Raju was running late. It was the 4th of the month.
Flying through the by-lanes of Kalbadevi, dodging tempos and thelas, the occasional car, and people - vendors, pedestrians, people generally passing time on the road - he would have looked at his watch every two seconds, had he had one.
Watching his light-as-a-feather, bony little self almost glide the air currents, one would think he was no more than five or six years old. He would actually turn eleven this year, or so Anees chacha said. He and his family of three begums and seven children then had been around when Raju's pregnant mother had been picked up by a local NGO coming once a month to round up severely ill slum-residents needing urgent medical care and taking them to the nearest municipality hospital. His mother had disappeared after his birth, and the NGO volunteer had delivered him to the neighbor - Anees chacha's doorstep. Chacha had accepted him as a gift from Allah and the newest member of his ever-expanding family.
That was eleven years ago and here he was now. A rag-picker/scavenger by day and waiter-boy at the Good-fun bar in the evenings. Sometimes, the lala at General kirana used him as a delivery boy and sent him to some of the affluent neighborhoods in the vicinity with parcels of atta and tel.
As Raju passed lala's dukaan, he waved out to the portly figure sitting behind the counter. Lala looked at his flying form and shouted - "Abbe kidhar bhaag raha hai be, bawla hai ka!". Further on, as he neared the police thana, his urgency to immediately be someplace else become much more acute, but he slowed his frenzied pace to a brisk trot, so as to not attract attention. As a young urchin around this area he already knew that getting in trouble with the police was as easy as one of them noticing his seemingly purposeless existence.
As he turned that last corner without incident and came within sight of his destination, his feet grew wings again and with the single-minded focus of an Olympian near the finish line, he sprinted the last twenty meters faster than Usain Bolt, just as the clock struck one and the gates to the Hanuman temple started to shut. He flew in and sat down, just in time to have a man put a plate in front of him and another ladle out a huge portion of freshly made, piping hot, deliciously aromatic - khichdi onto it.
Tuesday, December 07, 2010
Friday, December 03, 2010
Crazy Beautiful
The Terminal. A movie about a man who spent nine months at an airport terminal in NYC, waiting to be allowed to pass into the city so that he could collect the signature of one of the greatest Jazz legends in the world, something that he had promised his dead father he would.
When was the last time you did something like this?
When was the last time you did something like this?
Wednesday, December 01, 2010
Pages from my Diary?
An episode of my life which I view with a lot of amusement now and what had seemed to be the biggest sorrow of my life at the time - When I was a kid, I underwent some trauma. My mother was fond of having my hair cut really short - the style used to be called a 'Boy's Cut', no less. Saying she was fond of it, is actually camouflaging the true intentions.She was just not into taking care of long hair - the oiling, washing, combing, braiding, delousing that 7-year-old hair demands. It's another thing that I hated that look and would cry every time a reflection happened to fall upon my eyes or imagination. I thought it made me look like a boy, a rather pudgy, nonathletic one at that. And like all self-respecting 7-year-olds, I hated boys.
When my sister grew up a little bit and become the shining star that she is, I would always be compared to her - on her willingness to get up and start dancing, on her happiness and cheeriness in general, talkativeness. Nearly half my family prides itself on the words per minute they can chalk up, and are also very culturally inclined - singing, dancing - and actually very well - every time somebody sneezes. So a high premium was laid on such abilities and more importantly, inclinations. I, on the other hand, was into being left alone, watching from a safe distance. Not much of a talker, and thinking that I was too fat to stand up and display to people all my wobbly bits, I would fight tooth and nail to not be made to do that. This sort of stuck, this image of me being a quiet little thing. More so in my mind that anybody else's I think. And it also kind of led me to develop an alter-ego. I was uproariously gregarious with friends around - the bubble in the champagne and the rocker in the house. It is only over the past few years that a sort of merging of the two has happened.
At 15, I did not know any boys. Of course, I thought about them. I was interested. But just didn't know any. So it was really interesting going to these coaching classes where I encountered boys for the first time. There was so much talk those days about who likes whom, who said what to whom and about whom, who looked at whom - you get it. I found it deliriously fascinating - building mammoth situations around these exciting happenings in my head. Of course I also found the time to study, hard. That was the other thing I did.
Somewhere along in the next couple of years, K happened. My first love, or so I believed. He was the romantic, edgy, SRK-lookalike who would make my silly heart race at the time. And so passed three years. I did have fun. But I do not remember any of that. What remained is what took over five years to heal after it crashed. For the latter two of those three years, I kept it from my parents, assuring them that it was over. And when I finally came to them distraught that it had actually ended, all my father said to my mother was - I am glad that it is finally over now. I don't think I learned anything from that experience immediately. In fact, I went over to the other extreme of being terribly cautious and introspective about what I actually wanted and felt. Today though, I am a strong advocate of co-education schooling, of snapping children out of excessive day dreaming and of welcoming them back when they stray.
Due to all of this drama, I have this one regret - I did not spend as much time or thought on my graduation schooling. I could have done more. I feel I did not utilize the resources at my disposal well enough - both internal and external.
Life is made up of a million mistakes - misplaced notions and wrong actions, things which seemed life-threatening then and only bring up that warm glow of nostalgia now. I thought I was absolutely right and knew everything at 15, at 17, at 21. Thoroughly confused at 25, I knew I was wrong. Here I am now, at 28. Having been through the veil to the other side - where there is no love and no friendship, getting back just in time. Hanging on to the few solid friendships I have for dear life now - nothing can come in the way - no missed birthdays, no non-appearances on important occasions - nothing. In love - understanding the true implications of that word - to let some battles pass, to let some habits die hard, to embrace some wrongs, to work up some excitement at the end of a long hard day, and most importantly, to let kindness win over righteousness.
When my sister grew up a little bit and become the shining star that she is, I would always be compared to her - on her willingness to get up and start dancing, on her happiness and cheeriness in general, talkativeness. Nearly half my family prides itself on the words per minute they can chalk up, and are also very culturally inclined - singing, dancing - and actually very well - every time somebody sneezes. So a high premium was laid on such abilities and more importantly, inclinations. I, on the other hand, was into being left alone, watching from a safe distance. Not much of a talker, and thinking that I was too fat to stand up and display to people all my wobbly bits, I would fight tooth and nail to not be made to do that. This sort of stuck, this image of me being a quiet little thing. More so in my mind that anybody else's I think. And it also kind of led me to develop an alter-ego. I was uproariously gregarious with friends around - the bubble in the champagne and the rocker in the house. It is only over the past few years that a sort of merging of the two has happened.
At 15, I did not know any boys. Of course, I thought about them. I was interested. But just didn't know any. So it was really interesting going to these coaching classes where I encountered boys for the first time. There was so much talk those days about who likes whom, who said what to whom and about whom, who looked at whom - you get it. I found it deliriously fascinating - building mammoth situations around these exciting happenings in my head. Of course I also found the time to study, hard. That was the other thing I did.
Somewhere along in the next couple of years, K happened. My first love, or so I believed. He was the romantic, edgy, SRK-lookalike who would make my silly heart race at the time. And so passed three years. I did have fun. But I do not remember any of that. What remained is what took over five years to heal after it crashed. For the latter two of those three years, I kept it from my parents, assuring them that it was over. And when I finally came to them distraught that it had actually ended, all my father said to my mother was - I am glad that it is finally over now. I don't think I learned anything from that experience immediately. In fact, I went over to the other extreme of being terribly cautious and introspective about what I actually wanted and felt. Today though, I am a strong advocate of co-education schooling, of snapping children out of excessive day dreaming and of welcoming them back when they stray.
Due to all of this drama, I have this one regret - I did not spend as much time or thought on my graduation schooling. I could have done more. I feel I did not utilize the resources at my disposal well enough - both internal and external.
Life is made up of a million mistakes - misplaced notions and wrong actions, things which seemed life-threatening then and only bring up that warm glow of nostalgia now. I thought I was absolutely right and knew everything at 15, at 17, at 21. Thoroughly confused at 25, I knew I was wrong. Here I am now, at 28. Having been through the veil to the other side - where there is no love and no friendship, getting back just in time. Hanging on to the few solid friendships I have for dear life now - nothing can come in the way - no missed birthdays, no non-appearances on important occasions - nothing. In love - understanding the true implications of that word - to let some battles pass, to let some habits die hard, to embrace some wrongs, to work up some excitement at the end of a long hard day, and most importantly, to let kindness win over righteousness.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Long due and completely true
It has been long
Since I wrote a song
A streak of love sublime
On the vast canvas of time
When it entered my life
I was fraught with strife
Watching myself with a wary eye
Wrestling with demons of years gone by
But it was insistent and patient
It came at a good time too - perfectly stationed
I forgot to look back
Under its persevering attack
A year, two - under the sun
Enough for me to know it was the one
So I bound it to me more tight than anything
And now I wear it on my hand in the shape of a ring
Since I wrote a song
A streak of love sublime
On the vast canvas of time
When it entered my life
I was fraught with strife
Watching myself with a wary eye
Wrestling with demons of years gone by
But it was insistent and patient
It came at a good time too - perfectly stationed
I forgot to look back
Under its persevering attack
A year, two - under the sun
Enough for me to know it was the one
So I bound it to me more tight than anything
And now I wear it on my hand in the shape of a ring
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Women, ah!
Last weekend I went and watched The Vagina Monologues and I must say it felt weird. I will also say at some point in this post that it was brave and new age (it has been around since the past eight years too) but the first thing that struck me about it was that it felt - weird.
Note that I do not say it was weird, but that it felt weird. Hearing the word being said out loud, so many times, like it was a perfectly legitimate word, insinuating that the utterer of such a word was neither deranged nor an incorrigible pervert. What a notion!
On a serious note, it was a series of monologues, dialogues - all stories depicting a certain theme. An exasperated housewife, an elderly lady, a young girl, a sex-worker, a victim of rape. And needless to say all these themes had something to do with sex and the V-word.
The acting was immense. It was unconscious and funny, the imitations were awesome - the dialects, tones, accents - Parsi, Marathi, Punjabi, Brooklyn - all perfect.
I do recommend it to you ladies and yes, to you too, boys.
On a different note, Marilyn Monroe once famously said - I don't mind living in a man's world as long as I can be a woman in it.
As a working woman, I find myself trying to be a man sometimes. Not a lot, but it's there - the consciousness of the corporate world being a man's playground and of me - being a spade among clubs. Some people would put a different spin on it - in this age of everybody wanting to play the diversity card, a woman has a better and brighter chance of climbing the ladder etc. I am thinking it all boils down to celebrating the differences - I may not be able to joke with my boys, my team, with the same rambunctiousness and raunchiness as the average guy, but there are ways in which my unique womanly touch does manifest itself. I guess it is about recognizing that and being comfortable with it.
Some good news though. The CEO of a consulting company just recently commented on a study that his firm has done on the strength of the female economy and its influencing power on major purchasing decisions, saying that companies that are ignoring the woman consumer are digging their own graves.
That's right, Mister. You don't put an online payment option for the electricity bill, being Neanderthal enough to think that women nowadays have the time to ferret out post boxes and drop boxes and such like to deposit payments, then I will not purchase electricity from you ever.
Note that I do not say it was weird, but that it felt weird. Hearing the word being said out loud, so many times, like it was a perfectly legitimate word, insinuating that the utterer of such a word was neither deranged nor an incorrigible pervert. What a notion!
On a serious note, it was a series of monologues, dialogues - all stories depicting a certain theme. An exasperated housewife, an elderly lady, a young girl, a sex-worker, a victim of rape. And needless to say all these themes had something to do with sex and the V-word.
The acting was immense. It was unconscious and funny, the imitations were awesome - the dialects, tones, accents - Parsi, Marathi, Punjabi, Brooklyn - all perfect.
I do recommend it to you ladies and yes, to you too, boys.
On a different note, Marilyn Monroe once famously said - I don't mind living in a man's world as long as I can be a woman in it.
As a working woman, I find myself trying to be a man sometimes. Not a lot, but it's there - the consciousness of the corporate world being a man's playground and of me - being a spade among clubs. Some people would put a different spin on it - in this age of everybody wanting to play the diversity card, a woman has a better and brighter chance of climbing the ladder etc. I am thinking it all boils down to celebrating the differences - I may not be able to joke with my boys, my team, with the same rambunctiousness and raunchiness as the average guy, but there are ways in which my unique womanly touch does manifest itself. I guess it is about recognizing that and being comfortable with it.
Some good news though. The CEO of a consulting company just recently commented on a study that his firm has done on the strength of the female economy and its influencing power on major purchasing decisions, saying that companies that are ignoring the woman consumer are digging their own graves.
That's right, Mister. You don't put an online payment option for the electricity bill, being Neanderthal enough to think that women nowadays have the time to ferret out post boxes and drop boxes and such like to deposit payments, then I will not purchase electricity from you ever.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
A new beginning
She ran into the building, only just managing to register how impossibly tall it was. Last she had been in this part of the world, structures that stretched a 1000 feet into the stratosphere, were a rarity.
She came abreast a bank of ten tall high-powered elevators - opening-shutting-beeping, making the world aware of their super-tech presence.
Immediately stepping into the one that opened up, she looked around for the floor buttons and could not find any. And then out of nowhere, a flap clicked open in the wall to her left and a head sprang out. Yes, a head. After her heart had crawled all the way back from the back of her throat to the chest area, she noticed that it was not a human head.
"I am the lift genie. Which floor please". Trilled the head in what can only be described as a robot's version of a sing and a song.
Shaily was stunned. Admittedly, she had spent the last five years in Motihari, trying to teach advanced and efficient techniques of breeding cows to farmers, but she had no idea that the world had transformed so much. And this was Bombay, Mumbai. The city she had mostly grown up in. The city which she claimed to know like the back of her hand. The city which she had thought would never be 'India's Shanghai' in her lifetime at least. And here it seemed to be making Shanghai's high-rises look like caves..
"Don't worry, I am here to help. Which floor please".
At this statement, Shaily looked around trying to locate a camera perhaps, through which some person someplace might be monitoring her reactions and accordingly feeding in speech to the robot. Anyway, she was getting late, so she looked at the head and said - thirty-five.
"Thank-you. We will have you there in no time at all".
The lift gave a lurch and started ascending speedily and suddenly like somebody had set its rear-end on fire. She looked at the mirror and saw a weather-beaten, but still attractive thirty-five year old face. Maybe slightly disoriented at the moment. But the determination shone through nevertheless, to clinch this one.
She came abreast a bank of ten tall high-powered elevators - opening-shutting-beeping, making the world aware of their super-tech presence.
Immediately stepping into the one that opened up, she looked around for the floor buttons and could not find any. And then out of nowhere, a flap clicked open in the wall to her left and a head sprang out. Yes, a head. After her heart had crawled all the way back from the back of her throat to the chest area, she noticed that it was not a human head.
"I am the lift genie. Which floor please". Trilled the head in what can only be described as a robot's version of a sing and a song.
Shaily was stunned. Admittedly, she had spent the last five years in Motihari, trying to teach advanced and efficient techniques of breeding cows to farmers, but she had no idea that the world had transformed so much. And this was Bombay, Mumbai. The city she had mostly grown up in. The city which she claimed to know like the back of her hand. The city which she had thought would never be 'India's Shanghai' in her lifetime at least. And here it seemed to be making Shanghai's high-rises look like caves..
"Don't worry, I am here to help. Which floor please".
At this statement, Shaily looked around trying to locate a camera perhaps, through which some person someplace might be monitoring her reactions and accordingly feeding in speech to the robot. Anyway, she was getting late, so she looked at the head and said - thirty-five.
"Thank-you. We will have you there in no time at all".
The lift gave a lurch and started ascending speedily and suddenly like somebody had set its rear-end on fire. She looked at the mirror and saw a weather-beaten, but still attractive thirty-five year old face. Maybe slightly disoriented at the moment. But the determination shone through nevertheless, to clinch this one.
A talk
It's a tough time my love
I fear I will melt away
Under the strong gaze of the sun
During these round the clock days
The mind is fiddling
With doubts anew
Peace is a bird
That long since flew
I need some fearlessness
Or at least some devil-may-care
To get back to strength
And go where eagles dare
I fear I will melt away
Under the strong gaze of the sun
During these round the clock days
The mind is fiddling
With doubts anew
Peace is a bird
That long since flew
I need some fearlessness
Or at least some devil-may-care
To get back to strength
And go where eagles dare
Monday, September 13, 2010
Play - One on One
Today I went to watch a play called - One on One at the Tata Experimental Theater, Nariman Point.
This experimental theater is a smallish one with maximum seating of around a hundred people. Which is probably enough. The ticket prices are reasonable, the crowd is well-behaved and the plays vary from being serious bringers-on of Why-did-I-subject-myself-to-this to This-is-exquisite-and-I-want-to-marry-it.
The play today was one of the later variety. The concept itself was delicious - a collage of ten minute acts written by Mumbai's best playwrights on topics which intrigue/annoy/delight them about the India we live in today. To top that, the acting and no doubt - direction was superb, in some cases rising above the material.
Some of the notable performances were by Anand Tiwari, who is the guy from the Tata Tea Jaago Re commercial and some motley roles in various movies, Rajit Kapur aka Byomkesh Bakshi, who has come a long way since his cycle-riding-dhoti-wearing days and Amit Mistry, who plays a timorous terrorist-batchmate of Kasab's going through a crisis of identity.
The transitions between the pieces were made swiftly and silently and the actors seemed to know the audience well, successfully manipulating it into laughing and clapping at all the right places.
I highly recommend it, not only for its obvious artistic brilliance but also the high entertainment value. Who says artsy stuff, that too the very niche experimental kind, cannot be paisa-vasool? Who, really, needs a Dabangg?
This experimental theater is a smallish one with maximum seating of around a hundred people. Which is probably enough. The ticket prices are reasonable, the crowd is well-behaved and the plays vary from being serious bringers-on of Why-did-I-subject-myself-to-this to This-is-exquisite-and-I-want-to-marry-it.
The play today was one of the later variety. The concept itself was delicious - a collage of ten minute acts written by Mumbai's best playwrights on topics which intrigue/annoy/delight them about the India we live in today. To top that, the acting and no doubt - direction was superb, in some cases rising above the material.
Some of the notable performances were by Anand Tiwari, who is the guy from the Tata Tea Jaago Re commercial and some motley roles in various movies, Rajit Kapur aka Byomkesh Bakshi, who has come a long way since his cycle-riding-dhoti-wearing days and Amit Mistry, who plays a timorous terrorist-batchmate of Kasab's going through a crisis of identity.
The transitions between the pieces were made swiftly and silently and the actors seemed to know the audience well, successfully manipulating it into laughing and clapping at all the right places.
I highly recommend it, not only for its obvious artistic brilliance but also the high entertainment value. Who says artsy stuff, that too the very niche experimental kind, cannot be paisa-vasool? Who, really, needs a Dabangg?
Saturday, August 28, 2010
A tribute to Piano Man
Her eyes are on me
I know it, o I do
My fingers tremble slightly
Remembering playing for her too
For I am the piano man
Getting paid by the sheet
She is the daughter of Mr Coone
With the world at her feet
She sits with a vodka in her hand
In a tiny red dress
I am belting out the notes
I couldn't care less
For I am the piano man
Getting paid by the sheet
She is the daughter of Mr Coone
With the world at her feet
I know she knows
I know everyone knows
I laugh with the old man at the bar
He is me, in another time, in younger clothes
For I am the piano man
Getting paid by the sheet
She is the daughter of Mr Coone
With the world at her feet
The room is dark
And her presence the only glow
She finishes her drink and gets up to leave
I wink at good ol' Jerry, getting on with the show
For I am the piano man
Getting paid by the sheet
She is the daughter of Mr Coone
With the world at her feet
I sing there every night
And they all sing along
There are new old men
Living their lives in my song
For I am the piano man
Getting paid by the sheet
She is the daughter of Mr Coone
With the world at her feet
There are waitresses, pretty ones
And many other princesses
But there never is her again
My girl in the tiny red dress
For I am the piano man
Getting paid by the sheet
She is the daughter of Mr Coone
With the world at her feet
I know it, o I do
My fingers tremble slightly
Remembering playing for her too
For I am the piano man
Getting paid by the sheet
She is the daughter of Mr Coone
With the world at her feet
She sits with a vodka in her hand
In a tiny red dress
I am belting out the notes
I couldn't care less
For I am the piano man
Getting paid by the sheet
She is the daughter of Mr Coone
With the world at her feet
I know she knows
I know everyone knows
I laugh with the old man at the bar
He is me, in another time, in younger clothes
For I am the piano man
Getting paid by the sheet
She is the daughter of Mr Coone
With the world at her feet
The room is dark
And her presence the only glow
She finishes her drink and gets up to leave
I wink at good ol' Jerry, getting on with the show
For I am the piano man
Getting paid by the sheet
She is the daughter of Mr Coone
With the world at her feet
I sing there every night
And they all sing along
There are new old men
Living their lives in my song
For I am the piano man
Getting paid by the sheet
She is the daughter of Mr Coone
With the world at her feet
There are waitresses, pretty ones
And many other princesses
But there never is her again
My girl in the tiny red dress
For I am the piano man
Getting paid by the sheet
She is the daughter of Mr Coone
With the world at her feet
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Independence Day
Do waqt ki roti nahi, toh ek baar hi sahi
Marne ka freedom zaroor hai, azaadi hai yahi
Kuch log kar aate hain duniya bhar ke chakkar
Kuchhon ne zindagi guzaar di seh kar thanedaar ki akad
Gulami nahi hai British ki aaj, toh kya
Neta hai hamare maalik, daur hai yeh naya
Pet jab churmurata hai, toh bech aate hain maa beti
Aatma toh chhodo, ek healthy kidney aadhe saal ka anaaj khareed deti
Padhe-likhe hain hum aur aap, humko kyaa padta farak
Kharab sadkon par jab accident hoga, tab chamaata padega kadak
Hogi hospital ki urgent zaroorat humko tab
Chalega pata sarkar ne sanction to ki, lekin Neta or bureaucrats khaa gaye paisa sab
Nahin kahengen hum aaj ki Hindustan azaad hai
Jab takk ispar gundagardi, garibi aur indifference kaa raaj hai
Marne ka freedom zaroor hai, azaadi hai yahi
Kuch log kar aate hain duniya bhar ke chakkar
Kuchhon ne zindagi guzaar di seh kar thanedaar ki akad
Gulami nahi hai British ki aaj, toh kya
Neta hai hamare maalik, daur hai yeh naya
Pet jab churmurata hai, toh bech aate hain maa beti
Aatma toh chhodo, ek healthy kidney aadhe saal ka anaaj khareed deti
Padhe-likhe hain hum aur aap, humko kyaa padta farak
Kharab sadkon par jab accident hoga, tab chamaata padega kadak
Hogi hospital ki urgent zaroorat humko tab
Chalega pata sarkar ne sanction to ki, lekin Neta or bureaucrats khaa gaye paisa sab
Nahin kahengen hum aaj ki Hindustan azaad hai
Jab takk ispar gundagardi, garibi aur indifference kaa raaj hai
Sunday, August 08, 2010
Third
Armaity Dilliwala looked incredulously at her report card again. No, there was no mistaking it. There it was.
Third.
She felt a little sick. In all the ten years of her life that she could remember, she had always come first. That is what she was known for. Her parents, their friends, relatives - they all joked about it. One joke in particular, her Uncle Jamshed liked to tell and retell - his wife Sherzeen and Armaity's mother Aloo had both had their due dates around the same time but a week before the due date, Aloo went into labor and after a relatively easy five hours, there she was - Armaity, always ahead of her peers.
And now this. She could feel the eyes of her classmates on her. She thought she heard some whispering and giggling. She was still standing in the same spot where she had opened the card and seen that ugly thing stamped across the bottom right corner.
She had no friends, at least none that would sympathize with her at this hour of need. She had always consoled herself thinking it was because all her classmates were jealous of her. Now surely, they would all be laughing at her.
Dazed, she made her way back to her car and still unbelieving she handed over the report to her mother after reaching home. She was expecting her parents to break into hysterics and drama, as was their wont. But her mother just said - Good child, well done. Chalo ni, Rustom Uncle nu iyahan jaavnu chhe.
Armaity was stunned. What was the biggest disaster in her life was being treated like ant-shit by her mother. She was relieved at one level but also slightly disappointed at another. Wasn't that the only thing which made her what she was - loved and special?
By the end of the week, she realized otherwise. Nothing around her changed. Her parents continued to behave the same way as before. They fussed about her, took her to her tuitions and scolded her annoying younger brother for raising hell with his toy guns while she did her daily home-work. Her classmates continued to come to her with sums they could not solve, and the teachers continued to leave her in-charge of the class during free-periods.
By the end of this life-changing week, she was grappling with a peculiar thought. Maybe, just maybe, there was more to her than her rank.
Third.
She felt a little sick. In all the ten years of her life that she could remember, she had always come first. That is what she was known for. Her parents, their friends, relatives - they all joked about it. One joke in particular, her Uncle Jamshed liked to tell and retell - his wife Sherzeen and Armaity's mother Aloo had both had their due dates around the same time but a week before the due date, Aloo went into labor and after a relatively easy five hours, there she was - Armaity, always ahead of her peers.
And now this. She could feel the eyes of her classmates on her. She thought she heard some whispering and giggling. She was still standing in the same spot where she had opened the card and seen that ugly thing stamped across the bottom right corner.
She had no friends, at least none that would sympathize with her at this hour of need. She had always consoled herself thinking it was because all her classmates were jealous of her. Now surely, they would all be laughing at her.
Dazed, she made her way back to her car and still unbelieving she handed over the report to her mother after reaching home. She was expecting her parents to break into hysterics and drama, as was their wont. But her mother just said - Good child, well done. Chalo ni, Rustom Uncle nu iyahan jaavnu chhe.
Armaity was stunned. What was the biggest disaster in her life was being treated like ant-shit by her mother. She was relieved at one level but also slightly disappointed at another. Wasn't that the only thing which made her what she was - loved and special?
By the end of the week, she realized otherwise. Nothing around her changed. Her parents continued to behave the same way as before. They fussed about her, took her to her tuitions and scolded her annoying younger brother for raising hell with his toy guns while she did her daily home-work. Her classmates continued to come to her with sums they could not solve, and the teachers continued to leave her in-charge of the class during free-periods.
By the end of this life-changing week, she was grappling with a peculiar thought. Maybe, just maybe, there was more to her than her rank.
Playgirl
The way to my heart
Is not an easy path
The journey offers little consolation
It is all about destination
Coz I am the kinda gal
Who once hooked will never pall
For better or for worse
It is your blessing, it is your curse
The body is easily reparable
Not the heart so able
It is under lock and key
There, I've said it, since you cant see
Coz I am the kinda gal
Who once hooked will never pall
For better or for worse
It is your blessing, it is your curse
Maybe you want something easy
Less intense, more breezy
That is your choice to make
But get out now, get out for my sake
Coz I am the kinda gal
Who once hooked will never pall
For better or for worse
It is your blessing, it is your curse
Is not an easy path
The journey offers little consolation
It is all about destination
Coz I am the kinda gal
Who once hooked will never pall
For better or for worse
It is your blessing, it is your curse
The body is easily reparable
Not the heart so able
It is under lock and key
There, I've said it, since you cant see
Coz I am the kinda gal
Who once hooked will never pall
For better or for worse
It is your blessing, it is your curse
Maybe you want something easy
Less intense, more breezy
That is your choice to make
But get out now, get out for my sake
Coz I am the kinda gal
Who once hooked will never pall
For better or for worse
It is your blessing, it is your curse
Sunday, August 01, 2010
Second
He already had a best friend. How could he have another?
Seven-year old Akash was facing a dilemma. His school teacher had given his class an essay to write on their best friend. His best friend was in Lucknow, the city he had moved from, just four months ago. Amit and he had gone to the same school, in the same bus, to the same class, for three years. Such things cannot be overwritten.
Still, there was Venkat. Venkat had looked at him pointedly when he had told him about the essay. How he wished now that he hadn't told Venkat about it.
It had all started with a game of cricket, as most things do. Venkat and Ramnish were chosen to be the captains and they in-turn had to pick their teams. Akash stood there, a newbie in the group, seven years of having no playmates around in the locality he had just moved from having turned him into somewhat of a wall-flower as far as sports were concerned. His heart sank as one by one, Venkat and Ramnish plucked off the other boys and he was certain he would not be picked, meaning he would go to the team whose captain had lost the right to start choosing first. He stood with his head hanging in shame. Only later in life would be realize that shame is an obstacle of class A variety and is best discarded as soon as possible.
And then the incredible happened. He got picked. Actually picked, not thrown into the team which had no choice but to take him, but picked - fair and square.
He looked up, his eyes shining, and skipped across to Venkat's side, feeling mighty proud at what seemed to him, the biggest achievement of his young life.
So uptil now, he had fuzzily thought of Venkat as being his second-best friend in the world, and the best friend he had in this city. But he knew, he just knew, that Venkat would not like being relegated to second-best position.
The problem gnawed at him like nothing else had ever before. And he knew he had to reach a decision soon. The essay was due Monday.
As he sat, pencil poised over notebook, he thought back to all the good things that either of them had ever done for him. Amit had saved him from a street-dog once and had even let him use the fancy new pencil that his father had got him from Bombay. He had always given him good advice. Like the time, when he had wanted to invite his favorite teacher for his birthday party and Amit had suggested that he wear perfume while doing it, since it would make him look more grown-up and of course, nobody ever refused anything to a grown-up. On the other hand, Venkat had taken him into his team, and more importantly, under his wing - teaching him how to get a bit of a spin into his bowling so that the bigger boys take notice. He also invited him to his home from time to time, where his mother served him the most delicious rasmalai that he had ever had. He sometimes even let him ride his bicycle, which was new and had bouncy new tires, unlike his old one.
With aching brow and a tempestuous mind, did Akash finally come to a decision between the two mighty contenders in what was the most ferociously fought battle in his life, even though the participants were unaware of it.
And so it happened, that the essay that was turned in by Akash Saxena on Monday morning started saying - A best friend is one who takes care of you when you are in any problem and I am very happy that I have two..
Seven-year old Akash was facing a dilemma. His school teacher had given his class an essay to write on their best friend. His best friend was in Lucknow, the city he had moved from, just four months ago. Amit and he had gone to the same school, in the same bus, to the same class, for three years. Such things cannot be overwritten.
Still, there was Venkat. Venkat had looked at him pointedly when he had told him about the essay. How he wished now that he hadn't told Venkat about it.
It had all started with a game of cricket, as most things do. Venkat and Ramnish were chosen to be the captains and they in-turn had to pick their teams. Akash stood there, a newbie in the group, seven years of having no playmates around in the locality he had just moved from having turned him into somewhat of a wall-flower as far as sports were concerned. His heart sank as one by one, Venkat and Ramnish plucked off the other boys and he was certain he would not be picked, meaning he would go to the team whose captain had lost the right to start choosing first. He stood with his head hanging in shame. Only later in life would be realize that shame is an obstacle of class A variety and is best discarded as soon as possible.
And then the incredible happened. He got picked. Actually picked, not thrown into the team which had no choice but to take him, but picked - fair and square.
He looked up, his eyes shining, and skipped across to Venkat's side, feeling mighty proud at what seemed to him, the biggest achievement of his young life.
So uptil now, he had fuzzily thought of Venkat as being his second-best friend in the world, and the best friend he had in this city. But he knew, he just knew, that Venkat would not like being relegated to second-best position.
The problem gnawed at him like nothing else had ever before. And he knew he had to reach a decision soon. The essay was due Monday.
As he sat, pencil poised over notebook, he thought back to all the good things that either of them had ever done for him. Amit had saved him from a street-dog once and had even let him use the fancy new pencil that his father had got him from Bombay. He had always given him good advice. Like the time, when he had wanted to invite his favorite teacher for his birthday party and Amit had suggested that he wear perfume while doing it, since it would make him look more grown-up and of course, nobody ever refused anything to a grown-up. On the other hand, Venkat had taken him into his team, and more importantly, under his wing - teaching him how to get a bit of a spin into his bowling so that the bigger boys take notice. He also invited him to his home from time to time, where his mother served him the most delicious rasmalai that he had ever had. He sometimes even let him ride his bicycle, which was new and had bouncy new tires, unlike his old one.
With aching brow and a tempestuous mind, did Akash finally come to a decision between the two mighty contenders in what was the most ferociously fought battle in his life, even though the participants were unaware of it.
And so it happened, that the essay that was turned in by Akash Saxena on Monday morning started saying - A best friend is one who takes care of you when you are in any problem and I am very happy that I have two..
First
It was the first day and her stomach definitely knew it. She had put up a brave face while being dropped off at the gate, but now as the great blue building loomed up frighteningly stark, she stood rooted to the spot.
The other thing which made her throat dry were the hordes of raucous girls milling around - there were groups of them in every corner, all looking similar in their pleated blue skirts and starched white collared shirts yet different enough for her to know that there could be a multitude of rejections, multitude of sniggers.
She stood there for sometime, both relieved and worried that nobody had noticed her as yet. And then suddenly, one of the brightly chattering girls looked her way and stopped her incessant flow for a second. The others in her group also looked at where she was looking and for a moment there was silence. And then there was a giggle. Or half a giggle. But it was enough. It broke into a deluge of whispers, nudges and sly glances. It was not long before some of the other cliques standing around caught on.
She sighed. A little in relief. Well, now she knew where she stood. She had that decision taken out of her hands.
The new weird kid. In a pink frock with puffed-up sleeves and a broad flowing crinkled tunic, knee-length socks and canvas shoes from Bata, matching ribbons in her hair and spectacles.
Years later, she would thank her stars that she got her first lesson on keeping the ol' chin up - inadvertently, mostly because her mother had such a bad sense of style.
The other thing which made her throat dry were the hordes of raucous girls milling around - there were groups of them in every corner, all looking similar in their pleated blue skirts and starched white collared shirts yet different enough for her to know that there could be a multitude of rejections, multitude of sniggers.
She stood there for sometime, both relieved and worried that nobody had noticed her as yet. And then suddenly, one of the brightly chattering girls looked her way and stopped her incessant flow for a second. The others in her group also looked at where she was looking and for a moment there was silence. And then there was a giggle. Or half a giggle. But it was enough. It broke into a deluge of whispers, nudges and sly glances. It was not long before some of the other cliques standing around caught on.
She sighed. A little in relief. Well, now she knew where she stood. She had that decision taken out of her hands.
The new weird kid. In a pink frock with puffed-up sleeves and a broad flowing crinkled tunic, knee-length socks and canvas shoes from Bata, matching ribbons in her hair and spectacles.
Years later, she would thank her stars that she got her first lesson on keeping the ol' chin up - inadvertently, mostly because her mother had such a bad sense of style.
Friday, July 30, 2010
A dream
The car goes thump-a-bump
As I shut me eye
And there goes ol Missus Golita
She always smells of apple-pie
Look a little further
Ho, 'tis that monkey of a lad
Truanting off from school he be
Aye, will end up something bad
And who goes in that hansom cab
All clip-clop and shutters drawn
Would that be the military gent
His wife left him, they say, 'is heart is torn
O there comes the postman
Rat-a-tat he sharply knocks
Telegrams are the worst of all
A gentle man, he'd rather be darning socks
Ump! There is a terrible bump
And my brain jumps inside my head
My mum she turns and says to me
What were you dreaming about Fred?
As I shut me eye
And there goes ol Missus Golita
She always smells of apple-pie
Look a little further
Ho, 'tis that monkey of a lad
Truanting off from school he be
Aye, will end up something bad
And who goes in that hansom cab
All clip-clop and shutters drawn
Would that be the military gent
His wife left him, they say, 'is heart is torn
O there comes the postman
Rat-a-tat he sharply knocks
Telegrams are the worst of all
A gentle man, he'd rather be darning socks
Ump! There is a terrible bump
And my brain jumps inside my head
My mum she turns and says to me
What were you dreaming about Fred?
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Sheroo
I read Alec the other day and something she said made me realize that I have not yet intimated junta about one of the most amusing displays of weird human behaviour I have seen.
I hate nicknames. And find people who have a natural proclivity to nickname - hilarious at best and annoying at worst.
I have seen people get on nickname basis with complete strangers after two meetings, probably a couple of loo encounters, no more. I have seen people shorten already short names ridiculously - like say, Pilu to Pils (That is another one, why must we add an 's' to everything? Anyways is not a word, nor is chalos or byes or lols!)
So in the world of unnecessary nicknaming, Shraddha becomes Shrads and Namrita - Namu, Aditya is Adi and Natasha, Nats or Nuts.
Don't get me wrong, I am all for having cute funny names for people, which symbolize them or came into existence because of some un/fortunate incident. But it seems sometimes that people do it just to prove or impress familiarity or to sound cool!
Also nicknames are the prerogative of people who are actually close to you, logic being that they have to call your name out so many times that they have to shorten it - it would actually save time (there does not have to be a logic for everything, but I do believe there is). So it's ok if your mother calls you Namu, or your best friends or colleagues call you Adi, but if your friend's friend who just met you starts to call you that, it's time to hit him over the head!
I have had some nicknames or something like nicknames. People have called me Shrek, billi, S, Dola, DR among others. But nobody constantly keeps calling me any of that. Also, these are fun names, meant to be used in fun.
Half of my family calls me Ruchi. That is, strangely, my nick. More understandably, my mother's nick is Binny from her actual name Vineeta and everybody in the family calls her that. But I have never heard anybody from outside the family calling her Binny, that would be weird. Similarly, if somebody arbit was to call me Ruchi (am ok with really close friends doing that) or worse - Ruch, it would just piss me off.
Point is everybody should know their place in how far to go, trying to come off as friendly. It is the fake affection that people usually try to denote using such things, which is annoying.
I hate nicknames. And find people who have a natural proclivity to nickname - hilarious at best and annoying at worst.
I have seen people get on nickname basis with complete strangers after two meetings, probably a couple of loo encounters, no more. I have seen people shorten already short names ridiculously - like say, Pilu to Pils (That is another one, why must we add an 's' to everything? Anyways is not a word, nor is chalos or byes or lols!)
So in the world of unnecessary nicknaming, Shraddha becomes Shrads and Namrita - Namu, Aditya is Adi and Natasha, Nats or Nuts.
Don't get me wrong, I am all for having cute funny names for people, which symbolize them or came into existence because of some un/fortunate incident. But it seems sometimes that people do it just to prove or impress familiarity or to sound cool!
Also nicknames are the prerogative of people who are actually close to you, logic being that they have to call your name out so many times that they have to shorten it - it would actually save time (there does not have to be a logic for everything, but I do believe there is). So it's ok if your mother calls you Namu, or your best friends or colleagues call you Adi, but if your friend's friend who just met you starts to call you that, it's time to hit him over the head!
I have had some nicknames or something like nicknames. People have called me Shrek, billi, S, Dola, DR among others. But nobody constantly keeps calling me any of that. Also, these are fun names, meant to be used in fun.
Half of my family calls me Ruchi. That is, strangely, my nick. More understandably, my mother's nick is Binny from her actual name Vineeta and everybody in the family calls her that. But I have never heard anybody from outside the family calling her Binny, that would be weird. Similarly, if somebody arbit was to call me Ruchi (am ok with really close friends doing that) or worse - Ruch, it would just piss me off.
Point is everybody should know their place in how far to go, trying to come off as friendly. It is the fake affection that people usually try to denote using such things, which is annoying.
Tuesday, July 06, 2010
Patna and then some
Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night thinking about work. It's gets grimmer when I reveal that that also happens while I am on leave.
The other day and why only the other day - I have been cribbing about this all along the past one year - I said something about the responsibility of my job weighing heavy on me. Well, it struck me suddenly that doctors, young doctors, surgeons have infinitesimally more responsibility and that compared to them, my job is a breeze. No?
Patna has been great this time, considering that I have 'grown-up' so to say and bring into the equation a lot of wisdom now. Ahem, relatively. Wisdom to look beyond the petty difficulties of living for some time in a small city and a joint family set-up - the lack of privacy (that used to rankle when one was seventeen and one thought one had a life which had to kept a secret because firstly - just, and secondly - the parents would be liable to throw a fit at some of the ingredients that constituted said life), the unpredictable status of electricity (although all homes have generators and inverters now), boredom (yes, grown-ups can be boring. Oh wait, only those above the age of thirrrtyyyy-five. Now, fortunately, there is the laptop loaded with stuff waiting to be watched, there is the phone which is connected to the internet and also, one is old enough to engage fruitfully in adult conversation). So, really, due to reasons known and unknown, Patna has been different this time.
Mostly because for the first time, I saw it from the outside.
Till the time my grandmother, my Nani passed away, Nana's house was the regular haunt for all us cousins - an entire cricket team, or something close. We would do the same things again and again every summer holidays - watch the same movies - Naseeb, Namak Halal, Apne Paraye, Woh Saat Din - these are the movies my Nani had (which got robbed some time back, yes - ROBBED). We would go to the same places to eat, our favorites - the Chow Cart serving up huge quantities of noodles, delicious to our young and innocent taste-buds, Sweet Home with the best Pizzas in the world (those were times unsullied by Dominoes and Pizza Hut, but I still maintain that Sweet Home Pizza is the best I have ever tasted) among many others. We would lie in wait for this guy selling Golden Ice-cream to show up, banging his ice-cream box and we would plead with out mothers to let us have it just this one time, as if our lives depended on it.
Patna would mean cousins, food, movies, gossip, some fighting and visiting relatives one didn't even know one had.
My Dadis's house was relatively sober in comparison, the cousins there younger and not quite so rambunctious. It had a pond though. A green taalaab just behind the house, where I used to believe one could go and fish. I also remember us having ducks in the backyard - batakhs. Angry little things, always flapping their wings. And best of all, there was the bhandar - the storeroom. A dark little place piled high with all sorts of things stored in glass bottles and tin cans. I was a regular raider on those premises, stealing achaar (which people around would keep insisting would darken my complexion and lead to unimaginable consequences). I remember how my Baba and Dadi would constantly keep fussing over me, wanting to know what I wanted to eat and I would constantly keep asking for Maggie.
All this came to an end, when first my Dadi passed away around ten years back. And my Baba came to live in Mumbai. Then my Nani passed away around six years back, my Nana continued to live in the same house, though much changed.
And now that I have come here after almost eleven years, I see the difference. That feels like an era and I am looking at it from the outside. Reminiscing about simpler times, although I must admit, I was always a great one for complicating everything inside my head, a great, or at least an incessant thinker if I have to put a positive spin on things.
But all said and done, I don't think I ever woke up in the middle of the night, obsessing about holiday homework. No Sir, that is a recent phenomena. And I daresay, I need treatment.
The other day and why only the other day - I have been cribbing about this all along the past one year - I said something about the responsibility of my job weighing heavy on me. Well, it struck me suddenly that doctors, young doctors, surgeons have infinitesimally more responsibility and that compared to them, my job is a breeze. No?
Patna has been great this time, considering that I have 'grown-up' so to say and bring into the equation a lot of wisdom now. Ahem, relatively. Wisdom to look beyond the petty difficulties of living for some time in a small city and a joint family set-up - the lack of privacy (that used to rankle when one was seventeen and one thought one had a life which had to kept a secret because firstly - just, and secondly - the parents would be liable to throw a fit at some of the ingredients that constituted said life), the unpredictable status of electricity (although all homes have generators and inverters now), boredom (yes, grown-ups can be boring. Oh wait, only those above the age of thirrrtyyyy-five. Now, fortunately, there is the laptop loaded with stuff waiting to be watched, there is the phone which is connected to the internet and also, one is old enough to engage fruitfully in adult conversation). So, really, due to reasons known and unknown, Patna has been different this time.
Mostly because for the first time, I saw it from the outside.
Till the time my grandmother, my Nani passed away, Nana's house was the regular haunt for all us cousins - an entire cricket team, or something close. We would do the same things again and again every summer holidays - watch the same movies - Naseeb, Namak Halal, Apne Paraye, Woh Saat Din - these are the movies my Nani had (which got robbed some time back, yes - ROBBED). We would go to the same places to eat, our favorites - the Chow Cart serving up huge quantities of noodles, delicious to our young and innocent taste-buds, Sweet Home with the best Pizzas in the world (those were times unsullied by Dominoes and Pizza Hut, but I still maintain that Sweet Home Pizza is the best I have ever tasted) among many others. We would lie in wait for this guy selling Golden Ice-cream to show up, banging his ice-cream box and we would plead with out mothers to let us have it just this one time, as if our lives depended on it.
Patna would mean cousins, food, movies, gossip, some fighting and visiting relatives one didn't even know one had.
My Dadis's house was relatively sober in comparison, the cousins there younger and not quite so rambunctious. It had a pond though. A green taalaab just behind the house, where I used to believe one could go and fish. I also remember us having ducks in the backyard - batakhs. Angry little things, always flapping their wings. And best of all, there was the bhandar - the storeroom. A dark little place piled high with all sorts of things stored in glass bottles and tin cans. I was a regular raider on those premises, stealing achaar (which people around would keep insisting would darken my complexion and lead to unimaginable consequences). I remember how my Baba and Dadi would constantly keep fussing over me, wanting to know what I wanted to eat and I would constantly keep asking for Maggie.
All this came to an end, when first my Dadi passed away around ten years back. And my Baba came to live in Mumbai. Then my Nani passed away around six years back, my Nana continued to live in the same house, though much changed.
And now that I have come here after almost eleven years, I see the difference. That feels like an era and I am looking at it from the outside. Reminiscing about simpler times, although I must admit, I was always a great one for complicating everything inside my head, a great, or at least an incessant thinker if I have to put a positive spin on things.
But all said and done, I don't think I ever woke up in the middle of the night, obsessing about holiday homework. No Sir, that is a recent phenomena. And I daresay, I need treatment.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
The heat is on
Delhi is radiating heat. I, one who spends close to one-third of the month in the burning haze of Northern Maharashtra (places like Jalgaon etc, where the Jal in Jalgaon can be interpreted as burn and also ironically as water), bow down to the Surya dev and plead with him to leave this city alone. Yes, even if it peoples folks such as it does.
I am on leave and struggling with the concept. The mind is not at ease, it is thinking of all the stuff that is piling up silently and ominously on the side, like a tottering tower of Pisa.
The meet with the parents went well. Actually, very well. Like I remarked to somebody recently, the problem with that boy is that he does not have a bit of vice in him (except for narcissism, which I condone, seeing how it is my Achilles heel) and hence comes across as extremely accommodating and ernest. Well, parents have a liking for that kind of thing and they took a shine to him. Not that I had any doubt, but phew.
Apart from that, have been watching a lot of tv. Finished reading this book called The Unbearable Lightness of Scones - Alexander McCall Smith. Funny sort of book. First hand accounts from various characters, all Scottish, and consisting of mostly only conversations. Next on the list is the Meluha book - having heard so much about it and it being on the premises, how with my sister being gifted with a copy.
Speaking of books, the other day I was thumbing through an Oscar Wilde play (I have made The complete works of Oscar Wilde my read-in-Landmark book. Every time I go to Landmark and that is quite often, I continue from where I had left off) and I came across this intriguing idea.
So basically it says that while men love women with all their flaws and sometimes, because of the flaws, women love men because of the good in them. In fact, most of us play up the men in our lives to be better than they actually are, putting them on a pedestal so to speak (that would explain my comments earlier about you-know-who, heheheh) and then obviously, nobody is that perfect. Hence, women are more liable to feel hurt and such like, when their dream-world comes crashing down. I do agree. I feel we women don't have too strong a grip on reality. We are floating somewhere in between our fantasy worlds (comprising and because of, all the movies we watch, stories we hear, books we read) and ground zero. Every young girl has a version of her Mr Right and some fortunately grow up and realize that he does not exist before there is any lasting damage, some don't.
In that way, women seem to be more impressionable than men. Men to me, seem to be ambling through life, letting all its barbs and stabs slide over their rough hide, simplistic and naive whereas women are constantly hyperventilating all those barbs into a conspiracy by the Universe.
What do you think?
I am on leave and struggling with the concept. The mind is not at ease, it is thinking of all the stuff that is piling up silently and ominously on the side, like a tottering tower of Pisa.
The meet with the parents went well. Actually, very well. Like I remarked to somebody recently, the problem with that boy is that he does not have a bit of vice in him (except for narcissism, which I condone, seeing how it is my Achilles heel) and hence comes across as extremely accommodating and ernest. Well, parents have a liking for that kind of thing and they took a shine to him. Not that I had any doubt, but phew.
Apart from that, have been watching a lot of tv. Finished reading this book called The Unbearable Lightness of Scones - Alexander McCall Smith. Funny sort of book. First hand accounts from various characters, all Scottish, and consisting of mostly only conversations. Next on the list is the Meluha book - having heard so much about it and it being on the premises, how with my sister being gifted with a copy.
Speaking of books, the other day I was thumbing through an Oscar Wilde play (I have made The complete works of Oscar Wilde my read-in-Landmark book. Every time I go to Landmark and that is quite often, I continue from where I had left off) and I came across this intriguing idea.
So basically it says that while men love women with all their flaws and sometimes, because of the flaws, women love men because of the good in them. In fact, most of us play up the men in our lives to be better than they actually are, putting them on a pedestal so to speak (that would explain my comments earlier about you-know-who, heheheh) and then obviously, nobody is that perfect. Hence, women are more liable to feel hurt and such like, when their dream-world comes crashing down. I do agree. I feel we women don't have too strong a grip on reality. We are floating somewhere in between our fantasy worlds (comprising and because of, all the movies we watch, stories we hear, books we read) and ground zero. Every young girl has a version of her Mr Right and some fortunately grow up and realize that he does not exist before there is any lasting damage, some don't.
In that way, women seem to be more impressionable than men. Men to me, seem to be ambling through life, letting all its barbs and stabs slide over their rough hide, simplistic and naive whereas women are constantly hyperventilating all those barbs into a conspiracy by the Universe.
What do you think?
Friday, June 25, 2010
Glee
Things are looking wonderful. (Almost). My parents are getting here tomorrow, we are attending Bua's and Chhote Papa's 25th wedding anniversary and then I am heading off with them to Delhi. But that is not all. From there, I shall go to Patna for a few days. After eleven years. Hard to believe it has been that long. I can picture that place in my head like it was just yesterday.
And still, that is not all. My parents are meeting Ankit this weekend and I am thrilled. It will be good to watch him squirm.
I just finished reading 'The Kite Runner' and I think it is well written, but I failed to experience the protagonist's pain. The protagonist as a child commits an act of betrayal towards a friend, whose loyalty towards him remains as staunch as ever even after the incident, and he lives to regret it everyday of his life. I know only too well how disproportionately big all the silly worries of childhood seem, and this is not even a silly thing that he does - it does have immense grief value, but even so, the ghost of this incident at every point in his life and him thinking that it is equivalent to having a hidden past and a terrible secret, is a little hard to digest. I also think the book drags a little in the end.
There I go, critiquing away to the high heavens. I guess I was expecting more. The descriptions of Afghanistan are breathtaking though. That and the stomach-clenching tales of the Taliban. Cannot believe such violence exists. And such bigots breed in our midst. I wonder what the Universe is playing at? Is there really no concept of divine justice? Nature's fury?
On the work front, this week I had to let a guy from my team go. I mean, I had to sack him. Don't feel good about it. I wish I didn't have such responsibilities. I am not capable of taking them lightly. I work myself up trying to beat the balance between encouraging my guys and kicking their butt when they don't deliver. At the end of it, I just want to have made the right decisions, not just for the business, but also for them. And sometimes, it is not one and the same thing.
Well, what with all this, have started feeling like a million years old. No, really, like there isn't any room for mistakes. Like the phase is past when I could call myself a beginner, a newbie, bound to - nay - expected to, make mistakes. I know that mistakes made by me now are not just going to affect me but many other people also. And the knowledge of that still takes my breath away.
Hmm..let me not end this post on a solemn note, what started out as happy. So here is a brief description of my room.
My room looks pretty. I have a television set, on which I have put my Oktoberfest hat. The television sits on a table for which I am thankful as I have stuffed, no, aesthetically arranged my books on the racks inside it. Had there been no room inside this table, my books would have been gathering dust inside some ugly brown carton. There is a tiny cupboard next to this television-table ensemble (everything is tiny in my room, like it was made for Hobbits) on top of which, due to lack of other places to keep them in, I have kept a few soft toys (all gifts, I find myself clarifying) along with various perfumes (gifts again), massage oils (I bought them - fancy - I know), free deos and facewashes (I do have some perks, few and far between though they are) and other assorted items. This cupboard is a pretty brown color too, like caramel. Next, there is a knee-high glass-topped wooden table on the other side of the television, with an in-built drawer which serves as my DVD store. On top of the table, I have carelessly flung my Red Bull mat (the one that we flicked from Geoffrey's in Bangalore) and a Scrabble set. On the space in between the glass top and the drawer, resides my Shakrukh-Khan-coffee-table-book (It was a birthday gift from him and I am pretty sure lugging it around was the final straw on the camel's back, quite literally as my back started to play up soon after. But oh. Did I forget to mention that I love it and will take that book to my grave and no, not because of SRK?).
So there's a corner of my room, all described. I rather liked describing it. I have always wondered how authors of serious novels describe the simplest of things in so much detail. I don't even know the English (or Hindi) names of half the things around me. For example, what do you call those things that curtains have, the ones by which they hang on rods? I am sure Hosseini could write a page on them.
And still, that is not all. My parents are meeting Ankit this weekend and I am thrilled. It will be good to watch him squirm.
I just finished reading 'The Kite Runner' and I think it is well written, but I failed to experience the protagonist's pain. The protagonist as a child commits an act of betrayal towards a friend, whose loyalty towards him remains as staunch as ever even after the incident, and he lives to regret it everyday of his life. I know only too well how disproportionately big all the silly worries of childhood seem, and this is not even a silly thing that he does - it does have immense grief value, but even so, the ghost of this incident at every point in his life and him thinking that it is equivalent to having a hidden past and a terrible secret, is a little hard to digest. I also think the book drags a little in the end.
There I go, critiquing away to the high heavens. I guess I was expecting more. The descriptions of Afghanistan are breathtaking though. That and the stomach-clenching tales of the Taliban. Cannot believe such violence exists. And such bigots breed in our midst. I wonder what the Universe is playing at? Is there really no concept of divine justice? Nature's fury?
On the work front, this week I had to let a guy from my team go. I mean, I had to sack him. Don't feel good about it. I wish I didn't have such responsibilities. I am not capable of taking them lightly. I work myself up trying to beat the balance between encouraging my guys and kicking their butt when they don't deliver. At the end of it, I just want to have made the right decisions, not just for the business, but also for them. And sometimes, it is not one and the same thing.
Well, what with all this, have started feeling like a million years old. No, really, like there isn't any room for mistakes. Like the phase is past when I could call myself a beginner, a newbie, bound to - nay - expected to, make mistakes. I know that mistakes made by me now are not just going to affect me but many other people also. And the knowledge of that still takes my breath away.
Hmm..let me not end this post on a solemn note, what started out as happy. So here is a brief description of my room.
My room looks pretty. I have a television set, on which I have put my Oktoberfest hat. The television sits on a table for which I am thankful as I have stuffed, no, aesthetically arranged my books on the racks inside it. Had there been no room inside this table, my books would have been gathering dust inside some ugly brown carton. There is a tiny cupboard next to this television-table ensemble (everything is tiny in my room, like it was made for Hobbits) on top of which, due to lack of other places to keep them in, I have kept a few soft toys (all gifts, I find myself clarifying) along with various perfumes (gifts again), massage oils (I bought them - fancy - I know), free deos and facewashes (I do have some perks, few and far between though they are) and other assorted items. This cupboard is a pretty brown color too, like caramel. Next, there is a knee-high glass-topped wooden table on the other side of the television, with an in-built drawer which serves as my DVD store. On top of the table, I have carelessly flung my Red Bull mat (the one that we flicked from Geoffrey's in Bangalore) and a Scrabble set. On the space in between the glass top and the drawer, resides my Shakrukh-Khan-coffee-table-book (It was a birthday gift from him and I am pretty sure lugging it around was the final straw on the camel's back, quite literally as my back started to play up soon after. But oh. Did I forget to mention that I love it and will take that book to my grave and no, not because of SRK?).
So there's a corner of my room, all described. I rather liked describing it. I have always wondered how authors of serious novels describe the simplest of things in so much detail. I don't even know the English (or Hindi) names of half the things around me. For example, what do you call those things that curtains have, the ones by which they hang on rods? I am sure Hosseini could write a page on them.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Just generally
I do some blog surfing nowadays and a couple of blogs are my favorites. One of them bloggers is really into it, she visualizes her blog as a bar and herself as the bartender, serving up posts or drinks for everyone who drops in. What is amazing are the labels under which her posts are categorized - Polls, Bollywood Buzz, Recipe for the month, etc. She is pretty consistent with her content. Her blog is well thought out and well laid out apart from being just well written. And she regularly meets up with the other bloggers taking what is largely for me a way to vent and derive some creative satisfaction at times, to an entirely new level.
Here is the link - http://sayesha.blogspot.com
The weekend has arrived and I find myself incapable of feeling entirely wrinkle-free happy. Well, not true. Friday evenings are like that - not-a-cloud-on-the-horizon kinda happy. The part of me that plays the figure of authority about these things allows me that one evening to put everything on the back-burner. Come Saturday morning and I start worrying about how to plan the weekend so that all that pending stuff gets done and fun is also had. Ironic, huh? There is also a bit of work and my team is working Saturday so I am not completely off. Saturday evening is again a sort of respite from it all, and then dawns the Grand ol' Sunday.
I remember a time when Sunday used to be only about watching cartoons early in the morning, I used to have a pretty busy schedule, then an awesome lunch and a lazy evening spent doing not much that I can remember, leading up to Monday, eagerly awaited. Those were the days when school was the one thing I would look forward to the most. I had to be dragged away from it for holidays and stuff, or even when I would be unwell.
Now? Hmm. Let's see. Sunday brings with it the worst sense of foreboding about the week that is about to begin. It brings with it that feeling of hastily wanting to enjoy the last few moments of freedom knowing that those moments are going to run out very soon. It brings with it the feeling of having wasted the weekend - if worked too much, then wasted the weekend working too much and not sleeping/having fun/ticking off all those other jobs to be done apart from work; and if not worked at all - then wasted the opportunity to peacefully sit and analyze some or the other data, or put on the hold some not-so-important-thing which would come and undoubtedly smite me between the eyes on Monday morning.
Sigh.
No no, Life isn't all this bad and I am not this implacable.
I do sometimes wish I had been wiser fifteen years back and known that those were the Golden days, although that would not have served any purpose really. Well, adulthood sucks. I still see myself as a loafer who does not know what she wants. Still trying to decide what to make a career in. Still at a stage where Lipstick seems too grown-up and hence, does not figure in the scheme of things.
Life is slipping me by and I am selling soap. Albeit in a way that is adding a lot of skills and experience and all that to me. Still. I tell you, that is something to be slisha concerned about.
Here is the link - http://sayesha.blogspot.com
The weekend has arrived and I find myself incapable of feeling entirely wrinkle-free happy. Well, not true. Friday evenings are like that - not-a-cloud-on-the-horizon kinda happy. The part of me that plays the figure of authority about these things allows me that one evening to put everything on the back-burner. Come Saturday morning and I start worrying about how to plan the weekend so that all that pending stuff gets done and fun is also had. Ironic, huh? There is also a bit of work and my team is working Saturday so I am not completely off. Saturday evening is again a sort of respite from it all, and then dawns the Grand ol' Sunday.
I remember a time when Sunday used to be only about watching cartoons early in the morning, I used to have a pretty busy schedule, then an awesome lunch and a lazy evening spent doing not much that I can remember, leading up to Monday, eagerly awaited. Those were the days when school was the one thing I would look forward to the most. I had to be dragged away from it for holidays and stuff, or even when I would be unwell.
Now? Hmm. Let's see. Sunday brings with it the worst sense of foreboding about the week that is about to begin. It brings with it that feeling of hastily wanting to enjoy the last few moments of freedom knowing that those moments are going to run out very soon. It brings with it the feeling of having wasted the weekend - if worked too much, then wasted the weekend working too much and not sleeping/having fun/ticking off all those other jobs to be done apart from work; and if not worked at all - then wasted the opportunity to peacefully sit and analyze some or the other data, or put on the hold some not-so-important-thing which would come and undoubtedly smite me between the eyes on Monday morning.
Sigh.
No no, Life isn't all this bad and I am not this implacable.
I do sometimes wish I had been wiser fifteen years back and known that those were the Golden days, although that would not have served any purpose really. Well, adulthood sucks. I still see myself as a loafer who does not know what she wants. Still trying to decide what to make a career in. Still at a stage where Lipstick seems too grown-up and hence, does not figure in the scheme of things.
Life is slipping me by and I am selling soap. Albeit in a way that is adding a lot of skills and experience and all that to me. Still. I tell you, that is something to be slisha concerned about.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Porn and Popcorn
Weird thing I noticed today.
I had some time to kill at the Sangli railway station, so I was loafing around. I went to the bookshop brimming with curiosity, and what does five seconds of standing there reveal? Magazines of various names and sizes, brimming (yes, nice word, innit) with pictures of voluptuous women in compromising poses.
Yes, with titles like 'Chulbuli kahaniyan', 'Yauvan ka josh' and lots of other colorful stuff that has slipped my obviously geriatric mind.
Hmmm..
The other day, I needed to go to a cyber cafe in Solapur and all people directed me to one 'Balaji' Cyber cafe like it was the Victoria Memorial. And it did turn out to be quite a place. It was buzzing with youngsters, rather - boys. It was like their regular adda spot. They were playing games on LAN, surfing (one can only imagine what) and generally hanging around and smoking.
Life in these little towns is changing. They are probably at a phase in their evolutionary cycle where the Metros were fifteen years back.
But while some things change, some remain just the same. And one of them is the maybe-uniquely-Indian adult obsession with soft-pornography.
I had some time to kill at the Sangli railway station, so I was loafing around. I went to the bookshop brimming with curiosity, and what does five seconds of standing there reveal? Magazines of various names and sizes, brimming (yes, nice word, innit) with pictures of voluptuous women in compromising poses.
Yes, with titles like 'Chulbuli kahaniyan', 'Yauvan ka josh' and lots of other colorful stuff that has slipped my obviously geriatric mind.
Hmmm..
The other day, I needed to go to a cyber cafe in Solapur and all people directed me to one 'Balaji' Cyber cafe like it was the Victoria Memorial. And it did turn out to be quite a place. It was buzzing with youngsters, rather - boys. It was like their regular adda spot. They were playing games on LAN, surfing (one can only imagine what) and generally hanging around and smoking.
Life in these little towns is changing. They are probably at a phase in their evolutionary cycle where the Metros were fifteen years back.
But while some things change, some remain just the same. And one of them is the maybe-uniquely-Indian adult obsession with soft-pornography.
Monday, June 14, 2010
The eight wonders
There is a Hakim-Aalim-Hair-and-Tattoo-lounge near my old place on Carter road and it has since the past half a year sported a hoarding in its vicinity which says - "Javed Habib is pregnant, delivering soon".
It almost sounds ominous. Like who knows what Mr Habib will unleash upon this world and the bourgeois better beware.
So, dear readers!! Tralala..lala..laLALA and all that. I am told that I have eight followers. I see there is merit in not going and checking the number of followers that one has - every hour. One is pleasantly surprised when the number leapfrogs from two to eight. A 300% for those who ingest numbers and unfortunately I know many who do. Although I can derive some solace from the fact that they are probably not among them followers.
I must here insert a statement which umm..states that I am aware of the insignificance of having eight followers. I blog-hob-nob with people who win blog-awards. Eight followers is what their toenails have.
..
It is raining like the blazes in Mumbai. I have never been able to decide whether I love the rains or hate them. I guess, both. It is frustrating when you are stuck in a hell-hole of a traffic jam for three hours and it is pouring, and because it is pouring. It is beautiful when you are watching it raise hell and high water, insistently, persistently, from the safety of the terrace, in the company of a good book, or conversation. It activates sound, light, touch - the works.
One thing suddenly came to me though - it has been close to twelve years since I have thrown all caution to the wind, or the rains in this case, and reveled - getting drenched to the bone and not caring. With no worries of where I need to go, what I am wearing or carrying, how I am going to look or whether I am going to catch the cold of my life. It has been that long since I felt all that.
Prisoners of our own device, we are.
..
Saw Sex and the City part II and came out with a very happy feeling. All glowy and lovey. And he was wearing specs too. That added to it. The women all look old, no doubt. Makes me wonder, do these American women grow to look older before their time? Or is it just the naivete of youth that made me spake these words? Apart from that, their clothes are as bizarre as ever. Big is domesticated and Carrie, the eternal seeker, is still seeking. Let me not even get started on what Samantha is upto.
On slightly more morose topics, work - that heralder of old age before its time (did I just proclaim to be suffering from the naivete of youth?), is doing its job well. My back is fragile and the dentist says I grind my teeth too much. Weird, the kind of things doctors diagnose me with. Next they will be calling me a hypochondriac.
It almost sounds ominous. Like who knows what Mr Habib will unleash upon this world and the bourgeois better beware.
So, dear readers!! Tralala..lala..laLALA and all that. I am told that I have eight followers. I see there is merit in not going and checking the number of followers that one has - every hour. One is pleasantly surprised when the number leapfrogs from two to eight. A 300% for those who ingest numbers and unfortunately I know many who do. Although I can derive some solace from the fact that they are probably not among them followers.
I must here insert a statement which umm..states that I am aware of the insignificance of having eight followers. I blog-hob-nob with people who win blog-awards. Eight followers is what their toenails have.
..
It is raining like the blazes in Mumbai. I have never been able to decide whether I love the rains or hate them. I guess, both. It is frustrating when you are stuck in a hell-hole of a traffic jam for three hours and it is pouring, and because it is pouring. It is beautiful when you are watching it raise hell and high water, insistently, persistently, from the safety of the terrace, in the company of a good book, or conversation. It activates sound, light, touch - the works.
One thing suddenly came to me though - it has been close to twelve years since I have thrown all caution to the wind, or the rains in this case, and reveled - getting drenched to the bone and not caring. With no worries of where I need to go, what I am wearing or carrying, how I am going to look or whether I am going to catch the cold of my life. It has been that long since I felt all that.
Prisoners of our own device, we are.
..
Saw Sex and the City part II and came out with a very happy feeling. All glowy and lovey. And he was wearing specs too. That added to it. The women all look old, no doubt. Makes me wonder, do these American women grow to look older before their time? Or is it just the naivete of youth that made me spake these words? Apart from that, their clothes are as bizarre as ever. Big is domesticated and Carrie, the eternal seeker, is still seeking. Let me not even get started on what Samantha is upto.
On slightly more morose topics, work - that heralder of old age before its time (did I just proclaim to be suffering from the naivete of youth?), is doing its job well. My back is fragile and the dentist says I grind my teeth too much. Weird, the kind of things doctors diagnose me with. Next they will be calling me a hypochondriac.
Wednesday, June 09, 2010
Harvesting Pain
Breezy is over-rated. I don't want to be one of those cheerful, chirpy, always-happy things, these people who bear any and every one of the atrocious misfortunes that befall them with philosophical stolidity. Also, do they even exist?
I have my own perversity through. I have always chosen to torture myself, thinking, as does Calvin's dad, that it would build character. Laughable.
At this point I feel that character has been built enough and is being subjected to the violent blows of this hammer that goes about calling itself Life. It is starting to wear away - character, not the demonic blows.
If only these years would fly past. I would happily wear the crown of the 'been-there-done-that' as opposed to sitting on this rather thorny throne of the 'here-now-and-doing-it'.
I have my own perversity through. I have always chosen to torture myself, thinking, as does Calvin's dad, that it would build character. Laughable.
At this point I feel that character has been built enough and is being subjected to the violent blows of this hammer that goes about calling itself Life. It is starting to wear away - character, not the demonic blows.
If only these years would fly past. I would happily wear the crown of the 'been-there-done-that' as opposed to sitting on this rather thorny throne of the 'here-now-and-doing-it'.
Thursday, June 03, 2010
A weird week
I love the coffee culture. More than coffee itself. I treat these coffee shops as 'homes away from home' - taking books and newspaper to read, the laptop on the rare occasions that I am working from home or at those times when I have to work late and doing that from a warm, buzzing, promising-to-be-serving-up-mugs-of-coffee kinda place makes it so much more tolerable, almost cool. I also treat these places as a meeting point, with brokers and the likes. Glorious is life when there is a coffee place nearby!
In a stroke of bad luck, my back played up again. Must be because of all the carrying and lugging that packing and unpacking entails. Also my landlady generously put a pair of plump mattresses on the bed that she also so kindly provided (yea, I have an actual bed to sleep on now!) but that played havoc with my back. Unlike the Princess in the Pea story, who could not sleep all night due to the presence of a pea beneath some millions of layers of mattresses, give me a hard plank of wood and I will sleep like a babe. Not princess-material, me.
So this week there has been no traveling and lots of staying at home and frankly, I am bored. Traveling is now so much a part of my lifestyle that a week of not, makes me feel as if - hmm..mm..hmmm..as if my nose has suddenly disappeared off my face, you know, an improvement for sure in the general scheme of things, but weird.
Also paid a visit to the dermatologist after the recent escapade at the salon, while I was at the hospital for my back. I have never been to one, and I was a bit apprehensive. I had not even checked before paying the exorbitant consultation charges whether dermatologists do look at scalps. However, he did not miss a beat when I told him that some hairstylist had advised me to get my scalp checked. He checked, and told me lazily - Hats off to her that she managed to scare you like this. They are evil, these beauty parlors. While I kept insisting that he check again - well, I had to get my money's worth - he seemed to get more and more amused.
If you ask me, he seemed like a bit of a sham himself, slightly bored, kinda like he was reserving all his energies for the truly meaty clients like hmm..Hrithik Roshan, whom he had a framed photograph with, in his office. Or ladies who have enough moolah and time to go nip-tuck-lift-botoxx!
Anyhow, what with all my visits to Lilavati hospital, I am now a card-holding member of that landmark institution. And by landmark, I mean, actually so. I always use it to give directions to my home.
The television is also part of the paraphernalia that the flat has come with. And I must say, I wasn't missing much. Although when you are a bit lonely and all that, it does help having a television blaring familiarly from the corner.
As part of the grand initiation ceremony into the new place, I tried to whip up some bread pohe. I love the bread pohe. The only thing that has prevented me from making a staple diet out of it is the fact that I don't eat bread. Such is life. But now that there is whole wheat bread, and multi-grain bread, and three-grain bread and an assortment of healthy options to plain old bread, I decided to get back at it. So in went bread, and some onions, and carrots, topped with some thai sauce and Olive Oil (yea, I bought Olive Oil to cook, I am that pretentious!) and I discovered that I didn't have any matchsticks or a lighter. So I put the thing into the microwave, and skeptically put it on 'Auto-cook' wondering how on earth would it cook the carrots, which are about the hardest things to soften.
I was wrong, oh so wrong. After about ten minutes, when I went in again, I was greeted by a delicious aroma and the sight of molten plastic. Yes, the microwave had reduced my plastic bowl to an abstract-artsy-looking thing. The pohe turned out well though.
All's well that ends well though. Will use the half melted bowl for potpourri. Nice and bohemian. Yes, I am that pretentious. I have potpourri.
In a stroke of bad luck, my back played up again. Must be because of all the carrying and lugging that packing and unpacking entails. Also my landlady generously put a pair of plump mattresses on the bed that she also so kindly provided (yea, I have an actual bed to sleep on now!) but that played havoc with my back. Unlike the Princess in the Pea story, who could not sleep all night due to the presence of a pea beneath some millions of layers of mattresses, give me a hard plank of wood and I will sleep like a babe. Not princess-material, me.
So this week there has been no traveling and lots of staying at home and frankly, I am bored. Traveling is now so much a part of my lifestyle that a week of not, makes me feel as if - hmm..mm..hmmm..as if my nose has suddenly disappeared off my face, you know, an improvement for sure in the general scheme of things, but weird.
Also paid a visit to the dermatologist after the recent escapade at the salon, while I was at the hospital for my back. I have never been to one, and I was a bit apprehensive. I had not even checked before paying the exorbitant consultation charges whether dermatologists do look at scalps. However, he did not miss a beat when I told him that some hairstylist had advised me to get my scalp checked. He checked, and told me lazily - Hats off to her that she managed to scare you like this. They are evil, these beauty parlors. While I kept insisting that he check again - well, I had to get my money's worth - he seemed to get more and more amused.
If you ask me, he seemed like a bit of a sham himself, slightly bored, kinda like he was reserving all his energies for the truly meaty clients like hmm..Hrithik Roshan, whom he had a framed photograph with, in his office. Or ladies who have enough moolah and time to go nip-tuck-lift-botoxx!
Anyhow, what with all my visits to Lilavati hospital, I am now a card-holding member of that landmark institution. And by landmark, I mean, actually so. I always use it to give directions to my home.
The television is also part of the paraphernalia that the flat has come with. And I must say, I wasn't missing much. Although when you are a bit lonely and all that, it does help having a television blaring familiarly from the corner.
As part of the grand initiation ceremony into the new place, I tried to whip up some bread pohe. I love the bread pohe. The only thing that has prevented me from making a staple diet out of it is the fact that I don't eat bread. Such is life. But now that there is whole wheat bread, and multi-grain bread, and three-grain bread and an assortment of healthy options to plain old bread, I decided to get back at it. So in went bread, and some onions, and carrots, topped with some thai sauce and Olive Oil (yea, I bought Olive Oil to cook, I am that pretentious!) and I discovered that I didn't have any matchsticks or a lighter. So I put the thing into the microwave, and skeptically put it on 'Auto-cook' wondering how on earth would it cook the carrots, which are about the hardest things to soften.
I was wrong, oh so wrong. After about ten minutes, when I went in again, I was greeted by a delicious aroma and the sight of molten plastic. Yes, the microwave had reduced my plastic bowl to an abstract-artsy-looking thing. The pohe turned out well though.
All's well that ends well though. Will use the half melted bowl for potpourri. Nice and bohemian. Yes, I am that pretentious. I have potpourri.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Sock in the Solar Plexus
There are some people who were probably reading magazines not meant for them when they should have been in the line where some or the other of the many angels was administering some modesty.
Got the flow? No? Okay. You were probably doing it too when quick-grasping-ability was being ladled out.
The point is that some people strut through life thinking they are the bees knees. But this post is not about that. This post is about how to make them fall down on theirs.
And after rigorous and I must say, excruciating research, I have hit upon the most effective method - A visit to the hairdresser.
Hairdresser? Isn't it O.Nash or some such bird who said that the worst thing that could befall the human race was a visit to the dentist?
..Because some tortures are physical and some are mental,
But the one that is both is dental.
No, that is olde hat. If you want to kill a chap's self-confidence such that he is never able to rise from the depths again, send him for a haircut.
These hair-salons nowadays are peopled by folks of such fortitude that they don't hesitate to bluntly state what your mother would quake in her Bata flip-flops about. Oh, they are brave, undoubtedly in the wrong profession. They should have been operating guillotines during the French revolution.
Disdainfully, across the years, I have been painfully acquainted with the fact that my hair is too thin, is falling too much, is not the right texture, has an extraordinarily high percentage of split ends, turns North when it should face South, and is in general the follicular equivalent of a drug addict caught trying to pawn his blind mother's scrawny jewels. Furthermore, I have been chided about not using the right shampoo, conditioner, toner, light beam, laser. My scalp has not been spared either. I have, on occasion, sported an oily one, at times an extraordinarily dry one, undoubtedly, with sheets of dandruff flowing down the back, and today - horror of horrors, it was accused of having a disease, with suggestion in place that a visit to the Dermatologist was in order.
As I walked away humbled, my spirit a mere shadow of its former self, a scene floated in front of the pensive eye. Date - April the 30th, circa 1945. A little man, with a furious expression and a toothbrush mustache, sits down to get his daily trim, while a somewhat sinister looking character hovers around him with a pair of clippers. A snort, a questioning glance, eyelids heavy with disgust - "They are not what they used to be, Sie ware besser dran ohne sie".
Got the flow? No? Okay. You were probably doing it too when quick-grasping-ability was being ladled out.
The point is that some people strut through life thinking they are the bees knees. But this post is not about that. This post is about how to make them fall down on theirs.
And after rigorous and I must say, excruciating research, I have hit upon the most effective method - A visit to the hairdresser.
Hairdresser? Isn't it O.Nash or some such bird who said that the worst thing that could befall the human race was a visit to the dentist?
..Because some tortures are physical and some are mental,
But the one that is both is dental.
No, that is olde hat. If you want to kill a chap's self-confidence such that he is never able to rise from the depths again, send him for a haircut.
These hair-salons nowadays are peopled by folks of such fortitude that they don't hesitate to bluntly state what your mother would quake in her Bata flip-flops about. Oh, they are brave, undoubtedly in the wrong profession. They should have been operating guillotines during the French revolution.
Disdainfully, across the years, I have been painfully acquainted with the fact that my hair is too thin, is falling too much, is not the right texture, has an extraordinarily high percentage of split ends, turns North when it should face South, and is in general the follicular equivalent of a drug addict caught trying to pawn his blind mother's scrawny jewels. Furthermore, I have been chided about not using the right shampoo, conditioner, toner, light beam, laser. My scalp has not been spared either. I have, on occasion, sported an oily one, at times an extraordinarily dry one, undoubtedly, with sheets of dandruff flowing down the back, and today - horror of horrors, it was accused of having a disease, with suggestion in place that a visit to the Dermatologist was in order.
As I walked away humbled, my spirit a mere shadow of its former self, a scene floated in front of the pensive eye. Date - April the 30th, circa 1945. A little man, with a furious expression and a toothbrush mustache, sits down to get his daily trim, while a somewhat sinister looking character hovers around him with a pair of clippers. A snort, a questioning glance, eyelids heavy with disgust - "They are not what they used to be, Sie ware besser dran ohne sie".
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Past Vs Present
I was going through my older posts, the ones at the beginning, the ones that inspired me to start this blog because I felt I wanted to tell people these things.
I was such a different girl then. Less confused, more aware of my strengths and weaknesses, more honest and brutal about where I stood.
B-school changed me? Taught me how to project an image? I don't know, I have strictly maintained that I have remained honest all along and never pandered to the image-game. But maybe that's an image too.
I was less cynical. Also, the kind of person who believed that anybody else being good, even great, does not mean you are any less. There is place for everybody under the sun. Life as I know it today seems to instinctively suggest that it is a zero-sum game and if I am to save myself from thinking and acting as per that, I need to be wary, guard against getting over-competitive.
Less cynical, I mentioned that. I was more inclined to admire people, accept their ambition and marvel at their brilliance. Where did that go, replaced by a cynicism that questions whether the people who have it all, really deserve it, or whether they really have it all in the first place.
Let me correct it. Let me publicly register admiration for the success of some people/groups of people I have been in-two-minds about at some points in time earlier -
1. Aishwarya Rai - She did do quite well for herself, talent or no talent. And that in itself, is a talent. To be smart enough to know what works for you.
2. Consultants - Difficult lifestyle, to be on the go like that, to gel with the client and its way of working and make oneself useful. Underneath all the B-school shroud of glitz and glamor, a profession that has its place in the sun, it's utility in the food chain. I know some people who are doing great work, learning lots and enjoying themselves too.
3. Sachin Tendulkar - Yes, I know he is a great cricketer and all that. But beyond that, his attitude is what makes him such a legend. Unassuming. And eternal.
4. Angelina Jolie - So I love Jennifer Aniston. But Angelina Jolie has the x-factor. Something about her makes her stand out. Her confidence maybe. Her work with the UN. Her incessant adopting. Her devil-may-care attitude. And she is a good actress to boot.
5. The Tata group - No organization is without its drawbacks. Corruption is like bacteria, it does not require much to survive and multiply. But the Tata group and its stalwart status has survived all that and stands tall today in the world arena - Tetley, Land rover and Jaguar, Corus. The many sectors they are present in in India, and the fact that they have such a strong nationalist image - cannot be just a cleverly-crafted mirage. The name of JRD Tata invokes respect and Ratan Tata has managed to sustain it.
In other news, a ring has been booked. It feels weird and new, that such a thing could be happening to me. I mean, I am still a kid (Not really, I am going to hit the 30's in a couple of years) but it feels like such a grown-up thing! He will tell me that I am an attention-shark and that is what all blog-writers are, as per him, but it makes me so happy, how can I not mention it?
In other non-flashy news, went for Anusmaran. Met people, ate the bizarrely expensive food and came back.
Also, at the verge of shifting houses. Half the packing is done and tonight is my final night in the present acco. It was great fun, being in the heart of Bandra - the room with no view. And not even a bed. Well, nothing much changes. My new home is also pretty much in the heart of B, has no view again and probably will not have much room for a bed. The only difference is that I shall be living all by myself now - which has been my dream since I was an adolescent bemoaning the lack of privacy in an all too crowded family of four. Like all things in life, a dream remains alluring only till when it comes true.
300 sq feet and a fortune for that. Such is life in this megalopolis if you want to live anywhere within cycling distance of someplace to restore the overwrought nerves at - not that I cycle. I never learnt to. Yes, there, I have said it.
What else. The mood of this post has got decidedly jauntier by the word. Such is the power of positive thinking. And love.
I was such a different girl then. Less confused, more aware of my strengths and weaknesses, more honest and brutal about where I stood.
B-school changed me? Taught me how to project an image? I don't know, I have strictly maintained that I have remained honest all along and never pandered to the image-game. But maybe that's an image too.
I was less cynical. Also, the kind of person who believed that anybody else being good, even great, does not mean you are any less. There is place for everybody under the sun. Life as I know it today seems to instinctively suggest that it is a zero-sum game and if I am to save myself from thinking and acting as per that, I need to be wary, guard against getting over-competitive.
Less cynical, I mentioned that. I was more inclined to admire people, accept their ambition and marvel at their brilliance. Where did that go, replaced by a cynicism that questions whether the people who have it all, really deserve it, or whether they really have it all in the first place.
Let me correct it. Let me publicly register admiration for the success of some people/groups of people I have been in-two-minds about at some points in time earlier -
1. Aishwarya Rai - She did do quite well for herself, talent or no talent. And that in itself, is a talent. To be smart enough to know what works for you.
2. Consultants - Difficult lifestyle, to be on the go like that, to gel with the client and its way of working and make oneself useful. Underneath all the B-school shroud of glitz and glamor, a profession that has its place in the sun, it's utility in the food chain. I know some people who are doing great work, learning lots and enjoying themselves too.
3. Sachin Tendulkar - Yes, I know he is a great cricketer and all that. But beyond that, his attitude is what makes him such a legend. Unassuming. And eternal.
4. Angelina Jolie - So I love Jennifer Aniston. But Angelina Jolie has the x-factor. Something about her makes her stand out. Her confidence maybe. Her work with the UN. Her incessant adopting. Her devil-may-care attitude. And she is a good actress to boot.
5. The Tata group - No organization is without its drawbacks. Corruption is like bacteria, it does not require much to survive and multiply. But the Tata group and its stalwart status has survived all that and stands tall today in the world arena - Tetley, Land rover and Jaguar, Corus. The many sectors they are present in in India, and the fact that they have such a strong nationalist image - cannot be just a cleverly-crafted mirage. The name of JRD Tata invokes respect and Ratan Tata has managed to sustain it.
In other news, a ring has been booked. It feels weird and new, that such a thing could be happening to me. I mean, I am still a kid (Not really, I am going to hit the 30's in a couple of years) but it feels like such a grown-up thing! He will tell me that I am an attention-shark and that is what all blog-writers are, as per him, but it makes me so happy, how can I not mention it?
In other non-flashy news, went for Anusmaran. Met people, ate the bizarrely expensive food and came back.
Also, at the verge of shifting houses. Half the packing is done and tonight is my final night in the present acco. It was great fun, being in the heart of Bandra - the room with no view. And not even a bed. Well, nothing much changes. My new home is also pretty much in the heart of B, has no view again and probably will not have much room for a bed. The only difference is that I shall be living all by myself now - which has been my dream since I was an adolescent bemoaning the lack of privacy in an all too crowded family of four. Like all things in life, a dream remains alluring only till when it comes true.
300 sq feet and a fortune for that. Such is life in this megalopolis if you want to live anywhere within cycling distance of someplace to restore the overwrought nerves at - not that I cycle. I never learnt to. Yes, there, I have said it.
What else. The mood of this post has got decidedly jauntier by the word. Such is the power of positive thinking. And love.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Amusement Park
Alec's latest post comes like a whiff of fresh air. While I look around, struggling to find things which are going right, here comes a post laden with little packets of joy which burst into remembrances about things which make my life so much richer - like a favorite smell, a favorite month, a favorite season, without my I even realizing it.
Kavity's latest also resonates and I am surprised to see how many people it resonates with. Looks like all these foreign-migrated people have been terrorizing junta back at home with details of their lives and worse - expectations of us knowing all those details by heart.
My life is, as usual, doing its roller-coaster routine. At times, I feel like this has to be bliss. Now this, has to be bliss - waking up on a Saturday, going to one of the many (although now that I have gone to all, the choices seem limited) places around that serve a good breakfast. Bandra has a very chilled-out air about it, actually certain bits of Bandra. The young or the young-at-heart throng these coffee-shops, I see young families with their cherubs and their ayaas in tow, single men and women with a book in one hand and a large mug of coffee in the other, looking rather bohemian and extremely at peace with the world, couplets or groups of girls, catching up on news from the week, couples of slightly older women, discussing everything from their neighbor's children to the businesses that they run, young guys and girls - groups of friends, and young guy and girl - out on a date (although these are mostly in the evenings) playing their stereotypes to perfection - the guy trying his best to take her case, make fun of her, and the girl trying her best to look half-annoyed, half-flattered over all the nervous, flirtatious undertones, then the slightly older guy and girl, been dating for some time, obviously not married, looking like they don't have a care in the world.
The point being that at times like these, when I am tucking into a 'healthy' and scrumptious white omelet-brown bread-nutralite butter spread, the heart takes wings and I see it fluttering high above the Bandra skyline.
Recently read this awesome book called Exploding Mangoes, written by a Pak-born journalist residing in Britain now. He has spoken with a lot of audacity about the charade the Pakistani governance is, or was, under military rule. It is an alleged (in the author's own words) fictional account, of an attempt to assassinate General Zia, along the way giving us a peek into the military training that the Pakistani young go through, the way they use India and Indian references as a form of insult and their ease with the Americans and their role in the Taliban as we know it today.
Also, watched a couple of really good movies - Guess who's coming to dinner and Cactus Flower. I would absolutely recommend them, GWCTD for the crisp dialogues and CF for the brilliant performances and amazing background music.
Will end on a warning note though - whatever you do, do not watch the latest Gurinder Chaddha disaster. It makes me sick.
Kavity's latest also resonates and I am surprised to see how many people it resonates with. Looks like all these foreign-migrated people have been terrorizing junta back at home with details of their lives and worse - expectations of us knowing all those details by heart.
My life is, as usual, doing its roller-coaster routine. At times, I feel like this has to be bliss. Now this, has to be bliss - waking up on a Saturday, going to one of the many (although now that I have gone to all, the choices seem limited) places around that serve a good breakfast. Bandra has a very chilled-out air about it, actually certain bits of Bandra. The young or the young-at-heart throng these coffee-shops, I see young families with their cherubs and their ayaas in tow, single men and women with a book in one hand and a large mug of coffee in the other, looking rather bohemian and extremely at peace with the world, couplets or groups of girls, catching up on news from the week, couples of slightly older women, discussing everything from their neighbor's children to the businesses that they run, young guys and girls - groups of friends, and young guy and girl - out on a date (although these are mostly in the evenings) playing their stereotypes to perfection - the guy trying his best to take her case, make fun of her, and the girl trying her best to look half-annoyed, half-flattered over all the nervous, flirtatious undertones, then the slightly older guy and girl, been dating for some time, obviously not married, looking like they don't have a care in the world.
The point being that at times like these, when I am tucking into a 'healthy' and scrumptious white omelet-brown bread-nutralite butter spread, the heart takes wings and I see it fluttering high above the Bandra skyline.
Recently read this awesome book called Exploding Mangoes, written by a Pak-born journalist residing in Britain now. He has spoken with a lot of audacity about the charade the Pakistani governance is, or was, under military rule. It is an alleged (in the author's own words) fictional account, of an attempt to assassinate General Zia, along the way giving us a peek into the military training that the Pakistani young go through, the way they use India and Indian references as a form of insult and their ease with the Americans and their role in the Taliban as we know it today.
Also, watched a couple of really good movies - Guess who's coming to dinner and Cactus Flower. I would absolutely recommend them, GWCTD for the crisp dialogues and CF for the brilliant performances and amazing background music.
Will end on a warning note though - whatever you do, do not watch the latest Gurinder Chaddha disaster. It makes me sick.
Saturday, May 01, 2010
DLE
It is difficult to explain what really happened in the last four days. Because it is really quite absurd.
The company has this tie-up with one global firm which does leadership development courses for many companies. They have a four-day program called DLE - Developing Leadership Effectiveness. It has been a tradition in my company since long to send groups of unsuspecting managers to this program with the hope that they come out knowing how to become effective leaders.
Smacks of cynicism. I was, a cynic. A closet cynic till I went there. Even till the third day. Not any longer though.
So there is a group of peers, around twenty-eight of us from all over the country who land up and are confined within a room from 9 am to 6 pm for four days without any mobile phones or laptops along with the founding pillars of this program - a Mr Gareth and a Ms Amelia.
The modus operandi, and that is what it is, because Gareth and Amelia have been in this business since the last twenty years or so and everything that they do is calculated to the last insult. And insult is what they do. They insult us till we feel like we are morons.
The intention is to make us own up to our fears and our hang-ups. Our pretty little escape algorithms. The stories we tell ourselves whenever we do anything we know that we really should not be doing and is not going to help us.
It sounds like a lot of humbug and frankly speaking, I did not like being screamed at for the first three days. But that is what drove it home, when I am being dishonest with myself, I am doing a great disservice to my potential.
I also noticed, or rather it was brought to my notice that I, and in this case, I shall speak for most people, tend to seek refuge behind the safety of the collective - WE or the non-committed - ONE or the indefinite - YOU. For example, most of our sentences there begun like - "When such and such thing happens, YOU tend to do such and such..Or ONE thinks one is committed, when ONE is really not..Or WE always think that is the right way.." SAFETY! I want to be emotionally safe. I want to say things such that there is always some exit room to wriggle out. Instead of taking sole responsibility, I want everyone present to bear the guilt of what I have said.
I didn't participate much and I got screamed at for that. Because not wanting to open up in front of near strangers is also a hang-up and merits thinking about.
But here goes, I mean to change a few things and here they are -
I tend to take the back-seat when I find myself in a group where somebody knows how to do the task at hand better than me, or so it seems. I sort of take for granted that person's superior role in achieving that task.
I do not open up to strangers, or even people I have known since a long time but am not 'close' to. Why, because I would not know how that person would think of me and my insecurities. Would only open up in front of people who I know would love me/like me irrespective of what they hear. So, I don't accept myself the way I am and fear that others will not.
I link my self-worth to my success at the tasks I perform. If I fail at something at work, it means I fail, period.
There are many others. Like they said, we are born free of any hang-ups. But as we grow up, based on our experiences, we collect all these beliefs and build a personality around these beliefs.
I really want to shatter these so-called truisms of my life. I want to come clean, and to remain that way. So here I am, all of me, for-public-consumption.
The company has this tie-up with one global firm which does leadership development courses for many companies. They have a four-day program called DLE - Developing Leadership Effectiveness. It has been a tradition in my company since long to send groups of unsuspecting managers to this program with the hope that they come out knowing how to become effective leaders.
Smacks of cynicism. I was, a cynic. A closet cynic till I went there. Even till the third day. Not any longer though.
So there is a group of peers, around twenty-eight of us from all over the country who land up and are confined within a room from 9 am to 6 pm for four days without any mobile phones or laptops along with the founding pillars of this program - a Mr Gareth and a Ms Amelia.
The modus operandi, and that is what it is, because Gareth and Amelia have been in this business since the last twenty years or so and everything that they do is calculated to the last insult. And insult is what they do. They insult us till we feel like we are morons.
The intention is to make us own up to our fears and our hang-ups. Our pretty little escape algorithms. The stories we tell ourselves whenever we do anything we know that we really should not be doing and is not going to help us.
It sounds like a lot of humbug and frankly speaking, I did not like being screamed at for the first three days. But that is what drove it home, when I am being dishonest with myself, I am doing a great disservice to my potential.
I also noticed, or rather it was brought to my notice that I, and in this case, I shall speak for most people, tend to seek refuge behind the safety of the collective - WE or the non-committed - ONE or the indefinite - YOU. For example, most of our sentences there begun like - "When such and such thing happens, YOU tend to do such and such..Or ONE thinks one is committed, when ONE is really not..Or WE always think that is the right way.." SAFETY! I want to be emotionally safe. I want to say things such that there is always some exit room to wriggle out. Instead of taking sole responsibility, I want everyone present to bear the guilt of what I have said.
I didn't participate much and I got screamed at for that. Because not wanting to open up in front of near strangers is also a hang-up and merits thinking about.
But here goes, I mean to change a few things and here they are -
I tend to take the back-seat when I find myself in a group where somebody knows how to do the task at hand better than me, or so it seems. I sort of take for granted that person's superior role in achieving that task.
I do not open up to strangers, or even people I have known since a long time but am not 'close' to. Why, because I would not know how that person would think of me and my insecurities. Would only open up in front of people who I know would love me/like me irrespective of what they hear. So, I don't accept myself the way I am and fear that others will not.
I link my self-worth to my success at the tasks I perform. If I fail at something at work, it means I fail, period.
There are many others. Like they said, we are born free of any hang-ups. But as we grow up, based on our experiences, we collect all these beliefs and build a personality around these beliefs.
I really want to shatter these so-called truisms of my life. I want to come clean, and to remain that way. So here I am, all of me, for-public-consumption.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Degeneration
Alec's latest post triggered a certain slightly repulsive memory which I had thought to share earlier but had forgotten.
I was at the airport (all my posts seem to revolve around airports nowadays) and was juggling some coffee and some other assorted pieces of luggage. In came galloping a 7-year old and I pointedly took my coffee and kept it out of the reach of his prancing feet. But he decided to come rushing in from behind in such a way that the coffee got spilled and some of it, over his foot. He raised hell and high water and his mother started screaming at me, calling me an Idiot and what not. People all around rushed to administer gallon after gallon of water on his foot, ice, whatever they could find while he kept howling and she intermittently screaming at me.
Now, I would have been extremely sympathetic and apologetic and all that in the normal course of events. In this case however, because of being shouted at, I found myself unable to sympathize and hung around purely due to a sense of responsibility to see that the kid was fine, which he was, considering he had been wearing proper shoes and socks anyway.
I thought about this some more. We tend to be very careless with our speech, and constraint has no nobility anymore. I say this for myself also. When an auto driver mistakenly takes me to Vile-Parle early in the morning, when I had said Bandra to him, and as a consequence of which I miss the bus to that godforsaken Belapur, I lose it too. Annoyance is definitely warranted and maybe a certain degree of admonishing will induce him to be more careful from next time. But not a full-blown abuse session, no Sir, that is a bit much, even if what he did leads you to be at the receiving end of your Boss' ire.
We are fast becoming a group of people with zero tolerance levels and no respect for basic human courtesy and dignity. Our problems are the dire-est, our time the precious-est and the injustices meted out to us - the most unjust.
I was at the airport (all my posts seem to revolve around airports nowadays) and was juggling some coffee and some other assorted pieces of luggage. In came galloping a 7-year old and I pointedly took my coffee and kept it out of the reach of his prancing feet. But he decided to come rushing in from behind in such a way that the coffee got spilled and some of it, over his foot. He raised hell and high water and his mother started screaming at me, calling me an Idiot and what not. People all around rushed to administer gallon after gallon of water on his foot, ice, whatever they could find while he kept howling and she intermittently screaming at me.
Now, I would have been extremely sympathetic and apologetic and all that in the normal course of events. In this case however, because of being shouted at, I found myself unable to sympathize and hung around purely due to a sense of responsibility to see that the kid was fine, which he was, considering he had been wearing proper shoes and socks anyway.
I thought about this some more. We tend to be very careless with our speech, and constraint has no nobility anymore. I say this for myself also. When an auto driver mistakenly takes me to Vile-Parle early in the morning, when I had said Bandra to him, and as a consequence of which I miss the bus to that godforsaken Belapur, I lose it too. Annoyance is definitely warranted and maybe a certain degree of admonishing will induce him to be more careful from next time. But not a full-blown abuse session, no Sir, that is a bit much, even if what he did leads you to be at the receiving end of your Boss' ire.
We are fast becoming a group of people with zero tolerance levels and no respect for basic human courtesy and dignity. Our problems are the dire-est, our time the precious-est and the injustices meted out to us - the most unjust.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Aurang-ajeeb
Aurangabad airport feels like home. It is as small as, okay not anybody's home that I have ever visited, but enough to feel cozy. I know the staff, they know me. In fact, some of the women who frisk me are on rather intimate terms, having posed a variety of questions to me, ranging from where I work to whether I am married and suggesting good naturedly (or so I choose to believe) that I should now find a good boy and tie the knot. It does feel good to come to this airport after a long day of being in the hot sun which threatens to beats me into a sweaty, pulpy mass of headache and dehydration. It does feel good to know that I am soon going to board a cute little ATR and zoom off to what is really really home.
It is a small airport, but it has international flights. It also has a good percentage of foreign passengers, what with the caves at Ajanta-Ellora being some sort of firang magnet. And that explains the availability of Diet Coke and Pepsi. I would know, being somewhat of a pro on small-town-ism that Diet drinks being available is a sure sign of the place having arrived.
But amongst all the contradictions that this airport presents me with, what really smites me between the eyes is this - Karlsburg, the International brand for men's clothing and accessories!
This airport does not have a restaurant and consequently perhaps, even working flushes, but it has a Karlsburg showroom! The sole upholder of consumerism in this kindergarten of airports! The brave lone Columbus discovering new lands, albeit a little barren but having the potential perhaps to turn into an America! Hats off to the guys who own the label in India. They have clearly been paying attention to the Diet Coke Index.
It is a small airport, but it has international flights. It also has a good percentage of foreign passengers, what with the caves at Ajanta-Ellora being some sort of firang magnet. And that explains the availability of Diet Coke and Pepsi. I would know, being somewhat of a pro on small-town-ism that Diet drinks being available is a sure sign of the place having arrived.
But amongst all the contradictions that this airport presents me with, what really smites me between the eyes is this - Karlsburg, the International brand for men's clothing and accessories!
This airport does not have a restaurant and consequently perhaps, even working flushes, but it has a Karlsburg showroom! The sole upholder of consumerism in this kindergarten of airports! The brave lone Columbus discovering new lands, albeit a little barren but having the potential perhaps to turn into an America! Hats off to the guys who own the label in India. They have clearly been paying attention to the Diet Coke Index.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Rant
It is one of those days when I just don't know which way to turn. And writing it out for the whole world to know is not the best thing to do, I know.
If you want something bad and the whole world apparently conspires for you to have it, what if the world does not like you too much? Then it could easily conspire for you not to have it, what? Go actively out of its way to ensure every attempt of yours is thwarted, nipped-in-the-bud.
A pretty little optimist I am not. The world is to blame, yeah.
If you want something bad and the whole world apparently conspires for you to have it, what if the world does not like you too much? Then it could easily conspire for you not to have it, what? Go actively out of its way to ensure every attempt of yours is thwarted, nipped-in-the-bud.
A pretty little optimist I am not. The world is to blame, yeah.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Technotroubles - Part II
In the sequel to the heart-wrenching tragedy of the phone passing away, let me detail the events of the day..
Started out with waking up at 11 am. How I managed to snore soundly while aforementioned love of life was lying cold next to me, is beyond me. Anyhow, made a futile walk to the mobile shop closest to my place, discovering it to be in shutters-down state, which effectively brought home to me the fact that Sundays have their downsides too.
Decided to get a little more structured. Got home, did an online search of Nokia service centers, located one close enough and set out again. But being the true-blue son-of-the-soil that I am, a Nokia service center was to be the last resort. What would make my day and repair my phone would undoubtedly be the entrepreneurial occupant of a small, shady, 10-feet-by-four-feet gap in the line of shops along Bandra station or some such buzzing place; at one-third the price and taking one-fourth the time of a Nokia service center. What's more, he was more likely to let all the important parts of your phone be left intact, not pilfering them for some gray market smuggling.
Called up a friend (a colleague, whose number is the only number in the world I remember since only the last digit is different from mine) who had visited and benefited from such a shop only a couple of weeks ago and got the name, location and phone number of a Mr Aris, aforementioned kindly entrepreneur.
Such inconspicuous shops and their owners also have the bad habit of disappearing, a Sunday driving the probability of such an event occurring sharply northwards..
But where one disappears, several others spring up. Such is life.
On getting extremely reliable information from an auto rickshaw driver on who around repaired mobile phones, I was directed to a picture-postcard-as-described-above-hole-in-the-wall which at the moment was doing a brisk trade in top-ups and mobile phones-Chinamake. (Oh did I mention that the Nokia Service center at Bandra was no longer operational, so I cannot be entirely blamed for partaking of the services of these enterprising tax evaders).
The benevolent people behind the counter assured me that the job would be done in half an hour upon which I would have to separate with 300 INR of the blood and sweat. The look on my face of disbelieving relief must have been apparent. I thanked myself for living in the holy mecca of the below-the-table-ism and hole-in-the-wall-flourishing-business-ism and went and sat at some nearby Barista, for a long due breaking of fast.
After the promised 30 minutes, I headed back to my saviors, and with great anticipation asked for the phone, relishing the thought of having a link to the world again, so as to assure myself that I had not suddenly died.
Imagine my surprise when I was told that the phone's display was not working (oh by-the-way, what was wrong with the phone was that the switch-on button had come off the board and hence the phone wasn't able to switch on). So they went on about the fact that they had, as promised, installed a new heart (yes, I am not a doctor) but the patient had gone blind and hence appeared to be in all certainty, still dead.
What ensued was not poetry. At least not the John Keats variety. I would advise patrons to not be fooled by my size (by which I mean my height, Bipasha may have called me petite, but it is certainly not because I have a 24 inch waist).
I ended up not paying them and came home, humbled. Sometimes, Mumbai fails to deliver.
This incident marked the end of my efforts at trying to get phone fixed pronto and heralded the beginning of a new phase wherein plans were laid of obtaining a proxy phone for the next few days while this one was sent to the ICU.
Life has a strange way of moralizing. The trouble is, it never practices what it preaches.
Started out with waking up at 11 am. How I managed to snore soundly while aforementioned love of life was lying cold next to me, is beyond me. Anyhow, made a futile walk to the mobile shop closest to my place, discovering it to be in shutters-down state, which effectively brought home to me the fact that Sundays have their downsides too.
Decided to get a little more structured. Got home, did an online search of Nokia service centers, located one close enough and set out again. But being the true-blue son-of-the-soil that I am, a Nokia service center was to be the last resort. What would make my day and repair my phone would undoubtedly be the entrepreneurial occupant of a small, shady, 10-feet-by-four-feet gap in the line of shops along Bandra station or some such buzzing place; at one-third the price and taking one-fourth the time of a Nokia service center. What's more, he was more likely to let all the important parts of your phone be left intact, not pilfering them for some gray market smuggling.
Called up a friend (a colleague, whose number is the only number in the world I remember since only the last digit is different from mine) who had visited and benefited from such a shop only a couple of weeks ago and got the name, location and phone number of a Mr Aris, aforementioned kindly entrepreneur.
Such inconspicuous shops and their owners also have the bad habit of disappearing, a Sunday driving the probability of such an event occurring sharply northwards..
But where one disappears, several others spring up. Such is life.
On getting extremely reliable information from an auto rickshaw driver on who around repaired mobile phones, I was directed to a picture-postcard-as-described-above-hole-in-the-wall which at the moment was doing a brisk trade in top-ups and mobile phones-Chinamake. (Oh did I mention that the Nokia Service center at Bandra was no longer operational, so I cannot be entirely blamed for partaking of the services of these enterprising tax evaders).
The benevolent people behind the counter assured me that the job would be done in half an hour upon which I would have to separate with 300 INR of the blood and sweat. The look on my face of disbelieving relief must have been apparent. I thanked myself for living in the holy mecca of the below-the-table-ism and hole-in-the-wall-flourishing-business-ism and went and sat at some nearby Barista, for a long due breaking of fast.
After the promised 30 minutes, I headed back to my saviors, and with great anticipation asked for the phone, relishing the thought of having a link to the world again, so as to assure myself that I had not suddenly died.
Imagine my surprise when I was told that the phone's display was not working (oh by-the-way, what was wrong with the phone was that the switch-on button had come off the board and hence the phone wasn't able to switch on). So they went on about the fact that they had, as promised, installed a new heart (yes, I am not a doctor) but the patient had gone blind and hence appeared to be in all certainty, still dead.
What ensued was not poetry. At least not the John Keats variety. I would advise patrons to not be fooled by my size (by which I mean my height, Bipasha may have called me petite, but it is certainly not because I have a 24 inch waist).
I ended up not paying them and came home, humbled. Sometimes, Mumbai fails to deliver.
This incident marked the end of my efforts at trying to get phone fixed pronto and heralded the beginning of a new phase wherein plans were laid of obtaining a proxy phone for the next few days while this one was sent to the ICU.
Life has a strange way of moralizing. The trouble is, it never practices what it preaches.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Technotroubles
One fine day (actually 3 am in the morning) my phone stopped working.
My first reaction was of incredulity. What? My phone? MY phone? My PHONE?
That is not to say that I wasn't expecting something of the sort to happen. Because I was, somewhere in my system there was a small ominous voice. My phone had been behaving funny since long. But as a species of optimistic (read stupid) homo-sapiens (yes, it's DNA programming, not my fault), we always tend to ignore these diligent little things (ominous voices) and I figured this would never actually happen. I would preempt it by getting it repaired or buying a new one before it could die on me.
But no. It's like a heart attack. All your life you think - let me have this last day of indulgence, from tomorrow on no more white sauce on pasta; or let me just sleep a little longer today, from tomorrow it's 6 am jogging; or are you crazy, I can't stop smoking right now, just as soon as this extremely critical project is over and done with, I shall quit.
A tad extreme, I agree, comparing a heart attack to the phone dying on you - at least there's no loss of memory in the case of a heart attack.
My first reaction was of incredulity. What? My phone? MY phone? My PHONE?
That is not to say that I wasn't expecting something of the sort to happen. Because I was, somewhere in my system there was a small ominous voice. My phone had been behaving funny since long. But as a species of optimistic (read stupid) homo-sapiens (yes, it's DNA programming, not my fault), we always tend to ignore these diligent little things (ominous voices) and I figured this would never actually happen. I would preempt it by getting it repaired or buying a new one before it could die on me.
But no. It's like a heart attack. All your life you think - let me have this last day of indulgence, from tomorrow on no more white sauce on pasta; or let me just sleep a little longer today, from tomorrow it's 6 am jogging; or are you crazy, I can't stop smoking right now, just as soon as this extremely critical project is over and done with, I shall quit.
A tad extreme, I agree, comparing a heart attack to the phone dying on you - at least there's no loss of memory in the case of a heart attack.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Seven
I got tagged.
After being around in the blogsphere (that is what I believe it is called) for over four years, someone else apart from myself finally decided to call some attention to my dubious endeavor of entertaining the masses, albeit the attention was deceptively called with the wrong hyperlink in tow, undoubtedly in an attempt to obtain exoneration from all blame forthcoming from the click-happy.
Must pay a tribute to the noble soul of Alec in the coffee table book I shall shortly be unleashing on my life and times, the title of which is yet under wraps (which in itself is as good a title as any). Don't worry Alec, shall not reveal your true identity.
So the tag is about revealing seven things about yourself that the people at the gates don't know about. So here goes -
1. I eat my meals - piece-meal. It would be exaggeration to say that I never mix food, because sometimes I do. But in most cases, I don't. In fact, I have been known to separate the buns from the pattie of a MacD's burger and eat them like that. Am unable to provide any clues as to why I do that. Maybe, am just lazy. Does that make sense?
2. I love walking, I would walk to the Fiji islands if I had the time. Of course, nowadays, if I sprouted wings and started to fly, I would be flapping them with the ferocity of a duck caught in a time-warp, so walking is rather on the back-burner.
3. I like shopping alone and even when I have company, I rarely come out of the fitting room and get a second opinion. Shopping alone because then I do not have to feel guilty about trying on ten different outfits and not liking any.
4. I have been making abortive attempts at novel writing since I learnt how to write. I tried writing detective stories (there was even a dog called Raja in it and had anyone decently well-read chanced upon it, they would have found it hugely 'inspired'), mythology, space fiction, fairy-tales, romance, contemporary fiction, and nothing has worked. Maybe I should try my hand at erotica.
5. I have a lousy memory for faces. But I can remember things that were said from as far back as 1988. I also have a special memory for smells. It's like these smells are wafting through the world and if any familiar ones find their way up my nose, they immediately bring back a flood of memories.
6. I am a cusp between a Cancer and a Leo. But I tell people I am a Leo because I want to be dynamic, leonine and graceful instead of loyal, emotional and a good cook.
7. I am a closet foodie. I would have been a practicing one had nature not played one of her cruel jokes and given me a sloth-like metabolism. One could argue that a true-blue foodie would not be deterred by metabolic rates, calorie content and all such balderdash. Maybe.
So here I am, a virgin no more. Let me tag a few people too.
Kavity - The world needs your pearls of wisdom, which are sure to glisten their way through random things you will be revealing about yourself.
Gaurav UP - Just for the simple pleasure of reading what you write.
Manikandan - I can almost imagine chuckling at the sweet little things you will say and equally twittering wickedly at those aspects of your personality which your readership is ignorant of.
AA - Mr Freaky, stop being so geeky and entertain me.
So that's it guys. A little bit of me, for-public-consumption.
After being around in the blogsphere (that is what I believe it is called) for over four years, someone else apart from myself finally decided to call some attention to my dubious endeavor of entertaining the masses, albeit the attention was deceptively called with the wrong hyperlink in tow, undoubtedly in an attempt to obtain exoneration from all blame forthcoming from the click-happy.
Must pay a tribute to the noble soul of Alec in the coffee table book I shall shortly be unleashing on my life and times, the title of which is yet under wraps (which in itself is as good a title as any). Don't worry Alec, shall not reveal your true identity.
So the tag is about revealing seven things about yourself that the people at the gates don't know about. So here goes -
1. I eat my meals - piece-meal. It would be exaggeration to say that I never mix food, because sometimes I do. But in most cases, I don't. In fact, I have been known to separate the buns from the pattie of a MacD's burger and eat them like that. Am unable to provide any clues as to why I do that. Maybe, am just lazy. Does that make sense?
2. I love walking, I would walk to the Fiji islands if I had the time. Of course, nowadays, if I sprouted wings and started to fly, I would be flapping them with the ferocity of a duck caught in a time-warp, so walking is rather on the back-burner.
3. I like shopping alone and even when I have company, I rarely come out of the fitting room and get a second opinion. Shopping alone because then I do not have to feel guilty about trying on ten different outfits and not liking any.
4. I have been making abortive attempts at novel writing since I learnt how to write. I tried writing detective stories (there was even a dog called Raja in it and had anyone decently well-read chanced upon it, they would have found it hugely 'inspired'), mythology, space fiction, fairy-tales, romance, contemporary fiction, and nothing has worked. Maybe I should try my hand at erotica.
5. I have a lousy memory for faces. But I can remember things that were said from as far back as 1988. I also have a special memory for smells. It's like these smells are wafting through the world and if any familiar ones find their way up my nose, they immediately bring back a flood of memories.
6. I am a cusp between a Cancer and a Leo. But I tell people I am a Leo because I want to be dynamic, leonine and graceful instead of loyal, emotional and a good cook.
7. I am a closet foodie. I would have been a practicing one had nature not played one of her cruel jokes and given me a sloth-like metabolism. One could argue that a true-blue foodie would not be deterred by metabolic rates, calorie content and all such balderdash. Maybe.
So here I am, a virgin no more. Let me tag a few people too.
Kavity - The world needs your pearls of wisdom, which are sure to glisten their way through random things you will be revealing about yourself.
Gaurav UP - Just for the simple pleasure of reading what you write.
Manikandan - I can almost imagine chuckling at the sweet little things you will say and equally twittering wickedly at those aspects of your personality which your readership is ignorant of.
AA - Mr Freaky, stop being so geeky and entertain me.
So that's it guys. A little bit of me, for-public-consumption.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Welcome to the real world?
Ages ago, when I used to be a little girl, I used to be quite fruity.
Yes, bonkers, if you please.
So looking at those cotton-wool clouds, with the sun streaming through, the whole deal looking like a painting (absurd similie this, comparing the real flesh and blood sky to an unreal, albeit exquisite painting as if the latter were the actual and the former just a pale comparison), I used to imagine feeling a strange stirring in my chest - like somebody was calling out to me from the over and beyond. Yes, really. Hazards of an over-active imagination and a curiously romantic take on life.
Just the other day, watching the Alice movie, brought back memories of the time I had read the book - Wonderland and The Looking Glass and how much I had loved it. The inane conversations, the ridiculous but extremely hilarious and clever poetry - The Walrus and the Carpenter and A-sitting on a Gate (if I remember correctly) and many many more, it was all rather brilliant. I would hugely identify with this Alice chippie, spending more time day-dreaming than anything else. Ruchi DD was my moniker for sometime (for those who don't know, Ruchi is my nick, my parents call me that). I remember growing up getting into all sorts of troubles due to this habit of mine to switch off from the here and now, with a dreamy glazed look coming over, so that several ditches, manholes etc had the pleasure of warming my butt over the years, many poles suddenly found themselves looming horribly out of nowhere and getting attached to my person and various detours were taken on the way to or back from somewhere simply because I never knew directions, too busy dreaming. I also remember at a point of time feeling like it was all a bit much and that I should attempt taking on a more normal hobby which didn't interfere with the other important functions of my existence. That is when I started rationing out time for these metaphysical musings. Insane, totally insane is what I call it now.
I still suffer from a hyper active imagination, and so it happens that I dream every night. Everybody does perhaps, but I even remember my dreams and they mostly feature people I know, engaging in strange activities which may have some connection with my deepest darkest thoughts and fears, or so would Freud have me believe. I remember some of my dreams from ten years back too. The subconscious in my case is a living, breathing humongous hippopotamus.
I can just go on and on. There are many and hundreds of tales which prove beyond doubt that I was a special kid. Still waters, rippling with the sub-surface tensions of growing up, listening, absorbing, reflecting and holding it all within, juxtaposing all these images into a rich alternate universe to where I would retreat at the slightest opportunity. Always a little disdainful of the real world.
Yes, bonkers, if you please.
So looking at those cotton-wool clouds, with the sun streaming through, the whole deal looking like a painting (absurd similie this, comparing the real flesh and blood sky to an unreal, albeit exquisite painting as if the latter were the actual and the former just a pale comparison), I used to imagine feeling a strange stirring in my chest - like somebody was calling out to me from the over and beyond. Yes, really. Hazards of an over-active imagination and a curiously romantic take on life.
Just the other day, watching the Alice movie, brought back memories of the time I had read the book - Wonderland and The Looking Glass and how much I had loved it. The inane conversations, the ridiculous but extremely hilarious and clever poetry - The Walrus and the Carpenter and A-sitting on a Gate (if I remember correctly) and many many more, it was all rather brilliant. I would hugely identify with this Alice chippie, spending more time day-dreaming than anything else. Ruchi DD was my moniker for sometime (for those who don't know, Ruchi is my nick, my parents call me that). I remember growing up getting into all sorts of troubles due to this habit of mine to switch off from the here and now, with a dreamy glazed look coming over, so that several ditches, manholes etc had the pleasure of warming my butt over the years, many poles suddenly found themselves looming horribly out of nowhere and getting attached to my person and various detours were taken on the way to or back from somewhere simply because I never knew directions, too busy dreaming. I also remember at a point of time feeling like it was all a bit much and that I should attempt taking on a more normal hobby which didn't interfere with the other important functions of my existence. That is when I started rationing out time for these metaphysical musings. Insane, totally insane is what I call it now.
I still suffer from a hyper active imagination, and so it happens that I dream every night. Everybody does perhaps, but I even remember my dreams and they mostly feature people I know, engaging in strange activities which may have some connection with my deepest darkest thoughts and fears, or so would Freud have me believe. I remember some of my dreams from ten years back too. The subconscious in my case is a living, breathing humongous hippopotamus.
I can just go on and on. There are many and hundreds of tales which prove beyond doubt that I was a special kid. Still waters, rippling with the sub-surface tensions of growing up, listening, absorbing, reflecting and holding it all within, juxtaposing all these images into a rich alternate universe to where I would retreat at the slightest opportunity. Always a little disdainful of the real world.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Ratnagiri Ramblings
Me: Er..Could I have a word with you?
L: I hope it's about removing that silly plastic film that you have covering me. How would you like wearing one on your face?
Me: Well, people have become maniacal about keeping you guys dust-free nowadays. I know this person, who first bought some elaborate liquid-solution-set for the purpose and has lately added a mini vacuum device to his arsenal. Would you like that? This is simpler!
L: Who is this guy! Stop hanging out with him!
Me: Errrr..hmmm..yes, will think about it. So, as I was saying, this is important..hmm..ho..hummm..yes, here it is - IthinkIwillgoexplorethetown.
L: Okay, I pick up signals which are of the speed of 3-into-ten-raised-to-you-know-what. But this even I couldn't understand!
Me: Hahaha, you are funny!
L(incredulously): Explore? But you never do that! You spend all your time only with me! Especially when you are not in Bombay, oops, Mumbai (Small Saffron dots blink up everywhere)!!
Me (patiently): I know, I know. But suddenly I feel that I should have some more perspective about the places I visit apart from knowing their godowns better than the back of my hand, you know?
L: No, I can't say I do.
Me: There is a world outside of this hotel room, you know.
L: Again, no.
Me: Okay look, I think you need some time off too. What with all those blue faces you have been pulling off-late. Why don't you spend some time alone and I will remove myself from the premises.
L: I have been sort-of over-worked. And spending a large part of the day cooped up like this, with nobody to talk to, while you go around gallivanting to all sorts of interesting places, it's not easy, you know.
Me:
L: Hmm..sounds ok.
Narrator: No sooner than this reluctant 'ok' makes itself audible, a hole in the shape of the author appears in the door as a fast getaway is made. I mean, really fast. Before something can come up which has the potential to push all thoughts of arbit ambling through the streets of Ratnagiri to the dark recesses of said author's mind. And as you may or may not know, she has many of those. Last seen, she was sitting on a dark sandy beach along the Konkan coast, staring somberly at the sea, undoubtedly thinking thoughts of great psychological depth or universal importance.
Me: Damn. I wish this place had some Diet Coke.
Monday, March 08, 2010
S
The cognition of sadness
Startingly grabs you when
No self-pity however righteous
Can really help
The tragedy in high art
Is glamorous no more
And martyrdom is not
Treacherously desired
Not a searing-second's job
But a dull persistent ache
Which by evil design
Plays imp-like
It seems to go away
When the mind is occupied
But it comes to roost
Like a scavenger to its home
Startingly grabs you when
No self-pity however righteous
Can really help
The tragedy in high art
Is glamorous no more
And martyrdom is not
Treacherously desired
Not a searing-second's job
But a dull persistent ache
Which by evil design
Plays imp-like
It seems to go away
When the mind is occupied
But it comes to roost
Like a scavenger to its home
Thursday, March 04, 2010
BOP goes the weasel
I found myself in a village called Daruj the other day, a small dusty place, with a population of around six thousand. It was your typical village, a rather big one, with four five dukaans, people sitting around and generally passing time, the few big men - the influencers, moving around with that special arrogance that comes out of being the big fish in a small pond. Nothing special.
But this is India. Even if you are not looking, you will find something in every inconsequential corner that will blow your mind away. And it is my job to look.
The B-O-P. That oft-used-abused phrase which in recent times has mainly been used to outline the growing needs of the bottom of the famous pyramid (which my company insists will become a diamond soon, yes, now that is practical application of geometry.) The theory that there is a fortune there for companies has been sufficiently debated and discussed. I myself have had conflicting opinions about it at different points in time.
What I saw that day in Daruj was testimony to the fact that companies are paying close attention indeed to CKP.
Now we have all seen those cute little parachute bottles that come for a rupee each. Among others, they are meant for the consumers who live in shanties and cannot risk purchasing a big bottle out of fear that it shall be purloined. We have also seen minuscule Fevicol and Feviquick sticks, add to that small units of milk and surprisingly even Lassi. Yes, Lassi at Rs 1.5 for the adventurous but thrifty consumer. Shampoos sachets are old hat - people have found multiple uses for them even. In UP, they are used to wash cows and give the family goats their daily baths. In many other places, they are used to wash bikes and cars. Then there are mobile top-ups which start at Rs 3. Yes, talk is cheap nowadays.
But nothing beats this - that day, hanging next to a hundred different kinds of sachets of detergents, shampoos, paan masala, tobacco, toothpaste and what have you, I saw perfect miniature versions of international brands of perfume - the likes of Charlie, Lomani and John Musk, for all of Rs 3!
Perfume?! Is that what the rural consumer demands nowadays? I can understand the urban poor, they are hugely aspirational by association. But gaonwale bhi? To maybe wear to the christening of that new pair of bullocks that the Sarpanch recently bought. Or on a 'date' by the local pond, or community electric pump perhaps. Perfume? Really?
Will they 'upgrade' to bigger bottles? Because the company must be losing money on the sachets. Will there be sufficient word-of-mouth publicity? Are these sachets even selling or are they just hanging, literally, some fresh-from-the-oven MBA having won accolades for this brilliant idea? Or have they always been there, only we never noticed? Have they been flying off-the-shelves in cities, and somebody thought what works for a vegetable seller's kith in Mumbai would also work for the vegetable grower's kin in Shegaon?
Questions, questions. But one thing is for sure, this country never ceases to amaze me.
But this is India. Even if you are not looking, you will find something in every inconsequential corner that will blow your mind away. And it is my job to look.
The B-O-P. That oft-used-abused phrase which in recent times has mainly been used to outline the growing needs of the bottom of the famous pyramid (which my company insists will become a diamond soon, yes, now that is practical application of geometry.) The theory that there is a fortune there for companies has been sufficiently debated and discussed. I myself have had conflicting opinions about it at different points in time.
What I saw that day in Daruj was testimony to the fact that companies are paying close attention indeed to CKP.
Now we have all seen those cute little parachute bottles that come for a rupee each. Among others, they are meant for the consumers who live in shanties and cannot risk purchasing a big bottle out of fear that it shall be purloined. We have also seen minuscule Fevicol and Feviquick sticks, add to that small units of milk and surprisingly even Lassi. Yes, Lassi at Rs 1.5 for the adventurous but thrifty consumer. Shampoos sachets are old hat - people have found multiple uses for them even. In UP, they are used to wash cows and give the family goats their daily baths. In many other places, they are used to wash bikes and cars. Then there are mobile top-ups which start at Rs 3. Yes, talk is cheap nowadays.
But nothing beats this - that day, hanging next to a hundred different kinds of sachets of detergents, shampoos, paan masala, tobacco, toothpaste and what have you, I saw perfect miniature versions of international brands of perfume - the likes of Charlie, Lomani and John Musk, for all of Rs 3!
Perfume?! Is that what the rural consumer demands nowadays? I can understand the urban poor, they are hugely aspirational by association. But gaonwale bhi? To maybe wear to the christening of that new pair of bullocks that the Sarpanch recently bought. Or on a 'date' by the local pond, or community electric pump perhaps. Perfume? Really?
Will they 'upgrade' to bigger bottles? Because the company must be losing money on the sachets. Will there be sufficient word-of-mouth publicity? Are these sachets even selling or are they just hanging, literally, some fresh-from-the-oven MBA having won accolades for this brilliant idea? Or have they always been there, only we never noticed? Have they been flying off-the-shelves in cities, and somebody thought what works for a vegetable seller's kith in Mumbai would also work for the vegetable grower's kin in Shegaon?
Questions, questions. But one thing is for sure, this country never ceases to amaze me.
Friday, February 26, 2010
V.I.Ps
So while the world, or at least one-sixth of it, ponders on how to make ends meet this year what with the powers that be taking a long-term view for once and suited and booted men and wo-men give expert opinions and not-so-expert opinions on how India well save itself, we here at Belapur sit and dissect responses of our distributors to questions asked to them on around ten different parameters, each of these parameters broken down into five or more sub-questions and then each sub-question broken down further into more questions, and if you think that these are amateur attempts to take feedback, think again, because there is a huge amount of regression, data interpretation, analysis that is done, after which the results are compiled into sexy ppts by consultants and shoved down our throats and also made to count in our year-end ratings which decide our career paths, so yes, we are a bunch of people engaged in what we believe is extremely important activity, while the world waltzes by.
Phew. Seriously.
Phew. Seriously.
Monday, February 22, 2010
How the week looks and other items
Some people shall be nonplussed by my FB status message.
Coming back to the same bed every night, now that's luxury. And that is exactly what I have planned for this week, not to mention a weekend where not a single cell in my body shall murmur the name of its day-time master, the company.
Work seems like a breeze.
Oh that reminds me, have to sell more breeze.
Coming back to the same bed every night, now that's luxury. And that is exactly what I have planned for this week, not to mention a weekend where not a single cell in my body shall murmur the name of its day-time master, the company.
Work seems like a breeze.
Oh that reminds me, have to sell more breeze.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
I-box
Today I saw what very few people on this planet must have had the good fortune to. I saw..
..Salman Khan in a guest appearance on CID. Yes, that very same show on the Sony channel which plods on and on - and on. And apparently presses dubious stars into doing equally suspicious cameos. Old man Sallu is playing himself at the brink of a release - Wanted, no less. And the CID storms into his residence to tell him that they have found a pirated copy in somebody's home. Sallu tries to act puzzled. Then the CID baldie goes on to say that the problem at hand is much worse than just movie piracy. And Sallu gets to act even more perplexed. He says - Maayne? (Meaning?). Then the baldie throws in the punch line, something to the effect - Along with the pirated DVD, we also found a murdered body! Sallu breaks all records which have been established uptil then by equally fishy blokes for terrible-acting.
And then I switched channels to watch a game of musical chairs being played, between all of Rahul Mahajan's wannabe wives, while he is standing around, squealing with glee, dressed as a school-boy.
Hmm. I have always had a certain attraction for the bizarre. And the most outre thing I can think of at the moment is to switch the channel again and tune in to - Raaz pichhle janam ka.
..Salman Khan in a guest appearance on CID. Yes, that very same show on the Sony channel which plods on and on - and on. And apparently presses dubious stars into doing equally suspicious cameos. Old man Sallu is playing himself at the brink of a release - Wanted, no less. And the CID storms into his residence to tell him that they have found a pirated copy in somebody's home. Sallu tries to act puzzled. Then the CID baldie goes on to say that the problem at hand is much worse than just movie piracy. And Sallu gets to act even more perplexed. He says - Maayne? (Meaning?). Then the baldie throws in the punch line, something to the effect - Along with the pirated DVD, we also found a murdered body! Sallu breaks all records which have been established uptil then by equally fishy blokes for terrible-acting.
And then I switched channels to watch a game of musical chairs being played, between all of Rahul Mahajan's wannabe wives, while he is standing around, squealing with glee, dressed as a school-boy.
Hmm. I have always had a certain attraction for the bizarre. And the most outre thing I can think of at the moment is to switch the channel again and tune in to - Raaz pichhle janam ka.
Sunday, February 07, 2010
Dil toh bachha hai ji
Ishq nein humko kaayar bana diya
Billi raasta kaate, toh dobara ghoom jate hain
Ishq nein aisa chanchal-adhir bana diya
Sooiyaan saath nahi dein, toh ghadi phek aate hain
Ishq ne naapaaq-nikamma bana diya
Raat ko aankhen band hoti hain, khwaab din ko nazar aate hain
Ishq nein dekho kaisa bachha bana diya
Jo bol humse nahi hon, woh bol kaat jate hain
Billi raasta kaate, toh dobara ghoom jate hain
Ishq nein aisa chanchal-adhir bana diya
Sooiyaan saath nahi dein, toh ghadi phek aate hain
Ishq ne naapaaq-nikamma bana diya
Raat ko aankhen band hoti hain, khwaab din ko nazar aate hain
Ishq nein dekho kaisa bachha bana diya
Jo bol humse nahi hon, woh bol kaat jate hain
Saturday, February 06, 2010
The girl who died
A lonely evening
Shadows falling heavy
The only sound
The tick-tock of the ebbing clock
Some old letters for company
And photographs
The joys of youth
Stamped clearly across each
Look up at the glass window
And the stranger looks back
This stranger is no stranger
Fashioned out of your own two hands
Look again at the photos
And hungrily devour
The girl who died a nameless death
In order for you to survive
Shadows falling heavy
The only sound
The tick-tock of the ebbing clock
Some old letters for company
And photographs
The joys of youth
Stamped clearly across each
Look up at the glass window
And the stranger looks back
This stranger is no stranger
Fashioned out of your own two hands
Look again at the photos
And hungrily devour
The girl who died a nameless death
In order for you to survive
Sunday, January 31, 2010
It takes all kinds
I recently went to Kanha National Park in, well, Kanha. For those of you, who aren't avid tiger-lovers, Kanha is one of India's finest tiger reserves, it is also home to many other kinds of fauna.
Set in Madhya Pradesh, it is said to have inspired Rudyard Kipling to write the famous Jungle Book, part of the movie also having been shot there.
We went there as part of a family meeting, around a hundred people, my team with their wives and children. Kids as young as 45 days were part of the thing, appropriately bundled into several layers in order to withstand the biting 1 degree Celsius temperatures.
It was good. I did not get to sight any tigers, but some of our people did. Indeed I got to see many varieties of deer, so much so, that I slept during the second part of the Safari.
An interesting thing - I came to know how the Tiger census is taken - the conventional method is for the team to spend several months at a particular park, branching out everyday into different directions, tracking and taking photographs of pug-marks - no two of which are the same - and repeating this process daily for months, to cover all the different pug-marks and eliminate any duplicate counting. Nowadays, they also use tranquilizer guns which lodge transmitters - innovative paparazzi.
Some days back, I also finished reading - Paths of Glory - Jeffrey Archer's latest, a sort of brief biography of the life of George Leigh Mallory, a superb mountaineer, who, as public records show, came very close to climbing the Everest, years before Hillary and Tenzing did. What Archer is trying to say is, he did actually reach the peak of the Everest, but could not come back alive.
However, the point of this post is this - it amazes me that people will suffer any kind of hardship to pursue their passion. I cannot for the life of me, imagine spending months on end, in a tiger park, going around peering at pug-marks and taking photographs, only to sit around and compare them later in the evening with your other, equally committed-to-the-cause colleagues. And that is not the end of it. I met people in Kanha who have been to every tiger reserve there is, several times over, have had near-death encounters - getting sucked into the marshes of the Sunder bans by crocodiles and suchlike and are still going strong. Nor do I have the slightest of desire to stand atop the highest point on earth, after first having weathered (-)40 degree temperatures, icy gales and a treacherous mountain. That along with a lifetime of disciplined living to keep oneself in top form. Undoubtedly, along with the passion, individuals who devote their lives to such pursuits also have the talent for it.
It is good in a way. Imagine a world where all the Hillarys, Livingstones, Vasco-da-Gamas and Robert Scotts want to be masters of business administration after having acquired a redundant degree in engineering.
I shudder at the mere thought.
Set in Madhya Pradesh, it is said to have inspired Rudyard Kipling to write the famous Jungle Book, part of the movie also having been shot there.
We went there as part of a family meeting, around a hundred people, my team with their wives and children. Kids as young as 45 days were part of the thing, appropriately bundled into several layers in order to withstand the biting 1 degree Celsius temperatures.
It was good. I did not get to sight any tigers, but some of our people did. Indeed I got to see many varieties of deer, so much so, that I slept during the second part of the Safari.
An interesting thing - I came to know how the Tiger census is taken - the conventional method is for the team to spend several months at a particular park, branching out everyday into different directions, tracking and taking photographs of pug-marks - no two of which are the same - and repeating this process daily for months, to cover all the different pug-marks and eliminate any duplicate counting. Nowadays, they also use tranquilizer guns which lodge transmitters - innovative paparazzi.
Some days back, I also finished reading - Paths of Glory - Jeffrey Archer's latest, a sort of brief biography of the life of George Leigh Mallory, a superb mountaineer, who, as public records show, came very close to climbing the Everest, years before Hillary and Tenzing did. What Archer is trying to say is, he did actually reach the peak of the Everest, but could not come back alive.
However, the point of this post is this - it amazes me that people will suffer any kind of hardship to pursue their passion. I cannot for the life of me, imagine spending months on end, in a tiger park, going around peering at pug-marks and taking photographs, only to sit around and compare them later in the evening with your other, equally committed-to-the-cause colleagues. And that is not the end of it. I met people in Kanha who have been to every tiger reserve there is, several times over, have had near-death encounters - getting sucked into the marshes of the Sunder bans by crocodiles and suchlike and are still going strong. Nor do I have the slightest of desire to stand atop the highest point on earth, after first having weathered (-)40 degree temperatures, icy gales and a treacherous mountain. That along with a lifetime of disciplined living to keep oneself in top form. Undoubtedly, along with the passion, individuals who devote their lives to such pursuits also have the talent for it.
It is good in a way. Imagine a world where all the Hillarys, Livingstones, Vasco-da-Gamas and Robert Scotts want to be masters of business administration after having acquired a redundant degree in engineering.
I shudder at the mere thought.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)