I have been anointed a ‘farzi bong’ and justifiably so: I don’t like sweets, I don’t like fish, I don’t like tea, I don’t go gaga over communism or Sourav Ganguly, and I definitely don’t stall my life for four days during Durga Puja…
Speaking of Durga Puja, last weekend found the Bengali community of Mumbai gather around Puja pandals, over dressed and over enthusiastic. I spent a couple of days with my parents, visiting as many as TWO whole pandals (a personal best in 2 years) because it made them happy, talking to relatives over the phone wishing them Shubho Bijoya and telling them how much I appreciated the dresses they gifted me (when in reality most of them were too big for me… girls in Kolkata come in plus sizes). The whole act of being the true blue “probashi bangali” was kind of draining, and I heaved a sigh of relief as I went back to my own small place in “Chindi Valley”, to my own world of take away food, watching How I Met Your Mother on the laptop and late night show of The Ugly Truth.
Earlier I used to feel guilty for not being true to my culture, for being so confused about my identity, and blaming my shift to Mumbai as the prime reason for robbing me of my bongness. But the truth is I was always this way, even in school, even as a teenager. I never liked fish, I never liked sweets, I never drank tea, I never worshipped Sourav Ganguly and I never followed CPM’s ideology. Durga Puja was never about religion, it just gave me an excuse to wear new clothes and go out with family/friends which I get to do anyway and I no longer need an annual ritual for it. I have nothing against Bengali culture, just that right now I don’t have the luxury to cultivate ANY culture. I don’t go out of my way to emphasize my Bengali roots, but at the same time I don’t try to hide it. I have known Bengalis who don’t speak Bengali because they “have been out of Kolkata for ages”, but I don’t think I will ever forget my mother tongue irrespective of how many years I spend outside the state. So yes, for me, being a Bengali doesn’t imply that I conform to the idea of bongness; it’s just about being me: natural, spontaneous, and well, me! And yes, I do have a name which screams of bongness…
P.S. The first person to wish me “Happy Duserah” was my BROKER… may Durga Ma bless him!
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
The Game of Life...
So cricket… yes cricket was always my favourite sport, but till now I was focused on mostly the batsmen and the bowlers and at times the fielders (especially if it happened to be Azharuddin at 2nd slip). Well, today I can’t help wondering about the umpire: the neglected, third party who incidentally plays a very important role in the outcome of the match, whose good work is overshadowed by the brilliance of the players, but who gets all the flak for one wrong decision.
Hypothetically speaking, let’s imagine life as a game of cricket; at times you are the batsman, the cynosure of all eyes, ruthlessly murdering your opponents, when you feel on top of the world with the ground beneath your feet, capable of achieving anything you want; at other times you are the disgraced bowler under the hammer, when nothing seems to go right no matter how hard you try. And on most occasions, you are the hapless fielder, running after something which is annoyingly just out of your reach, and well, just running, because most of the others around you are also doing the same…
So it makes me wonder, how about if I can be none of the above: the batsman, the bowler or the fielder? How about if I can be just the umpire: the behind-the-scenes matured guy, quietly, dispassionately watching the action; estranged yet passionate about the game; not getting too involved in the outcome and just doing his job; not caring who wins and who loses as long as it’s fair; and most of all, appreciating that it is after all, just a game, where you are the winner one day and the loser the next, and the next and the next… But yes, that elderly man in black has it all and I would do anything to be like him- to not care, to be cool, to just watch as a bystander as the game of life goes on…
Hypothetically speaking, let’s imagine life as a game of cricket; at times you are the batsman, the cynosure of all eyes, ruthlessly murdering your opponents, when you feel on top of the world with the ground beneath your feet, capable of achieving anything you want; at other times you are the disgraced bowler under the hammer, when nothing seems to go right no matter how hard you try. And on most occasions, you are the hapless fielder, running after something which is annoyingly just out of your reach, and well, just running, because most of the others around you are also doing the same…
So it makes me wonder, how about if I can be none of the above: the batsman, the bowler or the fielder? How about if I can be just the umpire: the behind-the-scenes matured guy, quietly, dispassionately watching the action; estranged yet passionate about the game; not getting too involved in the outcome and just doing his job; not caring who wins and who loses as long as it’s fair; and most of all, appreciating that it is after all, just a game, where you are the winner one day and the loser the next, and the next and the next… But yes, that elderly man in black has it all and I would do anything to be like him- to not care, to be cool, to just watch as a bystander as the game of life goes on…
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Reality Bites...
Well, there are good movies and bad movies, and then there are tear-jerkers. The last category is a mish-mash of different kinds of films, very different from one another, but similar in their ability to reduce me to a red-nosed, five year old. So yes, I have watched Stepmom, When Harry Met Sally, Father of the Bride, Dil To Pagal Hai, Life in a Metro, Taare Zameen Par, so on so forth and each time I have ended up with a full bucket, albeit imaginary…
But the movie which had turned me into this hopelessly hopeless romantic was Kuch Kuch Hota Hai (KKHH). Released when I was still in school, a teenager eager to fall in love easily, it made a deep impact as I slipped naturally in the role of Anjali Sharma (Kajol at her remarkable best). She played basketball, I played badminton/kabaddi, she sucked at putting on make-up, I had a horrendous dressing sense, she fell in love with her best friend, my best friend left the country. In the next ten years, I have seen the movie n number of times, and each time I have cried like the same 5 year old…
I happened to watch it again on Sunday, and this time I watched it from a matured feminist point of view, unlike the starry-eyed teenager hoping for a fairy tale ending. This time I identified with Anjali Sharma, not the college-going tomboy but the sari-clad engaged woman who is still trying to come to terms with a life with the perfect guy who makes her the centre of his world, for whom she is the only woman and is willing to be with her in spite of knowing that she doesn’t care about him the way he does for her. Instead she goes back to her college crush, the guy who broke her heart, for whom she was always the second choice, i.e. the “imperfect” man who still wielded as much power on her as he did ages back. Yes, it’s a fairy tale ending, yes, she finally gets the man of her dreams, yes she finds happiness after years of waiting, and yes, the audience is definitely happy! But the nagging question that still bothers you is, “Isn’t she a pushover? Why would she go back to someone who rejected her in the first place? And what if Tina (Rani Mukherjee) was still alive?” I hate to admit it, but if I were in her place, I would have done the same thing, but unfortunately, in real life, things aren’t quite so convenient. Tina would have never died in the first place, Rahul (Shahrukh Khan) would have lived happily ever after with the woman he really fell in love with, and as for Anjali Sharma, she would have disappeared into a mundane existence and an ordinary marriage, feeding on her memories like so many other women.
But the movie which had turned me into this hopelessly hopeless romantic was Kuch Kuch Hota Hai (KKHH). Released when I was still in school, a teenager eager to fall in love easily, it made a deep impact as I slipped naturally in the role of Anjali Sharma (Kajol at her remarkable best). She played basketball, I played badminton/kabaddi, she sucked at putting on make-up, I had a horrendous dressing sense, she fell in love with her best friend, my best friend left the country. In the next ten years, I have seen the movie n number of times, and each time I have cried like the same 5 year old…
I happened to watch it again on Sunday, and this time I watched it from a matured feminist point of view, unlike the starry-eyed teenager hoping for a fairy tale ending. This time I identified with Anjali Sharma, not the college-going tomboy but the sari-clad engaged woman who is still trying to come to terms with a life with the perfect guy who makes her the centre of his world, for whom she is the only woman and is willing to be with her in spite of knowing that she doesn’t care about him the way he does for her. Instead she goes back to her college crush, the guy who broke her heart, for whom she was always the second choice, i.e. the “imperfect” man who still wielded as much power on her as he did ages back. Yes, it’s a fairy tale ending, yes, she finally gets the man of her dreams, yes she finds happiness after years of waiting, and yes, the audience is definitely happy! But the nagging question that still bothers you is, “Isn’t she a pushover? Why would she go back to someone who rejected her in the first place? And what if Tina (Rani Mukherjee) was still alive?” I hate to admit it, but if I were in her place, I would have done the same thing, but unfortunately, in real life, things aren’t quite so convenient. Tina would have never died in the first place, Rahul (Shahrukh Khan) would have lived happily ever after with the woman he really fell in love with, and as for Anjali Sharma, she would have disappeared into a mundane existence and an ordinary marriage, feeding on her memories like so many other women.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
For the people who matter…
1. The lady who cleans the washroom in office: At a time when most people around me (including me) are complaining about their jobs, this lady is refreshingly different. I meet her everyday as she sits in the washroom, making small talk with the women, making sure the toilets are clean, the tissue papers in place and the washbasins dry. As we exchange polite smiles, she asked me if I was new. I nodded respectfully as she proudly informed me that she has been in the organization for three years (i.e. she is the equivalent of senior analyst) and she manages the entire floor. Even after three years, even after cleaning up the mess left by other people, she seemed contented, she took pride in her work and she cared enough to make the new people comfortable while most others were out to intimidate them.
2. The Tam room mate: I have never met him, I have never even spoken to him but he dominates our conversations- the brilliant guy who reads a lot, the finance geek who explains valuation model when he is drunk and yet fails CFA Level 1 repeatedly, the man for whom I have somehow developed so much respect that I trusted him when he said inflation is positive in America even though three different sources stated otherwise.
3. The ‘other’ broker: He is the uncouth, unsophisticated typical mobile flaunting Mumbai broker, but at the same time endears himself to you instantly. He calls you even after the business transaction is over, he informs you that he is in the neighbourhood in case you want to meet him, and he checks on you if you need any more help, and yes, he helps you with the curtains and the cleaning up as well.
And most of all, this old old friend of mine, my first friend in Mumbai, with whom I have nothing in common, and yet, who helped me get through college, who showed me all the cheap places to shop and eat, who is suffering from this godforsaken disease which no doctor has been able to detect, who spent a month in the hospital, whom I had almost forgotten as I got involved in my own narrow life…
2. The Tam room mate: I have never met him, I have never even spoken to him but he dominates our conversations- the brilliant guy who reads a lot, the finance geek who explains valuation model when he is drunk and yet fails CFA Level 1 repeatedly, the man for whom I have somehow developed so much respect that I trusted him when he said inflation is positive in America even though three different sources stated otherwise.
3. The ‘other’ broker: He is the uncouth, unsophisticated typical mobile flaunting Mumbai broker, but at the same time endears himself to you instantly. He calls you even after the business transaction is over, he informs you that he is in the neighbourhood in case you want to meet him, and he checks on you if you need any more help, and yes, he helps you with the curtains and the cleaning up as well.
And most of all, this old old friend of mine, my first friend in Mumbai, with whom I have nothing in common, and yet, who helped me get through college, who showed me all the cheap places to shop and eat, who is suffering from this godforsaken disease which no doctor has been able to detect, who spent a month in the hospital, whom I had almost forgotten as I got involved in my own narrow life…
Monday, September 7, 2009
The "Quasi" Life!
So I am this quasi person, living a quasi life, stuck in a quasi job: the beauty of the quasi life is that to a third person it would seem to be the perfect existence: what with the perfect labels, the perfect lifestyle and the perfect ingredients that make your life, well perfect! But the only problem with this perfect life is that doesn’t quite feel right- yes, you are grateful for it, but at the same time you crave for that little imperfection, that would make your life a little more meaningful, a little less empty and a little less “quasi!”
So my quasi job requires me to write endless meaningless reports which allow me to clock 20 hours on the sms (another inane jargon to make my work sound impressive and important) for a project which is tossed into the bin in less than two minutes. My quasi job also entails some “responsibility” like collecting money, organizing team lunches (during which nobody talks by the way), ordering cakes and buying gifts. But yes, the most important aspect of my job is to ccp email ids and addresses of high profile executives of the hedge fund industry on an excel sheet. But no, I am not complaining. I have been taught to respect all kinds of work, especially work that pays this kind of money. I am just wondering why I invested in higher education, when I could have done the same kind of work ten years back.
My quasi house (for I am still not used to my new abode with its new sofas) demands a lot of my time and attention and I am amazed at myself and the way I spend my weekends: bargaining with the carpenter, giving instructions to the plumber and the electrician, fighting with the Airtel technician (ironically his name is Sangram) over the phone, trying to figure out the elaborate application process for a gas connection and forgetting to sign the deposit cheque for our patient avuncular landlord who sits by watching us struggle through setting up a house as he kindly gifts us a spare TV. When I have some spare time to breathe, I wonder when my life turned so sickeningly domestic, when I became so abnormally dull that it takes me a herculean effort to drag myself out of Hiranandani. Let alone plan any get together, I can barely coax myself into meeting people, calling people, or even answering phone calls. It takes too much effort to order food for myself, or even go down and buy biscuits. So while that one afternoon take away is a luxury for me, the rest of the weekend usually finds me in bed, with a book (I finished Unaccustomed Earth and in spite of Jhumpa Lahiri’s obsession with Bengali diaspora, it’s a good read) or watching little known movies on the laptop. And most alarmingly, I have even given up shopping! No partying, no socializing, not even watching the US Open on the big screen.
So yes, it’s very much a quasi life: a life full of waiting and wishing and wanting- call it the www effect…
So my quasi job requires me to write endless meaningless reports which allow me to clock 20 hours on the sms (another inane jargon to make my work sound impressive and important) for a project which is tossed into the bin in less than two minutes. My quasi job also entails some “responsibility” like collecting money, organizing team lunches (during which nobody talks by the way), ordering cakes and buying gifts. But yes, the most important aspect of my job is to ccp email ids and addresses of high profile executives of the hedge fund industry on an excel sheet. But no, I am not complaining. I have been taught to respect all kinds of work, especially work that pays this kind of money. I am just wondering why I invested in higher education, when I could have done the same kind of work ten years back.
My quasi house (for I am still not used to my new abode with its new sofas) demands a lot of my time and attention and I am amazed at myself and the way I spend my weekends: bargaining with the carpenter, giving instructions to the plumber and the electrician, fighting with the Airtel technician (ironically his name is Sangram) over the phone, trying to figure out the elaborate application process for a gas connection and forgetting to sign the deposit cheque for our patient avuncular landlord who sits by watching us struggle through setting up a house as he kindly gifts us a spare TV. When I have some spare time to breathe, I wonder when my life turned so sickeningly domestic, when I became so abnormally dull that it takes me a herculean effort to drag myself out of Hiranandani. Let alone plan any get together, I can barely coax myself into meeting people, calling people, or even answering phone calls. It takes too much effort to order food for myself, or even go down and buy biscuits. So while that one afternoon take away is a luxury for me, the rest of the weekend usually finds me in bed, with a book (I finished Unaccustomed Earth and in spite of Jhumpa Lahiri’s obsession with Bengali diaspora, it’s a good read) or watching little known movies on the laptop. And most alarmingly, I have even given up shopping! No partying, no socializing, not even watching the US Open on the big screen.
So yes, it’s very much a quasi life: a life full of waiting and wishing and wanting- call it the www effect…
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Moving and Moving On...
I moved to my new apartment this weekend. Again! From the first floor to the 11th floor: well, it’s been a meteoric rise in three months. People tell me that this place is even better. I really couldn’t care less. For me, it’s just a house, not yet a home and I doubt if it ever will be one. It’s a place where I go at night and crash and read a little and stare at the phone. It’s a place which still doesn’t mean anything, but it evokes a lot of memories, especially when I stare at the broken green sofa. And I can no longer hear that common dog barking, or see that puppy faced lost look. So yes, that “dog” element is missing and I miss it a lot. And this time I am cautious, this time I appreciate the transience of everything, especially good things! I was asked to move out of my home on Independence Day, so I am half expecting to be thrown out on Republic Day once our lock-in period expires.
Anyway I have been told that my blog is becoming boring since it’s so focused on my house problems, so yes, I am making a conscious effort to add some variety. Like the weekend for example! Uplaksh being in town, we decided to meet up, and I decided that my friends are expensive! And I also decided that I should NEVER go to Bandra: the traveling, the alcohol and the dinner make me broke, the beautiful, well groomed women out on a Saturday night intimidate me as I look at my own unkempt self, and the after effects of tequila shots and vodka in 20 minutes are embarrassing, not to mention the long dowry conversations in a very, very expensive auto ride back home at 2 a.m.
So yes, I am tired: tired of moving, tired of moving on and tired of fighting. I know I claim to be sober and sensible and strong when I am semi drunk, but secretly at times, I just want to be that little girl, to be taken care of and to be held…
Anyway I have been told that my blog is becoming boring since it’s so focused on my house problems, so yes, I am making a conscious effort to add some variety. Like the weekend for example! Uplaksh being in town, we decided to meet up, and I decided that my friends are expensive! And I also decided that I should NEVER go to Bandra: the traveling, the alcohol and the dinner make me broke, the beautiful, well groomed women out on a Saturday night intimidate me as I look at my own unkempt self, and the after effects of tequila shots and vodka in 20 minutes are embarrassing, not to mention the long dowry conversations in a very, very expensive auto ride back home at 2 a.m.
So yes, I am tired: tired of moving, tired of moving on and tired of fighting. I know I claim to be sober and sensible and strong when I am semi drunk, but secretly at times, I just want to be that little girl, to be taken care of and to be held…
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