The curious case of the horn

Have you ever been irritated by that persistent honking from behind you on the freeway, when all you wanted to do was just unwind and enjoy the view while driving at a 60 kmph rate on the right lane?

I am precisely that guy, honking from behind. And, the day I come face to face with you who uses the right lane so pathetically inefficiently, you will be dead meat.

My love for the car horn goes back a long way. Dad used to work late hours, and we didn’t have a security guard at home those days. He would honk from two roads away when he was arriving, so that it didn’t disturb my sleep, and so that mom could unlock the gate from inside. Apparently, I would wake up instantly too. To me, the horn was a sign that dad was home and all was well with the world again.

Years later, when best friend M returned from the US, she refused to use the horn any longer. “I want to reduce noise pollution Kavi”, she said. Her resolution lasted exactly two months. I gave an all knowing smile when she started using the horn again. She grudgingly acceded that it is difficult to handle the pedestrians in India by just flashing headlights (for we don’t leave them with footpaths, and hence they don’t leave us with roads to drive on).

My own driving has involved a lot of honking, as you would have realized by now. It is just easier to press the horn than flash the light, you know. One press versus two or three back and forth movements of the light and all that. Also, largely, people don’t get as irritated by light as they do by sound. The last time I ferried mom’s US-settled cousin in my car, he looked all around to see who the hell was honking, and swore never to get into my car again when he realized I was the culprit.

So, what happens when my favorite car equipment goes for a toss? Does the world fall apart? Do I go mad? Do I stop driving?

Apparently, none of these. I have been negotiating the big, bad Mumbai roads without a horn for two weeks now. And it isn't all that bad frankly.

Who am I kidding? The moment I realized the horn wasn’t working, I felt like I had lost my voice. I felt incapacitated to do anything, angry and frustrated at first, and then resigned to my fate, making do with the resources available at hand. But, with time, that has changed.

There is a strange sense of calm in my driving of late. For, I know that I cannot honk that pedestrian out of my way and just have to patiently drive behind them till they figure out they need to move aside. If that driver ahead of me doesn’t respond to my lights flashing, bad luck, but life goes on. My mom claims I have started driving like an American. Oh, well, I haven’t cracked yet what she knows about American driving, but that is a different story.

For now, I don’t miss my horn as much as I thought I would. And, I have started to believe in M’s resolution of wanting to reduce our contribution to noise pollution.

Oh wait! What’s that happening on the road? Damn! I need to get into that space ahead, and the driver on the left is shortchanging me. Honk! Honk! What? Why is there no sound? Oops! These are the times I miss you most, dear horn. Come back to me soon please. For, I have no say on the road without you after all.

Some may call it love

Dear SRK,

Love is a beautiful feeling. And, it is very flattering to note that you love us so much, and want to remember us at every walk of life.

I thought it started off very well. You attempted speaking our mother tongue in our very own “Ulaga Nayagan”s movie. And then you screwed it up. You screwed it up so badly that I had to mute scenes that starred you in that movie forever afterwards. I wonder why no one gave you flak for that. We always get so much flak for not getting our ‘ha’s right in your precious language. You, on the other hand, were appreciated for having attempted what this country thinks is some remote and nondescript language.

Anyway, I thought that would be the end of it, and we would all move on with life.

But, you did not stop. You don’t seem to have understood that there is a very thin line between love and obsession. Of late, I have started worrying about your irrational obsession with us. It wouldn’t worry me so much if it was not so inaccurate and farcical.

Really? You think we have our noodles with curd? YUCK. That movie bombed. And, I hoped that was the end of you messing with our identities.

Now, you come up with this? Kathakali dances, lungi tribute to Rajini and a very irritating Deepika Padukone talking some gibberish that passes off as Tamil in a movie atrociously named Chennai Express. When the hell have you seen Rajini dancing in a lungi in his movies? And there is a world of a difference between the Tamilian Bharatnatyam and the Mallu Kathakali. By the way, one cannot stand Deepika Padukone’s Hindi dialogue delivery. What made you think her speaking Tamil would fly?

I hope this one bombs too, and while it bombs, puts some sense into your head to stop messing with us. We have enough artistes and performers doing us proud and going global, we do not need wannabe imports from Bollywood misrepresenting who we are.

Yours sincerely,

An irate Tamilian who does not reciprocate your love

P.S. Per Yogi's allegation that I have become too stereotypical and dead boring, I started out attempting humor. But, it has turned out to be an angst-filled crib session. Some people never change after all.

A fine art, or maybe not

As babies, our lives were quite easy. Or, perhaps not. We cried, when we needed food. We cried, when we needed a diaper change. We cried, when we needed attention. Crying was enough. Crying was the sign, whatever the reason.

As kids, we were expected to speak only when spoken to, to answer only when we were asked questions. It was an easy role to play, and we were restricted to executing tasks assigned to us.

As adults, a lot of things started changing. And, the biggest amongst them was the mounting responsibility thrust upon us – to handle our own lives. I guess it wouldn’t have been half the Herculean task it is now, if only our lives weren’t dependent on communicating with a million individuals around us. And that really is a problem we cannot wish away.

Sometimes, I wonder whether I over-communicate, whether I have been overtly vocal about my thoughts. Sometimes, I wonder whether I should have waited patiently for the tide to pass, rather than jump the gun.

And, then I look around at this world. And, I realize that half the world’s problems are because we don’t communicate enough, or at all. We are perhaps scared to communicate. Or, we do not think the fight to communicate is worth it. Or, in most cases, we believe the world thinks the same way we do, and so there is no need to clarify what we are thinking.

How convenient would that be? A set of homogeneous and telepathic people. Bliss! But, the Universe has other plans for us, and so we are left to deal with a set of heterogeneous and pathetically self-centered morons (who by the way must be describing us the same way elsewhere).

I don’t know whether communication helps resolving our issues, or blowing them up further. I don’t know the fine art of communication, the skill that will get our work done and yet keep us in the world’s good books.

What I do know is that when I communicate on something that matters to me, to someone who matters to me, I love myself a little bit more. For having gone the extra mile. For having given the chance to someone to try to understand what I am thinking and feeling. For having given myself the chance to express better.

Trust me, it is a chance worth taking. 

The Proof

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Lone Chair

It was a swanky restaurant frequented by the nouveau riche and old money alike, in the middle of that very fancy mall. There was a waitlist at the front-desk, with the maitre d’hotel trying to optimize table assignment, while serving complimentary drinks to appease the ones waiting.

A family of very well dressed guests occupied the corner table, possibly reserved for regulars. One could see they were at home, for they conducted themselves with poise and yet managed to keep the hotel staff at their beck and call.

The spectacle was enjoyable, for little does one get the chance to observe such dignified richness in these times of the ostentatious.

That is when I noticed Her. She didn’t seem to belong with them, but was hovering near the table, carrying a beautiful little baby boy swathed in velvets. A chair was brought in and placed next to the table. The lady of the family indicated the chair to Her, while continuing a possibly important conversation with the rest of the family.

She sat there, holding the baby in Her arms, clucking softly in hopes of putting him to sleep. When that didn’t work, She walked around, always near the table, in order to placate the child and make it a fun evening for him. Eventually, he decided to reward Her patience, and conceded to sleep, with a smile on his face. She seemed relieved as She set him down in his pram and walked back to her designated seat near the table.

As She sat down, She realized there was nowhere to look, for She had been taught as a child that it was uncouth to look at people while they ate. She bent down and started staring intently at her callus-ridden palms, while the regal family continued its dinner in peace, speaking in grave tones, about issues of possibly great social importance.

Some strange hope

We are strangely hopeful beings. 

We are strangely hopeful beings because we believe that if we endure pain for long enough, it will go away. We think that we can negotiate with pain, that pain will be impressed with our patience and leave us alone.

We are strangely hopeful beings because we consider peace to be a continuum, happiness a steady state of affairs. We refuse to listen to reason, that change is a constant, that a state of being is only as of a point in time. 

We are strangely hopeful beings because we chide ourselves for not trying hard enough, for not proving a point. We do not easily give up on unreasonable benchmarks, impossible feats. 

We are strangely hopeful beings because we bank on second chances, getting it right the next time. We forget that "getting it right" is subjective, second chances sometimes utopian. 

We are strangely hopeful beings because we pride ourselves on being immense individual forces. We fail to recognise that we need collective strength just to withstand some tempests, let alone battle them. 

We are strangely hopeful beings, because we think that everything will be alright in the end. We do not realise that there is no alright and there is no end.

A thousand mistakes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Make your own mistakes, fight your own battles.

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

Small talk

Me: Hey, what do you think of this whole Phaneesh Murthy fiasco?

V (looking bored): Well, he seems to be the only colorful guy in an otherwise lackluster industry.

Me (really not expecting that): Umm.. yeah.. That’s an interesting way of looking at it. But, still, didn’t you find the whole thing a little stupid, especially when done twice over?

V (still disinterested): That’s quite obvious. You do have a knack for stating facts that are already staring us in the eye.

Me: Oh please. It is the art of small talk. I wish the art could be taught to some people I try having conversations with.

V (uberly tired of the talking, and gazing elsewhere): You could try that.

Me (still persisting): I read somewhere that he had sold a bulk of his shares last month. Don’t you think he saw this coming?

V (with feverish excitement): That’s bad. That’s really bad. That is very very bad.

Me: Wow! So, in this whole episode, the only point that has shaken you is the money.

V (dismissively): Obviously. That seems to be the only interesting aspect of the issue. 

The maroon

It was a dilapidated bus-stop off the dusty main road. Noisy trucks invaded what little remained of the tar on the road, while the whir and hum of electric trains from tracks afar adorned the otherwise mundane setting.

The sun shone down indelibly, in what could only be an expression of its immense love for the few people braving the road. It was two in the afternoon on a Saturday, smack in the middle of May.

He stood at the bus stop, oblivious of the time, the trucks whizzing past him, the trains’ whirring through the station, and above all, the sun’s persistence.

The day had started reasonably well, with his favorite puttu and sweetened tea at Nayar’s. The tea could never meet the standards of what he used to have at home, his land the mecca of the world’s tea. However, he had no time to reminiscence these days, of home and tea, of beaches and forests.

Packing was well underway for his trip to the Queen’s land. Uncle had asked him to carry only the bare essentials, for the stores there had good supplies of hand-me-downs for the migrant populace. It wasn’t as if he had anything more than bare essentials, having migrated to this interim land with not so much as a plan in place, let alone a bag of clothes. A few irreparable trousers, given to him by kind neighbors from his homeland, with dreams in their hearts and sorrow in their eyes, were all he could manage to stuff into a sorry looking suitcase.

That is when he heard that loud rapping on the door. His uncle was on call at Nayar’s, the only shop in that building blessed with a functional phone. He tumbled down the stairs, dismay writ large on his face.

Perhaps, his uncle had changed his mind, he worried. He was after all a menial with no culinary skill, let alone the expertise to help run a samosa counter in a movie hall in foreign land, desi-frequented as it may be. Perhaps, his uncle would be kind enough to postpone the trip and not cancel it, he consoled himself as he rushed to Nayar’s, tightening the once-white-now-brown dhoti around his hip. By the time he reached Nayar’s, he was heaving and panting, his heart skipping a beat more than it did when he thought of his family back home.

The conversation was short, to the point and clear. It did not change anything between them, his uncle promised him.

As if in a trance, he placed back the receiver and walked out of Nayar’s. He did not know how long he stood at that bus stop, disoriented and distraught.

A piece of newspaper seemed to be nudging him out of the stupor. Perhaps, its life’s purpose had been to fly to his rescue before he was irredeemably lost. He clutched that newspaper and read through the article on a hunger strike planned in support of his people back in his homeland.

The news he had received over phone sunk in finally. His entire family had been taken into custody the night before, and banished to an unknown and unidentified war camp. For the first time that day, he cried aloud, not because he had lost everything he had ever known, but because he was a refugee far away from home, incapable of doing anything to save his family.

The Minister's Niece

Summer was well on its way out, winter far from settling in. Rains were scanty and almost nonexistent in the season calendar of that hot town of Neelangadi. The town itself bustled with energy as was its wont, the town’s people on their toes 24/7.

Not for nothing was that road in the middle of Neelangadi called “School Road”. It housed 5 different schools in quick succession, much time having elapsed since people had forgotten its original name. School Road, unlike the rest of Neelangadi, had worn a desolate look for some time now. Like a wizened old man awaiting the shroud, withered leaves had adorned its dusty self, while an unwarranted silence had enveloped its soul.

All week, the trees had waited in anticipation, budding a bit here, blossoming a bit there, as if for this very moment. After a two-month hiatus, School Road was suddenly snapping back to life, some new zest having been pumped into its old self. Today, the flowers were in full bloom welcoming the kids back to school, for it was the month of June, a month of new beginnings.

Cycle rickshaws scurried through School Road, unmindful of the humidity and the dust, towards the first bell at school. In one such rickshaw perched round and chubby 10-year old Swetha. With her were four other school-mates. Though school mornings were usually a little subdued and sleepy, today was an exception, this being the first day after the summer vacation. The kids were looking forward to school, exchanging notes on what had happened over the vacation. Swetha was the loudest of the lot, not to forget the most argumentative and talkative too. If she had been a member of the Parliament, it would have been difficult for the other members to get even breathing space, let alone talking time. The chattering continued well up to the school gate, where the rickshaw driver struggled to be heard above the din with a “Run along now. I will be here at 2.30 p.m. to pick you all up. Don’t be late. I have another sawaari at 3.30 p.m.”

In another ten minutes, everything was quiet again, School Road having slipped into a longish nap, while the children inside excitedly sat through first day, with their new books, and freshly bound and covered notebooks. At 2.30 p.m., as if on cue, the din resumed, an even louder one than in the morning, for children always seemed to be much fresher by end of day than in the mornings. Swetha and her group got into the waiting rickshaw and made their way through the labyrinth of bikes and cars and auto rickshaws on School Road to reach the end of it, where they were stopped abruptly by a huge traffic constable. “The Minister is going to pass any time now this way. Turn back and take another route.” The rickshaw driver started pleading with him explaining how the other route was very circuitous and involved the main road, which was not safe for rickshaw driving. Swetha, without batting an eyelid, turned to the constable and said, “Uncle, you cannot really stop this rickshaw. The Minister is going to be very angry with you. Don’t you realize I look just like her, round and chubby and sweet? I am her niece.” The constable gave his brightest smile ever, and turning to the rickshaw driver said, “Look. Scurry off really soon. She is not expected to pass through for another ten minutes now.”

At home that evening, Swetha was excitedly telling her mother about how smartly she had behaved on the road today, while her mother ground coconuts in the Minister-provided mixer, while the Minister-provided television blared in the background. Listening to the account, her mother chided Swetha saying, “Sweetie, you are not supposed to lie like that. That’s not what we have taught you.” Swetha thought for just a second before retorting with a “But Mamma, I was not lying. Didn’t the Minister announce the other day that she is distributing TVs and mixers to ease all our lives as we are like family to her?”

Elsewhere, a huge traffic constable was recounting the day’s events to his wife saying, “That girl was so cute and smart, I did not have the heart to deny her passage through the road today.”

The Artiste

I once painted a beautiful scenery.

My friend advised me that I should erase out the sun because it affected her sensibilities of how “round” is defined.

I erased it, out of concern for my dear friend. As if sceneries can’t function without sunlight, I consoled myself.

My brother took a look at it and suggested that the river should not be as blue as it impacted his long standing fear of the dark.

I lightened it up till it was paper white. My brother was important to me, alright.

My neighbor said that such a dense bunch of trees seemed to signify closure, and it was a wrong message to send to the masses.

I couldn’t question my neighbor’s logic, so out went the bunch of trees.

I was left standing with a clean sheet of paper.

My friend made a paper boat out of it, while my brother threw it around like a makeshift paper rocket, and my neighbor, in a scramble for cleanliness, spit out his chewing gum into it and threw it into the garbage bin.

I was left standing, looking at the scene, thinking about my scenery, wondering whether I should move to a secular household, where my scenery will be left alone, with me and me alone.

Ref: The controversies surrounding the release of the movie Viswaroopam in January 2013.

An afternoon at sea

“It depends”, she says, to nothing and no one in particular. That seems to be an acceptable answer to the illustrious company drinking its coffee on that smoky patio. She stares out at the sea, unmindful of the discussion that ploughs forward, as her thoughts wind back to memories from a distant land.

It was not a forgettable trip. Well, not quite, for she doesn’t remember the details of the trip now. She knows they had gone to some beach, after a visit to some IT organization as part of an industrial training. Such “filler” visits were common back then, earning the class some credit points, subsidies and a day off from college.

She is losing track of the discussion now. Someone is directing a question at her. “Well, one has to see how it plays out,” she responds. That should suffice for now.

The beach was hot, April-hot. Lunch sharing was happening, like it used to in school. Only this wasn’t school. They couldn’t giggle in peace, all these big boys making fun and imitating them. It was intimidating, abnormal and unnatural.

Someone giggles. Another says, “Aapko kya lagta hai?” She snaps back to reality again with an appropriate response. “Aise hi random bolte hai yaar log. Kabhi kabhi samajh mein ni aata hai ki client kaun aur consultant kaun.”

“Enna romba petera?” was the first question one boy asked her at lunch. She didn’t understand. “What is peter”, she asked in return, only to be ridiculed further. Apparently, ‘peter’ referred to anyone who spoke a lot of English. ‘Uff, I hate them’, she murmured to herself while retreating further into her girls’ gang.

The tea is getting cold, the wind a little chilly today. Conversation has turned to the cricket match fiasco. Inane, coffee table conversation. At tea time, near the balustrade.

The girls’ gang looked unhappy what with she claiming that the boys had been at their unruly best. Not that she was the best judge of how the average boy behaved, but her opinion seemed to count there. That is when he came up to her, the guy who hadn’t ridiculed her, her voice or her language. The guy, she secretly liked. “Can I have some water?” he asked.

“How come you make and get food from home? You aren’t married right?”, someone asks her. “No, I am not”, she says. The distant sea rumbles a little, a storm seems to be brewing.

One tight slap

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not dejected, just disappointed

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

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

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

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

Some advice, or maybe not

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Business As Usual

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

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

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

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

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

The Friday finally feels like 'Business As Usual'.

Puja times

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The ordinary... and then some more

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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