Puja times

It is that time of the year again, when high-profile stars with Bong roots are interviewed by Bombay Times in an attempt to unravel their childhood memories. It is Durga Puja (or Pujo, if you will), the most important Bengali-Hindu festival, as my Bong friends would never fail to remind me.

I am not a Bong, I have never lived in Calcutta and I do not understand the feverish excitement the festival brings with it. I am an ordinary Tam Brahm born and brought up in small town Chennai, where Poojai is not pronounced as Puja, let alone as Pujo.

But, I do have my own set of memories of what you may call the Pujo, not so noisy and crowded, not so in your face colorful, but sweet, laid-back and soft memories, as is the wont of the town I come from.

Yeah. It is an important nine day long festival for us too, that mostly used to coincide with my Quarterly Examination holidays, year after year, as a school going kid.

I could do a Wiki search and sound intelligent, but I had rather be honest here, one of the very few arenas I am honest in these days. I still have not completely figured out the significance of the “Kolu” or, for the uninitiated, the nine-day long “Doll festival”. I do not know why we arrange nine steps (or perhaps 6 or 3, depending on the space in the house) and place ceramic dolls (the Gods largely, sometimes a cricket ground too, and then significant Godly events like Ram’s coronation and Krishna stealing butter).

What I do know and remember is the fun I used to have doing it all then. Mom used to be completely against buying a 9-step ladder and covering it in fancy embroidered cloth for the festival. She would say, “What will we do with the ladder later? And, besides, that sounds so templatized.” So, we would convert the dining table into the main stay broad step; keep one carton on top of it, a small table in front of the dining table and then maybe a smaller carton ahead of that. And then we would cover all of them in different colored fancy clothes. That means one whole room was cordoned off for this purpose and the family ate not at a dining table during that period. Mom was also against buying random play ground themes from the store. “That is so un-Godly-ish,” she would say. And, no, we would not have any innovative themes created by us either, as we both, actually all three of us (including Dad) were super artistic people who could draw straight lines as perfect curves. The steps would be adorned with the usual Rams, Lakshmans, Krishnas and the likes – all nice, bright dolls from Khadi – Khadi being the mecca of all Navratri dolls then (perhaps even now).

The Kolu might not have won even a consolation prize in the annual Kolu competition (I reckon something like that happens these days) but it was homely and inviting, making people come back year after year. Or, perhaps, it was the snacks mom would prepare untiringly, that would make people want to come back for more. The festival itself would end with two days of special celebrations, the first day being “Saraswathi Poojai” when all books, notebooks, pens and my Veena would be kept in the Puja and there being a complete ban on any kind of productive work (wow!). The next day would be celebrated as “Vijayadashami” when all the items placed in the Puja would be taken out and used, signifying a new beginning.

It has been donkey’s years since I attended a Kolu, what with spending “Saraswathi Poojai” in office year after year, feeling guilty using pens, notebooks and laptops that day. The family doesn’t follow the practice religiously any more, the city shuttling and inherent loss of interest in such niceties being major contributors. But, whenever I get an overdose of the Durga Pujo celebrations from the intense coverage in the print and visual media, I become randomly nostalgic, missing small town Chennai, an unpretentious Kolu in a 2 bedroom house, an endless list of guests and a lot of Carnatic music.

The ordinary... and then some more

It has been a long week, a substantially long and draining week, like one of those high-intensity due-diligence engagements week. It has been a random week of vendor rants, customer cribs, analyst woes, senior management skepticism. However, it has been a strangely fulfilling week.

I like chaos. In fact, I revel in chaos. It is when I am in the best of moods. There is nothing more satisfying than putting a structure around chaos, and showing the world that life ain’t that bad after all.

It is all about showing the world, showing off rather. I revel in showing off. There is nothing more blessed than showing people that something could be pulled off, making them feel they can’t do without me.

It is an even more blessed feeling knowing that there are people I cannot do without. It means I am still human, even if I run the risk of getting irreparably hurt some day. It is a comfortable feeling, the feeling of being dependent, strange though it may sound.

I am having a cup of hot chocolate, comfortable in my too-small-for-one-and-a-half-people, but just-the-perfect-size-for-one-person apartment.

The chocolate brings back memories – of a housewarming celebrated with hot chocolate, of a master-chef’s real Lindt hot chocolate with lot of love thrown in, of Theo’s spicy hot chocolate with the gang.

It helps forget the month ahead, momentarily that is. The mind traverses gondolas and the bridge of sighs, random images of a wishful holiday.

Eternity is over-rated, or so they say. Me, I would prefer good old eternity, endless evenings of hot chocolate and good time, of love and no longing, of perpetual peace and quiet.

Oh well, I signed up for chaos long back I guess, a chaos so chaotic that peace would seem weird and draining, if only because of the emptiness and silence it would bring along with it. Perhaps then, I will not celebrate, nor will I jump about in joy. I would just heave a long sigh of relief and go visit the bridge of sighs.

Gone with the wind

The charming Southern belle, the battle with the Yankees, the slaves and their loyalty, the dashing romance – Margaret Mitchell’s Gone with the wind is my all-time favorite novel and Scarlett O’Hara, my most favorite fictional character.

Many call it the book of the hopeless romantic. I think of it more as a brilliant narrative of survival. 

To read the rest of the article, click here.

Perhaps...

I just read an almost-hilarious article on Firstpost about Tamilian peculiarities in pronouncing certain English and Hindi words. At a point, the article speaks about how we are incapable of pronouncing ‘F’ because the concept does not exist in our mother tongue. Immediately, my mind raced back to a peculiarity Dad had in saying his ‘b’s, ‘p’s and ‘f’s. It is something funny, I know. But I am not able to recollect exactly what. And, I have no way of checking with him now. Perhaps, that’s what they meant when they said “Time heals everything”. It erases memories.

I am trying to work hard. But, I know my heart is not in it. In fact, I even know where my heart is. And, I even know why I am still here. And, I also know that I shouldn’t be here. Peace matters sometimes, well, in fact, most times. Peace matters in the larger scheme of things. Only peace matters actually. Perhaps, that’s what they meant when they said “Money doesn’t matter”. Not so much at least.

Whenever I drive, I am in a race. With the guy driving in the next lane, with the car that’s trying to cut into the road up ahead, with the cow that’s trying to cross the road. When I am not in a race, it only means the road is empty and I have no push to prove anything to myself or anyone else. That’s when I am sanest; and saddest too. For, there are no milestones to achieve any more. Perhaps, that’s what they meant when they said “Life is a race”. I don’t think it should be otherwise.

I was not bestowed with the purest of hearts, or the purest of minds. Yes, I believe the heart and mind are two different things. I have done my fair share of RGing in this life, broken hearts, under-cut, played foul, to different pockets of people at different points in time. In return, I have had it done too, sometimes having recognised before the foul, sometimes during and sometimes after. Perhaps, that’s what they meant when they said “Karma is a bitch". I didn’t know I was a believer in Karma.

The only thing I feel like saying right now is “So long and thanks for all the fish”. Trust me, that’s not the most random thought to have entered my head this week.

The Educated

I absently flick through Facebook (on my unreasonably expensive smart-phone) and, by mistake, click on ‘Write status’. Facebook asks, “What’s on your mind?” I stare at the screen blankly because nothing that matters is on my mind. And, then I see “Vikhroli, Maharashtra” on my location indicator. It is another Friday evening, one filled with lot of work spilling over to the weekend, one spent at the end of the world, because that is where Vikhroli is.

To read the rest of the article, click here.

Some magical evenings

The bell rings once, an old-fashioned steel-finished bell. The crowd lines up, not so quietly, to be ushered in to the hall. It is a small theater. The seating is uncomfortable albeit cushioned. The middle seats are long taken, by seasoned theater-goers. A stifled silence settles over the crowd, a crowd that is used to banter and chatter, cheering and clapping. Curious looks are exchanged all round, for what else can one do when talking would be looked down upon. The faces look funny, shaded by the dim lights, eyes rolling around, heads bobbing up and down. More people walk in, while the second and third gongs are sounded. The lights go out slowly. Like a classic faux pas, a mobile phone goes off somewhere. Some laughter followed by “shh”s.

It is time for the show to begin.

I am not a habitual theater-goer. And it is not because I don’t like it. It is only because, as many I have told this to, know, “Whenever I am in Delhi, Bombay hosts the English plays and whenever am in Bombay, quite ironically, those plays have gone to Delhi.” In fact, I love the theater. There can be very few things more real than someone performing flesh and blood on stage, with bare minimum props, only witty dialogues to go by.

I remember the first time I had to go up on stage to deliver a speech. The night before, I just could not sleep at all. And till the time the crowd started applauding towards the end of the speech, my legs were involuntarily shaking, if only in my mind. Even today, when there is an important presentation up for delivery, I am a little unsettled the evening before.

That is precisely why I love plays. How very difficult can it be to play up to the gallery, wondering all through whether it is going well or not, whether the crowd likes the show or not, while at the same time trying not to forget any of the dialogues. Effort comes through so apparently beautifully that, be it a good show or bad show, I only remember it as a great effort.

There is another reason I love plays. It is interesting to see how the crowd dresses up, as if for a themed party. The Fab India kurtis and the flowing skirts, the kajal and the silver bangles, the Indian-ish footwear, the whiff of old-worldish perfumes, the South-Delhi disdain, the South-Bombay ‘haught’ – aah what fun!

I no longer shuttle towns every Friday evening. And yeah, V indulges my liking for plays. That should help me watch the show more - both on stage and off stage ;)

Glorious days of yore

The month of May brings with it ripe mangoes, blistering heat, an unending wait for the rains and summer holidays. It also brings with it an unquenchable thirst to go back in time, to days of unfettered optimism and freedom from pension funds, gratuities and tax planning.

As kids around me wait with bated breath for their ranks and cut-off announcements and college admissions, I take a trip down memory lane.


To read the rest of the article, click here.

In Memoriam

It was the summer of 2007, a summer of friendship, love and heartbreak, not necessarily in that order. This is the story of that summer.

Interns are easy to identify, and identify with too. There is a laid-back and unfettered attitude about them, a complete mismatch to their new ties and polished boots and shining folders and lavish laptops. They are revelling in their big city exposure and new found friends, while at the same time fighting head over heels with those very ‘friends’ for that elusive PPO. It is also a time when love blossoms, blooms and sometimes dies, even more hurriedly than in B-school.

Nostalgia hits me as I walk into the same old serviced apartment now, which was home to me for 2 months in 2007.

Back then, I was an intern too, but not the PPO hunting variety. Wide-eyed and awestruck, it took me enough time to take in what would be my first ever corporate experience, leave alone fight for a PPO.

Bombay was unknown, large and looming, talking a language I could not fathom. She was interminably fast, noisy, dirty and over-crowded. Not once did she intimidate me though. I liked her, despite and because of her attitude to life. The weekdays were spent hogging pav bhajis at Chakala. The weekends were spent lazing, shopping and eating at Marine Drive, Colaba and Bandra. Sometime then, I fell irrevocably in love. Little did I know then that this love would prove to be expensive, draining me of my money, time and physical energy, eventually driving me crazy. Bombay, not unlike a courtesan, had begun to employ all her charms to allure me into her folds.

The internship itself was a disaster. “FMCG sales” was not in my breath, blood or even bones. I liked the travel though and unknown even to me, was beginning to form a bond with web check-ins, flights and hotel stays. Perhaps, that was deemed to be my takeaway from those two months. For, I went on to build a career whose backbone lies in travel.

If at all you are wondering whether I made bonds with anything non-inanimate, yes I did. Just like any other intern at that time, I made friends at break-neck speed. Thankfully, not all of them were the “forget-post-internship” variety. The first time V (M’s V that is) saw a photo of M and I together, he thought we are sisters :)

No matter how undeserved it was, not getting the PPO was heart-breaking; and felt then like a failed attempt. Leaving Bombay was heartbreaking too, as if someone had just ripped something right out of my heart’s trenches. Having my biggest fight for this lifetime with V (not M’s V) contributed in no less measure to the heartbreak pool. But, of course, there is no free lunch. If I had my share of fun, I had to have my share of sorrow.

In hindsight, the heartbreak was just as well; for, I can never bring myself to not love the career I eventually found myself in. And, Bombay is back in my life, forever this time, while fights are things of the past.

The summer of 2007 is unforgettable, for more reasons than one. It was a summer of love, heartbreak and friendship, not just mine.

Reminiscing a love long lost

It was the spring of 2004. A myriad of colorful flowers greeted the walkways while there was a perceptible fragrance all around. Youth and its silly banter notwithstanding, love was in the air.

Ah! Those lines sound so beautiful and romantic, I almost want to believe them. However, I, having lived all my life in Chennai and most importantly the year of 2004, would not know. For, have you heard of spring in Chennai, or for that matter “a myriad of colorful flowers”? That part of town I come from only knows a myriad of colorful shops selling even more colorful saris.

However, I do remember the year of 2004 for more reasons than one. The fad then was the Valentine’s Day dress code. Was pink the color of “Yes I am willing” or “Going to propose”? Did black mean “I am against love” or “I have failed in love”? Each of us believed in a different set of rules, and since internet had not seeped into our college as yet (except for half hour a day or some such), we were not sure of which set to follow. Finally, we agreed on the overarching themes. Black could only mean negative, while white just meant “I am at peace with love”. Red could perhaps be termed “Dangerous, but can be tried” and so on. It was much fun, I swear. Many of the girls were scared sick of sending out wrong signals, for, after all love was taboo those days and specially so in Chennai's engineering colleges. I do not remember what I wore, but wanting to test fate, I was planning to wear either a blue or a green. It did not work out all that bad, frankly.

By 2005, I had got bored with the fad and wore pink just to humor someone. By 2006, I wanted to revolt against this ridiculous idea and wore black. I know that sounds more like a rebellious teen than a 20 year old almost engineer, but still.

Life at B-school was a little different. I had forgotten the whole dress code thingy, and I think most of my batch-mates there would have ridiculed the notion. But, we celebrated V-Day differently out there. “Candle-light” dinners were the norm, where we were served the same food but under dark circumstances so that, one, lost in love, would little worry about what they were eating leave alone whose hands they were holding.

And that was the last time I thought about V-Day, really! :P

At least till yesterday. A chat with my kid sister who is already in college (rolls eyes) revealed that she had no idea about dress codes (rolls eyes even more). So, like a responsible adult taking charge of her education, I taught her what I could and sent her “googled” evidence as back-up, for she refused to believe me otherwise. She has promised me that she will wear black, as she doesn’t want to fall in love. Let’s see how long that lasts, kiddo J

Meanwhile, today, our cafeteria wanted to celebrate V-Day by serving us sour pasta, plastic sandwiched burgers and a very milky chocolate. Well, strange are the ways people want to celebrate the spirit of love. Stranger still that V-Day hasn’t really sunk into me this year.

Perhaps, I have grown old K Or perhaps, the special someone isn’t around K K

And then there were colors

This is the story of how a shockingly purple color changed my life. Ah, well. Let’s settle down to “made my day”.

However, to be enlightened further, we need to go back in time a bit. It starts with the advent of my brand new BlackBerry phone a year and a half back. Oh, wait, it actually starts here, when I bought, after much discussion and debate, the beauty that is the Nokia 6500 slide. And, then when I had to forcibly replace it with the BB, because my beloved did not have this feature called “push mail”.

Sad were those days when, in a fit of revolt against my own decision, I depressed myself further by barring music and photos from the BB, making it an ideal example of just how those caricatures depict it – dull, boring and so official-looking it is almost officious.

I am getting carried away here and I don’t think BB aficionados are going to like me too much post this post. I do like the BBM (the messenger, for the uninitiated) though, and that is the only reason I held on to the phone this long. And, also because of a sudden loyalty towards the device, which has worked faithfully after being dunked in water and tea and myriad other things.

Also, if you know me well, you will know that I am wont to dropping myself and my devices left, right and center. So, the cheap, greyish-black, dirty, old BB might still have been the best bet in saving me some money and lot of heartbreak.

But, you know how it is with obsessions. A few months back, I really got into my head that I had to add color to my life. And, the only way I could think of doing it was by getting a nice and fun phone. I have a fetish for phones, rather, funky gadgets, much like the fetish V has for watches.

Nice and fun (in phones) to me means good looks, nice camera, nice music player, integration with my other gadgets and a funky brand. There, we almost have the answer now I guess. But, there was still one more important question I had to answer.

How expensive should it be? Someone once remarked that one should not buy a phone that is as expensive as, or more expensive than an LCD TV. I have no use for LCD TVs as they cannot keep moving along with me. And, if I am going to consume something only once a week or once a month, I may as well not buy it right? Such are the rationalizations I gave myself for going behind an expensive, nice and fun phone.

Oh, before actually buying it, I ate the heads of at least 10 people, 3-4 constantly, asking, “Should I? Shouldn’t I?” My mom came up with the worthiest answer to that question. She said, “You like it a lot and want it badly. No one is going to gift it to you. I definitely have no intentions of gifting it to you. That phone’s price is not coming down in the near future. And, my ears are sick and tired of listening to your everyday rant of how badly you need it. So, please go ahead and gift yourself one and end the story right here.”

As an aside, my friend says that Mom might have made a better consultant than me. Thankfully not! Competition reduced, substantially.

That brings us to the end of the story, well almost. If you remember, we have not covered the “purple” part yet. No, I did not buy myself a purple phone. These phones come only in black and white, and I of course love the damn color which is not even a color apparently – black. But, I had strict instructions from near and dear to buy a cover for my black, LCD-ish phone, so that I don’t kill it almost immediately after buying it.

At the shop, they did not have a black skin. The salesman told me, “Madam, you are dressed in purple today. You should definitely buy this purple skin”. And, I bought it. It made me happier than even buying the phone.

I do not anymore remember this girl in me who hated the Sony Vaio’s colorful laptop ads!

Today morning, my colleague exclaimed, “What happened to that nice black phone you acquired last week?” Well, learn to live with its purple skin. God knows, this office needs quite a bit of color to balance out all the BBs around. No?

Strung

She absently fiddled with her left index finger, lost in thought. And, suddenly, she jerked awake, as if from a trance. Something was missing, something very dear to her, that she seemed to have left behind, in her rush to get on.

What was she missing? What had she got on with? She racked her brains, searching for some comforting and familiar memory that would free her of this momentary confusion.

And, suddenly she remembered. How could she have forgotten, she chided herself. Those once familiar blisters no longer adorned her index and middle fingers. Her fingers were as smooth as silk now, bearing no evidence of that glorious past.

Her teacher had told her once, showing her own fingers. "Do you see the blisters on these fingers, little one? They show our dedication to what we do. The day the skin on your fingers are smooth and not roughened by these blisters will be the day you would have forgotten everything you have learnt." She wanted to have blisters on her fingers like her teacher, or perhaps even rougher and harsher. For, such are the desires of a young and vain heart. Every night before sleeping, she would clench those just born blisters on her left hand tightly with the fingers of her right hand, hoping that they would somehow grow deeper overnight. And, every morning, the skin would have somehow become smoother than the day before, not causing her disappointment, but an unquenchable thirst to win. The uglier the blisters, the higher her sense of achievement.

Ah! Those were the days. Those were the days she could practice for hours together, despite her tired little hands begging her for mercy. Those were the days when her mom would have to stop her forcibly for fear of seeing her fingers bleed otherwise.

What had happened suddenly? When had she started losing the race to her hands? When had she started ignoring those blisters? When had she abandoned her beloved to a corner, only to be dusted and cleaned by mom, while she herself started to "get on" with life?

Today, as she took the Veena and started practicing again, the unquenchable thirst seemed to be coming back, slowly at first and then like a waterfall, tumbling down a precipice. Perhaps, the blisters would come back again, harsh and rough, bringing with them a deep sense of peace and contentment.

P. S. Thanks V, for the title.

To each a woe

"I hate her the most when I can't find anything specific to hate her for," he said, eyes blazing in anger and fists clenched with tension.

Earlier in the day, he had come home sullen and had refused to carry on a decent conversation with anyone. It had taken Anita a little bit of coaxing, and a lot of patience to get him talking. Finally he relented, but not without an outburst.

"You have no idea what a sly person she is. Her eyes are so sly, every time she looks at anyone, it is always as if she is trying to use them," he started.

Anita tried to reason with him saying, "But isn't it unfair to judge someone based on their looks or eyes? She might actually be a genuinely nice person."

Before she could continue, he interjected impatiently saying "No, no. She always takes help from us to get her work done, but when we go to her for anything, she never helps out. And, she is so loud you know. As if she wants everyone to know that she is the only hard working person in the room."

He had been talking without a breath and now, when there was a brief pause, Anita tried again. "But, sweetie, don't you think you are taking it too much to your head? I mean, it is as if you want to get angry even over the way she walks and the way she sits."

His eyes brightened on hearing that. "That is what even am trying to say. Sometimes, when she doesn't come at all, I am not able to find a reason to be angry with her, and that is when I hate her the most."

Anita sighed, looking at the clock. It was about to strike 8, and all she wanted to do was go home and crib to her husband about the maid who was driving her nuts with her incessant rendition of "Munni badnaam hui." And, here she was, still struck with 12 year old Akash, waiting for his parents to return, listening to his classroom woes and cursing her baby-sitter job.

May good sense prevail

Usually, I do not review movies or songs or books on this blog. It is really not my forte. In fact, I suck at it. But, sometimes there is so much to say that a single update on Facebook cannot do justice to my thoughts.

I had three movies in my "to be seen" list this year. Since no one, I repeat, no one, wanted to provide revenue to SRK, Ra-One went right out of the window. Though I had tempted mom into Rockstar by reminding her that it is the same guy who directed Jab We Met (and that is how I made her watch Love Aaj Kal), the movie unfortunately hasn't released yet; which means it too went out of the list temporarily. That left us with the Tam "magnum opus" of the year. And, given that I was waiting for 7aum Arivu (7th Sense) with bated breath and wanted to very badly watch it the first day, it is only fair that I dedicate a full length post to its brilliance.

Some quick observations down under (yes, feel free to diss as you please):

• Surya, you are an extremely handsome guy, definitely so by Tam standards. And I totally adored you in that Bodhidharman role. The make up actually suited you quite well. And, your look and costume in the climax fight were way too brilliant. You are one of those few people who can look good and calm and brave and extremely drool worthy all at the same time, in a fight sequence. Keep it up please.
• Unfortunately for you, that ain't ever enough for the Tam audience. If that is all you are giving, we had rather have lots and lots of it, than little bits and pieces. Where were you hiding for a good 15 minutes in the second half of the movie? Yeah, yeah, in that water tank getting some DNA revamping and all that. But, it was a huge waste of our time without you.
• Which brings us to the next item on my list. Have you guys heard of something called "editing"? All that this movie needed more than anything else was a good pair of scissors. A snip there through that sad song, a snip here through the Chin villages, a snip right across Shruti Hassan's dialogues, we would be good today. By leaps and bounds.
• Oh yeah, talking about which, for all the "Tam"ness that the movie propagated, pray what language was the heroine talking? What the hell does "vel" mean? Oh, she was actually referring to "veyil", the sun and not "vel", the arrow? Please, oh please, get your accent right? Else, just let someone else dub for you. Let us all not kill Tam while we are still alive.
• And talking about the "Tam"ness, I think we had some confusion around the story. Were we talking about China attacking India, or Tamil Nadu? Why were we bringing too many countries into the picture? There was bio warfare at one end, the Tamil Eelam at another, the fact that we have all forgotten our history somewhere else, and then the dilution of Indian history into Tam history. And, what was with all that random, patriotic senti? No Sir, it just did not fit in.
• I do not want to talk any further than everyone else about those songs. Should we start thinking of some other music director for Surya? It is just becoming too stereotypical, and not so nice any more. But, that one song, shot in exotic locales, was damn good. Good feast to the eyes and the ears for both genders and all ages.
• That villain guy is a good find. He was actually scary. All along the way back, I was nervously looking around for a tall Chin guy who might hypnotize me into killing myself.

But, you know what hurt me the most. When the movie got over, mom said, "We may as well have watched Velaayudham. It would have been wholesome entertainment at least". Perhaps, Surya, it is time for you to start meddling with story lines and not just sit back and trust directors who have proven right for you in the past.

Up in the air

I was flying through the clouds on my magic carpet waving to the twinkling stars. My hands were just about to reach out and touch the moon when a gust of wind threw me off the carpet. And, with a thud I woke up. I had rolled off my bed in my sleep.

It was the Half Yearly Examination of 1993. I hardly remember that 8 mark question in the English paper now. It had something to do with writing a story. And this is pretty much the long and short of what I wrote. I got a 7.5 and much praise from Mrs.JS, my most favorite English teacher of all times. My friend wrote about some houses made of chocolate that children could lick whenever they felt hungry; he got a 7 on 8. I personally liked what he wrote much more than what I wrote.

And, I think that is the last time I did serious creative writing. Perhaps, it stems from a huge lack of imagination and a fear for dreams. I have never thought about it much.

Yesterday, I was on an early evening aircraft for a change. The sun was going down, and the sky was clear. The aircraft was almost empty and I was looking out of the window in a long, long time – not reading, not dozing off, not cursing the delay but just looking out. And, there was a sheet of clouds beneath me and clouds all around me. I was trying to imagine huge white cloud castles in a square shape, a tall tower on each corner, and a clown face with a gleeful smile at the gateway. I was building castles in the air, almost literally. Sometime then, I must have dozed off. For, when I woke up, it was already dark and we were landing. And, I think I felt alive in a very childlike way then.

It is nice to build those chocolaty homes and fly through the clouds with angelic wings, and live a fairy tale life, sometimes. It is nice to forget those concrete jungles, stressed out moments and robotic lives, sometimes. Perhaps, it is just nice to dream sometimes.

A Strategic Exchange

I had a very in-depth, mind boggling conversation (interesting or otherwise) with a friend yesterday. We were looking at balance sheets and profit and loss statements of two companies, J and K, in hopes of finding sufficient backups to our discussion.

He: K has posted its year end revenues and seems to have done really badly.

Me: Yeah, I read that. These days, J has just cracked the premium market scene. I am ruing over the fact that I did not back J early on.

He: Haan yaar. I put all my earnings behind K, the ones I had painstakingly saved across different channels over many years. And now I do not understand whether it is going to give any returns. They are also exiting some of their non-premium businesses which mean that our options are going to reduce.

Me: And also, product quality has gone down many notches. I am wondering whether it is time for us to cut our losses, pull out and go behind J, a more lucrative and dependable player.

He: I agree, but we should not do anything impulsive. Let’s wait and watch for at least one more quarter and exit slowly.

If you are wondering why I reproduced this mundane, work related conversation here, wait a minute. You are about to say “Get a life!”

For, that was just two consultants talking about whether they should utilize their Kingfisher miles quickly and move to the Jet Privilege card, and also ensure that all credit card points are remitted into Jet going forward.

A sense of accomplishment

The roads wear a depressing, deserted look. It is 9.30 in the morning in Mumbai, but it feels like 10 in the night on an empty Gurgaon lane. Elsewhere, maximum city must be celebrating its favorite festival with that famed and often misunderstood “spirit”, its people making a beeline for the legendary pandals in hopes of viewing the opulent badshahs.

There is a strange sense of calm around the workplace today. There are no thronging crowds in the office complex; there is no urgency, no hurried walking, no noise almost. If you have ever been to Mumbai, you know this is not an everyday spectacle.

Coming to work on a holiday always makes me feel like I have accomplished something substantial in life, even better than posting a status worthy of at least ten “likes” on FB.

It is with a noble feeling of sacrifice and martyrdom that I walk into office. “I have made it large”, I tell myself, by going to work on two consecutive big holidays of the year.

I settle down and open my once brand new, unbroken, beautiful laptop. I revel in my commitment towards my job for a few more seconds before switching it on.

I open the file. And, then, I know.

I am not in the armed forces defending the Indian border. Neither am I a fasting fighter protecting the fundamental rights of civil society.

I am just another Excel menial, a Presentation glober, working on a holiday because that is what I am meant to do.

Nonplussed?

Like I have mentioned elsewhere on this blog, I joined the FB bandwagon pretty late. Firstly, I was unsure of whether my little brain would be able to understand one more UI. Secondly, I had nothing to say to the world. My life was pretty un-happening, if you know what I mean. No tours (international or domestic), no photos amidst the wildlife, no videos of me diving through the sky – in short, nothing that would make anyone (even my hypothetical pet dog) jealous.

Erm.. well.. how happening my life is now is not a wise topic to discuss. So, let’s get on with what I wanted to say.

What has all the networking done to me today? Apart from an exponential increase in my creativity and boldness in writing (if you have a different opinion on that, let us take it offline :P), nothing positive, I would say.

Despite continuously cribbing about social networking’s negative value add to my life, last week, I self-inflicted some more pain into my system. Yes, I created an account with yet another social networking site, despite it being very unimaginatively named the Plus.

But, before getting on with that, it would only be righteous of us to mourn in honor of the debacle that Google came up with sometime last year. I was one of those people who actually saw in entirety, the one hour long video that Google had put up on how to use Wave. And, I conveniently forgot that “enthusiasm” is a two-way street. After much cajoling and threatening of the near and the dear and everyone in particular, I gave up mournfully. And, I went back, defeated, to good old FB.

Google Wave was such a fiasco it would not even go down in history as a failure.

However, Google, just like Mahmud of Ghazni, is not willing to give up the fight so easily.

Enough has been said on FB about Plus already.

My two pence is this: If Google can crack the mobile app well enough for Plus, it is going to be a big hit amongst the Android fans, and sooner or later, amongst other smart phone users too. The “circles” seem like a smart idea, weird that FB did not think of it. But, it might only be prudent for Plus to stay away from the whole commercial pages part for some time at least. The number of advertisements and programs in the media that advertise FB proudly saying “Like us on FaceBook” – well that is going to be very, very difficult to crack and might be a fulsome dilution of Plus’ ‘personalization’ image, with no tangible returns in the near future.

Sigh! If only Larry and Sergey would listen to my periodic advice, they would just be elsewhere I tell you.

An opportunity to "language"

“Send me sample moon charts ASAP,” a friend texted me frantically last week. I replied with a “What the heck are moon charts? Are you referring to Harvey balls?” Pat came the reply. “Oh! No wonder I was getting random charts on moon signs when I ran a search.”

If you are dazed by the abnormality of this conversation, you may click here to enlighten yourself.

And after that insignificant digression, you may continue reading.

The other day, I was apologising to a friend for having missed his call, “There was some major fire here, so could not call back.” He replied in a grave tone, “I hope metaphorically.”

And then, one day, I was cribbing on Facebook about how obsessed I am with thousands separators. A friend replied with a “Do I stand to reveal my total ignorance if I say that I don’t know what thousands separators are?”

Today, I was trying to make sense of what a customer care representative was telling me, when I lost my cool and blurted out, “You are giving me a very global answer.” He was flummoxed, I could say from the tone of his voice.

Aah, well, that is when I realized something. Something very important and possibly highly lucrative.

There is a huge opportunity here – To write a book on “How to communicate better - a lesson in the language of the future”. Essentially, collect all the phrases you have ever come across in B-school and work life, situate them in random circumstances and make a 200 page book out of it. If possible, promote it with a “First of its kind blah blah written by IIT / IIM blah blah”. It will sell like hot cakes, I tell you. Yes, yes, even better than those books on how to hatch without chickens or something.

Many a link between the teeth and the wreath

The first thing I am reminded of when I think about dentists is this Agatha Christie short story (or novel, I do not remember). It talks about how murdering someone in a dentist’s chair is child’s play because people are at their vulnerable best in the hands of their dentist. Or something like that (Gundu Rao style ;))

As you might have guessed, I am terrified of dentists. There are also other reasons like pain in the teeth and loss of talking for an evening (if one pulls out their teeth?). Well, I am not sure of the details. I have never been to a dentist. Yet.

However, a visit to the beauty parlour invokes many such similar fears in me. I am at my vulnerable best when the beautician smears all this unknown, random coloured stuff over my face (sealing my eyes off) and then starts massaging my neck. Every time this happens, I have a nagging suspicion that she could easily break my neck if she wants to. Why anyone would want to murder me is a mystery I never attempt to solve.

And, then, there is this dread of an earthquake or a building collapse when certain instruments are being used on my face. Oh yeah, I even have disturbing images of the result in my mind’s screen if ever such a thing should happen.

As a result, I never really “relax” where I should be at my chilled out best.

Some of the early signs of madness you would say. Being cautious, I would say.

I just hope I will never have to go to the dentist (nice try?). Reliving such imagery in two places in a month does not sound very enticing at all!

The Geometries of Life

The car was winding towards the foot hills in measured calculation, avoiding pot holes and stones, small rocks and pin pricks. Avantika looked at the far away mountains in awe. This was the first ever time in her six long years of existence that she was seeing such a huge structure. It seemed to be bigger than the He-Man shown on television, which her cousin Adi totally adored. As they neared Titan – she felt that he, the mountain, deserved the name – she found out something peculiar. She prodded her mom violently, with those little fingers of hers. “Mamma! Did you notice that? Titan is made up of so many mini Titans that seem to look exactly like him.”

Ah, well, Mamma had not noticed, having been lost in thought and seething in anger over having to make the trip alone with Avantika, as Daddy had dropped out due to some last minute meeting.

She looked at the mountain, trying to comprehend what her little one was saying. She knew she had to tell something complicated and unfathomable; else, this over enthusiastic kid of hers would go on and on with questions and observations. She said, “Baby. Those are called fractals – many objects of similar shape getting together to form a larger object which is similar in shape to the components.”

Avantika absorbed this humongous piece of information quietly. However, being the persistent kid she was, complicated terms like fractals could not quieten her for too long. “Mamma, mamma. Is it like how if I do one small mistake when solving a sum, it will be a large mistake at the end of it, giving a wrong answer?”

Mamma said, “No baby. It is not that way. All the components should be similar. It is not like only one component contributes to the overall. But, in the example you are giving..”

She was abruptly stopped by an excited Avantika who started talking rapidly now. “I got it Mamma! If I keep waiting every day for Daddy to get back from work and he gets delayed every day, and comes back only after I sleep, I would end up waiting all year for Daddy who is always late.”

In response, Mamma could just make an expression not very different from the rolling eyes 8-| smiley!