D for Downturns

My first year in the big bad professional world was a downturn year. I joined work in 2008, the year of the great Lehman debacle. And spent another year or two listening to how I should be glad and grateful to have my job when so many of my batchmates didn't. Yes, that's the reason people who still held their jobs were given for not being given bonuses and hikes.

It takes a downturn year for you to understand what cost cutting really means. Suddenly, notepads and pens become scarce with the stationery department designing a detailed form to be filled in by the requesters of notepads and pens. That might still be manageable, for one just has to give one of these myriad reasons - doodling, tearing pages into bits and strewing them around, drinking the ink in the pen because of lack of money to buy and drink anything else etc. But, what does one do about toilet papers? No, not as bad as you think. The toilet doesn't convert to a BYOTP (Bring Your Own Toilet Paper) model overnight, though the quality of the paper becomes so bad that you wish you were in a BYOTP model, to begin with. And, to top it all the AC is surreptitiously switched off for an hour each day, actually for more than an hour if a sizeable number of the population doesn't notice and get up to complain to admin.

But, all that is still handle-able. 

What is unpardonable is the denial of the most basic of human rights - coffees and conversations. Suddenly, the coffee machine is out of work much more often than usual, tea bags don't get replenished more than once a day, sugar is no longer in petite packets but sits in a lump in a bottle that has not understood the concept of being airtight, coffee cups run out by 11 in the morning. Without the drink, how do you have the conversation? How do you exchange office gossip, b**ch about your frenemies, exchange notes on bosses, crib about the economy and in general feel bad and drive yourself to a miserable state of desperation? You can't really hang about near the coffee machine without a cup in your hand and do all that, can you? Though everyone knows what people do at the coffee machine, no one wants to be caught empty handed (literally) and red-handed (figuratively) at it after all.

So, yeah, I do know a thing or two about downturns now and their impact on the common man and woman who haven't been directly impacted with job losses. That doesn't mean I am prepared for the next downturn myself. I sure as hell freak out when the coffee machine is under repair for a little over an hour, or the pantry boy says that we have run out of hot chocolate sachets. Is there a bankruptcy going on somewhere in the world that I have missed out on?

P. S. This post is the fourth in the A-Z blogging challenge series for April. 

S for Small World

It was another Uber day today, and I was rushing for a meeting to the far north of the city. Bad time estimations, delay in connectivity, overall Murphy was flapping his ugly wings all over me. Mentally preparing for a difficult conversation with the cabbie, I called him once the booking went through. He, surprisingly, seemed to have his wits about himself – the first in a week filled with a string of clueless drivers who didn’t turn up at the doorstep – and reached in exactly 4 minutes as he predicted. I got in and launched into a long list of instructions to get us out of this area, because the average Uber driver has just landed from Mars and doesn’t really understand all this complexity of roads and U-turns and speed lanes and slow lanes. Surprise again. This guy seemed to have everything under control. I just named the area I wanted to get to, mentioning on a side note how delayed I was for a 10 am meeting, and got onto a long telephonic conversation.

In 20 minutes, we were nearing our destination and I was done with my phone call. Now, I told him the office complex I wanted to go to, and he nodded vigorously, also asking me whether I was going to Company XYZ. I laughed and said, “Oh! Not XYZ this time.” He was curious to know whether I work for XYZ, and I said, “I used to, you know. But, in their other office, not this one.” He got all excited and started talking about how he used to drive for the CEO of XYZ, and for some other big shots in the financial world.

Whoa! This is déjà vu, my mind alerted me. I know this guy, I know this guy. Then, I told him, “Hey! Weren’t you driving a rented black and yellow cab a few months back? I was your passenger back from my XYZ office and you dropped me home. And we were discussing how you can make more money by becoming an Uber / Ola driver.” “Yes, yes, yes. I got this car 8 days back and enrolled on Uber. It is going well so far.”

And then, we engaged in some small talk on how small a world it is, wished each other a nice day, and parted ways happy.

This morning, I had spent some confused minutes wondering what I would write on S. Stink? Smell? Stupidity? And now, I am putting my feet up, taking it easy, having a break, and only wondering whether I should name this post “Serendipity” or “Small World”.

Small world sounds better, for isn’t that the most powerful form of the world!

P. S. This post is the nineteenth in the A-Z blogging challenge series for April. 

All in a good day's swearin'

Do you enjoy swearing? Or are you one step ahead, and have imbibed it into yourself so much that you have no control over when you swear anymore?

I am clearly the kind that enjoys swearing. It gives me immense relief and satisfaction to swear loudly when some random *** tries to cut me in from the side, on the road. It is as if I have said the worst, and now, life can move on. Also, most often than not, I am fully well in control of my swearing. So, the next time you hear me swear, and then I apologize, you know there is a 95% chance I meant to swear wholeheartedly.

What if you are of the other type? It means that you do run certain risks I have taken upon myself to alert you about.

Someone, many centuries back, drew up a “Gentleman’s code”, a copy of which I haven’t laid my hands on yet. But, the sum and substance of it says that, amongst other things a gentleman is expected to do, such as wear sharp suits and well-polished boots, he needs to not swear in front of a lady. Now, does a code like that exist for the ladies? I guess not. However, it is commonly assumed that well-bred ladies don’t swear (only if they are not Scarlett O’Hara’s kin).

While the gentleman has evolved over the ages, to the extent of brazenly banging the door on the face of the lady behind him, the unwritten rule of “apologetic swear” is still followed in many parts of the world. So, when a gentleman is in a meeting that has one or more female participants, and he has the strong urge to say “f***”, he usually says “Excuse me ladies, for my language” and then swears loudly. If he doesn't do that, he just apologizes post facto. See. It is simple. But, if the ladies decide to “f***” his life, they have the freedom to sue him for having used obscene language in front of them.

Secondly, we are all growing, if not up, at least old. That only means many of our friends are already in the middle of full-fledged family life; which also means they have kids who have recently started learning words like flower, farmhouse, foreign etc. Do our friends want us to add to their kids’ already rich and growing vocabulary? They apparently are not in favor of such a situation. So, the next time they try socializing with us, with their family in tow, we run the risk of being disowned forever if we swear loudly in front of them.

What can be done about it, you ask. One lame idea, that the good people on T.V. use in order to evade censorship, is to substitute swear words for less offensive and utterly nonsensical terms such as “frigging”, “fishing” etc. But, that’s akin to suggesting that a dark-brown oatmeal biscuit will give you as much pleasure as a chocolate chip brownie.

So, I have a better idea. Consciously bite your tongue every time you utter a swear word in public. The pain will make sure you get a handle on the swearing. And, then, save up all the swearing for your private time, so that you can let go and resume life in peace.

The ideal and the perfect

This is officially my worst week ever. With unmet deadlines, defaulting vendors, confused stakeholders, hectic travel and endless arguments, I have to pinch myself to remember that I am actually on vacation. Yeah, you heard that right. And that too, with a surprisingly considerate bunch of colleagues not having e-mailed or texted me even once during the time, in any other world, this would be an ideal vacation.

Marriages are made in heaven, or so they say. But, wedding ceremonies surely were conceived in hell. And, they are here to stay. And, they are growing more nonsensical with every passing moment. And, they are giving rise to many a thriving business of sarees and blouses and return gifts and wedding invites and accessories and food and decorations and… the list goes on.

I am just back from a visit to my tailor, who, I suspect, must have been a research analyst in his previous avatar. Late last evening, he had called me with an estimate for stitching the Muhurtham blouse pegged at a staggering 25% to 40% range of the total cost of my Sari. So, I marched into his premises first thing this morning, demanding a break-up of the cost. He looked at me as if I have landed from a different planet. Apparently, brides are supposed to go crazy trying to choose the right things for their weddings and not bother about such teeny weeny things as expenses. But, yes, he did give me the break-up after much cajoling, with just a minor footnote saying, “The final cost might be 2-2.5 times the estimate. We will know once we start working on the blouse”.

And, then, there is the whole Sari business itself. I have walked into and out of 10 shops in the past two days looking for one Sari. Yesterday, I spent half an hour with a salesperson trying to understand pricing variations across Saris, all of which, to my naked eye, look exactly the same. He finally gave up any hope of my buying a Sari and turned his attention elsewhere.

The wedding invite is another mammoth affair altogether. Colors, font types, alignment, wordings, pictures… I really miss my beloved PPT pages. They are so much easier to create. And, they do make so much more sense, and can be reused too!

The next item that will come up my alley, as I have been informed (read warned), is the accessories shopping. That will involve trying to figure out, amidst multiple hues and shades of violet and green and maroon and light blue, the right colored bangles for my Saris. And, it will be another set of non-reusable stuff that will fade in color and style with time. Like it matters!

Sometimes, I wonder what the point is. What’s the point in putting so much fight into some six inane events spread across two long days trying to solemnize one wedding, when all that should actually matter is having a happy marriage?

I must be the most atypical bride-to-be in town, focusing more on the expense than on the wedding look, focusing more on the long term than on the short term. And, I am thankful the Universe made me that way. Perhaps, I will be able to drill sense into my next generation, and help them have an inexpensive wedding, yet a perfect marriage.

The Proof

There is no love, only proofs of love, I read somewhere. And, this is V’s favorite tool of offense when I tell him complicated stuff like “You have never sent me roses.”

However, over time, I have realized that the statement can be adapted to more than just roses. 

We need wins, constant odes to the worthiness of our existence, appreciation and rewards to goad us on. We strive for excellence in the hopes of success. Where it was marks and grad school admits, now it is promotions and bonuses. If our excellence does not translate into personal success, we categorize it as failure. And, most of us are not evolved to a ‘Zen level’ where we can accept excellence just for the sake of knowledge and betterment of the world at large.

Of late, I have been getting into a number of “what motivates an individual at work” discussions with colleagues and friends. During one such conversation, we were left wondering for some time about our irrational obsession with promotions. Mri told us about how her organization, a multi-national, continuously incentivizes individuals, despite having a flat structure. The signaling that someone is valuable to the organization is done in more ways than one – inter-departmental transfers, intra- and inter-regional transfers, project work allocation per one’s choice and skill sets etc. All this is linked with the individual’s long term career path in the organization and is not restricted to one or two years of service.

I recounted an incident from one of my projects where the CEO of an Indian company was bent on including a number of designations stacking up to VP. When I objected saying it was making the structure too hierarchical, he told me, “Kavitha, this is India. Every other person in the family wants to know what your designation is. I cannot apply global standards of four levels to the top, and give promotions once in five years. That will leave me with many unhappy employees and a very high attrition rate.”

I cannot talk for other countries, but in India, we have been trained to work for wins since childhood. Even hobbies have been encouraged with an eye on the first prize. Perhaps, that is where our obsession stems from, and that is what our organizations have built into their structures. While the drive to win is still an acceptable devil and can be tackled through hikes and performance linked incentives, I have started to increasingly feel the void we have in terms of career development. Our fixation on moving up the ranks despite not knowing whether that is what we really want to and can do is reason enough for that void. And, it seems to be driven largely by our need to prove a point, because that is the only way we think we can prove a point to the rest of the world. It is a well-known but rarely acknowledged truth that someone who is exemplary at number-crunching may not necessarily feel happy about being elevated to a people management role.

I have felt the pressure to prove a point for a long time now, because I have always been groomed to do that. While V keeps reminding me about the value I am adding to the rest of the world and how I should be proud of it, it still remains a difficult task for me to let go of the need to prove a point, look forward to a signal. Perhaps, we need to work hard as a society to groom our next generation towards meaningful existences, with happiness linked to excellence more than success.

A thousand mistakes

I complete five years of professional work experience this month. Half a decade.

Half a decade spent in front of a laptop, talking to excels and ppts, rushing into and out of airports, providing my two cents and more at (sometimes inane) meetings.

Half a decade of not experiencing an evening jog on a Monday, not getting to travel the world at leisure, not resting in a hammock with a book in hand, not letting go of a buzzing BB while on holiday.

Five years back, when I was preparing for campus placements, the questions that worried me the most were “Why do you want to choose this career?”, “How do you see yourself fitting into this profile”, “Where do you see yourself ten years from now?” and “What are your strengths and weaknesses?”. I remember wanting to tell interviewers, out of sheer desperation, that chocolate is really my biggest weakness.

I used to wonder then whether I had wasted 22 years of existence learning math and theoretical computer science and marketing and strategy, without learning about my strengths and weaknesses.

Today, I can wax eloquent about my strengths and weaknesses. I am thankful to my five years for that. More importantly, I am thankful to my thousand mistakes.

Mistakes are what make man perfect, they say. I do not have a view on perfection. But, I do have a view on mistakes and choices that turn out to be mistakes. At any given point in time, we choose a particular path because it makes sense to us, it makes us happy. However, over a period, despite battling through the path, if the choice doesn’t work, it is time to cut the losses and move on. There is no such thing as a “wrong choice”. It is only wrong if we figure out that something isn’t working for us and still go on living with it.

Strange as it may be, these five years of work have taught me more about “living” than 18 years of classroom learning. It is strange because my friends say “Get a life” more often now than ever before. It is strange, also because at times I do wonder whether education is over-rated.

If I try uttering that statement, my mother says, “You have just got arrogant with all the education you were able to have.” Perhaps, she is right. But, then again, I have no way of knowing now. For, that’s a choice I made, and I have to move on from there.

It has been an exhausting five years of work. An exhilaratingly interesting and exhausting five years of work. If the coming years turn out to be anything like the ones gone by, I wouldn’t mind the rush and the stress and the “not having a life” bit so much.

Make your own mistakes, fight your own battles.

For, the war is long and hard, and only with yourself.

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.

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.

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?

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.

The Ugly Truth

A cup of coffee and a very obliging colleague were all that were needed to break my heart today afternoon.

So, my colleague has an 8-year old son and she was talking about what a handful he is. “You have no clue Kavitha. He has such a bad temper and he shows it all on me,” she said. I just nodded my head in empathetic acquiescence having no inkling to what she was about to say next.

It was then that she dropped the bombshell. “He is a Leo, you know. An August born Leo. An August 15th born Leo. You can imagine.”

Ah well, dear colleague. It is not a funny sight imagining my mom saying those exact same words about me elsewhere.

A vividly colorful life

What can be more detrimental to productivity in office than a dreary weather? To answer that question, I need to set some context first.

My childhood dream was to own a black sedan. Many sedans came and went, but my dream remained largely unfulfilled because Dad found it to be the craziest idea in town. “Whoever owns a black car?”, he tried to rationalize, with absolutely no logic to his observation.

In the same vein, it has also been my long time dream to own a pair of white trousers. Many trousers came and went but my dream remained unfulfilled due to numerous reasons, transport hassles being primary amongst them. However, as is the case with dreams that are pursued relentlessly, I recently laid my hands on such a dream pair.

And, life has not been the same again.

What does an innocent pair of white trousers have to do with work place productivity? Or, so you would be tempted to ask.

A pair of white trousers is as detrimental to productivity as a music system running at full blast next door when you are trying to concentrate on your board exam preparation. You are forever worried about coming in contact with any opaque surface, even mildly dusty. You are perennially concerned about that single drop of coffee or sauce or anything in any color other than plain (read water) on your person. You are paranoid about alighting from your car and walking those few steps across the patio to reach the lift lobby.

That is the cost you pay for dreaming big, or in my case white. And, all this while, I was thinking that having a car would solve the whitey problems of my life. Sigh!