Phawngpui

I’ll make this short. Mostly because I was playing with the dog and I don’t really have a lot to offer in terms of directions.

So what you do is, if you’re not from Hnahthial, you spend your night in South Vanlaiphai. That's about 2 hours South-East from Hnahthial. There’s a Tourist Lodge there. And there’s a nice man called John who will take care of you. Granted I haven’t spent the night there but I plan to soon. If I do, I’ll let you know. (And if you want to book your stay there, get in touch with me and I’ll see if I can get you Pu John’s contact details.)

I’m not talking about scaling the heights of the Blue Mountain. I just have plans for the picnic style route. From South Vanlaiphai, you leave after breakfast and you’ll reach Sangau after about half an hour’s drive. From there, you push on ahead to Thaltlang. About a half hour again because the road sucks. At Thaltlang, you need to rent a 4-wheel drive. And when I say you need a 4x4, I mean that you should not drive your own 4x4 up the hill but that you make sure you hire one. The drive up is very challenging and you really need someone who knows the road. And knows it well. Be safe.

So! The Pick-Up truck will drive you to Far Pak. That will be about 3000 INR. The drive up is not pleasant but good for experience. The meadow there is to die for. The view is breath-taking. The air is gorgeous. Your IG will be flooded.

You can leave when the air gets a bit nippy. Or when your tuck supply runs out. Then drive back to South Vanlaiphai and have your dinner and rest for the night there. I think Pu John will be able to arrange a bonfire if you ask nicely. He makes really good fish curry, by the by, so make sure you tell him to prepare that. I don’t joke about food much and in my old age have gotten pretty persnickety over food so you know I’m good for my word when I say someone made good food. The chow in South Vanlaiphai town, however, is nothing to write home about. As in it is not good. And the boiled egg sweats beads because they put it in a fridge otherwise. But the fish curry in the Tourist Lodge is good.

Spend some time in the paddy fields of South Vanlaiphai before you leave the next day. The brook that runs there has fishes in it is how clean and healthy the water is. You can also make a pitstop at Darzo Peak for the history of it. It was where Fort Treager was before it burned down.

Not a bad way to spend a weekend.

P.s.: Unmanned veggie vendors are a big thing in this route. Come with change. Make sure you buy a bunch of the tiny bananas. Very tasty.

Popcorn for The Jio/Hotstar Drama

So! The Jio/Hotstar merger. Atu told me about it the other day. I was fascinated. 

I must admit right away that I am no authority on legalities and I have zero knowledge of international laws on domains. I barely can start up a Google spreadsheet. 

But from what I understand, Disney’s Hotstar and Jio Cinema is in talks to form a merger. Which, by the way, I support. I hope they have good movies.

Anyhoo, after it was officially announced, this one Delhi techie put up a note on the jiohotstar.com website saying that he bought this domain in advance when he heard rumours of a merger. And that he wants to study in Cambridge and all he wants is one crore INR for the site, which is nothing for Reliance. Which is true. 

But!

Ok so this is where it gets good. Jio already owns jiohotstar.in. But most corporations would like to co-op all versions of their sites so that people aren’t misdirected to the wrong one. So after his announcement, Jio came out saying that they have filed a legal case because this is domain squatting, which is illegal. 

I'm guessing if Delhi Boy was using his site for anything, then it’s still fine. Technical loophole and all that. But with his own announcement, he basically admitted to having bought the site specifically to get money from Jio. Sounds very extortion-y. I don’t think any mega corporation would want to look weak by caving to his demands. Even if the one crore was pocket change to them.

So instead of one crore, he got a legal case from a corporation that has bottomless money.

And then news broke that he has sold it through a third party to some other people in Dubai, which is now covered by international law. But people are saying that he could still be liable because the case filed against him happened before the sale!

It’s a lot of drama. Apparently his parents are also scared because they think he’s taking on the Ambanis and no one wants to do that. Also it seems he is facing a ton of hacking attempts on his site. Very stressful.

But this is what I’m thinking that one wants to support the underdog but some underdogs can be really stupid. Some people really can NOT keep quiet to save their lives these days!! It's like people need to know how brilliant we are. Or powerful. Or pretty. Or happy. Or rich. Or right. If anything happens to me, I seem to need to ‘tell my story’ which is usually code for ‘explain why I am right’. And social media has fed this narcissism like an IV injection straight to our veins. We all have our own platforms and we feel heard, like we have an audience, which is code in our heads for ‘fans’. 

Some people actually begin to think they are important. The idea that Pride goes before a fall has never been so universally applicable. Now that everyone has a platform, we all just keep falling off our own pedal stools. 

I don’t know how else to put it, honestly. What do you do when you want to support the Underdog but the Underdog is really stupid? Is it in the word? Because the response of an excited dog is to bark. Dogs don’t stay quiet. They aren’t like snails. Snails keep quiet. They don’t champion their ‘side of the story’ without thoughts of repercussions. More people need to learn this from snails.

I call it the Chengkawl Policy. I blogged about it last year too. I still consider it solid theory. Even when we are right, not all stories need to be told all the time. Some stories don’t need to be public. Some stories require a limited audience. Some stories need to brew for some time before they’re told. Some stories don’t even need to be told.

You know, returning to Delhi Boy, apparently domain squatting was made illegal after people started doing this during the early years of the dot com era. When big websites and tech companies were starting out. So tech boy did his research but not nearly enough. And he was bragging about his plot like he was Mojo Jojo or Voldemort. People had to know how brilliant he was! 

He didn’t apply Chengkawl Policy. He should have.

People Used To Trust Me

People used to trust me. They would call me on the phone or barge into my room and say: Esther, cut my hair; do you have a scissor?

With hair. People used to trust me with hair. It could have just been that I was the only paranoid person in college and Uni who had a scissor because I like sharp objects. I also collected knives. At the time, I bought cheap SAKs because I had no money but they kept breaking or rusting or I lost them and didn’t feel the pain of losing them because they weren’t treasures. Until one day I decided to save up and buy a Victorinox SAK. I have never looked back. Victorinox has the best SAKs. Unbeatable. I have also never lost a Victorinox SAK even after I buy more because to me, they’re precious.

This is an economic topic, for the interested. It’s called the Boot Theory. Sam Vines came up with this socio-economic unfairness comparison, which is really worth thinking about. If you could afford a $50 pair of boots, it would keep your feet warm for 10 years and you could spend those years being dry and comfortable, and not having to worry about feet at least. But if you could not afford the $50 boots, you keep buying cheap boots and in ten years, you would have spent $100 on multiple boots because they kept wearing out. And the kicker? You’d still have wet, cold feet. 

And none of my Victorinox SAKs have even gotten blunt or rusted in all these years.

It's really not fair. Because a lot of what you can achieve in life is determined by your (mis)fortune to be born where you were born and to whom. Paris Hilton hit this on the nail on her book Confessions of an Heiress: be born into the right family. It can’t solve all your problems. Nothing can. But it does make your Personal SWOT Analysis not quite so depressing. 

Hair! I was talking about hair. So! In college and Uni, I did cut a lot of my friends’ and sisters’/brothers’ hairs. No one had a lot of money. And we didn’t want to spend what little pocket money we had on hair. Girl’s got to eat! And read comics. So people tended to turn to the person who had steady hands. Which was me. I had steady hands. I even painted at the time. I never nurtured this skill beyond college so the last pot I painted was a picture of a white horse and my mum still keeps it and it amazes me that I did that at one point because these days, I don’t even doodle. That’s really sad. I hadn’t thought about it like that ever.

But hair was something I just had so much confidence of in cutting. I even cut my own. I did all sorts. 

Tenzin, for example, had curly hair so even if I cut it wrong, it didn’t show. And she would buy me lunch for it. Which was cheaper than a parlour and she fed a friend. Everyone wins. 

Mamu, for another, wanted to go bald and no parlour wanted to do that because they thought they’d get blamed for it if something went wrong. So we bought a razor and I shaved it all off for her. I didn’t nick the skin on her skull so I think that was a job well done. She might have paid me in momos. I don’t quite remember. 

Feli and the boys had wavy, thick hair and I was never very good at those, especially when it involved battery operated razors. But the style at the time was emo and no one our age had hair that was cut straight so even if I went a little rogue here and there, everyone’s hairs at the time were spiky and uneven so we were all good. I don’t remember if any of these paid me, not even in food.

People don’t trust me with hair anymore. I haven’t touched hair in a long time. We make our own money now though so that might be a factor. I don’t miss our collective broke ass days when I turned into a barber out of necessity. But it’s nice to have done that. Because it’s a good story. 

People did used to trust me with hair.

Of Art Shows and Ât So

Some time back, people in Mizoram seemed to think art was synonymous with nudity. Nude art is definitely art but it is definitely not all there is to art. I remember being amused and yet mildly irritated at the time. One of the best jokes that came out of it, as I remember, is the frustrated rant of a friend over an art show that had a number of nude art on display: this is not an art show, this is ât so! 

Ât so. I still chuckle over it. I think the pun was immensely clever. Display of madness. Or that translation may still not be enough to convey the utter mayhem of ât so. Brilliant.

To me, though, boudoir shots have always been intriguing. I liked in Disney’s Lilo & Stitch how Lilo would take pictures of grotesquely fat, semi-nude people on the Hawaiian beach like they were interesting and then displayed the polaroids on her bedroom wall as decor. Art. Boudoir shots remind me of Lilo all the time. Or vice versa. 

Beauty as a concept often changes. Botticelli’s Venus has love rolls, for example. Today’s beauty standards – the Britney Spears abs, the Zendaya figures, the Angelina Jolie looks – do not allow for imperfections. No love handles! It is impossible to attain these. I believe this impossible standard of beauty is displayed best by the Kardashian sisters. The thick, long, dark, lustrous straight hair of Asian women, the perfect angular facial features of Caucasian women, the lightly tanned olive skin of the Mediterranean folks, the full lips, breasts and ass of African women, the perfectly toned abs of a modern gym-going woman... beauty standards of different races (and even time?) all rolled into one perfect plastic mould. No one should ever emulate them. That way lies madness. Let Image be the domain of the Kardashians; this is the butter that coats their bread. Not for us regular mortals working 9-to-5s. They say the future is beige and that may be so but I guess the Kardashians couldn’t wait that long. Good for them. They have the money. I judge rich people who remain ugly.

And that’s on beauty. But Art is not just a depiction of beauty. It means so many things. It is what survives after we are gone. It is what encapsulates us in our Present. It is what we hope for will come to pass. I don’t know how else to say it as that Art is as Art does. It is how it makes you feel. Happiness, sadness, anger, loss, lust, whatever. It moves your soul. And thankfully, there's new art all the time.

I cried the first time I watched Doctor Who’s Vincent And The Doctor. This episode pays a beautiful homage to Van Gogh’s Starry Night. It showed you a way of looking at this canvas and how Van Gogh, as depressed as he was in real life, could see majestic beauty in ways no one else could see, the way the night sky swirled around in shades of blue and gold, the colours of the wind and the way the air dances around in the inky blackness of the dark. 

It is good that God created artists. Their art has lived on even after they have died and gone. They have ensured that people understand they are not alone. No matter how lonely and sad you may be, or how ecstatic and hopeful you might find yourself, any feeling that makes you human, some old artist of bygone days have also felt, and they’ve left behind their experiences in their art – their melodies, their lyrics and poems, their voices, their books, their videos, their canvases, their sculptures... I believe art confirms our humaneness. I think the most important message of art is this: you are not alone.

It is perfectly wondrous how there never seems to be a shortage of new art. Speaking locally, I’d never have thought it possible to have rhyming scheme in Mizo poetry and lyrics. But recently, the new crop of Mizo rappers have incorporated rhymes in their songs, weaving puns into their lines seemingly effortlessly. I’ve always marvelled at this. I think this is brilliant. I also have always thought Mizo language was best suited to Gospel, Country and Rock. And mostly only those. But apparently, if done right, it fits in well even with pop, indie, rap and, actually indeed, most genres! Even nonsensical-sounding, prose-like lyrics could be charming if executed properly. If you don’t compare them to the Oldies, which you really shouldn’t anyway, and allow them to stand on their own, they’re wonderfully fabulous.

If you don't agree to a piece of art, it really could seem like a veritable display of insanity: ât so! But in my most humble opinion, even if you don't like it or don't agree with it, as long as you react to it, it still counts. And funny thing, someone else might find themselves in that. Someone you don't like, most probably though.

Truthfully, art is what makes us human.

Ye Olde Lunglei

I recently spent two consecutive weekends in Lunglei. Both were unplanned. Which kind of takes me back because I once spent three years in Lunglei.

Not Lunglei town, per se. I was in Luangmual which was where my father was posted, in 2nd Bn MAP. Our family stationed in the compound. We went to school in Sacred Heart School in Venglai so that was a fuck-all of a commute. The officers’ kids all went there so they arranged for a beat-up old sky-blue Jeep to ferry us to and fro. The designated driver was Pa Zokhuma. His mother was Pi Tialdini and she was a proper Hlimsang and I admired her like no one else. I wanted to be her when I grew up. That and a DC, but that was more like an afterthought.

I learned a lot in SHS and one that has stuck with me till today is the poem Ozymandias by PB Shelley. Kids recited poetry at the School Assembly and that was supposed to teach us public speaking, and I think that was a really good exercise. But also, for some reason, Ozymandias got stuck in my head. The poem really resounded with me. Ozymandias was in the 9th or 10th Grade English Lit. class (or maybe it was called English-I? I don’t remember). I only went to SHS for 3rd to 5th Standard but I learned Ozymandias through this School Assembly. And I have loved it since. I can still recite it from memory even today at the drop of a hat.

I also learned to sketch basic human female figures in SHS. There was this kid in my class – Muanpuii. She was this skinny little girl with short hair that was sticking out and wouldn’t really behave. She was an artist. She’d tear out pages from her notebook and sketch hundreds of pictures of girls in various poses on them. Mostly Betty and Veronica-esque. I learned to sketch basic figures from imitating her. I never really developed further than what I learned from her. She had a nice little economic ring going on. The girls in our class would “buy” these sketches from her with more torn out empty pages from our own notebooks which gave her more material to produce more sketches and so on and so forth. 

Classroom entrepreneurship was all the rage. My own forte was writing little short stories in these torn out pages. The pages would be halved and then folded to quarter them. Using my dad’s staplers to clip them together, I’d create mini-books to come up with perhaps four or six pages long story-books. Girls would borrow them with their own torn out notebook pages. That gave me my own next raw material. My little sister was my best fan. She still remembers some of those stories. I don’t.

Lunglei remains unchanged in so many ways. I am hopelessly directionally challenged. But even I could still find my way around. Which means either that my Lunglei memories are super strong. Or that Lunglei hasn’t grown very much and the markers have remained more or less the same. I don’t know. 

I saw Uncle Shoppe where my mother bought us toys, either for birthdays or when we topped our classes. There was the stationery store where we got school supplies. The little shop that we bought Tinkle and Archies from was no longer there; the building itself was gone. The old video rental place was not there anymore either; I had not expected it to be there. VCR Days are long gone. The days when my dad would drive the family over from Luangmual to Ramthar and my uncle in Ramthar, as the Host, would borrow Tom & Jerry VCRs for us are just very old stories that sound nostalgic and out of place today.

Much like me. I feel old today. Ancient, even.

Cat People/Dog People

We have one dog, one cat. But a lot of people are so determined to segregate pet owners into Dog People and Cat People that it often does not register to them that we do have a dog while we have a cat. And neither of them are our firsts.

I might be wildly exaggerating but I think people who do this have a hard time navigating grey lines. They tend to see the world in black and whites. They also like to put people in boxes and generally believe that their impression of people is the truth; that people could have sides to them that they don’t show to everyone is beyond their ken. 

I do appreciate that there is a general divide between people who prefer one over the other. As a general rule of thumb, I believe people who like to call themselves “dog lovers” tend to be of the type I was talking about. They tend to want things to be a certain defined way. They have a harder time reading between lines. And they need to be needed.

People who like or tolerate cats tend to be much more empathetic. This is necessary because cats are very often unlikable. What is amusing and cute to a lot of cat lovers is extremely unwanted behaviour that some people would even call felony. Like cats stealing smoked meat from people’s homes. What do cats know of human criminal laws? They see a food they like that is unguarded; they are hungry; they take it. If you apply human laws on a very tiny, furry creature with a very flat face and highly expressive Manga eyes, it is hilarious. But very often, people who hate cats hate this. Honestly though, how small a human must you be to treat a dumb animal like your equal who must be answerable to you? Maybe one just as dumb? Because cats are dumb.

People who like cats tend to like other animals too. If you can like a cat, it is not hard to like every other animal out there. Cats are assholes. Cats look like they understand you but actively choose not to acquiesce to you. Cats will love you when they want something from you and act like they don’t know you if you met them outside your house. Cats will retaliate if you hurt them; and they have sharp claws and apex predator reflexes. Whatever intelligence cats have is purely predatorial – the curiosity, the problem-solving, the twisting and turning, the parkour expertise… they are ungovernable. 

Meanwhile, dogs can be tamed. Which is how a lot of people see the world – they like the animal that can be tamed, they hate the animal that is free; they like the entity that is dependent on them, they hate the entity that has very clear boundaries.

I’d say generally that dog lovers tend to identify themselves as "Dog Lovers" and cater specifically to that and make distinctions between them and Cat People. People who like cats don't usually call themselves Cat Lovers as such because very often, they like most other animals too and usually do have dogs as well. On this high generalization, I've deduced that, on the whole, Dog Lovers tend to be nicer but “cat people” tend to be kinder. Meaner though, perhaps. Very probably, by the by.

In my family, we’ve buried four dogs – three Bingos and one Noddy. We’ve also buried five cats – Tokio, Lumos Maxima (Momo), Nihawiparmawii (Nix), Rory Williams (Noni), and Chandler Muriel Bing (Pu Lulua). We have two living with us now – Simi and Snowy.

Simi is short for Simple, which is short for Simple Thinking, High Living because she’s a dumb little tuxedo cat who sometimes act like she is Princess Grace of Monaco. Her name on the Vet card is Lola Swift. Ridiculous, I know. Snowy the dog is an honorary cat because having been raised by Momo the cat, she sometimes thinks she is a cat. Dumb, I know.

They’re both dumb. But we love them both.

Kingmakers

My debut into MCS was unceremonious, to say the least. It was a baptism. Of fire or water or hailstones I don’t know but it was one nonetheless. I had no time to pretend to be shy or nice. It was October 2018, 6 years ago October 3rd. A day all Mean Girls know what date it is annually. Preparations for MLA Elections was underway. They said ‘oh good you’re here’ and gave me jobs. The first time I gave training to polling personnel, I had never even seen a polling station in my life, is how unprepared I was. And yet how professional I had to be. Nuff said.

It was all about long, sleepless nights when the Champhai election office buzzed with energy interspersed with long yawns, the smell of coffee from a Nescafé vending machine, loud arguments and/or laughter over the various interpretations of Handbooks we carried like they were holy. Very occasionally, a shout of “Pi Kawlte!” would sail through the air; she was usually the referee for any disagreements regarding election matters.

I like to complain. Which turned out to be an acceptable thing during elections because everyone complained all the time anyhow. There were complaints about materials that did not match the mark, materials that could not be sourced locally (and could we buy them from Myanmar? No?), materials that were not enough, materials that were just simply wrong, materials that were in surplus and materials that made a bunch of officers stand around a table and ask this important question: what is this? There were complaints over being requisitioned for election duty. There were complaints about health, weddings, deaths and the election dates that clashed with them. There were complaints over not being served food, being served bad food and also being served good food in small quantities. There were complaints about people who were too demanding and people who were too blasé. There were complaints about long hours, insufficient compensation, irregular file works and shortage of time, energy and resources. There were complaints about headaches, backaches, lack of sleep and an ever-growing flab around the gut from an unhealthy lifestyle.  

Election stories are gold. Some of them might be too colourful for polite society and decent dinners, perhaps, or maybe a touch too sensitive for public consumption. Which is a pity because they are the best ones. If you think about it, the very best stories really do begin with: “This one time, someone was so drunk…” In Mizo humour, you can also work with, “Tualte Vanglaiah chuan…” I bet the updated version for this in a 21st century Indian government servant’s life is, “This one time during Elections…” 

Anything works.

This one time during Elections, we added 10 to 283 and somehow got 296!

This one time during Elections, there was a ghost in our PS that kept calling out our names.

This one time during Elections, a sock and an empty beer can fell out of the gunny bag handed to me by a grinning PrO at the Reception Desk!

Ah. Good times.

It is an uncanny but infallible routine that every time you think you’ve mastered an art, the Election Commission of India would come up with an addition that will stump you. Something like playing a video game where every time you defeat a boss, a tougher boss shows up. Which makes you want to lowkey maim the wiseacre at your training hall who always says: wE diD iT aNotHer wAy laSt tiMe i wAs On eLecTion dUty. I don’t know about everyone else but it makes me want to count to ten but throw a punch at eight.

In the 2023 General Elections, I found myself drafted into the Postal Ballot Team in Aizawl. The first time the team met together, I was given this general warning: PB Work doesn’t stop until a new government is formed. That gave me pause because I had picnics scheduled into my month because I’d just learned swimming a couple of months before and I needed the practice. In case I drowned.

Our PB Headquarter was the general area around the Addl. DC’s chambers in Aizawl DC Office. It seemed to me like most of the time we were making Lists. Frequently, as we approach midnight or thereabouts, our PB Leaders would say things like: “Pi Es, List Making work is basically Christian work. You can only enter Heaven if you’re on the Nunna Bu List. And you can only vote by post if you’re on Our List”. The constant Nunna Bu equivalency to Electoral Roll still amuses me today.

There was no calendar in the ADC office. No wall clock. And just the one standard red-and-blue office ballpoint pen. A bit barebones, I said. Perfect place to handle postal ballots as it turned out, because what did time matter when you have ballot papers to issue, registers to fill up, envelopes to organize, endless papers to fold, and, most importantly, lists to make? Because Nunna Bu, if you remember. 

Once the work went into full swing, not only did we not know the hour, we didn’t know the date either. Time doesn’t exist in a Postal Ballot HQ. On October 31, I left my house at 10AM; I never returned that month (which is to say I returned home from office at 2AM on November 1; my driver had a good chuckle over that sleep-deprived muse). PB work also required space for many, many trunks and gunny bags so all that space became quite invaluable!

At college, my roommate and I would wait for English Hour on FM Rainbow at 1AM. We did this for no other reason than we did it. There was no rhyme to it, no reason. Perhaps we stumbled on it one night that we were awake and simply stuck to the schedule. Some nights we’d only be half-awake but we’d wait for 1AM for an hour of English pop music on our phone. This was a time just before Smartphones so perhaps there was some rhyme there, I no longer know. What I do know is that the time surrounding midnight is really dicey and your mind becomes hazy and conversations have a weirdness to it. But if you stick through it, around 1AM your mind is clear again; you can even dance if Back Street Boys plays on the radio. The haze settles around 3AM again, by the by; witching hour, indeed.

During election season in 2023, I noticed this once more. The musings around 12 midnight become slightly unreal. We would often sit around holding cups of red tea and marvel at the logistic humour ingrained in say, AVES. Some nights, someone would mumble something about how it didn’t matter if we did or did not do something because a lot of postal ballots end up dead anyway. Or a wise nod about how the grandma we just buried had availed of Home Voting system so there’s some success story there [her nail was painted indelible ink black in the coffin, ofc]. Or discussions over how we were going to get the policemen stationed outside Mizoram who wanted to vote get to vote just in case they died without voting. It was always something very final. The AVES team brought back quirky stories too. A few someones said they wouldn’t vote because they’ve prayed to God about it and there was no need to vote ‘as though I don’t believe in God’; perhaps SVEEP should do a sweep on the elderly population. Or someone had died before poll day; very morbid, AVES.

Another thing I found really interesting was how much people would shout at you when you handle manual registration for voting. My experience up to that point in this regard was Roll Revision exercises. I had braced myself for that exercise and was good by then. Postal Ballot registration was slightly different because they were already in the roll; a lot more temporary but a lot more urgent. I was told to just hear people out. Difficult exercise for my temperament. There was a seeming desperation to vote which felt like a wind of change of sorts; a political awakening, perhaps. After a bit, I began to think, though, that a lot of them were only ultimatums just to get out of poll duties. Even so, it was interesting to speculate how well the turnout would be. 2023 was a few units lower than 2018, as it happened.

The days before and during Elections, you meet all sorts of people. The range is amazing. Some you work with, some you check, some you play nice with. In the end, someone announces the result and the cloud descends and business resumes as usual, except everything has suddenly changed. The King is dead, long live the King? Sunshine and midnight rain.

Sometime before I joined the service, I had been asked: why would you want to join MCS – all you’ll do is make kings of men to rule over you and then deal with land revenue? I haven’t really dealt with land overmuch. I am Election Officer and Settlement Officer in Hnahthial so that’s going to be interesting but I'm still only a couple months in at the moment. I have however been engaged in electing a new government a few times since 2018. Kingmakers of a different order, I suppose. Perhaps in the bureaucratic end. I realise this is honest, solid work. There is satisfaction, albeit sometimes grim, in the way we handle our business. I am sure the Kingmakers of the political order have new business now too. We all live to fight another day.

I dream of writing an article that makes me sound like a Statesman. But you can only write about what you know. And what I know is what I experience and what I experience is somehow always a little unhinged. Like attracts like? So I end up writing about slightly crazy things that make people question either my sanity or my veracity. (Veracity: a nice, responsible sounding word, that I never use in normal days.) Perhaps someday.

It is what it is.