Delhi is radiating heat. I, one who spends close to one-third of the month in the burning haze of Northern Maharashtra (places like Jalgaon etc, where the Jal in Jalgaon can be interpreted as burn and also ironically as water), bow down to the Surya dev and plead with him to leave this city alone. Yes, even if it peoples folks such as it does.
I am on leave and struggling with the concept. The mind is not at ease, it is thinking of all the stuff that is piling up silently and ominously on the side, like a tottering tower of Pisa.
The meet with the parents went well. Actually, very well. Like I remarked to somebody recently, the problem with that boy is that he does not have a bit of vice in him (except for narcissism, which I condone, seeing how it is my Achilles heel) and hence comes across as extremely accommodating and ernest. Well, parents have a liking for that kind of thing and they took a shine to him. Not that I had any doubt, but phew.
Apart from that, have been watching a lot of tv. Finished reading this book called The Unbearable Lightness of Scones - Alexander McCall Smith. Funny sort of book. First hand accounts from various characters, all Scottish, and consisting of mostly only conversations. Next on the list is the Meluha book - having heard so much about it and it being on the premises, how with my sister being gifted with a copy.
Speaking of books, the other day I was thumbing through an Oscar Wilde play (I have made The complete works of Oscar Wilde my read-in-Landmark book. Every time I go to Landmark and that is quite often, I continue from where I had left off) and I came across this intriguing idea.
So basically it says that while men love women with all their flaws and sometimes, because of the flaws, women love men because of the good in them. In fact, most of us play up the men in our lives to be better than they actually are, putting them on a pedestal so to speak (that would explain my comments earlier about you-know-who, heheheh) and then obviously, nobody is that perfect. Hence, women are more liable to feel hurt and such like, when their dream-world comes crashing down. I do agree. I feel we women don't have too strong a grip on reality. We are floating somewhere in between our fantasy worlds (comprising and because of, all the movies we watch, stories we hear, books we read) and ground zero. Every young girl has a version of her Mr Right and some fortunately grow up and realize that he does not exist before there is any lasting damage, some don't.
In that way, women seem to be more impressionable than men. Men to me, seem to be ambling through life, letting all its barbs and stabs slide over their rough hide, simplistic and naive whereas women are constantly hyperventilating all those barbs into a conspiracy by the Universe.
What do you think?
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Friday, June 25, 2010
Glee
Things are looking wonderful. (Almost). My parents are getting here tomorrow, we are attending Bua's and Chhote Papa's 25th wedding anniversary and then I am heading off with them to Delhi. But that is not all. From there, I shall go to Patna for a few days. After eleven years. Hard to believe it has been that long. I can picture that place in my head like it was just yesterday.
And still, that is not all. My parents are meeting Ankit this weekend and I am thrilled. It will be good to watch him squirm.
I just finished reading 'The Kite Runner' and I think it is well written, but I failed to experience the protagonist's pain. The protagonist as a child commits an act of betrayal towards a friend, whose loyalty towards him remains as staunch as ever even after the incident, and he lives to regret it everyday of his life. I know only too well how disproportionately big all the silly worries of childhood seem, and this is not even a silly thing that he does - it does have immense grief value, but even so, the ghost of this incident at every point in his life and him thinking that it is equivalent to having a hidden past and a terrible secret, is a little hard to digest. I also think the book drags a little in the end.
There I go, critiquing away to the high heavens. I guess I was expecting more. The descriptions of Afghanistan are breathtaking though. That and the stomach-clenching tales of the Taliban. Cannot believe such violence exists. And such bigots breed in our midst. I wonder what the Universe is playing at? Is there really no concept of divine justice? Nature's fury?
On the work front, this week I had to let a guy from my team go. I mean, I had to sack him. Don't feel good about it. I wish I didn't have such responsibilities. I am not capable of taking them lightly. I work myself up trying to beat the balance between encouraging my guys and kicking their butt when they don't deliver. At the end of it, I just want to have made the right decisions, not just for the business, but also for them. And sometimes, it is not one and the same thing.
Well, what with all this, have started feeling like a million years old. No, really, like there isn't any room for mistakes. Like the phase is past when I could call myself a beginner, a newbie, bound to - nay - expected to, make mistakes. I know that mistakes made by me now are not just going to affect me but many other people also. And the knowledge of that still takes my breath away.
Hmm..let me not end this post on a solemn note, what started out as happy. So here is a brief description of my room.
My room looks pretty. I have a television set, on which I have put my Oktoberfest hat. The television sits on a table for which I am thankful as I have stuffed, no, aesthetically arranged my books on the racks inside it. Had there been no room inside this table, my books would have been gathering dust inside some ugly brown carton. There is a tiny cupboard next to this television-table ensemble (everything is tiny in my room, like it was made for Hobbits) on top of which, due to lack of other places to keep them in, I have kept a few soft toys (all gifts, I find myself clarifying) along with various perfumes (gifts again), massage oils (I bought them - fancy - I know), free deos and facewashes (I do have some perks, few and far between though they are) and other assorted items. This cupboard is a pretty brown color too, like caramel. Next, there is a knee-high glass-topped wooden table on the other side of the television, with an in-built drawer which serves as my DVD store. On top of the table, I have carelessly flung my Red Bull mat (the one that we flicked from Geoffrey's in Bangalore) and a Scrabble set. On the space in between the glass top and the drawer, resides my Shakrukh-Khan-coffee-table-book (It was a birthday gift from him and I am pretty sure lugging it around was the final straw on the camel's back, quite literally as my back started to play up soon after. But oh. Did I forget to mention that I love it and will take that book to my grave and no, not because of SRK?).
So there's a corner of my room, all described. I rather liked describing it. I have always wondered how authors of serious novels describe the simplest of things in so much detail. I don't even know the English (or Hindi) names of half the things around me. For example, what do you call those things that curtains have, the ones by which they hang on rods? I am sure Hosseini could write a page on them.
And still, that is not all. My parents are meeting Ankit this weekend and I am thrilled. It will be good to watch him squirm.
I just finished reading 'The Kite Runner' and I think it is well written, but I failed to experience the protagonist's pain. The protagonist as a child commits an act of betrayal towards a friend, whose loyalty towards him remains as staunch as ever even after the incident, and he lives to regret it everyday of his life. I know only too well how disproportionately big all the silly worries of childhood seem, and this is not even a silly thing that he does - it does have immense grief value, but even so, the ghost of this incident at every point in his life and him thinking that it is equivalent to having a hidden past and a terrible secret, is a little hard to digest. I also think the book drags a little in the end.
There I go, critiquing away to the high heavens. I guess I was expecting more. The descriptions of Afghanistan are breathtaking though. That and the stomach-clenching tales of the Taliban. Cannot believe such violence exists. And such bigots breed in our midst. I wonder what the Universe is playing at? Is there really no concept of divine justice? Nature's fury?
On the work front, this week I had to let a guy from my team go. I mean, I had to sack him. Don't feel good about it. I wish I didn't have such responsibilities. I am not capable of taking them lightly. I work myself up trying to beat the balance between encouraging my guys and kicking their butt when they don't deliver. At the end of it, I just want to have made the right decisions, not just for the business, but also for them. And sometimes, it is not one and the same thing.
Well, what with all this, have started feeling like a million years old. No, really, like there isn't any room for mistakes. Like the phase is past when I could call myself a beginner, a newbie, bound to - nay - expected to, make mistakes. I know that mistakes made by me now are not just going to affect me but many other people also. And the knowledge of that still takes my breath away.
Hmm..let me not end this post on a solemn note, what started out as happy. So here is a brief description of my room.
My room looks pretty. I have a television set, on which I have put my Oktoberfest hat. The television sits on a table for which I am thankful as I have stuffed, no, aesthetically arranged my books on the racks inside it. Had there been no room inside this table, my books would have been gathering dust inside some ugly brown carton. There is a tiny cupboard next to this television-table ensemble (everything is tiny in my room, like it was made for Hobbits) on top of which, due to lack of other places to keep them in, I have kept a few soft toys (all gifts, I find myself clarifying) along with various perfumes (gifts again), massage oils (I bought them - fancy - I know), free deos and facewashes (I do have some perks, few and far between though they are) and other assorted items. This cupboard is a pretty brown color too, like caramel. Next, there is a knee-high glass-topped wooden table on the other side of the television, with an in-built drawer which serves as my DVD store. On top of the table, I have carelessly flung my Red Bull mat (the one that we flicked from Geoffrey's in Bangalore) and a Scrabble set. On the space in between the glass top and the drawer, resides my Shakrukh-Khan-coffee-table-book (It was a birthday gift from him and I am pretty sure lugging it around was the final straw on the camel's back, quite literally as my back started to play up soon after. But oh. Did I forget to mention that I love it and will take that book to my grave and no, not because of SRK?).
So there's a corner of my room, all described. I rather liked describing it. I have always wondered how authors of serious novels describe the simplest of things in so much detail. I don't even know the English (or Hindi) names of half the things around me. For example, what do you call those things that curtains have, the ones by which they hang on rods? I am sure Hosseini could write a page on them.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Just generally
I do some blog surfing nowadays and a couple of blogs are my favorites. One of them bloggers is really into it, she visualizes her blog as a bar and herself as the bartender, serving up posts or drinks for everyone who drops in. What is amazing are the labels under which her posts are categorized - Polls, Bollywood Buzz, Recipe for the month, etc. She is pretty consistent with her content. Her blog is well thought out and well laid out apart from being just well written. And she regularly meets up with the other bloggers taking what is largely for me a way to vent and derive some creative satisfaction at times, to an entirely new level.
Here is the link - http://sayesha.blogspot.com
The weekend has arrived and I find myself incapable of feeling entirely wrinkle-free happy. Well, not true. Friday evenings are like that - not-a-cloud-on-the-horizon kinda happy. The part of me that plays the figure of authority about these things allows me that one evening to put everything on the back-burner. Come Saturday morning and I start worrying about how to plan the weekend so that all that pending stuff gets done and fun is also had. Ironic, huh? There is also a bit of work and my team is working Saturday so I am not completely off. Saturday evening is again a sort of respite from it all, and then dawns the Grand ol' Sunday.
I remember a time when Sunday used to be only about watching cartoons early in the morning, I used to have a pretty busy schedule, then an awesome lunch and a lazy evening spent doing not much that I can remember, leading up to Monday, eagerly awaited. Those were the days when school was the one thing I would look forward to the most. I had to be dragged away from it for holidays and stuff, or even when I would be unwell.
Now? Hmm. Let's see. Sunday brings with it the worst sense of foreboding about the week that is about to begin. It brings with it that feeling of hastily wanting to enjoy the last few moments of freedom knowing that those moments are going to run out very soon. It brings with it the feeling of having wasted the weekend - if worked too much, then wasted the weekend working too much and not sleeping/having fun/ticking off all those other jobs to be done apart from work; and if not worked at all - then wasted the opportunity to peacefully sit and analyze some or the other data, or put on the hold some not-so-important-thing which would come and undoubtedly smite me between the eyes on Monday morning.
Sigh.
No no, Life isn't all this bad and I am not this implacable.
I do sometimes wish I had been wiser fifteen years back and known that those were the Golden days, although that would not have served any purpose really. Well, adulthood sucks. I still see myself as a loafer who does not know what she wants. Still trying to decide what to make a career in. Still at a stage where Lipstick seems too grown-up and hence, does not figure in the scheme of things.
Life is slipping me by and I am selling soap. Albeit in a way that is adding a lot of skills and experience and all that to me. Still. I tell you, that is something to be slisha concerned about.
Here is the link - http://sayesha.blogspot.com
The weekend has arrived and I find myself incapable of feeling entirely wrinkle-free happy. Well, not true. Friday evenings are like that - not-a-cloud-on-the-horizon kinda happy. The part of me that plays the figure of authority about these things allows me that one evening to put everything on the back-burner. Come Saturday morning and I start worrying about how to plan the weekend so that all that pending stuff gets done and fun is also had. Ironic, huh? There is also a bit of work and my team is working Saturday so I am not completely off. Saturday evening is again a sort of respite from it all, and then dawns the Grand ol' Sunday.
I remember a time when Sunday used to be only about watching cartoons early in the morning, I used to have a pretty busy schedule, then an awesome lunch and a lazy evening spent doing not much that I can remember, leading up to Monday, eagerly awaited. Those were the days when school was the one thing I would look forward to the most. I had to be dragged away from it for holidays and stuff, or even when I would be unwell.
Now? Hmm. Let's see. Sunday brings with it the worst sense of foreboding about the week that is about to begin. It brings with it that feeling of hastily wanting to enjoy the last few moments of freedom knowing that those moments are going to run out very soon. It brings with it the feeling of having wasted the weekend - if worked too much, then wasted the weekend working too much and not sleeping/having fun/ticking off all those other jobs to be done apart from work; and if not worked at all - then wasted the opportunity to peacefully sit and analyze some or the other data, or put on the hold some not-so-important-thing which would come and undoubtedly smite me between the eyes on Monday morning.
Sigh.
No no, Life isn't all this bad and I am not this implacable.
I do sometimes wish I had been wiser fifteen years back and known that those were the Golden days, although that would not have served any purpose really. Well, adulthood sucks. I still see myself as a loafer who does not know what she wants. Still trying to decide what to make a career in. Still at a stage where Lipstick seems too grown-up and hence, does not figure in the scheme of things.
Life is slipping me by and I am selling soap. Albeit in a way that is adding a lot of skills and experience and all that to me. Still. I tell you, that is something to be slisha concerned about.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Porn and Popcorn
Weird thing I noticed today.
I had some time to kill at the Sangli railway station, so I was loafing around. I went to the bookshop brimming with curiosity, and what does five seconds of standing there reveal? Magazines of various names and sizes, brimming (yes, nice word, innit) with pictures of voluptuous women in compromising poses.
Yes, with titles like 'Chulbuli kahaniyan', 'Yauvan ka josh' and lots of other colorful stuff that has slipped my obviously geriatric mind.
Hmmm..
The other day, I needed to go to a cyber cafe in Solapur and all people directed me to one 'Balaji' Cyber cafe like it was the Victoria Memorial. And it did turn out to be quite a place. It was buzzing with youngsters, rather - boys. It was like their regular adda spot. They were playing games on LAN, surfing (one can only imagine what) and generally hanging around and smoking.
Life in these little towns is changing. They are probably at a phase in their evolutionary cycle where the Metros were fifteen years back.
But while some things change, some remain just the same. And one of them is the maybe-uniquely-Indian adult obsession with soft-pornography.
I had some time to kill at the Sangli railway station, so I was loafing around. I went to the bookshop brimming with curiosity, and what does five seconds of standing there reveal? Magazines of various names and sizes, brimming (yes, nice word, innit) with pictures of voluptuous women in compromising poses.
Yes, with titles like 'Chulbuli kahaniyan', 'Yauvan ka josh' and lots of other colorful stuff that has slipped my obviously geriatric mind.
Hmmm..
The other day, I needed to go to a cyber cafe in Solapur and all people directed me to one 'Balaji' Cyber cafe like it was the Victoria Memorial. And it did turn out to be quite a place. It was buzzing with youngsters, rather - boys. It was like their regular adda spot. They were playing games on LAN, surfing (one can only imagine what) and generally hanging around and smoking.
Life in these little towns is changing. They are probably at a phase in their evolutionary cycle where the Metros were fifteen years back.
But while some things change, some remain just the same. And one of them is the maybe-uniquely-Indian adult obsession with soft-pornography.
Monday, June 14, 2010
The eight wonders
There is a Hakim-Aalim-Hair-and-Tattoo-lounge near my old place on Carter road and it has since the past half a year sported a hoarding in its vicinity which says - "Javed Habib is pregnant, delivering soon".
It almost sounds ominous. Like who knows what Mr Habib will unleash upon this world and the bourgeois better beware.
So, dear readers!! Tralala..lala..laLALA and all that. I am told that I have eight followers. I see there is merit in not going and checking the number of followers that one has - every hour. One is pleasantly surprised when the number leapfrogs from two to eight. A 300% for those who ingest numbers and unfortunately I know many who do. Although I can derive some solace from the fact that they are probably not among them followers.
I must here insert a statement which umm..states that I am aware of the insignificance of having eight followers. I blog-hob-nob with people who win blog-awards. Eight followers is what their toenails have.
..
It is raining like the blazes in Mumbai. I have never been able to decide whether I love the rains or hate them. I guess, both. It is frustrating when you are stuck in a hell-hole of a traffic jam for three hours and it is pouring, and because it is pouring. It is beautiful when you are watching it raise hell and high water, insistently, persistently, from the safety of the terrace, in the company of a good book, or conversation. It activates sound, light, touch - the works.
One thing suddenly came to me though - it has been close to twelve years since I have thrown all caution to the wind, or the rains in this case, and reveled - getting drenched to the bone and not caring. With no worries of where I need to go, what I am wearing or carrying, how I am going to look or whether I am going to catch the cold of my life. It has been that long since I felt all that.
Prisoners of our own device, we are.
..
Saw Sex and the City part II and came out with a very happy feeling. All glowy and lovey. And he was wearing specs too. That added to it. The women all look old, no doubt. Makes me wonder, do these American women grow to look older before their time? Or is it just the naivete of youth that made me spake these words? Apart from that, their clothes are as bizarre as ever. Big is domesticated and Carrie, the eternal seeker, is still seeking. Let me not even get started on what Samantha is upto.
On slightly more morose topics, work - that heralder of old age before its time (did I just proclaim to be suffering from the naivete of youth?), is doing its job well. My back is fragile and the dentist says I grind my teeth too much. Weird, the kind of things doctors diagnose me with. Next they will be calling me a hypochondriac.
It almost sounds ominous. Like who knows what Mr Habib will unleash upon this world and the bourgeois better beware.
So, dear readers!! Tralala..lala..laLALA and all that. I am told that I have eight followers. I see there is merit in not going and checking the number of followers that one has - every hour. One is pleasantly surprised when the number leapfrogs from two to eight. A 300% for those who ingest numbers and unfortunately I know many who do. Although I can derive some solace from the fact that they are probably not among them followers.
I must here insert a statement which umm..states that I am aware of the insignificance of having eight followers. I blog-hob-nob with people who win blog-awards. Eight followers is what their toenails have.
..
It is raining like the blazes in Mumbai. I have never been able to decide whether I love the rains or hate them. I guess, both. It is frustrating when you are stuck in a hell-hole of a traffic jam for three hours and it is pouring, and because it is pouring. It is beautiful when you are watching it raise hell and high water, insistently, persistently, from the safety of the terrace, in the company of a good book, or conversation. It activates sound, light, touch - the works.
One thing suddenly came to me though - it has been close to twelve years since I have thrown all caution to the wind, or the rains in this case, and reveled - getting drenched to the bone and not caring. With no worries of where I need to go, what I am wearing or carrying, how I am going to look or whether I am going to catch the cold of my life. It has been that long since I felt all that.
Prisoners of our own device, we are.
..
Saw Sex and the City part II and came out with a very happy feeling. All glowy and lovey. And he was wearing specs too. That added to it. The women all look old, no doubt. Makes me wonder, do these American women grow to look older before their time? Or is it just the naivete of youth that made me spake these words? Apart from that, their clothes are as bizarre as ever. Big is domesticated and Carrie, the eternal seeker, is still seeking. Let me not even get started on what Samantha is upto.
On slightly more morose topics, work - that heralder of old age before its time (did I just proclaim to be suffering from the naivete of youth?), is doing its job well. My back is fragile and the dentist says I grind my teeth too much. Weird, the kind of things doctors diagnose me with. Next they will be calling me a hypochondriac.
Wednesday, June 09, 2010
Harvesting Pain
Breezy is over-rated. I don't want to be one of those cheerful, chirpy, always-happy things, these people who bear any and every one of the atrocious misfortunes that befall them with philosophical stolidity. Also, do they even exist?
I have my own perversity through. I have always chosen to torture myself, thinking, as does Calvin's dad, that it would build character. Laughable.
At this point I feel that character has been built enough and is being subjected to the violent blows of this hammer that goes about calling itself Life. It is starting to wear away - character, not the demonic blows.
If only these years would fly past. I would happily wear the crown of the 'been-there-done-that' as opposed to sitting on this rather thorny throne of the 'here-now-and-doing-it'.
I have my own perversity through. I have always chosen to torture myself, thinking, as does Calvin's dad, that it would build character. Laughable.
At this point I feel that character has been built enough and is being subjected to the violent blows of this hammer that goes about calling itself Life. It is starting to wear away - character, not the demonic blows.
If only these years would fly past. I would happily wear the crown of the 'been-there-done-that' as opposed to sitting on this rather thorny throne of the 'here-now-and-doing-it'.
Thursday, June 03, 2010
A weird week
I love the coffee culture. More than coffee itself. I treat these coffee shops as 'homes away from home' - taking books and newspaper to read, the laptop on the rare occasions that I am working from home or at those times when I have to work late and doing that from a warm, buzzing, promising-to-be-serving-up-mugs-of-coffee kinda place makes it so much more tolerable, almost cool. I also treat these places as a meeting point, with brokers and the likes. Glorious is life when there is a coffee place nearby!
In a stroke of bad luck, my back played up again. Must be because of all the carrying and lugging that packing and unpacking entails. Also my landlady generously put a pair of plump mattresses on the bed that she also so kindly provided (yea, I have an actual bed to sleep on now!) but that played havoc with my back. Unlike the Princess in the Pea story, who could not sleep all night due to the presence of a pea beneath some millions of layers of mattresses, give me a hard plank of wood and I will sleep like a babe. Not princess-material, me.
So this week there has been no traveling and lots of staying at home and frankly, I am bored. Traveling is now so much a part of my lifestyle that a week of not, makes me feel as if - hmm..mm..hmmm..as if my nose has suddenly disappeared off my face, you know, an improvement for sure in the general scheme of things, but weird.
Also paid a visit to the dermatologist after the recent escapade at the salon, while I was at the hospital for my back. I have never been to one, and I was a bit apprehensive. I had not even checked before paying the exorbitant consultation charges whether dermatologists do look at scalps. However, he did not miss a beat when I told him that some hairstylist had advised me to get my scalp checked. He checked, and told me lazily - Hats off to her that she managed to scare you like this. They are evil, these beauty parlors. While I kept insisting that he check again - well, I had to get my money's worth - he seemed to get more and more amused.
If you ask me, he seemed like a bit of a sham himself, slightly bored, kinda like he was reserving all his energies for the truly meaty clients like hmm..Hrithik Roshan, whom he had a framed photograph with, in his office. Or ladies who have enough moolah and time to go nip-tuck-lift-botoxx!
Anyhow, what with all my visits to Lilavati hospital, I am now a card-holding member of that landmark institution. And by landmark, I mean, actually so. I always use it to give directions to my home.
The television is also part of the paraphernalia that the flat has come with. And I must say, I wasn't missing much. Although when you are a bit lonely and all that, it does help having a television blaring familiarly from the corner.
As part of the grand initiation ceremony into the new place, I tried to whip up some bread pohe. I love the bread pohe. The only thing that has prevented me from making a staple diet out of it is the fact that I don't eat bread. Such is life. But now that there is whole wheat bread, and multi-grain bread, and three-grain bread and an assortment of healthy options to plain old bread, I decided to get back at it. So in went bread, and some onions, and carrots, topped with some thai sauce and Olive Oil (yea, I bought Olive Oil to cook, I am that pretentious!) and I discovered that I didn't have any matchsticks or a lighter. So I put the thing into the microwave, and skeptically put it on 'Auto-cook' wondering how on earth would it cook the carrots, which are about the hardest things to soften.
I was wrong, oh so wrong. After about ten minutes, when I went in again, I was greeted by a delicious aroma and the sight of molten plastic. Yes, the microwave had reduced my plastic bowl to an abstract-artsy-looking thing. The pohe turned out well though.
All's well that ends well though. Will use the half melted bowl for potpourri. Nice and bohemian. Yes, I am that pretentious. I have potpourri.
In a stroke of bad luck, my back played up again. Must be because of all the carrying and lugging that packing and unpacking entails. Also my landlady generously put a pair of plump mattresses on the bed that she also so kindly provided (yea, I have an actual bed to sleep on now!) but that played havoc with my back. Unlike the Princess in the Pea story, who could not sleep all night due to the presence of a pea beneath some millions of layers of mattresses, give me a hard plank of wood and I will sleep like a babe. Not princess-material, me.
So this week there has been no traveling and lots of staying at home and frankly, I am bored. Traveling is now so much a part of my lifestyle that a week of not, makes me feel as if - hmm..mm..hmmm..as if my nose has suddenly disappeared off my face, you know, an improvement for sure in the general scheme of things, but weird.
Also paid a visit to the dermatologist after the recent escapade at the salon, while I was at the hospital for my back. I have never been to one, and I was a bit apprehensive. I had not even checked before paying the exorbitant consultation charges whether dermatologists do look at scalps. However, he did not miss a beat when I told him that some hairstylist had advised me to get my scalp checked. He checked, and told me lazily - Hats off to her that she managed to scare you like this. They are evil, these beauty parlors. While I kept insisting that he check again - well, I had to get my money's worth - he seemed to get more and more amused.
If you ask me, he seemed like a bit of a sham himself, slightly bored, kinda like he was reserving all his energies for the truly meaty clients like hmm..Hrithik Roshan, whom he had a framed photograph with, in his office. Or ladies who have enough moolah and time to go nip-tuck-lift-botoxx!
Anyhow, what with all my visits to Lilavati hospital, I am now a card-holding member of that landmark institution. And by landmark, I mean, actually so. I always use it to give directions to my home.
The television is also part of the paraphernalia that the flat has come with. And I must say, I wasn't missing much. Although when you are a bit lonely and all that, it does help having a television blaring familiarly from the corner.
As part of the grand initiation ceremony into the new place, I tried to whip up some bread pohe. I love the bread pohe. The only thing that has prevented me from making a staple diet out of it is the fact that I don't eat bread. Such is life. But now that there is whole wheat bread, and multi-grain bread, and three-grain bread and an assortment of healthy options to plain old bread, I decided to get back at it. So in went bread, and some onions, and carrots, topped with some thai sauce and Olive Oil (yea, I bought Olive Oil to cook, I am that pretentious!) and I discovered that I didn't have any matchsticks or a lighter. So I put the thing into the microwave, and skeptically put it on 'Auto-cook' wondering how on earth would it cook the carrots, which are about the hardest things to soften.
I was wrong, oh so wrong. After about ten minutes, when I went in again, I was greeted by a delicious aroma and the sight of molten plastic. Yes, the microwave had reduced my plastic bowl to an abstract-artsy-looking thing. The pohe turned out well though.
All's well that ends well though. Will use the half melted bowl for potpourri. Nice and bohemian. Yes, I am that pretentious. I have potpourri.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Sock in the Solar Plexus
There are some people who were probably reading magazines not meant for them when they should have been in the line where some or the other of the many angels was administering some modesty.
Got the flow? No? Okay. You were probably doing it too when quick-grasping-ability was being ladled out.
The point is that some people strut through life thinking they are the bees knees. But this post is not about that. This post is about how to make them fall down on theirs.
And after rigorous and I must say, excruciating research, I have hit upon the most effective method - A visit to the hairdresser.
Hairdresser? Isn't it O.Nash or some such bird who said that the worst thing that could befall the human race was a visit to the dentist?
..Because some tortures are physical and some are mental,
But the one that is both is dental.
No, that is olde hat. If you want to kill a chap's self-confidence such that he is never able to rise from the depths again, send him for a haircut.
These hair-salons nowadays are peopled by folks of such fortitude that they don't hesitate to bluntly state what your mother would quake in her Bata flip-flops about. Oh, they are brave, undoubtedly in the wrong profession. They should have been operating guillotines during the French revolution.
Disdainfully, across the years, I have been painfully acquainted with the fact that my hair is too thin, is falling too much, is not the right texture, has an extraordinarily high percentage of split ends, turns North when it should face South, and is in general the follicular equivalent of a drug addict caught trying to pawn his blind mother's scrawny jewels. Furthermore, I have been chided about not using the right shampoo, conditioner, toner, light beam, laser. My scalp has not been spared either. I have, on occasion, sported an oily one, at times an extraordinarily dry one, undoubtedly, with sheets of dandruff flowing down the back, and today - horror of horrors, it was accused of having a disease, with suggestion in place that a visit to the Dermatologist was in order.
As I walked away humbled, my spirit a mere shadow of its former self, a scene floated in front of the pensive eye. Date - April the 30th, circa 1945. A little man, with a furious expression and a toothbrush mustache, sits down to get his daily trim, while a somewhat sinister looking character hovers around him with a pair of clippers. A snort, a questioning glance, eyelids heavy with disgust - "They are not what they used to be, Sie ware besser dran ohne sie".
Got the flow? No? Okay. You were probably doing it too when quick-grasping-ability was being ladled out.
The point is that some people strut through life thinking they are the bees knees. But this post is not about that. This post is about how to make them fall down on theirs.
And after rigorous and I must say, excruciating research, I have hit upon the most effective method - A visit to the hairdresser.
Hairdresser? Isn't it O.Nash or some such bird who said that the worst thing that could befall the human race was a visit to the dentist?
..Because some tortures are physical and some are mental,
But the one that is both is dental.
No, that is olde hat. If you want to kill a chap's self-confidence such that he is never able to rise from the depths again, send him for a haircut.
These hair-salons nowadays are peopled by folks of such fortitude that they don't hesitate to bluntly state what your mother would quake in her Bata flip-flops about. Oh, they are brave, undoubtedly in the wrong profession. They should have been operating guillotines during the French revolution.
Disdainfully, across the years, I have been painfully acquainted with the fact that my hair is too thin, is falling too much, is not the right texture, has an extraordinarily high percentage of split ends, turns North when it should face South, and is in general the follicular equivalent of a drug addict caught trying to pawn his blind mother's scrawny jewels. Furthermore, I have been chided about not using the right shampoo, conditioner, toner, light beam, laser. My scalp has not been spared either. I have, on occasion, sported an oily one, at times an extraordinarily dry one, undoubtedly, with sheets of dandruff flowing down the back, and today - horror of horrors, it was accused of having a disease, with suggestion in place that a visit to the Dermatologist was in order.
As I walked away humbled, my spirit a mere shadow of its former self, a scene floated in front of the pensive eye. Date - April the 30th, circa 1945. A little man, with a furious expression and a toothbrush mustache, sits down to get his daily trim, while a somewhat sinister looking character hovers around him with a pair of clippers. A snort, a questioning glance, eyelids heavy with disgust - "They are not what they used to be, Sie ware besser dran ohne sie".
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Past Vs Present
I was going through my older posts, the ones at the beginning, the ones that inspired me to start this blog because I felt I wanted to tell people these things.
I was such a different girl then. Less confused, more aware of my strengths and weaknesses, more honest and brutal about where I stood.
B-school changed me? Taught me how to project an image? I don't know, I have strictly maintained that I have remained honest all along and never pandered to the image-game. But maybe that's an image too.
I was less cynical. Also, the kind of person who believed that anybody else being good, even great, does not mean you are any less. There is place for everybody under the sun. Life as I know it today seems to instinctively suggest that it is a zero-sum game and if I am to save myself from thinking and acting as per that, I need to be wary, guard against getting over-competitive.
Less cynical, I mentioned that. I was more inclined to admire people, accept their ambition and marvel at their brilliance. Where did that go, replaced by a cynicism that questions whether the people who have it all, really deserve it, or whether they really have it all in the first place.
Let me correct it. Let me publicly register admiration for the success of some people/groups of people I have been in-two-minds about at some points in time earlier -
1. Aishwarya Rai - She did do quite well for herself, talent or no talent. And that in itself, is a talent. To be smart enough to know what works for you.
2. Consultants - Difficult lifestyle, to be on the go like that, to gel with the client and its way of working and make oneself useful. Underneath all the B-school shroud of glitz and glamor, a profession that has its place in the sun, it's utility in the food chain. I know some people who are doing great work, learning lots and enjoying themselves too.
3. Sachin Tendulkar - Yes, I know he is a great cricketer and all that. But beyond that, his attitude is what makes him such a legend. Unassuming. And eternal.
4. Angelina Jolie - So I love Jennifer Aniston. But Angelina Jolie has the x-factor. Something about her makes her stand out. Her confidence maybe. Her work with the UN. Her incessant adopting. Her devil-may-care attitude. And she is a good actress to boot.
5. The Tata group - No organization is without its drawbacks. Corruption is like bacteria, it does not require much to survive and multiply. But the Tata group and its stalwart status has survived all that and stands tall today in the world arena - Tetley, Land rover and Jaguar, Corus. The many sectors they are present in in India, and the fact that they have such a strong nationalist image - cannot be just a cleverly-crafted mirage. The name of JRD Tata invokes respect and Ratan Tata has managed to sustain it.
In other news, a ring has been booked. It feels weird and new, that such a thing could be happening to me. I mean, I am still a kid (Not really, I am going to hit the 30's in a couple of years) but it feels like such a grown-up thing! He will tell me that I am an attention-shark and that is what all blog-writers are, as per him, but it makes me so happy, how can I not mention it?
In other non-flashy news, went for Anusmaran. Met people, ate the bizarrely expensive food and came back.
Also, at the verge of shifting houses. Half the packing is done and tonight is my final night in the present acco. It was great fun, being in the heart of Bandra - the room with no view. And not even a bed. Well, nothing much changes. My new home is also pretty much in the heart of B, has no view again and probably will not have much room for a bed. The only difference is that I shall be living all by myself now - which has been my dream since I was an adolescent bemoaning the lack of privacy in an all too crowded family of four. Like all things in life, a dream remains alluring only till when it comes true.
300 sq feet and a fortune for that. Such is life in this megalopolis if you want to live anywhere within cycling distance of someplace to restore the overwrought nerves at - not that I cycle. I never learnt to. Yes, there, I have said it.
What else. The mood of this post has got decidedly jauntier by the word. Such is the power of positive thinking. And love.
I was such a different girl then. Less confused, more aware of my strengths and weaknesses, more honest and brutal about where I stood.
B-school changed me? Taught me how to project an image? I don't know, I have strictly maintained that I have remained honest all along and never pandered to the image-game. But maybe that's an image too.
I was less cynical. Also, the kind of person who believed that anybody else being good, even great, does not mean you are any less. There is place for everybody under the sun. Life as I know it today seems to instinctively suggest that it is a zero-sum game and if I am to save myself from thinking and acting as per that, I need to be wary, guard against getting over-competitive.
Less cynical, I mentioned that. I was more inclined to admire people, accept their ambition and marvel at their brilliance. Where did that go, replaced by a cynicism that questions whether the people who have it all, really deserve it, or whether they really have it all in the first place.
Let me correct it. Let me publicly register admiration for the success of some people/groups of people I have been in-two-minds about at some points in time earlier -
1. Aishwarya Rai - She did do quite well for herself, talent or no talent. And that in itself, is a talent. To be smart enough to know what works for you.
2. Consultants - Difficult lifestyle, to be on the go like that, to gel with the client and its way of working and make oneself useful. Underneath all the B-school shroud of glitz and glamor, a profession that has its place in the sun, it's utility in the food chain. I know some people who are doing great work, learning lots and enjoying themselves too.
3. Sachin Tendulkar - Yes, I know he is a great cricketer and all that. But beyond that, his attitude is what makes him such a legend. Unassuming. And eternal.
4. Angelina Jolie - So I love Jennifer Aniston. But Angelina Jolie has the x-factor. Something about her makes her stand out. Her confidence maybe. Her work with the UN. Her incessant adopting. Her devil-may-care attitude. And she is a good actress to boot.
5. The Tata group - No organization is without its drawbacks. Corruption is like bacteria, it does not require much to survive and multiply. But the Tata group and its stalwart status has survived all that and stands tall today in the world arena - Tetley, Land rover and Jaguar, Corus. The many sectors they are present in in India, and the fact that they have such a strong nationalist image - cannot be just a cleverly-crafted mirage. The name of JRD Tata invokes respect and Ratan Tata has managed to sustain it.
In other news, a ring has been booked. It feels weird and new, that such a thing could be happening to me. I mean, I am still a kid (Not really, I am going to hit the 30's in a couple of years) but it feels like such a grown-up thing! He will tell me that I am an attention-shark and that is what all blog-writers are, as per him, but it makes me so happy, how can I not mention it?
In other non-flashy news, went for Anusmaran. Met people, ate the bizarrely expensive food and came back.
Also, at the verge of shifting houses. Half the packing is done and tonight is my final night in the present acco. It was great fun, being in the heart of Bandra - the room with no view. And not even a bed. Well, nothing much changes. My new home is also pretty much in the heart of B, has no view again and probably will not have much room for a bed. The only difference is that I shall be living all by myself now - which has been my dream since I was an adolescent bemoaning the lack of privacy in an all too crowded family of four. Like all things in life, a dream remains alluring only till when it comes true.
300 sq feet and a fortune for that. Such is life in this megalopolis if you want to live anywhere within cycling distance of someplace to restore the overwrought nerves at - not that I cycle. I never learnt to. Yes, there, I have said it.
What else. The mood of this post has got decidedly jauntier by the word. Such is the power of positive thinking. And love.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Amusement Park
Alec's latest post comes like a whiff of fresh air. While I look around, struggling to find things which are going right, here comes a post laden with little packets of joy which burst into remembrances about things which make my life so much richer - like a favorite smell, a favorite month, a favorite season, without my I even realizing it.
Kavity's latest also resonates and I am surprised to see how many people it resonates with. Looks like all these foreign-migrated people have been terrorizing junta back at home with details of their lives and worse - expectations of us knowing all those details by heart.
My life is, as usual, doing its roller-coaster routine. At times, I feel like this has to be bliss. Now this, has to be bliss - waking up on a Saturday, going to one of the many (although now that I have gone to all, the choices seem limited) places around that serve a good breakfast. Bandra has a very chilled-out air about it, actually certain bits of Bandra. The young or the young-at-heart throng these coffee-shops, I see young families with their cherubs and their ayaas in tow, single men and women with a book in one hand and a large mug of coffee in the other, looking rather bohemian and extremely at peace with the world, couplets or groups of girls, catching up on news from the week, couples of slightly older women, discussing everything from their neighbor's children to the businesses that they run, young guys and girls - groups of friends, and young guy and girl - out on a date (although these are mostly in the evenings) playing their stereotypes to perfection - the guy trying his best to take her case, make fun of her, and the girl trying her best to look half-annoyed, half-flattered over all the nervous, flirtatious undertones, then the slightly older guy and girl, been dating for some time, obviously not married, looking like they don't have a care in the world.
The point being that at times like these, when I am tucking into a 'healthy' and scrumptious white omelet-brown bread-nutralite butter spread, the heart takes wings and I see it fluttering high above the Bandra skyline.
Recently read this awesome book called Exploding Mangoes, written by a Pak-born journalist residing in Britain now. He has spoken with a lot of audacity about the charade the Pakistani governance is, or was, under military rule. It is an alleged (in the author's own words) fictional account, of an attempt to assassinate General Zia, along the way giving us a peek into the military training that the Pakistani young go through, the way they use India and Indian references as a form of insult and their ease with the Americans and their role in the Taliban as we know it today.
Also, watched a couple of really good movies - Guess who's coming to dinner and Cactus Flower. I would absolutely recommend them, GWCTD for the crisp dialogues and CF for the brilliant performances and amazing background music.
Will end on a warning note though - whatever you do, do not watch the latest Gurinder Chaddha disaster. It makes me sick.
Kavity's latest also resonates and I am surprised to see how many people it resonates with. Looks like all these foreign-migrated people have been terrorizing junta back at home with details of their lives and worse - expectations of us knowing all those details by heart.
My life is, as usual, doing its roller-coaster routine. At times, I feel like this has to be bliss. Now this, has to be bliss - waking up on a Saturday, going to one of the many (although now that I have gone to all, the choices seem limited) places around that serve a good breakfast. Bandra has a very chilled-out air about it, actually certain bits of Bandra. The young or the young-at-heart throng these coffee-shops, I see young families with their cherubs and their ayaas in tow, single men and women with a book in one hand and a large mug of coffee in the other, looking rather bohemian and extremely at peace with the world, couplets or groups of girls, catching up on news from the week, couples of slightly older women, discussing everything from their neighbor's children to the businesses that they run, young guys and girls - groups of friends, and young guy and girl - out on a date (although these are mostly in the evenings) playing their stereotypes to perfection - the guy trying his best to take her case, make fun of her, and the girl trying her best to look half-annoyed, half-flattered over all the nervous, flirtatious undertones, then the slightly older guy and girl, been dating for some time, obviously not married, looking like they don't have a care in the world.
The point being that at times like these, when I am tucking into a 'healthy' and scrumptious white omelet-brown bread-nutralite butter spread, the heart takes wings and I see it fluttering high above the Bandra skyline.
Recently read this awesome book called Exploding Mangoes, written by a Pak-born journalist residing in Britain now. He has spoken with a lot of audacity about the charade the Pakistani governance is, or was, under military rule. It is an alleged (in the author's own words) fictional account, of an attempt to assassinate General Zia, along the way giving us a peek into the military training that the Pakistani young go through, the way they use India and Indian references as a form of insult and their ease with the Americans and their role in the Taliban as we know it today.
Also, watched a couple of really good movies - Guess who's coming to dinner and Cactus Flower. I would absolutely recommend them, GWCTD for the crisp dialogues and CF for the brilliant performances and amazing background music.
Will end on a warning note though - whatever you do, do not watch the latest Gurinder Chaddha disaster. It makes me sick.
Saturday, May 01, 2010
DLE
It is difficult to explain what really happened in the last four days. Because it is really quite absurd.
The company has this tie-up with one global firm which does leadership development courses for many companies. They have a four-day program called DLE - Developing Leadership Effectiveness. It has been a tradition in my company since long to send groups of unsuspecting managers to this program with the hope that they come out knowing how to become effective leaders.
Smacks of cynicism. I was, a cynic. A closet cynic till I went there. Even till the third day. Not any longer though.
So there is a group of peers, around twenty-eight of us from all over the country who land up and are confined within a room from 9 am to 6 pm for four days without any mobile phones or laptops along with the founding pillars of this program - a Mr Gareth and a Ms Amelia.
The modus operandi, and that is what it is, because Gareth and Amelia have been in this business since the last twenty years or so and everything that they do is calculated to the last insult. And insult is what they do. They insult us till we feel like we are morons.
The intention is to make us own up to our fears and our hang-ups. Our pretty little escape algorithms. The stories we tell ourselves whenever we do anything we know that we really should not be doing and is not going to help us.
It sounds like a lot of humbug and frankly speaking, I did not like being screamed at for the first three days. But that is what drove it home, when I am being dishonest with myself, I am doing a great disservice to my potential.
I also noticed, or rather it was brought to my notice that I, and in this case, I shall speak for most people, tend to seek refuge behind the safety of the collective - WE or the non-committed - ONE or the indefinite - YOU. For example, most of our sentences there begun like - "When such and such thing happens, YOU tend to do such and such..Or ONE thinks one is committed, when ONE is really not..Or WE always think that is the right way.." SAFETY! I want to be emotionally safe. I want to say things such that there is always some exit room to wriggle out. Instead of taking sole responsibility, I want everyone present to bear the guilt of what I have said.
I didn't participate much and I got screamed at for that. Because not wanting to open up in front of near strangers is also a hang-up and merits thinking about.
But here goes, I mean to change a few things and here they are -
I tend to take the back-seat when I find myself in a group where somebody knows how to do the task at hand better than me, or so it seems. I sort of take for granted that person's superior role in achieving that task.
I do not open up to strangers, or even people I have known since a long time but am not 'close' to. Why, because I would not know how that person would think of me and my insecurities. Would only open up in front of people who I know would love me/like me irrespective of what they hear. So, I don't accept myself the way I am and fear that others will not.
I link my self-worth to my success at the tasks I perform. If I fail at something at work, it means I fail, period.
There are many others. Like they said, we are born free of any hang-ups. But as we grow up, based on our experiences, we collect all these beliefs and build a personality around these beliefs.
I really want to shatter these so-called truisms of my life. I want to come clean, and to remain that way. So here I am, all of me, for-public-consumption.
The company has this tie-up with one global firm which does leadership development courses for many companies. They have a four-day program called DLE - Developing Leadership Effectiveness. It has been a tradition in my company since long to send groups of unsuspecting managers to this program with the hope that they come out knowing how to become effective leaders.
Smacks of cynicism. I was, a cynic. A closet cynic till I went there. Even till the third day. Not any longer though.
So there is a group of peers, around twenty-eight of us from all over the country who land up and are confined within a room from 9 am to 6 pm for four days without any mobile phones or laptops along with the founding pillars of this program - a Mr Gareth and a Ms Amelia.
The modus operandi, and that is what it is, because Gareth and Amelia have been in this business since the last twenty years or so and everything that they do is calculated to the last insult. And insult is what they do. They insult us till we feel like we are morons.
The intention is to make us own up to our fears and our hang-ups. Our pretty little escape algorithms. The stories we tell ourselves whenever we do anything we know that we really should not be doing and is not going to help us.
It sounds like a lot of humbug and frankly speaking, I did not like being screamed at for the first three days. But that is what drove it home, when I am being dishonest with myself, I am doing a great disservice to my potential.
I also noticed, or rather it was brought to my notice that I, and in this case, I shall speak for most people, tend to seek refuge behind the safety of the collective - WE or the non-committed - ONE or the indefinite - YOU. For example, most of our sentences there begun like - "When such and such thing happens, YOU tend to do such and such..Or ONE thinks one is committed, when ONE is really not..Or WE always think that is the right way.." SAFETY! I want to be emotionally safe. I want to say things such that there is always some exit room to wriggle out. Instead of taking sole responsibility, I want everyone present to bear the guilt of what I have said.
I didn't participate much and I got screamed at for that. Because not wanting to open up in front of near strangers is also a hang-up and merits thinking about.
But here goes, I mean to change a few things and here they are -
I tend to take the back-seat when I find myself in a group where somebody knows how to do the task at hand better than me, or so it seems. I sort of take for granted that person's superior role in achieving that task.
I do not open up to strangers, or even people I have known since a long time but am not 'close' to. Why, because I would not know how that person would think of me and my insecurities. Would only open up in front of people who I know would love me/like me irrespective of what they hear. So, I don't accept myself the way I am and fear that others will not.
I link my self-worth to my success at the tasks I perform. If I fail at something at work, it means I fail, period.
There are many others. Like they said, we are born free of any hang-ups. But as we grow up, based on our experiences, we collect all these beliefs and build a personality around these beliefs.
I really want to shatter these so-called truisms of my life. I want to come clean, and to remain that way. So here I am, all of me, for-public-consumption.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Degeneration
Alec's latest post triggered a certain slightly repulsive memory which I had thought to share earlier but had forgotten.
I was at the airport (all my posts seem to revolve around airports nowadays) and was juggling some coffee and some other assorted pieces of luggage. In came galloping a 7-year old and I pointedly took my coffee and kept it out of the reach of his prancing feet. But he decided to come rushing in from behind in such a way that the coffee got spilled and some of it, over his foot. He raised hell and high water and his mother started screaming at me, calling me an Idiot and what not. People all around rushed to administer gallon after gallon of water on his foot, ice, whatever they could find while he kept howling and she intermittently screaming at me.
Now, I would have been extremely sympathetic and apologetic and all that in the normal course of events. In this case however, because of being shouted at, I found myself unable to sympathize and hung around purely due to a sense of responsibility to see that the kid was fine, which he was, considering he had been wearing proper shoes and socks anyway.
I thought about this some more. We tend to be very careless with our speech, and constraint has no nobility anymore. I say this for myself also. When an auto driver mistakenly takes me to Vile-Parle early in the morning, when I had said Bandra to him, and as a consequence of which I miss the bus to that godforsaken Belapur, I lose it too. Annoyance is definitely warranted and maybe a certain degree of admonishing will induce him to be more careful from next time. But not a full-blown abuse session, no Sir, that is a bit much, even if what he did leads you to be at the receiving end of your Boss' ire.
We are fast becoming a group of people with zero tolerance levels and no respect for basic human courtesy and dignity. Our problems are the dire-est, our time the precious-est and the injustices meted out to us - the most unjust.
I was at the airport (all my posts seem to revolve around airports nowadays) and was juggling some coffee and some other assorted pieces of luggage. In came galloping a 7-year old and I pointedly took my coffee and kept it out of the reach of his prancing feet. But he decided to come rushing in from behind in such a way that the coffee got spilled and some of it, over his foot. He raised hell and high water and his mother started screaming at me, calling me an Idiot and what not. People all around rushed to administer gallon after gallon of water on his foot, ice, whatever they could find while he kept howling and she intermittently screaming at me.
Now, I would have been extremely sympathetic and apologetic and all that in the normal course of events. In this case however, because of being shouted at, I found myself unable to sympathize and hung around purely due to a sense of responsibility to see that the kid was fine, which he was, considering he had been wearing proper shoes and socks anyway.
I thought about this some more. We tend to be very careless with our speech, and constraint has no nobility anymore. I say this for myself also. When an auto driver mistakenly takes me to Vile-Parle early in the morning, when I had said Bandra to him, and as a consequence of which I miss the bus to that godforsaken Belapur, I lose it too. Annoyance is definitely warranted and maybe a certain degree of admonishing will induce him to be more careful from next time. But not a full-blown abuse session, no Sir, that is a bit much, even if what he did leads you to be at the receiving end of your Boss' ire.
We are fast becoming a group of people with zero tolerance levels and no respect for basic human courtesy and dignity. Our problems are the dire-est, our time the precious-est and the injustices meted out to us - the most unjust.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Aurang-ajeeb
Aurangabad airport feels like home. It is as small as, okay not anybody's home that I have ever visited, but enough to feel cozy. I know the staff, they know me. In fact, some of the women who frisk me are on rather intimate terms, having posed a variety of questions to me, ranging from where I work to whether I am married and suggesting good naturedly (or so I choose to believe) that I should now find a good boy and tie the knot. It does feel good to come to this airport after a long day of being in the hot sun which threatens to beats me into a sweaty, pulpy mass of headache and dehydration. It does feel good to know that I am soon going to board a cute little ATR and zoom off to what is really really home.
It is a small airport, but it has international flights. It also has a good percentage of foreign passengers, what with the caves at Ajanta-Ellora being some sort of firang magnet. And that explains the availability of Diet Coke and Pepsi. I would know, being somewhat of a pro on small-town-ism that Diet drinks being available is a sure sign of the place having arrived.
But amongst all the contradictions that this airport presents me with, what really smites me between the eyes is this - Karlsburg, the International brand for men's clothing and accessories!
This airport does not have a restaurant and consequently perhaps, even working flushes, but it has a Karlsburg showroom! The sole upholder of consumerism in this kindergarten of airports! The brave lone Columbus discovering new lands, albeit a little barren but having the potential perhaps to turn into an America! Hats off to the guys who own the label in India. They have clearly been paying attention to the Diet Coke Index.
It is a small airport, but it has international flights. It also has a good percentage of foreign passengers, what with the caves at Ajanta-Ellora being some sort of firang magnet. And that explains the availability of Diet Coke and Pepsi. I would know, being somewhat of a pro on small-town-ism that Diet drinks being available is a sure sign of the place having arrived.
But amongst all the contradictions that this airport presents me with, what really smites me between the eyes is this - Karlsburg, the International brand for men's clothing and accessories!
This airport does not have a restaurant and consequently perhaps, even working flushes, but it has a Karlsburg showroom! The sole upholder of consumerism in this kindergarten of airports! The brave lone Columbus discovering new lands, albeit a little barren but having the potential perhaps to turn into an America! Hats off to the guys who own the label in India. They have clearly been paying attention to the Diet Coke Index.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Rant
It is one of those days when I just don't know which way to turn. And writing it out for the whole world to know is not the best thing to do, I know.
If you want something bad and the whole world apparently conspires for you to have it, what if the world does not like you too much? Then it could easily conspire for you not to have it, what? Go actively out of its way to ensure every attempt of yours is thwarted, nipped-in-the-bud.
A pretty little optimist I am not. The world is to blame, yeah.
If you want something bad and the whole world apparently conspires for you to have it, what if the world does not like you too much? Then it could easily conspire for you not to have it, what? Go actively out of its way to ensure every attempt of yours is thwarted, nipped-in-the-bud.
A pretty little optimist I am not. The world is to blame, yeah.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Technotroubles - Part II
In the sequel to the heart-wrenching tragedy of the phone passing away, let me detail the events of the day..
Started out with waking up at 11 am. How I managed to snore soundly while aforementioned love of life was lying cold next to me, is beyond me. Anyhow, made a futile walk to the mobile shop closest to my place, discovering it to be in shutters-down state, which effectively brought home to me the fact that Sundays have their downsides too.
Decided to get a little more structured. Got home, did an online search of Nokia service centers, located one close enough and set out again. But being the true-blue son-of-the-soil that I am, a Nokia service center was to be the last resort. What would make my day and repair my phone would undoubtedly be the entrepreneurial occupant of a small, shady, 10-feet-by-four-feet gap in the line of shops along Bandra station or some such buzzing place; at one-third the price and taking one-fourth the time of a Nokia service center. What's more, he was more likely to let all the important parts of your phone be left intact, not pilfering them for some gray market smuggling.
Called up a friend (a colleague, whose number is the only number in the world I remember since only the last digit is different from mine) who had visited and benefited from such a shop only a couple of weeks ago and got the name, location and phone number of a Mr Aris, aforementioned kindly entrepreneur.
Such inconspicuous shops and their owners also have the bad habit of disappearing, a Sunday driving the probability of such an event occurring sharply northwards..
But where one disappears, several others spring up. Such is life.
On getting extremely reliable information from an auto rickshaw driver on who around repaired mobile phones, I was directed to a picture-postcard-as-described-above-hole-in-the-wall which at the moment was doing a brisk trade in top-ups and mobile phones-Chinamake. (Oh did I mention that the Nokia Service center at Bandra was no longer operational, so I cannot be entirely blamed for partaking of the services of these enterprising tax evaders).
The benevolent people behind the counter assured me that the job would be done in half an hour upon which I would have to separate with 300 INR of the blood and sweat. The look on my face of disbelieving relief must have been apparent. I thanked myself for living in the holy mecca of the below-the-table-ism and hole-in-the-wall-flourishing-business-ism and went and sat at some nearby Barista, for a long due breaking of fast.
After the promised 30 minutes, I headed back to my saviors, and with great anticipation asked for the phone, relishing the thought of having a link to the world again, so as to assure myself that I had not suddenly died.
Imagine my surprise when I was told that the phone's display was not working (oh by-the-way, what was wrong with the phone was that the switch-on button had come off the board and hence the phone wasn't able to switch on). So they went on about the fact that they had, as promised, installed a new heart (yes, I am not a doctor) but the patient had gone blind and hence appeared to be in all certainty, still dead.
What ensued was not poetry. At least not the John Keats variety. I would advise patrons to not be fooled by my size (by which I mean my height, Bipasha may have called me petite, but it is certainly not because I have a 24 inch waist).
I ended up not paying them and came home, humbled. Sometimes, Mumbai fails to deliver.
This incident marked the end of my efforts at trying to get phone fixed pronto and heralded the beginning of a new phase wherein plans were laid of obtaining a proxy phone for the next few days while this one was sent to the ICU.
Life has a strange way of moralizing. The trouble is, it never practices what it preaches.
Started out with waking up at 11 am. How I managed to snore soundly while aforementioned love of life was lying cold next to me, is beyond me. Anyhow, made a futile walk to the mobile shop closest to my place, discovering it to be in shutters-down state, which effectively brought home to me the fact that Sundays have their downsides too.
Decided to get a little more structured. Got home, did an online search of Nokia service centers, located one close enough and set out again. But being the true-blue son-of-the-soil that I am, a Nokia service center was to be the last resort. What would make my day and repair my phone would undoubtedly be the entrepreneurial occupant of a small, shady, 10-feet-by-four-feet gap in the line of shops along Bandra station or some such buzzing place; at one-third the price and taking one-fourth the time of a Nokia service center. What's more, he was more likely to let all the important parts of your phone be left intact, not pilfering them for some gray market smuggling.
Called up a friend (a colleague, whose number is the only number in the world I remember since only the last digit is different from mine) who had visited and benefited from such a shop only a couple of weeks ago and got the name, location and phone number of a Mr Aris, aforementioned kindly entrepreneur.
Such inconspicuous shops and their owners also have the bad habit of disappearing, a Sunday driving the probability of such an event occurring sharply northwards..
But where one disappears, several others spring up. Such is life.
On getting extremely reliable information from an auto rickshaw driver on who around repaired mobile phones, I was directed to a picture-postcard-as-described-above-hole-in-the-wall which at the moment was doing a brisk trade in top-ups and mobile phones-Chinamake. (Oh did I mention that the Nokia Service center at Bandra was no longer operational, so I cannot be entirely blamed for partaking of the services of these enterprising tax evaders).
The benevolent people behind the counter assured me that the job would be done in half an hour upon which I would have to separate with 300 INR of the blood and sweat. The look on my face of disbelieving relief must have been apparent. I thanked myself for living in the holy mecca of the below-the-table-ism and hole-in-the-wall-flourishing-business-ism and went and sat at some nearby Barista, for a long due breaking of fast.
After the promised 30 minutes, I headed back to my saviors, and with great anticipation asked for the phone, relishing the thought of having a link to the world again, so as to assure myself that I had not suddenly died.
Imagine my surprise when I was told that the phone's display was not working (oh by-the-way, what was wrong with the phone was that the switch-on button had come off the board and hence the phone wasn't able to switch on). So they went on about the fact that they had, as promised, installed a new heart (yes, I am not a doctor) but the patient had gone blind and hence appeared to be in all certainty, still dead.
What ensued was not poetry. At least not the John Keats variety. I would advise patrons to not be fooled by my size (by which I mean my height, Bipasha may have called me petite, but it is certainly not because I have a 24 inch waist).
I ended up not paying them and came home, humbled. Sometimes, Mumbai fails to deliver.
This incident marked the end of my efforts at trying to get phone fixed pronto and heralded the beginning of a new phase wherein plans were laid of obtaining a proxy phone for the next few days while this one was sent to the ICU.
Life has a strange way of moralizing. The trouble is, it never practices what it preaches.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Technotroubles
One fine day (actually 3 am in the morning) my phone stopped working.
My first reaction was of incredulity. What? My phone? MY phone? My PHONE?
That is not to say that I wasn't expecting something of the sort to happen. Because I was, somewhere in my system there was a small ominous voice. My phone had been behaving funny since long. But as a species of optimistic (read stupid) homo-sapiens (yes, it's DNA programming, not my fault), we always tend to ignore these diligent little things (ominous voices) and I figured this would never actually happen. I would preempt it by getting it repaired or buying a new one before it could die on me.
But no. It's like a heart attack. All your life you think - let me have this last day of indulgence, from tomorrow on no more white sauce on pasta; or let me just sleep a little longer today, from tomorrow it's 6 am jogging; or are you crazy, I can't stop smoking right now, just as soon as this extremely critical project is over and done with, I shall quit.
A tad extreme, I agree, comparing a heart attack to the phone dying on you - at least there's no loss of memory in the case of a heart attack.
My first reaction was of incredulity. What? My phone? MY phone? My PHONE?
That is not to say that I wasn't expecting something of the sort to happen. Because I was, somewhere in my system there was a small ominous voice. My phone had been behaving funny since long. But as a species of optimistic (read stupid) homo-sapiens (yes, it's DNA programming, not my fault), we always tend to ignore these diligent little things (ominous voices) and I figured this would never actually happen. I would preempt it by getting it repaired or buying a new one before it could die on me.
But no. It's like a heart attack. All your life you think - let me have this last day of indulgence, from tomorrow on no more white sauce on pasta; or let me just sleep a little longer today, from tomorrow it's 6 am jogging; or are you crazy, I can't stop smoking right now, just as soon as this extremely critical project is over and done with, I shall quit.
A tad extreme, I agree, comparing a heart attack to the phone dying on you - at least there's no loss of memory in the case of a heart attack.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Seven
I got tagged.
After being around in the blogsphere (that is what I believe it is called) for over four years, someone else apart from myself finally decided to call some attention to my dubious endeavor of entertaining the masses, albeit the attention was deceptively called with the wrong hyperlink in tow, undoubtedly in an attempt to obtain exoneration from all blame forthcoming from the click-happy.
Must pay a tribute to the noble soul of Alec in the coffee table book I shall shortly be unleashing on my life and times, the title of which is yet under wraps (which in itself is as good a title as any). Don't worry Alec, shall not reveal your true identity.
So the tag is about revealing seven things about yourself that the people at the gates don't know about. So here goes -
1. I eat my meals - piece-meal. It would be exaggeration to say that I never mix food, because sometimes I do. But in most cases, I don't. In fact, I have been known to separate the buns from the pattie of a MacD's burger and eat them like that. Am unable to provide any clues as to why I do that. Maybe, am just lazy. Does that make sense?
2. I love walking, I would walk to the Fiji islands if I had the time. Of course, nowadays, if I sprouted wings and started to fly, I would be flapping them with the ferocity of a duck caught in a time-warp, so walking is rather on the back-burner.
3. I like shopping alone and even when I have company, I rarely come out of the fitting room and get a second opinion. Shopping alone because then I do not have to feel guilty about trying on ten different outfits and not liking any.
4. I have been making abortive attempts at novel writing since I learnt how to write. I tried writing detective stories (there was even a dog called Raja in it and had anyone decently well-read chanced upon it, they would have found it hugely 'inspired'), mythology, space fiction, fairy-tales, romance, contemporary fiction, and nothing has worked. Maybe I should try my hand at erotica.
5. I have a lousy memory for faces. But I can remember things that were said from as far back as 1988. I also have a special memory for smells. It's like these smells are wafting through the world and if any familiar ones find their way up my nose, they immediately bring back a flood of memories.
6. I am a cusp between a Cancer and a Leo. But I tell people I am a Leo because I want to be dynamic, leonine and graceful instead of loyal, emotional and a good cook.
7. I am a closet foodie. I would have been a practicing one had nature not played one of her cruel jokes and given me a sloth-like metabolism. One could argue that a true-blue foodie would not be deterred by metabolic rates, calorie content and all such balderdash. Maybe.
So here I am, a virgin no more. Let me tag a few people too.
Kavity - The world needs your pearls of wisdom, which are sure to glisten their way through random things you will be revealing about yourself.
Gaurav UP - Just for the simple pleasure of reading what you write.
Manikandan - I can almost imagine chuckling at the sweet little things you will say and equally twittering wickedly at those aspects of your personality which your readership is ignorant of.
AA - Mr Freaky, stop being so geeky and entertain me.
So that's it guys. A little bit of me, for-public-consumption.
After being around in the blogsphere (that is what I believe it is called) for over four years, someone else apart from myself finally decided to call some attention to my dubious endeavor of entertaining the masses, albeit the attention was deceptively called with the wrong hyperlink in tow, undoubtedly in an attempt to obtain exoneration from all blame forthcoming from the click-happy.
Must pay a tribute to the noble soul of Alec in the coffee table book I shall shortly be unleashing on my life and times, the title of which is yet under wraps (which in itself is as good a title as any). Don't worry Alec, shall not reveal your true identity.
So the tag is about revealing seven things about yourself that the people at the gates don't know about. So here goes -
1. I eat my meals - piece-meal. It would be exaggeration to say that I never mix food, because sometimes I do. But in most cases, I don't. In fact, I have been known to separate the buns from the pattie of a MacD's burger and eat them like that. Am unable to provide any clues as to why I do that. Maybe, am just lazy. Does that make sense?
2. I love walking, I would walk to the Fiji islands if I had the time. Of course, nowadays, if I sprouted wings and started to fly, I would be flapping them with the ferocity of a duck caught in a time-warp, so walking is rather on the back-burner.
3. I like shopping alone and even when I have company, I rarely come out of the fitting room and get a second opinion. Shopping alone because then I do not have to feel guilty about trying on ten different outfits and not liking any.
4. I have been making abortive attempts at novel writing since I learnt how to write. I tried writing detective stories (there was even a dog called Raja in it and had anyone decently well-read chanced upon it, they would have found it hugely 'inspired'), mythology, space fiction, fairy-tales, romance, contemporary fiction, and nothing has worked. Maybe I should try my hand at erotica.
5. I have a lousy memory for faces. But I can remember things that were said from as far back as 1988. I also have a special memory for smells. It's like these smells are wafting through the world and if any familiar ones find their way up my nose, they immediately bring back a flood of memories.
6. I am a cusp between a Cancer and a Leo. But I tell people I am a Leo because I want to be dynamic, leonine and graceful instead of loyal, emotional and a good cook.
7. I am a closet foodie. I would have been a practicing one had nature not played one of her cruel jokes and given me a sloth-like metabolism. One could argue that a true-blue foodie would not be deterred by metabolic rates, calorie content and all such balderdash. Maybe.
So here I am, a virgin no more. Let me tag a few people too.
Kavity - The world needs your pearls of wisdom, which are sure to glisten their way through random things you will be revealing about yourself.
Gaurav UP - Just for the simple pleasure of reading what you write.
Manikandan - I can almost imagine chuckling at the sweet little things you will say and equally twittering wickedly at those aspects of your personality which your readership is ignorant of.
AA - Mr Freaky, stop being so geeky and entertain me.
So that's it guys. A little bit of me, for-public-consumption.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Welcome to the real world?
Ages ago, when I used to be a little girl, I used to be quite fruity.
Yes, bonkers, if you please.
So looking at those cotton-wool clouds, with the sun streaming through, the whole deal looking like a painting (absurd similie this, comparing the real flesh and blood sky to an unreal, albeit exquisite painting as if the latter were the actual and the former just a pale comparison), I used to imagine feeling a strange stirring in my chest - like somebody was calling out to me from the over and beyond. Yes, really. Hazards of an over-active imagination and a curiously romantic take on life.
Just the other day, watching the Alice movie, brought back memories of the time I had read the book - Wonderland and The Looking Glass and how much I had loved it. The inane conversations, the ridiculous but extremely hilarious and clever poetry - The Walrus and the Carpenter and A-sitting on a Gate (if I remember correctly) and many many more, it was all rather brilliant. I would hugely identify with this Alice chippie, spending more time day-dreaming than anything else. Ruchi DD was my moniker for sometime (for those who don't know, Ruchi is my nick, my parents call me that). I remember growing up getting into all sorts of troubles due to this habit of mine to switch off from the here and now, with a dreamy glazed look coming over, so that several ditches, manholes etc had the pleasure of warming my butt over the years, many poles suddenly found themselves looming horribly out of nowhere and getting attached to my person and various detours were taken on the way to or back from somewhere simply because I never knew directions, too busy dreaming. I also remember at a point of time feeling like it was all a bit much and that I should attempt taking on a more normal hobby which didn't interfere with the other important functions of my existence. That is when I started rationing out time for these metaphysical musings. Insane, totally insane is what I call it now.
I still suffer from a hyper active imagination, and so it happens that I dream every night. Everybody does perhaps, but I even remember my dreams and they mostly feature people I know, engaging in strange activities which may have some connection with my deepest darkest thoughts and fears, or so would Freud have me believe. I remember some of my dreams from ten years back too. The subconscious in my case is a living, breathing humongous hippopotamus.
I can just go on and on. There are many and hundreds of tales which prove beyond doubt that I was a special kid. Still waters, rippling with the sub-surface tensions of growing up, listening, absorbing, reflecting and holding it all within, juxtaposing all these images into a rich alternate universe to where I would retreat at the slightest opportunity. Always a little disdainful of the real world.
Yes, bonkers, if you please.
So looking at those cotton-wool clouds, with the sun streaming through, the whole deal looking like a painting (absurd similie this, comparing the real flesh and blood sky to an unreal, albeit exquisite painting as if the latter were the actual and the former just a pale comparison), I used to imagine feeling a strange stirring in my chest - like somebody was calling out to me from the over and beyond. Yes, really. Hazards of an over-active imagination and a curiously romantic take on life.
Just the other day, watching the Alice movie, brought back memories of the time I had read the book - Wonderland and The Looking Glass and how much I had loved it. The inane conversations, the ridiculous but extremely hilarious and clever poetry - The Walrus and the Carpenter and A-sitting on a Gate (if I remember correctly) and many many more, it was all rather brilliant. I would hugely identify with this Alice chippie, spending more time day-dreaming than anything else. Ruchi DD was my moniker for sometime (for those who don't know, Ruchi is my nick, my parents call me that). I remember growing up getting into all sorts of troubles due to this habit of mine to switch off from the here and now, with a dreamy glazed look coming over, so that several ditches, manholes etc had the pleasure of warming my butt over the years, many poles suddenly found themselves looming horribly out of nowhere and getting attached to my person and various detours were taken on the way to or back from somewhere simply because I never knew directions, too busy dreaming. I also remember at a point of time feeling like it was all a bit much and that I should attempt taking on a more normal hobby which didn't interfere with the other important functions of my existence. That is when I started rationing out time for these metaphysical musings. Insane, totally insane is what I call it now.
I still suffer from a hyper active imagination, and so it happens that I dream every night. Everybody does perhaps, but I even remember my dreams and they mostly feature people I know, engaging in strange activities which may have some connection with my deepest darkest thoughts and fears, or so would Freud have me believe. I remember some of my dreams from ten years back too. The subconscious in my case is a living, breathing humongous hippopotamus.
I can just go on and on. There are many and hundreds of tales which prove beyond doubt that I was a special kid. Still waters, rippling with the sub-surface tensions of growing up, listening, absorbing, reflecting and holding it all within, juxtaposing all these images into a rich alternate universe to where I would retreat at the slightest opportunity. Always a little disdainful of the real world.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Ratnagiri Ramblings
Me: Er..Could I have a word with you?
L: I hope it's about removing that silly plastic film that you have covering me. How would you like wearing one on your face?
Me: Well, people have become maniacal about keeping you guys dust-free nowadays. I know this person, who first bought some elaborate liquid-solution-set for the purpose and has lately added a mini vacuum device to his arsenal. Would you like that? This is simpler!
L: Who is this guy! Stop hanging out with him!
Me: Errrr..hmmm..yes, will think about it. So, as I was saying, this is important..hmm..ho..hummm..yes, here it is - IthinkIwillgoexplorethetown.
L: Okay, I pick up signals which are of the speed of 3-into-ten-raised-to-you-know-what. But this even I couldn't understand!
Me: Hahaha, you are funny!
L(incredulously): Explore? But you never do that! You spend all your time only with me! Especially when you are not in Bombay, oops, Mumbai (Small Saffron dots blink up everywhere)!!
Me (patiently): I know, I know. But suddenly I feel that I should have some more perspective about the places I visit apart from knowing their godowns better than the back of my hand, you know?
L: No, I can't say I do.
Me: There is a world outside of this hotel room, you know.
L: Again, no.
Me: Okay look, I think you need some time off too. What with all those blue faces you have been pulling off-late. Why don't you spend some time alone and I will remove myself from the premises.
L: I have been sort-of over-worked. And spending a large part of the day cooped up like this, with nobody to talk to, while you go around gallivanting to all sorts of interesting places, it's not easy, you know.
Me:
L: Hmm..sounds ok.
Narrator: No sooner than this reluctant 'ok' makes itself audible, a hole in the shape of the author appears in the door as a fast getaway is made. I mean, really fast. Before something can come up which has the potential to push all thoughts of arbit ambling through the streets of Ratnagiri to the dark recesses of said author's mind. And as you may or may not know, she has many of those. Last seen, she was sitting on a dark sandy beach along the Konkan coast, staring somberly at the sea, undoubtedly thinking thoughts of great psychological depth or universal importance.
Me: Damn. I wish this place had some Diet Coke.
Monday, March 08, 2010
S
The cognition of sadness
Startingly grabs you when
No self-pity however righteous
Can really help
The tragedy in high art
Is glamorous no more
And martyrdom is not
Treacherously desired
Not a searing-second's job
But a dull persistent ache
Which by evil design
Plays imp-like
It seems to go away
When the mind is occupied
But it comes to roost
Like a scavenger to its home
Startingly grabs you when
No self-pity however righteous
Can really help
The tragedy in high art
Is glamorous no more
And martyrdom is not
Treacherously desired
Not a searing-second's job
But a dull persistent ache
Which by evil design
Plays imp-like
It seems to go away
When the mind is occupied
But it comes to roost
Like a scavenger to its home
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