In another 72 hours -- if we manage to stick to deadlines -- I cease to be an employee of the best newspaper in the country. Before the death threats start pouring in from my friends in the Express and the Hindu, let me define "best". My friends in the ToI can jump into the nearest well with all their death threats. My friends in DNA ... hello.
It's been a dream run from me. From being an obscure stringer in a city where HT has a circulation of maybe 10,000 copies to working for the Sunday Bureau in Delhi, I have enjoyed a run of luck that, most of you will agree with this, cannot last forever.
O, unknown blog reader who doesn't know me from Adam, you already know this. There are few things in life as exciting as a run of luck. A time when it seems the world is conspiring to help you race from one milestone to the next. Where every leap seems more impossible and paradoxically easier.
I have worked for no other newspaper -- if you don't count the one week I spent with Dainik Bhaskar -- so I know no other newspaper, which is why this has to be the best -- you see, this is as good as it gets for me.
Oh, I almost worked for the ToI. But the better sense of the scariest editor in the world prevailed. Well, he's in Mumbai leaving me to my own devices and I'm off.
Television beckons. In a few months you might catch snatches of me -- specs, bad skin, wild hair, crooked ears and all -- asking strangers, "How do you feel?"