Just taking orders
Corporate slavery extends beyond the boardroom. The puny employee is the property of the boss' entire family
I was sweating under the scorching sun. It was late October and the Kolkata weather was under the impression that it was still time for summer. Easy-going as the city is, even seasons change at their own sweet time, lingering on, sauntering along. This meant that even in late October, I was stopping every five minutes under every tiny shade that I found. I was already struggling with half-a-dozen packets, and I warily glanced at the list - still at least a dozen more things to go.
I could have easily relaxed in the air-conditioned indoors, sipping on a Mickey Mouse (yes, I admit, I still love the cola float) and watched a 70’s Bollywood melodrama. The seminar I had gone to attend and the other bits of work that I had to do had concluded that morning and I wasn't due back in Bangalore till the next day. A whole afternoon and evening were there at my disposal, to be wasted away as I wished. Wasted it certainly was, but definitely not in my dream-come-true sort of a way.
Just before I was to board my flight from Bangalore to the City of Joy, I had received a phone call. A dreaded phone call. Ritu, my Bengali boss' wife, was on the line. She had bugged me enough for the last two days and I gave my phone the worst scowl I could manage. That was as sweet as revenge was going to get for me since, I definitely could not make nasty faces at her in person. "Hi Ritu," I chimed like a tinkling bell. "Yes. Listen. I forgot to mention kashundi (a special kind of mustard sauce made in Bengal). And Riddhi (my boss' pampered, molly-coddled terror of a daughter) wants Kolhapuri chappals. Make sure they are fashionable though."
She was just adding to the list of things she had already asked me-the-fawning-slave to get. Being ordered about like that hurt, but the "make sure they are fashionable" bit hurt even more. What did she think? Just because I am an inconsequential junior for her husband, doesn't mean I don't have good taste. Well, I at least know better than to wear a sari with a pair of sporty ballerinas. Hmpf!
But the reality was, it was a late October, and I was running from one end of the city to the other, under the merciless sun, ticking off items on that list, for my boss' wife. Mishti doi (sweetened curd) HAD to be from Mithai, but kachoris should come from Ganguram's. It seemed only Nokur could make sandesh -- that too had to be filled with jaggery, which by itself was an insane demand at that time of the year. Dhakai sari from RMCA Basak and men's kurtas (for the witch's beloved husband) from Amar Kutir. She ensured that the shops on opposite poles! I felt like I was on some freaky reality TV show on a goofy treasure hunt.
When I returned to the city, every item on the list ticked, guess what Ritu said? Not a "Thank you darling" but, "Oh no! Why did you get this brand? I knew at least ONE thing had to go wrong!"
30 October 2009
29 October 2009
Observation, through someone else's eyes
Passing judgements. That's common to every one, irrespective of their social, political, religious leanings or standing. It is one of the easiest arts to master, a luxurious indulgence of what one presumes to be his or her 'intelligent' observations and an unwelcome prying into someone else's life.
So, I mostly stay indoors, walled in by the one-room and excuse-of-a-kitchen apartment. When I have to leave, I speed across the lobby, hop on to my scooter and dash off, which act is seen as an un-feminine and ill-mannered behaviour by the judgemental neighbours. Propriety demands that I exchange some banal talks with them, smile at them whenever we are led by circumstances to meet in the hallway, pay all the elders, irrespective of whether they deserve it or not, my obeisance.
I loathe the courtesies, and have always avoided them, on principle. Had I been a man, maybe I would have been excused these 'lapses' (men are supposed to be free birds and they sometimes just live on their own terms, in their own world, so what). But a woman is supposed to be a slave to the rule book that was laid down mostly to subjugate them and make sure that they remained where the men or rather, the part of society that had more clout, wanted them to stay.
So when I zip off on my scooter without bothering with the niceties, I can here the disapproving murmurs following me. About how I have not 'turned out right' and how my parents must be so sad to have a daughter (a 'daughter' is the key word) like me. The days I wear shorts and stroll around, the neighbourhood ladies curse me (actually curse). It reminds me of tales when women were termed as 'witches', luring men to their doom. Seems like my legs, which, mind you, like me are quite 'un-feminine', would entice the men -- husbands and sons et all -- and lead them down the road to perdition.
When I go home, relatives roll their eyes on the freedom I have got. The fact that I take my own decisions, that I wear pants, that I decide which man I stay with and which one I boot (instead of the other way round) are signs of my having gone haywire. Too liberated, I hear them say. Fighting for it, every step, is how I see it.
So, I mostly stay indoors, walled in by the one-room and excuse-of-a-kitchen apartment. When I have to leave, I speed across the lobby, hop on to my scooter and dash off, which act is seen as an un-feminine and ill-mannered behaviour by the judgemental neighbours. Propriety demands that I exchange some banal talks with them, smile at them whenever we are led by circumstances to meet in the hallway, pay all the elders, irrespective of whether they deserve it or not, my obeisance.
I loathe the courtesies, and have always avoided them, on principle. Had I been a man, maybe I would have been excused these 'lapses' (men are supposed to be free birds and they sometimes just live on their own terms, in their own world, so what). But a woman is supposed to be a slave to the rule book that was laid down mostly to subjugate them and make sure that they remained where the men or rather, the part of society that had more clout, wanted them to stay.
So when I zip off on my scooter without bothering with the niceties, I can here the disapproving murmurs following me. About how I have not 'turned out right' and how my parents must be so sad to have a daughter (a 'daughter' is the key word) like me. The days I wear shorts and stroll around, the neighbourhood ladies curse me (actually curse). It reminds me of tales when women were termed as 'witches', luring men to their doom. Seems like my legs, which, mind you, like me are quite 'un-feminine', would entice the men -- husbands and sons et all -- and lead them down the road to perdition.
When I go home, relatives roll their eyes on the freedom I have got. The fact that I take my own decisions, that I wear pants, that I decide which man I stay with and which one I boot (instead of the other way round) are signs of my having gone haywire. Too liberated, I hear them say. Fighting for it, every step, is how I see it.
25 October 2009
Politicians and Twitter
WEB WONDERS
As Shashi Tharoor calls politician to board the Twitter bandwagon, we take a look at the politicians who are already tweeting
In all probability, it was Barack Obama. Before he walked into the White House, he showed the world how. And one of the hows was his sweeping campaigns in the cyber media, including the power of tweets. Obama's verified account on Twitter has 2,454,937 followers, much more than can perhaps gather at any one meet.
While the US president settled down in his office and people stopped being wowed by the great online phenomenon, came the Shashi Tharoor controversy. Two fateful words -- 'cattle class' -- hurled the Minister of State for External Affairs and MP from the Trivandrum constituency, Kerala into trouble, with accusations and counter-accusations coming from several quarters. That also showed how public the domain of networking sites, like Twitter, is and how it can lay bare a personality and give a peek into his or her life.
Despite the unplesantness of the incident, Tharoor, on Thursday, said that he would like more Indian politicians to use the platform of Twitter to connect to people. His only trepidation is that the unseemly incident that he was caught in might discourage others to join the portal.
We aren't sure how many will take Tharoor's advice, but we decided to take a look some of the politicians who are already tech-savvy and sending tweets across the web. What is interesting is that there are a few from namma Karnataka. Youth Congress president for Karnataka, and serving his third term in the State Legislature, Krishna Byre Gowda has a Twitter page with close to 300 followers, and when he is not around to tweet, his office staff take care to keep all of them informed. But you will be mistaken if you assume it is just the young who know how to work wit the web, and of course, make the web work for them.
Former chief minister of Karnataka, SM Krishna's, is there on Twitter too. He may not be very frequent, but he has over 5,000 followers tracking him on the site. If you want to find him, his user name is SMKrishnaCong. Captain Gopinath's Twitter page is interesting, but predictable, with the green kite (that he had used as his symbol) used as the background theme. Did you say you don't quite remember him? He was the Independent candidate in the recent elections, and although he lost, his campaign for bringing a change is still on and Twitter has regular updates.
Rajeev Chandrasekhar, an Independent MP in Rajya Sabha, representing Karnataka and the Bangalore Urban district, is very active on the internet, with his website, and of course, tweets. Whether in Dharwad (as his recent tweet informs) or in namma Bengaluru, you will always know what he is up to.
One name that cannot be left out from any list in which he can possibly feature is Narendra Modi (BJP). This man may evoke mixed reactions from many, but one cannot deny this shrewd politician, who always arouses curiosity and has a strong base of loyalists, his charisma. With around 4,000 followers, his Twitter account is something to look out for.
Karnataka politician Rajeev Gowda, a member of the Congres and also a professor at IIMB, politicians like Suresh Kalmadi (Congress), VK Malhotra (BJP) and a few others have discovered the wonders of the web and the treats of tweeting. Like Tharoor, we hope that others board this bus soon.
As Shashi Tharoor calls politician to board the Twitter bandwagon, we take a look at the politicians who are already tweeting
In all probability, it was Barack Obama. Before he walked into the White House, he showed the world how. And one of the hows was his sweeping campaigns in the cyber media, including the power of tweets. Obama's verified account on Twitter has 2,454,937 followers, much more than can perhaps gather at any one meet.
While the US president settled down in his office and people stopped being wowed by the great online phenomenon, came the Shashi Tharoor controversy. Two fateful words -- 'cattle class' -- hurled the Minister of State for External Affairs and MP from the Trivandrum constituency, Kerala into trouble, with accusations and counter-accusations coming from several quarters. That also showed how public the domain of networking sites, like Twitter, is and how it can lay bare a personality and give a peek into his or her life.
Despite the unplesantness of the incident, Tharoor, on Thursday, said that he would like more Indian politicians to use the platform of Twitter to connect to people. His only trepidation is that the unseemly incident that he was caught in might discourage others to join the portal.
We aren't sure how many will take Tharoor's advice, but we decided to take a look some of the politicians who are already tech-savvy and sending tweets across the web. What is interesting is that there are a few from namma Karnataka. Youth Congress president for Karnataka, and serving his third term in the State Legislature, Krishna Byre Gowda has a Twitter page with close to 300 followers, and when he is not around to tweet, his office staff take care to keep all of them informed. But you will be mistaken if you assume it is just the young who know how to work wit the web, and of course, make the web work for them.
Former chief minister of Karnataka, SM Krishna's, is there on Twitter too. He may not be very frequent, but he has over 5,000 followers tracking him on the site. If you want to find him, his user name is SMKrishnaCong. Captain Gopinath's Twitter page is interesting, but predictable, with the green kite (that he had used as his symbol) used as the background theme. Did you say you don't quite remember him? He was the Independent candidate in the recent elections, and although he lost, his campaign for bringing a change is still on and Twitter has regular updates.
Rajeev Chandrasekhar, an Independent MP in Rajya Sabha, representing Karnataka and the Bangalore Urban district, is very active on the internet, with his website, and of course, tweets. Whether in Dharwad (as his recent tweet informs) or in namma Bengaluru, you will always know what he is up to.
One name that cannot be left out from any list in which he can possibly feature is Narendra Modi (BJP). This man may evoke mixed reactions from many, but one cannot deny this shrewd politician, who always arouses curiosity and has a strong base of loyalists, his charisma. With around 4,000 followers, his Twitter account is something to look out for.
Karnataka politician Rajeev Gowda, a member of the Congres and also a professor at IIMB, politicians like Suresh Kalmadi (Congress), VK Malhotra (BJP) and a few others have discovered the wonders of the web and the treats of tweeting. Like Tharoor, we hope that others board this bus soon.
Mrs Goody Two Shoes XIV
Show me the money!
When it's the festive season, people whom you have never met before appear on your doorstep for baksheesh
It was one of the rare Sunday holidays I had got. It had come after such a long time that I wasn't quite sure of how to handle it. I felt like I had stumbled upon a long-lost crush, and a surge of emotions had rushed back, leaving me staring at him like a shy and awkward teen, fiddling with her dress, fumbling for words, the longing evident in her eyes although she tried hard to act cool and hide it.
Coming back to the heart of the matter, the long-awaited Sunday had arrived, finally, and for me, it was like a time-bomb was ticking away. Every second was bringing me closer to the closure. I quickly drew up a list of things I had to cram into the day. I had even woken up at 6 am to make sure I had a few extra hours; lying in bed for long would have been such a waste anyway.
I started ticking of items on the list. Start the day with green (great as an anti-oxidant and for a glowing skin): check. Read the morning newspaper at a leisurely pace, with lulling music in the background: check. Take a hot shower with bath salts and.... ting tong! Aaargh. Absolutely no sense of timing, whoever it was. It was the sweeper, with his paan-stained, nearly toothless smile. "Madamji, Diwali bonus."
It was eight in the morning on a perfectly blissful holiday for heaven's sake. "Jaggu, you never come before 11 or 12 to collect the trash," I rebuked while rifling through my purse for a fifty-rupee note. I was a little annoyed, but the rebuke came out like an indulgent admonition, and made his smile wider, especially when he saw the money in my hand. Well, I can never do better than that. One has to keep everyone happy after all.
After a steamy (don't get any wrong ideas) shower, I slipped on my soft, pink slippers and was tending to myself with some foreign creams when the doorbell went off again. It had started to sound similar to RGV's effect in 'Bhoot'. This time, it was the guard of the locality. I figured out he was the guard from his uniform, stick and whistle. He just stood there, hand extended.
The series continued throjavascript:void(0)
Publish Postugh the day. I was accosted on my way to the market and back, I was hounded when I was taking a quiet evening stroll. The day was turning out to be a horror movie with a psycho angle -- all I could see was hands, and more hands, slowly approaching me from all possible directions, with haunting voices echoing around, "chanda, baksheesh, bonus..."
The last bell rang late in the evening. I dragged myself. Four fat kids in festive outfits stood at the doorway. "Aunty, chanda please, for laddoos." I was baffled. Four over-healthy, rich, spoilt brats, who would do well to go without the laddoos shamelessly standing there. What I felt like was slamming the door. What I did was give them the last bill I had in my purse.
When it's the festive season, people whom you have never met before appear on your doorstep for baksheesh
It was one of the rare Sunday holidays I had got. It had come after such a long time that I wasn't quite sure of how to handle it. I felt like I had stumbled upon a long-lost crush, and a surge of emotions had rushed back, leaving me staring at him like a shy and awkward teen, fiddling with her dress, fumbling for words, the longing evident in her eyes although she tried hard to act cool and hide it.
Coming back to the heart of the matter, the long-awaited Sunday had arrived, finally, and for me, it was like a time-bomb was ticking away. Every second was bringing me closer to the closure. I quickly drew up a list of things I had to cram into the day. I had even woken up at 6 am to make sure I had a few extra hours; lying in bed for long would have been such a waste anyway.
I started ticking of items on the list. Start the day with green (great as an anti-oxidant and for a glowing skin): check. Read the morning newspaper at a leisurely pace, with lulling music in the background: check. Take a hot shower with bath salts and.... ting tong! Aaargh. Absolutely no sense of timing, whoever it was. It was the sweeper, with his paan-stained, nearly toothless smile. "Madamji, Diwali bonus."
It was eight in the morning on a perfectly blissful holiday for heaven's sake. "Jaggu, you never come before 11 or 12 to collect the trash," I rebuked while rifling through my purse for a fifty-rupee note. I was a little annoyed, but the rebuke came out like an indulgent admonition, and made his smile wider, especially when he saw the money in my hand. Well, I can never do better than that. One has to keep everyone happy after all.
After a steamy (don't get any wrong ideas) shower, I slipped on my soft, pink slippers and was tending to myself with some foreign creams when the doorbell went off again. It had started to sound similar to RGV's effect in 'Bhoot'. This time, it was the guard of the locality. I figured out he was the guard from his uniform, stick and whistle. He just stood there, hand extended.
The series continued throjavascript:void(0)
Publish Postugh the day. I was accosted on my way to the market and back, I was hounded when I was taking a quiet evening stroll. The day was turning out to be a horror movie with a psycho angle -- all I could see was hands, and more hands, slowly approaching me from all possible directions, with haunting voices echoing around, "chanda, baksheesh, bonus..."
The last bell rang late in the evening. I dragged myself. Four fat kids in festive outfits stood at the doorway. "Aunty, chanda please, for laddoos." I was baffled. Four over-healthy, rich, spoilt brats, who would do well to go without the laddoos shamelessly standing there. What I felt like was slamming the door. What I did was give them the last bill I had in my purse.
18 October 2009
Mrs Goody Two Shoes XIII
Love in the time of festivities
It is one thing to enjoy a Mills and Boon story, and quite another to be a part of it
When Rinku wore the pink lehenga and tripped softly down the stairs, her anklets tinkling in anticipation, she had left Ronnie enthralled. The flame from the diyas she was decorating the quadrangle with flickered on her face, making her look delicate, almost fragile as if she was herself the evanescent moment. And I glanced at Ronnie; his heart was taking a thousand pictures.
Festivities are a beautiful time to fall in love. Lights, colour, passion -- the world seems to become screened with a veil of romance, the real becomes the ethereal. Naturally, you get intoxicated. Amour, the greatest intoxicant.
So it was beautiful to see Ronnie and Rinku's fleeting glances and watch their fairy tale unfold with sparklers, diyas, little light bulbs, and gorgeously dressed people as the backdrop. It was perfect. Like living in an ad film. I smiled to myself when I saw Rinku making special efforts to help Manju aunty bring trays of food or light the candles or get her a glass of water when she started puffing, which was after almost every three diyas she placed. Don't you see it? Manju aunty happens to be the paramour's mother. This meant Rinku's scores soared. Ronnie just melted.
I hardly remember how, while I was enjoying the sweet, live Mills and Boon, I became a character in the story. Perhaps it was when Rinku's eyes sparkled, her voice quivered and she shivered as she grasped my hand, "You can't tell ANYBODY. And make sure you cover up for me when my mum asks."
Here, I will digress a bit and tell you about Rinku's mum. Mrs Bhasin: extremely haughty, proud of her daughter's good looks, fiercely protective of her, and ambitious to the extent that she really believes in fairy tales -- that Rinku will definitely bag a prince charming in the likes of Aditya Mittal.
Back to the story. "I kissed him. It was wonderful." Wow! I laughed. Don't ask me what elicited such an inappropriate response. But I quickly said the standard lines, "I am happy for you, but go slow, and, um, I am very happy for you, but make sure this is what both of you want. I am there for you." And then immediately I felt burdened. Why can't I just stay off these matters? Why do I need to do the conventionally 'right' thing -- be the confidante, the adviser, the helper, the listener?
After a few trysts of me taking Rinku out on the pretext of shopping so that she could meet Ronnie, both mums smelt a rat. So guess who they came for help and advice? Yours truly. They hated each other, and the complaint was standard.
"The boy lured my lovely daughter, for sure."
"The girl's mother must have taught her to trap my beta, sniff sniff." I had given her coffee and all my tissues so that she would stop sniffing into her pallu and wiping her hands on my sofa. And they both told me the same thing, "You are young. Please ask them what is happening. They like you. They will tell you." I nearly bit my nails off.
But the worst was yet to come. One afternoon, while Manju aunty sniffed, and Mrs Bhasin rang the bell and froze me with icy looks when her eyes fell on her opponent on my sofa, Ronnie and Rinku burst in screaming, "Di, we need your help again!"
I wanted to do an Amélie right there, just melt into a splash of water and be gone.
It is one thing to enjoy a Mills and Boon story, and quite another to be a part of it
When Rinku wore the pink lehenga and tripped softly down the stairs, her anklets tinkling in anticipation, she had left Ronnie enthralled. The flame from the diyas she was decorating the quadrangle with flickered on her face, making her look delicate, almost fragile as if she was herself the evanescent moment. And I glanced at Ronnie; his heart was taking a thousand pictures.
Festivities are a beautiful time to fall in love. Lights, colour, passion -- the world seems to become screened with a veil of romance, the real becomes the ethereal. Naturally, you get intoxicated. Amour, the greatest intoxicant.
So it was beautiful to see Ronnie and Rinku's fleeting glances and watch their fairy tale unfold with sparklers, diyas, little light bulbs, and gorgeously dressed people as the backdrop. It was perfect. Like living in an ad film. I smiled to myself when I saw Rinku making special efforts to help Manju aunty bring trays of food or light the candles or get her a glass of water when she started puffing, which was after almost every three diyas she placed. Don't you see it? Manju aunty happens to be the paramour's mother. This meant Rinku's scores soared. Ronnie just melted.
I hardly remember how, while I was enjoying the sweet, live Mills and Boon, I became a character in the story. Perhaps it was when Rinku's eyes sparkled, her voice quivered and she shivered as she grasped my hand, "You can't tell ANYBODY. And make sure you cover up for me when my mum asks."
Here, I will digress a bit and tell you about Rinku's mum. Mrs Bhasin: extremely haughty, proud of her daughter's good looks, fiercely protective of her, and ambitious to the extent that she really believes in fairy tales -- that Rinku will definitely bag a prince charming in the likes of Aditya Mittal.
Back to the story. "I kissed him. It was wonderful." Wow! I laughed. Don't ask me what elicited such an inappropriate response. But I quickly said the standard lines, "I am happy for you, but go slow, and, um, I am very happy for you, but make sure this is what both of you want. I am there for you." And then immediately I felt burdened. Why can't I just stay off these matters? Why do I need to do the conventionally 'right' thing -- be the confidante, the adviser, the helper, the listener?
After a few trysts of me taking Rinku out on the pretext of shopping so that she could meet Ronnie, both mums smelt a rat. So guess who they came for help and advice? Yours truly. They hated each other, and the complaint was standard.
"The boy lured my lovely daughter, for sure."
"The girl's mother must have taught her to trap my beta, sniff sniff." I had given her coffee and all my tissues so that she would stop sniffing into her pallu and wiping her hands on my sofa. And they both told me the same thing, "You are young. Please ask them what is happening. They like you. They will tell you." I nearly bit my nails off.
But the worst was yet to come. One afternoon, while Manju aunty sniffed, and Mrs Bhasin rang the bell and froze me with icy looks when her eyes fell on her opponent on my sofa, Ronnie and Rinku burst in screaming, "Di, we need your help again!"
I wanted to do an Amélie right there, just melt into a splash of water and be gone.
15 October 2009
Mrs Goody Two Shoes XII
No comic relief
I don't know what's worse -- the laughter shows popping up on every channel or the comedians we meet every day
Life's one big laugh. A joke. I mean in a very literal sense. As I sit down to dinner with my husband, ready with my outpourings of how a debate at office went out of hand, how I lost my cool and then remembered I was supposed to be in the good books and stopped right there, a roar of made-to-order laughter would swoop in through the window and hit us pretty hard. The clockwork precision of the choric laughter, beginning and ending on cue, shattering the tired silence would be followed by a cackling voice, and then the laughter again, all in cyclical succession.
The sounds drift to us from the neighbour's television set and although we cannot make out the words, we know one or the other of those laughter shows with the sickeningly sick jokes are on. I would stare in dismay. This could mean only one thing -- the next day I would have to tolerate a chuckling Mrs Nair as she re-narrated those supposedly 'humorous' anecdotes. I would have to cringe and smile as she chortles and gurgles.
I have an uncanny knack of bumping into such people, whose idea of humour is just some corny and cheesy lines. Or maybe we all find them, lurking about everywhere, offices, supermarkets, parties, waiting to pounce on you with the kind of one-liner that you hear and then, after a five-second pause, realise it was meant to make you laugh.
When Mrs Nair accosts me on the stairs as I am dragging myself to my apartment, thinking of what to cook for dinner, she would be spilliing with energy. "What do you look so tired for? Listen to this, and you will forget all work... hee hee... This husband comes and says, wife, wife, come to bed please..." I manage a "Ha ha... hmmm, ahem... well..."
By the time she is on her fourth joke, I am lost. The nightmares of office come back to haunt me. "Hey," this very senior man (who thinks he is a cool dude) would start off. And you would know what's coming. His creepy sense of fun! "You don't have time for people like us nowadays. Me, myself and meri tanhai, heh heh heh heh!" or something like, "The pen is pain, ho ho ho..." Does he cackle loudly or what! It reverberates through you, making your teeth chatter into a laugh. He would stand there wheezing, while I furtively look for an escape route, only to bump into another self-proclaimed comedian. Life is, indeed, a big laugh.
I don't know what's worse -- the laughter shows popping up on every channel or the comedians we meet every day
Life's one big laugh. A joke. I mean in a very literal sense. As I sit down to dinner with my husband, ready with my outpourings of how a debate at office went out of hand, how I lost my cool and then remembered I was supposed to be in the good books and stopped right there, a roar of made-to-order laughter would swoop in through the window and hit us pretty hard. The clockwork precision of the choric laughter, beginning and ending on cue, shattering the tired silence would be followed by a cackling voice, and then the laughter again, all in cyclical succession.
The sounds drift to us from the neighbour's television set and although we cannot make out the words, we know one or the other of those laughter shows with the sickeningly sick jokes are on. I would stare in dismay. This could mean only one thing -- the next day I would have to tolerate a chuckling Mrs Nair as she re-narrated those supposedly 'humorous' anecdotes. I would have to cringe and smile as she chortles and gurgles.
I have an uncanny knack of bumping into such people, whose idea of humour is just some corny and cheesy lines. Or maybe we all find them, lurking about everywhere, offices, supermarkets, parties, waiting to pounce on you with the kind of one-liner that you hear and then, after a five-second pause, realise it was meant to make you laugh.
When Mrs Nair accosts me on the stairs as I am dragging myself to my apartment, thinking of what to cook for dinner, she would be spilliing with energy. "What do you look so tired for? Listen to this, and you will forget all work... hee hee... This husband comes and says, wife, wife, come to bed please..." I manage a "Ha ha... hmmm, ahem... well..."
By the time she is on her fourth joke, I am lost. The nightmares of office come back to haunt me. "Hey," this very senior man (who thinks he is a cool dude) would start off. And you would know what's coming. His creepy sense of fun! "You don't have time for people like us nowadays. Me, myself and meri tanhai, heh heh heh heh!" or something like, "The pen is pain, ho ho ho..." Does he cackle loudly or what! It reverberates through you, making your teeth chatter into a laugh. He would stand there wheezing, while I furtively look for an escape route, only to bump into another self-proclaimed comedian. Life is, indeed, a big laugh.
13 October 2009
One more night...
When I had first named my blog Memory's canvas, I had partly done it because I am by nature always nostalgic, as in habitually, but I had also done it because it sounded cool (to me), it evoked Tagore (and I am the quintessential Bangali who tries to entwine Tagore, Ray and Ritwik Ghatak in almost every facet of her life) and it was convenient.
But when you look through the album of memories, you understand how every cell in your body, yes and I mean every biological cell in your body, is just a bundle of the past. And how every one of them throbs with the pain of yearning. An utter impracticality of trying to run back to the bygone, hoping to recreate those drops of moments somehow. Why do we, why do I, keep doing it in full knowledge that it just won't happen?
The night when we had all laughed and sung and cursed and gorged on experimental food. How can it be that there will never be a repeat telecast of it? How do I accept that the guitar chords will not be played again? That perhaps some of the encounters I have had in life are just closed chapters?
I am not a people person. And yet, it is them that I miss. I long to cry. To break down. To gather the courage and tell the supreme controller of time, "What I wouldn't give up to relive that just one more time, just one more time god!"
But then would I really give up something? I doubt it of myself. Very very doubtful. I am so selfish that I have it all planned for the future, and how the heck do you suppose I could tear and throw a leaf out of that and put a past leaf in place instead?
But the laughter still rings, it rings till it gets louder and louder and louder -- the unbearably loud silent scream.
But when you look through the album of memories, you understand how every cell in your body, yes and I mean every biological cell in your body, is just a bundle of the past. And how every one of them throbs with the pain of yearning. An utter impracticality of trying to run back to the bygone, hoping to recreate those drops of moments somehow. Why do we, why do I, keep doing it in full knowledge that it just won't happen?
The night when we had all laughed and sung and cursed and gorged on experimental food. How can it be that there will never be a repeat telecast of it? How do I accept that the guitar chords will not be played again? That perhaps some of the encounters I have had in life are just closed chapters?
I am not a people person. And yet, it is them that I miss. I long to cry. To break down. To gather the courage and tell the supreme controller of time, "What I wouldn't give up to relive that just one more time, just one more time god!"
But then would I really give up something? I doubt it of myself. Very very doubtful. I am so selfish that I have it all planned for the future, and how the heck do you suppose I could tear and throw a leaf out of that and put a past leaf in place instead?
But the laughter still rings, it rings till it gets louder and louder and louder -- the unbearably loud silent scream.
8 October 2009
Chetan Bhagat interview
I did the interview on October 6, 2009, just before Chetan Bhagat's '2 States' was released.
He started writing in class five, but only because his school didn't leave him much of a choice. When his class teacher announced that they were starting a school magazine in which everyone had to write, Chetan Bhagat came up with a joke. "I was forced to write! It was an assignment. But when the magazine was published and I saw my name in print, I thought, this is something man!" Thus, the class five boy felt the excitement of writing and Chetan, even after doing what a "good, Indian, middle-class boy does -- go to IIT and IIM", took up the pen, with the joke transforming into a streak of humour and enjoyable light-heartedness that charecterise all his books.
This popular and prolific writer's fourth books, '2 States: The Story of My Marriage' will be on the stands this week. This story is a page out of the author's life -- about a Punjabi man marrying a Tamil girl, about the hurdles, about how marriage, especially in India is a wedding of families. Chetan says, "Indians love stories about love and marriage, they never get bored with them. But you know what, I am scared. The question is how well have I disguised things, since the book is about people who are so close to me. The feelings are honest, of course, as always." He did drop a few things on the insistence of his wife and hopes his in-laws don't disown him after reading it. "My life is about to change for sure after this," he adds with a chuckle.
His candidness, ease, and an honest perception about who he is would warm anyone towards him. He calls himself an entertainer and feels that through books like his, reading has become entertainment, and books are making a comeback like the way radio was reinvented. But there is genuine amazement on his face when he ponders over how he has shot up the popularity curve. Four books and three movies based on the first three -- 'Hello' (released), 'Three Idiots' (with Aamir Khan, to be released shortly) and one based on 'Three Mistakes of My Life' is being directed by Rock On! director Abhishek Kapoor. "I never pictured myself here," says Chetan with disbelief still in his voice, "Only after Five Point... was published did I realise I have become this pop culture and youth icon, as people put it. Yes, aftter the book though, I felt if its simplicity and my fun style of liking has been liked by X number of people, then it can reach out to more and more."
While there pre-bookings for '2 States' is reaching frenzied levels, Chetan is contemplating taking a break from books to write a film script. He also wants to have more control over the movies based on his books from now on. "I have a mixed reaction towards Hello. thatI appreciate the fact that it was made, but I felt it seemed fake on many levels. On the other hand, I visited IIMB for the shooting of Three Idiots and saw Aamir doing ten takes for that one perfect shot."
He quickly adds, "I am nowhere close to being a perfectionist though. I feel nature made everything a little flawed, and I like it that way. I don't even like working super-hard." This from a man who was balancing a high-paying corporate job and his writing career till a few months ago. He regrets that it cost him a bit of his life and health, but feels that his education and corporate training gave made him a true professional.
Now, this full-time writer and house husband is just glad to be home and writing, and hoping that '2 States' will be the biggest one till now.
He started writing in class five, but only because his school didn't leave him much of a choice. When his class teacher announced that they were starting a school magazine in which everyone had to write, Chetan Bhagat came up with a joke. "I was forced to write! It was an assignment. But when the magazine was published and I saw my name in print, I thought, this is something man!" Thus, the class five boy felt the excitement of writing and Chetan, even after doing what a "good, Indian, middle-class boy does -- go to IIT and IIM", took up the pen, with the joke transforming into a streak of humour and enjoyable light-heartedness that charecterise all his books.
This popular and prolific writer's fourth books, '2 States: The Story of My Marriage' will be on the stands this week. This story is a page out of the author's life -- about a Punjabi man marrying a Tamil girl, about the hurdles, about how marriage, especially in India is a wedding of families. Chetan says, "Indians love stories about love and marriage, they never get bored with them. But you know what, I am scared. The question is how well have I disguised things, since the book is about people who are so close to me. The feelings are honest, of course, as always." He did drop a few things on the insistence of his wife and hopes his in-laws don't disown him after reading it. "My life is about to change for sure after this," he adds with a chuckle.
His candidness, ease, and an honest perception about who he is would warm anyone towards him. He calls himself an entertainer and feels that through books like his, reading has become entertainment, and books are making a comeback like the way radio was reinvented. But there is genuine amazement on his face when he ponders over how he has shot up the popularity curve. Four books and three movies based on the first three -- 'Hello' (released), 'Three Idiots' (with Aamir Khan, to be released shortly) and one based on 'Three Mistakes of My Life' is being directed by Rock On! director Abhishek Kapoor. "I never pictured myself here," says Chetan with disbelief still in his voice, "Only after Five Point... was published did I realise I have become this pop culture and youth icon, as people put it. Yes, aftter the book though, I felt if its simplicity and my fun style of liking has been liked by X number of people, then it can reach out to more and more."
While there pre-bookings for '2 States' is reaching frenzied levels, Chetan is contemplating taking a break from books to write a film script. He also wants to have more control over the movies based on his books from now on. "I have a mixed reaction towards Hello. thatI appreciate the fact that it was made, but I felt it seemed fake on many levels. On the other hand, I visited IIMB for the shooting of Three Idiots and saw Aamir doing ten takes for that one perfect shot."
He quickly adds, "I am nowhere close to being a perfectionist though. I feel nature made everything a little flawed, and I like it that way. I don't even like working super-hard." This from a man who was balancing a high-paying corporate job and his writing career till a few months ago. He regrets that it cost him a bit of his life and health, but feels that his education and corporate training gave made him a true professional.
Now, this full-time writer and house husband is just glad to be home and writing, and hoping that '2 States' will be the biggest one till now.
4 October 2009
Mrs Goody Two Shoes XI
Weighty issues
Physical fitness at the cost of mental well-being -- not the most alluring of options
The utter unremarkability of my life having hit me during one session of chit chat I was having across balconies with the newly-arrived bride in the apartment next door on a Saturday afternoon as my husband enjoyed a siesta inside, I decided it was time for a re-evaluation. After we had had a few banal discussions about what both of us cooked and which particular vendor sold overpriced potatoes, I tried to launch a more philosophical, and broader, topic. Life.
"Don't you think we are always preoccupied with petty things in our lives? We are so constricted by domestic duties or office politics. [In her case, only the home front though]." I was almost speaking to myself, "We don't do anything worthwhile, really, with our lives. [She was twirling her dupatta end and looking coquettishly at all and sundry, like a perky new bahu]. Don't you think time is running out, too fast?"
"I know!!" She suddenly jumped up, almost as if it was her Eureka moment. "Why don't we both join the gym, ha?" Wow, where did that come from?
Sheila, aka Mrs Sheila Rahul Dixit, thought slimming while gyrating to some robust musical numbers would bring that yet-to-be-discovered purpose in my life. "Oh didi [yes, I am old enough to be the typical older sister icon], it will be so much fun. Then you will think that you are doing something." She forgot to add the 'worthwhile' at the end of her sentence.
So the didi trooped behind her the next morning, and found herself trapped among bulky aunties and their all-too-obedient bahuranis at the local gym. It was a ghastly sight, and I refuse to be politically correct.
I had imagined at least a hunk of a trainer and instead found an an uncouth, short and sweaty man shouting, "Do woan, thwo, thiree, phor..." I had imagined slim beauties who I can bitch about (more since I secretly admired their perfect shapes). Instead, there were older women in salwars and their husband's tees, maybe because they couldn't find a size that fits them, puffing, heaving, sweating and then finally shouting to me, "Just come and pull me up please." That at least saved me the trouble of lifting weights. Or even, change the music na beta.
The usual issues of husbands, neighbours, cooking, television, children and grandchildren did the rounds. Inane. Prosaic. Maddening! Physical fitness had gone for a toss, my mental well-being was also being threatened.
I walked out. I seriously needed a reconnaissance, of my own life.
Physical fitness at the cost of mental well-being -- not the most alluring of options
The utter unremarkability of my life having hit me during one session of chit chat I was having across balconies with the newly-arrived bride in the apartment next door on a Saturday afternoon as my husband enjoyed a siesta inside, I decided it was time for a re-evaluation. After we had had a few banal discussions about what both of us cooked and which particular vendor sold overpriced potatoes, I tried to launch a more philosophical, and broader, topic. Life.
"Don't you think we are always preoccupied with petty things in our lives? We are so constricted by domestic duties or office politics. [In her case, only the home front though]." I was almost speaking to myself, "We don't do anything worthwhile, really, with our lives. [She was twirling her dupatta end and looking coquettishly at all and sundry, like a perky new bahu]. Don't you think time is running out, too fast?"
"I know!!" She suddenly jumped up, almost as if it was her Eureka moment. "Why don't we both join the gym, ha?" Wow, where did that come from?
Sheila, aka Mrs Sheila Rahul Dixit, thought slimming while gyrating to some robust musical numbers would bring that yet-to-be-discovered purpose in my life. "Oh didi [yes, I am old enough to be the typical older sister icon], it will be so much fun. Then you will think that you are doing something." She forgot to add the 'worthwhile' at the end of her sentence.
So the didi trooped behind her the next morning, and found herself trapped among bulky aunties and their all-too-obedient bahuranis at the local gym. It was a ghastly sight, and I refuse to be politically correct.
I had imagined at least a hunk of a trainer and instead found an an uncouth, short and sweaty man shouting, "Do woan, thwo, thiree, phor..." I had imagined slim beauties who I can bitch about (more since I secretly admired their perfect shapes). Instead, there were older women in salwars and their husband's tees, maybe because they couldn't find a size that fits them, puffing, heaving, sweating and then finally shouting to me, "Just come and pull me up please." That at least saved me the trouble of lifting weights. Or even, change the music na beta.
The usual issues of husbands, neighbours, cooking, television, children and grandchildren did the rounds. Inane. Prosaic. Maddening! Physical fitness had gone for a toss, my mental well-being was also being threatened.
I walked out. I seriously needed a reconnaissance, of my own life.
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