You strange foreign bird

Silence -
Has me in knots
How can it be

No agonizing question-marks?
No below-the-surface prickin-frickin' needles?
No existential WhoAmIs?

O wait, what is this I detect
Is this really..can it be true..no way!!
But it so does resemble..

Contentment.
A fleeting emotion, a visitor
Must be nice to it, the strange thing.

Lizards and their fancy degrees

Met a man on a flight. Small flight, all of forty-five minutes and we managed to discuss the herculean work-pressures of aircraft-controllers at Atlanta airport, and insidious ways of wiring the phone so that callers are met with an engaged tone, within those forty-five minutes. Make no mistake, most of it was led by him.

He was one of those old men, who travel the world, picking up languages (he knew fifteen!), acquaintances, and a way of chatting up strangers.

At one point, he said -

A lizard stuck on the ceiling probably thinks it is holding the roof up. You young mbas have the same weird notion of yourselves. You'll think the company would go kaput were you to take an off-day. So, stop being a lizard.

The moral of this story is that old men have character, confidence. Young men? Are like investments. A man at twenty-five has just started to be what he really will be. A man at fifty has lived and even his scars have stories to tell.

Gourmet or Glutton?

Cooking is a bit like art. First of all, you are creating something. And more importantly, no two people can end up making something that tastes exactly alike. You put a bit of yourself - your sense of proportion, what should go in first, what should go in at all.

Great cooks have an incomprehensible passion for their art. Unlike conventional art, it starts to pay well from early on if you take it up professionally. Everybody needs to eat, not everybody needs to read or buy a painting.

While artists in our midst are praised and encouraged, cooking is seen more as a hygiene skill for women and customer delight kinda thing for the men. (Today times are changing, and these extremities are moving towards each other, slowly but surely. Men at times, need to be able to cook to survive, and women don't.)

Art has an inessential quality about it. We don't really need it. Whereas food is - well, is fuel. That makes its preparation more mundane - one of the reasons why cooking misses the high-art train. Art has more of the snob-value.

Also, the body does not need art. Art is on a higher spiritual plane - catering to the mind, the soul, the spirit. Whereas cooking satiates that primal instinct of man - hunger. The paapi pet. Centuries of conditioning through spiritual and religious philosophies and texts have led us to believe that anything that provides corporal pleasure cannot be entirely free of sin. Few would sit in a gathering of socially accepted intellectuals and proclaim proudly to be a student of food and cooking, just for the sake of.

Exploring another aspect - a lot of people claim to be fond of eating, they have little interest in preparing it. Whereas, it has been seen that most ardent readers are also closet-writers. This divide between the host and parasite varies across art forms - depending perhaps on the degree of difficulty of the art form or how much fun it is.

I enjoy reading accounts of cooks, history of food and the like. Not that I have read a lot, just a couple of articles on Gayatri Devi's book and some stuff from Padmalakshmi. But I feel that in spite of fulfilling such a basic need, cooking hogs very little of our cultural mind-space.

So for all you great artists whose talent is as priceless as the cardamoms, cloves and chillies of the Malabar coasts - If food be the music of life, stir away!

A song

When I shake my head
You give a toothy grin
When I wag my finger
You wiggle your pointy chin
When I glare at you
You turn around and shake your butt
When I turn away
You come and call me a crazy nut

Let me scream, and let me shout
That I am butter in your crazy mouth
I may rant and I may pout
And call you a miserable lout
But you just put me out
And-you-just-fuckin-put-me-out

South South East

The vacation was brilliant. Just what the doc had ordered. Ten days and I must have spent around ten minutes thinking about work. To add to the bliss, neither the laptop nor the phone were working for the larger part.

Thailand - don't claim to know it all. Delved into Bangkok and grazed past Pataya. Bangkok, with its many many many mega malls. I am quite the mall-rat you know. Asian food is also my thing. After making it through six weeks in China, the stir-fried noodles, Nasi Gorengs, Phad Thais etc sound heavenly and taste even better. The roads are terribly and inadequately narrow though and traffic is nightmarish in Bangkok - the worst I have ever seen, I, whose veins are hardened by the clogged up arteries of Mumbai.

One of the most striking things about Thailand - even good hotels there have scrapbooks for tourists with pictures, maps and details of places in and around they want to visit, and the last few pages of these scrapbooks are devoted to sex shows, nude beaches, places where you can get action of any and every variety, complete with pictures and addresses. Mammaries of Thigh-land.

Malaysia - is the ultimate multi-cultural hot-pot. Malays, Indians and Chinese form almost all of its population. Most of the Indians are Tamilians. There are Buddhists, Muslims, Hindus, Christians and you can detect multi-racial notes in people - their features, their dressing. There are 'Happy Dipawali' signs everywhere and the newspapers talk about Beyonce's skimpily clad concert being a threat to culture and moral probity.

Kuala Lumpur is vast and sprawling. Roads, gardens, bridges, monorails, rapid transport system - all well planned out. The twin towers are grand. Could not go up as they were shut for maintenance work the day we were there.

We managed to catch a Tamil movie shooting in front of the national monument there. A dance sequence was being shot. The hero was tall and good looking, standing around watching the choreographers explain the steps to him. The choreographers had conjured up some crazy steps, same old ants-in-pants routine which looks ludicrous without the music but strangely normal with. The heroine was nowhere in sight. There was a smattering of Malays watching trying to imitate the steps. At first when the hero tried, he made mistakes and I thought to myself, just cause this idiot is better looking than the other people in the cast, he gets to be the hero. But then, they started the music and he switched on his expressions and the scene was transformed. Whereas earlier, it was pure technique I could have admired, now the entire scene came together as being paisa-vasool. He may not dance as well as the choreographers, or even the extras, may not act as well as some of the stalwart character artists, can not sing for nuts, has no talent for directing, writing, shooting, but he is the one people will pay to watch. The Hero.

Like Bangkok, there was only so much one could do in KL. We headed off to Langkawi, an island in the Andaman Sea for the next two days. And that was idyllic. The beaches were white, sandy and all of that, the waters were crystal and the people around few.

And then there was Genting. Enough cannot be said about Genting. We have all heard of white, sandy beaches and pristine waters, islands that inspire getaways and glossy catalogues. But have you heard of an entire town-ship that is indoors - complete with amusement parks, shopping boulevards, 'roadside' cafes, cinema theatres, casinos, restaurants and everything else that the average tourist can aspire for? Have you heard of hotels which have huge waiting areas, for the people who throng there every weekend and wait hours in line to get themselves checked-in? Waiting areas, with the same system of electronic numbering and counters being assigned to numbers, that is employed in banks and for railway bookings?

Genting was all that and we did some fun stuff there - like winning ten times over in Blackjack, or Pontoon like it is called there (although I did not put in any money, maybe next time I will), go-karting, boating, cable-car-riding and other normal touristy stuff. The thing I must mention here though is the free fall amusement park ride I took, where they elevate you first, let you hang in the air for some extremely anxious seconds and then let you dropppp! I must mention it because I took this ride against all instincts. I don't think am too fond of heights, as was clear from the rappelling experience earlier this year.

And then there was shopping. Ah. That the was the high-point. I got some good funda-clothes. Which means clothes which have a different funda to them. Also did some good clubbing, visited a couple of Hard Rock Cafes across. Managed to read alongside, watch a couple of seasons of Coupling and a few movies. And of course, there was the ubiquitous Starbucks. Starbucks is my happy place, it resonates with the ethos with which I want to live my life.

Nuff said. Now must get around to reading those 400 e-mails in my inbox.

The train

He runs towards the train
With all his might and steam
As it starts pulling out slowly

He jumps over junta sleeping
Pushing ardent coolies away
They look at his flying form with contempt

Somebody pull the chain!
But nobody is looking at him
They would not care anyway

He sinks to the ground
And screams out aloud
Tears mingling with sweat

The train picks up speed
And disappears from his view..
..he was late - again

Wedding belles and cow bells

Rashmi got married. We went to the reception. A whole lot of us and it was great fun. I rediscovered the joys of hanging out with more than two people at a time.

It's always a little strange to see one's friends with their family. Even stranger to see them with in-laws. It's like Copernicus discovering that the Earth is not the center of the universe.

Some time back, on one of my travels, I chanced across a Cattle Bazaar. Yes, that means a congregation of folks who want to sell their cattle and folks who want to buy those cattle. There were around a hundred buffaloes there, with their owners sitting around them, waiting for bids. The most striking thing about the whole shindig was that these cattle were all done-up like they were going to dance at Kareena Kapoor's wedding. Their vast jello bodies had been covered in abeer of various colors, some had bells on their horns, some colored ribbons. Maybe Big Ben is right. The markets do look - bullish.

As I sit and write, I steal a glance at my deflated de-beaned bag. And I just cant hold it in anymore! People of the city of Bombay - have you never wondered about Bean Bags? Not actually about bean bags, but about these two words scrawled all over the city, with a phone number in tow? I have been around in Mumbai since the past thirteen years, and in almost all of those years, have seen these omnipresent signs at the least expected of places - on asbestos sheets at constructions sites, steel pipes, chipped walls that you pass from the inside of a train. How, why, what? Which surreptitious bean-bag store owner stalks the city post mid-night and makes the whole world his visiting card? Do these owners have secret associations? The Priory of Sion? (For non-mumbai junta, Sion is also a place in central mumbai).

Back to the wedding. Kavity looked resplendent in black. Lighter, much. Deepa-sans-hubby, was the only one who knew the pain of standing on stage with arc lights beaming and strangers - coming-grinning-shaking. (Although it must be said that the bride was more preening than pained). Jags, Shahrukh-esque, 'stole' stylishly flung around neck, was the star of the trip. Don't ask me why. Katrix, though a much-improved version as far as socializing with the female of the species is concerned, spent the day with both his feet inside his mouth. Tatha, at one point, turned to me and said - Good you are here, at least one other person beside me shall be boozing. I had to pick up my jaw from the floor post this shocking revelation. Mani, the lean-mean-case-writing-machine Mani. Also gym-going, daaru-drinking, laundi-aspiring Mani. VVB, quiet, quite.

Rashmi looked like she had the whole evening in the bag. She knew what to say, whom to say to, how to say. In her element, centerstage, beautiful, shimmering, glimmering, Mrs Rammohan. Dijo promised not to read that night.

Think marriage is not all that bad. My sidie am sure will rock the other side of that prickly fence too.

The Rock Star

Stoned and blurry-eyed
He looked at the pulsating crowds
Some were waving hands
Screaming his name

His guitar hung limp
Oozing blood
His hair stuck to his face
Beads of loftiness

He swayed back to his room
Unseeing of all the madness
His room felt like a silent scream
He turned on his heel

Floating on a cloud
Drugged into legend
Only his music living
He was the rock-star

Chronicles of an ASM

So as I stand in these godowns, I sometimes have these little out-of-body experiences, wherein my spirit floats outside of my body, hovering somewhere a couple of feet above my head and watching the proceedings with not a little amusement.

Here is how the scene looks - straight out of a Manmohan Desai flick – it has weird characters, extras and props. There are a couple of prosperous-looking (read well-endowed around the stomach region) men invariably in shabby clothing (in complete contrast to the prosperous image that the pot-belly arouses) - they are the dukaandaars - let me refer to them as mai-baap from now on. Then there is a sharply-dressed guy, in formals, who looks like an Income Tax officer conducting a raid. He surveys the godown with the eye of a hawk and the sure-footedness of a mountain goat. He is also playing the part of a tour-guide, displaying the attractions, rather ruins of an erstwhile shrine to his hapless boss - this guy is the Territory Sales Officer, in other words - the company's eyes, ears and bald pate on the field. Next there is a suspicious looking bloke in uniform - he is the sales equivalent of the 'aam aadmi'. He carries samples for new launches, takes orders for 150 products, manages to have around him some twenty odd sheets with various data tables detailing how much maal each dukaandaar on his beat took in which month, in what state of mental sobriety etc etc. He claims to his dying breath that he refers to these sheets. This guy is the Salesman, that epitome of hard-work, efficacy, intelligence, selling-skills, mathematical prowess that gets Levers its 14000 crore per annum revenue and him his Rs 7000 per month salary. And then there are the distributors - these mini-ambanis and birlas, the difference being that an Ambani has only his stern mother or political godfather to answer to, whereas these poor guys are pulled up to task more often than Ram Gopal Varma makes flop-busters. There are a few extras dotting the landscape too, for hauling-and-carrying purposes.

And the company boss, or the madam in this case. This girl, who, in happier circumstances, would not look out of place getting her nails done in an up-market salon on Carter road, instead paces around these shady holes – in basements or attics, drinking in all that they carry – sacks of flour, overpowering and enticingly sweet smell of jaggery, bags of green, blue, yellow detergent powder, stacks of green, blue, white, pink, yellow detergent cakes, drums of oil, sacks of masalas, battalions of mice. She counts the bags, pokes the stacks, and looks around with blood-shot eyes, shooting questions faster than quick-gun-murugan. That’s her role – to squirm the hell out of all around.

It’s a funny scene alright.

Inspired

As day moves into week, week into months, I realize that many many things are going unsaid. While a whole lot that has never been said before is being painted in scarlett letters across the evening sky.

I vacillate between trying to be good and trying hard to not be all good. The goodness in me prevents me from succumbing whole-ly to it, because nothing ever is, all good. Selfishness keeps us sane.

There's a balance to be striven towards. Life is about balance. You need to get the scales to be carrying just the right quantities of love, hatred, belief, cynicism, naivete, worldliness, individuality, collectivism, poetry, practicality, defiance, submissivity, objectivity, subjectivity, indifference, compassion, the yin, the yang to reach that point of absolute perfection.

And yet, they never will. For, what's the point of living then?

Twenty-Seven

The fool bumbles along
Falling into ditches galore
Dusts self off and sets out again
Singing a happy tune

Songs of friendship
Love and great riches that await
The promise makes the going
More exciting than the reward

He meets travelers
Who have buried their boots
Their cauldrons simmer
Granaries full of grain

He looks wistfully at them
At times, wanting a full meal
And the assurance of one all winter
But the stars twinkle-ingly beckon

Everyday is an adventure
Though he knows not where he is going
But he is the fool
And he can do as he pleases

A full ton

Read Smart Alec's blog today where she writes about it turning 50. This is my 100th post, in over three years. Not Sterling by any standards, except maybe Smart Alec's.

But let me not put any more pressure on this just-born-post by going on and on about it making that turn of the century. Let me just - write. Let this post be a mosaic of all these wispy thoughts that are flying around in my head.

Sometime back, I stumbled across a cracker of an idea - THE EXIT ROOM. A getaway. Every relationship must have one. It is to be noted that it is a 'room' I suggest, not a retreat or a farmhouse in the country, a villa in France, or a cabin in the woods. Point being, it must be a hop, skip and jump away. Your oasis.

Having spoken about wispy thoughts, they are getting wispier by the second. Getting increasingly difficult to pin them down. How can it be that I have nothing worth blogging about. Writer's block? Mid-life crisis? Ahem, let us not dwell too long on the latter.

Luxury. We all have different definitions for it. For me, luxury is functional. Non-indulgent. I would not appreciate monogrammed pillow cases. But somebody to do my taxes would be put on an engraved pedestal and fed grapes.

Mumbai is having a swim-athon. I dont like the rains, at least not when I am caught in them. I refuse to carry an umbrella. Who wants to go armoured against something as depressing as the skies howling their eyes out. I'd much rather go out in denial of their existence.

A member of my team recently resigned. He is getting a much better pay-package at some other company. He called to inform me and I was quite speechless. Not out of shock, but out of a genuine lack of anything to say. On a slightly different note, I call my line manager - Boss. It feels just awesome. To be part of that culture where he tells me - Shreya, you must really hump your people if they dont perform. And I say, Yes Boss, I will.

Tambakoo

Some things in life are simple.

The other day in Satana, which is a town somewhere near Dhulia - if you know where that is, I learnt that the government had made it mandatory to put pictures of cancerous crabs on local zarda. Which had resulted in a 50% decline in sales.

Wow. That's cause and effect. As simple as it gets.

Pain and Prada

I like Carrie from Sex and the City. That is one honest character. In all her relationships, she has never shied away from asking questions. Even potentially dangerous ones, which could leave her out in the dry.

I admire that kind of honesty. Most people struggle to get that honest with themselves, let alone others.

Why is it so that we so love to live in denial. Why is it so difficult to accept that our lives will have some troubles, that it will not be as picture-perfect as the Swiss Alps.

We need to come to terms with the fact that sometimes happiness does not fall out of the sky. Like marble has to be chiselled to be made into a 'David', life has to be worked upon.

No pain, no gain. Pain is the single most important constant of our lives. It's an indicator of the love we feel, of the effort we make, of the heights we rise to. It is at the center of all human existence.

Back-pack and a road-map

I don't know what it is with traveling and me. One of those infamous love-hate relationships. I have traveled more than most people I know. Have lived in numerous cities, had homes in four. Traveled eighteen countries and over forty cities in Europe. Been to the far east - the land of the stinky food and chinky people. In the last year itself, have been to more than seventy cities, towns and villages in India. And I love it. I love my job and my life.

Yet, yet. Most of this is not the kind of traveling that sets my pulse racing. I dont like going to places for four days, blurring past all the hot-spots, leaving with a lot less money and a zillion photographs in my touristy bag. I dont like squeezing out time from sardines-in-a-can like day to clock in some moments as a wander-lusty tourist, laptop firmly in bag.

Traveling isn't a morning-evening journey. It isnt going to the famous Lucknawi chikan market on the way back to the airport and buying half the shop in a tizzy of excitement to carry gifts home. It isnt staying in the best hotel in Gorakhpur with toilet paper, but being too fatigued to get the ayurvedic massage in Varanasi. It isnt disembarking on the red-earth of Chiplun at 5 in the morning, having the best haafuz and pomfret that coastal Ratnagiri has to offer and then throwing-up after four hours of non-stop travel on those serpentine roads of the ghats. It isnt visiting a Sericulture farm in Kolar in between village visits, watching the moth and the female mate, after which the female gives birth and dies and the males are recycled. It isnt having the best filter coffee ever at T-nagar in Chennai in between gruelling interviews, or spending some now-missed idle moments at one of the beaches of toy-town Pondicherry in the midst of that one-week schedule packed with assembly lines, pack mats, gigantic distillation chambers and safety boots. It isnt having sweet bengali rasmalai at a dhaba on the road between sultry Kolkata and buzzing Burdhawan.

None of this is travel. Or atleast not the kind of travel that I can say I have a passion for. What is it then?

Traveling is - when you have a sense of timelessness. When you can get up at 4 in the morning and watch the sun rise, come back and sleep till noon. When you stroll aimlessly in whichever direction the wind takes you in, spend the day being a spectator, and come back with a sense of accomplishment. When you take the same buses and trams that locals take. When you shop at the same markets that they shop at. When you hang out at the same joints. You do visit the famous places, but you also revisit. You want them to become a part of you, you don't want to leave with just photopgraphs, you want to leave with memories - you want to leave the Eiffel with memories, of your visit.

But maybe I am wrong and need to get my priorities right. It is not about squeezing in a coffee when the flight is delayed at the airport in Kolhapur, but about squeezing in some work while primarily on a visit to the Ajanta-Ellora after having spent a couple of fully-paid-for-by-company days at the awesome Taj, Aurangabad.

White Hot

The sea was as calm as ever. More importantly, she was calm - it always had that effect on her.

Such an endless expanse of blue-green, a little scary at times. But she had grown up with it, seen it turn within a span of 10 years into less of the blue-green and more of the black-brown that this city is so famous for.

Why only this city, why blame only this city. Isnt that the way of life? A baby - pure as untainted snow, a water-cress lily. The entire transformative journey into adulthood and beyond is paved by dark encounters with this degenerate world. Any aberation is just that - an aberation.

She wondered - was life meant to be this difficult? Is that what the challenge of it was? Would we be just cardboard cut-outs of the Brady family if things were any different? Would she mind?

The waves made these swooshing noises. And some spraying noises. She could feel the salt on her face. It stung. Especially at the places where her wounds were still healing.

But the scars inside ran far deeper and were dangerous, as dangerous as righteousness. Righteousness gives us a special kind of anger, that seethes and seethes, sending out little sparks before engulfing all that comes in its way.

The scenes kept coming back to her. The smell of charred human flesh filled her dreams. Her anger was white-hot.

Where is my funny bone

I think I am getting unfunnier by the day.
I write funny no longer. I read funny no longer. No wait, make that - I read no longer.
I dream about work. Everyday. Every-single-fucking day.

Maybe I should turn up in office one day wearing just a jute bag, go slap a few people around me and then take a dive off the emergency exit.
Nobody will take me seriously after that. Ever.
Problem solved.

ASM-ing in the hinterland

Sunday night. Back from another one of those weekends.

Life has been so hectic in the past couple of months. All the new people and places. The responsibility. What gets me is that if I screw up, twenty other people get screwed too. I am not sure I am ready for that. It is a heady feeling, people saying 'Yes Boss' to you all the time. The first time I was called Boss, I didnt realize it was me being addressed. The flip-side to being this boss person are many, though. Like I said, I can't switch off. Then, I can't just do my own bit and mush-off. I need to remember who did what, bring it up in the right forum, ensure they get suitably appreciated/rewarded/promoted/reprimanded/punished for it.

Am I having fun? Most times, yes. Sometimes though, I wish I could just quit and run away from it all. Those times being Tuesday mornings, in particular, when I have to get up at the crack of dawn and head out of Mumbai.

Maharashtra rural. My playground, my workplace, my mecca. People - not from HUL, I tell this to, visibly wince. But I know that at this point of time in my life, nothing else would have been good enough.

Schizophrenia

The wheel turns full circle
Ordainment happens
Honeymoon finally over

December Day turns into week and weeks
From a hazy shade of hesitant winter to full-bodied spring
Good times only rolling stronger

Long rides through the dusty
And simmering roads
Seat belt firmly around the neck

The longest ride in a long time
The most fun too
Learning to let go of the safety clasp

Poha for breakfast
Errant marathas for lunch
She-boss

Morning chai
Lunch by the Viao
Girl and friend

Deep thought and the answer is not 42

Lately I have been thinking about creativity. It seems to me, that the more creative a person is, the more self-loving they tend to be.

While it is possible to be self-loving or narcissistic without being creative, the other way round - is that possible?

Imagine a painter. What great emphasis must he be putting on his vision of the world, that he decides to express it.

Creative people are consumed by their own thoughts and interpretations and want to put them out there, somewhere, for the world to see and enjoy, sometime - if not today.

(A person could argue that some people create for the sake of creation and not for other people to enjoy. By world, I don’t necessarily mean people though. Anything, plants, rocks, rivers. And the fact that they think what they can create is worth creating, means they must have a sense of self-importance. Does it not?)

A writer must be deeply aware of self. He cannot just be narrating incidents. He puts a bit of himself in everything he writes. People reading him relate that bit to random bits in their own self.

Being self-aware is not the same as being narcissistic though. The line may appear blurred, but people who are self-aware are also aware of their fallacies. Well aware.

Are writers simply self-aware? Or also self-loving?

The other side to this coin is that most writers, especially writers of fiction are excellent observers of people, scenery, human nature.

“Her body-language was fatigued. Hunched back. Sagging shoulders. Un-flexed arms. Sitting across from me, she was reading The Financial Times. While chewing gum - slowly, lazily. The impression was entirely of someone who was supremely disinterested in life.”

I can imagine a writer, Rushdie, Lahiri etc, traveling the world, doing research - meeting people, observing them, taking notes, taking in.

One can’t both be an excellent observer of other people and deeply narcissistic? It’s a paradox. Narcissus had no place in his life for observing other people.

Maybe it’s a professional requirement. Or maybe writers aren’t really all that creative - just talented at observing and then expressing.

Or maybe, my hypothesis that all creative people have a bit of Narcissus in them, is flawed to begin with. Perhaps they are only deeply respectful of their self, their ego.

Spike me!

I still get nightmares from the time that the ‘resume mentor’ would inspect records of my flimsy achievements with steely-eyed determination, just like a Chinese woman inspecting her face for clogged pores. And then sport a look of resigned frustration, just like the afore-mentioned woman’s husband footing the bill for pore-opening creams, lotions, essences, masks and serums. A pore, after all, has to breathe.

But I digress.

The point is, I finally have my ‘spike’.

I have climbed The Great Wall twice.

Beat that - any of you 9+ pointers, who win Olympiads or design regression models for fun. And maybe play a little tabla on the side. At concerts.

The child inside of us

Why do we like children?

I like kids because they are cute. First of all. But the larger reason is that they are so upfront about most things. Comfortable with their vices.

Scenario I - Two kids playing with a ball. They will fight for it with all their heart. One will sit on the other till he/she relinquishes the object of objection. Scenario II - You playing with a kid. Making funny faces, trying to make it laugh. The kid does not think it funny. Will make no pretense. Will raise hell and high water if you don’t let it go when it wants to.

Children are endearingly selfish. They know what they want, are not afraid of taking action on it, no matter how silly the desire may be - candy floss or your attention. They are huge attention-seekers too.

They are miniature us with no-holds-barred. We love to see them go at each other with such unbridled enthusiasm. We figure let them have fun while they still can. But somewhere, children are endearing to us because we live our vicarious desires, especially the baser ones, through them.

On the other hand, some of the most annoying grown-ups I have met are the ones who have not outlived the child inside them. The ones who still think that their wishes should be uppermost on the minds of all around. The ones who will ruthlessly engineer events around them to get what they want because they actually believe they deserve it.

A child is all that we love with gusto. A ‘childish’ man we abhor.

Selling my soul, while helping you find soul-mate

I hope you guys are noticing some of the advertisements that Google has been throwing off-late at my blog.

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How promising. And what a brilliant piece of advertising. Beautifully laddered.

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My toes are curling at the thought.

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How cool is that.

The bigger question to ask here is why these ads are finding their way to my blog. An even bigger point of curiosity for me is, why aren’t any of you people clicking? I don’t see any hefty google pay-cheques in the mail.

Have we become so jaded as a society that even promises of meeting beautiful women, making an endless amount of money and finding the soul-mate, fail to excite?

What do we really want?

I, for one, want some dollars, courtesy Google. Please do click.

Peace-time love

They were in love

Oh, it was anguish

It was candlelight

It was music and heady perfume

And traveling for two hours just to spend one together

It was long phone calls

And silly fights

Beautiful words and stolen kisses.

And then came the day

When he didn’t feel the need to bathe

And she didn’t feel the need to wax

They love each other more deeply now

Anguish firmly replaced by

Formless pajamas and a five-day old stubble

Sun, Shanghai and S

I am glad I got the chance to work with a woman. There is this notion one has about women bosses. They tend to go overboard in their zeal to appear efficient, no-nonsense. This one has the perfect balance. Yin and Yang. She is the most soft-spoken person I remember meeting in a long time, and she cuts to the chase too. Cultural barriers are inside people’s heads. This lady cottons on to my thoughts, before I utter them.

So, a lot of really great things happened yesterday.

Sun happened. Spring came to Shanghai and my happy feet contracted the delicious disease. I tapped my way to office. To the beats of everything from Atif to ABBA, Shanu to Simon. With jacket carelessly flung over arm.

Random people smiled at me. On the subway, in the supermarket. Here’s the thing about the Chinese, they don’t smile at you of their own accord. They maintain distance, protocol. The Great Wall of China. Although people here are always staring at me. As a Brazilian colleague, recently drawled - Yeaaah man, they are always staring at you, and they want to touch you and they want to take pictures with you and...it’s crazy.

My sympathies to him. I may not be quite the tourist attraction that he claims to be, but people definitely do stare. Only non-chink for miles, in the Yellow Sea. Imagine being Paris Hilton at a Nobel laureates' convention. Or Albert Einstein at a rave party. Well, on second thoughts, he would have been quite in the Einsteinium there. The point is, I look like a freak. And that these descendants of Confucius smiled at me, without provocation. It was like the aura of happiness surrounding me penetrated their reserve.

I succeeded in my mission of befriending a Chinese woman. I drafted a plan of action, did some ‘target-setting’, practiced a few ‘opening lines’. They worked. I am trying to seduce her into showing me places around during the weekend. Don’t judge me, it’s mainly for the conversation.

Past deeds bore fruit. I met an Indian in office, a senior guy. First of all, we spoke in Hindi. Bliss. Secondly, while talking I happened to mention that I was working in the Andheri office for some months last year, sitting in the adjacent cubicle to this person, who happens to be his boss. A look of awakening dawned on his face and he immediately started rummaging through his cell-phone. And came up with a picture he had taken of a ‘quote’. Written by blue felt pen on a bit of chart paper in terrible handwriting. You guessed it and if you didn’t, go do some syllogisms. That quote was one of the many I had put up in my cubicle; he, on one of his visits, thinking it was interesting, had taken a picture of it. Okay, okay, not quite the Slumdog saga, but it felt good. To see one of your whims having made this journey across the continent. With me in tag.

Sex and the city. While sex in this city is more or less off-the-charts, I did manage to find a DVD set of the series, seasons 1 to 7, for 20 Yuan. Quick calculation. INR 140. F*** me.

Too much stimuli is there. Coming soon is an account of the Chinese woman’s obsession with her skin, me being all too painfully aware of it since the unit I work for is called - Beauty Care. Along with some tid-bits regarding the way the Chinese government manages PR through its newspapers, and how, if things were left to it, the much touted India-China story would have the ‘India’ part determinedly scratched off.

Scent of a city

Shanghai. It looked just like Gurgaon at first glance. The ride from the airport to downtown was marked by a feeling of deep satisfaction as all things fell into place.

It’s still early days. Been raining off-late. Cold winds. The works.

But I like it. The city is convenient. It didn’t take me any time to adjust to its beat. The beat itself is not distinctive. Shanghai is like one of those world-cities. Center of finance and business and what not. Or maybe I haven’t discovered the finer notes yet.

The Chinese are inscrutable. They look unapproachable. Serious people going about their business. Like they have the weight of the entire world’s manufacturing on their petite shoulders or something.

Ouch.

So anyway, although they look like Sir-when-I-ope-my-lips-let-no-dog-bark-Oracle, they actually are the sweetest people on earth. If you ever are in trouble and there’s a Chinese near, have no fear. Talk about the ‘State’ being different as different can be from the people it governs.

About those errant notes, by the way. I tried to discover them. I undertook a 2 hour walk, one way, to The Bund. Beautiful. In a surgical sort of way.

While I like the comforts of Shanghai, nay, I adore the comforts of Shanghai - where the streets have signs and no one knows my name, I do have a few questions. I wonder what brought those disfigured beggars at the Bund Tourist Canal to Shanghai? Was it the dream of a better life? Or are they native Shanghai-nese and have nowhere to go? How did they get disfigured? Is it similar to the racket that runs in Mumbai? How do the guys incessantly peddling their wares to exotic looking foreigners - from fake watches to portraits - make ends meet? Are they making enough money from all the people they dupe, o-so-sweetly? Which are the areas of Shanghai where the not so white-collar live? Have they lost their jobs yet? What do they have to say about China’s recent declaration on a news channel - China refuses to acknowledge the recession?

I want to see the underbelly of the city, any city. I don’t just want to go to the Bund, marvel at the array of retina-blinding-white-neon-golden-lit-branded-displays at People’s Square, restrict myself to traversing the criss-cross of super-super highways and architectural marvel that is Shanghai. I want to get into the brain, the heart, the soul of a city. Walk across its dirty gullies, be privy to the shameful secrets that it tries to hide so religiously.

Say my name, Shinlee Xihou

They can't pronounce my name here.

That pleases me. Makes me feel exotic.

On another note, need to get better shoes.

Mirror mirror on the wall..

Met an old friend today. It’s that time of the year when west-gone birds come home to roost - for a bit, what with Christmas vacations and all. Old friends have a way of bringing you face to face with a self that you barely recognize now. They remember things you used to say and do, things which you yourself have forgotten. They surprise you at times with their acute observations, their little windows into your soul.

Most of all what surprises you is how you used to be. Am I the same, slightly ditzy, seemingly carefree thing now that I was then? Life was that simple? Or is just the rose-tint of nostalgia that makes it seem so…so endearing?

So we got discussing about this and that. A girl we both know, me - on the fringes, as one of the most staid and conservative people ever, is getting married. She met the guy on a flight. She is a Southie - steeped-in-the-wool, he a Catholic. People never cease to amaze. Another woman, who met her now-husband through Orkut came up. She met him via a common birthday community.

Almost makes me feel conventional. One may question the almost bit. Engineer-IT-MBA. What’s not conventional? On the other hand, have come to believe that convention really does not exist. It is just a façade. Everybody has a funny, irregular, mould-breaking story to their lives, which is at most times hidden from public view. But yes, the eccentricities-oddities, well-hidden though they might be, definitely do exist. Perhaps just a scratch of a nail below the thin ice.

One thing has definitely changed about me. I used to revel in my oddness. I used to like being ditzy, irregular, forgetful, crazy, irrational at times, impulsive. Unapologetic. No longer. I have spent the last year ironing all of them out. Trying to get discipline and sense in. Caution. Responsibility. Look-before-you-leap kinda thing. It’s there in my writing even. The style, the content. Suddenly it’s a different set of attributes that seem desirable.

The face I saw in the mirror today, when I met him and the day I met those two, was somebody else’s. What is it? Growing-up? B-school? Life?

Use Detergent/Wear Sunscreen

I met a woman the other day. And asked her about her favorite ads on television as a way to get some more ‘insight’ into what she was all about. Rather what her ‘attitude towards shopping’ was all about. Yes, that is of paramount importance to me nowadays.

She thought for some time, while I waited with a cultivated look of pleasant encouragement on my face. After some time, she said she liked the Pepsi ad featuring Mahendra Singh Dhoni best.

I laddered.

She described the ad. Minister ka beta. Line mein ghus jata hai. Dhoni kehta hai. Pyaas honi chahiye.

Why does she like the ad. What does it mean.

I laddered some more.

She said. Zindagi mein aage badhna ke liye pyaas honi chahiye. Yeh baat humko achhi lagi is ad mein.

This amazingly complex country.

In a village called Etaunja in Uttar Pradesh

Lives a woman, like every other woman

She goes out in ghoonghat

And runs the home with a measure tape

But she watches and she dreams

Thirsty dreams of unfettered flight

Aspiring India of the glorious ambitions

Your children go to school in collars of impeccable white.

The double O

First Love -

Is something else

A shrine to an innocent self

First Love -

Which when comes your way again

You brace to get overwhelmed - again

First Love -

Her walking into the room

After all these years, and it’s like the Mona Lisa

Overhyped. Overrated.

Yes, Emotional Atyachar

Dev D is the perfect movie. A coming together of people bursting with the juice.

The music oozes passion. Not only does it not stick-out like a sore thumb, it gives the movie direction. And Emotional Atyachar is well - the new anthem. The movie itself is brilliantly put together with pace changes and contextual lighting. Minimal dialogues. Raw.

Mahie Gill exudes sex appeal and energy. Kalki Koechlin is like a cat. Graceful and mysterious. And Abhay Deol. What can one say. Tortured. Absolutely.

The actors fit into their roles like cork in a champagne bottle. They are brilliant actors, no doubt. It’s mostly clever casting though.

Dev epitomizes obsession. Paro passion. And Chanda survival-instinct.

I am as taken by the characters as by the people who made them. So Anurag Kashyap encouraged Abhay Deol to drink while filming. And to land up on sets right out of bed. Hung-over. Mahie Gill broke a few doors, the hand-pump, somebody else’s hand and sprained her own ankle during the course of the movie. Chanda’s character was auditioned extensively, actors were give the orgasm part to read out. Kalki K didn’t know Hindi very well. But she spoke French and Tamil fluently and hence the final scene turning out the way it did.

There are movies and then there are movies. This one was a pleasant surprise. Watching it makes one wonder how it would be - to create your labor of love, to see it taking shape in front of you. To hit upon inspiration, to get others impassioned about your vision. To see yourself vindicated as the curtain falls. To lose yourself in front of the camera. To overcome the fears - of ridicule, failure and commoditization.

One of SRK's many quotable quotes - I leave behind a little bit of myself in each of my movies, and I fear that one day I will have nothing left.

Technicolor Dreamcoat

It struck me today that I am a boss-person. I get inspired by people around, maybe more than the work.

My room is a mess. There are things lying around. The bed is never made. Newspaper strewed. It still looks pretty damn neat. It is Wadala Sheraton, all said and done. How bad can it look. Like Aishwarya Rai having a bad hair day.

I don’t like the Sheraton though. It’s amazing how people have raved about it so much. I don’t want to live in a sone ka pinjra.

So trip to China happening sometime next month. Will like that. They have gorgeous hair. Should find out what the secret is. Can’t be good genes. Cant only be good genes.

The Chinese are secretive people. Inscrutable is the word. Plus they have the Mandarin. Must be a very narrow group of non-Chinese who can tell the Lee from the Loo.

I see people all around me trying to maintain the work-life balance. In fact, I am one of the last few to join the bandwagon. This says something about young people fresh-into-their-careers nowadays, does it not? And all of these people are ambitious, make no mistake. Coming of age, methinks. Of sensibilities.

'Sensibilities' seems to be my most oft-repeated word off-late.

The gist

It stares me in the eye
Like a sarkari office peon certain of my imbecility
I turn away
Chewing on my lower-lip in concentration

This question that comes up at times
The answer that I struggle with most times
Give me this day my daily bread
Also tell me how I should be

Should I stash my woes behind the daily dose (of laughter)
Or treat this life as pursuit for nirvana
Check for expiry dates and tell-tale signs on birthday gifts
Or maybe believe. Just believe

A goal. A goal. Should I set one
Or just drift along till I see someplace to anchor
Believe all men are born equal
But then why do so few rule and many others - just root

There is no - to be or not to be
Am and want to be
But what, and why, and how
That is mainly the question.

God in Gucci

I have discovered that when you boycott something, or proclaim disdain for it publicly, it is actually because you like it more than you care to admit, to the world, and sometimes, to yourself.

Like perfume. I never buy and rarely wear perfume. The only perfumes I own have been given to me by friends. Why? Because I don’t care to smell good? Wrong. Because smell to me is the most inebriating of senses, the most powerful, the most heavenly.

Smell is an obsession. I associate everything with smell. A sliver of a long-forgotten smell is like the key that opens long-locked doors inside my mind, the lubrication that gets those rusty hinges to swing.

The smell of my sister’s baby skin in the days when she would still let me hug her, the stench of Salt Lake City when I was a hot-headed-wear-heart-on-sleeve kinda punk kid, the cold remembrance of the air conditioning at Sinhal classes where I was easily the most painfully-shy, short-skirted, fifteen-year-old in her own ditsy Neverland, the perfumed nail-polish and the musty odor of second-hand Sweet Valley Highs from then, when I was quite the bimbo, the skin cream we all love to hate on my lips for the first time - the feeling’s gone, but the smell remains, the ghastly gobhi-aaloo when I would wake up feeling homeless and lost - remembering the smell of my mother’s love, the Vodka in plastic cups - brilliant hazy nights and freshly-laundered rosy mornings. And lately, the roses that smell of Hugo Boss.

The list is endless.

I love smell so much that I don’t think there is any smell in the world good enough for me. And so, I never wear perfume.

The same goes for love. People who say they don’t believe in love, in fact, believe in it so much that anything less than the over-powering, all-consuming, absolutely-exhilarating emotion is not acceptable - is not love.