Three Mistakes of My Life

Mistake One: Economics? What were my parents thinking? MBA Finance? What was I thinking? Investment Bank? What was the Bank thinking?

Mistake Two: Mohammed Azharuddin. I showed early signs of falling for the totally wrong guys. It should have been nipped at the bud and I would have been this nice, homely, conventional girl married to a rich left-brained banker by now.

Mistake Three: Mumbai. I am more of a Greece/Barbados/Mauritius sort of a person.

Now let’s assume that my parents and I did NOT make these three mistakes. I would have studied English Literature and been a poor but thoroughly fulfilled person living in Kolkata, doing my PhD (everybody there studies till their 30s because there are no jobs and further studies give us the satisfaction of doing something useful with our lives) and sitting in the Coffee House in College Street with my equally unemployed friends in our Fab India kurtas complemented by the junk jewelry and the jholas, discussing the shortcomings of the current government/cricket team/contemporary Indian literature.

My parents would be registering me to some/all matrimonial sites (short 5”3, dusky wheatish complexioned, tolerably decent-looking pretty unemployed B.A./M.A./M.Phil/PhD freelancer virgin girl with traditional values from middle-class good family, seeks rich professionally-qualified well-settled suitable match) and every evening I would come home, sip the chai that my mom makes for me (after all, her ‘baby’ has had a long hard day), religiously sift through ‘profiles of the day’, shortlist a few and ask her to fix ‘meetings’ for the weekend. After a couple of hours of channel/net surfing I would retire to bed early with a ‘headache’, have my dinner served on bed, shut the door and talk on the phone with my intellectual, equally unemployed B.A./M.A./M.Phil/PhD ‘boyfriend’ who ‘UNDERSTANDS ME’ till 2 a.m.

Weekends will be solely dedicated to visits to the beauty parlour, getting decked up in a sari, learning to balance the tea tray in my high heels (the ad said 5”3, remember?), faking a plastic smile and making small-talk with perverted IIT/IIM boys (why grown men are referred to as ‘boys’ in the marriage market I would never understand) trying to ‘size me up’ (literally).

-“Boy”: “So, you are a freelance writer? That sounds fascinating.”
-Me: “It is. It’s so nice to have a job I am passionate about.”
-“Boy”: “I wish I was doing something as fulfilling. But you know, the jet-setting corporate life with its 7-figure salary and perks is exciting too.”
-Me (thinks: why else will I be even talking to you?). Aloud: “I am sure. So what do you like to do when you are not working?”
-“Boy”: “Oh, I like to track the capital markets, read management books and travel. I prefer to go abroad though. The weather and the grime in Indian cities just don’t agree with me. I plan to visit Greece, Barbados and Mauritius soon.”
-Me: “Let’s cut to the chase. I will marry you.”

So both families exchange mishti doi and sondesh and the wedding date is fixed three months down the line on December 11.

Later in the night, I would call my ‘boyfriend’ to give him the ‘good news’.
-“Boyfriend”: “How can you do this to me? I thought we ‘UNDERSTOOD’ each other.”
-Me: “I can’t help it. I have to do this for my parents.”
-“Boyfriend”: “But can’t you tell them to wait?”
-Me: “Wait for what? Are you going to marry me?”
-“Boyfriend”: “You know I am not ready.”
-Me: “Well, then you have to let me go.”
-“Boyfriend”: “But noone UNDERSTANDS you the way I do.”
-Me: “Yea. But this other guy works in an investment bank.”

And there you have it: the perfect life, had I not made the three mistakes. A freelance writer married to a rich banker, traveling around the world, specifically to Greece, Barbados and Mauritius…

Heroes

Ok, so I have already spoken about my love for anti-heroes (in excruciatingly painful details) in this post.

So this post is about heroes I hate: I mean I know they are role models when we were growing up or we would be made to read about them or watch them over and over again on TV, that they are perfect and larger-than-life, but the very fact that they are larger-than-life, makes them somewhat unreal, somewhat vague and not quite identifiable…

And I am not even talking about super-heroes, i.e. the supermans, spidermans, batmans or catwomans.

But for instance, take Hercule Poirot, the little Belgian detective, created by Agatha Christie, who is always using his “little grey cells”. Of course, I have read ALL his books, trying my best to find him likeable or at best, tolerable. But each time I read about him, I only found myself more alienated from the character. His arrogance, his condescending attitude towards his friend and partner-in-crime, Hastings (who is infinitely more lovable) and his fastidiousness (really, who keeps a consistent bank balance of 444 pounds, 4 shillings, and 4 pence?) often annoyed the hell out of me. I couldn’t agree more with Ms. Christie when she said she found Poirot “insufferable” and a "detestable, bombastic, tiresome, ego-centric little creep". However, the public loved him and he continued to survive for as long as he did…

Or let’s look at James Bond. According to the creator, Ian Fleming, he named the character James Bond, because he wanted the simplest, dullest, plainest-sounding name he could find and it’s a pity his character didn’t stay that way. If you ask me, for a grown man, his penchant for sophisticated clothes, gadgets, pretty women and fast cars is almost juvenile, smacking of insecurity. There is something cold, ruthless and cruel about him and he lacks the vulnerable charm of Rocky or The Terminator. He seems more like a comic caricature to me than anything else…

Now as much as I love Fountainhead or completely subscribe to Ayn Rand’s philosophy of Objectivism, Howard Roark’s character makes me squirm. Not because he is anti-establishment or independent or individualistic or because he ‘draws outside of the lines’ (these are qualities which make him stand out), but because he is so, well, inhuman, selfish and puerile. Blowing up a building? Not cool. Walking around like the whole world is a fool? Not cool. Forcing himself on a woman? Definitely not cool. And dude, stop taking yourself so seriously. Get a sense of humour…

No, I am not a misandrist. I hate women heroes (or heroines?) as well. Jane Austen’s Anne Elliot from the novel Persuasion fails to stir any sort of empathy for her. Give me a break from the Cinderella Story: overshadowed middle daughter overlooked by her father and manipulated by her sisters, heartbroken after her failed relationship with the unsuitable Prince Charming and resigned to a life of loneliness and emptiness, she is the quintessential patient, strong, wise and gentle ‘lady” who makes me want to throw up or die of boredom. Give me a scatterbrained, foot-in-the-mouth Emma any day.

And last, but not the least, closer to our generation, there is Harry Potter. This one is self-explanatory. Case closed.

But the hero that I DO like: Aticus Finch from ‘To Kill a Mocking Bird’ (yea yea, call it the “my daddy best” syndrome)...

Say a Little Prayer

It’s Monday morning. So let me start by saying a silent prayer, that I love my job. No, I seriously do. These are hard times, and when I listen to stories about ruthless banks firing people, or the crappy work or the long hours or the mean bosses, I thank my stars for everything that this company has given me.

I love it because of the complete freedom it offers me: to do my work the way I want to, when I want to and how I want to…

I love it because of the minimal pretentious frills that are a part and parcel of corporate culture…

I love it because my boss lets me be: we can spend days without talking to each other and I can leave office right under his nose without worrying how it will affect my appraisal…

I love it because I hate it enough to hanker after an alternate career…

But most of all, I love it because it pays the salary on the 24th of every month…

Which brings us to the weekend…

Lately I had been a little cash-strapped given the inflation, my sudden urge to ‘explore’ as well as the last-minute vacation plans. Goa was expensive and add to it my next trip to Kerala next week, which is going to be a completely self-indulgent one, as well as the Pune get-together and the tentatively planned Coorg visit.

So my joy knew no bounds when my salary got credited this Saturday, thereby allowing me to buy a pair of shades (replacement for the ones I broke in Goa), an ipod shuffle (replacement for the nano that stopped working in Goa), two horrible books (the benchmark for Indian writing is so low that the only explanation for my script getting rejected is that I wasn’t bad enough. No seriously, think about it) and watch a horrible movie (what is Kevin Spacey doing in Horrible Bosses? Jennifer Aniston, I can understand, given her bad taste for, well, everything…but I still love her.)

I also watched an awesome play, “The President is Coming” at Prithvi Theatre. While Konkona Sen Sharma was thoroughly missed as the Stephen’s-educated intellectual bong, Kunal Roy Kapoor was mind-blowing as the racist IIMA graduate social-activist-turned-MNC employee. The other stereotypes like the geeky closet-homosexual IITian Microsoft employee or the stockbroker with no social skills kept me in splits though the screenplay tended to drag at parts. And oh, should I be concerned that I am seeing more of Dilnaz Irani than my boss?

Well, speaking of the devil, switch off your mobiles and your cameras, because the President boss is coming…

When Harry Never 'Met' Sally...

You are mushy if you celebrate your anniversary over a candlelight dinner at an expensive place…
You are romantic if you celebrate surviving another year together over daal-tadka at the roadside dhaba where you had your first date…

You are mushy if you like exotic vacations at luxury resorts…
You are romantic if you like getting drenched in the monsoon on an impromptu off-season trip to Goa…

You are mushy if you surprise your spouse on her birthday with a lavish party, lots of gifts, 100 guests, 200 balloons and 400 “cute” pics on FB…
You are romantic if you show up at his/her door at midnight, light a candle on a single pastry and take off together somewhere randomly…

You are mushy if you tell someone you love her after you dedicate (and sing) “Lady in Red’ at a Karaoke Bar…
You are romantic if you tell someone you love her when she is reading The Economic Times, with specs firmly on her nose, oiled hair and bushy eyebrows…

You are mushy if you propose on Valentine’s Day with 100 red roses to signify that you would like to spend the next 100 years of your life with her…
You are romantic if you propose when both of you are drunk and in pajamas, when she is least expecting it…

But you are her best friend if you can make her laugh year after year after year...

The Curious Case of a Corporate Bitch

Do you believe in Maslow’s hierarchy of needs? When I look back, I can almost classify my life in those five parameters, if only in an inverted pyramid, pretty much like Benjamin Button.

Age 1: Self-actualization
Spontaneous- cry/poop/pee whenever I want to
Lack of prejudice- anybody who pinches my cheeks is a creep (no exceptions)
Acceptance of facts- Without mom, I am screwed

Age 5: Esteem
Self esteem- I go to school; don’t mess with me
Achievement- I can count one to hundred AND sing the alphabet song
Respect for others- I have other five-year-olds as friends; don’t mess with THEM or else…

Age 13: Love/Belonging
Loyalty- My friend has a smartphone. Ergo, she knows everything
Family- They say NO to everything. What a pity I can’t choose my parents
Sexual Intimacy- What are those two doing on TV? Why is my body acting funny?

Age 18: Safety
Security- I have a 6”3, 150-Kg boyfriend
Employment- I got through the best private engineering college within 100 yards of my locality. TCS will surely take me in
Resources- I emotionally blackmailed my dad to buy me a smartphone, an i-pod AND a second-hand car

Age 26: Physiological
Food and drinks- I eat healthy (fresh from KFC) and drink moderately (only five times a week)
Breathing- Fresh air please (only first-class compartments in Mumbai locals)
Excretion- I work in an Investment Bank

P.S. From blogger to failed writer to columnist, I have come a long way. I was approached by Viewspaper to write a guest column for them. Here are the two articles: Status Message and Terrorism.

Final nail in the coffin: Humour Columnist...

The Age of Murkiness

After a long time I watched a bong movie: not just ANY bong movie, but one of those new-age, trying-to-different, interspersed with English and Hindi (it even has a Hindi song) dialogues kinda pseudo-intellectual movie. The difference is that this one actually works…and I am not saying it because it got rave reviews, ran in Kolkata for a record 114 days and bagged some 38 awards in different film festivals. I am also not saying it because the Director happens to be my senior in school (my school had too many students. Two of them turned out to be famous directors. It’s no big deal) who then went to JNU, worked in the corporate world and then quit to become a director and this is his first movie. I am saying it because I identify with it at so many levels; plus it’s a REALLY GOOD FILM.

I identify with the childish reverence to Satyajit Ray and Uttam Kumar (the movie is a tribute to the classic, Nayak)…

I identify with the sheer annoyance at the mis-pronunciation of perfectly-spelt Bengali names and other stereotypes…

I identify with the protagonist: the young guy, educated and employed in Mumbai, who struggles for two years to get his script accepted and finally ropes in the famous actor to produce and act in his debut movie, ON HIS TERMS (without changing the script to make it ‘commercially viable’)…

I identify with the protagonist’s live-in girlfriend: the way she passionately gives herself first to the relationship and then to the movie, but walks out on both when she is used for a cheap publicity stunt…

I identify with the elements of their relationship: the friendship, the lack of jealousy/possessiveness or the non-existence of any claims whatsoever on each other…

Finally, Prosenjit, as the famous actor with a chequered past completely takes your breath away. I don’t identify with him, but his performance carries the movie to heights of creative excellence.

The movie has no heroes and no villains: the characters are vulnerable yet strong, imperfect yet humane, believable yet surreal.

Oh I forgot, the name of the movie is Autograph. And here is a review

East is Easy-Going

Ok, swear to God, I promised myself I shall stay away from the blog today...

But this calls for an emergency post.

The world (accha India, sorry I tend to get carried away) has been shaken by this post: Open Letter to a Delhi Boy

That's all it takes: one good old North-South rabble rousing post, and you are famous. And here I am, blogging for more than four years, for a grand total of four readers...

Why, oh why, am I from the East? My parents are responsible for my obscurity... and Tagore too (don't ask me why)

It's Alright To...

Ever since I was in school, I have found it difficult to be ‘successful’, ‘to make friends’, to ‘blend in’. Often I have felt left out, when I was home alone reading or watching Friends and binging on pizza (cheese burst) on a Saturday night, wondering what’s wrong with me. And I have often wondered why I NEVER get approached by guys. Surely, NOBODY can be THAT ugly/dumb. Then when I started working, my dad’s banker friends will often try to ‘counsel’ me about the exciting and rewarding career opportunities in investment banking and I would feel ashamed of my mediocre aspirations (of being the writer of mediocre, light-hearted books). But with years of experience and ‘wisdom’ behind me, I have learnt to accept myself as I am.

I think it’s alright that I don’t like to party every night, that I don’t have to drink and smoke up thrice a week and that I don’t find it cool to get sloshed, make out with random strangers and pass out.

There are enough drinkers/dopers/smokers in the world, without me trying to be yet another wannabe…

I think it’s alright that I am NOT ‘helplessly feminine’ and I can travel alone, eat alone in a restaurant, roam around on bikes with brokers past 10 p.m. or give directions to the cab driver without a guy to ‘take care of me’.

There are enough damsels in distress, without me trying to twirl my hair or bat my eyelashes…

I think it’s alright that I am feminine enough to love baby pink, to prefer dresses/skirts or to match my shoes/clothes/handbags/accessories.

There are enough ‘sensibly dressed intellectual women with thick-rimmed glasses and flat kolhapuri chappals, without me trying to fit in as a ‘woman of substance’…

I think it’s alright that I don’t chase the carrot called ‘front-end investment banking’, that I am happy being a good analyst rather than an average relationship manager and that I would rather go on a vacation to Kashid beach than to Phuket for a client visit.

There are enough smooth-talking, high-flying bankers, without me trying to be the next Naina Lal Kidwai…

I think it’s alright to be the best Nefertiti I can, even though it’s not conventionally ‘cool’, ‘attractive’ or ‘successful’.

Cuming of Age...

This weekend I finally watched the much-touted, controversial and banned-in-many-Indian-states play, “V**ina Monologues”. See, I am this sushil bharatiya naari; I can’t even spell it out without the asterix, like it’s some kind of an abusive word.

Let’s try again: V-A-G-I-N-A Monologues. There, I did it, finally…

It feels so liberating, to say it out loud; but that’s just fleeting amidst the sheer embarrassment, stifled laughter and restrained admiration for a bunch of women, who just sat there and made it happen: every bit of it…

Does it mean I can now go about discussing intimate details of my life openly? Of course not…(You see I am too classy for that)

Does it mean I am empowered enough take up the issues highlighted in the play which we all read about, but don’t discuss? Are you kidding me?... (You see I am an analyst, not an activist)

Does it mean I am suddenly going to be a feminist ranting about my ‘rights’, voicing my ‘preferences’ and defending my ‘idiosyncrasies’? No way… (You see I am a middle-class Indian woman)

But what I can do, is to write about it, subtly…

My Tryst with Ivy League

Never in my wildest dreams fantasies, did I imagine that someday I would be inside an IIT Bombay classroom. Sure, I have been to the campus a few times, but for strictly non-academic purposes (it’s the most romantic place in the whole of Powai), but yesterday, I was actually INSIDE the classroom, and ON THE DAMN PODIUM…

So the question is how the hell did I sneak in there and what business did I have in the most revered engineering college in the country which has given multiple orgasms to both parents and students over decades.

Well, I was there to attend a ‘creative writing’ workshop conducted by writersmelon. Obviously, I know nothing about ‘creative writing’, so I wasn’t the one conducting it. There was a professional writer/journalist who was taking the session and I was just there to look pretty and talk about the journey of a struggling writer who has a cushy job but in her heart of hearts, is a wannabe Chetan Bhagat. Talk about low aspirations! Apparently, nerdy brilliant teenagers connect well with such stories. And the fact that I live and work in Powai makes it logistically easier to invite me.

Anyway, so I had my fifteen minutes of fame: my first brush with talking nonsense in front of 50-odd people (college presentations aren’t counted, because there was a strict quid pro quo there: you scratch my back, I scratch yours). Here, they had every right to boo/throw chappals/walk out and I was prepared for all such eventualities.

So I took the safe way out: humour. I made a joke, I waited for the crowd to burst into laughter/roll on the floor.
Silence…
I waited for some more time…
Silence…

Ok, either my joke was too subtle to be appreciated by normal people or worse, it wasn’t funny! But, but, but these are IIT kids, therefore they are NOT normal people. Ergo, my joke wasn’t funny. Horror, cringe, run…

But I moved on and continued. There were a few laughs, much to my relief. Also, the fact that I have names like Company D and Company C on my resume seems to work with kids, because both are popular recruiters in campus placements. They were reassured that if this dumb girl can get in, so can they. Thankfully, noone asked what is it that I do in these companies.

My moment of glory: they clapped in the end. They were just being nice, but they clapped…

Ugly Truths...

Why do I blog?

Is it because I lowwwwe writing?
Complete BS… if it was ONLY because I lowwwwe writing, then I would be typing on a blank page/diary instead of on a public forum.

I blog for hits/comments/recognition…
I blog because I am insecure and I constantly need to be told what a wonderful writer I am…
I blog because I like to talk about myself without being interrupted…
I blog because I am bored and I don’t have a “life” as life is conventionally defined…
I blog because I am not good enough to be a writer…

Why am I on Facebook?

Is it because I lowwwwe to be social?
Rubbish… I have 321 “friends” on FB; if you know me well enough, you would know that’s not possible in my real life.

I am on FB because it helps me remember people’s birthdays…
I am on FB because it helps me snoop on random people (cute colleagues/ex boyfriends/potential boyfriends/celebrities)…
I am on FB because it helps me promote my writing (and still people don’t seem to be interested)…

Why am I on Linkedin?

Is it because I want to ‘fast-track my career through enhanced networking’?
Trash… I have no aspirations of being a corporate slave for thirty years.

I am on Linkedin because it allows me to snoop on random people (cute colleagues/ex bosses/ex colleagues)…
I am on Linkedin because it allows me to “feel good about myself” when I compare my career with those who haven’t done “as well as I have”.
I am on Linkedin because it allows me to “feel above narrow bindings of corporate rat race” when I compare my career with those who have done “better than I have”.
I am on Linkedin because it allows me to promote my writing (and still people don’t seem to be interested)…

Why do I love gtalk?

Is it because I am so popular that people are ALWAYS pinging me and I can’t help it?
Nonsense… The people I like talking to are rarely online.

I love gtalk because it’s emotionally less demanding and lets you be ‘invisible’…
I love gtalk because it lets me express stuff which I can never say otherwise…
I love gtalk because it lets me promote my writing (and still people don’t seem to be interested)…

Why do I prefer smses?

Is it because OTHER PEOPLE are always messaging me and I only reply?
Crap… The only messages I get are spam and from telecom companies/banks (informing me that they are going to debit my account for services they haven’t provided).

I prefer smses because they are emotionally less demanding and short…
I prefer smses because they allow me to write stuff which I am too cowardly to say on the face (doesn’t mean I have broken up with people over a sms)…
I prefer smses because they allow me to lie in bed, scroll through old messages and smile…

Why do I like social media?

I don’t… but it gives me a false sense of “being connected” without invading my privacy

What's common between Aishwariya Rai and an Investment Banker?

Disclaimer: This post is what you get when you cross supreme boredom with top management…


Both think that a good launching pad in modeling/Ivy League is a ticket to be successful in completely unrelated fields, i.e. acting/banking…

Both look good in swimsuits/ three-piece suits till they open their mouths…

Both believe that giggling idiotically is the way to dodge difficult questions on chat shows/investor presentations…

Both flirt with exciting ideas (Salman Khan/Alternative investments) but settle for the safe option (Junior Bacchan/ Fixed income)…

Both think that the solution to Box office failure/recession is sex…

The English Teacher

I had a tumultuous start to my career: no, I don’t mean the misfortune of being a 2009 pass-out, I also don’t mean the 25 interviews I had to take in a space of four months and I definitely don’t mean the way things are shaping up right now (that’s another story altogether)…

But let’s go back a couple of decades, when I was this 3-year old with pigtails and my parents were struggling to get me admitted to a “good” (read CONVENT) school where all the “good” (read dad’s colleagues’ daughters) went. Thankfully, I was born with this inherent ability to screw up all interviews and that talent was apparent even in those early years. So there I was, sitting in this very posh (read SNOOTY) room in a sprawling campus. The lady opposite to me (must have been the Principal of the school) points to the fruit kept on the table in front of me and asks gently, “So, dear, can you tell me what that fruit is?” Now I HATE it when unknown people/acquaintances address me as “dear”. Plus, it’s an open secret that I don’t like making small talk with people I don’t know. So I chose to maintain a dignified silence and stared back at her rudely. She asked me, AGAIN. Annoyed, I replied, “aapel” to get her off my back. Now, the fruit in question was an APPLE, but since I didn’t know the English word, and was too proud to admit it, I did what I could: I replied in my mother tongue, Bengali.

The rest, as they say, is history. The school refused me admission and this pattern was repeated in all the convents in Kolkata. Like they politely say in HR terms, “I wasn’t a good fit”. And thank god for that! So I went to this co-ed state board school which admitted pretty much everybody (and ended up in the Guinness Book of World Records as the most populous school in the world). This was a school where I could be myself, I could hang out with rowdy, ill-mannered boys and most importantly, I could speak in my mother tongue. All the students spoke in Bengali amongst themselves (those who didn’t, gave in to peer pressure) and so did most of the teachers. Obviously, the flipside was that my English was horrendous (yes, o readers of this blog, that explains the childish simplicity of my writing… I never learnt the big words till I wrote CAT and then it was too late), I suffered from an inferiority complex because I wasn’t “smart” like the other kids and I could NEVER make conversation with the above-mentioned dad’s colleagues’ convent-educated daughters till I was in Class IV.

And then, the English teacher stepped in… who decided enough was enough. I couldn’t keep failing my English paper and I couldn’t keep miserably staring at the food instead of playing with other girls.

He introduced me to the world of Malory Towers and read them with me so that I could discuss what I understood and what I didn’t…

He helped me with the painful ‘make sentences’ and ‘sentence correction’ exercises…

He made me give up my repeated readings of Feluda and instead take a chance on Alfred Hitchcock…

He bought me one Hercule Poirot book, and then another and then another…

He refused to let me take the easy way out in middle school and enroll for coaching classes and instead made me sweat over complicated interpretations of ‘The Lady of Shallot”, “Charge of the Light Brigade” and “The Daffodils” while he edited/corrected my convoluted summaries…

He held my hand as I nervously ventured in the world of classics: Jane Austen, Charles Dickens, Bernard Shaw, Emily Bronte…

He pretended to look away while I stole his Sidney Sheldon and Jeffrey Archer collection instead of studying for my Boards…

He encouraged me to take up English as my first language in High School simply because I wanted to study the history of English Literature though it was suicide in terms of grades and he never blamed me when I ended up with 55% in my Boards…

He taught me to speak, read and think in English, simply and crisply and without jargon…


He is the only Chartered Accountant I know who can make sense of old Russian literature as well as he can point out loopholes in GAAP and IFRS…

He is my dad…

What Happens in Vegas Goa?

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Stays in Goa…