Five years and five readers later, I can still proudly claim that I am as passionate a blogger as I was when I started way back in 2007, on a Friday morning, getting bored at home in Kolkata, waiting to begin the B school journey.
A lot has changed in the past few years: from a young, slightly naïve and temperamentally unstable girl, I have become older, more naïve and more temperamentally unstable…
I have been to B school, figured out it was a completely useless waste of time (except Corporate Communications), failed a few finance papers, drank a gallon of alcohol and made some really good friends…
I have also worked in two world-renowned MNCs, done well for myself, fought religiously with the bosses, started a new team, drank a gallon of alcohol and made some really good friends…
Having worked for the aforementioned world-renowned MNCs, I have figured out that I am not made for Corporate World and I have continued to chase my passion for writing, hitting the wall each time…
I have gone out with people casually and not-so-casually, fallen in love and fallen out of love, got stuck in the moment, moved out and moved on…
I have changed houses frequently, lived with the best of friends and then learnt to live alone, take care of myself and embrace the loneliness…
I have also helped India win the cricket World Cup…
But while I was doing all of this, I have continued to cherish the longest lasting relationship of my life: with this blog!
Happy 5th anniversary…
Friday, April 27, 2012
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Sometimes
Sometimes I hate being the only child…
Sometimes I hate being responsible…
Sometimes I hate being independent…
Sometimes I hate being matured…
Sometimes I hate being a grown-up…
Sometimes, just sometimes, I wish I had an elder brother…
Sometimes I hate being responsible…
Sometimes I hate being independent…
Sometimes I hate being matured…
Sometimes I hate being a grown-up…
Sometimes, just sometimes, I wish I had an elder brother…
Monday, April 23, 2012
Crash
So I have always believed in being a “true Indian” rather than a “true Bong”. Especially if you have stayed out of your hometown for as long as I have been, you tend to imbibe the cosmopolitan culture, rather than obstinately holding on to your “roots”. So yes, I do not break into an excited conversation in Bengali with a fellow Bong in the middle of a party with a bunch of non-Bongs staring at us, I do not post sentimental status updates on FB and no, I do not write angry open letters to a Delhi boy or a Gujju boy or a Mallu boy or any boy for that matter. On second thoughts, may be I should do so, at least to increase the abysmal hit count of my blog.
But, this weekend, when I watched Vicky Donor, I could so identify with the inevitable cultural clashes between the families of the protagonists. To begin with, I simply loved the movie, for all its on-your-face humour, the sheer crassness and the distinct rustic appeal of the characters, not marred by any superhero legacies. However, what touched me the most about the movie was the typical Punju-Bong contrast that came alive so explicitly. Surrounded by a Punjabi audience (complete with loud men and women with two dozen bangles), I held my ground, as I clapped loudly each time the passionate Bong in me was provoked…
Yes, we are tight-fisted; but at least we don’t leave the price tag on the gift…
Yes, we are progressive to the extent of committing social hara-kiri; but at least we have the courage to be honest about our past…
Yes, we are boringly sober in our weddings; but at least we are not insecure enough to reinforce our social status by a blatant display of opulence…
Yes, we are intellectual snobs; but at least we don’t have to justify our superiority by putting our neighbours down…
Yes, we have mediocre service-class aspirations of being bankers and lawyers; but at least we don’t resort to shortcuts to success…
And yes, we have doting fathers who love their daughters for who they are; but at the same time, they are impartial enough to take the Punju boy’s side, when she is simply blaming the world for her own limitations…
But, this weekend, when I watched Vicky Donor, I could so identify with the inevitable cultural clashes between the families of the protagonists. To begin with, I simply loved the movie, for all its on-your-face humour, the sheer crassness and the distinct rustic appeal of the characters, not marred by any superhero legacies. However, what touched me the most about the movie was the typical Punju-Bong contrast that came alive so explicitly. Surrounded by a Punjabi audience (complete with loud men and women with two dozen bangles), I held my ground, as I clapped loudly each time the passionate Bong in me was provoked…
Yes, we are tight-fisted; but at least we don’t leave the price tag on the gift…
Yes, we are progressive to the extent of committing social hara-kiri; but at least we have the courage to be honest about our past…
Yes, we are boringly sober in our weddings; but at least we are not insecure enough to reinforce our social status by a blatant display of opulence…
Yes, we are intellectual snobs; but at least we don’t have to justify our superiority by putting our neighbours down…
Yes, we have mediocre service-class aspirations of being bankers and lawyers; but at least we don’t resort to shortcuts to success…
And yes, we have doting fathers who love their daughters for who they are; but at the same time, they are impartial enough to take the Punju boy’s side, when she is simply blaming the world for her own limitations…
Thursday, April 19, 2012
Blonde and Blonder
Lately I have noticed something rather weird and completely uncharacteristic of me: I have been getting along with women! Throughout my life I have had more male friends, simply because I have grown up with more guys than girls. So it’s no surprise that the only women friends I have were forced upon me as roommates/flatmates: yes, all FOUR of them.
But now that three of them are married, and the other one is in Bangalore (and she no longer reads my blog), I have been missing that female bonding for some time now. Of course, it’s awesome to go out with the guys and have a drink, abuse the hell out of the Indian cricket team and crib about the boss, but sleepovers with girls are something totally different.
And it’s not like I expected things to get any better. At my age, single women are an endangered species, and since most women around me are busy discussing babies/EMIs/maids/petrol prices, I have felt completely out of place. So just when I had almost given up, I discovered some awesome women, who are not only interesting, fun and smart, but they are in the same loserly boat as mine: confused, rebellious and yes, single! The surprising bit is that I can spend hours talking to them without feeling bored or claustrophobic, I can be my stupid idealistic self without being judged and I can be spontaneous without caring about being misunderstood: it’s a pity that I can’t say the same for most men!
So if we are not enthusiastically planning trips to Egypt, Jordan and Morocco, we are making fun of bharatmatrimony.com where we have a lifetime membership, trying in vain to be “fair, slim and god-fearing”, because the perfect guy is just around the corner, like he has been for the last three years…
If we are not binging on the customary Double Trouble doughnut to cheer ourselves up to get over a dreadfully boring meeting, we are deriving a perverse pleasure criticizing other people’s dressing sense, attitudes and stupidity and basking in the halo of our superiority, even if the rest of the world doesn’t agree…
If we are not discussing unrealistic aspirations of making it big on our own honestly without making any compromises, we are lamenting our failed relationships, assuring one another that we have indeed grown up, while reaching for the pair of strappy sandals we don’t need…
Even if we don’t believe in soulmates, we definitely believe in soul sisters…
But now that three of them are married, and the other one is in Bangalore (and she no longer reads my blog), I have been missing that female bonding for some time now. Of course, it’s awesome to go out with the guys and have a drink, abuse the hell out of the Indian cricket team and crib about the boss, but sleepovers with girls are something totally different.
And it’s not like I expected things to get any better. At my age, single women are an endangered species, and since most women around me are busy discussing babies/EMIs/maids/petrol prices, I have felt completely out of place. So just when I had almost given up, I discovered some awesome women, who are not only interesting, fun and smart, but they are in the same loserly boat as mine: confused, rebellious and yes, single! The surprising bit is that I can spend hours talking to them without feeling bored or claustrophobic, I can be my stupid idealistic self without being judged and I can be spontaneous without caring about being misunderstood: it’s a pity that I can’t say the same for most men!
So if we are not enthusiastically planning trips to Egypt, Jordan and Morocco, we are making fun of bharatmatrimony.com where we have a lifetime membership, trying in vain to be “fair, slim and god-fearing”, because the perfect guy is just around the corner, like he has been for the last three years…
If we are not binging on the customary Double Trouble doughnut to cheer ourselves up to get over a dreadfully boring meeting, we are deriving a perverse pleasure criticizing other people’s dressing sense, attitudes and stupidity and basking in the halo of our superiority, even if the rest of the world doesn’t agree…
If we are not discussing unrealistic aspirations of making it big on our own honestly without making any compromises, we are lamenting our failed relationships, assuring one another that we have indeed grown up, while reaching for the pair of strappy sandals we don’t need…
Even if we don’t believe in soulmates, we definitely believe in soul sisters…
Monday, April 16, 2012
My Own Sinking Ship
This weekend was the centenary anniversary of the Titanic tragedy. Now I was a confused schoolgirl when it swept the Oscars back in 1998, who felt guilty of indecency for all the ‘adult’ content doled out on television, and yes, at that age, Titanic was as ‘adult’ as it could get. So as I sat through an embarrassing three hours, sandwiched between my parents, eyes wide shut, I counted each minute of what felt like a humiliating 5-day test match between India and Australia.
So when the 3D version hit the theatres, I could not help myself from watching the movie, only this time, it was bigger, better and sans any guilt. For a tragic epic, the second half had always moved me to tears, cursing the sheer callousness brought about by hubris, but somehow this time, the romantic in me took over. For a change, I soaked in the pre-interval camaraderie between Jack and Rose: the typical poor boy meets rich girl, girl looks down on boy but is attracted to him, girl is engaged, girl breaks off engagement, girl walks out on family to be with poor boy after knowing him all for four days, reeks of Bollywood absurdity, but yes, I am not ashamed to admit that I.LIKE.IT.
The seventeen-year-old in me wants to go on a cruise to a strange country and fall in love with a complete stranger who is completely unsuitable but unbelievably charming…
The rebel in me wants to break through the shackles and do things she is not supposed to do…
The naughty boy in me wants to be rude and spit on grown-ups…
The woman in me wants to give up everything for the man she loves…
The girl in me wants to be swept off her feet…
But the realist in me accepts that the ship has sailed…
Thursday, April 12, 2012
The Colour Purple
Ever since my school days (sans the imprisonment phase of three years in a convent girl’s college, when my parents were punishing me for screwing up my 12th standard boards), I have always been in a male-dominated environment with my share of male friends, pseudo/real boyfriend(s). My school strictly believed that eventually men rule the world, and hence we had one girl to every three boys. The girls didn’t complain since it meant extra attention, but since I was fat, I could never fully exploit the potential of the lopsided ratio.
My B school, though significantly healthier than most other so-called ‘nerdy’ institutes, still had a 1:3 distribution and now that I work in an I-Bank, I am once again relegated to a male-dominated bastion. Being the only girl in a bay of ten guys, I am often privy to crude jokes and loud discussions. So like any other helpless girl secluded in an I-Bank, I did what was the only option left to me: I attended a “Diversity Focus Group” conducted by two foreign strangers who don’t know you and definitely don’t care about you.
Remember all those banalities men complain about women: that we are nagging, that we blabber, that we gossip, that we “discuss our feelings in threadbare details”, well, unfortunately it’s all true! Especially when you are surrounded by aggressive loud people 12 hours a day, and you are suddenly urged to speak out against everything that is wrong with MANkind, all your hidden emotions get exposed. So while you start off politely, dignity and self-respect in place, by the end of it, you are ranting about your unresolved anger, ready to throw things at a stranger from Singapore, who is only here for sightseeing.
You start innocuously enough discussing the weather, praising the company for its inclusive culture, transparent policies and work-life balance…
Gradually you go on to blame THEM for your own shortcomings, i.e. lack of programming skills, lack of intelligence, lack of vocal chords and lack of upper body strength and suggest that they should hire more B.A. graduates, who are also short, dumb and not open to criticism, so that you could start some sort of a Sisterhood of Dumb Blondes …
Now you are warmed up, and since no man has ever given you so much ear-time, you take full advantage of the situation to launch into an extensive verbal abuse against your father, the school bully, the ex boyfriends, the current boyfriends and the prospective boyfriends, the sabziwala who cheated you, the autowala who refused to drive you, the left-brained male colleagues and of course, the boss…
You realize that time is not on your side and you remember all those “brilliant” points that you never got a chance to air in your 13 screwed-up GDs five years back, you are determined to make amends. So you hurriedly “bring some structure” to the discussion by talking about futuristic issues which you MIGHT face in the unlikely event that you decide to stick around in the company like “internal mobility to Cayman Islands’, “work from Coorg” and “maternity leave” despite no kids (hey, I am a woman, maternity leave is my birthright)…
Finally, you gather your belongings, and walk out, your head held high, imagining yourself to be Vidya Balan, convinced that you are now better equipped to deal with men, but your glory is short-lived as you get knocked down by a huge guy who apologizes, “Oh, sorry I didn’t see you” and you mumble, still on your fours, “It’s ok”.
Diversity is empowering, but there is no unity about it…
My B school, though significantly healthier than most other so-called ‘nerdy’ institutes, still had a 1:3 distribution and now that I work in an I-Bank, I am once again relegated to a male-dominated bastion. Being the only girl in a bay of ten guys, I am often privy to crude jokes and loud discussions. So like any other helpless girl secluded in an I-Bank, I did what was the only option left to me: I attended a “Diversity Focus Group” conducted by two foreign strangers who don’t know you and definitely don’t care about you.
Remember all those banalities men complain about women: that we are nagging, that we blabber, that we gossip, that we “discuss our feelings in threadbare details”, well, unfortunately it’s all true! Especially when you are surrounded by aggressive loud people 12 hours a day, and you are suddenly urged to speak out against everything that is wrong with MANkind, all your hidden emotions get exposed. So while you start off politely, dignity and self-respect in place, by the end of it, you are ranting about your unresolved anger, ready to throw things at a stranger from Singapore, who is only here for sightseeing.
You start innocuously enough discussing the weather, praising the company for its inclusive culture, transparent policies and work-life balance…
Gradually you go on to blame THEM for your own shortcomings, i.e. lack of programming skills, lack of intelligence, lack of vocal chords and lack of upper body strength and suggest that they should hire more B.A. graduates, who are also short, dumb and not open to criticism, so that you could start some sort of a Sisterhood of Dumb Blondes …
Now you are warmed up, and since no man has ever given you so much ear-time, you take full advantage of the situation to launch into an extensive verbal abuse against your father, the school bully, the ex boyfriends, the current boyfriends and the prospective boyfriends, the sabziwala who cheated you, the autowala who refused to drive you, the left-brained male colleagues and of course, the boss…
You realize that time is not on your side and you remember all those “brilliant” points that you never got a chance to air in your 13 screwed-up GDs five years back, you are determined to make amends. So you hurriedly “bring some structure” to the discussion by talking about futuristic issues which you MIGHT face in the unlikely event that you decide to stick around in the company like “internal mobility to Cayman Islands’, “work from Coorg” and “maternity leave” despite no kids (hey, I am a woman, maternity leave is my birthright)…
Finally, you gather your belongings, and walk out, your head held high, imagining yourself to be Vidya Balan, convinced that you are now better equipped to deal with men, but your glory is short-lived as you get knocked down by a huge guy who apologizes, “Oh, sorry I didn’t see you” and you mumble, still on your fours, “It’s ok”.
Diversity is empowering, but there is no unity about it…
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
The Indian Summer
There are three important aspects of the summers in India: the wedding season, the IIT entrance exam season and most importantly, the IPL season. For a sex-starved nation, it’s a lethal combination of everything that results in the collective orgasm of the country: cricket, Bollywood, money, celebrities, glitz and glamour, sprinkled with adequate doses of not-so-subtle sleaze and the great Indian passion for mugging up formulae and memorizing laws of motion stuck in an 8-by-8 room, also known as Bansal Classes in Kota.
If you observe closely, the dynamics among the three are quite fascinating. So while an ageing Bollywood actress who can no longer set the box office on fire, makes a quick buck shaking a leg in some opulent wedding of some rich industrialist’s kid’s wedding, an egoistic actor going through an extended mid-life crisis (and hence making movies like Ra.One) decides to BUY himself some self-respect by owning an IPL team. The industrialist, not to be left behind, vows to outdo the actor and thereby establish his superiority once and for all, by using all his funds meant for a fledgling airlines to buy rival IPL team: a team which represents a REAL metro and can ACTUALLY play cricket! Score! The ageing actress, desperate for her share of twitter limelight, desperately clings on to rival industrialist, who agrees to sponsor her stake in another IPL team, in exchange for retaining his freedom. Further, some obscure cheerleaders in a KKR match are cutting costs by wearing the same outfit for the match and the wedding, all in the name of the sanctity of Indian culture!
Meanwhile, in the afore-mentioned city of Kota, a 17 year-old bespectacled boy, with his nose in the latest and fattest version of M.L. Khanna, is secretly comparing the chemistry among Salman Khan, Kareena Kapoor and Priyanka Chopra in the IPL Opening Ceremony, more determined than ever to crack his way through the most coveted institutes in the country, so that, some day, he can also become as ugly and rich as Mukesh Ambani and gift an IPL team to his pretty wife.
Such are the seasons of life, and it’s no surprise that I am a withering leaf, getting blown away to an increasingly lifeless existence…
If you observe closely, the dynamics among the three are quite fascinating. So while an ageing Bollywood actress who can no longer set the box office on fire, makes a quick buck shaking a leg in some opulent wedding of some rich industrialist’s kid’s wedding, an egoistic actor going through an extended mid-life crisis (and hence making movies like Ra.One) decides to BUY himself some self-respect by owning an IPL team. The industrialist, not to be left behind, vows to outdo the actor and thereby establish his superiority once and for all, by using all his funds meant for a fledgling airlines to buy rival IPL team: a team which represents a REAL metro and can ACTUALLY play cricket! Score! The ageing actress, desperate for her share of twitter limelight, desperately clings on to rival industrialist, who agrees to sponsor her stake in another IPL team, in exchange for retaining his freedom. Further, some obscure cheerleaders in a KKR match are cutting costs by wearing the same outfit for the match and the wedding, all in the name of the sanctity of Indian culture!
Meanwhile, in the afore-mentioned city of Kota, a 17 year-old bespectacled boy, with his nose in the latest and fattest version of M.L. Khanna, is secretly comparing the chemistry among Salman Khan, Kareena Kapoor and Priyanka Chopra in the IPL Opening Ceremony, more determined than ever to crack his way through the most coveted institutes in the country, so that, some day, he can also become as ugly and rich as Mukesh Ambani and gift an IPL team to his pretty wife.
Such are the seasons of life, and it’s no surprise that I am a withering leaf, getting blown away to an increasingly lifeless existence…
Saturday, April 7, 2012
Someplace Else
The last one week has been surreal, as I jolted between the past and the present, as I tried to make sense of the city and its people I had left behind nine years back, as I wondered if it was me who has moved on or it was the place that has remained stuck in time.
It was still the same place I called home…
But the people have changed: the naughty boy I hung out with ever since I was three and who christened me all sorts of unflattering nicknames is all grown up as we finally met after nine years; the sweet girl who struggled with maths is now struggling with men; the pretty girl who was the heartthrob in school is now married proudly showing off her sindoor; the ambitious girl who wanted to go places is now getting used to being a mom; the skirtchaser with a heart of gold who dated all the hot women in college is repeating the same old stories as we get drunk (well, some things never change)…
My parents were still the same as they argued with me, annoyed me with complicated excel sheets, tried to convince me to get married and argued some more…
But the city showed signs of poriborton (change) if only at a very superficial level: the new government was playing around with COLOURS, as they painted the buildings and walls white and blue; the metro now gave the peak hour Mumbai local a run for its money; the weather played hide and seek as the scorching afternoons gave way to stormy evenings as I ran for cover outside the Park Hotel, a little high, a little happy and mostly nostalgic…
The delicacies have remained as mouthwatering as ever as I binged on puchka, Arsanal’s biryani, Badshah’s chicken roll, mishti doi and suddenly appreciated mom’s cooking which I usually dismissed as bland hospital food…
But it also reminded me how much I have changed: that I no longer belonged here, that Calcutta is my past and even though I don’t know my future, even though I am tied to the city, even though I had the best childhood here, it was not the place where I wanted my kids to grow up…
It was Someplace Else…
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
The Mirror Crack'd From Side to Side
She observed the world outside from her tower; not directly, but through a veil of shadows, always protecting herself from reality…
She cocooned herself in her shell; blaming the curse upon her, but secretly comfortable in the familiar stink of her surroundings…
She mourned her isolation; cribbing about the loneliness that encapsulated her life, but subconsciously alienating anybody who tried to break through…
She kept weaving steadily; complaining that it was a task and not a passion, but holding on to it all the same…
She held up her mirror and noticed the reflection of Sir Lancelot; this time she mustered enough courage to leave the tower, but her destination remained at a distance, much like the world outside, much like her dreams, much like her aspirations…
She was the Lady of Shalott, much like the rest of us…
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