Bloggers and Books.

The other day I just finished a book by this rather famous blogger-who-become-an-author.

I don’t really know what I was expecting – since I am not a big follower of this particular person’s blog. I had a nebulous idea perhaps – of a plot which spoke the same language, or situations, places and events which I had experienced, maybe some controversy, maybe some humour – something topical which I could relate to.

What I didn’t expect, was to be bored out of my skull.

Harsh? Well yes, rather.

But the truth was what would have been tolerable-interesting as someone's private blog just did not translate into a readable or engrossing or even passable novel. I found the plot loose, the writing mediocre, the humour contrived, the characters one-dimensional, and the predominant reaction at the end of the book, was relief that it was over.

Strangely enough, these are criticisms which one could level at dozens of blogs, mine included – but that has never stopped me from reading those blogs (or writing mine for that matter), and I don’t think I have consciously passed harsh judgement on the content, the writing or anything of the sort. I enjoy reading those blogs – even when the sentence construction is faulty, even if the odd post is not very interesting, but the sum total of the parts ends up being an enriching experience.

But when the same thing happens in a novel, it is different altogether.

So that brings me to a very interesting point, – are we as readers more willing to forgive mediocrity in blogging but not so in books (even if it is from the same author?). Do we have vastly different expectations and levels of what constitutes an acceptable blog versus an acceptable book? I would say, yes.

The question is, why?

The most obvious and no-brainer answer to that of course, is that authors get paid money and bloggers don’t. So perhaps, if someone is writing for a fee, is a professional writer, one expects a much higher degree of competence.

The authors I read, MUST be at an intellectual, linguistic, entertainment plane which is much higher than what I am capable of doing. Then, and only then, can I enjoy, appreciate and can revel in the books. It doesn’t mean it has to be an intellectual opus – a lot of light reading isn’t, but then there is this indefinable and intangible ‘quality’ in it which sets it apart from amateurs, which one respects. It could be the turn of phrase, the etching of the characters, the quirky humour which subtly tells the reader, that there is much more to this writing gig, then well, just writing.

Maybe it’s a sense of fellowship – a blogger is a fellow, someone you can interact with, mail, comment, and chat with. An author is supposed to be a celebrity – inaccessible, aloof, and with a halo which is larger than life. So I might not be willing to extend the same benefit of doubt as I would to a blogger-mate.

The other reason could be the fact that in blogging, one is exposed to minute quantities of the persons thought processes at any given point of time – thousand to two thousand words, one incident. In a novel, one is exposed to maybe forty times that quantity. Much vaster canvas to be critical off isn’t it?

And I think very personally, bloggers who turn bad authors, bring out the biggest conflict in me -a person who has always harboured hopes of getting a book published some day.

On the one hand it gives this perverse sense of hope – that if someone who is not-very-good can get published; I might have a fighting chance too. On the other, it gives rise to a lot of self-loathing and criticism for NOT having done anything about it yet – especially when I knows in my heart-of-hearts that I might not have the perseverance, or the talent to actually write a decent book.

And there is always the other conflict – that even assuming average authors get published, does one actually want to go down in the annals of history as being one of those average authors or is it better not to attempt the task at all? Is it better to be mediocre and famous, or know one’s limitations and rein in one’s ambition to what one is passably good at?

I just shared this post with Mo, and she had a very interesting point. Viz. that bloggers are commentators and they comment on the current state of being – they are not story tellers. Which is a hugely valid point in retrospect – because one of the problems I DID have with the book, was that it was like a collage of events – not woven together, but just jostling each other for space.

So in other words this static, still photograph technique of writing can be acceptable in blogs, or to use an analogy – in a home video, might seem very amateurish when you go to a multiplex to watch a movie where you want action, dynamism and movement.

What do you think?

(No, not Sidin, I have not read Dork (Though I plan to). I do not want the post to be misconstrued just because he happens to be the latest from the bloggers-turned-authors genre).

Life, for Rent

There is this Marathi soap that the MIL watches called Anubandh. I have occasionally caught snippets of the story and it seems to be tackling a fairly controversial and topical issue – that of surrogacy.

A very-very middle class single girl finds herself in some dire financial straits (don’t have the background on the hows and whys) and agrees to become a surrogate mother for a very rich couple who cannot have a child (for a whooping fee of course). She seems to be doing this unknown to her very conservative brother and his rather shrewish wife and her fiancé who is away studying in the US. Right now, the girl has just got pregnant – and I assume the plot will try and address the various conflicts which arise from this decision of hers.

And I started thinking about this surrogacy thing. It’s an interesting dilemma – on the one hand, you have the anguish of a woman who is desperate to have a child by any means and cannot do so, (Lets not even get into the societal aspect of barrenness and infertility in India) .On the other hand, you have another woman who is forced to lease out and almost give up her rights (for those nine months) on the absolutely most personal possession she has – her body.

Let me take the surrogate mothers bit in this post.

My first and gut reaction is that it is absolute, unforgivable violation. I would put almost on par with rape and/or prostitution. I know logically, rationally, mentally the two are nowhere similar – rape on the face of it is forced physical intimidation – which is violent and without the consent of the victim. Surrogacy is a consensual contract – the surrogate knows exactly what is it that she is getting into charges a compensation for that – there is no coercion, there is no physical violation and it is certainly done with her buy in.

But doesn’t the fact remain that in both cases, there is a superior strength (physical in some cases, financial in the other) which dictates the balance of power? In both cases, while the act and deed might be completely physical - the ramifications are as much emotional and mental and far outlive the duration of the act. (I am no expert, but I find it difficult to believe that any female can carry a child in the womb for nine months, go through labour and then part with the child without emotional cataclysm).

And let’s look at some of the other aspects- the physicality of it for one. In the normal course of things, a woman is pregnant with her own child – a part of herself, who is for those months sharing residence with her in her body – so yes, she needs to compromise and sacrifice and maybe do a number of things or cease to do a number of things because she is sharing premises – to give a loose analogy, similar to what she would be doing with a spouse or a family member. But would the same feelings, compromises, sacrifices be possible (with the same level of emotion) with say a paying guest (and an unknown one at that), who is sharing the room? Wont the value equations, (This much money, this is what I will do), or even worse, resentment start coming into the picture at SOME point of time?

One could argue that it is the woman’s body and she is free to do as she please with it – but by that logic what is stopping someone else from selling a kidney because of financial imperatives – it’s his or her body after all. You can carry the argument further and say that a kidney donation is life threatening and will seriously debilitate the donor – but isn’t the same true for multiple pregnancies as well? (Hell, my grandmother had 12 pregnancies and 13 kids from them and that left her physically exceedingly frail). There are always risks, of dying in childbirth, or physiological complications and infections. (And I think it is fair to assume that if someone is financially compelled to rent out the womb, chances are she might not have access to five star medical care and comfort during the tenure)

And there are so many other ethical and moral questions which this throws up.

What if the child is less than perfect(God forbid). Do the parents have a right to walk away asking for a refund? Whose responsibility IS it – the fault of the genes or is it some problem in the time the foetus was in the womb?

What if the parents who have initiated it (the non-surrogates) for whatever reason decide to part ways – can they lose the accountability for the kid just because they don’t have the physical experience of having the kid (I vaguely remember reading a case like this sometime back)

What is to stop family members from using women as breeding machines to get that money?

What is to stop potential leasers of wombs from evaluating the prospects for suitability for surrogacy – (much as one would evaluate cattle or slaves in olden times). Isn’t that the ultimate degradation and commoditization of the women?

Frankly I don’t buy the altruism argument. I do not think that the females who become surrogates for financial compensation do so because they want to allow someone to have the joy of parenthood. The reason they do it is because they have mouths to feed or kids to educate or some other pressing financial needs – and leasing their body out is the only way for them to do so ( doesn’t it sound again uncannily like prostitution? Only for a cause which is less sordid)

As I was writing this post, I came across an article in Marie Claire – about how Anand in gujurat has become a surrogacy shop – foreign and non-resident tourists come here to outsource the pregnancy. The doctor who was running the show gave one glib line about how this money gave the woman the “first taste of empowerment”. Those nine months could have been utilized in giving her some training, some skills which would be genuine empowerment and would last beyond those $5000 that she gets for renting her womb out isn’t it?

Having said that I have all the sympathy in the world for those people who unfortunately cannot bear children of their own. I can even understand the motivation behind wanting the child to carry their genes as opposed to adopting an unknown orphan. But somehow I wish there was a way to do it without exploitation of poor, uneducated women.

What do you think?

Bedtime tales

One of the most unnerving ordeals as a new bride/groom has to be definitely the sleeping quarter allocation when one goes a-visiting with the extended outlaws and the laws.

No, I don’t mean the whole suhaag-raat deal, I am sure that is quite awkward as well – but this is slightly later version, long after the marriage frenzy and confusion, when one in cold-blood is expected to walk into a shared er...conjugal quarters under the watchful eyes of parents and/or other elderly relatives.

It is absolutely and completely disorienting – and certainly more so for the girl, if she has been brought up in the usual Indian family ostrich like style of avoiding anything remotely to do with “THAT" topic.

The first trip to Goa post marriage was therefore quite harrowing.

I went swaggering in to the uncle’s house assuming that everything was going to be like usual, with just an addendum in the form of the spouse. Maybe a little fuss about him, but that would soon fizzle out I thought.

I couldn’t have been more mistaken.

Suddenly I found that by virtue of marriage, my whole standing in the house had shifted from just-another-head that needs to be shoved into whichever room/bed/mattress/floor space is available to the er...consort of the CHIEF GUEST OF HONOUR.

(Just to provide a context, in my growing up years, a full house was 25-30 odd people ( all talking at the same time). Sleeping arrangements meant a long room with four mattresses, and pillows which normally resulted in a free for all to get place or bed sheets. A charmingly democratic resolution to the sleeping problem)

There is apparently a rule book about the proper method to treat this CHIEF GUEST OF HONOUR who must not be offended which I had completely missed (the last female marriage had happened when I was about the two, and I am the eldest of the girls and the first to get hitched.)

This included fulfilling (and anticipating) every culinary wish of his, hovering around him and asking him whether he wanted anything every twenty minutes, scampering like hares to pander to every word which emerged out of his lips. (Bloody annoying it was – gave the hero a vastly exaggerated sense of his own importance. Also this overwhelming, gushing gratitude at having married me, wasn’t particularly good for my ego)

And the worst bit of all, the seventy odd year old uncle and his wife, self evicting themselves from the master bedroom and sleeping on the settee so that the Jamai could repose on the king sized bed.

And it was a awkward-as-hell. It takes cold-blooded nerve to confront a white-haired patriarch with conversations about beds and sleeping arrangements.

To be fair, the hero was more discomfited than flattered, but I had little sympathy for him at that point especially when he would talk about how he has saved me from spinsterhood and other lines in the same vein.

And somehow this whole thing followed us for a year or so, when we went to HIS uncles house. We were allocated his cousins room ( Daughter in laws are a much lower species than the sons in law ). We walk into her bedroom to see a double bed there. Hero, with his usual presence of mind and fetish for feet, asks, “But Maami, have you reorganized your house, weren’t these two single beds on two sides of the room?”. Maami blushes and mutters about kitchen and escapes. While I am left to pick up the pieces of my shattered self long enough to kick the hero really hard (He ALWAYS does that. The kind of sticky morasses which I have been subject to because he has a way of firing of his mouth is too awful to even list down here. )

One of the best anecdotes I had heard about this was that of my friend S’s eldest sister – let’s call her R. (Just as a context, S is the youngest of three sisters). R, and her brand new husband come for the first time to the house where she grew up. Come night time and S’s Ma is getting the guest room ready by putting fresh sheets and linen for the newlyweds.

Her dad traipses in, looks bewildered at aunty and says “Isn’t the J (the groom) going to sleep in the same bedroom alongside me – PUT HIM in there. Why are you putting him here?

I always wonder how poor aunty (the good wife and DIL that she is) explained to her irate spouse that his son-in-law could and should, share sleeping quarters with his now-grown-up daughter.

This post was written quite some time ago, somehow never got around to posting it!

The goose and the gander

Let me illustrate by an example. Say a goose and a gander, try on a pair of jeans that don’t fit. This is sequence of events thereafter.

Goose
1. Starts minor hyperventilation
2. Tries to squeeze into jeans by contorting the body into weird shapes and not breathing
3. Examines the jeans to see if they have mysteriously shrunk and heaves a sigh of relief thinking they have indeed shrunk.
4. Tries on another pair of jeans just to prove the hypothesis
5. Finds out that the other jeans are no more accommodating than the first pair (pun unintended)
6. Minor hyperventilation progresses into medium sized hyperventilation
7. Goes through a mental checklist of what has been eaten in the previous two hours, wonders about water retention, salt intake, pms and other cheerful things
8. Tentatively (after wearing the lightest possible clothes in the wardrobe) climbs onto a weighing machine
9. Does an acrobatic back-flip in horror
10.Medium hyperventilation progresses to major hyperventilation
11.Calls best friends (2nos) and tearfully asks whether “Have I been looking fat these days?”
12.Hangs up after not believing them and sits in a corner brooding for the half hour
13.Goes through a check list of all meals and lack of exercise in the last three weeks
14.Curses Diwali, festivals and everything fattening
15.Kicks the offending jeans a couple of times
16.Make plans for drastic starvation and salad diet w/o sugar, oil, salt or anything edible in it
17.Curses genes
18. Make plans for rigorous exercise schedule
19. Make an excel sheet for diet and exercise tracking
20. Wallows in self pity

Gander
1. Waves the offending jeans at whoever is present and blandly and unconcernedly says “I need to get rid of all these jeans that don’t fit, they are cluttering up my cupboard”

Baby Blues.

Yet another friend had a baby few days ago. I am hugely happy for her. And for the couple of other friends who have had kids in the last year.

But if truth be told, there is one small part of me which gets all freaked out every time I come to know of a baby-in-progress. The event forces me to take my head out of the sand and confront the brutal reality that time is passing by - fast. That it really doesn’t matter a jot what the emotional and mental age is- or whether, as in my case, that its 10 years behind the physical age. The latter is what ACTUALLY matters in the real world.

Also, nothing is straightforward or assured anymore. A generation ago, the jobs were more secure, the support system more solid and financial strength was linear and growing. Now, the first two are increasingly becoming a chimera, and if anything, the financial graph is flowing in reverse (monies are much easier to come by in the thirties/forties rather than fifties/sixties). All the more reason to have kids younger, so that there is some guarantee of being able to care for their needs, not to mention, the energy to enter into their pursuits.

It's not that I don’t want children. I do. But in the abstract.

I have a pretty strong suspicion that the life I lead right now (which is fun enough at this age) might start looking pretty sterile and colourless ten years hence. After all, only so much of movies, malls and travelling one can do before it becomes totally meaningless.

But the actuality of children - that’s a different story altogether.

Nothing actually makes one confront one's inadequacies as much as the thought of a child of one's own. It’s not even about being a perfect parent – I know that parenting is learning, growing process and no one is omniscient or right all the time. But inadequacies in terms of say, selflessness – voluntarily abdicating the focus on self, keeping aside one’s needs and whims for the good of someone else – always. I don’t know whether I can do that on a sustained and continuous basis.

I look at myself and S, I don’t think we are particularly selfish or self centered, or irresponsible, or cruel, or any of those things that make bad parents.

But I don’t know whether we have what it takes to be good parents either. We have our foibles, we have our moods, we can be quirky verging on eccentric, we can be abstracted and so inward looking that we lose sight of the outside world. We can be jaded, and unenthused. We cannot pretend - feign interest in things which bore us, or be social when we would rather be quiet, or display any extraordinary degree of emotional selflessness. Or allow anyone (including the spouse) to cross into the absolute core inside of that ephemeral concept of personal space

And one cannot get into childrearing with ennui and cynicism. A child does not have any definition of personal boundaries or limits and rightly so. But the thought of letting go, is what is so terrifying.

Or the thought of giving up that control which one has struggled to achieve in life -On one’s independence, on one’s body, on one’s sleep, on mental and emotional liberty. I know that people who are parents will rush to tell me that you can still do whatever you want to – whether its adventure sports or travel or whatever else. I am aware of that. However, one’s hold on life and limbs, has to be that much more tenacious for the simple reason that there is a kid depending on one – so there is always going to be that restrictive mental seatbelt. To paraphrase a quote I had read in some book “I cannot die now, I am a mother”.

I am not saying any of this is bad or something I don’t want to do – but the thought of doing that 24/7 for the next eighteen years without a day off, without margin of error, without a safety net – THAT thought is terrifying. I have seen a lot of people who were fairly irresponsible when they were single step up and rise magnificently and become wonderful parents. So I try and reassure myself with a “if they can do it, you can probably manage too” but somehow it ends up sounding like a meaningless platitude even in my head.

But I don’t know how some people do it – transition so naturally from one life stage to another. Marriage and then the maternal instincts come roaring in. I always seem to be in a denial –resistant mode about these sorts of things. Always seem to be fighting change, battling against growing up. And one cannot stay a child, if one has a child of one’s own.

What Rakhi Vhar Crackter are you?

1. At a party with Rakhi, How are you most likely to behave?
a) Kiss her
b) Try and hog the camera
c) Look at her disapprovingly

2. At a romantic tete-a-tete with Rakhi, How are you most likely to behave?
a) Kiss her
b) Throw petals and try and hog the camera
c) Look at her disapprovingly and ask her about her past affairs

3. How do you like Rakhi dressed?
a) Anything as long as her forehead is free and kissable
b) Ghoongat and bare midriff
c) Burkha

4. What movie song would you like played every-time you come on screen?
a) Chumma chumma de de
b) Seedi Jalaile
c) Parde mein rehne do

5. What is the gift your mother, Rakhi’s sasuma is most likely to give Rakhi?
a) Hygiene Wipes
b) Gangajal and Sindoor
c) Chastity Belt

6. What flowers would you buy for Rakhi?
a) tuLIPS
b) Marigold
c) Gobi ka phool

7. What is your favourite game?
a) Spin the bottle
b) Snakes and ladders
c) Killer

8. What would be your personal ad tagline to woo Rakhi?
a) Mika Pheeka, Lav Khush
b) Baja Moneymohan
c) Girl Grill Giri

Your score?
Mostly (a)’s: You are the Kisser Crackter.
Mostly (b)‘s: You are the Ladderer. Crackter.
Mostly (c)‘s: You are the Clearer Crackter:

A CynaMon Quiz

A Cine Curve

A couple of weeks ago, I happened to catch a soap my aunt was watching (a particularly nasty example, I should add – about some fellow who has married a dark girl. The least they could do was GET a dark skinned girl rather than smear what appeared to be wood polish on a not-so-fair female)

I just got to thinking about the trajectory of soap operas in India over the last fifteen years or so. And I realized something which I found very interesting - that the early-nineties ‘serials’ (which is what they were called then) were essentially middle class – in the sets, in the stories, in the sensibilities and very – REAL (especially the characterization). This tone of these has changed drastically over the last few years – becoming larger than life, opulent, exaggerated and well, regressive.

Just think about some of soaps from that era – the ones I remember at any rate Girish Karnad’s Sara Jahaan Hamara (the sensitive, understated story of a family dealing with adoption), Ravi Rai’s Sailaab and Thodha Hai thode ki zaroorat hai, Udaan ( WAY ahead of its time), Mr. Yogi, Lifeline, Alpviram – so MANY of them. As opposed to some of the trash that is dished out today - dark skinned outcasts dripping the milk of human kindness, fair skinned- over made up vamp- saas (es?), ineffective bleating men, Alok Nath being Alok Nathish..

Interestingly cinema ( or the multiplex cinema) seems to be headed in the other direction – from a super heroic time where the absolutely perfect, large-hearted hero could take on fifteen armed men, to a depiction of a much more flawed and gray person, who is not self-sacrificing, or extraordinary ( if you discount movies like Ghajini, that is). Whether it is the calculating, self-absorbed Farhan in Luck by Chance, the melancholic, unsuccessful Joe in Rock On, or even the fact that a SRK has attempted to be ineffective, middle class Surinder in Rab De (which I have not seen, just going by reviews).

And what I find most fascinating is the fact that the directors no longer feel it necessary to justify WHY the heroes and heroines are manipulative, egotistic or opportunistic. So we are not inflicted with stories of poor widowed mothers, or gang raped sisters or crushing poverty which has led to the birth of the rather noble villain. The characters of today are not heroes in the conventional sense, but interestingly neither are they anti heroes. A maturity which somehow seems to be lacking in television – rather lopsided, given the nature of the medium isn’t it?

It brings up an interesting conundrum of the sociological evolution of the Indian entertainment. In other words, why is it that cinema seems to be moving towards realism of characters, (if not the trappings – yes, we are still obsessed with picturesque Swiss locales) while soaps are getting increasingly more formulaic and unrealistic.

One possible explanation could be the shifting kaleidoscope of the prime audience for the medium. If we assume that in the nineties – television was available only to the upwardly mobile intelligentsia and not to the ordinary middle class, viewer. For the latter, the distraction from dreary mundanity came from the weekly movie – thus, it had to be as big, colourful and loud as possible. Now television proliferation has meant that they are seeking this antidote to reality within their homes – and at the switch of a button. The upwardly mobile crowd, on the other hand, has either shifted to other channels or are seeking actualization in the entertainment fare.

Another reason could be the fact that as actors are entering our living room trying to sell Navratan Tel to us, it’s too much to expect the audience to be wowed by them in super-heroic roles - which might necessitate a more subdued characterization in cinema. Celebrities are far too real now – what with Page 3 and innumerable gossip and glamour magazines and on every other reality shows. So we are okay with seeing them deglamorized.

On the other hand, television stars since they come from “people like us” - it is easier to watch them in fantasized roles of opulence and grandeur - gives the viewer the legitimacy to dream as it were.

A caveat here, when I speak of cinema in this post, it is essentially the late eighties – early nineties genre ( there HAVE been middle class heroes – who can forget the delightfully wry Amol Palekar and Utpal Dutt combination for instance) and as a broad direction which cinema and television is taking rather than specific movies per se.

Of course, I have refrained from stating any opinion on Rajni or Chiru movies – since they are a world apart.

What do you think?

P.S I had some other points which I had thought up in the middle of the night (when I am at my brightest), which I have completely forgotten now. ..er...

P.P.S Title inspired by Mo who kept on talking about scary sines and inverted sines and giving me a complex.

Misadventures of the married kind – III: This little DeeGee went to the market....

(Continued from here and here)

Just before we got hitched, and around the time I was getting a massive attack of frozen feet about marriage – the responsibilities, the new people, the new location and even grocery/vegetable shopping, I had this conversation with the very-reassuring-and-considerate fiancé.

"Do not worry" he proclaimed "Main hoon na (actually, the English equivalent – but Main hoon na sounds so much more heroic no). I used to shop for vegetables and groceries all the time when I was in the US."

"Do not waste a moment worrying about it" he empathically added.

Thus, after uttering a brief prayer thanking the powers-that-be, for inadvertently acquiring a Domestic God, I blithely traipsed into the marriage.

Let's forward a bit, to a scene a few days after the ceremony.

A foray into the kitchen stores and refrigerator had elicited nothing but 2 inches of accumulated dust and a sneezing fit.

"Aha - Time to see the master in action" I thought to myself.

The Domestic God (henceforth to be known as DG) rose with alacrity to the occasion and thus we found ourselves browsing the aisles of Tru-Mart for the very first time as a couple-setting-up-a-house.

The dimming of the stars in my eyes started in about twenty minutes. For twenty minutes I saw the DG stand with rapt attention in front of the frozen meats section, intensely debating on the relative merits of Chicken salami versus sausages. (A sidebar here, DG’s genes seem to have revolted against generations of brahmanical abstention. They like their chicken. They like the chicken very much. In fact, I am pretty sure that if there was a race between say, a Biryani versus wife, the wife would be so far behind in the race, that it would have been significantly better for the wife's ego not to have started running in the race at all).

Anyways after gently hinting (remember this is very soon after marriage, where one hadn't yet graduated to shrewishly prodding) for about ten minutes, he moved on. – to the snacks and juices counter and carefully and lovingly selected some more staple-foodstuff– viz. custard powder, salted peanuts, Haldiram's snacks, papads and pickes. Then he led me very confidently to the toiletries and cleaning supplies section where he added some ear buds and dental floss to our shopping cart.

And it so happens that I found myself in the slightly atypical situation of having olive oil and salami in the house, but with no daal or atta.

And this highly individualistic shopping pattern continues till today. On the rare day that S goes grocery shopping – specifically on the days he has a craving for corn and realizes that its available in Big Bazaar AND I manage to catch him in time to shove a grocery list in his hand, he comes back cheerily carrying whatever it is that he finds interesting in the aisles (whether or not it is on the list).

The selection process is all very mysterious. Yesterday for instance, he had chilli-powder and turmeric on the list. He brought the turmeric but very snootily passed over the unfortunate chilli-powder.

And rummaging through the shopping bag is always fraught with interesting possibilities – one never knows WHAT one may find inside. Although, probability is high, that one won't find any Harpic or Lizol.

Ah well. Who needs Harpic and Lizol anyways?

To be continued: The Domestic God in the Kitchen.

Que Sari Sari

I have always envied women who can wear saris effortlessly and gracefully. I have never been quite able to crack it. I can wear them. After about seven attempts and 41safety pins (a girl’s best friend), it can even look passably elegant. But if truth be told, I have never quite mastered the art and therefore, can never be one of those marvellous super women-types who just get up in the morning and glide into a sari without any fuss or tears.

My standard operating practise when confronted with a sari-wearing occasion is to

a) Avoid: Duck the occasion altogether (ah, wishful thinking)

b) Substitute: Give feeble excuses and turn up in a Salwar Kameez.

c) Sulk and comply: Throw tantrums, fret, curse, and then finally wear it (with the help of Ma or any handy female) with a martyred air and totter to whichever function. This, after turning most of the room upside down and getting into at least one spat (with the mother, – “WHY the HELL can’t you drape it properly-you have thirty years of practise?”/ “No I will NOT wear those rib-cracking-circulation-stopping blouses. I don’t care if people call it a tee-shirt. At least I don’t get asphyxiated ”/”Stick a pin there, and there and there as well, you missed that spot, OUCH!!!” or with the husband, “ hope in the next janam you are born an Indian woman and have to wear saris everyday” or the more pithy “Eff off”)

d)In a rare burst of enthusiasm, decide to drape it without any help and do so successfully. Only figure out that it has been arrayed in the mirror image of the more conventional left shouldered way after the mother goes into peals of raucous and unseemly laughter.

My first brush with the sari started somewhere in late school. Till then, I had quite successfully managed to avoid coming within lassoing distance of them despite the occasional traditional /teacher’s day scare.

Let’s forward to Class 9, Hyderabad.

Our much esteemed (!) and very I-know-which-side-my-bread-is-buttered-and-will-do-sell-my-grandmother-let-alone-these-useless-students-for-money Owner/Principal manages to get the school invited for some inter-state- competition. As a gesture of goodwill (to the rich dignitaries) and revenge (on the hapless female students), she mandates that we don costumes of the participating states and sashay down the grounds.

Some evil star prompts the organizer to allocate a Bengali sari to me. The Bengali traditional sari – the one which is the lovely red and white (Think Parineeta) which is distinguished by the fact that it has ABSOLUTELY no pleats in front. The same all-important-pleats which allow the wearer some moving and breathing space. This one is to be worn more like a crepe bandage- viz. just rolled around the wearer. Also as with the crepe, the key focus seems to be to restrict and impede any free movement (the dainty, femininity thing l I assume).

Definitely not the ideal way to initiate a semi-tomboy into the intricacies of the garment.

Somehow I manage to shuffle, waddle, and roll myself to the parade grounds with other similarly suffering schoolmates - accompanied by distressingly forthright commentary from the boys. Once there, we are told, that we need to perambulate the ground (which incidentally are flanked by er..nubile young jawaans).

So we all waddle, shuffle and roll some more, collectively stomping over and crushing yards and yards of silk and satin. During the course of this walk, my sari which seems to have a distinct mind of its own (quite typical of Bengalis?), decides that it has enough of me and valiantly tries to part ways. Fortunately, it meets with only partial success.

The Gujurati sari next to mine, decides to emulate the attempt and is much more successful (again, quite typical of the state? Hmmmm!). About seventy percent manages to sneak away before the wearer realizes that.

I did mention that we were flanked by nubile (?) young jawans didn’t I?

Let us discreetly draw a curtain over the rest of the proceedings.

Incidentally there is still a photograph of me in that damn thing floating around in cyberspace in-spite of all my attempts to destroy it. One of my moronic friends has become the self appointed guardian of my ‘street-urchin’ (as he calls it) look for eternity. Every few years he digs the photo out, sends me a sadistic mail with the photo as an attachment. Hmm, I really need to get new friends.

After this, I firmly stayed away from saris for the next three years until the twelfth standard farewell party. This was quite uneventful, except for the fashion atrocity of wearing puffed LONG sleeved blouse (the ‘in’ (sic) style) with a Guajarati pallu.

Undergrad was relatively simple. Traditional and sari days could just be avoided – as were rose days and friendship days (do they still have them I wonder, the friendship days were particularly nauseating as I recall).

Then we come to B-school. College brochures, presentations, inter-collegiate functions, mug-shots – all in saris, all fraught with much tension. The halcyon sans-sari days seemed definitely over. But on the plus side, I meet like-minded, sari-challenged friends. (Once, after a few nights-out-battling-insane-deadline-for-an-intercollegiate-competitions, we (four females) accompanied the sari-clad-presenter without realizing that it was draped on the wrong shoulder. Fortunately a friend (male!) pointed it out before she went up onto the dais).

After that it’s been a series of saris – cousins’ weddings, engagement, marriage, pujas so on and so forth. I suppose I am better than I was, but I prefer it infinitely more, when it is worn by other people.

This sari post will not be complete, if I don’t end this with an incident with a friend.

Just after she got married, she had to go to the in-laws for the first time as a bride, for a Satyanarayan puja.There she was expected to change into an appropriate sari for the function which she did and since she didn’t have the help of any friendly, known females. She asked her husband to help her pin the sari pallu together – which he did. Only being a male, he wasn’t aware that the pallu is normally ALSO pinned to the blouse – to keep it in place. Then friend goes to the pandal and does the sashtang pranam (prostration before the idol). Gravity of course, played out its part on the thick Kancheepuram pallu.

Apparently a lot of the younger folks of her husband’s family fondly recall her as the bride whose pallu fell down.

Ah well.

Super Cyn (and Super Ma in a special guest appearance) feature in Revenge of the Roving-Eye-Lizzie

Ed note:This one was written sometime in 2004. I vaguely remember posting it but it seems to have disappeared from the archives, which is strange since I dont delete posts.(the Busy Lizzie one is there). I am still suffering from bloggers block so wading through the hard disk for stuff written in the past which has never seen the light of day. Is that cheating? Hmmm. Ah well)

A quick flashback: Busy Lizzie - the dacoit queen of the reptilian looks and the scaly tail - of whom many ballads of nefarious traps and malignant intents have been penned, had ambushed poor unsuspecting Super Cyn and Super Ma one fine day a few months before this tale. Super Ma, (Super Cyn’s sidekick) after a nasty showdown with Busy Lizzie, had emerged triumphant to tell the tale

Roving-Eye-Lizzie aka R-E-L, the direct descendent of Busy Lizzie, comes into their lives again to avenge the death of her mother.

Roving-Eye-Lizzie, one of the sterling members of the Fork-Tongue Gang, has earned that moniker because of her particularly nasty-looking left eye. Strangely over-developed, glassy, this eye seems to freeze and overpower anyone who accidentally catches sight of it. She has been known to wreak havoc in a number of households around the world because of her particularly sinister modus operandi, which is to stare them into immobility with that strange roving eye and then stun them with the malignant poison from that deadly forked tongue (that trademark of the Fork Tongue Gang!)

And now, she wanted to destroy Super Cyn!

In the quest for vengeance, R-E-L, had laid her masterly plan. Catch Super-Cyn unawares was the strategy. Unsuspecting is vulnerable. Vulnerable is success for R-E-L

So one day, Super-Cyn having showered and preparing to depart from the bathroom finds it manned by R-E-L looking particularly menacing and hideously green, perched on top of a bottle of Dettol. The roving eye (of the R-E-L fame) is rolling in its socket malevolently looking at our heroine while the forked tongue of the (Fork-Tongue-Gang fame) is lazily investigating the top of the Dettol bottle savoring it as if it was one of the finest shots of Scotch.

Trapped and defenseless, what does Super Cyn do? Does she give up? No!!

After being initially frozen to the spot (thanks to the tipsy malignant eye), she grabs the hand shower pipe and aims the nozzle and sprays R-E-L with a jet of hot water edging away as far as she can in the meantime.

R-E-L facing a steam of scalding water, lets go of her perch on the Dettol bottle and slips down to the soaps

The fighting spirit of this valiant descendent of Lazaretto the Hun is brought to the fore by this direct confrontation. She turns around and glares at Super Cyn, the eye rolling in true rover style and decides to try a more direct approach. From the soap area, she jumps onto the shower gel, the height providing a vantage position to view Super Cyn and re-evaluates her strategy, and stares at Super Cyn. Super Cyn, unfazed stares right back at her. Suddenly R-E-L launches downward on to the shelf. Super Cyn, with her usual presence of mind, clambers on to the washing machine. The steam of hot water, which she was aiming at R-E-L, is cooling off to a nice pleasantly warm trickle so she needs to get some other weapon to tackle the menace.

In the meantime, she also yells for reinforcements from sidekick Super Ma who, oblivious to the danger Super Cyn is in, is in the kitchen cooking mutter-paneer. Now Super Ma, for some strange reason, refuses to acknowledge the real menace and danger of R-E-L and insists on underestimating her prowess. In fact, she constantly tells Super Cyn that she is over-emphasizing the R-E-L threat. Super Ma stands outside the door and asks what is the matter. On being told that it is R-E-L, Busy Lizzie's daughter, Super Ma puffed up with her last victory against the Lizzie clan snickers and leaves our poor heroine to her fate.

Does the unprotected Super Cyn give up now? No!!

With her foot, she overturns a bucket and tries to roll it towards R-E-L. Doesn't work. Thinking quickly, she uses the shower pipe as a lasso to edge the bucket forward. R-E-L, having clambered down the wall onto the floor, is temporarily trapped behind the bucket. Having thus strategically out-maneuvered R-E-L with the bucket, our super heroine jumps down from the washing machine and runs like the wind outside (still holding the shower nozzle in her hand until the last minute in case of a surprise attack) and locks R-E-L inside.

She then proceeds to give Super Ma a piece of her mind for so letting her face the danger alone and insists she remedy it immediately. Super Ma, suitably chastised, picks up the rod and proceeds towards the bathroom and forces R-E-L to retreat the way she entered - the window,which is then, barricaded against further surprise attacks.

And the super combination of Super Cyn and Super Ma prevail yet AGAIN!

Thus ends the saga of R-E-L.

Good triumphs over Evil. Every time!

Kyuki Sassy Bhi Kabhi Bahu thi

These days I have come across a lot of stuff on literature for the female species - colloquially known as "Chick-Lit". This particular genre, is targeted I believe at urban girls between the ages of 25-35, working professionals, independent and all that jazz.

I suppose, I qualify.

But somehow I have never clambered onto chick-lit bandwagon. I have read a couple of the Candace Bushnell books ( the Mother of all Chick Litterateurs, The Fashionista-book Goddess, the One-who-started-it-all-with-Sex-and-the-city etcetera etcetera) and even sneakingly enjoyed the "Devil Wears Prada". But I don't think I can call myself an aficionado of the genre.

Maybe its because of the fact that there is too much fashion in it (and I really wouldn't know the difference between Jimmy Choo and Manolo Blahnik. Heck, I hadn't even heard of them until I had do some work in the category a couple of years ago), too many stilettos..and uhm..I am rather coordination challenged. (As the hero wouldn't hesitate to point out - I must be the only
female in the universe who managed to fall off a stationary Exercycle. For the record, I did NOT! (whatever he may say hmpf)-. But the fact remains, walking around on stilettos would be a bit of a Hazardous-to-health activity) and well, chick lit has a LOT of alpha females (alpha types scare the shit out of me in real life, and in books).

Which is the reason I haven't seen Sex and the city or don't even particularly want to. Or any of travails of the Indian Bridget Jones (Brinda Joshis? Pliss excuse, couldn't help myself)

On the other hand I wouldn't say I was a sworn enemy either ( and if there are any rabid fans baying for my blood, let me interject hurriedly and say that I am a big admirer of slightly dated chick lit - viz. Heyer.There is a making-fun-at-self undertone in Heyer's work ( also sometimes seen in Desperate Housewives) which is quite lovely).

Anyways, I digress. If there is an audience who laps up stories of Harry Winston, chapatis and chips ..ahem .."post-coital cuddling", by all means, let the genre grow and multiply.

But what I DO want to know, is why each and every single of the book flaps, newspaper reviews, magazine articles, insist on describing these (the books, the protagonists and the authors) as "Sassy"?

I don't know what is about that word which manages to annoy me so much. It's supposed to be a emancipated word, but somehow it sounds utterly condescending which goes contrary to the woman-of-substance they try and portray. To my mind, there is something quite wannabe and brittle about the term.

Or maybe I am reading it all wrong?

I asked a colleague, a die-hard chick-lit fan, who is almost conjoined with a series of these books.
She told me that it meant women, who could stand on their own feet, and give (I quote) "as good as they get" back to the men in their lives, and who don't take shit from guys - even if they are significant others.Actually, even less if they are from significant others.

But doesn't that also describe Ekta Kapoor heroines I asked her. The Tulsi's and Parvatis of the world - who always have lots of money,seem to be living in mansions in metros, work ( take over their husband's business when those incompetent men cant do a thing) and are forever scrapping with villainous males in all shapes and forms? They even spend hours on their make up AND wear stilettos and high fashion kancheepurams.

She didn't seem very happy with the comparison. In fact she has stopped talking to me after that.

Maybe i should go and tell her that she is sassy.

Ah well.

Thanking you verr muchly…

I don't know about all other bloggers, but I would assume there are many around who are closet crossers-of-fingers-waiting-for-book-deal varieties. I know I am. I have often whiled away many a pleasant hour thinking about how a publisher hopping through blogosphere will land on my page and will go screaming eureka down the cyber highway.

So your sensible blogger, who is a closet-crosser-of-fingers, will have a certain plan of action in anticipation for such an event.

There are the front bencher's types. The people who have the book written, wrapped and sealed, all ready for the printing press. Those who have done the homework, the hard work and are just waiting for the teacher to notice their upraised arms.

Then there are the networkers. The ones who might have a broad plot outline in their heads but will start the work of actually jotting the thoughts down ONLY after the deal is signed and the cheque has crossed hands. They utilize the time meaningfully and usefully by hopping and hobnobbing with influential sites and people.

And then there are others, like me, who don't really have a book ready, or even a firmed up plot per se. They just have good intentions. And of course, the acknowledgement page.

The acknowledgements page is the blogger's version of say the, Academy awards acceptance speech rehearsal (with the hand shower and bathroom mirror).

There is a great deal of thought and pain that goes into it, to make it just right. Sometimes even more effort is put into this as to actually writing the masterpiece.

There is always this uneasy thought lurking at the back of one's mind that this is IT. Quite possibly the ONLY chance you get to write the dratted thing. So it's important to get everyone in. (After roughly seventeen attempts which have not survived beyond chapter six, one is inclined to be quite conservative about future prospects.)

Unlike the "Dedication" page which is relatively uncomplicated, (in my case, it will be to my dad, who pretty told me that my "Cats" poem, written at age 6 1/2 was the hottest, more erudite, most insightful thing he had read in his life and planted of the closet crossers-of-fingers-waiting-for-book-deal varieties seed which was to blossom years later. The mother, who is quite indulgent about what she thinks, is a nice-enough-hobby-which-has-kept-me-away-from-drugs-and-scary-boys-in-my-teens. And the husband, who provides such a lot of inadvertent fodder for these posts, how can I not dedicate it to him. ); the acknowledgement page is a much more challenging task.

How does one involve everyone yet make it pithy and snappy and interesting?

The friends and family - of course, after all they are inflicted with the vagaries of my artistic temperament without actually expecting any artistic output.Who stoically tolerate mood swings, crankiness, and my space cadet meets bhatakti atma mode without batting their eyelids.

The rest of the acknowledgee's vary as per my mood, state of mind, and environment.

I use it as my own personal merit system. viz. If someone has been particularly nice to me, I bung him in, "ah the liftman, was really nice and sunshiny on this F****** Monday morning, why don't I put him in my acknowledgment page?"

Conversely it also is a very powerful weapon of demonstrating annoyance "Just you wait you #@*(#&*(@, I won't put your name in my acknowledgement page HA and nothing you can say will change it."
(As an aside, I have these whole series of absolutely ineffective mental protests such as "I--will-absolutely-wear-my-worst-possible-set-of-clothes-because-i-hate-you-so-much-and-you-are-unworthy-of-any-effort" The recipient of this mental vitriol of course, will be completely oblivious to the fact that I am wearing my worst set of clothes, and probably couldn't care less. Oh well.)

I scan through joke sites on the Internet collating sundry funny, charming and self effacing quips which of course I discard every other year as being jaded or not quite funny of not 'me' enough or not in sync with the tone of the plot which I happen to be mulling over in that particular year. .

There have been nights spent lying awake brooding on the consequences of missing some important person from the page and then playing out scenarios of dealing with devastated/offended people.

Then of course the very important question of placement. Should be right at the beginning of the book where everyone is sure to see it? Or should I place it at the end of the book, after I have established a relationship with the reader?

After having done this for ten years, ( with no book forthcoming in the intermediate time), I have reached a stage, where I have to write the dratted thing or burst. Besides, after so much honing and refining and polishing, it is really quite a gem of an page and would be such a waste not to publish it!

So dear readers, let me write an acknowledgement page for my blog.

I would like to thank everyone for reading this particular post and the random ones I have written over the last four years, my office for encouraging all these kind of jobless thoughts, the strays for keeping me up at all hours at night, the lift man for being sunshiny of this f**** Monday morning ….

Shadow Life

The other day I read a quote on Happiness Economics – it said that Happiness X Age graph is “U” shaped – viz. people are happiest when they are very young or very old.

That might explain it. Might explain why as people I know, people who are in their late twenties and early thirties – people who on the face of it are entering the peak phase of their lives with a career (that has begun to take shape and take off), a partner (for companionship) and in some cases a child, feel the way they do.
People who ARE talented, educated, reasonably affluent professionals – but who secretly, within the confines of their homes – battle with demons – unremitting and vitriolic of anxiety and stress.

And it’s happening across the genders, across the professional and personal spectrum, across socio-economic classes, and familial backgrounds.

At a personal level for the girls – I thought, I could understand – it was either the pressure (societal, familial, peer or even self sometimes) of getting a spouse before marriage. And the adjustments and compromises AFTER marriage – and make no mistake, a significant amount of onus still lies on the girl.

I have seen most of the girls I know – brought up to be independent and opinionated and free spirited – shed that skin, after they get married to morph into someone’s wife and daughter in law – with all the concomitant pressures and expectations.
Often give up on flourishing careers to trail with the husband all over the globe. Change countries, career paths, lifestyles, everything – and do so gracefully, happily and willingly, not as a forced sacrifice, but as a conscious life choice. Or sometimes, not do any of those things and continue exactly the way there were before marriage. But in all cases, something subtle changes within – I have seen this time and again as my friends, and acquaintances have got married – that somehow, they lose a little bit of the “light” within. Maybe what I call the “light” is nothing but the spark of adult independence which gets dulled as it gets enmeshed with another individual’s life. A child of course, will tone down a person even more. It has nothing to do with how happy or unhappy one is in the relationship – or how much in love one is.

Maybe that’s what one calls growing up. Where one gives up a part of oneself in order to gain something else. This process of changing or giving up, of losing oneself to become someone else is almost phoenix like – in the sense that the earlier avatar needs to be completely destroyed, for the new one to be born. Add the pressures of a professional career, priorities recalibration, to the mix, and that’s a fairly potent recipe for anxiety.

The men (and for the so-called-career women), the anxiety seems to stem more from a financial and professional standpoint. Perhaps it’s the state of transition between learning and performing, or between choice and need, between enthusiasm and ennui.

And to a great many of us, it is often coming to terms with one’s ordinariness. Making peace with the fact that even an above average intelligence often, doesn’t not translate into anything much in the daily scheme of things. And accepting the reality of the environment, of a lopsided world, where merit often needs to kow-tow to shrewd mediocrity

For many, it is facing upto the unpleasant truth that the professional glass ceiling is not too distant– where the opportunities are scarcer and the competition, exponential. Where the need to hone skills is high, but the drive is fading, and energy often drained away, dealing in a morass of managerial mundanity.

And for both is the constant balancing – between work and home, between parents and children, between companionship and ‘space’, between sharing and independence, between integrity and getting-work-done, between salary and fulfilment.

In this scenario, it is not surprising that there is no balm for the anxiety – the only thing which is there is the strips of ineffective plaster – in the form of consumption and the addiction to buy, to booze, to over indulge. To suppress the symptoms but not affect the cure.

The time where one is willing and able to absorb, grow and blossom the most is often strangled by the poison within.

A pity, really.

The second of the posts I had wanted to write on anxiety and depression. The first one is here.

Cynic’s Tools for the corporate trade.

(Continued from here)

Presenting the Cynic‘s Essential Tool Kit for the Corporate Trade.

#1: La Cushion De CYA

Is your derriere your Achilles heel? Do you always have to bend like a contortionist to protect the vulnerable areas from attacks from unexpected quarters?

Introducing the extra strength, super endurance La Cushion de CYA. La Cushions de CYA comes enmeshed with a fine mesh of super grade steel (also used to make rockets), for the ultimate protection against any dorsal attacks. They are ergonomically designed to take your individual shape for maximum comfort. And what more, they are padded with super fine, ultra soft cotton to suit even the most sensitive posteriors.

Durable defence for your derriere

Comes in a range of bright colors to match every outfit.

# 2: Crocodile Dew Glycerine

Have you ever written/had the pressing urge to write melodramatic and highly emotionally charged (and grammatically haywire) mails like this (marked to the world) for every trivial issue?

“I think he can't be a fit person handling abc It is matter of pure common sense I am frustrated and upset - am not in a position to write further. I am not blaming any one personally, but now it is a high time to give it a serious thought”

Then Crocodile dew glycerin is JUST the nifty accessory for you.

Crocodile Dew is made from the extract of the finest glycerides, for that absolutely translucence and odour free consistency. It goes through a five stage process to ensure the most distilled and refined pure glycerine with 80% hygroscopic properties – thus ensuring that that it looks and feels even more real than actual tears can ever hope to. This is why it’s been the preferred brand of all our cine – stars down the ages, right from Meena Kumari to Alok Nath.

Tears on tap – anytime, anywhere!

Special limited offer: Crocodile Tissue pack free on the purchase of two packs of Crocodile Dew Glycerine

# 3: Bombast’s Hot-Air Recharge Station

Does your battery get down sprouting all that hot air in meetings? Do you feel utterly deflated after conferences? Has some sharp wit of colleague punctured your blustering tirade? Worry not, presenting the Bombast’s Hot-Air Recharge Station

Bombast’s Hot Air Recharge Station, is your portable solution for all your hot air needs. All you need to do is plug it into your nearest socket, and imbibe the warm, flavoured (mint, orange, strawberry or mixed fruit) helium air inside for fifteen minutes and you are ready to roar again! It has an inbuilt temperature control system, which allows you to set thermal level depending upon your individual needs!

Now float in to every meeting, confidently charged, full with effervescent energy!

# 4: Twisterin’ Tongue

Have you ever been hampered by the inadequate absorbency of your tongue? Has it limited your ability to lick *** effectively? Have you ever thought to yourself “oh how I wish I could lick some more, I could kiss some more?”

Look no further!

Introducing the Twisterin’ Tongue – the ultimate tongue enhancer in the world today.
Twisterin tongue has an elasticized, rubberized casing (super flexible for extra reach even difficult places) and absorbent gel within this casing which allows you to absorb upto seven times its weight, without getting saturated.

Twisterin’ Tongue is the present across all corners of the world – In Hollywood; it is the preferred brand of Yes-Men, Publicists and wannabe starlets alike. In India, it is the official and exclusive distributor for all civil and administrative and Government services personnel.

Don’t wait; lick your way up to the top today!

# 5: Original Rhino-Hide Body Suit

The work place can be tough sometimes – colleagues, clients, suppliers, superiors are often known to pass quite cutting comments.

As the name suggests, the Body-Suit is made from Original Rhino Hide, legendary for its thickness and absolute resilience to the external environmental conditions. This body suit has been further enhanced with Boomerang Receptors that amplify and reflect back any critiques which might be directed at the sender thus keeping you absolutely safe and absolutely impervious to any kind of suggestions – constructive or otherwise.

Be safe, be strong, be a Rhino!

# 6: Chaume, by Devdas

And if you thought the stubbly look was only useful in attracting pretty young things, think again! ‘Chaume’ the ultimate male accessory, can be one of the most effective work repellents known to corporate-kind.

The application of Chaume allows one to portray and abject state of stress and overwork which leaves no time for everyday chores like shaving. It is made with that special stick-and-pat formula TM, (built in association with the 3M team that developed post-it notes) which can be reused for 187 days. What more, it is enhanced with the essence of aloe vera gel for that non scratchy, non itchy experience.

Work shirking has never been so easy!

Available in a range of styles and sizes to suit each and every face type and size – French, Luxuriant, Stubbly, Middle-eastern, Plectrum-Style

# 7: Spinner’s Turn Coat

To everything (turn, turn, turn)
There is a season (turn, turn, turn)
And a time for every purpose, under heaven

Isn’t that JUST what one feels in the corporate world? A season to say yes, and to change it to no. That is the genesis and the philosophy behind Spinners Turn Coat.

The turn coat effortlessly and guiltlessly helps you morph your views, opinions and stands to suit the environment at hand. It is woven from the softest chameleon silk, which is cool and airy and safeguards you from so much as breaking into a sweat.

Spin away to good fortune!

Available in XS, S, M, L, XL, XXL


For sales and distribution inquiries contact: cynicinwonderland@gmail.com
ve i

Hobson’s Choice

One of the biggest burdens of adulthood is choice.

Some say that it is a liberty, the reward of growing up. Perhaps it is. It would be if the choices were between good and better or between nice and nicer. More often than not it’s a Hobson’s choice. Where each involves a sacrifice, compromise and the promise of pain or guilt.

The most thorny of these, the most difficult to negotiate through are the choices where the past and the future collide.

I have a friend in the US. A troubled friend –in the unenviable position of having to decide whether to stay in the US and live with the guilt of being physically absent from an ailing, ageing father ( and a in-need-of-moral-support-mother) OR coming back to India and severely limiting his future career prospects and growth (not too many options for his particular specialization in India). His parents of course, are urging him to continue the current way. But for him, and for any reasonably sensitive person like him, every trip to India is a harsh confrontation of additional wrinkles, a slower gait and greyer hairs in the parents. A constant reminder that they are slowly entering into the twilight years of their lives and that there is not much he can/or is doing to retard this unwelcome progression.

What is the right way to reach in such a case? In both the cases, the consequences are painful. But it’s a decision which needs to be made. Future prospects or present responsibilities? Support for parents or curtailing career? “Get the parents to come and stay with you in the US” – could be the convenient answer. But is it really fair to uproot them from their homes, familiar environment, support system, friends to instil them in an alien place, dependent on the child for everything?

This predicament – call it Hobson’s choice or Cornelian dilemma can take many forms.

Take the case of a surviving parent who has sentimentally stored every memento of a forty year old marriage moving into the house of a child – what takes precedence, the memories that the parent HAD created with his or her spouse or the memories that a child WILL create with his/her spouse and the growing family? Does the child act as a repository of his parents keepsakes or does he build his future homes on the foundations of his dreams? When does sentiment cease to be sentiment and become baggage or even worse, a millstone around the child’s neck?

Take a situation where there is a newborn child in the household. The new grandparent has some strongly held beliefs on child-rearing which have been contravened by medical practioners. It becomes a potential minefield on deciding which diametrically opposing path to traverse.

How does one reconcile these two polarities of each situation and yet, not be consumed by guilt or regret of a choice poorly made.
The common sense answer would be the future - that is the decision which you will live with for a greater part of your life. But then, how can you ignore the fact that you are the reflection and the culmination of decisions the people in the past had taken about their future.

There IS no right way.

Survival guide for the corporate jungle

It’s a rat race out there. Dog eat dog world. The survival of the bitchiest. And all sorts of other animalistic and atavistic analogies one can cite. So for the new and not so new professionals on the threshold of a career;

Presenting the Cynic's 7C-GUIDE to Surviving the Corporate Jungle (CCC for Short) *Tadaaaaa*

Rule #1: CHANNEL the power of FUKITOL!!!
Are you living the lifestyle? Start your weekday with 1000 mg of Fukitol tablet. On Mondays, don’t stint – have two. The super powerful Fukitol tablet releases endorphins such as
“Illegitimi non Carbodium” (don’t let the b****** get you down),
“Every dog has his day and so will you”
And all other such delightful adages to help you stay fortified through the working day.

Rule #2: CALL a friend.
Telemarketers are extremely annoying specimens of humanity who WILL call and irk one in the midst of professional chaos – right? Wrong! Telemarketers can be your friends. All you need to do know is how to use them well. When a telemarketer calls, one does not snap “Busy – not interested.” Instead, one says:
"Oh thank you so much for calling. For xyz reasons I cannot afford your credit- card/housing loan/ personal loan – however I know a person who has been searching DESPERATELY for it - Please DO call him up – his name is Mr. X (Mr. X is the particular not-so-gentleman who might have pissed you off on that particular day) – oh and also, you have got my name wrong – its not Cynic but Cynelle – just so that he doesn’t get confused in case you give him my reference”

Rule #3: See the CC
Have you looked at your outlook or Lotus Notes carefully? There is a very useful invention called the CC. its not there for decorative purposes. USE IT. Use it wisely and use it WELL. CC everyone – don’t stint. CC bosses, colleagues, their wives, their pet dogs. Don’t underestimate the power of CC in another very important C in your life – the CYA.

Rule #4: The CoCo principle
And you thought CoCo meant CoCo Jambo or CoCo Chanel (depending on your gender or musical affiliations)? The CoCo principle has its genesis in advertising industry – where there is a great deal of interaction which takes place with fairly clueless but stubborn-as-hell clients. This useful principle can be adapted to all corporates as well and can be used judiciously on colleagues and senior management. The underlying principle of this is if you can’t CONVINCE, Confuse. Use multi coloured graphs. Use hyperlinks. Use cross tabs. Use arrows and the other entire useful thingummy which Power point has specifically made for this purpose. Wow them with the designs – overload them with numbers - annotate their heads with bullet points- and sock them with English which is open to various interpretations. Confuse the s*** out of ‘em until their eyes glaze over and their heads start drooping from fatigue.


Rule #5: CHUCK De Work
Have you ever played beach volleyball? Well it has some very interesting features that MUST be appropriated into your workplace viz. the art of lobbying! One can’t underestimate the role of lobbying in the workplace – it is CRITICAL. Whether it’s lobbying insults with moronic colleagues, or lobbying bills from one department to another or lobbying work to others.
Master this art until you are a professional lobbyer – especially lobbying work to the boss.
If uneasy voices protest, tell them to shut up and remind them that the boss is paid five times your salary. And remember, when in doubt ALWAYS UPWARDLY DELEGATE.

Rule #6: CLASS Participation
Did you know that your promotion and growth in an organization is directly linked to the amount you can gas fluently? Therefore, meetings provide a wonderful vehicle for growth and prosperity. ALWAYS state at least thing with a great deal of passion and vehemence and conviction at every meeting you attend. It does not have to be relevant to the topic on hand – it can be anything. On the state of the economy or the weather or what nail polish the CMD’s wife is wearing. This has often been referred to as the rule of CLASS participation.


Rule #7: CALCULATIONS for Success.
And the unfailing formula for success? Here is one which works every single time. Take your monthly gross salary amount – a nice round figure with lots of zeroes (hopefully). Divide it by 30. And every time you can feel your hair whitening and ulcers mushrooming, - chant the following mantra 1001 times.
“For every F****** day I spend here, I get these many (the daily figure) nice, green notes in my bank account .Some weekends I get this for NOT working!”
The day, and week will magically seem brighter!

To be continued: Cynic’s Tools for the Corporate Trade

Dead Man Walking

A couple of days ago, S came to know that a colleague of his had committed suicide over the weekend. S told me the whole thing was completely surreal. A talented, thirty something man, with apparently nothing wrong in his life (on the face of it) chose to end his life.

It was S’s first encounter with violent self inflicted death. We spent some time just thinking how it would be – to get up one day and decide that life was so unbearable that you had to end it THAT particular day. Whether this man, had second thoughts while leaving his house, how he said goodbye to his family, whether he had taken his house keys along, whether he had taken his cell phone along or just left it behind because he would never need it again. The ordinary minutiae of leaving for work every morning – how strange it must have been.

My closest encounter with suicidal tendencies was a few years ago. A friend, who stayed in the US, broke up with his girlfriend of eight years. He was devastated and used to come online to seek solace through chatting – often with me. At that time, he was on pain medication for a fractured leg and after a point of time; he started regularly overdosing on it – to numb the pain he said– not so much the one in his leg, as the one in his heart.

I was petrified. Petrified that he would take that one pill too many consciously or inadvertently. And here I was in a different country, with no friends on the spot who could actually do something to help him. And all I could do was talk through the night knowing that it was not enough, but hoping desperately that it would hold him and stop him doing something stupid, if only till the next day.

I have battled with mind-numbing, paralyzing grief and despair in my life as well – where I didn’t know where to turn and who to turn to. Where death might have seemed like a welcome relief. But there was this one tiny self preservation voice, or voice of sanity or cowardice or something which held me back from seriously contemplating suicide.

So I know what it is to be in such a black place, that even the air you breathe is viscous with dread, but yet, not give up on life. But I still wonder what that point of no return is for the people who do.

Are the thresholds of pain different for different people? Or is it the levels of cowardice that are different (the jury is still out on whether suicide is the most courageous or the most cowardly act of all)

Is it the ultimate exhibitionist act of a self centred person? A part of me says that people who do take away their lives have to be necessarily, absolutely, selfish since they don’t think about the trauma they cause on those left behind. I had met a gentleman whose daughter had just committed suicide a few months before I met him ( for the most INANE reason imaginable) He was going through the motions of being alive – In reality, he looked completely wrung out, as if his whole life force had been drained out of him.

But then yet, another part says, that in mind which is so tortured with pain and hurt, can hardly understand and empathize with the pain their action will have on someone else-just like people suffering in the last stages of a debilitating disease like cancer, might behave atrociously –be wounding and nasty with family members –where it’s the pain speaking rather than the patient.

I wonder how long people stay in that zone between deciding to end it all and the actual deed. The shadow zone. The figurative dead man walking – self condemned but functioning. Trapped in a festering, tormented mind – but with the knowledge that he needs to appear normal, lest people find something amiss.

Do they count the last times – this is the last time I go to my bank, this is the last time I kiss my child goodbye, this is the last time I will feel the drop of rain on my face, watch a sunset or walk down a road traversed daily for the last thirty years …

I wonder how they decide that this is the way to end it all. The man, who died two days ago, threw himself on the tracks – a particularly macabre and gory way to end his life.
How they go about the mundane actuality of it – going to a chemist shop to buy the sleeping tablets or the innocuous razor. Deciding the merits of two equally distanced railway stations. Choosing which dupatta shall be the fatal noose.

And I think my heart bleeds for those left behind – always. A death, even in the ordinary scheme of things, invariably leaves a residue of regret and guilt – of things unsaid and fences left broken. How much more will it be in such a case – the burden of remorse and self reproach, the weights of all the could-have, would-have, should-haves, is something they might need to deal with through out their life, even if there was actually nothing else to be done, nothing else they could have done.

The greater tragedy is that there is no easy way to pick up these signals of a person who is contemplating death. No red flags which one can see and do something about. Body language and depressive talk is too simplistic, there are many, who quietly go about the business without making a fuss.

Even if correctly diagnosed, the way to help them, how to prevent it, how to do something thus becomes a matter of chance and individual skill. The skill to take them to the counsellor, the skill of the therapist in counselling, the skill of the person to come out of it and be motivated to live again.

I wish therapy wasn’t such a bad word in the Indian societal system – where a person who claims to be taking counselling sessions is automatically assumed to “mental” thus unfit – where depression is something to be derided, hidden away, avoided, not acknowledged rather than something which can be set right – if only with a little sensitivity and empathy. I wonder when society will have the maturity to realize that clinical depression is a malaise just like a viral infection and the person can’t just snap out of it and be happy, no more than a person can will a fever to go away but given the right treatment WILL go away.

P.S This is going to be a two part post because I would also like to write soon about the non-clinical urban depression – the malaise which seems to be hitting a lot of people I know. Young, urban professionals which I fear is grossly underreported and understood.

P.P.S. Very morbid post this. Hmm.

The Dearly Departed

All organizations periodically go through an exodus every few years. An eerie, almost synchronized exit from the workplace in a remarkably short time span. A period when it appears as if, almost every other person has resigned or is on the verge of resigning or is desperately searching for jobs and looking forward to resigning. (My old office, for instance, witnessed an unprecedented and un-orchestrated departure of 32 managers in three weeks. The HR team was sitting on floors, flailing their chests and pulling their hair out in anguish).

The problem only arises when you (a relative fresher to the organization), get stuck in the middle of this upheaval.

There are typically two ways of reacting to this exodus, depending on the kind of person you are.

If you are the strong, brave corporate type of rookie, you will observe this flight of people with icy, impassiveness and disdain.
“Go” you will think. “I will take over this organization” and “You should have left earlier you incompetent deserters, I will now show you how organizations need to be run” and “ now you will actually see some difference in all those Excel tables and PowerPoint graphs” you mentally holler, in a smug, self satisfied way.

However, if you are one of the slightly feeble minded, feebly loyal breed (such as yours truly) – then this exodus has quite a different effect.

You (the vague feeble minded variant – henceforth referred to as VFMV) unfortunately and quite reprehensibly, get infected with the great Exit Mode Virus.

The VFMV normal work mode is growly-cranky-cribby-whiny-broke – this will suddenly undergo a complete and inexplicable metamorphosis.

The VFMV is happy. The VFMV is beaming. The VFMV feels buoyant coming to work thinking joyful thoughts about how it’s just for a few more days. The VFMV is swashbuckling and dynamic in meetings and has strong opinions on stuff which the VFMV has no clue about. The VFMV is delightfully irresponsible about deadlines and their importance. When colleagues and business partners speak in grave serious tones about plans to be put in practise in two months, the VFMV mentally chuckles and thinks “I won’t be HERE to implement these plans in two months. At every opportunity, the VFMV polishes and refines the resignation letter. The VFMV surfs websites like makemytrip.com and plans on where the VFMV person should go after the VFMV finishes the notices period and before the start of the new job.

And then the VFMV has an epiphany. The VFMV does NOT have a new job. The VFMV does not have a new job because no new jobs have been applied for. Heck the VFMV does not even have an updated resume.

The VFMV is left with feelings akin to seeing off a party of friends off to a holiday in Hawaii while forlornly standing at the departure lounge. The VFMV damns everyone to eternal hell and then looks mournfully at the at the all-ready-but-the-printing resignation letter, sighs and sadly shuts the PC off.


Update for April 1st:

Happy Birthdays to the Blog (4 YEARS!!! I started it as a April Fools joke on myself) and the Bloke (Otherwise known as the husband or the hero or S I had to alliterate, I can’t HELP it) – Both very integral to my life. You shall get a special post (both of you), once I get out of this darn blogger’s block on birthdays.

Geek and Latin

A long time ago, when I was in school, I had this friend who used to write poetry. She didn’t write ordinary poems which were consumable by ordinary uneducated plebeians such as self. Rather, had a penchant for liberally using words like ‘opalescence’ and the ‘iridescence’. One day I decided I would also attempt a poem like that. So I randomly looked at the dictionary for words which I couldn’t pronounce and strung them together with arbitrary breaks and shared this ‘poem’ with her. She thought it was exceedingly profound and intense.

Now, why am I sharing prehistoric stories of my childhood? Well, because for the last two days I have been wading through a proposal submitted by our so called Business Intelligence Strategic Partner (Even their NAME is in Jargonese for God’s sake) which I suspect has been put together much the same way.

Just to give an example, ONE sentence yesterday included the following words - syntactic, lexical, pragmatic, semantic and prototypical - all jostling each other in a haphazard manner, purportedly trying to convey some information to the reader. They even had a little graph with arrows going in various directions proclaiming coyly whether they were syntactic or semantic.

In the normal course of events – a document like this would have resulted in me, tying myself into knots, wondering whether this was some divine retribution for catnapping/daydreaming in the briefing meetings. I would assume that this document made complete lucid sense to all the other readers, and would be left with this uneasy, sinking feeling (akin to what Rip Van Winkle must have felt on waking up) that something significant had changed, without having a clue of what it was.

This time however I am seething with self-righteousness indignation .This is one of those rare times when I KNOW what the inputs were –well, because I briefed them myself. It is rather difficult to fall asleep when you are talking – not impossible, I know many good men and women who have mastered this art (not to be confused with those who put their listeners to sleep), but it is rather difficult.

And this discipline and restraint had paid off – for a change I know what the output we were expecting is. I’m not saying it’s is not there – it might be lying gasping for breath under the weight of all those ‘lexical’ words –however I am damned if I can find it. I have carefully waded through a document which, for all practical purposes is in a foreign language, and no luck.

I have tried to upwardly delegate it to my boss. Donned my best earnest-worker face and asked him whether he had read it and woefully told him I needed his wise guidance to understand something. Boss opened the document, read one paragraph, gave one strangled croak and has been playing Zuma Deluxe and avoiding me ever since .

Actually come to think of it, I can’t totally blame the BISP blokes altogether. My company seems to suffer from an argot (thought should use a dictionaried word to emphasize how contagious it is!) epidemic of mammoth proportions – so maybe they are just pandering to the client. Almost every meeting I have attended here, there are this bunch of senior gentlemen, whose only focus in meetings seems to be to out-bombast each other

I’m sorely tempted to play Buzzword Bingo and often longingly think of how the Queen of Hearts would have played it ( “Off with their heads” every time 'usability engineering process modelling' is mentioned ).

Reminds me of this wise saying from my advertising days – “If you can’t CONVINCE, CONFUSE!”

Coming back to bite me. Sigh.

Lockfist

There was this girl in college with me; lets call her Cashmira, Cashmira used to stay very close to a friend’s (S) house in a fairly posh locality in Mumbai. They often ended up commuting together to/fro from college in the BEST bus.

S noticed a very curious malady which Cashmira seemed to suffer from, every time the Bus conductor came within a radius of two-feet. Cashmira would open her bag, put her hand it to withdraw her wallet after which, the hand would have some sort of paralysis and either a) not find the wallet or b) not open the clasp of the wallet or rarely when she did manage a AND b, then c) not find any note under the denomination of Rs. 500.

She would then shrug her shoulders hopelessly (quite in the manner of what-does-one-do /Murphy’s-law-never-find-things-when-one-needs-it) while the irate conductor stood waiting, and ask S whether she could pay ‘just this once.’

S paid ‘just this once’ a 167 times or so.

There was another lady I knew, Moneyben Aunty. Moneyben Aunty lived in a very upscale neighbourhood in Mumbai. She loved having guests (especially those who were high up on the social scale) over, and showing off her Phoren Dining sets and photographs of her Phoren settled kids.

However, when it came to opening her handbag to spring for detergent soaps and the likes, her unfortunate hands suffered from some inexplicable malaise - they had spasms and froze. So she, poor soul, had to revert to putting slivers of used bath soaps (too small to be of any use for bathing) and into a receptacle, add some water, and leave them to pickle – and viola, in that holder was born a unique detergent soap!

Another interesting lady was Karan C’s wife – Mrs Karan C. She was also exceedingly fond of company – she would happily go out to meet all her friends in whichever every part of town. Occasionally, she also had to invite them over to her house to return the hospitality. On these days, although she was thrilled about the party, her hands also seemed to strangely convulse (with some inner nervous tension), right in the vicinity of the handbag when she was shopping for the treats and eats.

So, thus, had to devised a very unique menu for the guests –she even went to great lengths to make her own special sherbet (Pepsi/Thums Up/Fanta/Coke, and cunningly diluted with copious quantities of water for a thoroughly unique taste).

Now what is this affliction that affects all these good ladies just within a few inches of their wallets? Cashmira, Mrs Moneyben and Mrs KaranC, alas, suffer from the dreaded Lockfist disease.

Understanding the Lockfist disease

Lockfist also referred to as Scroogeitis is the inability to normally open the fist to disburse money

Scroogeitis can be classified as either primary or secondary. Primary Scroogeitis indicates that no specific medical cause can be found to explain a patient's condition. Secondary Scroogeitis is acquired after marriage to a primary Scroogeitis sufferer. Persistent Lockfist is one of the risk factors for unpopularity and may often result in exclusion from other peoples homes.

Etiology of Lockfist
Only in a small minority of patients (5%) with congenital or childhood financial pressure, can a specific cause be identified. In 90 percent to 95 percent the cases, the Indian Scroogeitis Association 2008 says there's no identifiable cause.
It is hypothesized that individuals might have a hyper-active enzyme which produces an acute olfactory sensitivity for money. Some sufferers have also known to exhibit an obsessive hoarding symptomlogy (also sometimes observed in squirrels).

Pathophysiology
Most of the secondary mechanisms associated with Lockfist are not very clearly understood. What is known is that the cardiac output reading is raised early in the disease in the event/eventuality of money disbursement. Immediate relief can be provided if they manage to convince someone else to spend the money, then the cardiac output readings drops to normal level.
It is also known that Lockfist is heritable and often polygenic (caused by more than one gene).

Signs and symptoms
Lockfist is usually found incidentally - "case finding" - by inadvertent companions during a routine associations. Lockfist in isolation produces no symptoms, although when accompanied by another person, can often demonstrate certain symptoms in the companion.

Malignant Scroogeitis is a late phase in the condition, where the sufferer will often not step out from the home for fear of being asked to spend money.

Treatment
No fixed treatment protocol has been designed for the Lockfist disease yet.

External Links
www.IndianScroogeitisAssociation.com
www.LivingwithScroogeitis.com

For additional information
Contact: Cynic in Wonderland