A Strategic Exchange

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A sense of accomplishment

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nonplussed?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Enough has been said on FB about Plus already.

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

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

An opportunity to "language"

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

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

And after that insignificant digression, you may continue reading.

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

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

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

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

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

Many a link between the teeth and the wreath

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Geometries of Life

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A bride chronicled

(very senti and completely personal)

Completely in charge, full of fun, frolic and laughter, talking random stuff in that typical, assertive, know-it-all tone – this is not how the ideal bride is usually described.

Well, S being S, one could have expected little else.

No ma’am, not the shyness for her. Nor even the tension. Nor, that little bit of agitation.

There she was, 2 hours before her wedding ceremony was to begin, introducing everyone to everyone else. “This is P, he is a CA; this is A, she is an architect”. It did seem like she was trying to do some ‘Aisha’ level match-making even at an hour such as that.

To the most beautiful woman I have ever known: You looked absolutely stunning, your attitude added thrice as much to your beauty. I am sure the dark and stormy night was only the sky roaring in jealousy seeing you get married. There were many reasons why we enjoyed the wedding. Funnily enough, the most important reason was your electrifying and adorable presence amidst us till the very last moment.

A story well told

Each city paints its own story with the help of the colour palette. No one story is the same as the other, as no one colour can be the same as another. There are hues and shades that give each city a life of its own.

And no one does a city show case itself more to than the one who watches from above.

Today, as my flight is about to land, I look down at the city below and wonder what story this one is telling me. It is lush green and beautifully serene, is filled with water, not just of the sea variety.

Inevitably, I take a walk down memory lane.

It promised to be a red city, with swirling dust. I could see neither the greys of the roads nor the blues of the water from above. The city seemed to challenge me, in a mocking tone, with a “Do you have the nerve to touch my red hot soil, smack in the middle of a treacherous Indian summer?” Whenever I hear ‘Ahmedabad’, the only colour I am reminded of is red, a dangerous, deep red.

Did I ever tell you the story of the intimidating grey, warning me of dire consequences if I ever dared to touch it? I remember to this day that fear in my heart when my flight touched this grey and red land. It still does not cease to intimidate – the regal, royal red and grey combination. The red of forts and the grey of castles, sprinkled with a vast expanse of roads and tolls. What a fitting choice of colours by the national capital!

There is this other story of that muddy brown one, muddled up all over. It said, “Can I ever have a colour of my own? I house so many unknowns within me. If you could only define me by any colour, would I be who I am now?” Dear Mumbai, if only I could associate with you a defined colour, I may not love you as much as I do now.

As my flight takes off from Kochi, and I marvel how beautifully this city has spoken to me through its colours, I am still left wondering what my city has tried telling me all these years. Wait a minute. Have I ever bothered to pen it down? Is it the vast expanse of the blue, or the yellow twinkling of the lights (for I have always landed in Chennai in the night)? Is it a multi coloured extravaganza or is it some dull hue of an unknown colour one cannot bother to notice?

Each city tells a story of its own. Mine too would be telling someone its story. Maybe it would tell me too, someday sometime, when it finds me worthy enough of the knowledge.

What does yours tell you?

Familiar Chronicles

The first observation Mom makes every time she lands in Delhi is “Oh! Not bad! You are looking clean.”

After that very significant dent to my personal reputation, she goes about “setting the house right” as she calls it. This includes complaints on how that obscure corner in that very unused room is terribly dirty, how the pickle has not been sufficiently refrigerated, how the TV stand is coated with dust – you get the drift.

Then, after bringing my life back to normal, as she likes to think of it, she leaves, happy and contented. She comes back a month or two later, and the cycle repeats.

I hear from friends that am not a unique victim of such torture as this. Apparently, one of my friends’ mothers questions him unfailingly, day in and day out, on the cleanliness of the fan. As if on ground woes are not (de)pressing enough.

Incidentally, Mom was very excitedly telling me over call last night how she got the fans cleaned by the maid before she left and that I do not have to worry about them for some time to come.

Mom, you have no clue what all creatures live inside my air-conditioner, do you?

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.

An unkept promise

A year back this day, I set foot in Gurgaon for the first ever time in life. The sight that greeted me was impressive and intimidating all at once – a world class toll booth, a huge highway, architectural monstrosities (or beauties, for beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder), and absolutely no kirana stores.

To top it all, I could not set eyes on any kind of public transport other than cycle rickshaws.

That is when I decided – if there is anyone in this cursed town I should look up to with great compassion and kindness, that would be its cycle rickshaw drivers. In fact, I would promise myself every time I battled through the pothole ridden roads of Gurgaon that when I drove my own car, I would never ever honk or disturb the rickshaw wallahs ahead of me, unlike those “uncouth” other drivers. For, after all, the poor guys were literally heaving and hauling heavy weights around the place to earn their living!

However, memory is such a short-lived b**ch after all. And, don’t all of us suffer from selective amnesia?

The car came. Were I glad or what that my not-so-honeymoonish period with the rickshaws was finally over? I did religiously stick to my vows of never over taking anything on the road, including the infamous Gurgaon pigs. Oh, no, don’t jump to conclusions about my road discipline. I was just mortally scared of the roads and the driving and all the related paraphernalia.

Well, as is with all things practised and perfected, I slowly got used to the driving and the associated madness. And, without even my knowledge (or perhaps, in full cognizance and thoroughly enjoying the experience), those bad words started popping out. One here, one there. One more here, one more there. No one was spared of the profanity, though I mostly ended up swearing under my breath lest the more uncouth ones than I beat me up or worse still, run over me.

Today, my blood pressure goes thumping upwards when I see someone driving slowly on the road. I forget myself, I forget my “well-educated” status, I forget my unspoken assurances to those rickshaw drivers from my past. I honk and swear, I give them a belligerent look while I overtake them, and I accuse them of slowing down vehicular movement on the road.

Cars come at a price, monetary in most cases. Alas! Mine seems to have come at the price of my sophistication, well breeding and sensitivity.

Small wonder

Why does a dress look more attractive when someone else is wearing it than when it is in the store? Why do those set of curtains look so desirable hanging down my neighbor’s windows than while I actually ignored them in the curtain shop? Why do I always want that piece of jewel that my acquaintance is wearing even though I had scoffed at mom’s idea of buying it?

Such pertinent questions have never plagued my life, for I have found them to be natural occurrences.

However, it took me 25 long years and a short trip to Dilli Haat to understand what we fondly refer to as “human psychology”.

Dilli Haat itself is a quaint, colorful place, with much option for shopping, albeit a little pricey. As I know only too well that my shopping expeditions are of no interest to anyone here, I will move on without further ado.

In sync with its overall quaintness, the place had a quaint little shop selling many, many articles made of wood, not excluding lamp shades and well, some more lamp shades. Outside the shop were four cutesy little chairs, two on either side. My friends were adamant on perching atop them for a touristy picture. I obliged (by taking the picture that is).

In that split second between the posing and the clicking, our decision was made. Those chairs were coming home, not just via the picture. After a quick and very ineffective bargaining session, we secured two of them and settled down (not on the chairs) right opposite the shop to wait for a concert scheduled to start any moment then.

Little did we know the entertainment had already begun.

An aunty came up to me and asked, “How much did you get it for?” and promptly walked up to the shop afterwards. She was followed by many more “Auntyjis” and “Unclejis”. Those obscure chairs, which had been ignored till that very moment, had risen in importance and market value rapidly. The shop owner was rationing out the stock from his storehouse to create a pretty supply-demand mismatch picture. The prices were increasing rapidly, at the rate of 10% per minute. All of a sudden, those chairs had become the center of all attraction, just because their position had shifted from that side of the pathway to this, from the seller’s hands to the buyer’s.

That day, we learnt a thing or two, not only about human psychology but also about marketing effectiveness. It is not just enough to have a quaint little shop with some quaint items. Coax someone into it, pay them for it, do whatever it takes – just make sure a few people keep circling the area of your shop with some of your items and an air of just having bought them. If your products are unique enough, I bet you are going to be out of stock by end of day.

P.S. The incident compensated any unrequited yearning I might have had to become a ramp walk model. We were stared at and quizzed by all and sundry, in the station, on the metro and all along the way, till we put away those clever buys out of sight.

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!

A lesson in etiquette

I am your typical argumentative Indian. In fact, I come from a family of highly argumentative parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles. When we interact with one another, the conversation cannot be devoid of arguments, unless and until all parties are suffering from tooth-ache or something. We are a sect that prefers having our filter coffee with some hot-headed arguments rather than with hot and spicy ‘pakoras’.

Give me an avenue to argue and I would take you full on, heedless of how energy-draining the exercise might be. For instance, I can argue endlessly about the merits of summer over winter, of humidity over desert dryness, of Mumbai over any other city in the world – the list goes on.

Other than being argumentative, I am also extremely hot-headed and the “talk before I think” variety. There have been thousands of times when the uncontrolled me has blurted out hurtful words and felt terribly remorseful in retrospect.

And, that is why I love the written mode of communication. Writing offers a luxury speech can never ever provide – that luxury called time. Time to think clearly, space out arguments (rational or otherwise), and avoid awkward, wounding statements (mostly).

Not surprisingly, some of the biggest quarrels of my life have been resolved over e-mail. Thankfully so! For, I do not think the outcome would have been very pleasant if I had tried to deal with them in my “fly-off-the-handle” mode.

However, over the years, I have been noticing a marked difference in the written etiquette; of mine and of others around me. Perhaps, too much of it has spoilt us sick. Today, most of our communication is written, for most of our time is spent online. Chatting and social networking have given us the license to be a little more direct than we would normally be, a little more blunt than would normally be expected and a little more rude than would normally be accepted.

Is it the comfort that we might never have to meet the person we are interacting with, that gives us this license? Or, is it the notion that nothing that is written in such an environment should be taken seriously?

I do not have an answer to that.

But, perhaps the time has come to include courses on online etiquette for primary and secondary class students, along with the ones on public speaking and social interaction.

For, you can tell me that you did not like what I said or did. It would lead to a healthy argument. However, if you tell me that I am stupid or ugly, you definitely need some classes in etiquette. No?

The train party

A friend of mine, Nalini, once observed: “Facebook is more like going to a big party. You have these islands of conversations. You can choose when you want in. Almost everything is treated trivially including clicking and joining the most serious of movements. The best part is that you can exit without having to give the host any excuses!”

Back in 2008, I was one of the last to join this big party. And, that was only because some very persuasive friends had their way with me, what with wanting to play ‘Poke’ and ‘Superpoke’ on FB. Not surprisingly, I have not used any of those features till date.

But, even after creating a very insignificant FB profile, it took me a year further to actually get active on it. I was busy concentrating on Twitter then. Twitter was amazing; it had very interesting articles and videos. It was a window to much perspective on the hot news of the minute. Overall, Twitter offered me a platform to happily remain an observer, amassing knowledge, with no performance pressures.

I am not exactly sure when the transition happened. It must have been the winter of 2009-2010. I had just got back from a vacation and wanted to share the photos somewhere. You know how it is with these sites. You share something, then someone comments, you comment back, then you go to their profile to see what’s happening in their life and so on. I started dancing in the ‘party’ then , as Nalini would call it. I graduated from being a mere observer to an active participant, posting and sharing, liking and commenting. It would have been great if it had remained so. After all, who does not like partying once a week?

However, once I started dancing, I was not able to stop. I updated irrelevant and arbit statuses day in and day out, snooped around people’s profiles, took more pictures when I went somewhere just so I could upload them on FB. My life started revolving around FB. And, simultaneously, my Twitter activity declined alarmingly. Now, I hardly log on to Twitter anymore whereas I am forever hooked to FB.

Does this happen to everyone? Is it very difficult to concentrate on more than one social networking site at any given point of time? And, does usage of or inclination towards a particular social networking site really reflect the kind of person one is?

My constant presence on and participation in FB tells me that I am attention craving at the least and self-obsessed at the worst. I like the accolades on my smartness, intelligence, outgoing nature, fun quotient etc. I like being in the news (or, rather, being the news) all the time.

On the other hand, if someone is very active on Twitter, it might actually mean that they genuinely like following current happenings in the world. They also might like showing off their knowledge to others, but might not need external assurance on their capabilities. Just a ‘Re-tweet’ could be enough to make them happy.

I am sure there are a lot of ‘mere observers’ on FB too, and many, many people who use Twitter to share personal rants and cribs. However, it is easier to be tempted into becoming a participant on FB and much easier to be left ignored when ranting on Twitter, for there are not too many avenues to ‘Like’ and ‘Comment’ there.

If FB is a party, Twitter perhaps is like taking a train ride. You say something. If it is interesting and catches someone’s eye at that moment, it gets a reply and sometimes, even gets re-tweeted. If the bug catches on, it spreads like wild fire across the train. But, it doesn’t mean you have to stay on for it to spread. It makes friends with others and goes on. If it does not catch on, you linger on for some time, re-tweeting and replying to other observations, and then get off the train at some point of time. During days of IPL auctions and football matches, budget sessions and Nira Radia tapes, all the passengers get together for a beer and some discussion. But, mind it, nothing stays on for more than 24 hours, for train friendship cannot sustain longer than that.

I really am done with the party now. I want my train days back. I want to spend some time loitering online mindlessly, not wondering all day how I should perform online. Then again, while I was writing this post, resolving to leave the party, I logged into FB four times.

So, hail FB! With more than half a billion active users and a valuation amounting to billions, my one second, half-boiled rant read by a paltry hundred people is not going to change the popularity of the party, is it?

Appraisal time

Mom and I went for a movie last week. The movie itself was disastrous to say the least and I have no intention of giving it any footage here. However, I can blame no one but myself, the “booker”, for the seats. Perched on the very last row, we got a clear glimpse of how well movie halls are utilized by romantically inclined couples. Not the best of things to be entertained by, especially when one is with Mom; or so you would think. But, that was just a minor inconvenience compared to the downright shocking one-liner I got from Mom later on:

“Don’t tell me you are going to blog about your observations in the theater or something”.

After explaining sufficiently convincingly how very sensitive I am to the world’s privacy in general and my brand name in particular, I sat back to reflect on why she would say something like this.

And, then I decided to break the one golden rule of blogging – never blog about blogging itself.

I remember I started this blog quite aimlessly back in 2006. Just so as to check, I went back to read my first ever post. Thankfully, it has not promised to “deliver any value”. Heaving a sigh of relief, I went to my second post. It is long, unwieldy, terribly terribly boring and juvenile. It does not help to remember that I was 20 big years old when I wrote that one. I read the third and the fourth (of which am even ashamed to provide links here). They seem to have been written by a very loquacious person who loves ending sentences with three exclamation marks, like this - !!!

While I was at it, I read the rest of the stuff too, chronologically. There has been senti, poetry, bullet pointed lists. There has been a lot of cribbing, a little bit of mindless fun and some free advice too strewn along the way. There have been random observations like this and then like this.

What I have been consistent with all through this half decade is my global loquaciousness (a tautological emphasis) and absolutely disconnected titles. I am not able to control the former and have no intentions of controlling the latter. So, you can expect succinct posts with matching titles from me in my next life.

What I have failed miserably at, as evident from here, is forced humor, and has always been identified and pointed out to me by ruthlessly critical friends. I really will try hard not to write anything that I do not exactly “want” to write.

What I have been hung up with, much to the chagrin of almost everyone who reads this blog, is the Queen’s language. Sorry. Oh wait, no sorry. Words gives me a high that not even Vodka can, so, I have no plans of shelving that topic. But, Mumbai gives me a high that even words cannot. So, no plans of shelving that topic either.

About five years and nearly a 100 posts later, I realize I have no niche specialization here, no sector I can pin-point as mine. Then again, I have never wanted to commit myself to topics that would need too much use of my ‘little grey cells’.

No wonder Mom thinks, given a chance, I will write a 500-word post on the pigs of Gurgaon. Fat chance that, Mom, not on my death bed!

I did not intend writing about all this when I started this post. In fact, as is my wont, I did not intend writing anything of substance when I started this post. That is why this is not some ceremonial post in the traditional blogging parlance. It neither marks Namesake’s fifth anniversary nor is it the 100th post.

But, while I was at it, I realized that I have an infinitely large amount of time on hand this weekend – to search for and plug in all those links ;) Well, I also realized that I owe you, my readers something.

So, here it is.

Thank you guys, for putting up with this blog and providing a lot of encouragement (hope the counter on the right is not deceiving me) to keep it going thus far.

Happy New Year!

Sibling-hood redefined

A few weeks back, my kid cousin listed me as ‘Sister’ on FB. I got very excited, and fondly accepted and reciprocated the gesture. Today, when I was snooping around her profile (shameless that I am), I figured out that she has listed almost 10 people as sisters and brothers.

Other than feeling a tad disappointed that I am not an exclusive ‘sister’ (Leos love exclusivity, or so someone tells me), I almost immediately got transformed back to my college days.

We were fresh out of school then, reveling in the new found freedom that only a Government college can proffer. There were no 8.30 a.m. prayer sessions, no first bell and second bell, no full day attendance. We could bunk classes, or just sit around and sleep. No one gave a friggin’ damn.

But, for many of us poor kids from girls-only schools, the freedom came with a huge price tag. And that was to live in peace and harmony with those monstrous beings called boys. At least that was how the 16-something never-been-friends-with-boys* me chose to categorize them then.

Nah! I am exaggerating. You have sure heard of that whole adrenalin pumping thingy associated with adolescence. It is not all over-rated. It actually used to happen, in fair frequencies and adequate quantities too.

It was quite a big deal to converse with a guy. There used to be a sense of accomplishment around such interactions, though paltry and restricted to answering questions bordering along the lines of “Do you have all the notes of all the Data Structure classes ever conducted in the history of this college?”

As the terms went by and the data structures graduated to algorithms and the algorithms to dynamic programming, the friendships happened too. The friendships were funny though. The minute a guy and a girl became close enough, they would term it a brother-sister relationship. Even if they did not announce it so, their associates would discuss very authoritatively on the pure ‘siblingy’ relationship evident between them.

There were girls who tied rakhis on their ‘brothers’ hands and then started going around with them. There were guys who publicly proclaimed who their ‘sisters’ were and then proposed to them. I found it hilarious then. Well, I find it amusing even now.

What kind of society produces humans who are scared to acknowledge a thing called ‘friendship’ between man and woman? What growing-up pressures force people to give a safe label to such a relationship? From where do so many of us get the idea that it might actually be wrong to get overtly friendly with a person of the opposite gender.

So what if it does not remain just friendship in some cases. To me, that sounds much healthier and more logical than having an entire world of brothers / sisters.

* I had exactly one male friend before I went to college. Weird? Blame the same-gender school :P

Some pressing matters

I am not convent educated, unlike many of the leading ladies of Chennai. In fact, I was ruthlessly pulled out of a famous missionary school when I was barely six and enrolled in an extremely serious, very studious school. It was because my parents valued “no-nonsense”, “nationally accepted”, “rigorous” education over chaste English.

Ah well! That is quite some drastic stereotyping. No? Not my fault, blame my parents!

Though not convent-based, the school I studied in did teach me really good English. Or, so I have prided myself in thinking thus far.

However, of late, I have had some serious doubts about my mastery over the Queen’s language. What else could explain my confusion when I am repeatedly subjected to phrases such as these:

• Looking forward to meet you – I have always thought that it should be ‘Looking forward to meeting you’. But, the sheer number of people who use the former has intimidated me into believing that I might perhaps have been wrong all along.
• You can be rest assured that – This I know is completely wrong. You ‘can rest assured’. Or, you ‘can be assured’. How the hell can you ‘be rest assured’?
• Historic growth has been around xx% – How can all growth be of historic significance? For that is what ‘historic’ means. It is something out of the ordinary that happened when we were not around. Otherwise, it is simply ‘historical’.
• Between x to y – This used to be my Dad’s favorite. Every time he received a wedding invitation that stated that the reception would be held ‘Between x p.m. to y p.m.’, he would start arguing very excitedly. You either say ‘from x to y’ or ‘between x and y’, he would say. I do agree whole-heartedly.
• Forecasted – This is my latest problem. Would any of us have the nerve (or even the heart) to say “I putted everything in order before leaving for the day”? Then, how can one make a statement like “It is forecasted to be low”?
  

Please do clarify my doubts; right now, despite a round-the-corner vacation, these pertinent and perhaps, elementary questions seem to be weighing heavily on my heart (or is it mind).

Seven

My kid cousin turned 18 yesterday. Which means she is not a kid any more. Or that is how she must be feeling right now, am sure.

That is how I felt when I turned 18.

The whole ‘becoming a major’ part was a big turn-on. Just imagine! I could vote, drive, tell off people with an “I know what am doing” look. The opportunities were endless. And, my silly mind waited and waited for grand 18 so that I could finally be free of those undefined shackles of childhood while my friends plotted behind my back to make it special. Special it was, I remember vividly. It still remains special, though I wonder whether life would have been a tad different and perhaps much better had it not been special.

But, that is not a story for this blog. Let’s move on.

Today, when I am 25 and have still not figured out life, I look back at those 7 years – 7 long years. And, I want my 7 years back.

No, I don’t want to reverse things, however good or bad they might have been. In fact, I am quite OK with how ‘life’ has turned out.

In these 7 years, I have run around like mad, chased behind things of no consequence, been rude and impatient and angry over little events, fretted over that which would never have been mine for eons together.

I wish I had not been so hard on myself, I wish I had taken it a little easier while I still could have. I wish I had been happier than I was with all the things I had, and not been consumed with bitterness over things that I did not.

I wish I had enjoyed the chocolate without worrying about how to dispose the wrapper.

My not-so-kiddish-anymore kid cousin would never read this. At least not presently. She is way too impatient and consumed with her life right now. Just like how I was then. But, perhaps, she would handle her 7 years much better than I did mine.

Perhaps, I will handle my next 7 years better than I did this. Or, at least I won’t write about it like how I have.

Maybe, I won’t be writing anymore then. After all, this blog did not exist in the last 7.

Geeks, nerds and... some normal people

I am a geek, I have been reminded more than once. All engineers are, apparently. Even former ones.

Yes. I do the geeky talk once in a while, the theoretical geeky talk that is. Like theoretical computer science as against information technology. If you have lost me already, you should stop right here and head out to celebrate with some wine. You are NOT a geek.

To elucidate, just in case you are still around, I am a theoretical geek who can think algorithms, talk shortest paths and mull over integration to infinity at the best. I can appreciate geeky shows and plays, laugh over geeky jokes, and stand some geeky talk as long as it makes me a little intelligible on Nokia E5s, Blackberrys, Kindles, Nooks… whew! However, the minute someone gets into nerdy bits about software, middleware, upperware and some such, they have at best lost a friend, if not an acquaintance, for life.

I digress today, significantly from what I really wanted to write about. Which is about the latest Samsung Galaxy advertisement*.

There is nothing wrong with the advertisement itself. Well, almost. If only I were that gadget freak I would never be, I might be writing this post from there. The ad is that tempting.

Nevertheless, whether or not I acquire a Galaxy or an iPad (tech geeks would find that debatable, but I have a thing for the Apple brand), I would ensure that I never date a pest like the one shown in that ad.

No, really. Who wants to hang out with a guy who will photograph my handbag and web search the brand. How embarrassing for me if I were carrying a cheap replica of a Hidesign or a Chase (I am told they are dime a dozen on the lanes of Dharavi). And, who wants to go around with a tiresome bore who figures out how many calories I have burnt at the end of a dance. I have enough trouble avoiding the ugly truth from weighing machines. And, why on Earth would I be impressed with this smart-ass if it is not his own GK but Google that helps him figure out what song is playing on the disc.

In fact, I did not mean to crib about the ad. It is just an illustration to give a piece of advice to my male friends and acquaintances – geeks, nerds, normal – all of you.

Buy your androids. Give even a demo to your girlfriends. Women like “geekiness” in men, to some extent at least. Be geeky, crack some puzzles. We might actually be impressed. But, for heaven’s sake, don’t ever use your gadgets to tell us how many inches we should lose in order to fit into the latest Ritu Kumar creation on the display window.

* - I searched on YouTube for the advertisement with little success. If someone finds it, please provide the link as a comment. Thanks.

When God came visiting

It was a sleepy Friday afternoon. The sun was hard in giving audience to his subjects, starting signs of a Delhi winter.

Aromas of South India wafted from the kitchen while she pinched moments in between to catch updates on the television. Somewhere in the middle, she realized that she was not alone in the drawing room. There was a faint shadow across the television. She turned back in trepidation, only to encounter Him, sitting there patiently right at the balcony door, staring at her intently. She was dumb struck for a second but quickly collected her wits about her. Not knowing what to do, she quietly opened the main door and walked out, latching the grilled door behind her. He sat there wondering why she was behaving so strangely while she, along with the neighbors who had collected there by then, stared back at Him incredulously. He looked around for a few minutes, by this time bored with the not-so-happening drawing room and its memsahib, who seemed not to want to spend time with Him.

She realized by then that He must have been attracted to the balcony because of the smell from the kitchen. He walked, sure-footed, towards his destination. He stood at the kitchen door, with arms stretched up, like He was about to practice ‘Yogasana’ and inspected the dishes with a critical eye. He turned back, perhaps in disdain, and opened the refrigerator. As the spectators on the other side of the door wondered what He might loot from inside, He picked up a packet of flattened rice and quietly walked out through the balcony.

She has been convinced ever since that it was a sign from God asking her to visit her usual Hanuman temple. Though He has visited countless other apartments ever since that day, she prides on the fact that He has never ever gone up so many floors ever to visit anyone and pick up, of all things on Earth, flattened rice which is a favorite offering to God, apparently.

The only question I had for her was this – Did He close the door of the refrigerator before walking out?

The aura that is first love

I was with you for hardly a week, but fell madly in love.

Perhaps not in the same way as I did with your distant second cousin who is a thousand times faster and a million times more attractive.

But, yes, I did fall in love with you. Well, almost; with your bright and lively countenance, with the twinkle in your eyes and the smile on your lips, with the breeze with which you welcomed me in, and the ease with which you warmed up to me.

At this moment, I am compelled to pause and rationalize that this sudden spurt of emotion could only be because it has been a good decade and a half since I set foot on foreign land of any kind. Sadly, I know only too well my rationalization is flawed, if not completely, at least terribly completely.

For, it was not your sky scrapers and impeccably smooth roads that made me fall for you. Nor, was it your dust free pathways and Americanized accent.

No.

It was actually your wonderfully sweet people who would literally slow down their cars to let me jaywalk happily. I am a sucker for sweet people, you know. It was your clear blue sea which, in its purest form, is so inviting I just wanted to plunge in and loll around forever and ever. I am a sucker for the sea too, yes I am.

Well, well! Let’s not get all excited already, shall we? If you think you are all rosy and right and flawless in sight, wait a minute. And, listen to what I have to say.

Though I lost some calories thanks to you, I did not like the fact that you fed me only with leafy salads. Though I am a compulsive shopper (yes, unfortunately :(), your multitude of uber-rich malls ran the risk of making me a pauper had I more time than the paltry 2 hours I did.

Alas! I am also painfully aware of the fact that that these two points do nothing to weigh down your radiance.

How I wish I had spent more time with you, how I wish I could come back to you and spend the rest of my life in your loving hands.

But, you know what? I think I spoke a little too soon. I can never spend the rest of my life with you, Philippines.

Unfortunately for both you and me, I fell madly in love with your distant second cousin, much, much more madly, and much before I set foot on your soil. He is noisy and crowded and swift to a fault. He does not have your lane discipline, he does not have your sense of cleanliness in him. He has little or no regard for people who cannot keep up with his pace. But, he has a vibrancy that makes me fall for him all over again every time I see him - truly, madly and deeply too!

Distressed, rather

I have put this off for too long. It is high time I did it else my whole life will be in doldrums, not that it already isn’t.

Well, that sounds a tad too dramatic, even by my standards.

Without digressing further, what I need to do at the earliest possible is hit the send button on this very important e-mail.

Dearest Olay,
Can you please come up with a pro-ageing formula as soon as possible? I need something urgently that can accelerate my ageing specifically on the face.
Regards,

What may have prompted this outburst, you would wonder. Ladies and gentlemen, this is no outburst. This is a much planned, calculated, thought through, analyzed, sane (please feel free to add some more such adjectives at your whim and fancy) decision, not influenced by any person living or dead. Or maybe, it is.

Am sure anyone in my age group would be in seventh heaven hearing people tell them, “You look really young. Perhaps, you graduated this year.” And, what if different people in different situations and different environments tell this repeatedly? Isn’t it precisely what one wants to hear when going through this over-hyped quarter-life crisis?

However, I belong to a profession where women selectively color their hair so that grey strands are visible at strategic interludes and men wear spectacles to give them the ‘look’. I am surrounded day in and day out by people who perennially pray for wrinkled skin and grey moustaches.

I guess everyone has heard of those wise sages of epic fame, whose names I fail to recollect right now. We are a people like that. We need to, if not grow flowing beards and wear saffron robes, at least have sagely looks and stately manners so that we can advise wisely.

Wow! ‘Advise’ contains ‘wise’, in some convoluted form. It also contains ‘vice’, in a more straight-forward form!

Digressions apart, that is the long and short of it. Hence, I need to age soon so that I can join the bandwagon of wise sages and not stay young and foolish.

Before my boss voices it out some day, let me pre-empt my youth from becoming a ‘career-limiting’ move!

Great Expectations

He was an amazing driver. I used to get floored by his driving every time I got into the car. He was so passionate about driving that I suspect sometimes he loved his car more than he loved me. I would be lying if I said I didn’t mind it much. I used to get mighty jealous of 'em cars, oh yes I did.

He hated the times he was forced to be the cause of jerky turns, screeching brakes, inconsistent accelerations. He loved ‘smooth driving’, as he would call it. He hated drivers who overtook from the left, constantly honked (half-baked honking, he would say) with no rhyme or reason, had their headlights turned on to an irritatingly unnecessary proportion of brightness.

He did not mind any road; I don’t remember ever having heard him complain about roads. He could manage bad roads brilliantly, avoiding the potholes by centering the car over them with no lasting damage to either the tyre or the car or me.

He never got tired of long drives, never got tired of my constant looping of the same songs on the CD player, never got tired of the constant chattering. In fact, he is one of those few men I have known who could multi-task brilliantly – drive, talk, analyze music, observe everything on the side roads and comment on them. Perhaps, driving was so much a part of him that it never amounted to being a ‘task’.

He was a stickler for symmetrical parking. However, I never had to get down from the car to check how much space there was to fit the car or whether the angle in which the car was getting in there was right enough. He was way too intuitive about it. And, he almost always got it right first time around.

Someday, I would own a car and drive it too. Someday, I would have his favorite songs looping on the player while I attempt the task of driving. Someday, I would drive smooth irrespective of ‘minor’ externalities like roads.

Never would I be as perfect as him. But someday, I would have this undying and un-fulfill-able urge to ask him, “Dad, do you think this qualifies to be in your league of driving?”

Monotony, a world order

Every evening I look out of my balcony at the creamish-white moon on the backdrop of a deep blue sky. It is surreal; for an instance, life seems almost perfect.

Then I hear a drone in the kitchen. I snap out, as if from a trance. What I thought was the moon is actually a tube-light from a top floor apartment. Reality comes back into focus, complete with concrete walls and high rises, routine schedules and to-do lists.

Over the years, I have learnt that life is just like that illusory moonlight out there, full of quixotic moments and banal realities.

There are those flashes of pure bliss, those seconds when I feel on top of the world. Like when a kind old lady in a car offers to drop me at the taxi stand ‘cos it is pouring like mad, when people I have long lost contact with ping me on GTalk to say that my latest post struck a chord with them, when a group of friends decide to surprise me with a birthday gift I would never have been able to imagine, when my many-day yearning to catch Haji Ali at sunrise is finally fulfilled.

The here and the now, the quintessential elements of my existence just then make me ask, “What if time was to freeze at those moments? What if I could stay with those moments eternally?”

However, the mundane takes over the fantastic, for that is the world order. There are rains and flooded roads. There are days of unexplainable and self-inflicted loneliness, days of never-ending work and piled up responsibilities. There are choice-less times with only one way to take, the tried and tested one way.

Sometimes, I wonder whether it is too much to ask for more than my fair share of stay in seventh heaven, whether moments of serendipity could be stretched into hours, perhaps days, perhaps years. But, then, it would not be serendipity any more. That is why fate doles it out in small doses, like single shots of chocolate every fortnight, not enough to satiate the longing, just enough to crave for more.

A childhood long forgotten

He was 15. I was 10 then. He introduced me to Scrabble, like how he had introduced me to Moneyply and Ludo and Bingo before that.

Those were days when computers still ran on DoS, STD / ISD calls cost a bomb and post offices were stretched beyond capacity. I was an egoistic verbose writer, he was a pathetic correspondent. Letters were not us, neither were postcards. We were not in need of them. He and I, we met once a year, sometimes once in two years, for a brief 10 day period. Our board game was our bond, far stronger than emails and Gchats and Blackberry connectivity.

He was the rules analyst, the Moneyply banker, the game administrator, always. I was just the player, always. I trusted him blindly; his judgment was the last word, his rule the rule of God. He was just.

He knew that I was no sport, that I would refuse to play further if I did not win. He never lost for my sake. He was unwaveringly just. He would coax, tease and force me back to the game, very justly, as was his wont. I would make a jig when I won. He would look on unperturbed, sometimes a tad amused too, as if he was 60 and had seen it all in life.

We were not major TV watchers, he and I. There was nothing much to watch on TV those days. We would hit the Moneyply board at 9 in the morning and be at it for as long as 12 hours at times. Sometimes, my parents would have to literally tear us away from the board to take us to the beach. We would play with the sand, collect sea shells, and eat ice cream. But, we would come back to our board like we had never been away. We would pass through Texas and Dallas and JFK Airport and Boston. We would buy and construct and mortgage and sell. He would keep track of all of it. He was a spectacle-wearing nerd, the kind who should have grown to become a banker in real life.

We would make up words in Scrabble, fair and square. One for him, one for me; one more for him, one more for me. He would note down the scores on paper, doing the additions and subtractions. We would play again and again and again, till we had no more rough paper to note scores on.

He and I, we never made small talk. He was 15, I was 10. We had no reason to make small talk. He would have a book in hand sometimes, a huge academic one. He would read his, I would read mine. And, then we would take a break to read a non-academic one each. He and I, we were not major outdoor players. Perhaps, he thought I would not be interested in outdoor games. I was not. Sometimes, we would play ‘Bombay, Delhi, Madras, Calcutta’. I do not remember now what it was. Just that it was played outdoors.

He and I stopped playing board games a decade back. He was 20, I was 15. We had grown up. Perhaps, we had better things to do. I don’t know.

I was playing online Scrabble with a friend last week. I missed him. He is 30, I am 25. The Scrabble sleeps peacefully at home, maybe it misses him and me.

He and I, we never celebrated it. Not when he was 15, not when he was 20, not when he was 25 either. Maybe, in his 30th year, it is time to tell him, “Happy Rakhi dear V :)” A tad too early, so you would say. However, it is a tad too late, I would say. 25 years late in wishing him a very happy Rakhi and a beautiful life ahead.

Desi mentalities

My passport has not seen day light since time immemorial. Oh, well, except on those rare occasions when my myriads of identity proofs fail to prove that I share my face with the one in the photograph. In other words, it has been ages since I set foot upon a foreign land, even the near shore likes of Nepal and Sri Lanka. Before I go into a limbo state where I can revel in an endless dream of all those foreign locales showcased by Karan Johar, let me get to what I was trying to get to.

A few posts back, I had mentioned this term ‘desi mentalities’, coined by Denzil. In all fairness to the general public, considering I am the possessor of a brand new passport which has remained brand new for many years now, I should be the last person to comment on sticky topics like ‘desi mentalities’. However, since I had promised Denzil that I would write about it, I am just putting across a random set of things here, wondering which of these would make it to an actual ‘Chronicles of Desi Mentalities’.

Inputs from holders of no-more-brand-new passports welcome; rather, much in need.

Wait your turn
Long queues? Cutting through long queues? Cutting through long queues imagining them to consist of translucent objects (a la Nearly Headless Nick) with little regard for other queuees’ hands, feet etc.? Doing away with ‘em long queues by running a random sprinting algorithm?

A pack, a cram, solpa adjust maadi
Crowding into trains? Crowding into overcrowded trains? Crowding into overcrowded trains with heavily laden suitcases? Crowding into overcrowded trains with heavily laden suitcases and bestowing murderous glances on fellow crowdees for having occupied an INCH instead of an mm of space?

Dynamic optimization solutions
Hey, random woman out there! I don’t know you, you don’t know me. We are standing in the same queue. If we both bill this together, our combined bill amount of INR 3,000+ would fetch us two free make-over sessions at the make-shift spa out there. What say?

Masala nahi dogi toh life barbaad hogi*
Is Deepika Padukone coming along with the Mallya dude for today’s RCB vs MI match? Forget the match, but what has Octopus Paul got to say about it? Reminded of octopuses, predictions, swamijis, oh damn! I missed the Swami Nityananda video footage on news last night! I am all for ToI, news is represented in such an interesting manner, unlike this boring Hindu.

I convert, you convert, all happy, I unhappy
That dress costs USD 600. Oh my god (chuk chuk tak tak - mind calculator), that works out to INR 29,100. I would not buy something so expensive even for my own wedding (loud thud). Faints!

* Am not completely sure whether masala-attraction is a completely ‘desi’ phenomenon or just human by nature; have added it here primarily ‘cos this was the focal point of contention between Denzil and me.

The train

I sighed. 8 hours left, 8 long hours.

I was restless, excited and had absolutely no concentration on the BGS class (despite the CP* carrot). I had no worries in my mind, at least none that could not wait. The world was sunny, bright, blooming with the spring flowers and inviting in general. I was full of love even for my most detestable adversary, for, in my mind’s larger picture, the cause for such hatred was, at that point of time, as insignificant as having one button missing in an over-buttoned shirt.

As the hours trickled past, my excitement grew further. I had to explain to every single soul I met on the way back from the class to the mess the reason for my glee. Everyone seemed happy for me, or that is all I wanted to believe in.

In the next few hours, I packed and re-packed my bag several times. Did I pack the charger? Did I take my iPod? Does the ticket state the right date and time? Millions of such important (now innocuous) questions were running through my mind as I tried to keep it clear and concentrate on the clock instead. If at all there was any way I could, being the fighter I am, I would have willed the clock to hit 9 p.m. then and there. However, the art of waiting could be a beautiful thing too, I deluded myself into believing.

And, then, the magical hour arrived, when I could finally hail down the auto rickshaw and head towards the railway station. Had I known Eric Cartman then, I would have said, loud and clear, “Screw you guys, am going home.”

This was 4 years ago, when I was still new to the concept of being away from home. Having just then joined B school, I had grown home sick in less than 2 weeks, and in much rush, had booked tickets back home for the weekend.

As I look back at this incident today, I do not have answers to whether I acted overtly silly. Perhaps yes, perhaps all those people who seemed happy for me were actually making fun of my dimwitted behavior. Or, perhaps, it was very natural to actually want to feel like going home.

I tried searching for such a desire a few days back and found myself in want of the emotion. Then did I realize that I miss missing home. I can only hear logic such as ‘Home is where the heart is’, ‘That which has your people in it is home after all’ in my mind the minute I start thinking of home. Net result, I have no strong urge to go to that place I called home for more than a decade.

I am waiting, this time with no eyes on the clock, but with all eyes on my heart, for that train, which would urge me to take it back home and hoping that it would just be a very beautiful wait.

* CP - Class Participation, carrot - marks for participating in class

Color, color what color do you choose?

Thank you very much, Sony Vaio, for coming up with such a brilliant concept. It makes me feel special every morning I turn on the television and experience the ‘vivid’ness that is me, in the myriad colors of green and red (or is it pink?). And, may I add that you would have done a great disservice to mankind had you not roped in the symbol of femininity, the size zero queen, Her Highness Kareena Kapoor herself to endorse the series.

Now that we are done with the pleasantries, can we please get down to brass tacks?

I want to bring to your kind attention the simple fact that it does not exactly sound very cool to walk into a workshop or a meeting armed with a pink laptop. And, this holds true for all populace, gender disparities notwithstanding.

In layman terms, what it translates into is this. We women do like our pink dresses, the occasional pink footwear, and the pink umbrella on a nice, bright, sunny day. Pink is a pleasant color, it definitely goes well in a bedroom setting. So, we also like our pink curtains and pink bed sheets. Some of us even like our pink teddy bears in our bedrooms. (Although I do know of some women who hate pink, at the risk of sounding stereotypical and, more importantly, to appease the male of the species, I am considering them outliers). However, that does not mean that we love parading the roads like pink fairies (ugh! sounds repulsive), with pinked gadgets.

I remember the time when my Manager was gifted a pink mobile phone by her husband of 7 years. The phone became the butt of all office jokes instantly. She is a strong woman, stood it for a full 2 days; and, then, had the panel changed to blue.

The other day, I saw a Beetle on the road, in a shocking yellow color. My colleague was most certain that it would be a woman driving it. Unfortunately for him and fortunately for me, it was a guy.

There! Now you are getting the point, perhaps? That women may not actually like weird colored gadgets but are assumed to like them because of the whole gender thingy.

I hereby humbly request the product development and marketing teams at Sony, Apple, and other geeky companies to spare us of the vividness please. We already have enough trouble trying to decide between types of gadgets, not to be burdened with the extra load of having to run an elimination algorithm based on colors.

Ruminative remembrances

As the years whiz past,
I look back at my acts, small and big
The follies, they seem to be vast
The feats just a minor swig

I rue over missed chances,
Fret over one too many a blunder,
the good fortune and time’s advances
That slipped past me in a flicker

Perhaps am being hard on my soul
A little cynicism, some more pessimism
Has made me cruel
And left me in a chasm

Some day I will reminisce
Those feats, worthy of much adulation
And hail them for my life’s bliss,
good fortune and gratification

Some day, my friend, I will reminisce
Those sweet memories and acts of innocence
That had caused much of my bliss
And bountiful joyance

But, even then, I wouldn’t understand
Whether it was folly or feat
The silly exploits of a child-like mind
That were cause for many a glorious fete.

Ramp walk model

The other day I was chatting with my friend Denzil, about my now-favorite topic, football. One thing led to another and we ended up discussing the ‘desi mentality’ of looking for masala in every situation. Well, my unwarranted interest in Octopus Paul and not the game was his single point of reference. Sigh!

Anyway, I digress, right in the beginning of the post this time.

Soon after that enlightening discussion on ‘desi mentalities’ (which I hope to dedicate a post to, some time in the future, completely credited to Denzil), I ended up asking him the quintessential ‘What’s up?’ question. Before he could even think up a reply substantiating his existence on Earth, there I was, typing away to glory, giving a detailed account of what he had done the past five days.

No, there is no correlation between my obsession with the occult octopus and my dete(du)ctive skills. Only that I have been following Facebook way too regularly, knowingly or unknowingly stalking people’s minute by minute updates on their life stories.

It is scary, at two levels so to say.

The first is to realize the level of vulnerability I am exposing myself to. All of us, am sure, have at least some 300-400 ‘friends’, most of whom we have not met in ages, who are perhaps just acquaintances, or those we met for once in our whole lifetime. Merely because of an insane need to satiate the networking hunger, we are ‘friends’ and would be aware of everything about each other on a dynamic basis.

What’s news here, so you ask. Despite knowing this, our illusionary returns seem to outweigh the risks, life goes on. And, that is why FB is such a hit anyway.

That brings me to the next fear, my biggest one about being way too well connected. It is the fear of being misunderstood with that single random update or comment that I post up there. It is as if Big Brother is watching me. Eternally. The world is following my every word on FB (I do tend to exaggerate :D). And, as I have mentioned elsewhere on this blog, it is a heterogeneous world that is following me. So, each one who sees my words up there arrives at his / her own conclusion about what is running through my mind. Now, I cannot really blame anyone, for I do the same – getting judgmental based on otherwise innocuous statements that flourish out there.

The world, thanks to FB, has become one big masala newspaper, where each of us tries to figure out what is up and about in the other’s life, who has hooked up with whom and who has broken up, who has quit their jobs and who has got a transfer. Sleaze and jazz, a la filmdom, does not seem to have spared the otherwise 'aam aadmi' FB world too.

Or, perhaps, we like all the attention, being the center of attraction, be it positive or negative. And, there is some sense of purposefulness we seem to achieve out of our own little celebrity statuses, without exactly having to do a ramp walk or act in a movie!

What's the good game?

Now that Brazil and Argentina are already out of the game, Germany has lost royally to Spain and the fever is finally going to end this Sunday, am heaving a sigh of relief.

Oh my! What a season it has been.

If you are expecting me to write about the season and if that happens to be the sole reason why you are reading this post, I would suggest you stop right here. No such ‘useful’ things happen on this blog. Ever. Resume your search for WC analysis elsewhere on the web.

On the other hand, if you are one of those people who know for sure that I have jack of an idea about any sport in the world, welcome. You are on the right page.

Getting back to the point, it has been a disappointing season for me. Of rejection that is. My friends have refused to meet, pick up calls, or go for movies because ‘QFs are happening this week’ or ‘SF is happening tonight’. They could have just listened to Mr. Paul’s prediction and saved themselves a lot of precious time, me thinks!

I know what’s running through your mind right now.

No, I am not that nerd who just studied and studied all the way through school and college and B-school. It is just that I never got around to doing all the fun sports that I should have ideally done, or followed at the very least. Today, it would have stood me in good stead at office cafeterias and friends’ meets.

Alas! (ruing missed opportunities)

However, is it ever too late to learn? To learn without watching a single match or even TV for that matter (though I am told one doesn’t need a TV to watch these things)?

So, I have consciously started collecting snippets of information through chat conversations with ever-willing-to-impart-knowledge football fans (when they are not busy following ‘em matches). That is how I know that “Del Bosque needs to do something upfront to ensure that Spain wins the WC” (I initially thought he is a player, not a coach :P) and that “Torres has not found his rhythm till now” (I did not even dare to think who he might be, 0.99 is the probability that I would be wrong).

So, there! Now, I too can talk the Cup talk, don’t you dare try scaring me away from coffee table conversations any more with all your ‘football’nical jargon!

P.S. I am really feeling bad for Paul, looks like he won’t survive the season.

Fear of GOD

I have many a time wondered how easy it is to scare people.

Terror strikes, bomb scares, kidnapping, homicides – all these sure put fear in to people’s heads. But, they are coupled with in depth planning or extensive damage to public and private property or both.

What is the easier way to put that fear in to people? To keep them on tenterhooks, not knowing what would happen next? To make them look around with stricken eyes, restless thoughts and a readiness to bolt and run at the simplest sound?

Call a strike.

In a span of two years, I have had my fair share of strikes in this city. The reasons have been many – fuel price increase, arrests of noted political personas, regional disfavors. However, the result has consistently been the same.

Fear and panic.

So, whenever I have got into a vehicle during any of these occasions, the driver has always asked me, in rare concern, ‘Akele jaa rahe hai aap?’, and then proceeded to bolt all the doors from the inside and roll up the windows – even those rickety old taxis where locking is of no use and the windows no longer roll up.

I very badly need to digress here to provide some unwarranted information.

I hate dependencies. For instance, I hate having to wait for someone to pick me up and drop me. I would much rather prefer getting out of my house and finding some public transport that would take me wherever I want to go. That is one big reason why I love Mumbai much more than, say, a Gurgaon.

On a similar note, I hate having to curb and foil my plans, ‘voluntarily’ of course, because someone decided somewhere that normal life should be disrupted. I become fiercely defensive at such times. Wanting to rebel and prove a point to no one in particular, one of these days, I might just step out despite all warnings and go wherever I am scheduled to go, as if nothing is wrong with the world at large.

Today, despite not being crazy enough to do something like that, I had some other reasons and more importantly, the right support systems, to venture out and, as a result, got a chance to write this –

The roads were empty, sunny and wide
But, there were policemen on the side,
And, a bandh with no taxis to ride,
And, a bandh with no taxis to ride.

I also got to see that fear again in people’s eyes, the same one I saw on television during 26/11 days. Yet, it did not take much doing. No guns, no bombs, no terrorists taking the sea route, no demolition plans. Just one simple ‘Bharat Bandh’ to show “solidarity”, a solidarity that would ensure that stones are pelted on transport systems, shops are shut down for no rhyme or reason. And, that 10% of Mumbai's populace which has traveled defying all odds would be shivering inside office cabins, not knowing how it will get back home.

Then again, we need to be rational and reasonable. Life is full of trade offs and we get only an assorted deal if we want to enjoy the luxuries of a developing, democratic country. Like how we are entitled to elect our favorite candidates, write and speak whatever we want to and migrate freely across the country, unlike some of our dear Asian neighbors, we are also at liberty to call our own bandhs and strikes and ensure general disruption of life.

Crisis, crisis!

As I sit in a café reading ‘English August’, I come across this line in one of the initial pages. “A bureaucrat ought to be soft and clean shaven… and if a Tamil Brahmin, given to rapid quoting of rules.”

It sets me thinking.

How stereo typical is the typical Tam Brahm?

Curd rice loving, non smoking-teetotaler-vegetarian? Curd rice loving, feigning to be non smoking-teetotaler-vegetarian? Non Tam speaking pseudo English wannabe? Docile, soft spoken, hard working, bespectacled dead bore?

Keeper of clean houses, drawer of kolams, chanter of Upanishads, analyst of the Gita, upholder of Sanskrit & Sanskriti, lover of the city of Chennai and its temples?

However, before we get on with that list, I have to rephrase my question. How stereo typed is the typical Tam Brahm? Quite a bit, in my opinion. I would know, for I happen to be one too, but of the other variety – the variety that does not fit in with anyone’s idea of that “ideal” Tam Brahm they pride themselves in knowing.

It is funny to see the reactions on people’s faces when they realize that I actually am a Tam Brahm. The expressions range from surprise to shock to disbelief. Maybe they expect to see someone else, some image in their mind that the real me does not conform to. I feel gravely apologetic during such occasions, sometimes ashamed, for not being able to live up to that conjured up picture of who I should have existed as.

Nevertheless, I can live with it; perhaps even enjoy all the unwarranted attention I get.

The genuine trouble I have lies elsewhere.

I am scared of the fact that I parade the face of this Earth without an identity, especially one that I am supposed to have. For instance, how would it be if, one morning, you walked in to history class, only to be rebuked for not looking retro and archaic enough to fit in there? Scary. No?

I suddenly feel the urge to ask myself the indispensable “Who am I” question.

Even before I attempt to introspect, I am rudely jolted out of the trance by other more pressing issues. For, there are malls to visit, clean houses to set up and pigs to observe. And, when all that is done, the beautiful Worli sea face to drink in. So, I park that absolutely non crucial issue for now, and get on with my questionable, stereo typed life.