Yesterday was a day of much mortification. Such horrendous shame that I almost fell off my chair. Stared for hours at a wall, suchlike. So, I’ve goofed up. Bigtime.

I deal with double digit inflation every time I buy groceries and balk. The social support system, such as it is, is in tatters. Health insurance is non existence, and even if you’re terribly prudent, covers paise on the rupee as I’ve learnt.

So all this while I was comfortable- there was always Mister Market. In my part of the world we count on Mister Market. Who helped put me and the sister through school and  music class and college? Mister Market. Who helped even out cash flow, spend on that not-so-fancy-but-costs vacation? Mister Market. Mister Market was the savior when the index was sub-1000’s, when one had to take a bus to the broker’s office at the other end of town, when orders had to be phoned in to Ahmedabad or Bombay.

So yes, Mister Market would salvage my old age, whenever old age nods and clears its throat. Mister Market ALSO helps me earn a wage, ok?

And then. Yesterday I calculated the CAGR of scripts in my portfolio.

Line by painful line. Some of the sure calls have been terrible. Not nice at all. Huge splashes of red all over the page. A lac (or several) shrunk to a few thousands.

The country’s leading engineering company – with a return lower than a bank deposit, taxable.  Some scripts are swimming along fine, even burdened by deadweight. Logical thing would be to chop out the sludge, deadwood and cleanup, add more fuel to the ones surfing along fine…Then why the hell can’t I?