Day 11- 12: Ups, Downs, and Desert Contradictions

As Day 11 began, our journey stretched from the cobblestoned charm of Cambridge via Heathrow to the buzzing energy of Abu Dhabi, from a land of academic grandeur and flat monotony to an entirely different world of speed, sand, and stars. But let's gloss over the cab ride that stood out in its own right—90 minutes of insightful chatter served piping hot with a generous side of wit, courtesy of our middle-aged cabbie, Balan.

Who knew the man behind the wheel had a story as layered as the UK countryside he zipped through? A maths teacher turned philosopher (at least for that hour and a half), Balan taught Maths to children with tough histories and learning disabilities. If that wasn't interesting enough, he had a remarkable knack for dissecting landscapes, equating their appeal to human temperament. "Good landscapes are never flat," he said, his voice lilting between nostalgia and pragmatism. "Flat land is boring to everyone. That's probably why some say Cambridge is boring."

The irony was on our faces! Cambridge, the "city of learning," reduced to the tedium of its topography. Genius grows on flat land—that's the punchline no one tells you during those walking tours. But the man had a point. Perhaps it is in the peaks and valleys, both in land and life, where adventure truly resides.

Balan and I lingered on philosophical meadows as he praised British drivers' trust in their roads. "The kind of trust where they know you'll signal every turn," he chuckled, no traffic horns in sight. I couldn't help but laugh, thinking of the beautiful chaos of Indian roads—a horn honked here, a scooter slithered there, and Jugaad ruled above all. Trust? Overrated. Give me improvisation any day.

I briefly lamented not driving myself; my Indian license was valid. But then again, where's the fun if you don't get lost at least once and question every road sign? That extra dose of confusion—it keeps me awake.

Soon enough, we landed in Abu Dhabi. From the quaint English countryside to a land of relentless modernity, the juxtaposition was stark. We checked in at the W hotel, elegantly perched beside the adrenaline-fueled Formula 1 race track. Our room, with its sprawling balcony (compared to those we experienced in the UK) overlooking the track, was the kind of space that whispered indulgence and causal lavishness in the same breath. Watching cars whip past below would have been phenomenal. But alas, I'd have to settle for imagining the symphony of engines roaring—speed always seems sweeter when it's just out of reach.

Abu Dhabi quickly flipped the switch on my mood. From the depths of Balan's reflective thoughts, I catapulted straight into Ferrari's shiny, roaring world. Ferrari World is one of those places that makes you ask absurd existential questions mid-ride: Can happiness be bought? Why, yes, in this case, it can. Strapped into the red monster of a ride, I experienced it firsthand. My cheeks stretched taut from sheer velocity as the car hurtled from zero to 140 km/hour in under three seconds. If controlled chaos had a soundtrack, it would be the Ferrari engine purring relentlessly beneath me.

And just when I thought life had sped up enough, we veered into an entirely different tempo—the desert safari, a ride far removed from the sleek simplicity of Ferrari but equally adrenaline-driven in its way. Before charging into the dunes, the first reality check quietly unfolded—the vehicle's tyres had to be deflated to just 40% of their regular pressure. Only then could the car glide through that shifting, sinking kingdom of tan. A desert may seem soft and giving, but its sand has its form of resistance that can trap even the sturdiest of wheels. Reduce the pressure, loosen your grip, allow room for adjustment, and you'll sail (pun intended) through. The metaphor was almost too obvious to miss. Sometimes in life, too, you've got to ease out, adapt, strip away your rigidity, and align with your surroundings. Once the sand is behind you and you're back on solid ground, pump that pressure—restore your firm footing, fill yourself up to full strength, and resume the straight and steady march forward.

Now, the desert is a moody poet. Underneath its apparent simplicity—the endless swirls of blistered sand—it harbours a symphony of contradictions. It's a place that humbles you, a reminder that nature, in all its starkness, has no time for vanity. Perched on the sand, dune bashing transforms the serene landscape into an adrenaline-laced theme park. The sudden dips, the steep climbs—it's like riding the earth's most unpredictable rollercoaster.

But the desert isn't just about the excitement of being tossed around in an SUV. It's also in the moments where silence stretches so deep you can hear your thoughts vibrating against the night stars. Watching the fiery sun fall into submission behind the horizon and the cool, glinting stars take over—it felt oddly… impartial. The desert doesn't ask who you are; it lets you figure that out as you trudge through its sand, stumble a little, and curse its scorching sun.

As I knelt to let the fine grains slip through my fingers, I laughed at how sand is both mercifully light and agonizingly persistent. It clings. Just like thoughts, just like people. You can try shaking it off, but it's resistant. As I struggled to keep my footing on shifting dunes, I realized this was no easy territory to navigate, neither in the literal sense nor the metaphorical one. It's a test of patience, resilience, and keeping your humour intact even as your shoes fill with sand.

By contrast, the UK roads and Cambridge flats flashed in my mind—the ease of their outlines, the reassurance of their predictability. Yet, I stumbled upon an epiphany under the infinite sky of the Abu Dhabi desert, careening across dunes and quiet landscapes alike. Adventure thrives in contrast. Aluminium skyscrapers glorify speed, but the sunset on the dunes slows time. Flatlands nurture structure, but rugged terrains spark curiosity. Trust governs orderly British streets, while Indian chaos pulses with creativity.

And perhaps Balan was on to something back in the car, cruising miles away from those Arabian sands. Like a good landscape, life is never interesting if it's too flat. So, here's to the bumps, the curves, the climb, and the sand that refuses to let go. 

 

Day 9-10- Still or Sparkling: Parenting and Newton’s Three Laws of Teenagers in Cambridge

Cambridge! A city so steeped in history and intellect that even the cobblestones seem to hum with the echoes of Newton’s brilliance. Day 9 saw me traversing this college filled grounds, marvelling at its timeless allure while carrying an extra suitcase (blame the shopping we didn’t plan for), a curious niece and the ever-present baggage of parenting (a.k.a caregiving) dilemmas. But by the end of it all, I realized: Newton didn't just give us gravity—his three laws of motion could pretty much sum up the entire experience of raising teenagers. Let me explain.

 

Newton’s First Law of Parenting (a.k.a caregiving): The Law of Inertia

An object at rest tends to stay at rest—unless acted upon by an external force. This law hit me, quite literally, the moment we arrived at our friend’s house in Cambridge. It had been years since I'd last caught up with my ex-colleague, who now proudly called this picturesque city home. With him was his delightful (and shockingly silent) 13-year-old daughter, who I thought would be the perfect sparring partner for my Muskaan. What ensued? Two parallel universes of stillness.

Picture this: Two teenage girls in their prime, sitting next to each other, scrolling their phones in eerie synchronization. Nothing—not my subtle attempts to spark conversation, not an enticing offer of snacks, and certainly not the grandeur of Cambridge itself—could break their shared inertia. While I kept hoping for animated banter, maybe even a fiery debate about K-pop versus Bollywood, all I got were monosyllables drifting through the air like dust motes.

And as I watched my little chatterbox (in private) succumb to this sea of silence, I thought,  Is it me? Is it them? Is this just how teenagers are now? Maybe pushing them to talk is like trying to shove a resting apple out of its serene existence on Newton’s tree. Sometimes, stillness just… is. Or maybe it’s just waiting—for the right force, the right moment, the right gravitational pull.

 

Newton’s Second Law of Parenting (a.k.a caregiving): F = ma

The force applied to an object is equal to its mass times its acceleration. Translation for parenting (a.k.a caregiving)? The harder you push your teenager to do something, the more resistance you're going to face. Force, meet frustration. 

Case in point: Earlier today, my niece—who has the energy of a firecracker and a flair for dramatic declarations—cornered me with a demand: “I’m bored. Talk to me.” It was as if my ability to have an hour-long conversation with a stranger on our way back by road to Heathrow had qualified me to now become her personal entertainment system. But let me tell you, every force I have ever exerted to redirect her boredom into something productive—read a book, go for a walk, join the conversation with the grown-ups—was met with equal and opposite resistance. Teens, I realized, are wildly unpredictable particles in motion. The more you apply force to steer them, the more they simply find another trajectory. And me? I was just the frazzled scientist in the lab, clutching my metaphorical chalkboard and muttering formulas that clearly didn’t apply.

 

Newton’s Third Law of Parenting (a.k.a caregiving): Every Action has an Equal and Opposite Reaction. 

Push too hard, and something will push right back— usually in the form of dramatic eye rolls or stony silence. This law manifested beautifully during our strolls through Cambridge, a city so awe-inspiring that it could stir even the quietest soul (or so I thought). As we passed the legendary Newton’s apple tree—the one that changed the course of human understanding—I found myself brimming with excitement. I turned to the teens, convinced this moment would spark at least a flicker of curiosity. “Girls, this is THE apple tree. The one that got Newton thinking about gravity!” This tree literally birthed an entire scientific revolution!” Their reaction? A synchronized shrug, followed by the return to familiar pastimes: scrolling their phones, exploring places where they could take a picture that would qualify for Insta uploads,  and silently willing gravity to make me stop talking. For every ounce of energy we would expend waxing lyrical about history, we get nothing in return but the gravitational pull of indifference. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, I thought. But in this case, I was the apple—and they were the tree, planted firmly in their unyielding silence.

 

The Final Theory: Parenting (a.k.a caregiving) is Perpetual Motion

By the end of the day, after circling the city’s colleges, marvelling at libraries, and standing in awe at the canals, I realized something profound: parenting (a.k.a caregiving) is less about fixing inertia and more about finding harmony within it. We are constantly in motion as parents—adjusting, overthinking, persuading, and questioning—while our children exist in their own unique orbits, sometimes intersecting with ours but often quietly choosing stillness.

Sure, today’s kids might seem bafflingly “still” compared to my need to always converse, engage, and activate. But maybe their quietude isn’t resistance—it’s reflection. Maybe their monosyllables aren’t a refusal to connect; they’re just processing their worlds differently. After all, even Newton needed silence under a tree before he could chart out the rules that govern everything we know.

So, here’s my epiphany from Cambridge: whether they’re sparkling chatterboxes or still waters, teenagers will always defy our expectations—just like Newton’s laws might defy our initial grasp. Parenting (a.k.a caregiving) is about standing somewhere between those rules, inching forward with trial and error, forcing ourselves to let go of the need to always understand.

As our taxi whisked us back home, I felt tired but oddly satisfied. Cambridge had given us 10,000 steps, countless shopping bags, and one magnificent paradigm shift: in parenting (a.k.a caregiving), much like science, there’s no single solution. And when in doubt, just remember: gravity works, whether or not your teenagers choose to acknowledge it. 

"Lloyd's: A Sci-Fi Cathedral of Alternative Realities"

Step onto Lime Street in London, and you'll find yourself standing before a structure so bold it feels plucked from the pages of sci-fi. The Lloyd's building, a dazzling inside-out labyrinth of steel guts and glass veins, gleams like the exoskeleton of a futuristic starship docked for repairs. Its alien architecture and unconventional spirit don't just house the world's most storied insurance marketplace—they embody the philosophy that underwriting represents: the recognition that alternative realities are not just possible but inevitable.

Underwriting, like science fiction, asks an extraordinary question:  What if? What if the ship sinks? What if an asteroid collides with a communications satellite? What if a pandemic halts global trade or a technology startup becomes the next trillion-dollar giant? This is the intersection where Lloyd's thrives—a real-world institution staring into the multiverse of potential outcomes and daring to place bets on the unknown. Step inside this monument to managed chaos, and it feels less like a workplace and more like mission control for taming the infinite.

Richard Rogers' Lloyd's building doesn't just look like it belongs in a dystopian saga; it functions like one. Designed to have its mechanical systems—elevators, staircases, and pipes—exposed on the outside, it's as if the building itself is laying bare the hidden inner workings of a larger cosmos. A nod, perhaps, to the transparency underwriting demands. It's part spacecraft, part time machine, and part neural network—a design that thrives on paradoxes, much like the profession it shelters.

Underwriting is, at its core, a wager on alternative futures. It acknowledges the parallel timelines that stem from every decision, every risk, and every gamble. The building also lives in two worlds at once: its bold, futuristic exterior whispers of upward progress, while its century-old traditions anchor it firmly in the past. The Underwriting Room, the buzzing nucleus of the building, is a stage for conjuring possibilities and deciding which speculative storylines should be prepared for, insured against, or outright avoided. If multiverse theory were an office, it would be Lloyd's.

And then there are the transparent elevators, sliding up and down the building's glinting exterior like something out of a galactic opera. They're pauses between dimensions, forcing brokers and underwriters into moments of reflection as they ascend to strike deals or descend with their heads full of calculated risk. It's a transportation of the mind as much as the body—the shared understanding that stepping into Lloyd's means stepping out of certainty and into infinite potentiality.

Sci-fi thrives on imagining alternate realities, utopias and dystopias branching out from single decisions—a butterfly effect of possibility. Underwriting operates in much the same way: What happens if we don't take precautions? What's the probability of X leading to Z? What happens if that "unsinkable" ship does sink?

History has already shown that reality bends to the stories we least expect. For Lloyd's, the Titanic remains a stark reminder that even humanity's greatest ambitions exist on fragile foundations. The ill-fated liner, famously insured by Lloyd's for over £1 million, plunged into icy depths, taking with it the arrogant notion that progress is unsinkable. But Lloyd's didn't unravel after the Titanic's tragic alternate ending. Instead, it doubled down on its craft, reshaping its approach to managing the unpredictable—proof that alternate realities aren't only unavoidable and necessary for progress.

The Underwriting Room might as well be a writer's room for some of our greatest speculative truths. It's where human ambition, as vast and untamed as any galactic frontier, meets the calculated vigilance of underwriters who weigh every alternate reality before deciding which ones deserve a safety net. Is it reckless to bet on the unthinkable? Probably less so than ignoring it altogether. In Lloyd's universe, even the quirkiest sci-fi-sounding risks can find a home—whether it's the hand of a celebrity sushi chef, a private mission to space, or the intellectual property of a blockbuster video game.

Underwriting embraces uncertainty not as a threat but as a playground—a weaving together of flawed hopes and pragmatic planning. Just as sci-fi encourages us to dream of futures wildly different from our present, underwriting ensures humanity has the resources to survive those futures, no matter how extraordinary or bizarre.

If there's one relic at Lloyd's that could've leapt straight from the bridge of a spaceship, it's the Lutine Bell. Suspended above the Underwriting Room, its gleaming surface carries tales of uncertainty, loss, and survival. Once used to announce the fates of long-lost ships, the bell now waits, silenced, like an ancient AI holding the secrets of past eras. It's a reminder of how close humanity always hovers to its next crisis—and the role underwriting plays in returning us to calmer orbits.

The bell pulses with the energy of Lloyd's recurring theme: alternate outcomes. Will the ship arrive or disappear beneath the waves? Will the startup succeed or crumble? Will the spacecraft complete its mission, or will it veer off course into the abyss of space? Every chime—real or imagined—resonates with the complexities of probabilistic futures. It reminds us that every bold leap forward carries the possibility of a stumble.

Seen through a sci-fi lens, Lloyd's building isn't just an architectural oddity; it's a bold metaphor for what's possible when humanity stares into uncertainty and dares to build anyway. Every stainless steel artery on the exterior, every beam of sunlight bouncing off its glass façade, screams defiance at randomness. This building is unafraid to wear its functional heart on its sleeve, like an interstellar station preparing for the unknown drama of deep space.

Inside those walls, the drama is no less intense. Policies are written for futures filled with disruption, disaster, and beauty and innovation. It's here that chaos is catalogued, measured, and insured. Like the explorers in speculative fiction who dare to map new dimensions, Lloyd's brokers and underwriters sift through the infinite possibilities to find order, balance, and stability. They are fate's engineers, armed with calculators sharp enough to cut through uncertainty.

The Lloyd's building is no ordinary workplace; it's a shrine to the imaginative force behind human ingenuity. Just as sci-fi reflects on the worlds we might one day inhabit, underwriting prepares us to survive—and thrive—in those worlds. It calculates the odds and dares us to move forward anyway, offering a parachute for when we leap too high and a shield when we stumble.

Here, humanity's multiverse of possibilities finds a grounding force—a guardian that bridges the gap between the impossible and the insurable. And in its futuristic halls, beneath the gleaming pipes and buzzing negotiations, one truth shines brighter than starlight: no alternate reality worth living in is too bold to insure.

Stepping into the Lloyd's building is akin to boarding the Starship Enterprise, captained not by Kirk but by a collective ambition to "boldly go where no one has gone before." Like traversing the vast, uncharted galaxies of William Shatner's Star Trek, the journey within Lloyd's is one of exploration, encountering risks as alien as unknown planets—some teeming with opportunity, others laced with peril. With its buzz of brokers and whispers of probabilities, the Underwriting Room feels like the ship's bridge—a command centre steering humanity through the chaos of the cosmos, charting courses to secure futures that pulsate with infinite possibilities. And much like the Enterprise's mission to boldly confront the unknown, Lloyd's thrives on this daring spirit, proving that even the most unpredictable realities can be navigated, measured, and ultimately safeguarded.

Frameless Feelings and Miscellaneous Musings: A Sharp-Tongued Tale of Days 7–8 in London

London is a curious creature. It’s like a good cup of Earl Grey—it can feel civilized, sophisticated, and refreshingly classic, but if you steep it too long, the bitterness (read: the overpriced black-taxi fares and inexplicably cold and damp weather) sneaks in. Days 7 and 8 of my London escapade had all of that and more—familiar hugs, unfamiliar architecture, and art that danced (literally). If my time here had a subtitle, it would be something like, “Trying Not to Trip Over My Own Nostalgia While Being Absolutely Blown Away by Buildings and Brushstrokes.”

Day 7 started simply enough—with a friend. We caught up, swapped stories, and probably added a little more sparkle to the big city. Then came my solo Tube travels, which basically involved pretending to be London-savvy while frantically checking station maps every 30 seconds. Nothing screams tourist quite like holding your oyster card in a death grip.

Later that day, I regrouped with my sister and niece—the dream team. Lunch at Amber was a lovely affair, with good food and even better table talk. Because nothing binds you together quite like a shared meal. After lunch, we ventured to the mecca of bibliophiles: Piccadilly Waterstones. Now, listen, we meant to be reasonable. Just grab the game More or Less, buy it, and head out all responsible-like. Simple, right? WRONG. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that no one “just buys one thing” at Waterstones. That would be like saying “I’ll stop at one Pringle.” This was also when we tried convincing ourselves that we were buying books for each other, but really, it was just one big excuse to splurge. We stumbled out happy, tired, and thus broke in the best way possible.

The evening was capped with games, books, and a riot of inside jokes. We played a conversational game that had us simultaneously laughing hysterically and pausing for deep reflection. (Who knew a few card prompts could drag those “aha” moments right out of you?) It felt bizarrely wholesome, which these days is as exotic an experience.

Day 8 was all about Insurance, Elevators, and Vortex Art. It kicked off in the ever-bustling Financial District of London. Here’s a fun fact: nothing makes you reconsider all your life choices quite like being surrounded by skyscrapers packed with people in expensive suits who look like they have their lives together. A casual stroll through London’s financial district can almost feel like walking through the LinkedIn Hall of Fame. Yet here I was, soaking in the towering brilliance of the buildings around me, feeling quietly confident in my own way of life. Our first stop was the Lloyd’s Building, and to call it unique would be like calling the Royal Family mildly well-known. It’s a masterpiece of post-modern architecture—imagine a building turned inside out, like someone gave the plumbing a starring role. Elevators, ductwork, pipes—it’s all hanging out on the exterior, bold as brass (literally).

Inside, the place was all business meets sci-fi, with glass atriums and levels that made you wonder if you’d walked onto the set of Blade Runner 2049 (ahem, I just had to bring in Philip K Dick somehow!). Yet, amidst Lloyd’s steel-and-glass wonderland, there was one room that laughed in the face of modern architecture: the classical conference room. Wood-panelled walls, traditional charm—basically the CFO of all rooms saying, “I may be old school, but I still run the show.”

Underwriting, a term as layered as the Lloyd’s Building itself, traces its origins back to 17th-century London, when merchants gathered in Lloyd’s Coffee House to literally “write their names under” the risks they were willing to insure. Fast-forward a few centuries, and this art of calculated risk has not only evolved but thrived, creating a world where daring ideas find the backing to soar—or occasionally sink, as the Titanic so aptly demonstrated. At the heart of this modern marvel is my sister, a powerhouse in the insurance world, blending sharp intellect with unwavering poise. Watching her navigate the labyrinth of underwriting with her colleagues at Lloyd’s made me pause—a shift from the sister I grew up with to the individual she’s now become. She is no longer just the youngest of all us siblings; she’s a revered professional now deciphering risk like some kind of modern-day alchemist, spinning uncertainty into gold. And really, isn’t that what underwriting is all about? Taking risks, trusting your instincts, and thriving in the paradox—predicting the unpredictable. 

If observing the building’s duality wasn’t already humbling, seeing my sister thrive in her professional domain surely did the trick. There’s nothing like realizing your “little” sister isn’t little anymore but a full-on boss lady commanding respect. Lunch with her colleagues was a mix of admiration, good vibes, and, frankly, fantastic food. Between bites, I kept repeating,  “Wait, she’s really grown up, hasn’t she?” Some “Big Relatable Energy” right there.

But the pièce de résistance of the day—the cherry on my London sundae—was visiting Frameless. If you’ve never heard of this place, please gather ‘round because it deserves a standing ovation. Picture this: some genius decided to take iconic paintings, toss them into a blender, then pour the art into a room with surround sound, projection mapping, and just enough chaos to make you question whether you were fully awake.

Walking through Frameless felt like stepping into the kaleidoscopic brainwaves of Van Gogh, Monet, and Klimt. Paintings shimmered, swirled, and sometimes straight-up chased me across the walls and me chasing them as well. There was no “standing at a respectful distance” nonsense here. Nope, we were IN the paintings. At one point, I was ankle-deep in Monet’s water lilies and thought, “I’m in, Claude. Tell me your secrets.”

The immersive genius of Frameless is that it takes art and makes it loud, brash, and unapologetically vibrant. For those of us who’d rather not squint at a still-life bowl of fruit for hidden metaphors, this is your ticket to appreciating art without having to furrow your brow like a confused critic. And the best part? Nobody hissed “shush!” Frameless was a gentle reminder that highbrow art can be weirdly fun—and that’s one rule I can totally get behind.

Be Like London—A Hot Mess, But Make It Artful. Between London’s hodgepodge of history, modernity, and straight-up weirdness, my Days 7 and 8 were a masterclass in variety. Day 7 was warm and personal, proof that the best things in life are shared (be it food or geeky bookstore runs). Day 8 was an ode to boldness, whether it was from Richard Rogers redefining what a building could be or Frameless throwing art’s rulebook straight out the digital window.

London, dear friend, I’ve decided you’re like a frame that doesn’t quite fit your painting. You’re messy, unpredictable, sometimes overwhelming—but you’re also the one frame I’d am happy to step into. From inside-out buildings to paintings that danced around me, this trip has reminded me that life’s most beautiful moments don’t always play by the rules.

If Day 7 made me reflect, Day 8 set me swimming in an artistic vortex where “rules” left the chat. And if this trip has taught me anything, it’s this: go Frameless. You might just find yourself in the picture.

 

Day 5 and 6 - The Magic of Immersion and the Unlikely Villain Showdown: Sauron vs. Voldemort vs. Gabbar

When you drop by a place like the Warner Bros. Studio in London—especially as someone who doesn’t have a shrine to Harry Potter in their living room—it’s equal parts an act of curiosity and, let’s face it, endurance. On days five and six of our vacation, we found ourselves exploring the sets of the seven Harry Potter movies, an activity lovingly designed to drain wallets and hypnotize wide-eyed fans. As someone who’s never hopped aboard the Hogwarts Express and believes the whole Harry Potter franchise might be a touch overrated, I braced myself. What I ultimately walked out with, though, was more than just overpriced Butterbeer. It was an appreciation—not of magic, per se—but the sheer blood, sweat, and imagination that goes into crafting a movie universe.

Yes, I still roll my eyes at the endless parade of wands, flying broom replicas, and the tours! The tours—walking down the cobblestone alleys in Edinburgh declaring, "J.K. Rowling wrote here," like it's a holy tale written in fire and brimstone. But something shifted as I walked through Diagon Alley and admired the immaculately-detailed sets and props. What these studios inadvertently teach us—whether you're a Potterhead, a mild sceptic, or someone dragged along for the ride—is the meticulous artistry behind fantasy-filmmaking.

It’s truly an immersive experience. And that's a phrase that's been seared into my brain, more so after this visit. To create a world so real—filled with magic, danger, humour, and a bit of nonsense—requires such an insane devotion to detail where nothing is accidental. Each wand, every cobweb in the Weasley attic, and every whisper of dialogue carry the weight of someone's imagination and the dozens of people who rallied behind it. It’s a well-oiled collaboration machine sprinkled with creative fairy dust.

As I wandered through the halls of Hogwarts (well, a replica of it) and marvelled at props so convincing they seemed to crackle with enchantment, my mind wandered deep into a rabbit hole. A rather silly one, I’ll admit—but also oddly entertaining. See, the thought of Voldemort ("He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Given-a-Proper-Nose") lurking throughout these hallowed sets made me think: how does this particular Dark Lord stack up against other iconic villains in both literature and film? Our dear Voldy didn’t just make me think of other masters of terror like Sauron, the ever-glaring embodiment of pure malevolence from The Lord of the Rings. He also found himself hilariously pitted in my mind against Gabbar Singh, the rugged outlaw who turned Sholay into a cinematic masterpiece. So let’s get this showdown started, shall we?

Let’s face it: heroes are overrated, primarily because they operate in flocks. How can anyone seriously attempt a proper comparison between the Fellowship of the Ring—a bustling nine-member ensemble complete with a wizard, dwarf, elf, and two perpetually hungry hobbits—the trio of Harry, Hermione, and Ron (all conveniently sprinkled with just the right amount of Gryffindor bravado), and the unapologetically lovable duo of Jai and Viru from Sholay ? With this many cooks in the proverbial hero’s kitchen, it’s no wonder villains shine brighter. Heroes are like chaotic group projects where someone’s always underperforming. The sheer effort to keep nine noble souls aligned (seriously, the Fellowship couldn’t even make it past two movies intact), balance Hermione’s logic with Ron’s comic timing, or bring in Viru’s reckless antics feels hopelessly exhausting. Villains don’t struggle with these dynamics—they need only one mind, one purpose, and one big, bad plan. Where’s the magic in hero unity, anyway? The real entertainment lies in a villain’s single-minded determination to mess it all up for everyone else. You can crowd a scene with heroes all you want, but nothing sticks out like a lone, well-crafted agent of chaos. Keep your brave nine, three, or two—we’ll take the villain and their devilish independence any day.

Round 1: The Purpose: Sauron wanted power, Voldemort wanted immortality, and Gabbar? Well, Gabbar just wanted chaos and fear. His infamous, sadistic line is so straightforward it could double as his life mantra:  “Kitne aadmi the?” (How many men were there?) He wasn’t hunting Elder Wands or crafting magical trinkets to end Middle-earth—he was holding villages hostage, laughing maniacally, and sabotaging the will to fight. Simplicity in villainy can often be more effective than convoluted plots of horcruxes or rings forged in Mount Doom. Gabbar wins this round by sheer audacity.

Round 2: Immortality and Fear Factor: Sauron, of course, was basically the embodiment of eternal evil. His power lay in wielding the One Ring—and once the darn thing was tossed into the fires of Mount Doom, poof! He was gone. Voldemort, meanwhile, tied his soul to various trinkets, creatures, and even a clueless diary (poor Ginny!), only to learn—too late!—how that plan could unravel if meddling kids got too nosy. Gabbar, however, didn’t waste his time scattering pieces of himself into horcruxes like a mad scrapbooking hobbyist. Yet in his limited mortality, he loomed larger-than-life on dusty Indian highlands, a character so feared by villagers that his laugh was enough to send shivers down spines. His terror didn’t need magic—it was raw, visceral, and haunting. Let’s call this one a tie. Sure, Sauron and Voldemort cornered the market on immortal villainy, but Gabbar’s fear factor worked like a psychological death spell.

Round 3: Style and Memorability: Let’s face it—originality matters. Sauron, for all his dark magic, basically just... floated in the form of a giant eye for the bulk of the trilogy. Memorable? Sure. Terrifying? A smoky Halloween prop had about the same effect. Voldemort, with his snake-like face and aura of menace, certainly had style, but his fashion choices needed work. I mean, how about some embroidery on all that black, Mr. Riddle?

And then there’s Gabbar Singh, with his scruffy beard, tattered military attire, and that iconic belt wrapped carelessly around him as if to scream, “Yeah, I’m a mess—and I love it.” His dialogue dripped with charisma—lines so cheeky and menacing they’ve become part of cinematic legend. Gabbar was flamboyant, impatient, and deeply absurd in the best way possible. He takes this round with ease.

Round 4: The Immersion They Create: What’s a good villain without the world they inhabit? Sauron gave us Middle-earth, a realm so richly built that even Tolkien couldn’t remember all the cities he created. Voldemort brought life—and death—to the magical wizarding world adored by millions. Yet, Gabbar Singh wasn’t born in a richly detailed franchise or on elaborate sets. His world was a dry expanse of northern India, captured with grit and dust by a director who understood that the simplicity of a barren wasteland could be as immersive as a sprawling fantasy kingdom. In Gabbar’s case, the world wasn’t built for him—he was the one who built the world around him.

The Verdict: As I meandered around the Warner Bros. Studio mulling over villains—their quirks, philosophies, and staying power—I couldn’t help but find a mischievous grin curling on my face. Sauron and Voldemort, with their complex plans and cinematic gravitas, certainly shaped epic narratives. But Gabbar? Gabbar Singh is a league of his own. In a single movie, he crafted a legacy that transcends generations, held steadfast by iconic one-liners, exquisite fear-mongering, and the sheer unpredictability of his nature. He’s the kind of villain you could see drinking chai after razing a village. So, as it turns out, my takeaway from Harry Potter land boiled down to this: creating a truly immersive experience —be it a magical tale, a ring-bound epic, or an outlaw in a small Indian village—demands clarity, vision, and painstaking attention to detail. 

Whether you're cheering for the Chosen One or quietly rooting for chaos incarnate, there’s a method to all this madness. For that, I raise a Butterbeer (begrudgingly purchased) to creative minds everywhere. Cheers, Gabbar. You’ve earned it.

 

Days 3 & 4 – A Tale of Two Worlds: Migration and Stasis

London to Edinburgh would be a straightforward trip for most, but for me, it’s been more existential than logistical. Between winding cobblestone streets and the pages of borrowed books, these last two days have been a journey within a journey. While my sister and niece traipsed off to Alnwick Castle, revelling in sword fights and cinematic trivia about Harry Potter, I stumbled into smaller havens—the kind that smell of aging pages, tea steam, and a quietly ticking clock. There’s an intimacy to such places, as if time itself decided to take a coffee break. It suited me perfectly.

My highlight wasn’t Hogwarts-ish castles or portraits staring down at you with their judgmental smirks. Instead, salvation came in the form of thoughts printed on aged paper and ideas whispering from book spines. In one small Edinburgh bookshop, I picked up Felix Marquardt’s  “The New Nomads: How the Migration Revolution is Making the World a Better Place”. With dishevelled focus (and burnt-tea enthusiasm), I turned its pages, my head already in its own swirl of heritage and movement. My father’s ancestral Maharashtrian roots tangled in the soil of Karnataka, my mother tracing hers through Manipal and Udipi—and here I was, born in Bangalore, studied in Mumbai, and working in Hyderbad turning into some cosmopolitan hybrid who speaks more English than Marathi or Kannada combined. Am I a nomad? A wayfarer? A well-dressed migrant masquerading as a "global citizen"?

Marquardt rejects the stale idea of migration as a “crisis.” Instead, he flips it entirely: movement, he says, is life’s great enabler. Mobility sparks innovation and survival. Borders, he argues, are just lines on a map that can’t contain progress. In his pages, migration isn’t rebellion against society—it’s the glue that binds cross-cultural lives, the driver of change, the link between past and future. He sees migration as not just an act of escape but perhaps the most quintessential, instinctive expression of humanity. As I sat there, holding that thought, a sad hiss from the nearby tea vending machine reminded me of my own comical displacement—an Indian endlessly attempting to romance lukewarm British tea.

Then Orwell cracked through my mood like a cloudy Edinburgh day splitting open for the sun. His “Why I Write” crept into my pile of self-imposed intellectual homework. If Marquardt’s future-focused optimism felt like a refreshing breeze, Orwell’s unflinching critiques were the sobering drizzle that followed. For Orwell, England was a paradox: a land defined by its longing for the past, in love with nostalgia, unwilling to embrace the inevitability of change. “The British hate change,” he insinuated, peeling apart our collective tendency to be comforted by familiarity even as serious societal diseases—inequality, exploitation, entire empires of injustice—crawl unabated.

While I admired his brutal honesty, I couldn’t help but draw a stark contrast between Orwell and Marquardt. Orwell looked at the English through a lens of affection masked with frustration. He saw a people trapped in their own history, stuck in amber, too conflicted to be truly progressive but too haunted to stay comfortably regressive. He wrote from a tightly contained space, chronicling injustice and demanding reform. Meanwhile, Marquardt sprawls unapologetically across maps, pulling on threads of history, innovation, and identity to weave his broader thesis: humanity thrives in movement because it is movement.

It was strange to sit here in the heart of the UK—this setting both Orwellian and Marquardtian in its contradictions and interpretations—and let these two voices fight it out in my mind. The irony wasn’t lost on me: here I was, the proverbial nomad, a broken echo of my ancestors’ migrations, currently perched in a foreign land while reading about the virtues of leaving one’s homeland. Meanwhile, some of the locals around me seemed to embody Orwell’s scathing humour without even realizing it—stubbornly clinging to the past in overpriced wool coats, sipping tea like it came with a side of Churchill’s ghost.

Yet, as a lover of the present, I couldn’t entirely agree with Orwell either. Castles, museums, and centuries-old monuments never captivated me the way modern books do. The smell of musty paper and sharp, contemporary ideas excites me more than gilded frames or preserved swords ever could. It's not history that moves me—it’s the here and now, the urgent and startling truths about who we are today and what we’re running toward. In that sense, though both Orwell and Marquardt loved to poke at the grand social machine, my sympathies lean toward the latter.

I imagined Orwell and Marquardt sharing tea in some timeless café—a fraught conversation between the lover of rooted traditions and the champion of uprooted lives. Perhaps Orwell might have frowned upon Marquardt’s freewheeling optimism, deeming his vision naive. Perhaps Marquardt, with his emphasis on mobility and possibility, would’ve challenged Orwell’s innate scepticism. And I? I’d have been that awkward third party, watching, listening, and very likely spilling my tea in excitement.

By the time my family returned, brimming with anecdotes about Alnwick’s castle gardens ("Can you believe they filmed Harry Potter HERE?!"),  I realized just how far my own little detour through thought had taken me. They had wandered through the ruins of medieval fantasies. I had lingered in the chaos of present-day reality, riding on the coattails of nomads and political thinkers.

Later that evening, reunited around a table laden with Indian food and a bottle of wine, my family and I let the day take another turn—deep, reflective, and spiked with laughter. I posed two deceptively simple questions: What do we love about the UK that we don’t see in India? And what do we adore about India that we’ll never find here? It turned into a lively, revealing discussion. My niece answered first, with the enthusiasm only her age can muster. “The architecture here, the space, and the way everything moves without chaos. It’s calm… like people are allowed to just take their time.” She said it like someone who’s been holding her breath in India all these years and didn’t quite realize it until she exhaled here. I nodded, thoroughly agreeing with her on the last point. There’s a strange, deliberate peace underpinning the UK—a rhythm that sharply contrasts with India’s shifting, improvisational chaos.

My sister mirrored my niece’s enthusiasm but added her own layer. Practical as ever, she pointed out the efficiency of public transport. “I like how it works,” she said. “A train’s a train, and you know it won’t disappoint. But what will I never find here? India.” Her voice softened as she said it, accompanied by a shrug that somehow doubled as a declaration of pride. “I love my country. I wouldn’t trade it.”

When it was my turn, I smiled and waxed poetic—as I always do. “India is every human sense in overdrive,” I said. “There’s no country quite like home to remind you of your own body—your five senses—every single day. The smell of food wafting around every corner, the sights of rural and urban life colliding in vibrant, chaotic colour; the taste of spice and sweet that dances on your tongue; the sheer sound of life—people, traffic, festivals, the hum and cacophony of humanity, always, always on; and finally, the touch. Of people. Of connection. Sometimes a bit too in your space for comfort, but human in a way I haven’t quite seen anywhere else. That touch is unique. It’s raw. It’s... us.”

We laughed, clinked our glasses, and debated nuances late into the evening. For all our differences, one thing felt clear—whether it’s the calm rhythm of Edinburgh or the frenetic pulse of India, there’s value in both. There’s beauty in being able to experience life on both ends of that scale and to feel at home somewhere between them. 

Tomorrow, I’ll pack my thoughts into my bag alongside my books, pieces of Edinburgh following me into the next chapter. Migration might be an inevitable part of our human condition, but reflection is what gives it meaning. I’ll carry these questions with me—the identity of a modern nomad, the joy of movement, and the grounding roots of home—wherever I walk next. And maybe I’ll finally learn to drink a decent cup of tea without all the philosophical drama. Then again, probably not.

 

Day 1-2: From Queues to Kings: A Whimsical Waltz Through Global Diversity

Embarking on a 14-day jaunt with my dear sister and niece, I found myself diving into the whirlpool of travel, where each day is an endless comedy of human follies and triumphs. Our itinerary featured the grand line-up: London, Scotland, and Abu Dhabi—a trifecta of curious delights! The escapade commenced at the Hyderabad airport, where we encountered an immigration kerfuffle so comical that one might suspect the officials were preparing for their own theatrical debut. Kerfuffle—honestly, could there be a more charmingly simple word? It perfectly encapsulates the delightful chaos and fuss that erupts when everyone insists their opinion is the only one that matters.

 

As we languished in the serpentine queue, we eagerly awaited the sacred stamp of approval from our benevolent government, granting us the privilege to escape the motherland and embark on a much-needed vacation to explore the wonders of the world. And during this wait, I couldn't help but overhear a group of Marathi-speaking Mumbaikars animatedly extolling the efficiency of Mumbai's immigration process. Their lively debate was a testament to regional pride, and I half-expected them to break into a synchronized dance number celebrating Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj International Airport. Meanwhile, a cluster of women stood in silent solidarity, their expressions a masterclass in patient anger—a uniquely feminine resilience, perhaps. This queue was a microcosm of India itself, a vibrant tapestry of languages and emotions, each thread distinct yet part of a larger whole. It was a scene that underscored the beauty and complexity of human diversity, where every individual carried their own story, yet all were united in the shared experience of travel.

 

Landing in London, we trotted off to witness "The Lion King." The story of Simba, with its universal themes of growth, responsibility, and redemption, that unites audiences across the globe. Julie Taymor's stage adaptation, with its innovative use of puppets and masks, breathes new life into this beloved tale. With an out-and-out United Nations of a cast—over 150 from 17 nations, no less—it was a production that deftly knitted the world together under the guise of musical theatre. One could almost hear the Empire's old guard turning in their graves as the illustrious performance unfolded, a showcase of collaboration that left notions of racial supremacy positively outdated—a delightful slap on the wrist (right there in the heart of London) to history’s more pompous assumptions. Julie Taymor’s wizardry was on full display, with hoops and hollers for her magical puppetry, transforming the stage into the African Savannah right before our eyes. As the characters pranced to the melodious strains of Elton John and Tim Rice, bolstered by Lebo M’s chorus whose harmonic prowess could rouse even the most dormant souls, we were transported back to youthful adventures amid sun-drenched plains.

 

What stands out in "The Lion King" is how the story of Simba resonates with people from all walks of life. The themes of "Hakuna Matata" and the circle of life are universally understood, offering lessons that are as relevant today as they were when the story first debuted. I recall watching the musical in Shanghai, where a unique interpretation—with Scar as the Dictator, Hyenas as the proletariat, the Circle of Life as Status Quo, and Simba as the Heir Apparent. A perspective that left me as stunned then as I was while watching the show in London. This reinterpretation highlighted how stories can be adapted to reflect diverse cultural values, yet still maintain their core message of unity and resilience.

 

Our adventures continued, pepped up by a cab ride helmed by a Somali driver whose tales of cultural kinship with Indians and the inebriated musings of the English on immigration were as delightful as they were enlightening. His sharp wit contrasted sharply with my lingering thoughts on the British penchant for renaming cities, leaving a trail of linguistic slaughter in their wake. Mumbai to Bombay, Kolkatta to Calcutta, and so on, the sort of thing that induces a chuckle and a thoughtfully raised eyebrow.

 

In Madame Tussaud's, history had remoulded itself manifold since my last visit in 2003. One could wax eloquent about wax, but suffice it to say, the evolution was astonishing. The day concluded in fine style at my cousin's, dinner followed by a birthday celebration, leading to our after dinner stroll by the London Eye. Under its mighty arch, I mused over the wonders of our journey thus far, the world a stage, indeed.

 

In this grand theatre of universal fellowship, I will continue my ramble - merry and unabashedly curious—for it is in the embrace of diversity and the oddities along the way that life finds its most splendid performances.

 

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