A friend recently, while narrating his trysts with the good ol’ arranged-marriage-beast, ended with - I like a little bit of passion, energy. It’s not that I want her to agree with me all the time or say only nice things. In fact, even when she says - You are an asshole, it should compel me to think - Am I really?
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
A tale of many cities - A tale of just one city
You know you are in Kanpur when
1. You go to a mall, the city’s best and biggest, itching to spend some money and the only stuff you find to spend it on is some really oily dosa and half-boiled corn
2. A walk on the main road at 2 in the afternoon is punctuated by vulgar comments and some really vulgar comments
3. There is no transport that looks palatable, except if you want to make your journey with some suspicious looking characters in ten-seater tempo-vans. I dare you, especially after having had a sufficient dosage of the afore-mentioned vulgar comments
4. Every T,D and H (and by that I do not mean Tall, Dark and Handsome) dons a leather jacket
5. On the subject of leather, you see carts and trucks piled with leather shavings. You see towering tanneries dotting the landscape fortress-like
6. There are more educational institutes and coaching classes than tanneries
7. There are more chemists and angrezi dawakhane than educational institutes and coaching classes
8. There are more angrezi sharab ke theke than chemists
Like my Senior from Savories, I too fall in love with cities. I fall in love with the time having spent there, with the people.
That special Kanpuri accent, actually central-UP accent. Enunciate every word. Not like your Dilli-rajdhani that eats up half its words and blurs the edges of the remaining.
Nahi Bhaiiiyaa. Har ek shabd ko dabake boliye. Haan. Bilkul aiise hi. Kya samjhe?
For the first time in my life, I don’t feel I will be taken to be an outsider because I speak with the newspaper-wala and the dukaandaar and the traffic cop and the thanedaar in Hindi. Hindi is the local language here. (In Delhi, you don’t speak to anybody. I don’t know if they have devised an advanced technique of robbing you just by speaking to you).
Then there are the paan-walas of Kanpur. I saw a board which said - Ladies Paan Center. Go figure.
Oh, the milk-trains. UP and Bihar are not called the cow-belt for nothing. So everyday thousands of men from villages make their way to the towns and cities with their pitchers of milk. I saw a train the other day and the entire length of it had milk cans hanging from outside its windows.
Yes, I have lived in many cities and each one has a place, in my mind, in my memories.
I do feel like an outsider though.
I always will. In any place in the world. Except one.
These others, they mean nothing. I keep coming back to you and you draw me into your steely embrace. You make me feel like I belong. I admire your sensibilities - your ability to absorb, your ability to bear, your temperance, your infinite aspiration, your tendency to flatten everybody into nameless entities - the great leveller that you are, your resourcefulness - you never disappoint, your devilish dual nature - you want to crush people into oblivion and yet and yet, you want them to crush you, you want them to prove their mettle to you so that you can elevate them to the dizzying heights of achievement.
You know you complete me.
1. You go to a mall, the city’s best and biggest, itching to spend some money and the only stuff you find to spend it on is some really oily dosa and half-boiled corn
2. A walk on the main road at 2 in the afternoon is punctuated by vulgar comments and some really vulgar comments
3. There is no transport that looks palatable, except if you want to make your journey with some suspicious looking characters in ten-seater tempo-vans. I dare you, especially after having had a sufficient dosage of the afore-mentioned vulgar comments
4. Every T,D and H (and by that I do not mean Tall, Dark and Handsome) dons a leather jacket
5. On the subject of leather, you see carts and trucks piled with leather shavings. You see towering tanneries dotting the landscape fortress-like
6. There are more educational institutes and coaching classes than tanneries
7. There are more chemists and angrezi dawakhane than educational institutes and coaching classes
8. There are more angrezi sharab ke theke than chemists
Like my Senior from Savories, I too fall in love with cities. I fall in love with the time having spent there, with the people.
That special Kanpuri accent, actually central-UP accent. Enunciate every word. Not like your Dilli-rajdhani that eats up half its words and blurs the edges of the remaining.
Nahi Bhaiiiyaa. Har ek shabd ko dabake boliye. Haan. Bilkul aiise hi. Kya samjhe?
For the first time in my life, I don’t feel I will be taken to be an outsider because I speak with the newspaper-wala and the dukaandaar and the traffic cop and the thanedaar in Hindi. Hindi is the local language here. (In Delhi, you don’t speak to anybody. I don’t know if they have devised an advanced technique of robbing you just by speaking to you).
Then there are the paan-walas of Kanpur. I saw a board which said - Ladies Paan Center. Go figure.
Oh, the milk-trains. UP and Bihar are not called the cow-belt for nothing. So everyday thousands of men from villages make their way to the towns and cities with their pitchers of milk. I saw a train the other day and the entire length of it had milk cans hanging from outside its windows.
Yes, I have lived in many cities and each one has a place, in my mind, in my memories.
I do feel like an outsider though.
I always will. In any place in the world. Except one.
These others, they mean nothing. I keep coming back to you and you draw me into your steely embrace. You make me feel like I belong. I admire your sensibilities - your ability to absorb, your ability to bear, your temperance, your infinite aspiration, your tendency to flatten everybody into nameless entities - the great leveller that you are, your resourcefulness - you never disappoint, your devilish dual nature - you want to crush people into oblivion and yet and yet, you want them to crush you, you want them to prove their mettle to you so that you can elevate them to the dizzying heights of achievement.
You know you complete me.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Just the Bees
Today I got some dope on bee-keeping. It is quite a profitable business apparently.
What got me thinking and I am wondering why I haven’t thought about it before, is how the bee colony behaves.
So there is one and only one queen, The Queen Bee and all she has to do is reproduce. The male bees, also known as the drone bees, they, well, assist. The worker bees, tens of thousands of them, as the moniker suggests are the ones that do all the work - they go out and get the nectar, they make it into honey by ingesting and regurgitating that nectar a thousand times and they look after the young larvae. They also protect the hive since they possess the sting.
What is strange are the group dynamics. So there can’t be two queen bees in a hive. If such a situation does develop, it will result in fighting and wide-spread destruction. While jealousy, ego-clashes and the like are quite the norm among humans, imagine bees behaving like such divas.
What is even more interesting is that the bee society is a matriarchal one. They worship the queen, because she gives birth. It is the highest calling. If she goes amiss, the hive disintegrates. They all pack-up and leave.
As an aside, the flowers give their nectar freely in exchange for some pollination.
This post has taken on a life of its own. Ideas are flying as I write. I am thinking, every other creature on earth is quite blatant and unashamed about the fact that the prime motive of their lives is to procreate, to spread the seeds of their species as far and as wide as possible. Humans are the only ones that look to the arts, philosophy, intellectual stimulation and love as being central to their existence. Humans are the only ones who search for a purpose and a calling and some higher plane. Then again, humans are the only ones that desecrate the process of procreation and dishonor the provenance of creation - the woman.
Thursday, January 08, 2009
The Dark Edge
You like the wistfulness
Of blurred memories
They are like sweet nectar
To your rotten soul
You plant the seeds
Of fear in my belly
Fear of moving outside safe havens
Safe, or so you tell me
But your swan song is past
So be gone with grace
And when I look in the mirror
I don’t want to see your hideous face
Of blurred memories
They are like sweet nectar
To your rotten soul
You plant the seeds
Of fear in my belly
Fear of moving outside safe havens
Safe, or so you tell me
But your swan song is past
So be gone with grace
And when I look in the mirror
I don’t want to see your hideous face
Monday, January 05, 2009
Interesting Times
I am seeing a lot of unconventional advertising nowadays. Maybe because I have started noticing more, or maybe because the agencies are getting more creative, the companies/organizations are getting more risk-loving and the consumers are getting bored - the need of the hour is clutter-breaking advertising.
Let me start by saying I am not talking about television media.
So what have we? The newspaper that you read everyday for one. Boring, you say. Advertising in newspapers is old hat. Even the shady neighborhood gymkhana does it. Then picture this. You pick up your TOI and it’s as if half the front page has been wiped out. So you get to read only half the sentences and headlines, see half the pictures. It’s not a 100%. What is? Only Tropicana.
Look out for more such creative print ads. I have spotted a couple of others, but there is no way I will be able to describe the impact here. As they say, a picture is worth a thousand words.
Then there is Viral. Usually these are quite humorous since you are not paying through your nose for every second that the ad runs. So there is this IDBI Fortis Wealthsurance one which makes ample use of the fact that Rajanikanth is baap of all and no one, I repeat, no one has that kind of fan-following.
This is only the tip of the ice-berg. Digital marketing is exploding in ways unimaginable. Whether it is about catching surfers in a cyber-café, or having voice alerts that talk about giving you a pizza free if not delivered within 30 minutes when you type in ‘Pizza’ into Google search - there are myriad ways of catching attention.
And now, one of my favorites - OOH - Out of Home. The ‘Red Ribbon Express’ was an initiative undertaken in 2007 wherein a train would travel the length and breadth of India for 180 days, housing in it - exhibitions, counseling and medical centers, auditoriums and carrying with it people who would disembark at the stations and cycle into the towns and villages to stage skits and plays on Aids awareness. I hear that this concept has been used by companies as well.
And I end with this. Brand - Hobby Ideas.
Let me start by saying I am not talking about television media.
So what have we? The newspaper that you read everyday for one. Boring, you say. Advertising in newspapers is old hat. Even the shady neighborhood gymkhana does it. Then picture this. You pick up your TOI and it’s as if half the front page has been wiped out. So you get to read only half the sentences and headlines, see half the pictures. It’s not a 100%. What is? Only Tropicana.
Look out for more such creative print ads. I have spotted a couple of others, but there is no way I will be able to describe the impact here. As they say, a picture is worth a thousand words.
Then there is Viral. Usually these are quite humorous since you are not paying through your nose for every second that the ad runs. So there is this IDBI Fortis Wealthsurance one which makes ample use of the fact that Rajanikanth is baap of all and no one, I repeat, no one has that kind of fan-following.
This is only the tip of the ice-berg. Digital marketing is exploding in ways unimaginable. Whether it is about catching surfers in a cyber-café, or having voice alerts that talk about giving you a pizza free if not delivered within 30 minutes when you type in ‘Pizza’ into Google search - there are myriad ways of catching attention.
And now, one of my favorites - OOH - Out of Home. The ‘Red Ribbon Express’ was an initiative undertaken in 2007 wherein a train would travel the length and breadth of India for 180 days, housing in it - exhibitions, counseling and medical centers, auditoriums and carrying with it people who would disembark at the stations and cycle into the towns and villages to stage skits and plays on Aids awareness. I hear that this concept has been used by companies as well.
And I end with this. Brand - Hobby Ideas.
Friday, January 02, 2009
Flower Power
I met a couple of NGOs today. It’s fascinating how the system works. There are innumerable such people who start these NGOs. Say, one is named - Jagrut Mahila Samiti. They can be working for infinite number of causes - nutrition during pregnancy, fight against domestic abuse, education etc. They sometimes also set up ‘Self Help Groups’ - SHGs or ‘Swaym Seva Samoohs’ as they are called in Hindi. They are the intermediaries between women who want to get involved in some enterprise and the banks that lend them money. They get targets from the government authorities and get paid a sum as per performance.
An SHG is a collection of 10-20 women. They get an account in one of the nationalized or Grameen banks. These Grameen banks have their offices in shabby little rickety buildings, but they do amazing work. They are usually affiliated to some nationalized bank.
When a group is set up, the women all pool in a fixed amount of money every month. The bank also loans them some amount of money after a period of time, if it sees that the women have been depositing money regularly and their bank balance is healthy. After a while, it loans them a bigger sum of money and waives-off one-third of it.
The women also charge each other an interest internally in case one of them wants to borrow money for something urgent from their joint deposit.
The problem is not the lack of governmental initiative. That is firing on all cylinders as I see it. There are two other major problems. One, when the money is loaned out, there are enough people in the system to demand a commission. Around 20% of the hand-out gets dissipated through that channel. The second problem is that the women don’t use the money for business i.e. they don’t invest in ventures that will give them a steady income for years to come. They use the money for short-term gains, at most, buffaloes.
On a lighter note, this NGO woman I met today had set up a Mahila Forum in some village in UP which would go and beat up the men who perpetrated domestic abuse on their women. Apparently they became extremely powerful in the village; the men would quake in their boots at the thought of them.
By the way, Happy New Year to all who are reading this. May you find all your answers.
An SHG is a collection of 10-20 women. They get an account in one of the nationalized or Grameen banks. These Grameen banks have their offices in shabby little rickety buildings, but they do amazing work. They are usually affiliated to some nationalized bank.
When a group is set up, the women all pool in a fixed amount of money every month. The bank also loans them some amount of money after a period of time, if it sees that the women have been depositing money regularly and their bank balance is healthy. After a while, it loans them a bigger sum of money and waives-off one-third of it.
The women also charge each other an interest internally in case one of them wants to borrow money for something urgent from their joint deposit.
The problem is not the lack of governmental initiative. That is firing on all cylinders as I see it. There are two other major problems. One, when the money is loaned out, there are enough people in the system to demand a commission. Around 20% of the hand-out gets dissipated through that channel. The second problem is that the women don’t use the money for business i.e. they don’t invest in ventures that will give them a steady income for years to come. They use the money for short-term gains, at most, buffaloes.
On a lighter note, this NGO woman I met today had set up a Mahila Forum in some village in UP which would go and beat up the men who perpetrated domestic abuse on their women. Apparently they became extremely powerful in the village; the men would quake in their boots at the thought of them.
By the way, Happy New Year to all who are reading this. May you find all your answers.
The Cow Belt
I was in Pondicherry last week and am in Kanpur now. Every day, I go to a couple of villages and see how rural sales happen. More importantly, I see what the rural way of life is. Strangely I feel at home. But that’s another story.
Villages are no longer what they used to be. Lives have improved in the past few years, is my first impression. Roads have been built, they are being built. Places that used to be inaccessible in the monsoons due to huge tracts of muck, are now not so. There are schools - private schools and government schools and there are colleges on the highways. Although a person would have to travel around 20 kms to study in one of them. There are organizations that provide teachers to schools on a contractual basis. There are hand-pumps, which have made the bore-wells obsolete in many places.
There is easier access to loans. Quite a few banks around to lend money and waive off some part of it too. The disadvantage here is that, while earlier stringent checks would happen before the money was released; now sometimes, due to reduced red-tape, the Presidents and Secretaries of the Panchaayats pocket it.
Don’t get me wrong. There is huge scope for improvement. There need to be more schools, colleges, more awareness of what these children can do with their lives after that. Better sanitation facilities, more exposure for women, better reach to towns around. Pukka houses, better farm equipment, more emphasis on health and hygiene. The list is endless.
But in the heartland of Uttar Pradesh, as I zip across the many many lovely dancing-in-the-sun-daffodillian mustard stalks, the cabbage patches and the pumpkins on the roof-tops, I think to myself - these people aren’t woe-begone and destitute, I have seen worse. I have seen worse expressions on the faces on those kids who lunge at every car at the traffic signals - to sell something or wash windows or simply beg. That haggard look of malnutritioned-grief or cunning which comes from living and surviving on the streets. Children with injection marks on their arms, children with broken bodies - possibly broken by the local gundas who push them into begging, children who scavenge in the dumps for their daily meal.
All say, "How hard it is that we have to die" - a strange complaint to come from the mouths of people who have had to live.
Villages are no longer what they used to be. Lives have improved in the past few years, is my first impression. Roads have been built, they are being built. Places that used to be inaccessible in the monsoons due to huge tracts of muck, are now not so. There are schools - private schools and government schools and there are colleges on the highways. Although a person would have to travel around 20 kms to study in one of them. There are organizations that provide teachers to schools on a contractual basis. There are hand-pumps, which have made the bore-wells obsolete in many places.
There is easier access to loans. Quite a few banks around to lend money and waive off some part of it too. The disadvantage here is that, while earlier stringent checks would happen before the money was released; now sometimes, due to reduced red-tape, the Presidents and Secretaries of the Panchaayats pocket it.
Don’t get me wrong. There is huge scope for improvement. There need to be more schools, colleges, more awareness of what these children can do with their lives after that. Better sanitation facilities, more exposure for women, better reach to towns around. Pukka houses, better farm equipment, more emphasis on health and hygiene. The list is endless.
But in the heartland of Uttar Pradesh, as I zip across the many many lovely dancing-in-the-sun-daffodillian mustard stalks, the cabbage patches and the pumpkins on the roof-tops, I think to myself - these people aren’t woe-begone and destitute, I have seen worse. I have seen worse expressions on the faces on those kids who lunge at every car at the traffic signals - to sell something or wash windows or simply beg. That haggard look of malnutritioned-grief or cunning which comes from living and surviving on the streets. Children with injection marks on their arms, children with broken bodies - possibly broken by the local gundas who push them into begging, children who scavenge in the dumps for their daily meal.
All say, "How hard it is that we have to die" - a strange complaint to come from the mouths of people who have had to live.
Saturday, December 27, 2008
AnS - Part VI
Sayanee could not sleep that night.
Khyati thought she might be pregnant. At first she had sounded devastated, but in the course of their conversation, Sayanee started sensing some bits and pieces of excitement peeking out from behind the old cumulonimbus. There was this thing about her. She made even the biggest of catastrophes seem like a badly dealt game of cards - at worst.
Ashutosh didn’t know yet. Khyati would break the news to him only if it turned out to be true.
Sayanee sighed and turned around in her bed, certain that would be of no use. Love? Does it really happen like this? Perhaps. Or maybe it is just an inability to deal smartly with sunken investments.
The next day at office, Sayanee mostly found herself whiling away time. She ended up making plans with her college friends for the evening. These were people who she had been extremely close to and they had managed to retain it over the years - it helped that they were all in Mumbai.
Bandstand - one of the most beautiful places in Mumbai. The rocks, the sea, the sunset. If you want more - the cafes and within the radius of a kilometer - the numerous eateries. The three of them had spent many an evening there - eating bhutta, walking along the promenade, looking indulgently on at couples in their little nooks - couples that probably lived with ten others in a two hundred sq feet hole, couples desperate for a little privacy, for the romance of being able to hold hands and cozy up.
There was a gentle breeze that evening. The sky looked foggy as usual.
“So Sayanee, kyaa haal chaal? Tu toh yaar milti hi nahi hai aaj-kal.” Complained Nimisha in her characteristic nasal drawl.
“Work Nimisha. You know how it gets.”
Jigna made a face and turned towards her. “You work too much darling. How is Aunty?”
“Haven’t met her since quite some time. Spoke to her day before. She seems okay.”
“How is Suyash Jigna?”
“He is the same old boring thing. He wants to get married ASAP”
“So? Kitni saal takk latkaayegi use?” Nimisha laughed.
“Abbe chhup. Shaadi and all is scary man.”
They all laughed. Typical Jigna. Never before had a gujarati household faced as much trouble as the Pareeks had with Jigna.
“What do you think Sayanee? Mera boy-friend hota toh main toh abhi ke abhi shaadi kar leti.”
“Tu toh kar hi leti. So what are your plans Jigna? Heard you were planning to write the CAT?”
“Yea man, let’s see. What about you? Abhi bhi wohi - aage nahi padhna chahti?”
“Kya karna hai. I am happy with the way life is going. I like my job and my colleagues. I like where I am living. I like my room-mate. I have my friends. More than enough.”
“Get a boy-friend first. And it’s not going to stay like this forever.”
“Huh? Why not?”
“Colleagues will leave, room-mate will move on, friends will get married with the first chimp they see, like our dear old Nimbu here, or die frighteningly early in a far-away bear-infested jungle, in search of the all-elusive romance of life , like me.”
All three laughed. The sun was looking like a giant orange on fire. The rocks were glinting - like black gold. Sayanee loved these times they spent together. The three of them had it just right. The masala, the madness, the candor - just right.
They walked into Barista by the time it got a little dark. After plonking themselves into chairs, Jigna looked around, gave a little start and waved out to someone. A man walked over from the adjacent table.
“Hey Jigna! Fancy meeting you here! We were talking about Bandstand just the other day.” He was tall, extremely tall, well over six feet. A giant really.
Jigna chuckled and introduced him as Leo, a guy she went to classes with at the CAT coaching institute.
“Are those your friends? Why don’t you people join us?” Said the ever-sociable Jigna.
Sayanee groaned inwardly. This Jigna was just too outgoing sometimes. She stole a small side-ward glance at Nimisha, who incidentally was staring at her shoes. Ah, for all her ‘boy-talk’, Nimbu had always been the shy one.
Two more guys came and joined the table. A round of introductions followed. Saurabh - chartered accountant in the making, interning at a Consulting company. And Amanpreet - working at a Media planning agency.
It took Sayanee a few seconds to place him. He was sitting there, looking a little uncomfortable. Both recalled their last rendezvous, aboard the crowded local train.
They sat silently for sometime. There was something about him. He looked pinched. How do you say it, anguished perhaps? Permanently.
“So where do you stay?” He ventured uncertainly.
“Andheri. Sher-e-punjab.”
“Haan, maine aapko Andheri mein train par chadte dekha hai.”
He had a strange accent. Not typical Delhi, but it left a taste of the North, especially after he stopped speaking. Like notes in perfume. The more obvious and volatile ones hit you first - leave you confused and then the subtler and heavier base scent registers, after the fickle ones have wafted away.
“Yes. Maine bhi.”
“Wo main us din hurry mein tha, isliye aapko thoda sa dhakka maar diya tha. I hope you are not angry.”
“Arre nahi, don’t worry. Locals mein toh normal hai.”
She smiled at him for the first time. This guy was like a child, a lost bewildered little thing in this crazy city. He eased up, visibly.
“You two know each other?” Jigna interrupted her own vivid account of the time she had followed around a co-worker for a week because she suspected him of theft, to butt-in.
“Not really. We took the same local train once. I almost didn’t let him get-off.” Smiled Sayanee.
Yes, life was good, she mused. The job, the colleagues, the home, the room-mate, the friends, even random strangers on the train. There was a calm and effortless way about it right now. Like the peaceful waters of an afternoon sea taking its siesta or the fishing boat floating gently along on it - sails down.
Khyati thought she might be pregnant. At first she had sounded devastated, but in the course of their conversation, Sayanee started sensing some bits and pieces of excitement peeking out from behind the old cumulonimbus. There was this thing about her. She made even the biggest of catastrophes seem like a badly dealt game of cards - at worst.
Ashutosh didn’t know yet. Khyati would break the news to him only if it turned out to be true.
Sayanee sighed and turned around in her bed, certain that would be of no use. Love? Does it really happen like this? Perhaps. Or maybe it is just an inability to deal smartly with sunken investments.
The next day at office, Sayanee mostly found herself whiling away time. She ended up making plans with her college friends for the evening. These were people who she had been extremely close to and they had managed to retain it over the years - it helped that they were all in Mumbai.
Bandstand - one of the most beautiful places in Mumbai. The rocks, the sea, the sunset. If you want more - the cafes and within the radius of a kilometer - the numerous eateries. The three of them had spent many an evening there - eating bhutta, walking along the promenade, looking indulgently on at couples in their little nooks - couples that probably lived with ten others in a two hundred sq feet hole, couples desperate for a little privacy, for the romance of being able to hold hands and cozy up.
There was a gentle breeze that evening. The sky looked foggy as usual.
“So Sayanee, kyaa haal chaal? Tu toh yaar milti hi nahi hai aaj-kal.” Complained Nimisha in her characteristic nasal drawl.
“Work Nimisha. You know how it gets.”
Jigna made a face and turned towards her. “You work too much darling. How is Aunty?”
“Haven’t met her since quite some time. Spoke to her day before. She seems okay.”
“How is Suyash Jigna?”
“He is the same old boring thing. He wants to get married ASAP”
“So? Kitni saal takk latkaayegi use?” Nimisha laughed.
“Abbe chhup. Shaadi and all is scary man.”
They all laughed. Typical Jigna. Never before had a gujarati household faced as much trouble as the Pareeks had with Jigna.
“What do you think Sayanee? Mera boy-friend hota toh main toh abhi ke abhi shaadi kar leti.”
“Tu toh kar hi leti. So what are your plans Jigna? Heard you were planning to write the CAT?”
“Yea man, let’s see. What about you? Abhi bhi wohi - aage nahi padhna chahti?”
“Kya karna hai. I am happy with the way life is going. I like my job and my colleagues. I like where I am living. I like my room-mate. I have my friends. More than enough.”
“Get a boy-friend first. And it’s not going to stay like this forever.”
“Huh? Why not?”
“Colleagues will leave, room-mate will move on, friends will get married with the first chimp they see, like our dear old Nimbu here, or die frighteningly early in a far-away bear-infested jungle, in search of the all-elusive romance of life , like me.”
All three laughed. The sun was looking like a giant orange on fire. The rocks were glinting - like black gold. Sayanee loved these times they spent together. The three of them had it just right. The masala, the madness, the candor - just right.
They walked into Barista by the time it got a little dark. After plonking themselves into chairs, Jigna looked around, gave a little start and waved out to someone. A man walked over from the adjacent table.
“Hey Jigna! Fancy meeting you here! We were talking about Bandstand just the other day.” He was tall, extremely tall, well over six feet. A giant really.
Jigna chuckled and introduced him as Leo, a guy she went to classes with at the CAT coaching institute.
“Are those your friends? Why don’t you people join us?” Said the ever-sociable Jigna.
Sayanee groaned inwardly. This Jigna was just too outgoing sometimes. She stole a small side-ward glance at Nimisha, who incidentally was staring at her shoes. Ah, for all her ‘boy-talk’, Nimbu had always been the shy one.
Two more guys came and joined the table. A round of introductions followed. Saurabh - chartered accountant in the making, interning at a Consulting company. And Amanpreet - working at a Media planning agency.
It took Sayanee a few seconds to place him. He was sitting there, looking a little uncomfortable. Both recalled their last rendezvous, aboard the crowded local train.
They sat silently for sometime. There was something about him. He looked pinched. How do you say it, anguished perhaps? Permanently.
“So where do you stay?” He ventured uncertainly.
“Andheri. Sher-e-punjab.”
“Haan, maine aapko Andheri mein train par chadte dekha hai.”
He had a strange accent. Not typical Delhi, but it left a taste of the North, especially after he stopped speaking. Like notes in perfume. The more obvious and volatile ones hit you first - leave you confused and then the subtler and heavier base scent registers, after the fickle ones have wafted away.
“Yes. Maine bhi.”
“Wo main us din hurry mein tha, isliye aapko thoda sa dhakka maar diya tha. I hope you are not angry.”
“Arre nahi, don’t worry. Locals mein toh normal hai.”
She smiled at him for the first time. This guy was like a child, a lost bewildered little thing in this crazy city. He eased up, visibly.
“You two know each other?” Jigna interrupted her own vivid account of the time she had followed around a co-worker for a week because she suspected him of theft, to butt-in.
“Not really. We took the same local train once. I almost didn’t let him get-off.” Smiled Sayanee.
Yes, life was good, she mused. The job, the colleagues, the home, the room-mate, the friends, even random strangers on the train. There was a calm and effortless way about it right now. Like the peaceful waters of an afternoon sea taking its siesta or the fishing boat floating gently along on it - sails down.
Monday, December 08, 2008
The Love-Hate
You
Miss her
But never want to speak to her
Ever again
She
Understands you like a dream
She also abso-fucking-lutely brings
The devil out in you
It
Is not love not hate
It is that crazy-dysfunctional-mutative human curse
I like to call the love-hate
Miss her
But never want to speak to her
Ever again
She
Understands you like a dream
She also abso-fucking-lutely brings
The devil out in you
It
Is not love not hate
It is that crazy-dysfunctional-mutative human curse
I like to call the love-hate
AnS - Part V
Mumbai is bursting at the seams. There are 15 million people, maybe more, that call this city home. Everybody has a story. The raaste ka mochi - he sits there stony eyed, 200 meters from the next one, sews-up your errant shoe expertly and sullenly demands Rs 3 for it, the auto-driver - an arrogant breed, he nonchalantly dismisses your pleas to take you to your place of work (which is unfortunately neither too near, nor too far) in the same breath as the bomb-blasts, aiming to maximize his daily-wage-earning, the secretary - part of a fiercely protective gang, she marks her territory on the train and in the office, is immaculately coiffed and harbors strong sentiments on loo-usage and her boss’ antics, in that order.
Everybody has a story.
Khyati met Ashutosh over chat. One of those Yahoo messenger chat rooms. It was no accident she was spending so much time online those days. She was working on a digital marketing campaign for a youth deodorant brand.
Ashutosh was just one of those random pings, and somehow they hit it off. It helped that his chat id was not Loveforyou_82. Also, that he was 27 and had a successful textiles business. They chatted back and forth over a period of two months and towards the end of it, she found herself sharing most of her daily struggles, agonies and successes with him. He was always very patient and reassuring. Enough premium cannot be put on these particular qualities in a world where nobody has the time to stand, let alone listen.
When they had decided to meet; she had been a little nervous - this was just not her thing, but the date had gone exceedingly well from the start. He had turned out to be this tall nerdy-looking guy, with great hair and an engaging smile. He was, of course, bowled over by her. She was what you would describe as in-your-face sexy. Not just the way she looked, even her personality - spunky and loud.
Numerous dates - after-office-dinners, late-weekend-night-coffees and eventually, breakfast-in-bed-mornings - later, he had told her that he was married.
One always has a list of Dos and Donts. In times of crisis, they are as impotent as the erstwhile minister for homeland security.
Khyati had screamed and ranted. His defense was clichéd - trapped in a loveless and joyless marriage, she being the only thing that kept him going any more - the usual. Khyati was not the sort of person to get influenced by sentiment; but she did.
We are an optimistic race. We are an egoistic species. It’s one and the same thing.
When Sayanee returned from Europe and learnt about these developments, she was stunned.
Love has many forms - it heals, it makes better people out of us, it gives us company; it also sometimes makes us so blind, we don’t notice that the landscape has changed, the grass grows a bit thicker and the birds chirp no more.
Everybody has a story.
Khyati met Ashutosh over chat. One of those Yahoo messenger chat rooms. It was no accident she was spending so much time online those days. She was working on a digital marketing campaign for a youth deodorant brand.
Ashutosh was just one of those random pings, and somehow they hit it off. It helped that his chat id was not Loveforyou_82. Also, that he was 27 and had a successful textiles business. They chatted back and forth over a period of two months and towards the end of it, she found herself sharing most of her daily struggles, agonies and successes with him. He was always very patient and reassuring. Enough premium cannot be put on these particular qualities in a world where nobody has the time to stand, let alone listen.
When they had decided to meet; she had been a little nervous - this was just not her thing, but the date had gone exceedingly well from the start. He had turned out to be this tall nerdy-looking guy, with great hair and an engaging smile. He was, of course, bowled over by her. She was what you would describe as in-your-face sexy. Not just the way she looked, even her personality - spunky and loud.
Numerous dates - after-office-dinners, late-weekend-night-coffees and eventually, breakfast-in-bed-mornings - later, he had told her that he was married.
One always has a list of Dos and Donts. In times of crisis, they are as impotent as the erstwhile minister for homeland security.
Khyati had screamed and ranted. His defense was clichéd - trapped in a loveless and joyless marriage, she being the only thing that kept him going any more - the usual. Khyati was not the sort of person to get influenced by sentiment; but she did.
We are an optimistic race. We are an egoistic species. It’s one and the same thing.
When Sayanee returned from Europe and learnt about these developments, she was stunned.
Love has many forms - it heals, it makes better people out of us, it gives us company; it also sometimes makes us so blind, we don’t notice that the landscape has changed, the grass grows a bit thicker and the birds chirp no more.
Monday, December 01, 2008
Say it I will
Conflict is a natural state of being. We are designed to be perpetually courting conflict. The same philosophy extends to complexity and pain. If there is no pain in his life, man will invent it. Happiness is much desired, but once achieved, is like an unstable substance that quickly reacts with something to become dilute, impure and a shadow of it’s glittering self.
Misery is stable, conflict is staple. From these, stem stories of great bravery, compassion and love.
One of the greatest ironies of life. Disharmony harmonizes.
Misery is stable, conflict is staple. From these, stem stories of great bravery, compassion and love.
One of the greatest ironies of life. Disharmony harmonizes.
Monday, November 10, 2008
The Romance
Hazaaron Khvaahishen aisiin ki har Khvaaish pe dam nikale
Bahut nikale mere armaan lekin phir bhii kam nikale
Hazaaron Khvaahishen and each one special. Beautiful.
On a tangent, or perhaps not. I love the romance of not knowing what you want to do in life. The ideal is to live each moment with grand ferocity and grander passion. Way leads to way.
A man who started out as being a sound technician at the local radio station. Then got enlisted and worked as sound engineer in the navy for a bit. After the war, went to University and after graduating, joined a travel and tourism company, in-charge of designing and executing marketing campaigns for holiday destinations. Did well. Was sent to many exotic and far-flung locations to build campaigns there. Left the company. Started a consulting enterprise of his own. Struggled. Persisted. Built credibility. No job was too small. No job was unimportant. Many years, projects, magnificent successes and Herculean mistakes later, he was traveling the world - imparting the pearls of his well-earned wisdom to some-keen-eyed-some-not-so-much students.
Do we belong to the generation that demands us to know exactly how life will turn out? Where all B-school forms have questions on ‘long-term’ and ‘short-term’ goals. Phrases such as ‘logical reasoning’ and ‘clarity of thought’ are bandied about. Where you are not only expected to know where the yellow-brick-road of your life is leading to, but also to change the course of that road to lead to your, well, long-term goal.
Yes, we live in those times. And it has its moments. But I yearn for the romance of not-knowing. And I revel in it.
I started my walk at the foot of the hills
With a mellow sun for company
The undulating landscape had me arrested
I never realized when I left behind my narrow confines
I saw new kind of birds
And tasted strange berries
I danced a bit keeping time with the spring
As it made its way down somewhere, to the sea
I met other travelers, some were old
They all gave me beans
For every bean that made me feel funny
There was one that filled my dreams with music
It was a strange walk
And when evening came
I didn’t know where I was
I knew I wasn’t the same
Of all my great adventures, this was the greatest
Because the journey was as beautiful
As the knowledge of having reached someplace
Even more breath-taking than what I had set out to
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
City Lights
Last night Chennai took my breath away. I belong to the school that thinks that nothing can beat the aerial view of Mumbai, with all it's glittering lights and their shimmering reflections in the sea.
Till I saw Chennai. Nay, beheld Chennai. Chennai is vast, it has roads criss-crossing it's body like conductor on a giant Printed Circuit Board, and those roads have traffic on them. Thousands and millions of tiny pin-pricks of red, yellow, green and blue.
How does one hang-on to such an image for posterity? To invoke it when one needs to feel beauty and grandeur? Like Paris from the Eiffel, only better.
I am very peppy this morning. Barack Obama is home.
Till I saw Chennai. Nay, beheld Chennai. Chennai is vast, it has roads criss-crossing it's body like conductor on a giant Printed Circuit Board, and those roads have traffic on them. Thousands and millions of tiny pin-pricks of red, yellow, green and blue.
How does one hang-on to such an image for posterity? To invoke it when one needs to feel beauty and grandeur? Like Paris from the Eiffel, only better.
I am very peppy this morning. Barack Obama is home.
Monday, November 03, 2008
AnS - Part IV
When Sayanee got home - the apartment she shared with a woman she had met by chance in her early working days in Mumbai - she was in high spirits. She had dropped by Oxford Book Shop on her way back and picked up a couple of PG Wodehouses and a book of plays by Oscar Wilde.
Reading was a passion, ever since childhood. From the Famous Five she had picked up at the age of 8, to The Joke she had recently finished with; reading gave her an alternate world inhabited with characters - some strangely abnormal, some abnormally familiar - but nonetheless, all of them holding a special place in her fictional universe.
When she entered her two-bedroom flat in Andheri East, it was in complete darkness; Khyati, her flat mate must have got late at work. Khyati was a marketing executive at a consumer goods company and sometimes her work-hours, unlike Sayanee’s own, were inexplicable. She switched on the lights, happily dreaming about the books she had picked up, when the door to Khyati’s room opened and she came out -
“Hey! I thought you were at work. Why have you been sitting in the dark?”
Closer examination led her to ask, “Have you been sleeping?” as she realized that Khyati was wearing pyjamas and looking decidedly disheveled.
Khyati just stood there and it suddenly struck Sayanee that Khyati’s eyes were red and puffed-up.
“O my God! You have been crying? What happened?!” Sayanee exclaimed as Khyati started crying again, softly at first, apparently not for the first time that night.
A little bit of background here. Khyati’s father was a retired Major-General and hence she had spent most of her young life traipsing across the country. After such an unsettling childhood; at 18, she had found herself in a state of complete confusion regarding what she wanted to do, quite unlike her father. Out of a lack of any major passions she had done a Bachelor’s course in Arts with Media and Communication as specializations, from Mumbai. During the course she had realized that she had an eye for art, a sense of reading-between-lines, and somewhat of a head for numbers. She got into an advertising agency and after having worked there for six years, the last of which were as Account Executive, she crossed over to the other side of the table and joined her client firm as the Manager of a brand.
She had found her calling in life, and even though Major-General Khurana didn’t understand what his youngest daughter exactly did for a living, he was relieved that she had found it.
“What the hell happened Khyati? Did Ashutosh say something again?” Sayanee was wracking her brain for things that could have gone wrong. Work? Naah, everything seemed to be in control there. Family? Hmm, she would have told her immediately had something gone wrong on that front, no need for melodrama there. It had to be him. That Ashutosh. He was the only part of her life that stuck out like a sore thumb. That Ashutosh.
Reading was a passion, ever since childhood. From the Famous Five she had picked up at the age of 8, to The Joke she had recently finished with; reading gave her an alternate world inhabited with characters - some strangely abnormal, some abnormally familiar - but nonetheless, all of them holding a special place in her fictional universe.
When she entered her two-bedroom flat in Andheri East, it was in complete darkness; Khyati, her flat mate must have got late at work. Khyati was a marketing executive at a consumer goods company and sometimes her work-hours, unlike Sayanee’s own, were inexplicable. She switched on the lights, happily dreaming about the books she had picked up, when the door to Khyati’s room opened and she came out -
“Hey! I thought you were at work. Why have you been sitting in the dark?”
Closer examination led her to ask, “Have you been sleeping?” as she realized that Khyati was wearing pyjamas and looking decidedly disheveled.
Khyati just stood there and it suddenly struck Sayanee that Khyati’s eyes were red and puffed-up.
“O my God! You have been crying? What happened?!” Sayanee exclaimed as Khyati started crying again, softly at first, apparently not for the first time that night.
A little bit of background here. Khyati’s father was a retired Major-General and hence she had spent most of her young life traipsing across the country. After such an unsettling childhood; at 18, she had found herself in a state of complete confusion regarding what she wanted to do, quite unlike her father. Out of a lack of any major passions she had done a Bachelor’s course in Arts with Media and Communication as specializations, from Mumbai. During the course she had realized that she had an eye for art, a sense of reading-between-lines, and somewhat of a head for numbers. She got into an advertising agency and after having worked there for six years, the last of which were as Account Executive, she crossed over to the other side of the table and joined her client firm as the Manager of a brand.
She had found her calling in life, and even though Major-General Khurana didn’t understand what his youngest daughter exactly did for a living, he was relieved that she had found it.
“What the hell happened Khyati? Did Ashutosh say something again?” Sayanee was wracking her brain for things that could have gone wrong. Work? Naah, everything seemed to be in control there. Family? Hmm, she would have told her immediately had something gone wrong on that front, no need for melodrama there. It had to be him. That Ashutosh. He was the only part of her life that stuck out like a sore thumb. That Ashutosh.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Traps
She walked in rage
Of people who followed
Useless rules and mindless traditions
She walked in disbelief
Of people who didn’t have the courage
To reject what their hearts didn’t agree to
And then she stopped
With a sense of foreboding
Her trembling mind spat out to her
It wondered what you say to one
Who binds herself in noose-tight cords
Of sky-high expectations
Who won’t give room for mistakes
To be at odds with that home-grown philosophy
that once made her a rebel
Of people who followed
Useless rules and mindless traditions
She walked in disbelief
Of people who didn’t have the courage
To reject what their hearts didn’t agree to
And then she stopped
With a sense of foreboding
Her trembling mind spat out to her
It wondered what you say to one
Who binds herself in noose-tight cords
Of sky-high expectations
Who won’t give room for mistakes
To be at odds with that home-grown philosophy
that once made her a rebel
Monday, October 27, 2008
Saturday, October 25, 2008
AnS - Part III
Sayanee swam with the current.
When she was a baby, her parents had died in a car crash. Her aunt had raised her. She was grateful for that. And not much else.
Her father’s younger brother - her uncle, had also been in the car. He was found unrecognizable after the accident that had claimed three lives and left two more languishing in that special place that is reserved for the bereaved, for the rest of theirs.
She had heard that story many times, in bits and pieces, from different people. It all boiled down to the same thing every single time. She could see it in her head. Her father had been cruising at 120 kmph -- in the wrong lane -- on the highway -- after dark. He had seen the fifteen-tonner coming down at him five seconds too late. She could see it all too well.
Her aunt had never made her peace with it. Maybe it wasn’t her fault. It is difficult letting go of a life that you are shown a glimpse of, and which is then rudely snatched away due to another’s mistake.
Sayanee swam with the current.
A docile child, she was a late talker, a late walker. Content to just sit around and dimple, her aunt didn’t really have too much trouble with her. Fed on a diet of barbs and constant carping, she grew into this reserved adolescent, who didn’t have too may friends. She would have turned out to be painfully shy and debilitated, had not her aunt deigned to send her to an engineering college in Pune, around four hours from home. That had been the turning point in her life. Living in a hostel, she had discovered bonding and friendship, mischief and joie. The shadow that she had been had materialized into a real person. A person who felt needed and loved.
She hardly went back home. And when she got this job with an Indian IT company, she was thrilled. They were paying enough for her to be able to pay back loans which weighed heavy on her soul.
She liked work too. Her client was a top American bank, a retail and credit-card company and in no way insulated from the current crisis. The credit card market, although mature in the erstwhile land of plenty, was facing a period of slump with consumerism at an all-time low and defaults at a historical high, but the company thankfully had enough going for itself in the Latin American, African and Asian markets, where the business was still nascent and economies more robust. She had spent around six months of the past year in Europe; her memoirs had mentions of 40 odd cities where she had left her well-traveled footprint.
As she stepped off Churchgate station that day, she was in high spirits. It wasn’t everyday that she got a chance to come to this part of the city - with its sea, surf and legendary restaurants. She was fond of Mumbai; like a chameleon, it was so different now than what it had been, or what it has seemed to be during her growing-up years. This realization enervated her; she felt like she had moulded Mumbai to her taste. She felt content.
When she was a baby, her parents had died in a car crash. Her aunt had raised her. She was grateful for that. And not much else.
Her father’s younger brother - her uncle, had also been in the car. He was found unrecognizable after the accident that had claimed three lives and left two more languishing in that special place that is reserved for the bereaved, for the rest of theirs.
She had heard that story many times, in bits and pieces, from different people. It all boiled down to the same thing every single time. She could see it in her head. Her father had been cruising at 120 kmph -- in the wrong lane -- on the highway -- after dark. He had seen the fifteen-tonner coming down at him five seconds too late. She could see it all too well.
Her aunt had never made her peace with it. Maybe it wasn’t her fault. It is difficult letting go of a life that you are shown a glimpse of, and which is then rudely snatched away due to another’s mistake.
Sayanee swam with the current.
A docile child, she was a late talker, a late walker. Content to just sit around and dimple, her aunt didn’t really have too much trouble with her. Fed on a diet of barbs and constant carping, she grew into this reserved adolescent, who didn’t have too may friends. She would have turned out to be painfully shy and debilitated, had not her aunt deigned to send her to an engineering college in Pune, around four hours from home. That had been the turning point in her life. Living in a hostel, she had discovered bonding and friendship, mischief and joie. The shadow that she had been had materialized into a real person. A person who felt needed and loved.
She hardly went back home. And when she got this job with an Indian IT company, she was thrilled. They were paying enough for her to be able to pay back loans which weighed heavy on her soul.
She liked work too. Her client was a top American bank, a retail and credit-card company and in no way insulated from the current crisis. The credit card market, although mature in the erstwhile land of plenty, was facing a period of slump with consumerism at an all-time low and defaults at a historical high, but the company thankfully had enough going for itself in the Latin American, African and Asian markets, where the business was still nascent and economies more robust. She had spent around six months of the past year in Europe; her memoirs had mentions of 40 odd cities where she had left her well-traveled footprint.
As she stepped off Churchgate station that day, she was in high spirits. It wasn’t everyday that she got a chance to come to this part of the city - with its sea, surf and legendary restaurants. She was fond of Mumbai; like a chameleon, it was so different now than what it had been, or what it has seemed to be during her growing-up years. This realization enervated her; she felt like she had moulded Mumbai to her taste. She felt content.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Thought for the day
I chose career over family; I'd rather my wallet have stretch marks.
Not my thoughts. I read it somewhere.
Btw, today is 'Global Handwashing Day'. I am even wearing a band on my hand saying so. Washing hands can save lives, since they are the most exposed part of your body. Some 3.5 million children globally lose their lives every year to diseases which can be avoided by simply washing hands. So do wash.
Er..use Lifebuoy. Handwash preferably.
Not my thoughts. I read it somewhere.
Btw, today is 'Global Handwashing Day'. I am even wearing a band on my hand saying so. Washing hands can save lives, since they are the most exposed part of your body. Some 3.5 million children globally lose their lives every year to diseases which can be avoided by simply washing hands. So do wash.
Er..use Lifebuoy. Handwash preferably.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
The dying
Hadn’t been all velvet
No bed of roses
The landscape lay strewn
By the carcasses of intentions, good and evil
But as he walked every morning
There was thunder in his stride
And a storm in his soul
He knew he was blessed
He knew he would be great
And a good man too
Love would be his
He knew he was blessed
And then one day
The dream died
He cried
Stomped out under the ugly sole of truth
It was not to be
His life would be marked by mediocrity
And the domestic squalor that merits no poetry
Hope fled, life bled.
No bed of roses
The landscape lay strewn
By the carcasses of intentions, good and evil
But as he walked every morning
There was thunder in his stride
And a storm in his soul
He knew he was blessed
He knew he would be great
And a good man too
Love would be his
He knew he was blessed
And then one day
The dream died
He cried
Stomped out under the ugly sole of truth
It was not to be
His life would be marked by mediocrity
And the domestic squalor that merits no poetry
Hope fled, life bled.
Monday, October 13, 2008
AnS - Part II
Their eyes met in that crowded local train and each thought rather uncharitable thoughts about the other.
Why is that woman in the general compartment? Don’t I have enough trouble pushing my way through men that I now have to battle women too!
Why is that man staring at me so obnoxiously? Had the train not been pulling out of the platform, I would have been spared this compartment full of lecherous idiots!
He had to get off at Parel and she grudgingly allowed him to make his way through the masses of flesh, he scowled at her momentarily before moving on. After alighting, he was glad to see that his shirt had not suffered much damage; it would do for the day. He wouldn’t have to change into the spare one he kept in his desk-drawer at all times.
Parel station and the world outside it, is quintessential of the diversities that Mumbai is famous for. It is a sea of grocery shops, farsan and sweet houses, pan-beedi ke dukaan, unhygienic restaurants and roadside sellers of combs, stationary, vegetables and cds. And then start those corporate complexes with tall sky-scrapers, housing some of the best known media and advertising agencies in the country.
Amanpreet made his way to one of those complexes, marveling once again at how people in this city had the patience to sit in their cars while traffic crawled along inch-by-bloody-inch. Who were all these people and why had they chosen to be in Bombay? Perhaps, like him, some had come to make a mark in their chosen professions; like him, most were stuck in the never-ending agonies of commute; unlike him, maybe they were satisfied.
Not that his job was the absolute pits. He got to meet top media bosses and executives and the mandate was to treat most of them like shit. Well, that is how the power equations in this industry worked. If your client was powerful enough, channels queued up to accommodate its latest campaigns and advertisements; if not, then you were the one doing all the running from p-to-p. He had sat in on many a meeting where some guy from his firm would start to bargain rates with a channel and it was fun to see how far he could stretch it. That part was cool.
He often got depressed when he thought about his family back in Dehradoon. Dehradoon. Not as ruskin-bond-esque nowadays as one would imagine but close enough. Bougainvillea creepers, blue winding roads, red brick houses, the slight nip in the air.
Screeeeeech. Rudely jolted awake, Amanpreet quickly crossed the road before the driver who had ground to a halt to avoid hitting him could say much. Lyrics of a popular song filled his head as he walked casually on.
..Zara hat ke zara bach ke,
Yeh hai Bambai meri jaan.
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