Happy hobbies

No, this is not a happy hobby post. In fact, that is the problem. I do not have hobbies. Whatever I have doesn’t make me happy. Let me back up and explain a bit.

I love playing the Veena. Whenever anyone calls it a hobby (for me), I smile politely and say, “No, actually it isn’t a hobby,” and they walk away thinking it doesn’t qualify to even be a hobby for me. In reality, all I am thinking is how far from a hobby it is because I freak out over getting my songs in order, making no mistakes, and polishing the performance off perfectly. Every rendezvous with my Veena is like a performance, even though all of it is to an audience of myself, within the four walls of my bedroom.

I enjoy writing. I use it as a way to get my thoughts in order. After putting those thoughts to paper, I go over the writing to edit the English, weed out repetitive words, use my favourite words, sometimes complicating passages, sometimes over simplifying them. I love the process, but I also hate it. The pursuit seems relentless, and an activity that started as a mere hobby is one of toil and passion now.

Reading is a part of me today. It was a part of me 2.5 decades back, when I was a kid. It was a part of me during all those quarterly after-exam rituals, when my parents would take me to the Landmark (Nungambakkam, Chennai) to buy a truckload of books to get through the holidays. It was a meticulous process of poring over the shelves with a long list in hand, picking and choosing, never discarding anything picked up, dragging them home and finishing them off, one after the other after the other. Nothing has changed in the years that came after. Except, the list has moved to goodreads, the shopping to Amazon, and the hole that is burnt is through mine own pocket now. The deadline is in my head, as, year after year, I compete with myself, racing against time, to read the choicest possible, as if I will not be around to finish them next year.

These are no hobbies. They are passion projects, as Google faithfully informs me.

So, a few years back, I decided to fall headlong into some hobbies, things that I absolutely suck at and have no hope or wish of excelling in. Namely, stitching and painting. Perhaps, it was knitting and coloring. I wouldn’t know the difference. One needles and threads, another makes a splash on paper with crayons, or water colours. Anyway, I got myself a Stitch Kit and threaded away feverishly at a Krishna outline. I got so involved, that I forgot it was supposed to be a hobby meant to calm me down. I stitched one of the parts (the hair perhaps) in red instead of black. And, I got very frustrated with the lack of perfection and gave up. Maybe, that’s why it remains a hobby I look back on fondly (or otherwise). The key is to be able to give up and try it again some other time, without taking it personally. I have mastered the first half, which is giving up. But, the whole hobby thing is too daunting for me to try again, without any stake in the game.

I am on to Mandala coloring these days. The book and colour pencils have been procured. A good start is a job well done. Or some such. I am told Mandala coloring is the most peaceful thing on Earth. Let’s see how I break it to pieces.

I don't want to cry

The past few days have been terrible, terribly scary. Memories of the past have been gushing into my active mind from the passive storage at the back. After the November 2008 Mumbai attacks, I have been scared of bomb threats and potential terrorist attacks - I remember spending all of last year's long weekend during Republic Day holed up at home fearing a potential bomb blast, also informing V that I had a "bad feeling" about this. He gave me strange looks, and thankfully, didn't commit me to an institution. And, of course, contrary to my very smart intuition, nothing happened. 

To cut a long story short, I have been paranoid the past few days about going online. Are you asking me why? Have you been living under a rock? Else, there is no way you didn't hear about the WannaCry RansomWare attack. No matter - I give you here a few quick tips to avoid such cyber threats in the long run. Thank me later.

1. Don't open bank accounts. Even if you do, don't keep money in said bank accounts. Keep everything as cash in your house locker. And keep the keys of that locker under your mattress. And keep the mattress in the loft. Also, move the loft to the top of the Himalayas. 
2. Burn all your credit cards. Wait. Don't. Just keep applying for new credit cards every month for your online transactions. Since you don't have a bank account or money in the bank account (from Step 1 above), there is no way you can pay your credit card bills. So, it's cool. 
3. Don't open Facebook or Twitter profiles. Or open them, but give details of your next door neighbour. Oops. This is 2017. You perhaps don't even know if a door exists next door. And, you don't want to find out because you are trying to minimize human interactions, hence the need for Facebook. Don't worry - Just open a profile under Justin Bieber's name. However, be careful not to list "lip sync" as an area of expertise. People will figure out that your profile is fake.
4. I know what you are thinking, but you should be off Tinder too. That's difficult right. Actually, I will give you an easier way. Just throw away your million rupees smart phone. Hmmm... get it. Tough to throw away a million rupees. Change the settings to flight mode and use it as a camera cum mp3 player. You can click that corner near the curtain with precision using that 20mp camera while listening to some soul stirring sufi music on decibel high. But, but. That ain't enough. Take a big cutting plier and hack away that wire connecting the broadband. 
5. That leads to our next complication. What happens to that Jio Prime connection you took in the hope of some more free 4G? Forget it man. Let Ambani enjoy some money.
6. Did you upload that photo of the corner of your house under Justin Bieber's name on Facebook? Now, the thieves are on their way to siphon off all your money in hard cash. However, little do they know that you have stowed the loft containing the mattress under which the key to the locker exists, away atop the Himalayas.

Feeling safe already? Don't. Google maps has marked you, mapped you and is watching you, and there is no way that footprint is going away. The thieves might still come over in the hope of getting your kidneys. And, I can think of no smart way to save you from that.

So Long!

P.S. All in good humour only, so don't hold me responsible if you decide to implement any of the above steps and start suffering from SMWA (Social Media Withdrawal Anxiety).

Y for Yeman

A conversation between me and my Mind Voice (MV)

MV: OMG! You are going to die.

Me: Huh? What happened?

MV: You just consumed poison.

Me: Wha..? When?

MV: Just now. You will replace that Mukesh fellow who comes as a warning before every movie in the cinemas.

Me: Hello! I don't have the habit of consuming tobacco or any of its ancillaries. What drivel are you driving towards?

MV: Tobacco only leads to cancer. And cancer has a cure. What you ate will lead to Yeman* knocking on your doors soonish.

Me: Dude! The only thing I had this morning was bread, with butter by the side. Are you referring to the butter? And what the hell is DBGOA?

MV: Not just any bread. You had white bread! The only evil in this world, yeah it is worse even than terrorism. You will Die By Guilt of Association, mark my words.

* Yeman is Tam for Yama

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

S for Serials

I was born and brought up in Chennai, with the typical English as first language and Tamil as second language, education. I didn't see the need for knowing Hindi then, and neither did my parents. In fact, there was absolutely no discussion or confusion about what my second language should be in primary school (we had 2 options - Tamil and Hindi). The reasoning was simple - mom and dad refused to enrol me in for a subject they wouldn't be able to help with at home. But, that didn't stop us from listening to Hindi music and going for Hindi movies. The former is still manageable but imagine three pure-bred Tams sitting in the cinema hall watching a Hindi movie set in deep rustic Uttar Pradesh. Actually, don't imagine. Just think about how we didn't even have Wiki to read up the story later on. We still managed to enjoy the movies because we most often than not went for the sake of them songs. Those were the days! Anyway, I digress.

I did struggle though. I liked (still like) humming songs, and my idol A R Rahman was becoming big in Bollywood. Which means I had to, had to, hum Hindi songs. And, become the butt of all jokes in school because of those mean girls in the other sections who had Hindi as their second language, and also looked North Indian (white, you know; if you don't, read this). So, I was always on the lookout for learning Hindi words, in bits and pieces. 

And, I got the perfect tool for that in that '90s Doordarshan world, when Tamil DD didn't even have serials of its own. We used to get serials dubbed from Hindi, titles included. Which means Junoon became Pidivatham (adamancy), Imtihaan became Sodhanai (challenge), Dard became Anbai Thedi (in search of affection), Shanti stayed Shanti and Tu Tu Main Main became... I don't remember. I still don't know whether those Hindi titles really match in meaning to their Tamil counterparts, but they are still stuck to memory.

The serials themselves were not noteworthy, and if I remember right, many of them were never taken to completion. Not that my parents let me see any of them, except for those snatches in between after dinner time when I had furnished sufficient evidence of completing my homework and revisions. However, I did insist that I would watch "Dekh Bhai Dekh", which I think aired every Thursday from 9.30 pm to 10 pm. That's when DD would decide to throw a bummer. Half the time, the tamil version wouldn't get telecast, leaving me alone with the Hindi version. Which meant I spent half an hour watching Shekhar Suman prancing up and down an elaborate joint family set, while Farida Jalal would put in guest appearances on and off with some wisecracks (I think so, because the serial would have that silly laughter track running when someone said something funny).

Sundays were a different deal though. There was Shaktimaan and Jungle Book on TV and I was "allowed" a couple of hours after getting up in front of the idiot box. Do you know who my first crush was? It was Captain Vyom, of the Captain Vyom fame. Did you click through and figure out who that is? Had my head in the right place even then, didn't I? Why don't they make such gorgeous looking serial heroes anymore on Indian television?!

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

A polish, quadrilateral

I was not a "make-up" person as a child. Or as an adolescent. Or as a young adult. I am not sure whether I found it terribly boring, or I considered myself too cool (the cool word for nerdy) to devote time to make-up. Also, it did not help that my parents were strongly against the very idea of make-up, and I never did want to disappoint them on any plane (my grades stand testimony to that). However, over the years, my views on make-up have changed. I have learnt to respect people who love themselves enough to spend time on and with themselves. And, looking good always makes one feel oodles better. Now, the years are all lost, and I have nothing to blame but my own laziness for not having loved myself enough. Though realization has hit me late rather than never, it hasn't really changed anything on the make-up side. I still don't own any make-upy products, though it ain't for lack of trying. 

Oh yes, I have attempted to walk into fancy shops in high end malls selling the latest in make-up, but always paused at the entrance, my feet growing colder by the millisecond. What will I ask for? Wouldn't I look dumb if I didn't know a foundation cream from a foundation lotion? Wouldn't I seem stupid if I didn't know what tone of face powder suited my skin? Would that good looking beautician over there look down upon me if I told her I don't know how to apply mascara? And, so, I would drop the idea, and quickly walk out of the mall, congratulating myself on saving money than spending it on make-up I don't understand.

While make-up has been, is, and will continue to be an elusive dream, I do have one vice (or virtue) that makes up for the lack of make-up. I love nail polish, always have. And, mind you, no disapproving glances from the parents have turned me off the allure of the polish. The only problem is, I don't get the damn thing. I mean, not get as in find or buy. I just don't have a very healthy relationship with it. The polish doesn't turn into an elegant show of beauty on my hands and feet. Ne'er has, and looks like ne'er will. 

Countless are the times when I, as a 12 year old put it on, smudged the whole thing on all my nails because I wanted to walk immediately to the bathroom and wash my hands and feet, and then removed it impatiently with the nail polish remover. Typically, by the third such cycle, I would be done for the day, only to resume a few weeks later. Strangely, it has never bothered me that after all that investment of time and polish, my nails would be colorless. 

Now, as a grown up, it is no better, though I have learnt the art of approximately fitting some color into the almost-quadrilateral surfaces my nails are, blowing hard and strong at each nail for a good 2 minutes after the application, and then resume my walk to the bathroom. Also, I have learnt why I apply nail polish, without bothering about the inelegance of the outcome. I like the idea of coloring my nails, and the time I am doing it keeps me happy. It doesn't seem to matter that the end result wouldn't be beautiful in the socially acceptable sense. 

How liberating to know that I have always loved myself in my own little way, applying quadrilateral polishes to my hands and feet, if not skin-tone foundation and sky-blue mascara to my face!

V for Villains

How many opportunities will I get to do an antonym challenge within the A-Z challenge? One? Since I wrote H for Heroes, V has to be for Villains.

Who was your biggest villain as a kid? Parents? Siblings? Teachers? The friendly neighborhood aunty who was nosing into your marksheets all the time? I don’t really remember any particular villainous person, because, anyone I think of is being discarded by my now rationalizing mind saying that, “No no. They did not mean it that way.”

The only category of people I still can think of as villains despite all the rationalization my mind does (yeah, my cheeks burn with anger now as I think of them) has everything to do with my being a chubby kid. I would have been the brand ambassador of that “Chubby cheeks” rhyme if anyone had bothered to market or videograph it. Hell, chubby could have been a secondary synonym for my name, if anyone had bothered to include my name as word of the year in the Oxford dictionary. And, this led to a lot of unpleasant contact with the outside world.

My mother says that when I was younger (a mere 5 year old), I handled the situation pretty well. I would start screaming my head off, invoking the inner demon in me, when I saw any human other than my parents, ensuring no one came within a 10m radius of me. But, as I grew older, I turned quieter, and all I could do when these villains got their hands near me was to scrunch my face and flatten those unflattenable cheeks, hoping they would go away. But, no, no. They never went away, as they placed their big, fat hands on my cheeks, pulling at both ends. I had to start telling people off at one point of time to ensure my cheeks didn’t elope for fear of their lives. That made me a rather unpleasant kid, but hey, a girl can only take so much nonsense!

Today, all that learning comes back to me hard and strong as I pick up my friends’ kids. I cuddle with them, talk to them, give them objects to play with, while carefully navigating my hands away from those pretty little cheeks. And, all these kids remember me (I hope?) and one even sent an “I miss you” whatsapp voice message to me once. See the power of keeping your hands in the right place and ensuring your name is off a child's villains’ list!

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

K for Kavity

That's some narcissism, you must be thinking. Well, when I thought of K, the first thing that came to mind was my own nick-name, so why not spend some well deserved space on it.

Kavity is not a childhood nickname of mine. In fact, my childhood nickname is quite silly, like how most nicknames go, and is actually sillier than Kavity. Booju is what my mom, and my then neighbors used to call me. My cousin used to call me Moti (because I have always been quite mota). Kavity is a name I got well after my adolescence, thanks to a bosom friend I met during B-School days.

Many of my friends have forever been calling me Kavity, and my mother finds it hard to reconcile to this name even today, after many years. 

While many people have grappled between Cavity and Kavity in addressing me, not really understanding why anyone will hold a nickname that isn't very palatable, my friend's 4 year old went a step ahead. The first time I met him, along with a group of boisterous old-time friends from B-school, everyone kept addressing me by my nickname. This little fellow went up to his dad and whispered silently, but loud enough for everyone to hear - "Do you guys call her cavity because she has bad teeth with lot of cavities?"

Well! Kids these days! And, for the record, no, I do not have bad teeth with lot of cavities!

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

Sushma Swaraj to be appointed External Faith Minister

(This article was originally published on My Faking News on November 27, 2014)

Given our traveling PM Narendra Modi’s latest ambition to exceed former President Pratibha Patil’s international airmiles and hotel club points, there has been unrest in the original Hindutva brigade, or whatever little remains of it.

While Sushmaji is the official External Affairs Minister, she was recently refused a seat on the flight to Australia, so as to make space for the PM’s Bhagavad Gita presents to Tony Abbott’s security personnel. 

To read more, click here.

When Arbit Arnab meets Revolutionary Bhagat and Tsunami Gandhi

Ornob: The question is in the public domain. Tell me, Mr. Bhagat, who is this half girlfriend?

CB: It is a regular story of a boy from a regular IIT who...

Ornob: No, Mr. Bhagat. Let me finish. How can you call a girl half?

CB: I understand. But, it all started in a small town, when a boy had a dream, of making it big in IIT and... 

Ornob: Mr. Bhagat, Mr. Bhagat. The nation wants to know. Is this even correct usage of English? Is this what we have waited all these years to hear from you?

CB: The discussion was never about English. It was never about halves. It is about a simple boy, who decides he will go to IIT to win this girl he knew from his KG days and marry her someday. It is a story of aspirations, of goals beyond comprehension. It is the coming of age…

Ornob: Mr. Bhagat. Let me finish. What you are trying to do here is justify your actions. The nation does not want your justifications. By calling her the half girlfriend, what are you trying to suggest? What message does this give to the Indian boy? The guy who waits for your book all year long, what does he take away from this? How are you going to explain this? You owe the nation an answer.

CB: India is a force that is moving towards big things. We have Mangalyaan in orbit today. We have MOM. Is there a power greater than MOM? That is why, the protagonist, this young boy, the man with hopes of building a career in science, writes the JEE...

RaGa: I have always believed in the true strength of escape velocity. I have spoken about the power of India, women empowerment, tsunami speeds and the strength of Mom. Finally, India has woken up to these truths. It is a true tryst with destiny...

Ornob: Mr. Gandhi. We are NOT discussing your Mom. You have some explaining to do here. Explain right now why you have not spoken about the Mangalyaan mission yet to the media. Do you believe, I repeat, do you believe, do you, truly and sincerely believe, that this Mangalyaan mission would have happened had you been Prime Minister? Tell us now, Mr. Gandhi. What explanation do you have for this?

RaGa: We are a super power, we are a secular force. We have always achieved the best. India is hurtling at a very great speed with no speed breakers. Our days of the banana republic are over. The system needs to be changed. The system of...

CB: In the end, we will have a revolution. The revolution will take us beyond 2020. In that millennium, there will be many more IITs and many more young men, with love in their hearts, and IIT in their brains...

Ornob: Gentlemen, gentlemen. This is not a discussion. This is chaos. You have still not answered what the nation wants to know. The nation does not have the time to listen to your ramblings. The nation, the nation...

RaGa: Rahul Gandhi is not a person. Rahul Gandhi is a movement, a movement of many different revolutions. Anyone can write about a revolution. But, who can lead a revolution? India should think now. My grandfather died, and I cried. My grandmother died, and I howled...

Ornob: Mr. Gandhi, we are SICK of listening to your “death”ly stories. We do not have time for your dramatics. I will not tolerate such behavior on this show, this show that millions of billions of zillions of people watch to get answers to important questions on Deepika's cleavage.

CB: Think about that middle class boy, that boy who does not understand cleavage, and is craving to know more. This is who the real India is, the India I reach out to, the India that is steeped in social media. My real competition is not Jeffrey Archer, but WhatsApp and Facebook and Instagram.

Ornob: Allow me to complete what the nation wants to hear.

RaGa: India is orbiting towards Mars. We will acquire Mars.

CB: India is a revolution.

Ornob: LET ME SPEAK. THIS IS MY SHOW. And, that’s all we have for tonight on NewsHour. Send in your comments and we will publish them on page 1 along with a full length photo of some actress’ cleavage. As to which actress that will be, wait for tomorrow’s edition.

Amber and I

Amber came into my life in 2007. She brought a whiff of freshness into my mundane, sometimes pointless, and occasionally depressed existence. She brought with her a world of possibilities, a world that I had just about given up on. 

Amber was a beautiful girl. She wasn’t exactly a slender maiden, not a beauty was she in the conventional sense. Rather, she was a confluence of apple and pear and everything dear. She was a spirit of excitement, but also of tranquil elegance.

The very day I met her, I knew I couldn’t have her forever. Folks like Amber are so, constantly reminding one of the transience of life. Yet I held on to her like I would my life, treasured her presence and guarded her jealously. After all, she was my most prized and priceless possession then. 

But, our precious relationship did come to an end eventually. All good things do end after all. While I tried to prolong her time with me by hook and by crook, a day came when she was no more, when her overpowering presence didn’t fill my life anymore. 

Well, life moves on, and so did mine, without Amber and her crispness. There came others, more exotic and acclaimed than Amber, but none lingered on the way she did in my life.

With time, Amber faded from memory, so much so that I forgot her name and her very significant presence in my life. Till last week that is, a thousand miles away from where I first met her. And then too, I didn’t realize for a long time, till I passed her and the fragrance lingered on. 

I picked two of her this time, just to be on the safe side.

Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to recollect to this day who introduced Amber to me. Life would have been much simpler and I would have ensured a steady stock through the years, of ‘Sensual Amber’, my first and most favorite perfume.

Free spirit, literally!

(post submitted to Indispire on IndiBlogger.in under the Offbeat & Personal -> Weird category)

I died yesterday, at my desk in office. The funeral was this morning in my home town. Yeah, it beats me too. In order to shove me into an electric crematorium, which will eject an urn of ashes two hours later (it is all very procedural these days), I don’t understand why my family had to spend tons of money flying me (rather, my body) to my hometown. Sentiments, apparently.

All I can hope is that some of my Jet miles were used for the flight. Wait, is that possible? Can one’s miles be used, on oneself, after one’s death? That’s a pertinent question.

I strangely feel very non-sentimental now, the antithesis of who I was, a sentimental, young fool, in life. It is an insane feeling, being detached, not just from the body, but from feelings and sentiments. For instance, I would have broken down in tears just at the sight of my mother being unhappy, let alone shedding buckets of tears and staring into nothingness all at the same time. Now, I just think she is making a big deal about nothing. I don’t like this new me, this robotic, unfeeling me, that doesn’t take her mom seriously.

My phone is lying there, almost about to die. No one is looking at it. Come on people. Get going. Charge it. Use it. It cost me 50K in real life.

Ok, I have spent too much time seeing all these tears. It is time to travel across to office to see whether it is business as usual there. At least, no one will be crying. One good thing about death is that you are so light you can travel with the wind and that too, at the speed of the wind. Since you don’t have a body to carry around, you don’t have to wait in long security lines at the airport or board rickety old buses to get to an aircraft, or get frustrated with the flight getting delayed due to air traffic congestion. The perks are attractive, I must say.

Office is looking morose. At least my desk is. No one seems to have occupied it, perhaps for fear of falling down dead. They haven’t even moved my laptop out of there. And, I know my company very well. They would have wanted to retrieve all the data ASAP. They seem to be taking this superstition thing seriously, huh!

There are hushed conversations at the vending machine, about how a girl died at her desk due to over-work. Come on! I wish I could speak to you guys and break that myth right now. No one dies of over-work. People only get brain hemorrhages when they work too hard and then go into comas. Are you wondering how I know that? I have been speaking to a lot of people who died yesterday and are hovering around, in hopes of catching a glimpse of their alive near and dear ones. One guy was a top neuro-surgeon in life. He died in the operation theater yesterday, presumably of over-work. He told me. I won’t get into the details now; we can have such in-depth discussions when you join us.

Ok, this has got boring. My colleagues are predictable. They are now fitting frameworks and structures to analyse possible causes of deaths of women my age so that they can publish a report on it. Get a life, guys. 

Let me potter around to some of my friends’ houses. Maybe, they would have moved on. 

No. No luck there either. Too much crying, too much depression. Real life is depressing me, man.

Let me go to some of the crematoriums to join my brethren in trying to figure out what exactly I am supposed to do now. I so hate this inaction, coupled with observing incessant criers.

I hope we can head to heaven or whatever place it is, where angels will welcome us and we can float on clouds and play Scrabble and b***h about humans.

Ah! Looks like dreams don’t die when we die.

The Hypocrite

Have you ever felt like beating yourself up for having watched that abhorrently made movie out of that wonderful book you loved? Join the club. The world is full of us snobs who have continued torturing ourselves with the celluloid versions of Gone with the wind, Painted Veil and Memoirs of a Geisha, to name a few.

However, have you ever watched a movie, loved it, then read the book, loved the book even more, felt guilty for having loved the movie in the first place, and then ended up dissing the movie?

No? Meet me, the hypocritical book lover.

I must have watched My Fair Lady for the first time, when I was ten. I loved “Wouldn’t it be loverly”, Eliza Dolittle’s flower girl accent, Professor Higgins’ English Language Teaching (ELT) methods and Eliza’s outfit at the Embassy ball. It was a beautiful movie, and it gave The Sound of Music competition in occupying my mind space.

I read G. B. Shaw’s Pygmalion when I was seventeen. Quite late, one would say, for an ardent book lover. Shaw is a brilliant playwright, and I am just a minion complimenting the high priest. I was awestruck by the dialogues, the flow of the story, and, most of all, the ending.

They say, the ending really makes or breaks a movie. And, most of the movie remakes of books have endings suiting the palate of the viewing audience, which isn’t shared by the reading audience; which is one of the biggest reasons book lovers hate movie versions.

Pygmalion had a logical ending, albeit heartless. While it didn’t appeal to the romantic in me, it did capture my bookish-heart. The ending sounded right, the flower girl would never have been happy with Professor Higgins; it was too much of a force-fit to marry them off to each other.

And, I finally found the single biggest reason to hate the movie I had loved; the ending is so randomly romantic, fairy-taleish and filmy.

The rationalist in me has gone back and asked the question of why I did not see this “flaw” before, during all those years I fell over and over in love again with the scene where Audrey Hepburn gets together with Rex Harrison.

I am a biased judge of movies. I think I am qualified to judge a movie as bad because I am a book lover, like the type that thinks that it is too arty and classy to love anything beneath Ship of Theseus (which movie, for the record, I walked out of, while the monks traversed the sandy, wind-mill ridden roads for ten minutes). And, the minute I walk into a movie adaptation, I start looking for factual inaccuracies and non-adherence to the book, so that my point can be proven – a point that movie makers kill books and so should be banned from adapting books into movies.

It is sad that I do not have the openness to appreciate a piece of art for what it is, disengaging it from the fact that it might be an adaptation, and accepting that creative pieces should have voices of their own, even if they are adapted.

Someday, someone is going to write a book adaptation of a movie. Perhaps, it will be of a movie I love. Inception perhaps? I wonder what my reaction would be on reading that book.

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.

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'.

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 ;)

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.

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.