ask questions like: what makes or would make me happy? Are there aspects of my life, behaviour or routine I need to change in order to facilitate my well-being and contentment? Is there something that once felt important or made me happy that no longer does? The benefit of such questions is that they pull us out of our usual pathways of thought. Introspection helps clear the dead wood. Personalities are dynamic, changing with time, experiences and one’s stage of life. No wonder our idea of happiness evolves throughout our lives. The key element here is honesty, which is why I recommend an audience of one. It is easier to be completely transparent when you’re the only one listening. It may be tough to admit to a family member that a promotion makes you happier than spending weekends with family. MAKE AN EFFORT All of this thinking is very well. But no source of sustained happiness comes for free. There is usually a mindset or some kind of effort required. When you’re making a list of what makes you happy, do also examine what factors or efforts (both from your and others’ side) make it possible. A gregarious young woman may derive happiness from having a large circle of friends. Is it simply the luck of the draw or does her friendly, helpful nature win her friends wherever she goes? I bet if she moved to a new city and turned into a grouch, her luck with friends would run out really fast. As would the warm feeling of being liked. At other times, our happiness is creation of someone else’s hand – a favourite meal cooked well or a shirt kept ironed for an interview. Noticing and appreciating these little gestures regardless of, and in fact more so, when they’re part of the routine is a favour we do ourselves. THE HUES OF HAPPINESS There are many types of happiness. One is the boisterous joy of a win, achievement of a milestone or a reunion. Another is derived from the satisfaction of a job well done. There is also a sort of happiness that feels deeper because it remembers the sacrifices made to get you where you are. It’s poignant because it is happiness with a drop or two of sadness, loss and memory stirred in. Another quieter sort of happiness is when the thought that life is good floats into your mind while doing something mundane. It feels like being wrapped up in a warm blanket on a cold day. HAPPINESS IS A MINDSET Many people are bright, beautiful and talented but there are few talents as valuable as the talent for enjoying your life and being happy. It’s a special kind of person who enjoys the big and small gifts of life, cherishes what they have, focuses on the positive instead of moping around like their buttered toast falls face down in the dust every day. Being cognisant of one’s blessings and being grateful is the surest way of leading a happy life. MAKE YOUR OWN HAPPINESS The idea of the Observor Paradox or Observor Effect in Quantum Mechanics states that we live in a world of our own making. In other words, since what is observed is affected by the observer, it means that reality, or at least our perception of reality, exists in a state of potential. It is our observation — our attention — which brings one or the other outcome into being. In a way, we choose our reality. You may, dear reader, think like I’m forcing too grand an idea into too small a mould but for creatures, on a small planet in the backyard of a galaxy, with lifespans too short to achieve anything of importance on a grand scale, perhaps all ideas are equally big or small. After all, the universe mirrors itself in big and small forms. Aren’t all creatures on Earth made of the same elements found in the largest of stars? We’re all made of stardust and so, maybe, just maybe, life was always meant to shimmer. As long as you look at it from the right angle. Millions of years from now, when the Earth is swallowed up by the dying Sun, (which will only be a few years after I manage to clear my Gmail inbox) who says a happy life will not weigh the same as an award in particle physics? And so, I recommend being happy.

Some books stay with you long after you turn the last page. Fragments of evocative or witty phrases, soaked in the novel’s atmosphere cling to the recesses of your mind. Often, these lines are spoken by characters that feel real enough to have a conversation with. Their presence outlasts the story. Bring up the Bodies  will reside in my memory for its wit and the deep, dark and inscrutably enigmatic character of Thomas Cromwell. This is the second book in Hilary Mantel’s Wolf Hall Trilogy. It won the Man Booker Prize in 2012, following its prequel, Wolf Hall which won in 2009. The trilogy charts the emergence of Thomas Cromwell from the grimy streets of Putney. The son of a blacksmith, Thomas tried his hand at many a trade— mercenary soldier, roadside card sharp, wool trader, and banker, before clawing his way to becoming Cardinal Wolsey’s protégé. Following the Cardinal’s death, Cromwell rose through the ranks at court to become arguably the most powerful man in England after the King. In a passage about Cromwell refusing to adopt a more illustrious family’s heraldry, Hilary Mantel shows us not just the swiftness of Cromwell’s rise but also his sagacity. “He has no ancestors, of course: not the kind you’d boast about. There was once a noble family called Cromwell, and when he came up in the King’s service the heralds had urged him for the sake of appearances to adopt their coat of arms; but I am none of theirs, he had said politely, and I do not want their achievements.” Bring up the Bodies  opens in the year 1535. Thomas Cromwell is 50 years old and occupies the position of Master of the Rolls and Master Secretary to the King alongside several other minor offices. Manoeuvring the exit of Queen Anne Boleyn, of whom King Henry VIII is beginning to tire, is amongst Cromwell’s primary goals in this volume in addition to arranging the king’s third marriage and avoiding war with Spain and France. Catching a spark of interest in Henry’s eye, Cromwell places Anne’s polar opposite, the demure Jane Seymour in Henry’s path as a suitable replacement to give Henry the son he craves, thereby securing the future of the Tudor line. Mantel’s narrative is a third-person omniscient perspective focussed so closely on Cromwell that it reads almost like a first-person narrative. The use of present tense adds a rawness and immediacy to this riveting historical fiction, showing us just how high the stakes were. And not just the ones used to burn heretics and political opponents! Most people reading this book are likely to be aware of the broad historical details of the Tudor era, especially Henry VIII’s tumultuous reign. The historical Cromwell, however, is a rather opaque figure with precious little known about him. That is precisely what makes his character an ideal place for history to meet fiction. Mantel is masterful in her use of imagery and dialogue to portray a diplomatic tug-of-war, the intrigues of desire and a constant wrangling for power amongst the courtiers. In the midst of all this, stands Cromwell—an agile political survivor with more enemies than he can count, kept at bay only by his razor-sharp intellect, incisive understanding of human nature and Machiavellian manoeuvres. “Every day as Master Secretary he deals with grandees who, if they could, would destroy him with one vindictive swipe, as if he were a fly. Knowing this, he is distinguished by his courtesy, his calmness and his indefatigable attention to England’s business.” Mantel paints Cromwell’s character in contradictory hues. This is a man proud yet humble, ruthless yet merciful, opportunistic yet loyal and practical yet sentimental. And most of all, brilliant beyond contradiction. It is this reputation for intelligence and a prodigious memory that Thomas Cromwell uses to intimidate people. Every now and then, he allows the glinting edge of his intellect to catch the light. People’s imaginations do the rest, resulting in ever more tales of his brilliance. There is a wonderful scene where Edward Seymour asks Cromwell for a rematch of a game of chess they played three years ago, complaining that he'd lost only because Cromwell had distracted him. Cromwell offers to align the board exactly as it was when Edward lost his train of thought. It’s a psychological trick at best, but effective nonetheless. Mantel portrays Cromwell as an excellent judge of character, generous with his advice and help, extremely observant and blessed with the incredibly useful ability to bite his tongue when required. He holds grudges but refrains from immediate retaliations. Instead, he serves his revenge cold. “If he had a grievance against you, you wouldn’t like to meet him at the dark of the moon. His father Walter used to say, ‘My boy Thomas, give him a dirty look, and he’ll gouge your eye out. Trip him and he’ll cut off your leg. But if you don’t cross across him, he’s a very gentleman. And he’ll stand anybody a drink.’” What sets Bring up the Bodies , in fact the entire Wolf Hall Trilogy, apart from other historical fiction about the Tudor Era is that it doesn’t cast Kings and Queens as protagonists. In this tale, Cromwell is the hero and we see Henry VIII only through Cromwell’s eyes. As a result, readers sees Henry’s dithering, his extreme dependence on his advisors, his gradual decline into paranoia, and an absolute lack of accountability for his own decisions. It is left to Master Cromwell to do what the King wants and needs done. “He knows the king is devout and afraid of change. He wants the church reformed, he wants it pristine; he also wants money. But as a native of the sign Cancer, he proceeds crab-wise to his objective: a side-shuffle, a weaving motion.” Regardless of the age he lived in, Hilary Mantel’s Cromwell is a man of surprisingly modern ideas. With an egalitarian bent of mind, given his own humble beginnings, Cromwell keeps abreast with the problems of the average man and woman instead of restricting himself to court and his country home. His concern for the future of England and the upliftment of her people comes through. “It is better not to try people, not to force them to desperation. Make them prosper; out of superfluity, they will be generous. Full bellies breed gentle manners. The pinch of famine makes monsters… England needs better roads, and bridges that don’t collapse. He is preparing a bill for Parliament to give employment to men without work, to get them waged and out mending the roads, making the harbours… We could pay them, he calculated, if we levied an income tax on the rich… In a generation everything can change.” Bring up the Bodies  allows readers into Thomas Cromwell’s mind, feeding us nuggets from his past and revealing the rationale behind his political and diplomatic moves. Yet, after all, he remains an enigma - unpredictable and unknowable. Mantel’s Cromwell is like a figure walking down a partially-lit pathway, not entirely visible but enough for an observer to form an impression. I recommend you take a look.

He Who Drowned the World is the culmination of battles fuelled by a desire for survival, power and revenge. Published in 2023, this is Shelley Parker-Chan’s second book in The Radiant Emperor duology. It opens a few months after the close of She who Became the Sun and carries forward the stories of the major characters from the first volume. The book’s first chapter has Zhu Chongba—having ‘stolen’ her brother’s destiny and fought first, for survival and then, glory— attempting to strike an alliance with her southern neighbour, Madam Zhang as part of her larger strategy to replace the Great Yuan as the next emperor. Her insatiable ambition for greatness and penchant for excavating opportunity out of every obstacle remains unchanged. “I spent the first part of my life being told I was nothing. The world, never seeing my value, would have thrown me away without regret… nobody would lift a finger to change the world for us. To make a place for us. What choice did we ever have, but to do it ourselves?” Viewing herself as a force for positive change, standing up for the oppressed and ignored, Zhu has adopted a name of imperial ambition, Zhu Yuanzhang, styling herself as the Radiant King; and proclaiming her possession of the Mandate of Heaven. But she is far from being the only one with the divine mandate. There’s Wang Baoxiang, a surging ocean of spiteful darkness roiling at being disparaged his whole life. Starved of love and humiliated for falling short of the Mongol masculine ideal, Wang, the new Prince of Henan, seeks to wreak havoc at the Great Yuan’s court. Wang’s opening move on the chessboard of courtly cunning is to risk humiliation at the hands of his enemies merely to plead for the lowly position of a vice-minister. With a strategy so serpentine and manipulative of others’ deepest desires and insecurities, nobody sees him coming until it’s too late. “The most dangerous person in a game is the one nobody knows is playing.” Shelley Parker-Chan’s primary characters all have more or less the same aim – the downfall throne of the Great Yuan. Yet, each of them pursues this goal in varied ways, and for reasons peculiar to them. Wang uses his bookishness and effeminacy, going against the tenets of Mongol masculinity, while Zhu Yuanzhang is inventive and flies by the seat of her pants. On the other hand, Madam Zhang is an ice-cold puppet-master, manipulating the minds and hearts of the men she uses. “They were all pieces for her to use at the right time, to serve her own purpose. And when they’d reached the end of their usefulness, she would discard them… She was a courtesan and a queen, and one day she would be an empress.” The other contenders for the throne, given their possession of the Mandate of Heaven are Madam Zhang’s brother-in-law, General Zhang and Chen Youliang, the former leader of the Red Turbans who has old scores to settle with Zhu. Both Chen and General are skilled military tacticians, with the former being more politically astute. Another prime mover on this battlefield is General Ouyang, the self-loathing, tortured eunuch warrior. He burns in a constant fire of self-recrimination for betraying his lifelong friend, Esen even as the embers of his father’s killing and his own humiliation continue to scorch his soul. Unlike the other characters who hope to usurp power by killing the Great Yuan, Ouyang seeks to “…have his revenge upon the one who had written his and Esen’s fates into the pattern of the world and stolen from them their choices in how they lived and died. With the murder of the Great Khan, that one final act of Ouyang’s life, every awful thing he had done—everything he had suffered—would be worth it.” Parker-Chan uses multiple perspectives to portray not just the viewpoints, emotional stakes and motivations of the primary characters but also illustrate the story’s sweeping scale as a historical fantasy. Switching between perspectives also builds suspense and pace. The core of He who Drowned the World, similar to its prequel, are its characters whose arcs are integral to the plot. Furthermore, almost all the primary characters in the books are foils to each other. Zhu and Ouyang mirror each other with their complicated gender identities and overlapping experiences of being considered worthless. They share the ambition of deposing the current monarch but their view of what lies beyond it, is as different as could be. Being master manipulators is what links Wang Baoxiang and Madam Zhang even if their internal monologues result in the reader having greater sympathy for one than the other. Compared to its prequel, He who Drowned the World is more expansive in its world-building with characters moving through varied locations and settings including the court of the Great Yuan in Khanbaliq. Shelley Parker-Chan uses the metaphor of a lantern to depict the dangers of opulent echo chambers for a dynasty in decline—engaged in petty squabbles and too myopic to see the uprising of the rejected and shunned. “Inside the Great Khan’s sheltered world of the Palace City was like the interior of a lantern: light so endlessly reflected from its own surfaces that it was impossible to see what was happening outside. The court of the Great Yuan sat feasting, without any idea of their own coming destruction.” Power, identity and gender are recurrent themes in He who Drowned the World and manifest in kaleidoscopic forms in the characters’ lives, impacting many destinies. Even though I enjoyed this book, I felt a bit let down by its protagonist. Even if one ignores Zhu Yuanzhang’s unbelievable propensity to routinely overcome armies larger and more skilled than her own, it’s hard not to view her trouncing the forces of nature and paranormal activity as a case of plot armour. There’s author-backed and then there’s plot-protected. This is the latter. Furthermore, Zhu’s weakness as a character is her lack of weakness. It makes it hard to root for her. Even the losses she faces don’t really have a lasting impact, making her one of the most static characters in the series. Her internal conflict never feels real, like that of General Ouyang or Wang Baoxiang. And while she often harps about wanting to create a fairer and radiant world, there’s not a single instance of her elaborating on how she plans to do so. The climax too was a bit disappointing, in my opinion, both in terms of the plot details as well as the mood it evokes. It left me feeling more invested in the vanquished than the victorious. All in all, He who Drowned the World is an intricately woven tale that has you holding your breath in suspense and sympathising with some of its broken characters even as you’re horrified by the extent of their Machiavellian ruthlessness. A lot darker and more violent than its predecessor, He who Drowned the World is a gripping read with characters that leave an imprint.

Set in England in the year 1819, The American Boy is a gothic historical fiction that unravels slowly into a tangled murder mystery. The protagonist and narrator of the story is a young man, Thomas Shield. His involvement in the affairs of the Frant and Carswall families begins with his appointment as an usher at a boarding school in Stoke Newington, near London. Here, he comes into contact with two new students, Edgar Allan, a precocious boy adopted by an American couple and Charles Frant. It is Charles’ parents, Henry and Sophie and their relatives, Stephen Carswall and his daughter Flora that are at the centre of this web of greed, power and treachery. Placed as he is, in the grey area of being neither a servant nor a gentleman, Thomas has a unique vantage point from which to observe the shady manoeuvres of the two banking families, hidden behind a façade of wealth and gentility. Thomas gets sucked into a mire of murder and cheating by his actions initially in service of Henry Frant and later, Stephen Carswall despite not fully understanding the significance of his actions until much later. As a man with a new job, a small inheritance and not much else going for him, Shield looks to curry favour where he can. That’s not all though. His desire for both Flora and Sophie also contributes to his eagerness to participate in this family intrigue which ends up threatening his livelihood, reputation and life. It takes about 100 pages of this 480-page book to get to the first major event in the novel, the brutal murder and disfigurement of a man on a building plot owned by Henry Frant’s bank. Given that this is supposed to be a mystery, 100 pages seems like a tediously long wait to get to anything that constitutes a mystery. While Taylor does toss in many teasers that foreshadow future happenings, it is still likely to be a bit too slow for readers who prefer to get to the quick a bit faster. In this, The American Boy is different from Andrew Taylor’s other novel, The Scent of Death even though they have many similarities such as privileged, enigmatic female characters with husbands who aren’t what they seem and male protagonists-cum-narrators finding their way through changed circumstances. The latter established a murder right from the protagonist’s first day in New York which made it a great deal pacier. Despite Taylor’s relaxed approach to cracking open the mystery at the heart of The American Boy, his atmospheric rendering of the jam-packed slums and foggy nights of London as well as the rolling hills of the Carswalls’ country estate with its ice house and abandoned abbey, is both evocatively gothic and immersive. The major characters are well fleshed out, even if the motivations of some characters are tougher to comprehend. Especially the attraction that Thomas Shield holds for the major female characters in the novel, Sophia and Flora, because frankly, he comes across as quite colourless and passive. I can’t imagine what he had going for him to attract these worldly women apart from being the teller of his own story! The protagonist’s depiction of class differences and the role that money and status play, even in his own mind, is well-done and has a lived-in quality. "For the first time in my life, I was about to be a man of substance, the absolute master of £103 and a few shillings and pence. The knowledge changed me. Wealth may not be happiness, but at least it has the power to avert certain causes of sorrow. And it makes a man feel he has a place in the world." Andrew Taylor deftly uses Thomas’ first-person narration to reveal not just the attributes of a person being described and assessed but also, the narrator’s own ideas, prejudices and deepest desires. A great example of this is Thomas’ assessment of Henry Frant when he first meets him. “I envied him: here was a man who had everything the gods could bestow including an air of breeding and consequence that sat naturally upon him, as though he were its rightful possessor. Even now, God help me, part of me envies him as he was then.” Taylor imbues the dialogue with the formality and restraint of the late Georgian Era. In the author’s note, Andrew Taylor spoke of his deep interest in researching the vocabulary in use during the period in which he has based The American Boy. All that research appears to have paid off. That said, the repeated interruptions during key conversations to create cliffhangers feel more than a bit contrived. Around the time a second dead body is discovered, Thomas realises he was a mere pawn in the hands of powerful people and that his own future and reputation are now at stake. “It seemed that I had acquired a past I did not want and the possibility of a future I did not desire.” Before I end, I must add that I can’t fathom why the title of this novel is The American Boy. The only American boy among the characters is Edgar Allan who would grow up to become the famous writer, Edgar Allan Poe. But he is, at best, a side character in this drama, remaining off-stage for much of the book and with little direct connection to the central plot. Broadly, The American Boy is well-written in terms of style and atmosphere but too convoluted to be believable in terms of plot. There are portions in the book, especially towards the climax, that are needlessly intricate without sufficient pay-off.

The Indian cricket team won the World Cup on the 2nd of November. This was a first for the women’s team. Sadly, I did not watch the match. In fact, I haven’t watched a cricket match in more than a decade. I watched the highlights of the match and snippets about the individuals that made up this great team. Photo Courtesy: JioHotstar Many of them come from modest backgrounds and have braved financial challenges, social ridicule, and sporting disappointments that would’ve broken most. There’s Amanjot Kaur, a 25-year-old all-rounder hailing from Mohali, Punjab. Her father, a carpenter, carved a bat for her and saved up money to buy her a scooter so she wouldn’t miss her training sessions. Shafali Verma, born and brought up in in Rohtak, Haryana, Verma cut her hair short, disguised herself as a boy to enrol in a cricket academy that didn’t admit girls. At 17 years of age, Shafali was the youngest player, male or female, to represent India in all three formats of international cricket. Each of these cricketers and their families, coaches, and well-wishers deserve all the accolades and good stuff coming their way. Even amongst all these stirring stories of the grit and discipline shown by these young women to become world champions, there’s another story that resonated with me. That of their coach, Amol Muzumdar, a cricketer who, despite being a great talent and scoring a tremendous 11,167 runs in domestic cricket, was never picked to be part of the first-rung Indian cricket team. Photo Courtesy: JioHotstar Muzumdar’s story shines a light on the strange, winding ways of destiny. I’m a believer in destiny that is powered by hard work. However, there is something even more powerful than destiny – timing. It is said that what is destined for you, will come to you. However, there’s a catch that is not always stated. Fate or destiny arrive in their own time. For ordinary mortals striving to achieve something we’ve set our hearts on and working toward, the chasm between the effort we put in and the results staring us in the face can often range from disappointing to utterly heartbreaking. THE CHANCE THAT NEVER WAS Amol Muzumdar’s talent was spotted early by Ramakant Achrekar, a legendary coach on the Mumbai cricketing scene. Achrekar famously coached Sachin Tendulkar and Vinod Kambli who burst into the national spotlight with their 664-run partnership in an inter-school tournament. On the sidelines of that sparkling partnership stood a young Amol, all padded up, waiting for his turn to bat. That turn never came. Tendulkar went on to scale incredible heights in his career while Kambli’s star was a short-lived one. But unlike Kambli who at least had his chance, Amol Muzumdar never got called up despite checking all the boxes expected of any cricketer hoping to make the national side. There is no logic to it except what can be found in the German philosopher, Arthur Schopenhauer’s words, “Fate shuffles the cards and we play.” IN CONTENTION In his first-class debut for Mumbai, Muzumdar scored 260 runs against Haryana during a Ranji Trophy match in the 1993-94 season. This record remained unsurpassed until 2018 which tells us something about the quality of that knock. And yet, he didn’t make it to the national team even though he played for the India A team alongside greats like Rahul Dravid and Sourav Ganguly. In 2002, he considered quitting the game but eventually, decided to persevere. In 2006, he was appointed captain of the Mumbai team. Mumbai won the Ranji Trophy that season. After stints with the Assam and Andhra Pradesh teams, Muzumdar retired in 2014, never having played for India. Reflecting on his career, Muzumdar remarked, “Cricket gave me everything, except the cap.” THE SECOND INNINGS However, Muzumdar’s association with professional cricket continued. Coaching gigs with India’s Under-19 and Under-23 teams as well as international assignments with the Netherlands and South African teams followed. In October 2023, Amol Muzumdar was appointed head coach of the Indian women’s cricket team. Two years later, he stood in the middle of a roaring stadium in Mumbai with the World Cup-winning captain of his team, Harmanpreet Kaur touching his feet in respect. With fireworks lighting up the sky and an overjoyed crowd on its feet, chanting and cheering, Muzumdar planted the Indian tricolour on the pitch. Destiny may have taken her own sweet time showing up but you can’t say she lacks style. Photo Courtesy: JioHotstar Perhaps, Muzumdar was always destined for greatness, just not in the way he thought. Three decades in the making, what a priceless moment it must have been for him. Isn’t it grand that a synonym for priceless in Hindi is Amol? Many of us, at times, feel bogged down by a lack of tangible results and the encouragement they bring. Such moments can break many a resolve. That is exactly why Muzumdar's story, humbling and uplifting as it is, strikes a chord. His story shows us that there are infinitely many kinds of success stories and that sometimes, the best thing to do is what we can and let destiny come around when it does. With that, I extend my heartiest congratulations to the Indian women’s cricket team on their stupendous win as well as doff my hat and wish a very happy birthday to Amol Muzumdar, the architect of a triumph that has crossed the crease straight into the history books!

Tuesdays with Morrie is a memoir about an old professor, his former student and the lesson of a lifetime. The professor is diagnosed with a terminal disease at the beginning of the book but that’s not what Tuesdays with Morrie is about. It’s about how Morrie lived and what each of us can learn from it. Let’s start at the beginning. The author of this book, Mitch Albom was a student of Morrie Schwartz’s in the late 70s at Brandeis University in Massachusetts, USA. Theirs was a bond of mentorship instead of the usual teacher-student equation. But then, Morrie wasn’t the usual kind of teacher. Less concerned with grades and assignments, he cared more about sharing ideas and celebrating his community. At his graduation, Mitch promised his professor, or ‘Coach’ as he called him, to keep in touch. He didn’t. Life and the usual rat race got in the way. Fifteen years pass before Morrie is diagnosed with ALS or amyotrophic lateral sclerosis—a degenerative disease which results in the patient slowly losing control of their organs and limbs as the disease progresses, leading eventually to death. There is no cure. “Morrie would walk that final bridge between life and death, and narrate the trip.” Upon finding out about Morrie’s condition, Mitch, by then a thriving sports journalist, visits his professor. He finds their bond unchanged, but realises that his former teacher needs him more than ever. Thus, begin Mitch’s Tuesdays with Morrie. Morrie is the sort of teacher we all want in our lives – one who believes in our gifts, helps us navigate the paths of life and face life’s eternal questions. One can’t help but envy Mitch for his beautiful relationship with such a generous and wise teacher. Albom’s words about his good fortune in finding a teacher like Morrie encapsulates their whole relationship, "Have you ever really had a teacher? One who saw you as a raw but precious thing, a jewel that, with wisdom, could be polished to a proud shine? If you are lucky enough to find your way to such teachers, you will always find a way back. Sometimes it is only in your head. Sometimes it is right alongside their beds." Sadly, in Mitch’s share also fell the regret of missing so many years with Morrie and the grief of his loss. Tuesdays with Morrie has short chapters dealing with specific life lessons about aging, love, and death. These are interspersed with Mitch’s memories of his college days and other exchanges with his teacher. Tuesdays with Morrie is narrated by Mitch but Morrie is the hero—one whose courage and grace shine through its pages. To be honest, large portions of the book that are too simplistic to be pithy, running the risk of being condemned as trite. However, the fact that it is based on the life of a real person dying of a terribly debilitating disease gives it a gravitas that a piece of fiction wouldn’t have had. Morrie remains, till his last breath, a positive and generous teacher, keen to discuss other people’s problems and help in whatever way he could. It’s what makes Tuesdays with Morrie both uplifting and touching. Spouting some spiel about living a simple life and appreciating others is neither novel nor challenging. We have WhatsApp forwards for that! But living each day in that spirit, especially during tough times, is a rarity. My favourite chapters were conversations about how to deal with self-pity and the importance of community and creating one’s own culture instead of blindly following what society tells us is valuable or worth pursuing. In Morrie’s words, “Devote yourself to loving others, devote yourself to your community around you, and devote yourself to creating something that gives you purpose and meaning.” Tuesdays with Morrie was published in 1997, spending more than four years on bestseller lists. It remains a much-beloved book for many people across the world perhaps because it makes you pause. It makes you want to reassess your priorities in life, be more present, and take less for granted. It makes you wish everyone had a teacher like Morrie. And it makes you grateful his wisdom was immortalised in this book.

If you and I share similar algorithms on social media then you’ve probably come across the term ‘Old Money Aesthetic’. It refers mainly to a style of dressing that calls for high quality, natural fibres, muted colours, tailored looks and almost no prints apart from stripes and the odd polka dot. And most importantly, no loud brand logos. It’s a great look if it works for you, even if it's a bit too formulaic. However, like all good things, it needs a dash of individuality to be truly stylish. The same holds for other things as well. Somehow, following what everyone else is doing may be trendy but it’s never memorable – be it in the jewellery you wear, how you entertain, your interests or even the things you value. I consider a bunch of different attributes and abilities as quiet luxuries. Here are a few that come to mind – people who still write with fountain pens, send out invitation cards for their get-togethers, know the names of flowers, birds and trees, pursue hobbies like woodworking, embroidery or pottery, and people who can sit in silence for at least five minutes without diving for their phones. Then, there are those who know how to have a great chat – listening and speaking in turns, or people who still wear beautiful analog watches instead of smartwatches that are just short of being able to launch a rocket into space! But all these attributes are only chic when they also effortless and not looking to be noticed or applauded. They just are the way they are, because they wish to be. In the words of Giorgio Armani, “Elegance is not about being noticed. It’s about being remembered.” Cramming every last corner of our lives with noise, content and a false sense of urgency only serves to suck out the joy of everyday life. People who enjoy the passage of time mindfully even as they go about the routines of daily life as we all do, have an underrated elegance about them. Unsurprisingly, they appear more relaxed because they allow for leisure, pleasure and boredom. In my opinion, privacy and the leisure to be bored are the last true luxuries. Frankly, if they were stocks in trade, I would buy in, based purely on their diminishing availability. If you think about it, there’s something so calming and effortlessly cool about being unrushed and getting off the hamster wheel of mindless busyness. So many of us spend so much of our time recording and measuring every aspect of our lives, that we may well be bypassing the living part. Choosing to take your time when you can is about taking ownership of your time, and using it for what you consider important and valuable, rather than scurrying around chasing prizes or goals defined by someone else. So, that’s that regarding leisure and pleasure, but what’s so chic about boredom, you ask? Well, what may look like boredom to an outsider is down-time for our overloaded brains. Also, being okay with getting bored is the sign of a person comfortable enough to sit with their thoughts without looking for a way out. You may think I’m overstating the issue, but let me tell you about an experiment conducted in 2014. Harvard psychology professor Dan Gilbert asked his subjects to sit in a room for 15 minutes with nothing to do. Their belongings including cellphones, books and writing implements were taken from them. The only thing in the room was a button they could press to give themselves a painful electric shock. Rather than just sitting there with their thoughts, the majority of participants chose to jolt themselves by pressing the button. The duration they were supposed to just sit in silence was 15 minutes and the majority struggled with it. Think about that. Preferably without giving yourself a shock! It is important to understand that boredom is not a bad thing. It is merely the feeling we experience as we transition into a lower level of stimulation. These transitions or breaks between activities are founts of creativity, lateral thinking and problem-solving. Our devices and constant distractions don’t just derail our focus in the moment. Over a period of years, they reduce our ability to think deeply about anything without reaching for a distraction. Equally important, however, is how feeling a sense of boredom is essential for our brains to unwind and relax. What a person gains, when they choose to sit in peace at a traffic light or just observe things around them while waiting for a train set to arrive in 4 minutes, is a calmer mind. And that’s always chic!

The Universe is a perpetual recycler. We see it in action at every turn. The freshly sprouted, bright green leaf of a tree darkens with time, eventually turning a shade of yellow or reddish brown until, one day, it falls off. This leaf is subsumed by the earth or consumed by a worm. Next spring, there may appear a delicate sprig of grass. Who’s to say it didn’t emerge from the energy released by the autumnal leaf? A MATTER OF TIME The Universe has existed for 13 billion years, give or take a few hundred million. Imagine an expanse of time so vast, one can treat millions of years as an approximation. Now compare that to the average life span of a human being. 80 years. 90 or a 100 if you’ve been good, or lucky. Do our lives have any meaning? I ask because regardless of how hard we work at building our sand castles, the unrelenting tide of time washes them away. Or so it appears. If everything in the Universe is a form of energy, and energy can only be transformed and never destroyed, is that also true of all the effort we plough into our passions? Does it live on too, in another form or on another plane? Does it show up in other lives as a sort of interest accrued on an investment made long ago? I hope for such poetic justice on a transcendental scale. Perhaps, that's one way to explain the talent of a veritable child prodigy like Mozart who was composing music at an age when most kids are learning to tie their shoelaces. Or the incredibly gifted Srinivasa Ramanujan, one of the greatest self-taught mathematicians of all time, who worked out complex theorems with barely any formal education beyond high school mathematics. Is it possible that the invisible hand of synchronicity connects the labour of one lifetime with its reward in another? I’ll get back to the reward but first, let’s talk about a famous musician. THE RIGHT NOTE There’s a video of Grammy-winning singer-songwriter, Ed Sheeran from his appearance on The Jonathan Ross Show a few years ago. During the show, Sheeran played an old recording of himself, singing. It’s not just awful, it’s painful. That was the point of it. Ed played it to prove how little of his success is down to pure god-gifted talent. It’s not my contention that natural talent doesn't exist. Of course, it does. However, very few people have such immense reserves of innate ability that they can go out onto the world stage, without putting in some serious work. Most people, celebrated for their talent, have worked very hard to polish their gifts. There’s a theory about how it takes 10,000 hours of practice to become really good at something. For every successful musician, sportsperson or entrepreneur, there are tens who may have been more talented but didn’t work as hard, and eventually remained relatively unknown. Many years ago, there lived a man, talented but careless about completing his projects. His saving grace, however, was that he was willing to outwork his contemporaries in unimaginable ways, dedicating years to polishing his knowledge and technique. He said, “God sells us all things at the price of labour.” The man’s name was Leonardo da Vinci. THE ILLUSORY TALE OF NATURAL TALENT Yet, the idea of ‘innate talent’ has such a stranglehold on popular perception. Why is that? I reckon it soothes our egos to believe that another’s achievements are a result of being born with natural ability instead of discipline, determination and labour. This idea keeps us safe from the damning knowledge that while we pretend to lack natural talent, we’re really just avoiding putting in the work and shying away from the awkwardness of failed attempts. Now, I don’t mean to say that all of us are capable of great things in every field. Not at all. One look at my early attempts at water colour painting wiped out any artistic illusions I may have harboured! Your nemesis may be gymnastics or singing. That’s fine. Not everything is for everyone. But I’m willing to bet you could be good at something you enjoy, if you only practise. KEEP AT IT That brings us to motivation. That motivation is fleeting hardly needs to be stated. What makes many of us persevere when we rather give up, is either discipline or fear of punishment. There is also the glimmer of a reward in the future that can keep us going. However, I recommend something better. Follow your passion, interest or calling. Put in the effort without obsessing over any potential reward. Just know that your reward is on its way, and will arrive when it is due. That may be next year, twenty years later or even in another lifetime. What is yours will come to you because it is owed, and because the Universe is an excellent accountant.