Money for Nothing...

Yesterday, it was finally there: the occasion we were all waiting for with bated breath. No I don’t mean the end of India’s humiliating whitewash against the Aussies. I assure you it was more life-changing, more significant and more important than world peace, environment and Presidential Elections in the US. It was the day when bonus and hike numbers were announced in our bank.

We were already repeatedly brainwashed to keep our expectations low. Fed with constant stories of cost cutting, headcount rationalization and slashed bonus pools due to the economic downturn, we half expected the bank to TAKE money from us. As if to prove a point, it also announced that it was offering junk bonds as a part of the bonus component to senior executives.

Now the communist Bong that I am, any blatant discussion about money embarrasses me. Though the only reason I am in this industry IS money, I wouldn’t be caught dead admitting it. Yes, I am hypocritical that way. So when my boss called me up to discuss my numbers, I maintained a staunch silence, and after he probingly asked me if I was happy with the revision, I hurriedly jumped into an incoherent explanation on how it was NOT all about money and the intangibles go a long way in defining my satisfaction. For a change, here was someone quoting obscene amounts of money AND apologizing that it was a bad year. All I could think about was all those coffee breaks I took or the time I spent writing nonsense or reading unrelated stuff or following flipkart, cricinfo, makemytrip and bookmyshow during office hours. Suddenly, I felt guilty, but thankfully got over it soon. However, this was where it ended. No phone calls to gush about it, no pondering over it and no comparing with other people. I smsed my dad who conveniently ignored it, only calling me at night to tell me how much additional tax I would have to pay.

Honestly speaking, I had not given much thought to the compensation aspect. I was happy with my appraisal, I was happy even with my current remuneration and any increase would barely make any difference to my life. I don’t have any financial responsibilities, debts or materialistic ambitions and the concept of diminishing marginal utility of money is very pronounced right now. It was good to know that I was valued enough for them to make a generous offer without me asking for it. Having said that, I know that the i-banking world is very fickle and short term, and I could well be discarded next year. I also know, that the increase in money will make no difference to my philosophy, i.e. if I feel stifled or micromanaged, I won’t think twice before quitting. However, more money does increase the exit barriers and make it all the more harder for me to give it all up to permanently retire to a writer’s life.

Money can’t buy a dream, but it CAN make it a disturbed sleep…

Roadtrip

Two guys, two girls, an ugly car, lots of alcohol, good music, a beautiful view and a very bad sense of humour: that’s the recipe for a near-perfect roadtrip.

To begin with, I love trips where all I have to do is sit in the car, look pretty, pose for random pictures and make the occasional coffee, without having to use to my brains. It’s such a relief and a welcome break from my life in Mumbai where I am perpetually stressed out. For a change, I did not have to plan anything, I did not have to obsess about traveling/accomodation/sight seeing. Everything was taken care of by the Mallu boys who pampered anon and me and since they had a DSLR camera, we let them.

Going back to Mysore was a sort of a deja vu as I remembered flashes of my previous trip with my folks, two decades ago: the Summer Palace of Tipu Sultan, the beautifully lit-up Mysore Palace (thankfully it was Republic Day and the Palace is lit up only on National Holidays), St. Philomena’s Church and the panoramic view from the Chamundi Hills.

But Coorg really took my breath away. Not that we did any sight-seeing except the quaint Golden Temple and monastery on the way, but the experience of spending a day in a far-flung cottage, overlooking the valley, was something quite out of the world. The hills, the sunset, the bonfire, the star-gazing (cosmic scrabble to be precise), the dogs, the fireflies, and most of all, the serene virginal beauty just make you wish that you could stay there forever.

While I spent just an evening in Bangalore, I managed to sneak in some quality brother-and-sister time with my cousin as well as a late night dinner with some of the old college batchmates. I so love the city: the sprawling houses, the short distances and the luxury of a social life that I can never imagine in Mumbai.

However, the trip did bring out some disturbing latent traits in me. My appetite suddenly shot through the roof, as food just disappeared down my throat at the speed of lightning as I easily outate/outdrank everybody by a long way. I would blame the mountain air for my sudden fascination with food, but as it was logically pointed out to me, it’s unlikely that the mountain air would single ME out. Ergo, I am a greedy pig. Also, I didn’t know I had such a competitive streak in me. I mean all through my academic/professional life, I have been overtly laid-back as I went with the flow, be it during exams, placements or appraisals, not torturing myself by comparing my achievements (or the lack of them) with with that of other people. But suddenly, at 3 a.m., in the old cottage in the middle of nowhere, I became super competitive about, hold your breath, a game of carrom (or carrom board, as some people would call it). As my friends pointed out, there was a sudden cold wave sweeping across Coorg and it came from ME, as I sulked my way through both games. For the record, I am not a BAD player, though over the years, I have lost my magic touch, but I was doomed with a bad partner. So I did not lose, WE did.

So there it was: the perfect weekend, the perfect roadtrip, the perfect life…

Short and Sweet

1.I watched Chaalis Chaurasi, the worst movie with two of the best actors (Nasiruddin Shah and Kay Kay Menon). Talented people make horrible choices.

2.I am no longer a whisky virgin. I made my JD debut and I feel extremely grown up now.

3.Come tomorrow and we are headed to Bangalore for our Mysore-Coorg roadtrip.

Life is short and sweet… pretty much like my bonus

Inseminated Adoption

When others take time, they are SLOW. When I take time, I am THOROUGH…

When others talk loudly, they are OBNOXIOUS. When I talk loudly, I am CONFIDENT…

When others giggle, they are SCHOOLGIRLS. When I giggle, I am VIVACIOUS…

When others discuss their homes/families/possessions, they are SHOWING OFF. When I do it, I am SHARING…

When others screw up a dish, they are BAD COOKS. When I screw up, I am EXPERIMENTING…

When others discuss their bfs/gfs, they are MUSHY. When I do so, I am ROMANTIC…

When others buy stuff they don’t need, they are SHOPAHOLICS. When I do so, it’s because I NEED 17 pairs of shoes…

When others put up status messages on FB, they are FOLLOWING THE HERD. When I do so, I have a VERY IMPORTANT MESSAGE TO THE WORLD…

When others read cheap books, they have BAD TASTE in literature. When I do so, I am VERSATILE…

When others indulge in immoral acts, they have a QUESTIONABLE VALUE SYSTEM. When I do so, I am OPEN-MINDED…

When others speak their minds, they are RUDE. When I do so, I am STRAIGHTFORWARD.

When others are dieting, they are ANOREXIC. When I do so, I am HEALTH CONSCIOUS…

When others participate in a discussion, they are BANAL. When I do so, I am ENTHUSIASTIC…

When others give up their boring jobs, they are UNSUCCESSFUL. When I do so, it’s because I have a PASSION…

When others behave normally, they are ORDINARY. When I do so, I am DOWN-TO-EARTH…

Handbags and Gladrags

Those were the days of running around bare feet, nails polished with mud and dirt…
These are times to tiptoe on high heels, wrapped around carefully pedicured feet…

Those were the days of climbing on top of each other to reach out for the tempting mango, high enough to avoid our greedily stretched arms, low enough to keep us interested…
These are times to delicately sip a mango shake in an expensive joint, cribbing about the dry day…

Those were the days of walking down the road, hand-in-hand, fingers twined together…
These are times to surreptitiously sneak inside a restaurant, sunglasses covering the face…

Those were the days of proudly donning old and ragged hand-me-downs from our sisters, safety pins holding up what missing buttons could not…
These are times to compare luxury brands and smugly complain about the prices, while paying for them…

Those were the days of being excited about a day trip to the nameless picnic spot 100 kms away…
These are times to jetset around the world, living out of a suitcase and getting the passport stamped without imbibing the essence of the place…

Those were the days of childish innocence enjoying the journey…
These are times of matured pragmatism of having arrived…

The Shantaram in Me

Yesterday was the ninth anniversary of the Standard Chartered Mumbai marathon. While I am no marathon sprinter, like most inactive jobless people, I LIKE TO FEEL A PART OF A WORTHY CAUSE, especially if it involves celebrity spotting from close corners. Let’s face it, where else would you have the chance to stand at arm’s length with the rich and famous of Mumbai? I was in college when the first marathon was held, and I still remember standing right on Marine Drive with my Stats copy (for an exam the next day), my eyes straining to catch a glimpse of Rahul Bose, my longstanding crush.

Which brings me back to my undergrad days. Now I was a self-confessed LOSER then. Not that I was a winner in B school by any stretch of imagination, but at least in those two years, I did what every college student is supposed to do: bunk lectures, flunk exams, go out with random people, party, get drunk, travel on shoestring budgets and try new things. But undergrad was a different story altogether: all I did was study and hang out with my equally loserly roomie, admiring the “cool crowd” from a distance.

Obviously, over time, the boundaries of ‘coolness’ get blurred and now I am on quite good terms with some of those girls who intimidated me as a teenager. So, yesterday I went back a few years, spent a few pleasurable hours walking down Marine Drive and bargaining on Colaba Causeway, my eyes lighting up as I remembered those lazy evenings at Mondegar or Leopold. I also met one of my college friends after almost a year, and while we ruminated about the old days over a couple of Cosmopolitans, I realized a few home truths about my undergrad batch mates:

1. We are OLD…
2. Many of them are in MY dream profession (i.e. media / journalism/ advertising) and apparently, things are NOT quite as perfect as I believe they should be even if you are in a field that excites you…
3. Many of them have achieved a lot in a matter of six years while I was busy getting confused: some of them got married very early, followed by a quick divorce and now they are living it up either with some exotic foreigner or living life on their own terms in a foreign country; some of them got married very early and are now fretting over admission of their kids; some of them went to countries like Ireland for a course in bakery, came back to work as a chef in some posh restaurant, didn’t like the work culture and went to Paris for some other culinary curriculum; some of them ended up in modeling or entertainment (ad/movies/television serials); some of them became stewardesses, earned obscene amounts of money and went abroad for further studies; of course some of the losers went into boring professions like law/economics/business management but they are not important in this context…

What did I miss? Why did I choose a conventional life? If I had a chance to go back to those three years, would I do things differently? Probably. But then again, would I be happy if I did things differently? Probably not…

“I was going through deep and silent water. Nothing and no-one could make me happy. Nothing and no-one could make me sad. I was tough. Which is probably the saddest thing you can say about a man.”


But the Shantaram in me continues to be confused…

Pride in the Name of Love

Disclaimer: This is one of my rare cheesy, corny, super-girlish posts, so guys are forewarned to keep away. Nevertheless, I am sure all three of you will still read it and THEN pass judgmental comments like, “Women! So dumb” or more specifically, “Nefertiti! So dumb”

There is no doubt that I am a strong, straight-forward, no-nonsense girl who doesn’t take crap from anybody (not even a publisher, let alone a boss). Also I don’t like weddings, babies or gossiping. And I like sports, alcohol and most of all, SPACE.
Add to that the usual cosmopolitan argument: conventionally 'educated', IB-employed and away from home, and you would think I am devoid of any estrogen whatsoever (except that I do LOOK like a girl and I am bad at maths).

But the bitter truth is I AM a girl, a pathetically romantic one at that, who would do ANYTHING when she falls in love (EVERY BLOODY TIME)…

I would travel to the remotest corner of the world to be together: I know it’s impractical, especially in todays world where career choices force you to be flexible and I see so many couples around me living apart. My own parents have spent about a decade in different cities at different stages of their lives because both were pursuing their professional dreams. But I am old-fashioned that way and while I value my job/independence, it would never be so important that we stay apart for an indefinite period. I definitely don’t believe in the “distance makes the heart grow fonder” crap. I have to live together in the cramped one-room apartment and get on each other’s nerve to feel any fondness for the other person. In fact there was a time when I was barely six months into my first job and I had decided to give it up and become a teacher in a Tier 2 city which had no job for me…

I would not make any conditions: I always hear people explaining to me about how relationships are about making compromises, give-and-take and bargaining. And while I can argue till the end of time with a roadside shopkeeper, I can’t do that with someone I care about. Yes, I would sulk or scream, but not turn into a coalition partner who threatens to withdraw support to the Centre every time they don’t agree on something (Mamata Banerjee saved a guy’s life by not getting married). I guess after nine years of roommates/flatmates, you learn to let go of the little things and if doing laundry for one extra person or cleaning up one extra dish gives us the extra fifteen minutes, otherwise spent in arguing, I would rather do that. Let’s face it, I am good at doing laundry and washing dishes and it hardly takes any time. But of course, the line has to be drawn somewhere, like cooking, for example…

I would give till I have nothing else to offer: This is a tricky one, since it leaves you completely devastated and almost foolish, especially if the relationship does not work out. Having said that, this is also the ONLY way to do things: without expectations, without keeping scores and without asking for something in return. I can’t just make someone a part of my life and yet hold back. It remains a mystery how you can possibly be so half-hearted about something you profess to be passionate about.

One man come in the name of love…
One man come and go…
One man come here to justify…
One man to overthrow…
In the name of love!

Pride in the name of love? Not for me…

Disgrace Down Under

This weekend I made a lot of trips to South Mumbai, or as we the poor cousins in Suburban Mumbai call it, “Town”. If you are from Mumbai, you would know that this is no mean feat and can only be compared to India’s current sojourn Down Under.

To begin with, anybody who had jostled against smelly armpits in a crowded second class compartment would know that the experience is as harrowing as watching Gautam Gambhir face an Australian fast bowler with the new ball. You may be the king at your own backyard, but when exposed to an alien environment, you are bound to be humiliated. So when I am navigating through the crowd at Ghatkopar or Mulund, I feel good about myself: confident, successful and quite an achiever, pretty much like MS Dhoni, after beating a weak and below-par West Indies team. However, as soon as I travel down south, I see genetically superior, better-looking, better-dressed and effortlessly sophisticated people who inevitably end up making me feel like Team India getting thrashed by Ponting and Clarke. If that isn’t enough to humiliate me, you have this constant reminder of the horror story that will follow shortly: like the green top at Perth awaits the Boys in Blue, I shudder to explore the sheer embarrassment of walking inside the Palladium Mall which reduces me to a worm in front of the well-heeled ladies from Malabar Hills.

Otherwise it was a good weekend… clothes-wise and rupee-foolish.

Also, for the first time, I held a 10-day old baby in my arms… it was scary: not the baby, but the fact that it belonged to my college roommate.

The Unfinished Coffee

It was one of those January mornings: cold enough to hug the shrug close to her, warm enough to feel like the world still mattered and the empty coffee shop she was sitting in was not just a painfully perfect aide memoire of the past; the city was still asleep on a lazy Sunday morning.

She took a deep breath and held on to the delicious whiff of freshly baked croissants…

She savoured her Caffè Verona, a seductive blend of beans from Latin America and Indonesia, with a tender touch of Italian Roast lending depth, soul and sweetness to the drink. She smiled at the irony: Verona was where Shakespeare chose to stage his tragic Romeo-Juliet romance…

She flicked through the coffee table book, carelessly glancing through the pages which did not interest her yet captured her eye, pretty much like the world around her…

She tilted her head, trying to sing along with music playing in the background but gave up when it changed its tune just the way things eventually faded away to make way for something new…

She stared at the hand-polished woodwork and the wooden blinds, her eyes resting for a second on the settee at the corner, before moving on to the wall hangings, yet stealthily casting glances back on the settee, refusing to completely let go…

And something stirred inside her; she left her coffee unfinished, hurriedly paid the bill and ran out without waiting for the change…

The change can wait, she couldn’t afford it then…

Gazing into the Crystal Ball

It’s not my blogging day. I blog every alternate day, not because I am busy on the other alternate days, but because I like to create the illusion that I have a life. But today, when I walked into the office and checked my mail, I got a pleasant surprise, only marginally less pleasant than the PREVIEW sale at Pantaloons and Lifestyle EXCLUSIVELY for members, i.e. losers like me who have spent shitloads of money buying stuff which they don’t need. My boss was on sick leave. The only thing better than your own IMPROMPTU sick leave (when you are actually NOT sick) is when your boss takes an impromptu sick leave. I should have believed it, when my horoscope in the Mumbai Mirror said that “seniors at work will be co-operative.”

Now I am one those people who absolutely definitely DO NOT BELIEVE in the bullshit called astrology. It’s no rocket science, in fact it’s no science at all, though it’s quite an art: the art of politely saying “no” to a marriage proposal. It’s more politically correct to say “our horoscopes don’t match” rather than saying, “you are downright ugly/stupid”. Despite my lack of faith, I religiously read my daily horoscope in not one, but two-three newspapers, and more often than not, that’s the ONLY thing I read in those newspapers (except of course the important editorial pieces like “how to lose five kgs in five weeks” or “how to meet your perfect soulmate” or “how to lose that perfect soulmate when you figure out he is NOT that perfect after all”).

So, given my wide expertise in interpretations of zodiac predictions, here are a few observations, which may seem completely inaccurate on the face of it, but if you scratch the surface, you would appreciate that even with Bejan Daruwala, it’s not just the alcohol talking: there IS about half a page of truth in those 535 pages of utter nonsense (don’t lie. I SEE you sneaking around in the Astrology section in Crossword everyday, reading your forecasts):

The most common goof up is: “Capricorn: Financially a good year” and yet, inflation keeps eating into your bank balance. The fine print you missed is, “financially, a good year. FOR. YOUR. BOSS.” He will get all the work done by you, and keep the majority of the bonus pool for himself. Or take this example. Year after year, your forecasts keep saying “Pisces: Marriage is on the cards” and yet you keep wondering why you are still single. What they mean is that you will receive plenty of wedding invitations (or as per our national language, “cards”). Of course, marriage IS on the cards, but nobody said it will be YOURS…

Or take the universal forecasts for which you don’t really need an astrologer. For example, “Gemini: Excellent year for rethinking career plans and options” or “Virgo: Friends and family will be supportive of your needs”. Really? Even I could have told you that…

The worst ones are which begin with an action-plan but go on to tell you why you should, in fact, NOT implement that action plan, thus making you feel comfortable with status quo. It’s not YOU who is resistant to change, but it’s your horoscope. Take this example: “Aries: It seems that you're ready for a major change in your life, but take care that you don't implement change merely for the sake of change. Think carefully about what you really want to do.” Yayy… time to sit back, and continue watching Emotional Atyachaar. You would definitely switch channels, if it wasn’t for the horoscope.

Please transfer 10% of the MRP (and not the price you pay on Flipkart) for accurate personalized interpretations of Bejan Daruwalla’s upcoming forecasts for 2012…


P.S. The "marriage is on the cards" bit is not original. I read it somewhere and it stuck.

Black...

So almost five years of blogging and five and a half readers later, I have finally changed the template of this blog. No, it has nothing to do with the new year. Just that one of my readers complained that the black background was making it difficult for him to read FOR LONG HOURS (note the LONG HOURS) and of course, as insecure as I am about losing one of my five and a half readers, I immediately decided to do away with the design I so loved.

Back in the ancient times when I was preparing for GD/PI, my instructors at the coaching institute lied to me that some colleges have abstract GD topics like 'pink pajamas over the red fort' or ‘deep blue is not blue enough” or in some cases, just random colours like 'red’ or 'black'. For a change, these were topics I was comfortable with, because they did not require any knowledge/information/opinion/loudness on my part. But as luck would have it, in all my 13 GDs, topics were related to irrelevant issues like democracy, politics, economics or finance, none of which were of any particular interest to me.

Anyway, coming back to the post, I LOVE BLACK. It fascinates me. And I am not just talking about clothes and shoes, though come to think of it, I DO have an abnormal number of those as well.

But there is something ethereal about the colour: it’s classy and sombre; it’s dark and enigmatic; it’s poignant and spiritual.

Black evokes hope. We talk about the coming of age of the black sheep of the family or the proverbial “black coat” which signifies graduation…

Black stands for strength. It absorbs, it endures, it LISTENS…

Black represents nobility. It is replete with tradition, it is rich in culture, it smacks of sophistication…

AND YOU ALSO HAVE BLACK DOG…

Notwithstanding the Black Fridays, Black still manages to cast a spell over me…

New Year Nuisance

Hello. Silence… Hi. Silence… How are you?... Silence… Can you stop typing on your BB for one second and listen to me? Silence... I have decided to get married. Silence…

WISH YOU A HAPPY AND PROSPEROUS NEW YEAR… Ohhh, same to you!

So that was me and my dad. After failing to get his attention for 15 minutes, I resorted to the ONE SENTENCE that seems to have garnered more interest this last week than Poonam Pandey’s promises to strip.

And at times like this, I thank my stars that not too many people like me. As it is, I have 332 ‘friends’ on Facebook and for the last week I have been bombarded with various wall posts wishing EVERYONE “good health, wealth, prosperity and fulfillment in 2012”. Add to that the random sms-es beginning sharp at midnight and some losers (like anon) had the audacity to call me in the middle of the night TO WISH ME A HAPPY NEW YEAR! Imagine the chaos and the sheer annoyance if I WERE POPULAR, like my dad, for example! Shudder!!

I LOVE text messages (in fact a witty tongue-in-cheek sms conversation in the middle of the night has a very high romantic quotient) but what I absolutely abhor are universal, impersonal messages sent to everybody on your address book.

Take the examples of a few common new year sms-es that nearly all of us have received sometime this week. If you haven’t, please tell me what you did right to piss off so many people.

The unimaginative ones which you get from multiple people: “Wishing you and your fly a very happy new year. May 2012 bring you lots of love, happiness, peace and prosperity. Ram and Sita.”
My first issue with this one is the use of the word ‘fly’ which makes you look down involuntarily. How difficult is it to spell out FAMILY really? I know it’s called short message service, but I prefer to use full forms at certain crucial places. Secondly, if you ARE wishing me so many good things, can you at least replace love, happiness, peace and prosperity with more tangible THINGS like money, alcohol, chocolates and sex? Finally, I am sure your poor spouse had nothing to do with this text, so why drag her into it at the end?

The poetic ones: “Nights are Dark but Days are Light. Wish your Life will always be Bright. So my Dear don't get Fear Coz, God Gifted us a "BRAND NEW YEAR" *****HAPPY NEW YEAR 2012****”
Not everybody can be Shakespeare, but bad poetry can really make you throw up. We already have a Kolaveri Di to deal with. Spare us the torture on this new year please. And what’s with the stars? We have a SRK to throw starry fits make movies like Don 2 and Ra.One, we don’t need more shocks.

The ‘nationalistic’ ones: These are inspired by patriotic sentiments which insist on the regional element. “Beet gaya jo saal, Bhul jaayein; Beet gaya jo saal, Bhul jaayein; Es Naye Saal ko Gale lagayein; Karte hai dua hum Rab se sar jhukake...Es Saal k Sare Sapne pure ho Aapke. *NAYA SAAL MUBARAK*”
I can’t criticize this one because I can’t understand this one. I dutifully reply with a “wish you the same”.

On that note, I wish all my readers (all five and a half of you) a very happy new year. I hope you all are promoted, get laid, lose weight, buy a house in Mumbai… (if you are being optimistic, might as well be unrealistic)