Evening shifts were mandatory and lasted until 11 p.m. every weekday and on Saturday. I can still recall one especially poignant nighttime, likely back in 1999, when I worked those late hours, grappling with a baffling sense of private pre-reflective distress that I couldn't quite shake. I could not quite put my finger on what this sudden change in my mood, or the weight of an unexplainable heartache that lingered in the back of my mind, was reminding me of.
As I got up from my chair and stepped towards the enigmatic doorway leading to the boardwalk adjoining the office's central atrium, a strong desire swept through me. It was twenty past 10—less than one hour away from the end of my shift and the promise of heading home. While at my computer, I was nearing the completion of an email that meticulously detailed the various operational challenges and functional concerns we encountered throughout the day. This message was emailed to our colleagues in Denmark, seeking their support in resolving these issues. The office stood empty, with only the security janitors remaining; everyone else had already called it a day and had gone to bed.
My steps, a dance of longing, move onward arrhythmically in the hushed elegance of the grand hall on the 5th-floor office, driven by the promise of a comforting cup of coffee infused with the essence of my lost love that lingers in the heartaches of memory that did not fade with time, that you have once been mine. Perhaps it's just the ennui of the moment, given a perpetual state of gloom at the time. Or is it the gentle caress of a cherished memory of love forever woven into every atom of my being?
I pressed the yellow button on the Nescafé machine for another cup of coffee, hoping to find not just a boost of caffeine, late-night it was, but a few stolen moments of peace away from the spotlight of work, alone for a few minutes, perhaps to reflect on my thoughts as my shift drew to a close. In the stillness of the office, my mind wandered back to the warm nostalgia of that long-ago afternoon brunch with my beloved L. in central HYD—a treasured memory from a year earlier that replayed in my mind like a photograph suspended in time: all while the moments since that blessed afternoon unfurled until the closing credits of our fractured love story began to roll in my imagination. The soft, love-infused hues from last September drew me even closer to the comforting embrace of that solitary, precious memory of love.
+*+*+*+
I wish I could turn back time to be with you and change things so that they turn out differently. After all, there's no harm in harbouring magical illusions of this enchanting kind that, if only momentarily, lessen that long-enduring misery. That's where I am today, right at that memory crossing, living in my world of past remembrances of those sweet moments of glowing heart-throbbing intimacy I'll never forget, never let go, never move on, never be fine.
Sweetheart, I still feel deeply drawn towards you as though helpingly feeling struck by Cupid, wondering what it is that stirs this aching sense of solitude within me as the moving stillness around me brings to life your elusive, faded presence once again, to hear your voice, to adore you, to celebrate your return to the centre of my heart. I pause here for a moment, lingering in the trance of emotive, heartfelt whispers I yearn to share with you, my beloved. Later, as years passed and I grew a bit more older, this loss, this hope made my heart ache with a deep longing all over again, day after day: A painful, intertwined need that feels beautifully melancholic and introspective, and even indulgent, perhaps, of me to feel the way I am feeling—going through a Destiny-induced volition for feeling chosen to fail in love, as its absence takes over to the extent that it becomes a gilded cage, hard for it to thrive or prove one that I absolutely couldn't see my life without you. I probably should have told you a long time ago.
The old flame of love offers quiet consolation through moments of lyrical intimacy, a poetic closeness of verses deep that constantly deepens my affection for you amidst the din and clamour of a rapidly changing world. My life still feels incomplete, and I am lost and heartbroken without you to light up my world. Nothing means more to me than your success in life. Your absence, which leaves my heart dreaming for what once was back in 1998, may it not be so long that it makes me feel the ache of missing you as I do. Everything nice this life could give had ended eons ago, leaving behind a calcified emotional undercurrent of heartache, love, and lingering remorse that still loops in the quiet corners of my mind.
+*+*+*+
After completing all of the day's compulsory tasks, which included sending out the crucial operational emails regarding unprocessed files and taking proactive efforts to resolve technical issues or difficulties that kept popping up in our inbox, as well as all urgent assignments daily, I picked up a coffee from the much-loved Nescafe tea and coffee dispenser, and walked towards the long sliding aluminium windows spanning across the entire back edge of the floor length in the rear right-angled corner section of the large hall of the fifth-floor where we worked, I took a moment to roll up the Venetian blinds and, sliding one of the window panes, I gazed outside. A sudden rush of cool air swept against my face.
Sliding open the window pane, I gazed out five stories high above the far-off Tank Bund Lake, which was misting up with pouring rain, hazy in the enveloping gale-swept night-time darkness unstilled in the thrill of the dripping, dramatically wet monsoonal air, spotting a ray of glimmering moonshine under the meteorologically obscuring at least 95% of the overcast grey, fogbound skies, illuminating the thought of L.T., my lovely inamorata, in her comfy apartment in central HYD, dreaming of going abroad to study and while making plans to catch the latest movie in town, Sirf Tum or Pyar Mein Kabhi Kabhi in the following days, after having seen a year before Dil Toh Pagal Hai and Kuch Kuch Hota Hai, which were her (and mine too) current favourites then. Far beyond the moody grey waters of the heart-shaped lake and in the maudlin, tenderly lovely avenues that beckoned, lay the intimate eatery, A.K.'s, it was, with dim lighting where we first met a year ago. And as soon as I saw you on the day of our precious rendezvous, I made statements in my head that you were going to be mine. That day was the most special day of my life, the one I've never forgotten, untouched by the sands of time.
I arrived home at 11:45 PM after finishing my office work on the day we first met in September. Later, I still remember that beautiful night as I lay awake, lost in thoughts of your luminous eyes—deep pools where I could fall and drown—and then be rescued by your subtle, radiant smile. I know the sound of it over the phone by heart; it casts a ray of mauve sunshine across my soul, dreaming to meet you again, keeping me awake for most of the night until I finally drifted off with the Birds of Paradise a book of poems by my pillow and your smiling face hidden behind a blush as I closed my eyes. Thankfully, I had a night shift scheduled to start at 3 PM the next day, and I travelled through the city streets to reach my office, with your smiling eyes twinkling like fairy lights in my mind, a vision that still ignites my wonder. How did I fall in love with you? The gentle curve of your lips smiled with joy beneath the soft glow of the restaurant's lights, creating a moment when I felt like the world had paused, briefly stopping for you and me to meet again, sooner than soon. I felt every ounce of my recent worries melting away, granting me a radiant calm that cradled my heart like golden sunshine after rain, breaking through the clouds. In that moment, I heard my heart tenderly murmuring within me, "You are adored, you are forever mine," filling my heart with a comforting symphony of optimism and enchantment, for there you were as I beheld your lovely visage before me, blooming in the light. That is how I fell for you, fell in love with you, from the very moment I locked eyes with you.
While this much is true, I still feel the warmth of your radiant presence, even after nearly 27 years apart to this day in '25, which, as time passes, serves as a lasting testament to your beautiful memory, indelibly engraved deeply in my soul like a ballad of a lost poem, resilient against the reach of forgetfulness, untouched by the passage of time flowing towards the ocean of infinite longing until eternity sprinkles again love sweeter and purer than heaven for you and me, as we remain hand in hand in a serene and timeless world we'll create, destined to be together with every dream we'll nurture, as we traverse life's unforeseen twists and turns, embracing each moment as it comes or wherever the path takes us we remain committed to exploring the deep meaning of true love together, finding beauty in every experience along the way.
When our hearts first met that September day, words alone couldn't express how strongly we felt—our eyes locked, revealing a deep romantic chemistry that fills the air with love and a Titanic-themed melody we'll never forget. Eyes speak louder than words, and I understood then the true feelings they hold. The gentle glow of your captivating smile, as you shyly tilted your head while sharing your thoughts, teeth shining bright against your light golden skin—the colour of sunshine—was enough to melt my heart, serenaded by the beginning of our love story. Though you may be far away, my precious L., our heart's melody continues to sing that our heart will go on and on, serenading my soul with your loving memory for the rest of my life.
While I stood at the rain-splashed window of my office looking out at the distant lake, I sent you my love, hoping to say that you've been in my thoughts since that wonderful day of our first and heart-achingly last rendezvous in September '98. But I felt despairingly alone and lonely ever after when the infallibility of the clear and present reality that I've lost you struck me intensely as being a heart-breaking revelation in the play of life. It had been like that: The typical course of events at the turn of the century. In the new millennium, they defined the turn of the 20th century as long over, a thing of the past that still beleaguers my sense of place and time as I continue to long for the old ways of life of the 1990s.
Though time may pass, my heart will go on, along with the intimate memory of the wondrous moments of love we shared, which is still etched deeply into my sense of nostalgic heartbeats, resonating profoundly with the tender inner light of love blossoming within me since the day we first met and saw each other, smiling, soaking in the moment when Cupid's arrow flew across our hearts, falling in love, and sharing a soft drink at A.K.'s, our special spot, while also enjoying the irresistible aromas of authentic Chinese cuisine we both loved. I looked into your eyes, love illuminating the space between us as if destiny was unfolding. Little did I realize how quickly time passes. I still think of '98 sometimes, one of the most meaningful years of my life. Don't mind my lonely mood, dearest L. Things like loneliness tend to settle like a persistent shadow, making it hard to escape its tight grip. That's when destiny reveals itself with a heavy heart, once unseen and unrecognized, until that moment when you’re left longing for the love that once brightened your life. Now I see it's too late, past the point of no return. A missed chance at the life I could be living. My heart, along with my hopes, drifts on waves of desolation and longing, caught in this new age of economic chaos and upheaval, echoing silent memories of joyful moments long gone from our shared dreams, traversing a lonely sea of grief and longing ever since I failed you, my peach.
+*+*+*+
Momentarily, it was 11 o'clock, time to log off and shut down the computer before switching off the tired lights. These lights seem to be saying, almost entreating me for some evident reason, "Enough of your lollapalooza, now go home. See you tomorrow."
As I signed off, putting away our writing pad and pen while tossing my empty coffee cup in the trash bin, a warm thought came to mind: how truly fortunate I am! I work alongside some incredible colleagues—Renju, Mandeep, Gnana, Shiv, Devi, Suresh, and Shahnawaz, who make every day unforgettable. They had become more than just colleagues; they had truly become friends. It was a remarkably amazing feeling that I carried with me throughout my time at Satyam.
And let’s not forget the wonderful Revathy and Rafi, who were once part of our team, and introduced Kavitha, Mandeep, and me to the tools and tricks of the trade. And, of course, there's Balaji, Mr. Coolhead, our team manager and the embodiment of calmness, who buddied up with us to navigate through some of the most fun brainstorming sessions, talking casually whenever possible, guiding everyone through challenges while helping us to unlock our full potential. What could be more fortunate than this? I made my way to the exit door and turned right to the lone elevator in this section of the building.
Descending the elevator, I fretted as I surmised that getting home in this torrential downpour would be too daunting a task, given the enormously broad sky-bellies filled with tons of precipitation above. Wow! There would be no dry spot remaining on me! Holy Moly! I could be done for good! The Raj Bhavan Road was already flooding, and the wind began to howl. It was raining thunderously hard, the sky alight with lightning streaks. I hadn't picked up my rain jacket when I got to the office earlier in the day, so I figured it'd be best if I waited a little longer before the rain ceased, and I could start riding home right away. While I waited in the green-marbled atrium on the ground floor, I thought of Renju, who often stayed back till 8 in the evening to finish her ever-expanding list of technical implementations. Standing just inside the entrance foyer of the polished green-marbled atrium that TSR Towers deservedly prides itself on, I couldn't help but think how lucky she was to have left early today! Gnana had wisely left before the rain started. My shift already ended at 11:00 pm. It was half past 11, and I was getting super anxious by the minute to get home. The hail wasn't going to relent. Mandeep's shift was over by 3 pm that day; he was likely watching a nice late-night movie at home, or he might be eagerly awaiting the first usher of sleep fairies that the rainy night would soon offer to lull him to snooze. He said he slept like a baby. Fair enough, paaji. I saw my red motorbike enjoying the drench as it stood quietly under the solitary banyan tree by the office building, all alone, alert on its centre stand as if saying, "What took you so long! Now hop on, dear... Time to go home." The parking lot was vacant, except for us.
As I rode my motorbike, I began a slow hum of the popular album song: “Ab Mujhe Raat Din, Tumhara Hi Khayal Hai” and "Deewana Tera," all of which were big chart-busting romantic tracks back in the day in 1999. When I was nearly halfway home, I started to hum one of the purest songs of love and longing that came into existence: “Chandi Raatein, Ho Chandi Raatein, Sab Jag Soye, Hum Jaagen, Taaron Se Karen Baatein,” as my soul swelled with a cherished longing—lost yet enduring—that never really let go of me, crooning those greatly admired, timeless love ballads sung by god-sent, soulful voices of our era. And then: "Na Jaane Mere Dil Ko Kya Ho Gaya, Abhi Toh Yahin…," etched into my soul like a melody so gentle, dancing sweetly in the depths of my heart. Curiously, every time the melody of "Tujhe Yaad Na Meri Aayee Kisise Ab Kya Kehna" graces my ears, it fills my heart with a bittersweet ache that lingers long after the notes fade away. These and other unforgettable numbers of that era were the ideal balm for the hurting soul.
(Almost daily, Mandeep and I would talk about the latest music videos: the top-charting songs on MTV and Channel V that were a staple on the television of those days in the late 1990s and early 2000s. We loved these cult songs so much that one day he rode pillion on my motorcycle, hurrying to central HYD—far from our office on Raj Bhavan Road in the north-central part of the city—to buy the audio cassette, along with a bunch of other Hindi film cassette tapes. Including Deewana, he bought the cassettes based on his preferences, while I purchased based on mine. After finishing our asset-acquisition of Hindi movie songs audiocassettes to our heart’s delight, we returned, with Mandeep sitting plump behind me on my red Hero Honda Splendor motorbike, to our office, utilizing our lunchtime wisely as we asked our ebullient associate Shiv P., who was on a general shift that day, to manage the roaming division while we were out shopping at a wholesale audiocassette mart!
It was great fun, with the post-noon sun high above us, mellowed in its afternoon glow. Mandeep and I were riding on my Splendor motorcycle from our Satyam office on Raj Bhavan Road, gliding through the bright roads, lanes, alleys, and avenues to central Hyderabad to pick up musical merchandise: audio cassettes from a wholesale outlet that only he knew about. When we were working at Satyam, the last time we went to catch a film together after work was Gladiator at Skyline/Sterling theatre. A cinematic masterpiece, which I checked the year it came out in 2000. I vividly recall that it was a magnificent movie to see, and during the intermission, he and I savoured sips from our Pepsi bottles. A rare interlude that brightened our friendship while we were out seeing a movie.)
Even today, the enduring charm of the 1980s and 1990s Hindi melodies continues to tug at the heartstrings, captivating hearts as they did in their prime. Growing up during that period was the most exciting phase of my life, but as the years raced ahead, a wave of sadness and ennui began to overshadow everything with the dawn of the 2000s: the new millennium, the start of the 21st century. (Since that fateful dawn of the new millennium, the heavenly Gods, as it were, possibly of ‘destinal’ origins, have unleashed a hard-luck doom with relentless ferocity on me. Good tidings never came my way; it is as if the unknown Gods up there in the heavens had turned up their noses at me, scorned my existence, again and again, abandoning the mournful heartstrings woven of love my heart once sought to beat close to yours.) Therefore, it is within the hallowed realm of the 1980s and 1990s—the luminous golden years of my life—that I discovered the most profound beauty and meaning, a harmonious symphony of experiences that resonate deeply within my soul. These priceless years of my life, woven with some of the most melodious and memorable Hindi film music and ghazals, each note a tender tug at the heartstrings from the days gone by, are cherished and lovingly embraced as I wander through my memories.
[I love humming songs whenever I’m in a good mood. It’s in my genes, I believe. Film songs and Doordarshan television ad jingles always come to me — Hindi, Bengali, English, and some of the most memorable Telugu melodies, especially of the 1980s and 90s. Until the mid-2000s, Hindi films—whatever you dub them as: masala films, commercial, escapist stuff, emotional tearjerkers, or anything that has comedy, tragedy, melodrama, and emotion replete with Shakespeare blends and Dickensian social conditions—and their songs were incredibly catchy and memorable. However, in recent years, almost all films have shifted their focus to real-life events or historical themes, leaving us with songs that have lost their musicality and charm, lacking melody, becoming less tuneful, jarringly technology-infested, auto-tuned to hilarity (wow! everybody can fucking sing these days!), and all that junk pieces never as catchy as they never used to be.
It's a disenchanting trend: Netflix, YouTube, or OTT. Don’t you think? Chilling at home and watching movies or TV shows of all kinds, new, old, and in-between, on your handheld devices or laptop computer. Unable to meet friends, becoming an individualistic loner, which is making you forfeit compassion. (Smart commercial logic, for sure, but I haven't signed up for any of the Internet-connected on-demand streaming services yet. I might, but not until later. It may be my retirement benefit, if you will, considering I am so hard-pressed for time these days. Ah hah! I might choose to serenade myself with a membership on the day I step into the realm of retirement, waving farewell to my daily grind.) And I am only speaking through the lens of a bygone era, from the point of view of the old way of watching movies, any movie, be it the so-called Bollywood (Hindi), Hollywood (English), or Tollywood (Telugu). The old way of making commercial Hindi cinema, coming from what is popularly known as 'Bollywood,' with the necessary and wonderful element of the light-hearted song-and-dance routine (and yes, around the trees, on the rooftops, in the flower gardens, pastures, meadows, or the fields, grasslands, and waterfalls), has disappeared into nostalgic oblivion, and so have the single-screen theatres the city was so well-known for—its Art Deco cinema theatres. Sadly, that era is gone; slipped away from us, taking with it the unforgettable movie-watching days we cherished so much.
Amid the mournful worst-case scenarios of the world—torn asunder by the spate of wars of bruised egos, injured pride, fraught with unthinkable despair, and the inexorable yet hollow pace of change utterly unconvincing—we live in a world that reminds me of the oft-forgotten beauty of a timeless refrain: “Iss Jeevan Ki Yahi Hai Kahani, Aani Jaani Yeh Duniya Behte Dariya Ka Paani.” (This is the story of this life, this fleeting world is like flowing river water.) Therefore, here is the gift of life. How do you embrace it and shape your destiny?
Oh dear, I lament the loss of the enchanting charm of the glorious nineteen-nineties, filled with next-level amazing music, movies, TV shows, and products, a wonderful, wholesome era, a historic decade in my life, that we still hold so close to our hearts even today, is gone, now forever beyond our reach.
Standalone single-screen cinemas, which were once social hubs or sole entertainment destinations for the 1990s generation, are being demolished everywhere. It’s hard to excuse the tragic fate of the old way of life, as these things are rapidly disappearing from our theatre landscapes permanently. These cultural landmarks, with their familiar lower and upper stalls and balcony seats, are sadly being replaced by soulless commercial shopping complexes, even as so-called modern, new multiplexes, which are often prohibitively expensive, take over these old cultural hubs. That old cinematic tradition is gone.
That timeless song and dance routine, whether beneath, around or among the trees, in a forgotten fortress, elaborately designed studio sets picturing utopian vistas, palace intrigues, or a picturesque garden with myriad water fountains—and, yes, saying it frankly, under the waterfalls with both hero and heroine moving rhythmically to music while lip-synching on vividly tinselly romantic songs—has now faded into history. Similarly, think of Jo Jeeta Wohi Sikandar, Dil Se, Soldier, Sirf Tum, Love, First Love Letter, Hum Dil De Chuke Sanam, Hum Aapke Hai Kaun, Mohabbatein, and many other light-hearted, enjoyable movies from that era-defining generation, as far as the typically unique Indian way of 70mm visually glitzy big-screen entertainment is concerned.
Apart from the Hindi ones, some of the memorable Telugu movies include Jagadeka Veerudu Athiloka Sundari, which features one of my truly favourite vernacular songs, "Priyathama Nanu Palakarinchu Pranayamaa." Kshana Kshanam, Gang Leader (“Vaana Vaana Velluvaye”), Chanti, and two tracks from the movie Bobbili Raja, "Kanyakumari Kanapadadha Daari" and "Balapam Patti," and lest I forget mentioning two beautiful song-and-dance musical numbers: “Chiluka Kshemama” and "Chukkala Pallakilo." These remain so compelling and sweetly unforgettable. While the focus here is on 1990s music, I must also acknowledge that the Telugu musical landscape of the 1980s was, if not equally extraordinary, then even more so. Although I missed the chance to see Gharana Mogudu, the film's title was on everyone's lips in town, as my school buddy Satish, a Chiranjeevi and Krishnam Raju fan, enjoyed its magic during its opening week. He made sure to experience it during the very first week of its release. Under no circumstances was he going to miss it, absolutely not.
“I love the local flavour,” Armstrong would playfully say, inviting all of us to catch a good Telugu film at a nearby cinema hall. Sunil would immediately respond with a resolute, "Yes, I'm in!" and would playfully add in Hindi, "Main bhi chaltu (I'm also going)." For Satish and me, it would be an eager "Chalo, chalenge (Let's go!).”
The last time I saw a Telugu movie was way back in 2002. The film Lahiri Lahiri Lahiri Lo, which was okay-ish to watch, proved to be a modest delight for its audience. A year before, in 2001, the film Manasantha Nuvve captured hearts. The song "Tuneega Tuneega..." and others from the movie wove a sonnet of sweet melodies, creating a symphony that stirred the heart. Satish and I both went to see these movies.
One particular song, "Nee Snehameh..." from the movie Manasantha Nuvve, is deeply heart-touching. This heartbreaking melody that fills me with a feeling of an old emotion, connecting me to an earlier version of myself, reminds me to reminisce about a time I may have left behind, yet still hold close to my heart. This song never fails to stir my soul. Each time I listen to its haunting, melancholic melody—whether it drifts softly from a distant speaker or fills a quiet moment alone—it awakens a deep-rooted, soulful feeling, perhaps evoking memories of a love long gone and the dreams that faded with it. Every time I hear it, those lost emotions resurface. Such musical tunes are exceedingly rare; they are no longer being composed today. No wonder the current music scene feels utterly dismal, devoid of the spark that once made it so dynamic. Remember the song-and-dance routine? That is what I was talking about. It’s as if the moment you anticipate a new song, it slams into a wall of disappointment. Nothing is the same as it was a decade or two ago.
Going to the movies, in whatever language, was an exciting opportunity that no one from our gang wanted to miss, as we settled into our assigned seats and remained quiet in wonder for nearly two and a half hours. The first English-language picture I remember watching is probably Conan the Barbarian. Afterwards, I saw F.I.S.T., Fist of Fury, Enter the Dragon, Rambo, Ben-Hur, The Ten Commandments, Conan the Barbarian, and so many others during my school years. It was not just about the movies; it was an essential ritual, a vital human experience that had more to do with how we grew up as intimate buddies. No matter what your age group is, we always ate onion samosas, chutney sandwiches, and a cold drink at the movies, mostly Thums Up, Citra: "Super Cooler," Limca, Gold Spot: “The Zing Thing!" Popcorn could wait. All in all, a lifetime’s worth of memories!
Times have changed, and human sensibilities and sensitivities are evolving as the old give way to the new. Even for my friend Satish, who used to love watching Telugu films every other weekend, the current trend in commercial cinema—whether local or national—which is not what we would prefer to see on the big screen, strays far from the tried-and-tested romantic song-and-dance narratives, perhaps unveiling a reality we often overlook, or lingers just out of sight for all four of us friends, who knows? Whatever it might be, Satish watches them, but rarely these days. Similarly, Armstrong, who moved to Delhi a long time ago, has long since left behind this sphere of fascination, this cherished realm of our shared passion for watching Hindi, Telugu, or English movies at Sangeet, Skyline/Sterling, or Anand; Sai Kishore, Sapna, or Manju — all gone, demolished. Meanwhile, Sunil—who used to be an avid Hollywood fan (like all four of us together)—had already become a rare viewer of cinema. Sadly, Sunil died a few years ago. It seems to me that the fountain of our youthful enthusiasm has taken a different bend. Call it a bittersweet twist of fate, or a disenchanting divergence from the modern highfalutin trends of the world, things for us are no longer the same.
Every song from Telugu cinema's soundtracks from the 1990s holds the power to revive warm memories and tender moments from my college days, evoking sweet memories that create an indescribable spell of nostalgia truly worth holding onto, impossible not to cherish. That feeling of nostalgia still holds strong in my mind, as well as in the minds of my dear friends, my local pals.]
Since 2005, I have rarely watched Hindi movies as my interest in them has sharply diminished. Not because of the dazzling crop of Hindi movies that were coming out, but due to a dearth of like-minded friends to see at least a few of them, I suppose; like we used to see those movies back in the day when we were young, bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and blissfully unaware of taxes! I'm not able to say exactly what it is precisely that dissuades me from catching new Hindi movies, but that was the end of it all. I guess my days of rest (and relaxation) had long ended. I also stopped buying audiocassettes or CDs around 2003 or ‘05, marking a distinct turning point in my entertainment preferences — even though I listen only to old Hindi film music (up to the year 2005) from the earlier golden periods, mostly downloaded from the Internet and streamed through the new-age wireless Bluetooth portable speaker box, the current musical garbage leaves me exasperated. I unabashedly preferred watching Hollywood movies more than I used to view Hindi or occasionally regional flicks, and that too on a friend's persuasion from near home.
As for me, however, everything has changed; the world has changed, it has taken a permanent turn, and it is not as good as it should be.
Maybe I might watch only once a year—but even that isn’t guaranteed. It has been more than twenty years since my interest in Hindi movies waned. Fanaa and Rang De Basanti were the last two noteworthy Hindi cinematic gems that I really enjoyed viewing. Even though they drew inspiration from actual events, the stories were both engaging and emotionally heart-wrenching, with each film featuring memorable musical compositions. But I still love that filmy romantic trope of "dancing around the trees" and lip-syncing a cache of catchy, hummable songs interspersed throughout the film as the story moves forward. That vivid imagery, if you like, of the song-and-dance routine stays with you forever, far surpassing the mundane, off-putting portrayals of real-life happenings or unpleasantly classified as 'realistic cinema' that dominates today's Indian "commercial escapist" movie scene. I mean, you remember each line of pre-2000 Hindi cinematic poetry for life, but it's hard to recall any good song, tune, or melody that gets auto-tuned to perfection but has no charm, no magic effect — zero delight! True, technology has made it easy for these smarty-pants novices slash amateurs to auto-tune their voices to record songs on their electronic devices, but look what happened to the entire oeuvre of film music soundtracks—they destroyed it. While times have evolved, my preferences remain the same: old school, and say what you will, soberly conservative. You can say: stuck in the nostalgic past. Maybe. But that is where I love to be. It never hurts.]
When I finally got home that stormy night, I was thoroughly soaked, drenched to the bone. My motorbike looked like it was grinning from ear to ear, clearly enjoying its refreshing rain shower. I did not lament the rainy night; it was most welcome: the more of it, the more beautiful it is. Despite my soggy condition, I sometimes hummed and sometimes sang to myself three beautiful melodies as I rode my motorbike, wearing a nice, reassuring helmet.
When it's raining, one can feel a certain bliss in being mesmerized by it. But again, not much of it is good. A little drench should be fine. When the day comes to a close, a new one is dawning on the horizon.
Missing my Satyam friends
Lately, I have been thinking of Renju and Gnana, Mandeep and Kavitha, Devi and Suresh, Revathy and Rafi, GG and Balaji, Shiv and Shahnawaz, along with many other colleagues I’ve come into connection with at the Satyam branch on Raj Bhavan Road. I'm not surprised that I still remember everything, and their memories linger on. After Satyam, where have they gone? Where did life take them? Indeed, we don't stick with one IT company forever, yes, and none of us did—until, of course, Satyam unfortunately disbanded in 2009 or thereabouts. We all moved on while seeking new opportunities that lay on the pathways of the future. Everyone knew when to leave, when it was time to say goodbye to an old chapter of life.
Renju—an excellently precise name for a girl dreaming of making it big in the then-fledgling Indian IT industry—we knew always reacted ordinarily to the extraordinary; in that way, her modesty was exemplary, and this, coupled with her humble, unassuming, simple nature, was something that you would see and that good things happen to mature people who know their way around the world. Such maturity comes with being peaceful at heart, with mindful inclinations influencing how she approaches situations and goals. At Satyam, she was a comfort to those around her, as she kept a cool head to be the voice of calm in the GG-laden Twisters that the West Wing often whirled up into our East Wing cubicle, which was an exciting wellspring of youth energy that fascinated every one of our team every moment of our life, away from the sombre-looking, sombre-sounding senior management on the other end of the office building, of which GG was one of the many senior-level consultants. Nonetheless, those were the best days of our lives, which have been indelibly etched in our memories, in our hearts, in our souls, forever.
Looking back to a time when we worked with, not for, our reporting manager, GG, I'm no longer in touch with that part of my younger moral conscience that, unlike our superior, we were youthfully considerate, questioning whether I've finally forgiven this tyrannical figure for the abominably angry reproaches or his subtly propagated, community-oriented bias that he imposed on us in our daily work lives. Time and again, the chilling void of unfriendliness used to leave us sapped of our spirits, feeling uninspired, to say the least. Kavitha shed an unknown amount of tears; her eyes welled up quickly, and tears plunged like Niagara Falls, while Mandeep and I tackled a lot of unwanted stress and anxiety, facing our own tetrapod T-Rex of Satyam. It was a bitter reminder that, although we were continuously knowledgeable, skilled, and professionally competent, he showed little to no empathy toward us. GG's indifference cut deeply, an ugly reality Mandeep would humorously call out as "thanks to his fuckaad-ka leadership."
Apart from Mandeep, I, and also Devi and Suresh have not seen or spoken to him since late 2001, which was twenty-four years ago, and neither did Kavitha M., who discontinued her Satyam career two years ago in 1999, making sure that her close pal Una Artoran, who worked in a different organization, too went off the radar entirely. Let us not forget her other delightfully weighty chum, Mom R., whose dreams of far-away abroad, of distant shores, food, and adventures—quality of life, mostly—took precedence over blossoming friendships that might or might not have been made here in the laid-back, enchanting city of HYD. To these jolly-good, fun-loving Hyderabadi Mesdemoiselles, I suspect, there couldn't be any alternative reality in this fast-changing city where they (all-girls squad) lived comfortably and worked ably, for they had different, life-changing ideas in the snug spaces—feel-good plus more creative medley than mundane, though—of their mindfully, intentionally, and consciously fertile imagination. All they needed was a change of place, time, thought, and future: a potential hawa badlee, if you like!!! And lest we forget their other friend, Padma, from the band of four female friends, with whom I shared fleeting yet meaningful conversations once or twice, who seemed like a solitary flower blooming amid a bouquet of vivacious camaraderie, brought to life by the infectious appeal of her colleagues, such as:
Oh, except once, very briefly, I bumped into GG once—just for a moment, goodness!—at Mandeep's wedding reception in the manicured green lawns of Taj Deccan in the heart of the city. Hopefully, GG is now prematurely retired, living as well as he has envisioned for himself in the Boulder Hills of Banjara. Old age and retirement eventually catch up.
I was looking forward to my slow Sunday scroll around the house, which was still two days away: of reading, lazing around, watching MTV a bit, or looking forward to conversing with my erudite, slightly elliptical, and irrepressible college-time buddies, namely, Armstrong S. (nickname: “Strong”), Sateesh K. (“Mote,” “Khumbhakaran,” ”DeMello”), and the often miserly but very wittily comical crosspatch Sunil B. ("Bhale," "Sadu," or even “Sulli Gaadu”) in the Sunday evening, who sometimes would dash over to my house for a brain-bouncing, inside jokes sharing chit-chat that sometimes dissected my cerebellum to the hilt. (Only kidding, fellas. Better to mention that I'm joking ... just in case!)
How to Find Closure
Closure, whatever that term may mean, is something I've always been unsure whether I will ever reach since I began crafting this… oh!... memoir. With countless recollections from my amazing days at Satyam, I struggle to find meaningful closure for an experience that brought us so much joy during our time there. I understand it was merely a job, something not meant to linger in your mind after a while for very long.
That is how I suppose nostalgia works — lost in imagination and possibility, deeper than anything you can fathom, and it makes us feel warm, safe, and connected to the past days that will always be present in the reckoning. You progress, experience, discover different opportunities to pursue, and carry on with your career without becoming emotionally invested in your first job because you know you will possibly take up another one soon after in some other company, in some other place.
The way it has always been in today’s IT (Information Technology) work sphere, you finish one job, pick up another soon after, and carry on with your professional life without giving a second glance at the things you have lived through. While I don't berate any of my precious Satyam friends, I guess, I couldn't bring myself to do that, because we are all in this together, in great shakes as we scrutinize more job opportunities that come our way. That's a working life we all abide by. I'm obsessed with the '70s, '80s, and '90s eras to live by. Because of the inherent romance in those eternities, which is highly distinctive to location, culture, and lived experience, these pivotal periods in history, with the warmth of the treasured past, will always hold a special place in my heart. Who doesn't like nostalgia? Everybody does in some way or another, a little less or more. I love getting stuck in a creative loop of nostalgia for an extended time, and that is precisely what I need for my life to prosper in the increasingly chaotic and conflicted world we live in. Still, some people—like myself, I believe that my dearest colleagues at Satyam were connected by a deep love for storytelling and reminiscing about lovely moments we spent together working in the roaming division, as I am doing here—aspire to write heartfelt memoirs or personal accounts centred on personal experiences that have profoundly affected them, wishing to evoke nostalgia and happiness as they, I am sure, seek a deeper meaning in their memories to guide them through life with the warmth of their treasured past. Nothing of that sort had come forward in writing, at least, as a matter of course. Maybe, somebody has to do the dirty work of writing a memoir like I am doing here, and everything will be alright. Life is for once, there's no second chance at it. This, as in here, is the last dispatch of life on Earth, until, possibly, the heavenly abodes above.
I thought to write something of a personal account, captioning every blog under the recurrent heading “Our Satyam Days,” followed by the serial number of the part that is published. I have been blogging since 2009 (writing since 1990, in bits and pieces initially, later full-fledged articles and letters to the editor-type for the local rag, D.C.) towards achieving a kind of personal milestone, as it were, all put out on my blog space called “Pebbles on the Beach,” which previously was called (quite a few years back, though) “Butterflies in my Stomach.”
This is the last dispatch.
Since the day of absolution is long overdue, and it doesn't seem like the atonement will happen anytime soon, I remain uncertain about how to end this introspective memoir chronicling my time at Satyam—a phase that significantly influenced my professional path through new learnings, work ethic, and the broader spectrum of life's demands and survival as an information technology professional during the years I spent there before this once-great organization, sadly, crumbled under the weight of its unfortunate circumstances. A tragic fate that left its former, old-time employees heartbroken.
While many had turned the page long before the upheaval struck Satyam, I decided to leave in the early 2000s, understanding (reluctantly) that sometimes moving on is the best solution to stagnation in the profession. When the roaming division disbanded in 2001, Mandeep, Shiv, and Shahnawaz preferred to explore new opportunities to follow their career dreams elsewhere, while I, along with Renju, Gnana, Devi, and Suresh, chose to stay the course for a while longer. At this juncture of my life, if anyone asked me how things were going, I'd have merely responded that they were very disheartening, though one liked to be optimistic, even if it meant for the sake of it. Renouncing Satyam, along with my dear office colleagues, as I painfully realized: one that unfolded in my heart with a weight, was something I never anticipated or that, one day, would become a necessity to utilize painful situations as growth, progress, or some such BS. Yet, moving on from one job to another seemed to be well... merely a temporary reprieve, nothing quite reasonable, and no permanent redemption, therefore.
Little tidings reached us concerning Ann Mary R., or Mary Ann, who always valued connecting with us at our former Raj Bhavan Road office branch, save for the knowledge that she transitioned to another branch of Satyam's many city offices, where she worked for a year or two, maybe, before deciding to move on permanently. That was the last we ever heard of her.
It is, to say the least, quite beyond belief that a venerable institution like Satyam, a beacon in the field of IT, should be subjected to such an unfathomable tragedy. I still remember how we revelled in the plenitude of learning opportunities, despite working under the nightmarish, bombastic leadership style of our consulting supervisor—whose rumbly, menacing voice rolled through the hall as if spoken through a thunderous megaphone, suggestive of a devil on the loose. Kavitha used to experience a lush tropical rainforest of a thousand goosebumps springing to life on her arms, each tiny prickle horripilating all over, a physiological reaction to the primal instinct awakened within her, as her mind picked on the ominous shadows of encroaching peril drawing near.
Each time Mandeep saw GG sauntering towards our cubicle, he would exclaim in a mournful sing-song tone, "Arehhh! Aagayi ji aagayi pulees (police) aagayi!" (Urgh! The police have come; the police have come!) GG, of course, as is his wont, would take on his repulsed, serious-looking Colin Powell look, but also sometimes managed to sound like the cartoonish comicality of Leslie Nielsen: think of the goofy laugh-riot Naked Gun, Spy Hard, et al.—an autocratic Big Gun who loved setting us into a tizzy all day. Notwithstanding all that bossy hectoring, it remains fair to say that working at Satyam was a dream, epitomizing a quintessential career experience that served as a coming-of-age experience, if you will. Our character conditioning, while moulding our approach to the professional sphere, simultaneously deepened our understanding of who we are and what our identities entail. It bettered our earlier selves—more shy, wary, a little scared—ping-ponging between faulty ideas as we refined ourselves into responsible, competent professionals. Phew!
Everything feels different now; naturally, it's 2025, not 1998. Things have changed, times have changed, they always do. The world has shifted, as it inevitably must with time passing by at a breakneck speed. I understand nothing can deliver us anything, and no force can transport us back to the past, except when you nostalgically reminisce about it, summoning up your memories in your heart. You will know that it brings a sorrowful weight of profound longing as the days move on. And times have veered off to the raw end of the spectrum, as is their wont (when things are fine), leaving a lingering sadness in their wake. Still, take me back in time to the point when I first joined Satyam in the year 1998, if memory serves, probably in the first week of August. Even better, take me back to the '70s or the '80s, when things felt simpler and happier; perhaps, I could start over anew and come to the point at my joining Satyam and meeting my work friends. But it feels far away now, because I've (we all have) come a long way since 1998, so far out from that pivotal moment in time when we met at that exceptional organization. And it feels like a distant memory of those Satyam days that I will never let go of them unremembered, unsung. Remembering all the good times we had at Satyam might help ease your pain from the storm of the present times. Everybody has to go forward, just forward. I went too, but I believe not without looking back.
Renju moved away, as did Mandeep. While Suresh settled in a new location, Devi withdrew from the circle of friendship to a strange anonymity. Kavitha had long since gone her separate way—it's been two and a half years since her absence became a permanent void. Revathy and Rafi had long ago left, and their absence resonated increasingly as time passed. Caught in the chauvinism of self-imposed deadlines, which he believes only he can handle, GG made a swift exit from the company—a woeful soul full of lululemons that his life could deliver him, and consistently out of the station until, one imagines, that much-awaited day he retires (finally!) or hangs up his Bata boots and earns himself a spot in Mr. Yamraj's good graces once more. Thenceforth, that day will be enshrined in the annals of our history, forever recognized as a national holiday! Though Balaji is no longer present in the here and now of the roaming world, he's likely still brainstorming actionable ideas from his calm, cool-headed, pacifist perspective. Shiv never showed up again, and Shahnawaz chose never to look back.
Leaving Satyam, I felt lost in a haunting tide of memories, stirring a bittersweet ache within. I found it hard to identify the source of my sadness—or if there was truly any sadness at all. And what was I feeling sad about so much? That's the question I'd perhaps answer a little differently. Today, my heart brims with nostalgia, each thought a reminder of all the treasured moments we shared at Satyam's Raj Bhavan Road office branch, a place we loved going to work and cherished for everything it offered. The extraordinary time we spent at Satyam has sadly disappeared, now just a beautiful blur in the tapestry of our memories. It's hard to believe that 27 years—an entire quarter of a century, my goodness—have flown by, a realization that echoes through my mind constantly when I think about our Satyam days.
Life went on, as it always does, I believe, much the same for each of us—both changed and as well as familiar. I hope we find each other again at that same hour and cherished place, at that precise moment in time and space, even though it now feels like it was a lifetime ago when our history unfurled. Satyam has left a lasting imprint, and I often find myself longing for those days. None of this nostalgia, nor this memoir I share here, would come to be without all of you, my friends from Satyam, who added so much to my life in so many ways.
Dear friends, please take good care of yourselves. Until we meet again—farewell! All my love. Goodbye and god bless.
(The End)
By Arindam Moulick
July 2025,
HYD.
And Oh! Postscript: To read the first part of this series titled “Our Satyam Days,” click here -> Memory Crossing.
Font: Libre Baskerville
Word count: 8,699 — warts and all.
And let’s not forget the wonderful Revathy and Rafi, who were once part of our team, and introduced Kavitha, Mandeep, and me to the tools and tricks of the trade. And, of course, there's Balaji, Mr. Coolhead, our team manager and the embodiment of calmness, who buddied up with us to navigate through some of the most fun brainstorming sessions, talking casually whenever possible, guiding everyone through challenges while helping us to unlock our full potential. What could be more fortunate than this? I made my way to the exit door and turned right to the lone elevator in this section of the building.
Descending the elevator, I fretted as I surmised that getting home in this torrential downpour would be too daunting a task, given the enormously broad sky-bellies filled with tons of precipitation above. Wow! There would be no dry spot remaining on me! Holy Moly! I could be done for good! The Raj Bhavan Road was already flooding, and the wind began to howl. It was raining thunderously hard, the sky alight with lightning streaks. I hadn't picked up my rain jacket when I got to the office earlier in the day, so I figured it'd be best if I waited a little longer before the rain ceased, and I could start riding home right away. While I waited in the green-marbled atrium on the ground floor, I thought of Renju, who often stayed back till 8 in the evening to finish her ever-expanding list of technical implementations. Standing just inside the entrance foyer of the polished green-marbled atrium that TSR Towers deservedly prides itself on, I couldn't help but think how lucky she was to have left early today! Gnana had wisely left before the rain started. My shift already ended at 11:00 pm. It was half past 11, and I was getting super anxious by the minute to get home. The hail wasn't going to relent. Mandeep's shift was over by 3 pm that day; he was likely watching a nice late-night movie at home, or he might be eagerly awaiting the first usher of sleep fairies that the rainy night would soon offer to lull him to snooze. He said he slept like a baby. Fair enough, paaji. I saw my red motorbike enjoying the drench as it stood quietly under the solitary banyan tree by the office building, all alone, alert on its centre stand as if saying, "What took you so long! Now hop on, dear... Time to go home." The parking lot was vacant, except for us.
As I rode my motorbike, I began a slow hum of the popular album song: “Ab Mujhe Raat Din, Tumhara Hi Khayal Hai” and "Deewana Tera," all of which were big chart-busting romantic tracks back in the day in 1999. When I was nearly halfway home, I started to hum one of the purest songs of love and longing that came into existence: “Chandi Raatein, Ho Chandi Raatein, Sab Jag Soye, Hum Jaagen, Taaron Se Karen Baatein,” as my soul swelled with a cherished longing—lost yet enduring—that never really let go of me, crooning those greatly admired, timeless love ballads sung by god-sent, soulful voices of our era. And then: "Na Jaane Mere Dil Ko Kya Ho Gaya, Abhi Toh Yahin…," etched into my soul like a melody so gentle, dancing sweetly in the depths of my heart. Curiously, every time the melody of "Tujhe Yaad Na Meri Aayee Kisise Ab Kya Kehna" graces my ears, it fills my heart with a bittersweet ache that lingers long after the notes fade away. These and other unforgettable numbers of that era were the ideal balm for the hurting soul.
(Almost daily, Mandeep and I would talk about the latest music videos: the top-charting songs on MTV and Channel V that were a staple on the television of those days in the late 1990s and early 2000s. We loved these cult songs so much that one day he rode pillion on my motorcycle, hurrying to central HYD—far from our office on Raj Bhavan Road in the north-central part of the city—to buy the audio cassette, along with a bunch of other Hindi film cassette tapes. Including Deewana, he bought the cassettes based on his preferences, while I purchased based on mine. After finishing our asset-acquisition of Hindi movie songs audiocassettes to our heart’s delight, we returned, with Mandeep sitting plump behind me on my red Hero Honda Splendor motorbike, to our office, utilizing our lunchtime wisely as we asked our ebullient associate Shiv P., who was on a general shift that day, to manage the roaming division while we were out shopping at a wholesale audiocassette mart!
It was great fun, with the post-noon sun high above us, mellowed in its afternoon glow. Mandeep and I were riding on my Splendor motorcycle from our Satyam office on Raj Bhavan Road, gliding through the bright roads, lanes, alleys, and avenues to central Hyderabad to pick up musical merchandise: audio cassettes from a wholesale outlet that only he knew about. When we were working at Satyam, the last time we went to catch a film together after work was Gladiator at Skyline/Sterling theatre. A cinematic masterpiece, which I checked the year it came out in 2000. I vividly recall that it was a magnificent movie to see, and during the intermission, he and I savoured sips from our Pepsi bottles. A rare interlude that brightened our friendship while we were out seeing a movie.)
Even today, the enduring charm of the 1980s and 1990s Hindi melodies continues to tug at the heartstrings, captivating hearts as they did in their prime. Growing up during that period was the most exciting phase of my life, but as the years raced ahead, a wave of sadness and ennui began to overshadow everything with the dawn of the 2000s: the new millennium, the start of the 21st century. (Since that fateful dawn of the new millennium, the heavenly Gods, as it were, possibly of ‘destinal’ origins, have unleashed a hard-luck doom with relentless ferocity on me. Good tidings never came my way; it is as if the unknown Gods up there in the heavens had turned up their noses at me, scorned my existence, again and again, abandoning the mournful heartstrings woven of love my heart once sought to beat close to yours.) Therefore, it is within the hallowed realm of the 1980s and 1990s—the luminous golden years of my life—that I discovered the most profound beauty and meaning, a harmonious symphony of experiences that resonate deeply within my soul. These priceless years of my life, woven with some of the most melodious and memorable Hindi film music and ghazals, each note a tender tug at the heartstrings from the days gone by, are cherished and lovingly embraced as I wander through my memories.
[I love humming songs whenever I’m in a good mood. It’s in my genes, I believe. Film songs and Doordarshan television ad jingles always come to me — Hindi, Bengali, English, and some of the most memorable Telugu melodies, especially of the 1980s and 90s. Until the mid-2000s, Hindi films—whatever you dub them as: masala films, commercial, escapist stuff, emotional tearjerkers, or anything that has comedy, tragedy, melodrama, and emotion replete with Shakespeare blends and Dickensian social conditions—and their songs were incredibly catchy and memorable. However, in recent years, almost all films have shifted their focus to real-life events or historical themes, leaving us with songs that have lost their musicality and charm, lacking melody, becoming less tuneful, jarringly technology-infested, auto-tuned to hilarity (wow! everybody can fucking sing these days!), and all that junk pieces never as catchy as they never used to be.
It's a disenchanting trend: Netflix, YouTube, or OTT. Don’t you think? Chilling at home and watching movies or TV shows of all kinds, new, old, and in-between, on your handheld devices or laptop computer. Unable to meet friends, becoming an individualistic loner, which is making you forfeit compassion. (Smart commercial logic, for sure, but I haven't signed up for any of the Internet-connected on-demand streaming services yet. I might, but not until later. It may be my retirement benefit, if you will, considering I am so hard-pressed for time these days. Ah hah! I might choose to serenade myself with a membership on the day I step into the realm of retirement, waving farewell to my daily grind.) And I am only speaking through the lens of a bygone era, from the point of view of the old way of watching movies, any movie, be it the so-called Bollywood (Hindi), Hollywood (English), or Tollywood (Telugu). The old way of making commercial Hindi cinema, coming from what is popularly known as 'Bollywood,' with the necessary and wonderful element of the light-hearted song-and-dance routine (and yes, around the trees, on the rooftops, in the flower gardens, pastures, meadows, or the fields, grasslands, and waterfalls), has disappeared into nostalgic oblivion, and so have the single-screen theatres the city was so well-known for—its Art Deco cinema theatres. Sadly, that era is gone; slipped away from us, taking with it the unforgettable movie-watching days we cherished so much.
Amid the mournful worst-case scenarios of the world—torn asunder by the spate of wars of bruised egos, injured pride, fraught with unthinkable despair, and the inexorable yet hollow pace of change utterly unconvincing—we live in a world that reminds me of the oft-forgotten beauty of a timeless refrain: “Iss Jeevan Ki Yahi Hai Kahani, Aani Jaani Yeh Duniya Behte Dariya Ka Paani.” (This is the story of this life, this fleeting world is like flowing river water.) Therefore, here is the gift of life. How do you embrace it and shape your destiny?
Oh dear, I lament the loss of the enchanting charm of the glorious nineteen-nineties, filled with next-level amazing music, movies, TV shows, and products, a wonderful, wholesome era, a historic decade in my life, that we still hold so close to our hearts even today, is gone, now forever beyond our reach.
Standalone single-screen cinemas, which were once social hubs or sole entertainment destinations for the 1990s generation, are being demolished everywhere. It’s hard to excuse the tragic fate of the old way of life, as these things are rapidly disappearing from our theatre landscapes permanently. These cultural landmarks, with their familiar lower and upper stalls and balcony seats, are sadly being replaced by soulless commercial shopping complexes, even as so-called modern, new multiplexes, which are often prohibitively expensive, take over these old cultural hubs. That old cinematic tradition is gone.
That timeless song and dance routine, whether beneath, around or among the trees, in a forgotten fortress, elaborately designed studio sets picturing utopian vistas, palace intrigues, or a picturesque garden with myriad water fountains—and, yes, saying it frankly, under the waterfalls with both hero and heroine moving rhythmically to music while lip-synching on vividly tinselly romantic songs—has now faded into history. Similarly, think of Jo Jeeta Wohi Sikandar, Dil Se, Soldier, Sirf Tum, Love, First Love Letter, Hum Dil De Chuke Sanam, Hum Aapke Hai Kaun, Mohabbatein, and many other light-hearted, enjoyable movies from that era-defining generation, as far as the typically unique Indian way of 70mm visually glitzy big-screen entertainment is concerned.
Apart from the Hindi ones, some of the memorable Telugu movies include Jagadeka Veerudu Athiloka Sundari, which features one of my truly favourite vernacular songs, "Priyathama Nanu Palakarinchu Pranayamaa." Kshana Kshanam, Gang Leader (“Vaana Vaana Velluvaye”), Chanti, and two tracks from the movie Bobbili Raja, "Kanyakumari Kanapadadha Daari" and "Balapam Patti," and lest I forget mentioning two beautiful song-and-dance musical numbers: “Chiluka Kshemama” and "Chukkala Pallakilo." These remain so compelling and sweetly unforgettable. While the focus here is on 1990s music, I must also acknowledge that the Telugu musical landscape of the 1980s was, if not equally extraordinary, then even more so. Although I missed the chance to see Gharana Mogudu, the film's title was on everyone's lips in town, as my school buddy Satish, a Chiranjeevi and Krishnam Raju fan, enjoyed its magic during its opening week. He made sure to experience it during the very first week of its release. Under no circumstances was he going to miss it, absolutely not.
“I love the local flavour,” Armstrong would playfully say, inviting all of us to catch a good Telugu film at a nearby cinema hall. Sunil would immediately respond with a resolute, "Yes, I'm in!" and would playfully add in Hindi, "Main bhi chaltu (I'm also going)." For Satish and me, it would be an eager "Chalo, chalenge (Let's go!).”
The last time I saw a Telugu movie was way back in 2002. The film Lahiri Lahiri Lahiri Lo, which was okay-ish to watch, proved to be a modest delight for its audience. A year before, in 2001, the film Manasantha Nuvve captured hearts. The song "Tuneega Tuneega..." and others from the movie wove a sonnet of sweet melodies, creating a symphony that stirred the heart. Satish and I both went to see these movies.
One particular song, "Nee Snehameh..." from the movie Manasantha Nuvve, is deeply heart-touching. This heartbreaking melody that fills me with a feeling of an old emotion, connecting me to an earlier version of myself, reminds me to reminisce about a time I may have left behind, yet still hold close to my heart. This song never fails to stir my soul. Each time I listen to its haunting, melancholic melody—whether it drifts softly from a distant speaker or fills a quiet moment alone—it awakens a deep-rooted, soulful feeling, perhaps evoking memories of a love long gone and the dreams that faded with it. Every time I hear it, those lost emotions resurface. Such musical tunes are exceedingly rare; they are no longer being composed today. No wonder the current music scene feels utterly dismal, devoid of the spark that once made it so dynamic. Remember the song-and-dance routine? That is what I was talking about. It’s as if the moment you anticipate a new song, it slams into a wall of disappointment. Nothing is the same as it was a decade or two ago.
Going to the movies, in whatever language, was an exciting opportunity that no one from our gang wanted to miss, as we settled into our assigned seats and remained quiet in wonder for nearly two and a half hours. The first English-language picture I remember watching is probably Conan the Barbarian. Afterwards, I saw F.I.S.T., Fist of Fury, Enter the Dragon, Rambo, Ben-Hur, The Ten Commandments, Conan the Barbarian, and so many others during my school years. It was not just about the movies; it was an essential ritual, a vital human experience that had more to do with how we grew up as intimate buddies. No matter what your age group is, we always ate onion samosas, chutney sandwiches, and a cold drink at the movies, mostly Thums Up, Citra: "Super Cooler," Limca, Gold Spot: “The Zing Thing!" Popcorn could wait. All in all, a lifetime’s worth of memories!
Times have changed, and human sensibilities and sensitivities are evolving as the old give way to the new. Even for my friend Satish, who used to love watching Telugu films every other weekend, the current trend in commercial cinema—whether local or national—which is not what we would prefer to see on the big screen, strays far from the tried-and-tested romantic song-and-dance narratives, perhaps unveiling a reality we often overlook, or lingers just out of sight for all four of us friends, who knows? Whatever it might be, Satish watches them, but rarely these days. Similarly, Armstrong, who moved to Delhi a long time ago, has long since left behind this sphere of fascination, this cherished realm of our shared passion for watching Hindi, Telugu, or English movies at Sangeet, Skyline/Sterling, or Anand; Sai Kishore, Sapna, or Manju — all gone, demolished. Meanwhile, Sunil—who used to be an avid Hollywood fan (like all four of us together)—had already become a rare viewer of cinema. Sadly, Sunil died a few years ago. It seems to me that the fountain of our youthful enthusiasm has taken a different bend. Call it a bittersweet twist of fate, or a disenchanting divergence from the modern highfalutin trends of the world, things for us are no longer the same.
Every song from Telugu cinema's soundtracks from the 1990s holds the power to revive warm memories and tender moments from my college days, evoking sweet memories that create an indescribable spell of nostalgia truly worth holding onto, impossible not to cherish. That feeling of nostalgia still holds strong in my mind, as well as in the minds of my dear friends, my local pals.]
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Since 2005, I have rarely watched Hindi movies as my interest in them has sharply diminished. Not because of the dazzling crop of Hindi movies that were coming out, but due to a dearth of like-minded friends to see at least a few of them, I suppose; like we used to see those movies back in the day when we were young, bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and blissfully unaware of taxes! I'm not able to say exactly what it is precisely that dissuades me from catching new Hindi movies, but that was the end of it all. I guess my days of rest (and relaxation) had long ended. I also stopped buying audiocassettes or CDs around 2003 or ‘05, marking a distinct turning point in my entertainment preferences — even though I listen only to old Hindi film music (up to the year 2005) from the earlier golden periods, mostly downloaded from the Internet and streamed through the new-age wireless Bluetooth portable speaker box, the current musical garbage leaves me exasperated. I unabashedly preferred watching Hollywood movies more than I used to view Hindi or occasionally regional flicks, and that too on a friend's persuasion from near home.
As for me, however, everything has changed; the world has changed, it has taken a permanent turn, and it is not as good as it should be.
Maybe I might watch only once a year—but even that isn’t guaranteed. It has been more than twenty years since my interest in Hindi movies waned. Fanaa and Rang De Basanti were the last two noteworthy Hindi cinematic gems that I really enjoyed viewing. Even though they drew inspiration from actual events, the stories were both engaging and emotionally heart-wrenching, with each film featuring memorable musical compositions. But I still love that filmy romantic trope of "dancing around the trees" and lip-syncing a cache of catchy, hummable songs interspersed throughout the film as the story moves forward. That vivid imagery, if you like, of the song-and-dance routine stays with you forever, far surpassing the mundane, off-putting portrayals of real-life happenings or unpleasantly classified as 'realistic cinema' that dominates today's Indian "commercial escapist" movie scene. I mean, you remember each line of pre-2000 Hindi cinematic poetry for life, but it's hard to recall any good song, tune, or melody that gets auto-tuned to perfection but has no charm, no magic effect — zero delight! True, technology has made it easy for these smarty-pants novices slash amateurs to auto-tune their voices to record songs on their electronic devices, but look what happened to the entire oeuvre of film music soundtracks—they destroyed it. While times have evolved, my preferences remain the same: old school, and say what you will, soberly conservative. You can say: stuck in the nostalgic past. Maybe. But that is where I love to be. It never hurts.]
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When I finally got home that stormy night, I was thoroughly soaked, drenched to the bone. My motorbike looked like it was grinning from ear to ear, clearly enjoying its refreshing rain shower. I did not lament the rainy night; it was most welcome: the more of it, the more beautiful it is. Despite my soggy condition, I sometimes hummed and sometimes sang to myself three beautiful melodies as I rode my motorbike, wearing a nice, reassuring helmet.
When it's raining, one can feel a certain bliss in being mesmerized by it. But again, not much of it is good. A little drench should be fine. When the day comes to a close, a new one is dawning on the horizon.
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Missing my Satyam friends
Lately, I have been thinking of Renju and Gnana, Mandeep and Kavitha, Devi and Suresh, Revathy and Rafi, GG and Balaji, Shiv and Shahnawaz, along with many other colleagues I’ve come into connection with at the Satyam branch on Raj Bhavan Road. I'm not surprised that I still remember everything, and their memories linger on. After Satyam, where have they gone? Where did life take them? Indeed, we don't stick with one IT company forever, yes, and none of us did—until, of course, Satyam unfortunately disbanded in 2009 or thereabouts. We all moved on while seeking new opportunities that lay on the pathways of the future. Everyone knew when to leave, when it was time to say goodbye to an old chapter of life.
Renju—an excellently precise name for a girl dreaming of making it big in the then-fledgling Indian IT industry—we knew always reacted ordinarily to the extraordinary; in that way, her modesty was exemplary, and this, coupled with her humble, unassuming, simple nature, was something that you would see and that good things happen to mature people who know their way around the world. Such maturity comes with being peaceful at heart, with mindful inclinations influencing how she approaches situations and goals. At Satyam, she was a comfort to those around her, as she kept a cool head to be the voice of calm in the GG-laden Twisters that the West Wing often whirled up into our East Wing cubicle, which was an exciting wellspring of youth energy that fascinated every one of our team every moment of our life, away from the sombre-looking, sombre-sounding senior management on the other end of the office building, of which GG was one of the many senior-level consultants. Nonetheless, those were the best days of our lives, which have been indelibly etched in our memories, in our hearts, in our souls, forever.
Looking back to a time when we worked with, not for, our reporting manager, GG, I'm no longer in touch with that part of my younger moral conscience that, unlike our superior, we were youthfully considerate, questioning whether I've finally forgiven this tyrannical figure for the abominably angry reproaches or his subtly propagated, community-oriented bias that he imposed on us in our daily work lives. Time and again, the chilling void of unfriendliness used to leave us sapped of our spirits, feeling uninspired, to say the least. Kavitha shed an unknown amount of tears; her eyes welled up quickly, and tears plunged like Niagara Falls, while Mandeep and I tackled a lot of unwanted stress and anxiety, facing our own tetrapod T-Rex of Satyam. It was a bitter reminder that, although we were continuously knowledgeable, skilled, and professionally competent, he showed little to no empathy toward us. GG's indifference cut deeply, an ugly reality Mandeep would humorously call out as "thanks to his fuckaad-ka leadership."
Apart from Mandeep, I, and also Devi and Suresh have not seen or spoken to him since late 2001, which was twenty-four years ago, and neither did Kavitha M., who discontinued her Satyam career two years ago in 1999, making sure that her close pal Una Artoran, who worked in a different organization, too went off the radar entirely. Let us not forget her other delightfully weighty chum, Mom R., whose dreams of far-away abroad, of distant shores, food, and adventures—quality of life, mostly—took precedence over blossoming friendships that might or might not have been made here in the laid-back, enchanting city of HYD. To these jolly-good, fun-loving Hyderabadi Mesdemoiselles, I suspect, there couldn't be any alternative reality in this fast-changing city where they (all-girls squad) lived comfortably and worked ably, for they had different, life-changing ideas in the snug spaces—feel-good plus more creative medley than mundane, though—of their mindfully, intentionally, and consciously fertile imagination. All they needed was a change of place, time, thought, and future: a potential hawa badlee, if you like!!! And lest we forget their other friend, Padma, from the band of four female friends, with whom I shared fleeting yet meaningful conversations once or twice, who seemed like a solitary flower blooming amid a bouquet of vivacious camaraderie, brought to life by the infectious appeal of her colleagues, such as:
® The ever-spirited, on the chubbier side like the unsinkable Molly of the Titanic, bear-cuddly, pampered Khumbhakarni Mom;
® Gracefully elegant Una, whose pastel-hued dresses were the stuff of urban legends, just like the “chui-mui girl” (of the popular ’98 song), she liked calling herself with;
® And perhaps even the statuesque, dignified Kavitha, for whom a picture is worth a thousand words and who took Una firmly on her side, filling her with inflated tosh, never letting go of her if she strays from the straight and narrow as dictated by her. A true-blue Tandavi;
® That leaves Padma, one of the four-friends quatrain, whose name had possibly skipped a 'Shri' as a definitive suffix to her name. It could earn a rewarding 'Padmashri,' a nationally recognized name, all right. Perhaps, Padma is just fine, short and neat.
Oh, except once, very briefly, I bumped into GG once—just for a moment, goodness!—at Mandeep's wedding reception in the manicured green lawns of Taj Deccan in the heart of the city. Hopefully, GG is now prematurely retired, living as well as he has envisioned for himself in the Boulder Hills of Banjara. Old age and retirement eventually catch up.
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I was looking forward to my slow Sunday scroll around the house, which was still two days away: of reading, lazing around, watching MTV a bit, or looking forward to conversing with my erudite, slightly elliptical, and irrepressible college-time buddies, namely, Armstrong S. (nickname: “Strong”), Sateesh K. (“Mote,” “Khumbhakaran,” ”DeMello”), and the often miserly but very wittily comical crosspatch Sunil B. ("Bhale," "Sadu," or even “Sulli Gaadu”) in the Sunday evening, who sometimes would dash over to my house for a brain-bouncing, inside jokes sharing chit-chat that sometimes dissected my cerebellum to the hilt. (Only kidding, fellas. Better to mention that I'm joking ... just in case!)
“Let us be grateful to the people who make us happy; they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom.” — Marcel Proust
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How to Find Closure
Closure, whatever that term may mean, is something I've always been unsure whether I will ever reach since I began crafting this… oh!... memoir. With countless recollections from my amazing days at Satyam, I struggle to find meaningful closure for an experience that brought us so much joy during our time there. I understand it was merely a job, something not meant to linger in your mind after a while for very long.
That is how I suppose nostalgia works — lost in imagination and possibility, deeper than anything you can fathom, and it makes us feel warm, safe, and connected to the past days that will always be present in the reckoning. You progress, experience, discover different opportunities to pursue, and carry on with your career without becoming emotionally invested in your first job because you know you will possibly take up another one soon after in some other company, in some other place.
The way it has always been in today’s IT (Information Technology) work sphere, you finish one job, pick up another soon after, and carry on with your professional life without giving a second glance at the things you have lived through. While I don't berate any of my precious Satyam friends, I guess, I couldn't bring myself to do that, because we are all in this together, in great shakes as we scrutinize more job opportunities that come our way. That's a working life we all abide by. I'm obsessed with the '70s, '80s, and '90s eras to live by. Because of the inherent romance in those eternities, which is highly distinctive to location, culture, and lived experience, these pivotal periods in history, with the warmth of the treasured past, will always hold a special place in my heart. Who doesn't like nostalgia? Everybody does in some way or another, a little less or more. I love getting stuck in a creative loop of nostalgia for an extended time, and that is precisely what I need for my life to prosper in the increasingly chaotic and conflicted world we live in. Still, some people—like myself, I believe that my dearest colleagues at Satyam were connected by a deep love for storytelling and reminiscing about lovely moments we spent together working in the roaming division, as I am doing here—aspire to write heartfelt memoirs or personal accounts centred on personal experiences that have profoundly affected them, wishing to evoke nostalgia and happiness as they, I am sure, seek a deeper meaning in their memories to guide them through life with the warmth of their treasured past. Nothing of that sort had come forward in writing, at least, as a matter of course. Maybe, somebody has to do the dirty work of writing a memoir like I am doing here, and everything will be alright. Life is for once, there's no second chance at it. This, as in here, is the last dispatch of life on Earth, until, possibly, the heavenly abodes above.
I thought to write something of a personal account, captioning every blog under the recurrent heading “Our Satyam Days,” followed by the serial number of the part that is published. I have been blogging since 2009 (writing since 1990, in bits and pieces initially, later full-fledged articles and letters to the editor-type for the local rag, D.C.) towards achieving a kind of personal milestone, as it were, all put out on my blog space called “Pebbles on the Beach,” which previously was called (quite a few years back, though) “Butterflies in my Stomach.”
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This is the last dispatch.
Since the day of absolution is long overdue, and it doesn't seem like the atonement will happen anytime soon, I remain uncertain about how to end this introspective memoir chronicling my time at Satyam—a phase that significantly influenced my professional path through new learnings, work ethic, and the broader spectrum of life's demands and survival as an information technology professional during the years I spent there before this once-great organization, sadly, crumbled under the weight of its unfortunate circumstances. A tragic fate that left its former, old-time employees heartbroken.
While many had turned the page long before the upheaval struck Satyam, I decided to leave in the early 2000s, understanding (reluctantly) that sometimes moving on is the best solution to stagnation in the profession. When the roaming division disbanded in 2001, Mandeep, Shiv, and Shahnawaz preferred to explore new opportunities to follow their career dreams elsewhere, while I, along with Renju, Gnana, Devi, and Suresh, chose to stay the course for a while longer. At this juncture of my life, if anyone asked me how things were going, I'd have merely responded that they were very disheartening, though one liked to be optimistic, even if it meant for the sake of it. Renouncing Satyam, along with my dear office colleagues, as I painfully realized: one that unfolded in my heart with a weight, was something I never anticipated or that, one day, would become a necessity to utilize painful situations as growth, progress, or some such BS. Yet, moving on from one job to another seemed to be well... merely a temporary reprieve, nothing quite reasonable, and no permanent redemption, therefore.
Little tidings reached us concerning Ann Mary R., or Mary Ann, who always valued connecting with us at our former Raj Bhavan Road office branch, save for the knowledge that she transitioned to another branch of Satyam's many city offices, where she worked for a year or two, maybe, before deciding to move on permanently. That was the last we ever heard of her.
It is, to say the least, quite beyond belief that a venerable institution like Satyam, a beacon in the field of IT, should be subjected to such an unfathomable tragedy. I still remember how we revelled in the plenitude of learning opportunities, despite working under the nightmarish, bombastic leadership style of our consulting supervisor—whose rumbly, menacing voice rolled through the hall as if spoken through a thunderous megaphone, suggestive of a devil on the loose. Kavitha used to experience a lush tropical rainforest of a thousand goosebumps springing to life on her arms, each tiny prickle horripilating all over, a physiological reaction to the primal instinct awakened within her, as her mind picked on the ominous shadows of encroaching peril drawing near.
Each time Mandeep saw GG sauntering towards our cubicle, he would exclaim in a mournful sing-song tone, "Arehhh! Aagayi ji aagayi pulees (police) aagayi!" (Urgh! The police have come; the police have come!) GG, of course, as is his wont, would take on his repulsed, serious-looking Colin Powell look, but also sometimes managed to sound like the cartoonish comicality of Leslie Nielsen: think of the goofy laugh-riot Naked Gun, Spy Hard, et al.—an autocratic Big Gun who loved setting us into a tizzy all day. Notwithstanding all that bossy hectoring, it remains fair to say that working at Satyam was a dream, epitomizing a quintessential career experience that served as a coming-of-age experience, if you will. Our character conditioning, while moulding our approach to the professional sphere, simultaneously deepened our understanding of who we are and what our identities entail. It bettered our earlier selves—more shy, wary, a little scared—ping-ponging between faulty ideas as we refined ourselves into responsible, competent professionals. Phew!
Everything feels different now; naturally, it's 2025, not 1998. Things have changed, times have changed, they always do. The world has shifted, as it inevitably must with time passing by at a breakneck speed. I understand nothing can deliver us anything, and no force can transport us back to the past, except when you nostalgically reminisce about it, summoning up your memories in your heart. You will know that it brings a sorrowful weight of profound longing as the days move on. And times have veered off to the raw end of the spectrum, as is their wont (when things are fine), leaving a lingering sadness in their wake. Still, take me back in time to the point when I first joined Satyam in the year 1998, if memory serves, probably in the first week of August. Even better, take me back to the '70s or the '80s, when things felt simpler and happier; perhaps, I could start over anew and come to the point at my joining Satyam and meeting my work friends. But it feels far away now, because I've (we all have) come a long way since 1998, so far out from that pivotal moment in time when we met at that exceptional organization. And it feels like a distant memory of those Satyam days that I will never let go of them unremembered, unsung. Remembering all the good times we had at Satyam might help ease your pain from the storm of the present times. Everybody has to go forward, just forward. I went too, but I believe not without looking back.
Renju moved away, as did Mandeep. While Suresh settled in a new location, Devi withdrew from the circle of friendship to a strange anonymity. Kavitha had long since gone her separate way—it's been two and a half years since her absence became a permanent void. Revathy and Rafi had long ago left, and their absence resonated increasingly as time passed. Caught in the chauvinism of self-imposed deadlines, which he believes only he can handle, GG made a swift exit from the company—a woeful soul full of lululemons that his life could deliver him, and consistently out of the station until, one imagines, that much-awaited day he retires (finally!) or hangs up his Bata boots and earns himself a spot in Mr. Yamraj's good graces once more. Thenceforth, that day will be enshrined in the annals of our history, forever recognized as a national holiday! Though Balaji is no longer present in the here and now of the roaming world, he's likely still brainstorming actionable ideas from his calm, cool-headed, pacifist perspective. Shiv never showed up again, and Shahnawaz chose never to look back.
Leaving Satyam, I felt lost in a haunting tide of memories, stirring a bittersweet ache within. I found it hard to identify the source of my sadness—or if there was truly any sadness at all. And what was I feeling sad about so much? That's the question I'd perhaps answer a little differently. Today, my heart brims with nostalgia, each thought a reminder of all the treasured moments we shared at Satyam's Raj Bhavan Road office branch, a place we loved going to work and cherished for everything it offered. The extraordinary time we spent at Satyam has sadly disappeared, now just a beautiful blur in the tapestry of our memories. It's hard to believe that 27 years—an entire quarter of a century, my goodness—have flown by, a realization that echoes through my mind constantly when I think about our Satyam days.
Life went on, as it always does, I believe, much the same for each of us—both changed and as well as familiar. I hope we find each other again at that same hour and cherished place, at that precise moment in time and space, even though it now feels like it was a lifetime ago when our history unfurled. Satyam has left a lasting imprint, and I often find myself longing for those days. None of this nostalgia, nor this memoir I share here, would come to be without all of you, my friends from Satyam, who added so much to my life in so many ways.
Dear friends, please take good care of yourselves. Until we meet again—farewell! All my love. Goodbye and god bless.
(The End)
By Arindam Moulick
July 2025,
HYD.
And Oh! Postscript: To read the first part of this series titled “Our Satyam Days,” click here -> Memory Crossing.
Font: Libre Baskerville
Word count: 8,699 — warts and all.