Battling the brochures
I salute the salesmanship of my colleagues. And I envy their ability to make some extra money, that too, at my cost
I had had to cook a thousand dishes for the guests who were coming in the evening, skip breakfast in the process, wear crumpled clothes and, after this morning saga of bedlam, barely managed to reach office on time. There were a million, zillion things on my mind, not least of them being how to keep the Boss happy (for yet another day, trust me, it is quite a daily challenge). I was just catching my breath and leafing through my daily planner to see where all in the city my job I needed me to be during the day. So, it wasn't the best of times to be accosted by the mini businessmen (and women) who seem to be omnipresent in office premises across sectors, and who somehow manage to find time out of their regular office schedule to make that extra dough.
Rupali, a senior in the reporting section, swooped in on me. "Look at these gorgeous little sparklers hon'." I cringed. It was nine in the morning. I was starving. In another 20 minutes I had to drive miles for an interview. It took a good ten-second pause before I could turn around and fathom what she was talking about. "Great range of colours, and 10% discount for my special customers."
If you still haven't inferred what the fuss was all about, it was a lipstick range from one of those companies -- Avon, Oriflame, Amway -- which prefer to build an army of representatives to beleaguer innocents like me instead making their products sit pretty on some supermarket shelf. And the business acumen of the soldiers, of whom Rupali is one, would be exemplary for any small-scale industry model.
"Uh, Rupali, I am somewhat hard pressed for time now, so if we could talk about this later?"
"Oh come on! Just take one look. These babies are so gorgeous (she needs more adjectives) they'll make you drool." It is just appalling how everyone wants instant gratification, kind of like it is merely an extension of instant coffee. She thrust the booklet at my face, and left with a "Just mark which ones you want, I'll get them tomorrow." How presumptuous! I hadn't even committed to anything.
Truth be told, I did not need to commit. They just know their war is won the moment they have slyly slipped the brochures into my hands. I am not avaricious, no. But, either to please the battalion of seniors or to act like the benefactor of the whining bundle of juniors, I have bought everything from Tupperware glasses, bowls, bottles to orange lipsticks and green nail shades. So, I am a 'special customer' all right, beguiled every time, and, at the end of the day, staring in horror at the pile of junk that just keeps getting bigger.
24 August 2009
Mrs Goody Two Shoes IV
So much for being polite
Some female rituals can be quite frightening -- kitty parties, for example
It was my first time. I was stepping into uncharted territory and I was super conscious about doing things right. I had been wondering the whole of last week if I fit into the demographics at all or not, but nonetheless, as in the many other things, I had already made the commitment and been dragged into the orgy of pink lipsticks and heavy jewellery, of chiffons and silks.
I blame my extremely good upbringing for this. I mean, for the fact that I had landed myself in this mess of all things I propose to stand against. What had conspired was simple. The bell rang one evening and Mrs Bhasin made an entry with aplomb. We looked such an anti-thesis to each other -- she in her over-dressed plumpness, a thick fog of perfume hanging around, and me looking like a scraggly alley cat, lying on the sofa like a recluse munching on a leftover piece of chocolate, devouring Ralph Fiennes in the '92 version of 'Wuthering Heights'.
Mrs Bhasin's conversations never have introductions, her questions are mostly rhetorical. She swooped in on me, "You don't have any friends, no? Nothing to do in the evenings? Oh ho, why I hadn't thought of that before?" "That's not really true and I don't see why you have to even bother thinking about that," is what I had hoped I could say, but instead, I gave her that well-remembered Puss in Boots look from 'Shrek'.
"You have to, have to come this Saturday evening to my kitty party. I have organised a big thing, you know? And I am taking out my best dinner set also!" she was full of glee. I so wanted to get her out of the house, and because of my erstwhile mentioned upbringing, the "Of course" just slipped out.
That Saturday, I was in the sets of one of the Ekta Kapoor serials. Or something grander. The ladies were dressed to kill (you would die if you actually saw the heavy coating of foundation, matching bag-shoe-sari-eyeshadow).
Shriek: "Ooooh! Mr Bhasin is soooo romantic. He gave you heart-shaped diamond locket for birthday?"
Gloating: "New shoes, Latika? But I have told my husband's (no name taking and all) big brother to get me Manolos."
Drawl: "I am so bored with the Mercedes, I'm going in for an Audi this month."
They made it all sound like grocery, and I couldn't, of course. Their only other topic was Hindi serials, in which I couldn't participate, of course.So, at the end of the ritual, my head was in a tizzy. Clueless in a gang of raving females, with no diamonds or Audis in sight of my life for miles, I was being smothered. I think I even muttered in a very filmy fashion, "Mein kaun hoon? Mein kahan hoon?"
Some female rituals can be quite frightening -- kitty parties, for example
It was my first time. I was stepping into uncharted territory and I was super conscious about doing things right. I had been wondering the whole of last week if I fit into the demographics at all or not, but nonetheless, as in the many other things, I had already made the commitment and been dragged into the orgy of pink lipsticks and heavy jewellery, of chiffons and silks.
I blame my extremely good upbringing for this. I mean, for the fact that I had landed myself in this mess of all things I propose to stand against. What had conspired was simple. The bell rang one evening and Mrs Bhasin made an entry with aplomb. We looked such an anti-thesis to each other -- she in her over-dressed plumpness, a thick fog of perfume hanging around, and me looking like a scraggly alley cat, lying on the sofa like a recluse munching on a leftover piece of chocolate, devouring Ralph Fiennes in the '92 version of 'Wuthering Heights'.
Mrs Bhasin's conversations never have introductions, her questions are mostly rhetorical. She swooped in on me, "You don't have any friends, no? Nothing to do in the evenings? Oh ho, why I hadn't thought of that before?" "That's not really true and I don't see why you have to even bother thinking about that," is what I had hoped I could say, but instead, I gave her that well-remembered Puss in Boots look from 'Shrek'.
"You have to, have to come this Saturday evening to my kitty party. I have organised a big thing, you know? And I am taking out my best dinner set also!" she was full of glee. I so wanted to get her out of the house, and because of my erstwhile mentioned upbringing, the "Of course" just slipped out.
That Saturday, I was in the sets of one of the Ekta Kapoor serials. Or something grander. The ladies were dressed to kill (you would die if you actually saw the heavy coating of foundation, matching bag-shoe-sari-eyeshadow).
Shriek: "Ooooh! Mr Bhasin is soooo romantic. He gave you heart-shaped diamond locket for birthday?"
Gloating: "New shoes, Latika? But I have told my husband's (no name taking and all) big brother to get me Manolos."
Drawl: "I am so bored with the Mercedes, I'm going in for an Audi this month."
They made it all sound like grocery, and I couldn't, of course. Their only other topic was Hindi serials, in which I couldn't participate, of course.So, at the end of the ritual, my head was in a tizzy. Clueless in a gang of raving females, with no diamonds or Audis in sight of my life for miles, I was being smothered. I think I even muttered in a very filmy fashion, "Mein kaun hoon? Mein kahan hoon?"
31 July 2009
Mrs Goody Two Shoes - III
Living in adland
My eyes fill up with tears when these ads show the wives washing, cleaning, caring all day. How well they know my life. Except I can't do all that with their robotic smiles
7 a.m. Lights, camera, action. I wake up, slip on my milk white silk gown, run my fingers through my hair in this indolent, sensuous sort of way, and head for the bathroom for the early morning beautification process.
Cut to Scene II. My lustrous hair is tied neatly in a bun and I splash water on my face in slow motion, and then look up in all splendour, smiling at the mirror as if to brighten up the whole world.
Scene III. I have strolled into the kitchen with my gown swishing in an early morning breeze. A ray of sunlight falls angularly on my face as I put the water on boil, dip Tetley green tea in it and then, with the tray in my hand, lovingly wake up my husband with a mint-fresh kiss. I smile at the world (again) and say, "I make sure that my husband begins his day in a healthy way. Do you?"
7 a.m. The alarm goes off. I am all groggy but there's no way out. There's no real Tetley in my kitchen, I look a mess from last night's movie marathon and drinking binge (yes, I do that, although the neighbours don't quite know), I feel pretty much like scum, the sun actually never peeps through my tiny kitchen window... but my life still feels like an ad film.
Come on, we know the kinds. It is a world where shiny, happy wives wear lipstick at home, are dressed in their wardrobe best and are running around to make sure the husband stays healthy and happy. When the husband fails to run the race in the son's school, it is time to change the oil she uses, of course. (Or was it the sugar? Or the cereal?). Then comes sorting and cleaning piles of laundry, making sure that the cuffs and collars of the husbands are squeaky clean (is that an expression the wife is allowed to use with reference to clothing?) or vacuuming and cooking.
And I stare at them with bewilderment. How do these guys know my life so well? When I'd rather be manicuring my nails, I am stirring the soup. Then I am scurrying to wash, dry, iron, arrange in neat stacks.
After all this, chachiji next door gives the husband a sympathetic look, throws me a lovingly admonishing look, "Look at the boy [she calls him a BOY for heaven's sake... ugh!]. He's looking so dry [chachiji, that's because he isn't drunk] and thin [you mean, not overweight, right?]. Feed him properly beta."
That's not where it ends. She has a dose intended specifically for me. "And you look so dark. What is that, a pimple? Arrey apply some cream-shreem. How haggard you look beside this young boy."
My temper had hit the skies by then. "Sure chachiji, I will do that," I give a saccharine smile. And loathe myself for doing that.
My eyes fill up with tears when these ads show the wives washing, cleaning, caring all day. How well they know my life. Except I can't do all that with their robotic smiles
7 a.m. Lights, camera, action. I wake up, slip on my milk white silk gown, run my fingers through my hair in this indolent, sensuous sort of way, and head for the bathroom for the early morning beautification process.
Cut to Scene II. My lustrous hair is tied neatly in a bun and I splash water on my face in slow motion, and then look up in all splendour, smiling at the mirror as if to brighten up the whole world.
Scene III. I have strolled into the kitchen with my gown swishing in an early morning breeze. A ray of sunlight falls angularly on my face as I put the water on boil, dip Tetley green tea in it and then, with the tray in my hand, lovingly wake up my husband with a mint-fresh kiss. I smile at the world (again) and say, "I make sure that my husband begins his day in a healthy way. Do you?"
7 a.m. The alarm goes off. I am all groggy but there's no way out. There's no real Tetley in my kitchen, I look a mess from last night's movie marathon and drinking binge (yes, I do that, although the neighbours don't quite know), I feel pretty much like scum, the sun actually never peeps through my tiny kitchen window... but my life still feels like an ad film.
Come on, we know the kinds. It is a world where shiny, happy wives wear lipstick at home, are dressed in their wardrobe best and are running around to make sure the husband stays healthy and happy. When the husband fails to run the race in the son's school, it is time to change the oil she uses, of course. (Or was it the sugar? Or the cereal?). Then comes sorting and cleaning piles of laundry, making sure that the cuffs and collars of the husbands are squeaky clean (is that an expression the wife is allowed to use with reference to clothing?) or vacuuming and cooking.
And I stare at them with bewilderment. How do these guys know my life so well? When I'd rather be manicuring my nails, I am stirring the soup. Then I am scurrying to wash, dry, iron, arrange in neat stacks.
After all this, chachiji next door gives the husband a sympathetic look, throws me a lovingly admonishing look, "Look at the boy [she calls him a BOY for heaven's sake... ugh!]. He's looking so dry [chachiji, that's because he isn't drunk] and thin [you mean, not overweight, right?]. Feed him properly beta."
That's not where it ends. She has a dose intended specifically for me. "And you look so dark. What is that, a pimple? Arrey apply some cream-shreem. How haggard you look beside this young boy."
My temper had hit the skies by then. "Sure chachiji, I will do that," I give a saccharine smile. And loathe myself for doing that.
Mrs Goody Two Shoes - II
Adjust maadi with canines and felines
There is only so much one can do for them. Alley cats and the stray dogs, but can one go any further than that?
In our home, we had eighteen windows and four doors on the groundfloor. And as happens in houses with a dozen people living there and dozen more walking in and out daily, those windows and doors were never shut. So along with the dozen visitors came in the alley cats and the stray pups who gradually overpowered our senses and usurped our lives. These smooth operators used only heavy doses of emotional atyachaar so that the items on the top of shopping lists changed from sausages for me to fish for the cats and meat for the dogs, the first morning chore became mixing a huge bowl of chapatis with milk (full of cream), and every outing was planned around their convenience.
I have invested my emotions and time in them, adored them, been blinded in love. So no one, no animal rights activists, no ardent dog lovers or cat followers, NO ONE, can ever say that I do not know how to adjust maadi with these animals around. Well, but one must accept that I am human, and even if they say I have a big heart and am a kind soul, there is no way I could shower my love unquestioningly on the universal set of animals.
I mean, when this (senior) colleague of mine would passionately show me images she has downloaded ("I have chosen the very best ones" and oh, that gleam in her eyes) of snakes, she was testing my patience, my courage, my being-grossed-out quotient. No offence to charmed-by-snakes people, but I was traumatised by those images hours after there had been a slide show of the reptiles in the office which I had to politely watch.
Well, as I was saying, I do tolerate dogs and cats. And one day, I got talking to generous, rotund Latika auntie in our complex, who loves feeding all around her, which would include us and the large family of strays right outside the gate (who get double treats since the food she brings us also mostly go to them). So as we were having a 'conversation', she manipulated me into her ritual of giving breakfast, lunch and dinner to the animals. My grocery list now included four liters of milk instead of two, 2 kg of meat instead of one and so on and so forth. I began living with it. Until, one morning... "Beta, bring some bananas and apples also na." "Vegetarian canines and felines?" I wondered in my drowsy, fuzzy mind. "Look who I have brought. Are they not beautiful cows?" Hold it, HOLD it! I didn't bargain for this! Fresh fruits for my morning salad, being chewed by cows as they put their heads through my balcony railings. And in return, they turned their backs, liberally sprinkled their 'holy water' right outside my home (with some sprays hitting me) and left without so much as a thank you...
There is only so much one can do for them. Alley cats and the stray dogs, but can one go any further than that?
In our home, we had eighteen windows and four doors on the groundfloor. And as happens in houses with a dozen people living there and dozen more walking in and out daily, those windows and doors were never shut. So along with the dozen visitors came in the alley cats and the stray pups who gradually overpowered our senses and usurped our lives. These smooth operators used only heavy doses of emotional atyachaar so that the items on the top of shopping lists changed from sausages for me to fish for the cats and meat for the dogs, the first morning chore became mixing a huge bowl of chapatis with milk (full of cream), and every outing was planned around their convenience.
I have invested my emotions and time in them, adored them, been blinded in love. So no one, no animal rights activists, no ardent dog lovers or cat followers, NO ONE, can ever say that I do not know how to adjust maadi with these animals around. Well, but one must accept that I am human, and even if they say I have a big heart and am a kind soul, there is no way I could shower my love unquestioningly on the universal set of animals.
I mean, when this (senior) colleague of mine would passionately show me images she has downloaded ("I have chosen the very best ones" and oh, that gleam in her eyes) of snakes, she was testing my patience, my courage, my being-grossed-out quotient. No offence to charmed-by-snakes people, but I was traumatised by those images hours after there had been a slide show of the reptiles in the office which I had to politely watch.
Well, as I was saying, I do tolerate dogs and cats. And one day, I got talking to generous, rotund Latika auntie in our complex, who loves feeding all around her, which would include us and the large family of strays right outside the gate (who get double treats since the food she brings us also mostly go to them). So as we were having a 'conversation', she manipulated me into her ritual of giving breakfast, lunch and dinner to the animals. My grocery list now included four liters of milk instead of two, 2 kg of meat instead of one and so on and so forth. I began living with it. Until, one morning... "Beta, bring some bananas and apples also na." "Vegetarian canines and felines?" I wondered in my drowsy, fuzzy mind. "Look who I have brought. Are they not beautiful cows?" Hold it, HOLD it! I didn't bargain for this! Fresh fruits for my morning salad, being chewed by cows as they put their heads through my balcony railings. And in return, they turned their backs, liberally sprinkled their 'holy water' right outside my home (with some sprays hitting me) and left without so much as a thank you...
3 June 2009
Mrs Goody Two Shoes - I
It was easy. I mean, a married young girl, with a rhes-spectable husband and warking in a rhes-spectable office. Finding a house in a rhes-spectable society was easy. And soon, I was surrounded with Mrs Bhasin, Mrs Reddy, old Mr Nagaraj et all. I had become thee 'bahu' of thee society. Now, being this kind of a bahu means something, to other people. The mornings start with taking the garbage out, which is normal, except that it is also chit-chat time. All the Mrs Everybodys are there and I start my day with a sugar-sweet "Namaste aunty, everything well?" "Arrey beta, how can everything be well? Your uncle has constipation and I have been telling him..." Tick, tock, tick, tock... I am already ticked off. "...and then the maidservant got those leaves and I made that curry..." interspersed with "Yes, aunty", "No aunty", "Right aunty", "I'll definitely try aunty".
This morning ritual ends with the husband lovingly calling for tea, that is for me to make tea and serving us both. I run off to the kitchen as part of my expression of wifely love and devout devotion,conscious of the the aunties' eyes following me with "what a nice sweet girl, even in this modern day" and your husband's eyes welcoming you with "what a darling you are".
Well, for anyone who thinks this is easy, it's not. You need to be a good player to keep the reputation going. It's like, that one day you take one puff in office and everyone goes, "Wow! You do that? Doesn't your husband say anything? Does he even know?" And up goes your fully constructed image in smoke.
So this one day was my pitfall, among many many more pitfalls to come. I kept the door of my flat ajar and while trying to get the mess that is our home in shape, which was because I was trying to find some papers I needed for office that day, I shouted, well actually, screamed, "Honey, can't you please make some breakfast? Anything?" Now, the husband is very kind and warm, just a little clueless. He, in his bewildered state, was even making his way to the fridge to manage something, when one Mrs Aunt walked in. "It is not my business, but why make poor boy cook early early in the morning. What will your saas say when she hears of this?" How on earth will my saas, thousand miles away, even KNOW? Unless... and I quickly shot a few glares to the husband, just in case.
A little while later, there was steaming puri-sabji-halwa on our dining table, courtesy aunty. She left me with a "poor girl, she doesn't have anyone to teach her values" look and a, "It is your husband, no. Handle with care."
This morning ritual ends with the husband lovingly calling for tea, that is for me to make tea and serving us both. I run off to the kitchen as part of my expression of wifely love and devout devotion,conscious of the the aunties' eyes following me with "what a nice sweet girl, even in this modern day" and your husband's eyes welcoming you with "what a darling you are".
Well, for anyone who thinks this is easy, it's not. You need to be a good player to keep the reputation going. It's like, that one day you take one puff in office and everyone goes, "Wow! You do that? Doesn't your husband say anything? Does he even know?" And up goes your fully constructed image in smoke.
So this one day was my pitfall, among many many more pitfalls to come. I kept the door of my flat ajar and while trying to get the mess that is our home in shape, which was because I was trying to find some papers I needed for office that day, I shouted, well actually, screamed, "Honey, can't you please make some breakfast? Anything?" Now, the husband is very kind and warm, just a little clueless. He, in his bewildered state, was even making his way to the fridge to manage something, when one Mrs Aunt walked in. "It is not my business, but why make poor boy cook early early in the morning. What will your saas say when she hears of this?" How on earth will my saas, thousand miles away, even KNOW? Unless... and I quickly shot a few glares to the husband, just in case.
A little while later, there was steaming puri-sabji-halwa on our dining table, courtesy aunty. She left me with a "poor girl, she doesn't have anyone to teach her values" look and a, "It is your husband, no. Handle with care."
23 April 2009
It's just a little rain
Bangalore greeted the rains with a sigh of relief today. Judo and I were just about sitting down to lunch when the formidable army of clouds marched upon us. The winds began to whistle through the streets and we stood and watched the magnificence of it all. It is amazing how, in an instant, the heart can do a flip and be unconditionally happy. When everything turns grey, and the storm comes to bang the door shut before you could run to it. You have to hurriedly get the clothes you had put out to dry off the clothesline. Then it would drizzle, through the leaves, on the awnings, in the little rivulets. You would make yourself a glass of hot chocolate, then curl your toes in and just sit there with a book, and a smile.
21 April 2009
Who are these, golfers?
You know what, I think there is one divide, only ONE, between people. There are people on two sides of the barbed wire that skirts the golf course. There are those sporting caps and golfing clubs, with caddies trailing along. They with their refined walk and refined talk. With their English tea and cigars. With pearl earrings or Gucci tees. Then there are us, riding in an auto by that wired, around 100 ft high fence, looking lustily at the greens, wondering what life is like out there, being jolted back to reality when the auto hits a bump or ducks into a pothole, and quickly returning to our Rs 3 coffee and occasional Rs 20 ice cream treats. We get too busy running around in our faded slippers. Just once in a while, in those stolen moments, we think about those green outfields, wondering what lies in those rolling stretches, under those cool caps…
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