One tight slap

The noise is waning down. The Twitterati is starting to focus on other pressing #theekhai trends. The blame game is on, a few high level suspensions inclusive.

Armchair enthusiasts have finished reading all available internet literature on the subject. Some of the enterprising lot have also opined long and strong on personal blogs and Facebook posts.

Coffee table conversation is moving on to Sachin’s retirement, amongst other worldly items of interest.

I, for my part, have “liked” Faking News’ many a dig at the administrative atrocities. It has been a mechanical job, really. There has been a sense of shame and guilt for not participating enough in the protests, either virtually or physically, but I can live with it. I have lived with the guilt of non-participation for long now.

Grey’s Anatomy is on, a repeat of last night’s telecast. I switch channels, landing on a Tam serial. The scene focuses on a young-ish middle class couple, the woman in question telling the man he hasn’t bought her enough gold jewels in four years of married life. The man seems bugged, has no patience to put up with the nagging and slaps her right across the face. The woman shuts up, just making a wry face, as if this is a natural way to end an argument and continues cooking. The man walks out, having achieved win-win. No crying, no drama. It looks like just another day in a normal household.

I switch channels again, landing on a Hindi serial this time. Two apparently vile ladies are spreading rumors about town on how the heroine in question should take up widowhood, wear a white sari, and sit at home without participating in any celebrations ever afterwards, as her husband has been missing for over two months now and is presumed dead.

I am a little more than disgusted by now, but relentless in my pursuit, switch channels again, this time landing on news. The transport minister of the AP cabinet is just remarking that, India getting freedom in the middle of the night doesn’t give Indian women the leeway to roam about the roads in the middle of the night.

I begin to wonder whether it might be a good idea to have warnings similar to “Smoking is injurious to health”, before movie screenings and during serial and news telecasts. Something on the lines of “Respect women as equals”, “Slapping women is injurious to mankind”, “Raping women will send you directly to hell” is what my mind is on to.

Meanwhile, the victim is still battling for life, on and off the ventilator, losing her organs in complicated surgeries, every other day. Elsewhere, a few more women are being raped, one every eighteen hours, just in Delhi, if news stories be believed.

I am already thinking whether traveling alone by cab in the middle of the night is sensible any more. I am also questioning whether I would have the balls to file a complaint with the police, if I am sexually assaulted or worse still, raped. Even if I tried to, I guess I would end up in the wrong police jurisdiction and be hammered around quite a bit before I can figure out the right place to file a complaint in, in this complicated country.

Perhaps, it would be a prudent idea for every Indian woman to sit at home as a nagging housewife without roaming around the streets in the middle of the night and get slapped if she speaks out of turn. At least then, the woman can only be raped legally and not otherwise. And, there is so much more honor in that.

Not dejected, just disappointed

Anger is an easy emotion. It is easy to get angry, be it with the maid who doesn’t turn up in time for work or the boss who doesn’t understand your productivity. The only difference is that in case of the former, it is a lot easier to express the emotion to the other party. However, I am not too sure of that either, as, per S’s experience and in her own words, “the maid-memsahib relationship has evolved into a partnership model where working in tandem is the only way to ensure win-win”. I digress. My point is, getting angry is an easy job. Given recent events, I’d tend to believe that getting out of the mess isn’t all that difficult either. Terms like “heat of the moment” and “passionate arguments” seem to sell like hot, lovable cakes.

Dejection is different. It builds up slowly over time, because you are incapable of doing something you’d wish done, or you do not get the expected result for what you thought you had done well. It is like walking into office one day and being made redundant, because the firm hasn’t performed well, only when the day before that you were promoted for your performance. Dejection can be a prolonged Dementor’s kiss. However, if you know how to conjure up the right patronus (mine is a combination of chocolate, books, pen and the sea), nothing and no one can suck the soul out of you. Or so I have led myself to believe over the years.

Disappointment is the most dangerous, and inflicts the maximum damage too. Disappointment is what happens when you expect the Western Express Highway to be empty at 6.30 in the evening on a busy working day. It usually stems from high expectations of yourself, and / or people you think you know well. Greater the expectation, bigger the fall. You disappoint someone and are embarrassed to face them, or you are disappointed with someone and do not want to see them. Either way, it has a lasting effect, for, moving on is complicated and redemption, an arduous task. 

I have been through the motions, with the morons, this year, different emotions at different points in time. Only once this year did I go through all these three emotions at the same point, which is when I watched this movie. An initial bout of anger gave way to disappointment (in myself for having dragged V to the movie without reading the review and in the hero for having cast himself in such a movie) which eventually gave way to dejection in knowing that those 2.5 hours of my life were gone, never to be had back again.

Some advice, or maybe not

Have you ever experienced that weird and painful period of time when you sit around in office with absolutely no work to do, feeling only a teeny weeny guilty about all the time in the world going straight down the bottomless pit? Have you ever spent such time, not scouting for work or pretending to look busy, but actually walking around randomly unfocussed, only to settle down to prepare copious hand over documents?

If you haven’t, perhaps this post will prepare you for such a time you may eventually face in your life time. If you have, you already know what I am going to talk about.

I have been meaning to write about this for a really, really long time now, but not exactly in the format it has ended up in. In fact, I wanted to make one of those fancy lists that B-school alumni are coming up with these days and title it to the tune of “Top 10 things you need to know about blah blah blah.” However, I realized I am too emotional to ever be a matter-of-fact ‘listy’ person. Oh heck, who am I kidding? I realized that I do not have even three, forget ten pieces of advice for you. So, let me just ramble on, as is my wont. 

I remember the first ever time I quit. My notice period was pretty cool, and I was all “ha-ha”ish, if you know what I mean. There was excitement about the new journey and some sense of genial well-meaning towards all and sundry. The world seemed to be shimmering brightly, with the heavens shining down upon me, while I wrapped myself in rosy dreams about a successful and flourishing career spread over the next few decades. I even wrote an all-happy blog post in sync with my mood. 

One of my worldly wise colleagues warned me then, “You will never feel this way again. Enjoy it while it lasts.” I argued with him, gave him one of those “I don’t believe you, old man, but will still humor you” smiles and walked off. Over the years, I have learnt to humbly acknowledge that there couldn’t have been truer advice.

After the first time, the excitement wanes down, the trepidation increases. And, the trepidation, while being largely centered on “Am I doing the right thing this time around?”, is not strictly restricted to that, what with lower level details like even PF transfers looming up large and incomprehensive. The youthful fervor of “looking forward to” is replaced by cautious, unavoidable and limited optimism, if only for the lack of another tangible emotion. The world looks a realistic, suspiciously murky place, with unknown demons lurking just around the corner. 

I think I am slowly getting into that exaggeration mode now. Perhaps, it is time to stop.

You will know your emotions, when you get to that bridge. You will know whether you should cross it or not, whether it is worth the effort or not. You will know how you should cross it, without burning it. You will know that some bridges cannot be saved, but you still tried to save them. Even if you do end up crossing the wrong bridge, the wrong way, you will learn from it. Nothing pays like first-hand experience. Nothing pays like learning from a mistake you make. And, you will learn to appreciate the experience, for, when all else fails, you would have the satisfaction that you at least learnt not to repeat the mistake. 

P.S. This post has been in the works for a long time now, and has nothing to do with any current or imminent changes in my life.

Business As Usual

I am stepping into an airport in almost eight months. This year has been miserable, without the weekly dose of fly backs, not to mention the frequent flyer miles. When I tell this to my ex colleagues, they laugh. They say, "Be careful what you wish for." 

Such good advice not withstanding, the feeling of getting into the airport seems exhilarating, till the time I squeeze myself into a mile long queue at the check in. The end of an excruciating wait is rewarded with an emergency exit seat (the lady at the counter cribs no one really understands the merits of the seat these days and that's why it is still available). The happiness helps me brace myself for the "tray" battle at the ladies' security check-in counter.

I have promised myself that I will observe the travellers, as it has been a long time since I did that. However, my enthusiasm dies as soon as I see the bunch. All of them are logged on to their laptops, peering busily into what seems to be Facebook. I give up on humanity as a whole and start fighting with my smartest phone to connect to Facebook and observe the world. Alas! Today is one of the days when the 3G doesn't connect, barring me from using "Check-in" to inform an uninterested network about where I am.

The flight is delayed, and that too after we board it. "Congestion in the Mumbai airport", "We are sixth in line" and other such familiar phrases waft through the microphone from the cockpit. Everyone groans. I sigh and get back to my Kindle, not before giving a long lecture to the new air-hostess on how she should learn to ask passengers sitting at the emergency exit to place their bags in the over head compartment. 

We land at an unearthly hour, definitely by Chennai standards. All of us rush to stand up, as if we are going home immediately, not giving an iota of thought to the long wait ahead at the baggage.

The Friday finally feels like 'Business As Usual'.

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?