As per Bacchi Karkaria, the noted TOI columnist and one of my favourites, “If you key in 'Women cannot' google will obligingly come up with such sexist options as 'drive', 'be bishops', 'talk in church', or even 'be trusted'. 'Women shouldn't' will produce 'vote', 'work', and even 'box', which would make our million- dollar baby, Mary Kom, kayo her computer screen.”
So these are some of the much talked about stereotypical allegations made against women. Add to it a couple of others which I have noticed which apply to me as well: “read maps” and “work on excel”. And as much as I hate to admit it and as much as I rant against stereotypes, there are some things we are, how do I put it delicately, “not the best at”. And yes, driving, reading maps and working on excel feature high on that list.
Every time I have got lost while traveling in some European city where people would not/could not speak English, I have been left helpless staring at some godforsaken map which stares back rudely at me, without telling me ANYTHING, pretty much like a French guy. And each time I have asked a kind passerby, he/she had looked at me condescendingly as if to say, “But it’s RIGHT.THERE. How can you not know?” Well, I don’t! Doesn’t make me stupid. I am just bad with maps.
Same with excel. I don’t like spreadsheets, I don’t like the way they look, I don’t like the way they automatically populate themselves and I don’t like the way they program you to become a trained monkey repeating the same task, crunching numbers and making graphs. With each day and with each worksheet, I feel like the last bit of creativity is being sucked out of me, which is when I open a blank word document and start typing: randomly, desperately and furiously, trying to hold on to whatever is left over of the girl who churned out editorials at will, completely oblivious of all the accounting jargon around her.
Again, that doesn’t make me stupid, only “differently-abled”. 'The consumer is not a moron; she is your wife.' (David Ogilvy)
Women ARE from Venus; they don’t need to drive or read maps to get there…
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Friday, November 1, 2013
Thursday, September 19, 2013
Krakow Chronicles
We are on our annual road trip in Europe, this time we drive down from Prague (Czech Republic) to Krakow (Poland). It’s almost June, but it’s unusually cold and rainy and it takes us more than five hours to reach the city. In our three days in the city, we meet three very different kinds of people, each with their own story, each of which is fascinating in its own right.
We shack up with an Indian family who has been living in Poland for the last ten years. Mr. Chatterjee is a marketing manager with a prominent manufacturing company while his wife, an ex-IT professional, is a housewife. We ask her impressions about the country which has now been her home for almost a decade. Her daughter, Tanya, is in UK doing her bachelors in Economics, while her son, Rohan, goes to school in Krakow itself. She seems quite happy with her life in the cozy, sprawling bungalow, as she indulges her passion for gardening and painting, though she does admit that it gets quite lonely at times, especially since her husband travels often on work and her daughter has moved out of home. While her son is quite comfortable with the local children and has imbibed the local tastes (like the love of tennis and skiing, as opposed to cricket), she still finds her solace in rented old Bollywood movies or new Bengali music (‘Bangla Adhunik Gaan’) which she picks up on her annual visits to India.
Every winter finds her dressed in layers of warm clothing, taking her dog, Kosturi (she couldn’t resist the temptation of naming her after a popular Bengali household name, something her kids resisted) even at sub-10 degrees temperature while every summer, she goes on trips across Europe either on her own or with her friends/family members visiting from India. “I have traveled to Austria, Germany, UK, France, Spain, but Prague is definitely my favourite, followed by Budapest”, she quips, as she points to the souvenir of the Astronomical Clock in Prague or the night shot of the Danube river in Budapest. But life, for her, is a waiting game: waiting for the day when she would finally go back to Kolkata, even though her husband nurses ambitions of leading the entire Eastern European operations for his company in the near future (a rare achievement for an Indian) and her children cannot dream of a life outside the comfortable familiarity of Europe.
The next day, as we go around Krakow through the busy streets of the old Jewish town, Kazimierz, soak in the magnificent view of the Vistula river from the Wawel Castle, try the local cuisine (including the popular Żurek soup) in the Old Town and pick up knick knacks at Sukiennice (Cloth Hall), arguably the world’s oldest shopping mall, we get to know Slawomir, a middle aged man, born and brought up in the city. He enthusiastically chatters away about how the economy has flourished with a lot of multi-nationals setting up their offshoring desks in cities like Krakow and Wroclaw (not unlike Indian cities like Mumbai, Bangalore or Gurgaon), the pride the people take in Pope John Paul II, the first Polish Pope and the many beautiful castles and salt mines in and around Krakow. But as we get a little high on the local drink, Śliwowica, his cheerful mask slips off for a moment as he talks about his well-educated wife who lost her job as an economist and his 23-year old daughter who works extra shifts in KFC to make it through college. Himself a cab driver, he is completely old school, as he expresses his disapproval about “the young people these days.” He shakes his head as he confides in us, “I fell in love with my wife as a teenager and we have been married for 27 years. But look at my daughter, she has a boyfriend she lives with, but they don’t want to get married. What can you do as a parent, but no, I don’t like it”…
On the final day, we take a bus to Auschwitz, about 60 km from Krakow, infamous for housing one of most elaborate Nazi concentration camps during the Second World War. For almost four hours we relive the horror stories that so many Jews went through, we see glaring reminders of inhuman atrocities and we cringe at the thought of the monstrosity that went on for over five years: all of it narrated by the Polish guide, whose voice pierced through the gloomy silence on a gloomy day, whose words cut through the gory remnants of the camp and whose emotions dripped with frightening familiarity to the events. Finally, when the tour came to an end, we got talking to him, and he left us even more shocked as he signed off, “People wonder how I do this job every day, how I go through the experience again and again, but let me assure you that if you were a Jew who had lost a family member in this carnage, you would also feel the same personal trauma that I do, each day, every day”.
And there it was, our journey through Krakow, which ended up as more than just another tourist destination. It was also a journey into the minds of the people who, despite the vast differences, were essentially the same, with stories which resonated with each of us: of longing, of pride, of the cultural tug of war, of resentment, of memories, of being human.
First published on Newsyaps
We shack up with an Indian family who has been living in Poland for the last ten years. Mr. Chatterjee is a marketing manager with a prominent manufacturing company while his wife, an ex-IT professional, is a housewife. We ask her impressions about the country which has now been her home for almost a decade. Her daughter, Tanya, is in UK doing her bachelors in Economics, while her son, Rohan, goes to school in Krakow itself. She seems quite happy with her life in the cozy, sprawling bungalow, as she indulges her passion for gardening and painting, though she does admit that it gets quite lonely at times, especially since her husband travels often on work and her daughter has moved out of home. While her son is quite comfortable with the local children and has imbibed the local tastes (like the love of tennis and skiing, as opposed to cricket), she still finds her solace in rented old Bollywood movies or new Bengali music (‘Bangla Adhunik Gaan’) which she picks up on her annual visits to India.
Every winter finds her dressed in layers of warm clothing, taking her dog, Kosturi (she couldn’t resist the temptation of naming her after a popular Bengali household name, something her kids resisted) even at sub-10 degrees temperature while every summer, she goes on trips across Europe either on her own or with her friends/family members visiting from India. “I have traveled to Austria, Germany, UK, France, Spain, but Prague is definitely my favourite, followed by Budapest”, she quips, as she points to the souvenir of the Astronomical Clock in Prague or the night shot of the Danube river in Budapest. But life, for her, is a waiting game: waiting for the day when she would finally go back to Kolkata, even though her husband nurses ambitions of leading the entire Eastern European operations for his company in the near future (a rare achievement for an Indian) and her children cannot dream of a life outside the comfortable familiarity of Europe.
The next day, as we go around Krakow through the busy streets of the old Jewish town, Kazimierz, soak in the magnificent view of the Vistula river from the Wawel Castle, try the local cuisine (including the popular Żurek soup) in the Old Town and pick up knick knacks at Sukiennice (Cloth Hall), arguably the world’s oldest shopping mall, we get to know Slawomir, a middle aged man, born and brought up in the city. He enthusiastically chatters away about how the economy has flourished with a lot of multi-nationals setting up their offshoring desks in cities like Krakow and Wroclaw (not unlike Indian cities like Mumbai, Bangalore or Gurgaon), the pride the people take in Pope John Paul II, the first Polish Pope and the many beautiful castles and salt mines in and around Krakow. But as we get a little high on the local drink, Śliwowica, his cheerful mask slips off for a moment as he talks about his well-educated wife who lost her job as an economist and his 23-year old daughter who works extra shifts in KFC to make it through college. Himself a cab driver, he is completely old school, as he expresses his disapproval about “the young people these days.” He shakes his head as he confides in us, “I fell in love with my wife as a teenager and we have been married for 27 years. But look at my daughter, she has a boyfriend she lives with, but they don’t want to get married. What can you do as a parent, but no, I don’t like it”…
On the final day, we take a bus to Auschwitz, about 60 km from Krakow, infamous for housing one of most elaborate Nazi concentration camps during the Second World War. For almost four hours we relive the horror stories that so many Jews went through, we see glaring reminders of inhuman atrocities and we cringe at the thought of the monstrosity that went on for over five years: all of it narrated by the Polish guide, whose voice pierced through the gloomy silence on a gloomy day, whose words cut through the gory remnants of the camp and whose emotions dripped with frightening familiarity to the events. Finally, when the tour came to an end, we got talking to him, and he left us even more shocked as he signed off, “People wonder how I do this job every day, how I go through the experience again and again, but let me assure you that if you were a Jew who had lost a family member in this carnage, you would also feel the same personal trauma that I do, each day, every day”.
And there it was, our journey through Krakow, which ended up as more than just another tourist destination. It was also a journey into the minds of the people who, despite the vast differences, were essentially the same, with stories which resonated with each of us: of longing, of pride, of the cultural tug of war, of resentment, of memories, of being human.
First published on Newsyaps
Friday, August 23, 2013
Live Like You're Dying
I had been considering quitting my job for the last four years now. In fact way back in 2008, when I was still in B school and just been offered a PPO, I had been contemplating not taking it up, since you know, I was the “creative kinds” and hence more suited to live up to the stereotype of a directionless, temperamental artist who did things on her whim, who hated being tied down to a boring routine and who would rather sacrifice a safe, materialistic lifestyle for the experience of LIFE itself. But parental counseling, societal mores and peer pressure got in the way and I chose to become a cog in the wheel instead. Today, when I came across this article, it got me thinking: of all the people who are gainfully employed, how many are masters of their own destiny or simply a victim of circumstances?
So there are people, who despite being a “corporate” set-up, genuinely enjoy their work: They sincerely believe that they are making a difference to the company, and they derive satisfaction from the measurable impact they have on the organization: be it in terms of exceeding their sales targets, implementing IT solutions or raising billions of dollars in a volatile financial market. And my dad is probably a glaring example of this species.
And there are people who followed a career simply because of the contribution to society that it entails: So there is a primary school teacher whose life revolves around crying children who hate studying and therefore hate her. She gets paid peanuts which don’t even allow her the luxuries that she aspires for, and yet she simply loves her job because it satisfies her soul. So is the story of a nurse, a doctor, a social activist or to some extent, even a journalist. Obviously, many of them go on to mint money as well (think private tuitions/private hospitals), but in most cases, it starts off as a desire to do something meaningful rather than mint money out of it.
Then there are people who chose a profession they are truly passionate about: They may be in something as widely recognized as Sports, Music, Entertainment, Literature or as obscure as Pet Detective, Fortune Cookie Writer or Rodeo Clown. But the important point is they CHOSE their professions out of sheer love of the activity.
There are also people are motivating creating jobs rather than having one. At times, it could be someone with an Ivy-League education and a glittering corporate career taking up the challenge of starting up on his own or someone with no industry experience or training, but sheer business/common sense. The common driving force is the will and the determination to be their own master, irrespective of the risks/obstacles/uncertainties.
And finally there are people like me: a vast majority of us, who are just going through the emotions, following the herd and taking the crowded road to respectability, acceptance and matrimonial sanction, waiting for the day when we would finally be in the above four categories.
To be a master, you need the courage to let go; to be a master, you need to take the leap of faith; to be a master, you need to live like you are dying…
So there are people, who despite being a “corporate” set-up, genuinely enjoy their work: They sincerely believe that they are making a difference to the company, and they derive satisfaction from the measurable impact they have on the organization: be it in terms of exceeding their sales targets, implementing IT solutions or raising billions of dollars in a volatile financial market. And my dad is probably a glaring example of this species.
And there are people who followed a career simply because of the contribution to society that it entails: So there is a primary school teacher whose life revolves around crying children who hate studying and therefore hate her. She gets paid peanuts which don’t even allow her the luxuries that she aspires for, and yet she simply loves her job because it satisfies her soul. So is the story of a nurse, a doctor, a social activist or to some extent, even a journalist. Obviously, many of them go on to mint money as well (think private tuitions/private hospitals), but in most cases, it starts off as a desire to do something meaningful rather than mint money out of it.
Then there are people who chose a profession they are truly passionate about: They may be in something as widely recognized as Sports, Music, Entertainment, Literature or as obscure as Pet Detective, Fortune Cookie Writer or Rodeo Clown. But the important point is they CHOSE their professions out of sheer love of the activity.
There are also people are motivating creating jobs rather than having one. At times, it could be someone with an Ivy-League education and a glittering corporate career taking up the challenge of starting up on his own or someone with no industry experience or training, but sheer business/common sense. The common driving force is the will and the determination to be their own master, irrespective of the risks/obstacles/uncertainties.
And finally there are people like me: a vast majority of us, who are just going through the emotions, following the herd and taking the crowded road to respectability, acceptance and matrimonial sanction, waiting for the day when we would finally be in the above four categories.
To be a master, you need the courage to let go; to be a master, you need to take the leap of faith; to be a master, you need to live like you are dying…
Friday, July 19, 2013
Dreamcatcher
Yesterday I watched a candid interview by David Rubenstein, the founder of the private equity firm Carlyle. Now, let me state at the onset that I am NOT the kind of person who watches a candid interview by David Rubenstein, the founder of the private equity firm Carlyle. Or any famous personality on Wall Street or the overall alien world of finance. People have pleaded with me to watch Warren Buffet’s interviews, but I had held my ground: movie stars, yes, politicians may be, sportsmen, obviously, writers, definitely.
But investors/bankers/economists/analysts? No.way. That’s work, and I have a very clear demarcation between work and passion, but as per Mr. Rubenstein, that’s a mistake. For someone who started his career as a lawyer, then having royally failed, moved on to a life of a public servant, and finally after a not-so-successful stint in White House (as he admitted bluntly, it was very hard to push up inflation to around 19% in the U.S., but he managed to do that), when he had exhausted all other options, he started his private equity business at the ripe old age of 37! For someone who was as successful as he was, he came across as a remarkably humble, down-to-earth and unpretentious person, with a quirky, self-deprecatory sense of humour that kept me hooked through the 45-minute interview.
Yes, I agreed with him when he said, to be really successful, you have got to love what you do.
Yes, I agreed with him when he said that successful people didn’t begin with the objective of making money. Money will come, as long as you are passionate about your work, you work hard and you build relationships.
Yes, I agreed with him when he said that the best time to find your calling is between 28-37, when you have seen enough of the world and yourself to know what you want, but still young enough to take the plunge and make a new beginning.
And yes, I was inspired: does that mean from tomorrow I would start loving banking and religiously tracking the markets? Of course not! Does that mean from tomorrow, I would give up my job, and fulfill my parents’ dream of borrowing money from rich people, promising unrealistic returns on their investment? Not really! Does that mean that from tomorrow, I would begin watching motivational interviews by famous people? Hell, why not!
But the point is while it may not change my life drastically or immediately, while I may not suddenly develop a passion for finance and while I may continue to rot in my present meaningless existence, what it does mean is that the continuing itch in the back of my mind would only become stronger, that each day I would be closer to giving it up and putting all my savings into a six-month trip to Latin America/Africa and that every moment I spend writing a research report, I would be nearer to writing my first book.
And that’s reason enough to go on, reason enough to slog for that month-end pay-cheque and reason enough to smile in anticipation.
And oh, the link to the interview was sent by my boss: I wonder if there was a thinly-veiled message in that…
But investors/bankers/economists/analysts? No.way. That’s work, and I have a very clear demarcation between work and passion, but as per Mr. Rubenstein, that’s a mistake. For someone who started his career as a lawyer, then having royally failed, moved on to a life of a public servant, and finally after a not-so-successful stint in White House (as he admitted bluntly, it was very hard to push up inflation to around 19% in the U.S., but he managed to do that), when he had exhausted all other options, he started his private equity business at the ripe old age of 37! For someone who was as successful as he was, he came across as a remarkably humble, down-to-earth and unpretentious person, with a quirky, self-deprecatory sense of humour that kept me hooked through the 45-minute interview.
Yes, I agreed with him when he said, to be really successful, you have got to love what you do.
Yes, I agreed with him when he said that successful people didn’t begin with the objective of making money. Money will come, as long as you are passionate about your work, you work hard and you build relationships.
Yes, I agreed with him when he said that the best time to find your calling is between 28-37, when you have seen enough of the world and yourself to know what you want, but still young enough to take the plunge and make a new beginning.
And yes, I was inspired: does that mean from tomorrow I would start loving banking and religiously tracking the markets? Of course not! Does that mean from tomorrow, I would give up my job, and fulfill my parents’ dream of borrowing money from rich people, promising unrealistic returns on their investment? Not really! Does that mean that from tomorrow, I would begin watching motivational interviews by famous people? Hell, why not!
But the point is while it may not change my life drastically or immediately, while I may not suddenly develop a passion for finance and while I may continue to rot in my present meaningless existence, what it does mean is that the continuing itch in the back of my mind would only become stronger, that each day I would be closer to giving it up and putting all my savings into a six-month trip to Latin America/Africa and that every moment I spend writing a research report, I would be nearer to writing my first book.
And that’s reason enough to go on, reason enough to slog for that month-end pay-cheque and reason enough to smile in anticipation.
And oh, the link to the interview was sent by my boss: I wonder if there was a thinly-veiled message in that…
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
Karma Chameleon
I remember two years back, when I was desperately looking for a change from company D after barely a year, I would be taking interviews with random companies for random profiles. Somehow, nothing was working out and I ended up being interviewed about 25 times by different people for roles as diverse as private equity, consulting, journalism, credit research or even news reader before I finally joined my current company. At that time, I had wondered what the hell was wrong with me, but now I am reaping the benefits of being grilled by so many employers, because, wait for it, NOW I AM ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE TABLE, and the repository of questions is proving to be invaluable!
So yes, while work has been hectic, now I have the mandate to hire new people for my team, and it’s quite a thrill to sift through multiple CVs, shortlist candidates and then speak to them. I get to ask all the questions to which even I don’t have the answers to: random case studies like “how many burgers does McDonalds sell in a day” or moral dilemmas like “what would you do in so and so situation?”, fully aware that even I would be confused in similar circumstances. But it’s so much fun to see people take me seriously for a change or be nervous as I try to put them at ease (generously use their first name) and generally be the corporate b*tch I have always aspired to be, with very little success.
The best thing about my job is it’s not my dream career, so I can afford to be detached about it, while giving it my best.
I think passion is over-rated, especially if your rent depends on it…
So yes, while work has been hectic, now I have the mandate to hire new people for my team, and it’s quite a thrill to sift through multiple CVs, shortlist candidates and then speak to them. I get to ask all the questions to which even I don’t have the answers to: random case studies like “how many burgers does McDonalds sell in a day” or moral dilemmas like “what would you do in so and so situation?”, fully aware that even I would be confused in similar circumstances. But it’s so much fun to see people take me seriously for a change or be nervous as I try to put them at ease (generously use their first name) and generally be the corporate b*tch I have always aspired to be, with very little success.
The best thing about my job is it’s not my dream career, so I can afford to be detached about it, while giving it my best.
I think passion is over-rated, especially if your rent depends on it…
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
Slice of Life
The first thing (ok second thing, because I posted about my trip before anything else) I did after I came back to India (even before I unpacked) was watch Shanghai. Not only is it directed by THE Dibakar Banerjee, it also has one of my three favourite actors in the mainstream-yet-sane-arena, Abhay Deol (other two being Rajat Kapoor and Kay Kay Menon). Now I have seen Oye Lucky Lucky Oye n number of times, while Love, Sex Aur Dhoka remains one of my offbeat favourites. But Shanghai is different in its intensity, in its treatment of the contemporary politics-corporate greed-bureaucratic corruption nexus and in its portrayal of the evergreen battle between right vs. the easy way out. What I like most about the movie (no, not Emraan Hashmi, though this is, by far, his best work) is its complete lack of judgment or moralism: may be Shalini (Kalki) and many other crusaders in real life are looking for the Devta, or that someone special to look up to, to take them forward, to lead them, but s(he) doesn’t exist. Even Dr. Ahmedi, with all his good intentions and inspiring speeches, is just another human being, with his share of weaknesses, particularly his intelligent, attractive and young female students. And allow me once more to rave about Prosenjit, as I have previously done in case of Autograph and Baishey Srabon. For someone who has grown up on his movies and seen him grow into a mature actor from the silly, slightly overweight Bengali hero, dancing around trees, it’s been quite a journey.
Otherwise, my life (more specifically my house) is falling apart, literally. First my clothes hanger (which is actually a thin rope outside my window) gave in under the weight of all the laundry I did over the weekend, which resulted in ALL my favourite clothes being soiled/ruined. This is like the greatest tragedy conceivable in my worst nightmares. Secondly, the fan in myliving room shoebox stopped working, and the uncooperative electrician refuses to fix it, although he has already taken the money. Then, my loserly cable operator blocked Neo Prime till I installed the god-damned set-top box, something I was avoiding so far. But since I HAD to watch the French Open final, I decided to shell out more money on digital TV, which I don’t need. After all, Euro 2012 has started and I have already stocked up on junk food, chocolates and lemonade (what? I am off alcohol for some time after my binge drinking in Italy). Hence access to Neo Prime is of immediate importance. Finally, my operating system crashed, which means I have to now get my laptop fixed as well. In summary, the last three days have cost me a lot in terms of capital expenditure, which is tough, considering that half my monthly salary goes to my landlord and the other half is divided equally among paying bills/watching movies/eating out/shopping, leaving no room for luxuries like fixing the fan or watching digital TV or buying a clothes hanger.
Still I managed to buy Manreet Sodhi’s new book The Taj Conspiracy and got it signed by her. An engineer and an IIMC management graduate who gave up a successful corporate career for writing, initially I had dismissed her as yet another in the new breed of contemporary Indian writers. But as I interacted with her and listened to her journey through literature and history, she came across as a sincere and serious writer, who is not scared to experiment, and most of all, who writes for herself, rather than dumbing it down for the audience. While her first book, Earning the Laundry Stripes was a semi-autobiographical, tongue-in-cheek account of a woman’s journey through corporate life, her second book, The Long Walk Home is a historical fiction, while The Taj Conspiracy is a historical thriller.
As I listened to her story and saw the copies of the book disappear from the table, I stared longingly, conjuring up an image, where I would be sitting in that chair, slightly nervous, slightly anxious, but at the same time, satisfied and fulfilled to have lived a dream.
Writing, as she said it, is a calling, not a career or a profession…
Otherwise, my life (more specifically my house) is falling apart, literally. First my clothes hanger (which is actually a thin rope outside my window) gave in under the weight of all the laundry I did over the weekend, which resulted in ALL my favourite clothes being soiled/ruined. This is like the greatest tragedy conceivable in my worst nightmares. Secondly, the fan in my
Still I managed to buy Manreet Sodhi’s new book The Taj Conspiracy and got it signed by her. An engineer and an IIMC management graduate who gave up a successful corporate career for writing, initially I had dismissed her as yet another in the new breed of contemporary Indian writers. But as I interacted with her and listened to her journey through literature and history, she came across as a sincere and serious writer, who is not scared to experiment, and most of all, who writes for herself, rather than dumbing it down for the audience. While her first book, Earning the Laundry Stripes was a semi-autobiographical, tongue-in-cheek account of a woman’s journey through corporate life, her second book, The Long Walk Home is a historical fiction, while The Taj Conspiracy is a historical thriller.
As I listened to her story and saw the copies of the book disappear from the table, I stared longingly, conjuring up an image, where I would be sitting in that chair, slightly nervous, slightly anxious, but at the same time, satisfied and fulfilled to have lived a dream.
Writing, as she said it, is a calling, not a career or a profession…
Friday, April 27, 2012
And we turn five!
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…
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…
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Chasing Rainbows
A couple of days back, I met this ex-colleague of mine from Company D. An MBA as well, she represented everything that I aspired for: passion, courage, strength, patience. She quit her first (and hopefully last) job to start her own handicrafts store.
As she animatedly narrated her experience over the past year, the remote corners of India that she had visited, the different kinds of people she had met, the diverse experiences she had had, I realized the rollercoaster journey she was going through: the uncertainty, the financial tussle, the constant struggle to be taken seriously, the ground level reality in terms of budget, inventory, warehousing, distribution or marketing. It’s all very well to read about it in fancy textbooks or make jazzy powerpoints, but it was a different story altogether to implement it practically. I knew her as the young kid, who lived with her family, had no responsibilities and blew up her salary on booze, movies and parties on weekends.
Suddenly, a year later, I was re-introduced to a grown-up woman, who neither had the money nor the time to indulge in all the luxuries she was used to for 25 years, who was traveling to Naxaliite areas in Chhattisgarh or villages of Haryana to Tamil Nadu on shoe-string budgets, who was talking to artists and retailers, who was attending exhibitions, who was exploring shady lanes in Crawford Market just to get cheap corrugated rolls AND dragging them all the way home in the peak hour crowded local train. The best part was she was happy doing it, she had no regrets and she was doing it on her own, when most girls of her age were trying to race one another to the altar.
And what was I doing? I was stuck in the half a kilometer radius of Hiranandani, getting used to a cushy life and a make-believe world in the name of work. Did I envy her? May be a little bit. Did I wish I had the courage to follow my dreams? Of course. Did I admire her? Hell, yea.
No, I can’t be like her. I am too practical. I have to pay rent and survive by myself in Mumbai. I have known poverty and I have no intentions of going back, as romantic as it sounds. But I do have a passion, an aspiration and may be even SOME talent. I do want to be a writer sooner rather than later. I don’t know how or when, but at times like this, when I am completely offtrack, when I am temporarily blinded by comfort, money and social status, the inspiration comes from the most unexpected sources, telling me to wake up, forcing me to open my eyes, making me a dreamer.
But then again, I have dreamt too many times and I have been disillusioned too many times…
And do check out her collection at Arth Crafts
As she animatedly narrated her experience over the past year, the remote corners of India that she had visited, the different kinds of people she had met, the diverse experiences she had had, I realized the rollercoaster journey she was going through: the uncertainty, the financial tussle, the constant struggle to be taken seriously, the ground level reality in terms of budget, inventory, warehousing, distribution or marketing. It’s all very well to read about it in fancy textbooks or make jazzy powerpoints, but it was a different story altogether to implement it practically. I knew her as the young kid, who lived with her family, had no responsibilities and blew up her salary on booze, movies and parties on weekends.
Suddenly, a year later, I was re-introduced to a grown-up woman, who neither had the money nor the time to indulge in all the luxuries she was used to for 25 years, who was traveling to Naxaliite areas in Chhattisgarh or villages of Haryana to Tamil Nadu on shoe-string budgets, who was talking to artists and retailers, who was attending exhibitions, who was exploring shady lanes in Crawford Market just to get cheap corrugated rolls AND dragging them all the way home in the peak hour crowded local train. The best part was she was happy doing it, she had no regrets and she was doing it on her own, when most girls of her age were trying to race one another to the altar.
And what was I doing? I was stuck in the half a kilometer radius of Hiranandani, getting used to a cushy life and a make-believe world in the name of work. Did I envy her? May be a little bit. Did I wish I had the courage to follow my dreams? Of course. Did I admire her? Hell, yea.
No, I can’t be like her. I am too practical. I have to pay rent and survive by myself in Mumbai. I have known poverty and I have no intentions of going back, as romantic as it sounds. But I do have a passion, an aspiration and may be even SOME talent. I do want to be a writer sooner rather than later. I don’t know how or when, but at times like this, when I am completely offtrack, when I am temporarily blinded by comfort, money and social status, the inspiration comes from the most unexpected sources, telling me to wake up, forcing me to open my eyes, making me a dreamer.
But then again, I have dreamt too many times and I have been disillusioned too many times…
And do check out her collection at Arth Crafts
Monday, February 6, 2012
Times They Are Changing...
I have decided to make sweeping changes to my life. Yes, repeat after me. SWEEPING. CHANGES.
1.I am going to STOP trying to write something which caters to the mass market 100-rupee segment. Over the weekend, I tortured myself with a recent “best-seller”, written by an acquaintance with a similar background. This was her first book, which was picked up by Rupa. While it was a fast-paced read with elements of good humour strewn in parts, I found the subject matter clichéd, banal and a complete insult to my intelligence. But what was worse, were the repeated spelling errors which stood out glaringly, page after page after page. Trust me, I don’t grudge her the achievement: it’s a big deal to get published at such a young age, and that too by a reputed publisher, and boy, do I know how hard it is. However, I also realized that now I don’t WANT to be just another ‘writer’ churning out rehashed versions of the same old junk. What makes the 'not wanting to be just another writer' part easy is that NO publisher would take a chance on me in this segment: my writing simply doesn’t fit in and I can’t compromise on my style or content to MAKE it fit in. Hence, I am going to wait, till I am mature enough or experienced enough to write something which is different, radical and most importantly, honest and unpretentious and not simple a "me too" version.
2.I am going to STOP obsessing about my boss in the India office. It’s an open secret that he doesn’t like me, and I just have to accept it. No, I am not going to change myself or try to get into his good books. In life, you can’t please everybody, and due to genetic disadvantages (my dad NEVER got along with ANY of his bosses and the trait has been handed down the generation), I ALWAYS pick the wrong battles. In Company D, my manager and I nearly came to blows, and while things are much more civil here, I don't fancy my chances for too long. As long as my work gets appreciated, I shall stick around. When it stops making a difference, it would be time to move on.
3.I am going to STOP watching cricket. Yes, you heard me right. If Sahara can take the bold step, so can I. Now that I have played a crucial role in India’s rise to the top, I have nothing else to offer to the game. While I have always been an ardent tennis follower, cricket overshadowed it. So now, tennis will lead the devotion quotient, and I will also focus on other sports which I follow intermittently: Formula One, Badminton and Soccer. Especially with the 2014 FIFA World Cup in Brazil, I have enough time to prepare myself for the event. And here I quote Subrata Roy, “I wish cricket well.”
Or may be, I should JUST wait till the India-Australia-Sri Lanka tri-series is over; for old times’ sake…
1.I am going to STOP trying to write something which caters to the mass market 100-rupee segment. Over the weekend, I tortured myself with a recent “best-seller”, written by an acquaintance with a similar background. This was her first book, which was picked up by Rupa. While it was a fast-paced read with elements of good humour strewn in parts, I found the subject matter clichéd, banal and a complete insult to my intelligence. But what was worse, were the repeated spelling errors which stood out glaringly, page after page after page. Trust me, I don’t grudge her the achievement: it’s a big deal to get published at such a young age, and that too by a reputed publisher, and boy, do I know how hard it is. However, I also realized that now I don’t WANT to be just another ‘writer’ churning out rehashed versions of the same old junk. What makes the 'not wanting to be just another writer' part easy is that NO publisher would take a chance on me in this segment: my writing simply doesn’t fit in and I can’t compromise on my style or content to MAKE it fit in. Hence, I am going to wait, till I am mature enough or experienced enough to write something which is different, radical and most importantly, honest and unpretentious and not simple a "me too" version.
2.I am going to STOP obsessing about my boss in the India office. It’s an open secret that he doesn’t like me, and I just have to accept it. No, I am not going to change myself or try to get into his good books. In life, you can’t please everybody, and due to genetic disadvantages (my dad NEVER got along with ANY of his bosses and the trait has been handed down the generation), I ALWAYS pick the wrong battles. In Company D, my manager and I nearly came to blows, and while things are much more civil here, I don't fancy my chances for too long. As long as my work gets appreciated, I shall stick around. When it stops making a difference, it would be time to move on.
3.I am going to STOP watching cricket. Yes, you heard me right. If Sahara can take the bold step, so can I. Now that I have played a crucial role in India’s rise to the top, I have nothing else to offer to the game. While I have always been an ardent tennis follower, cricket overshadowed it. So now, tennis will lead the devotion quotient, and I will also focus on other sports which I follow intermittently: Formula One, Badminton and Soccer. Especially with the 2014 FIFA World Cup in Brazil, I have enough time to prepare myself for the event. And here I quote Subrata Roy, “I wish cricket well.”
Or may be, I should JUST wait till the India-Australia-Sri Lanka tri-series is over; for old times’ sake…
Monday, December 5, 2011
Maximum City
Just when you are sick of this city, just when you think it has nothing more to give to you, just when you are pining for another vacation (it’s been almost a month since I got away, so yea, I am itching for a break), it opens up a new horizon just like that. I am talking about the first Times of India Literary Carnival held in the Mehboob Studio in Bandra.
I spent the whole of Sunday shuttling between Venue A and Venue B, the calendar in my pocket, excited like a schoolgirl. Now, thanks to my dad’s poor taste in friends, I have met a few of these CXO-type people, the who’s-who of the corporate world, and honestly, instead of being awed and inspired, I have always wondered what the big deal was. But yesterday, when I was faced with some of the eminent personalities in the field of journalism and literature, I felt a shiver down my back. True, I did stick out like a sore thumb despite my desperate attempt to blend in with my whole jeans-kurta-jhola-junk jewelry-generous dose of kohl get-up. This was an entirely new world and I was a wonderstruck kid trying to break into it, as I hung on to every word uttered on the podium by the likes of Bachi Karkaria, Vinod Mehta, Vikram Chandra, M J Akbar, Swapan Dasgupta, Jerry Rao, William Dalrymple to name a few. The only person I could identify with to some extent was Anuja Chauhan, the writer of the best-selling book, Zoya Factor (though I have no intentions to read it). After a long and successful career in advertising, she was also an outsider to this hallowed intellectual arena, as she sat perched up on the sofa, petite and confused, rarely opening her mouth (pretty much like me in most team meetings). It was only a sneak peek into my Garden of Eden, as I kept struggling to find the keys to it.
I also watched The Dirty Picture, the way it was meant to be watched: in a shady theatre on a Friday late night show, as we sat in the fourth row, right in front of the screen, amid rowdy men whistling each time Vidya Balan set the screen on fire (which was pretty much all the time). For a movie where the main cast was cleavage, Vidya Balan did manage to hold her own, albeit in the supporting role. Hats off to her for getting under the skin of the character, though the film was repetitive and tedious at most places.
And oh, I have a brand new 32” Sony LCD which has all these features that I have no intentions of using, but I got a good deal from a guy in Lamington Road, who knocked 20% off the MRP, and therefore I HAD TO HAVE IT, though I didn’t need it. Finally, to treat myself after all the hard work, I bought the most expensive pair of shoes EVER.
To think I spent so much on sports shoes… impulse purchases are so not worth it.
Anyway, now that I have a park close by, loads of eating joints right across the street, a TV AND a library membership, I just don’t have enough time to do all the things I want to do regularly: jog, read, write, eat out, watch back-to-back episodes of deranged serials. So I am seriously considering doing away with some of the excesses like WORK. Spending 10 hours everyday in that demented environment with people I don’t like doing things which doesn’t excite me is a sheer waste of time.
Time to set my priorities right...
I spent the whole of Sunday shuttling between Venue A and Venue B, the calendar in my pocket, excited like a schoolgirl. Now, thanks to my dad’s poor taste in friends, I have met a few of these CXO-type people, the who’s-who of the corporate world, and honestly, instead of being awed and inspired, I have always wondered what the big deal was. But yesterday, when I was faced with some of the eminent personalities in the field of journalism and literature, I felt a shiver down my back. True, I did stick out like a sore thumb despite my desperate attempt to blend in with my whole jeans-kurta-jhola-junk jewelry-generous dose of kohl get-up. This was an entirely new world and I was a wonderstruck kid trying to break into it, as I hung on to every word uttered on the podium by the likes of Bachi Karkaria, Vinod Mehta, Vikram Chandra, M J Akbar, Swapan Dasgupta, Jerry Rao, William Dalrymple to name a few. The only person I could identify with to some extent was Anuja Chauhan, the writer of the best-selling book, Zoya Factor (though I have no intentions to read it). After a long and successful career in advertising, she was also an outsider to this hallowed intellectual arena, as she sat perched up on the sofa, petite and confused, rarely opening her mouth (pretty much like me in most team meetings). It was only a sneak peek into my Garden of Eden, as I kept struggling to find the keys to it.
I also watched The Dirty Picture, the way it was meant to be watched: in a shady theatre on a Friday late night show, as we sat in the fourth row, right in front of the screen, amid rowdy men whistling each time Vidya Balan set the screen on fire (which was pretty much all the time). For a movie where the main cast was cleavage, Vidya Balan did manage to hold her own, albeit in the supporting role. Hats off to her for getting under the skin of the character, though the film was repetitive and tedious at most places.
And oh, I have a brand new 32” Sony LCD which has all these features that I have no intentions of using, but I got a good deal from a guy in Lamington Road, who knocked 20% off the MRP, and therefore I HAD TO HAVE IT, though I didn’t need it. Finally, to treat myself after all the hard work, I bought the most expensive pair of shoes EVER.
To think I spent so much on sports shoes… impulse purchases are so not worth it.
Anyway, now that I have a park close by, loads of eating joints right across the street, a TV AND a library membership, I just don’t have enough time to do all the things I want to do regularly: jog, read, write, eat out, watch back-to-back episodes of deranged serials. So I am seriously considering doing away with some of the excesses like WORK. Spending 10 hours everyday in that demented environment with people I don’t like doing things which doesn’t excite me is a sheer waste of time.
Time to set my priorities right...
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Wedding Jitters
If you have been reading this blog for long enough (yes, all five of you. I was told that there is a fifth reader lurking around), parts of this post may be familiar to you. Anyway, here is my Viewspaper column this week.
Now am off. Flight in two hours.
And shubho bijoya…
Now am off. Flight in two hours.
And shubho bijoya…
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
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...
Friday, September 9, 2011
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 tolook 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…
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
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…
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
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…
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…
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Boulevard of Broken Dreams
This is the last post of this one-month challenge that I took up to make my already difficult life more miserable. Or so I thought. But honestly, it just became a part of my life- like I would check my mail first thing in the morning and get a cup of coffee, I would also post something. Probably a few times, I struggled, wondering what I can write about, but once I opened that blank word document, it wasn’t a problem anymore. It was easier than I thought I would be, it was more fun than I thought it would be and yes, it was definitely more rewarding than my work! Anyways, it’s now over and it’s time to move on (all FIVE readers can heave a sigh of relief).
Now a lot of people have asked me, why this sudden urge to post everyday, why this sudden desire to get noticed (I even signed up for a twitter account) and why this sudden obsession with my online persona? Some readers went so far as to accuse me of selling my soul to the devil (and I don’t disagree with them). Of course, I can be politically correct and say it was ‘passion’ or ‘a challenge’ or ‘something I did for the love of it with no ulterior motive’. While all of them are true to some extent, the real reason is more practical. I don’t know if it’s exactly a ‘diplomatic’ thing to declare on a public forum, but at least two of my FIVE readers want to be writers some day, and I hope this post will give them some idea about the jungle out there, because, guys, even I have been there and done that. And will continue to do so…
So here goes, the bitter truth behind this blogathlon (apart from love and longing and the other mushy reasons):
A couple of months back, I finished my first full length novel (all 77k words) and about a month back, I sent out the proposal to half a dozen publishers. While I would be the first one to declare that it wasn’t a literary masterpiece, it was pretty much just another story of just another MBA girl: a novel set in a premier B school of India, written by a young girl and written for the other young people. I thought now that my work is done, I might as well indulge in some brand building and increase my next-to-nothing readership, while the publishers take their time to get back to me. Once I have THE BEST PUBLISHER knocking on my door, I would also have the LONGEST fan following who will obviously pay through their nose to buy my book. (I was beside myself with joy and patting myself for my brilliant social marketing skills apart from my inherent gift for writing).
So it was quite a shock when the good ones didn’t bother to respond to my proposal and the better ones sent a rejection mail declining to publish it. Surprise surprise!! But the ugly one gave me hope: too soon!! Now without taking any names, I would just say it was a fairly well-known Delhi-based publisher, and once I got the acceptance email, like any wannabe writer I was very excited. The fairly innocuous reference to “subject to certain conditions” failed to deter my enthusiasm. And the terms WERE fairly innocuous, if you take the larger picture: they just wanted me to contribute towards publishing. While the sum was not too significant (much less than my one month’s salary) it just didn’t feel right. I reasoned that it was a small price to pay for a dream (imagine MY book adorning the shelves of Crossword) but that was precisely the point: my dream was not so cheap that it could be bought for such a small price… Was it about principles? Being an unknown wannabe author, could I afford to even have principles? Was I being too idealistic? I don’t know; but it just didn’t feel right…
So I obsessed for a couple of days, and then on Friday night, I wrote the hardest mail of my life, before I became too weak, gave in to temptation and changed my mind:
“Dear so and so,
Thanks a lot for sending me the terms of the contract. While I am very grateful that you have decided to take a chance on a new author like me, I regret to inform you that I cannot convince myself to accept the same. Please understand that while the financial implications are not important, I feel that you do not have enough faith in my script to whole-heartedly commit to it. I would not like to begin a professional relationship on such a foundation, and I would not want my first work to be anything close to a vanity publishing deal. Being a writer is a dream for me and I would not like to make any compromises. I already have a day job for that.
However, if you really see any commercial value in my work and would like to help me improve on my script, I would be happy to work with you. But if not, I will wait for the day when you can consider my work purely on its merit.
Thanks again for taking time out to consider my proposal. I look forward to working with you in future.
Regards”
I slept really well that night, though it may be at the cost of a dream.
I may work in an investment bank, but I haven’t sold my soul for money… not yet.
I may be hungry, but I am not greedy…
Now a lot of people have asked me, why this sudden urge to post everyday, why this sudden desire to get noticed (I even signed up for a twitter account) and why this sudden obsession with my online persona? Some readers went so far as to accuse me of selling my soul to the devil (and I don’t disagree with them). Of course, I can be politically correct and say it was ‘passion’ or ‘a challenge’ or ‘something I did for the love of it with no ulterior motive’. While all of them are true to some extent, the real reason is more practical. I don’t know if it’s exactly a ‘diplomatic’ thing to declare on a public forum, but at least two of my FIVE readers want to be writers some day, and I hope this post will give them some idea about the jungle out there, because, guys, even I have been there and done that. And will continue to do so…
So here goes, the bitter truth behind this blogathlon (apart from love and longing and the other mushy reasons):
A couple of months back, I finished my first full length novel (all 77k words) and about a month back, I sent out the proposal to half a dozen publishers. While I would be the first one to declare that it wasn’t a literary masterpiece, it was pretty much just another story of just another MBA girl: a novel set in a premier B school of India, written by a young girl and written for the other young people. I thought now that my work is done, I might as well indulge in some brand building and increase my next-to-nothing readership, while the publishers take their time to get back to me. Once I have THE BEST PUBLISHER knocking on my door, I would also have the LONGEST fan following who will obviously pay through their nose to buy my book. (I was beside myself with joy and patting myself for my brilliant social marketing skills apart from my inherent gift for writing).
So it was quite a shock when the good ones didn’t bother to respond to my proposal and the better ones sent a rejection mail declining to publish it. Surprise surprise!! But the ugly one gave me hope: too soon!! Now without taking any names, I would just say it was a fairly well-known Delhi-based publisher, and once I got the acceptance email, like any wannabe writer I was very excited. The fairly innocuous reference to “subject to certain conditions” failed to deter my enthusiasm. And the terms WERE fairly innocuous, if you take the larger picture: they just wanted me to contribute towards publishing. While the sum was not too significant (much less than my one month’s salary) it just didn’t feel right. I reasoned that it was a small price to pay for a dream (imagine MY book adorning the shelves of Crossword) but that was precisely the point: my dream was not so cheap that it could be bought for such a small price… Was it about principles? Being an unknown wannabe author, could I afford to even have principles? Was I being too idealistic? I don’t know; but it just didn’t feel right…
So I obsessed for a couple of days, and then on Friday night, I wrote the hardest mail of my life, before I became too weak, gave in to temptation and changed my mind:
“Dear so and so,
Thanks a lot for sending me the terms of the contract. While I am very grateful that you have decided to take a chance on a new author like me, I regret to inform you that I cannot convince myself to accept the same. Please understand that while the financial implications are not important, I feel that you do not have enough faith in my script to whole-heartedly commit to it. I would not like to begin a professional relationship on such a foundation, and I would not want my first work to be anything close to a vanity publishing deal. Being a writer is a dream for me and I would not like to make any compromises. I already have a day job for that.
However, if you really see any commercial value in my work and would like to help me improve on my script, I would be happy to work with you. But if not, I will wait for the day when you can consider my work purely on its merit.
Thanks again for taking time out to consider my proposal. I look forward to working with you in future.
Regards”
I slept really well that night, though it may be at the cost of a dream.
I may work in an investment bank, but I haven’t sold my soul for money… not yet.
I may be hungry, but I am not greedy…
Monday, July 25, 2011
Travails of a Struggling Writer
We all know about the ‘struggling artist’ syndrome where talented painters draw cheesy posters of C grade movies to make ends meet while dreaming of becoming an MF Hussain someday, where gifted photographers float around from one friend’s wedding to another hoping someday someone will pay them, where small-time actresses become the victim of the casting couch so that someday they can become a Katrina Kaif and wannabe singers sign up for each talent hunt show, hoping to snatch glory from the jaws of humiliation. What is common to all of them is the belief that they all have a GIFT and the hope that someday someone will have faith in them.
Now, I have never harboured any romantic notions of being ‘talented’ or ‘gifted’, which is why like a sensible girl, I listened to my parents and did my MBA. However, today, when I am possessed with the idea of being a writer, I take a walk down the memory lane, trying to chart out MY struggles to get noticed:
1.It all started in school and college where I would contribute poems, stories and articles for the in-house magazines which nobody read.
2.It became more of a passion during MBA when I started this blog and became a member of the Corp Comm team where it was serious business.
3.This was followed by contributing to ‘letters to the editors’ and sending my stories to random newspapers/magazines trying to get somebody to publish my work.
4.Some concrete work started coming in when I would do some freelancing for online portals (and I still do that).
5.Calling up/sending emotional emails to newspapers/magazines (with my blog link and sample stories) hoping to get hired.
6.Writing articles/introductions for start-up portals by cousins/friends.
7.Editing CVs/ Appraisal Forms of friends.
8.Writing resignation letters and farewell emails of my colleagues.
9.Writing wedding invitations for friends who wanted their invites to stand out and not follow the usual sloppy (forever together) styles.
10.Finally, yesterday, I hit rock-bottom when I created the online matrimonial profile of a friend, in an attempt to make him stand out among the numerous other cocky, “modern yet traditional” and ‘simple living high thinking” creeps.
And yes, I am STILL struggling to get noticed…
Now, I have never harboured any romantic notions of being ‘talented’ or ‘gifted’, which is why like a sensible girl, I listened to my parents and did my MBA. However, today, when I am possessed with the idea of being a writer, I take a walk down the memory lane, trying to chart out MY struggles to get noticed:
1.It all started in school and college where I would contribute poems, stories and articles for the in-house magazines which nobody read.
2.It became more of a passion during MBA when I started this blog and became a member of the Corp Comm team where it was serious business.
3.This was followed by contributing to ‘letters to the editors’ and sending my stories to random newspapers/magazines trying to get somebody to publish my work.
4.Some concrete work started coming in when I would do some freelancing for online portals (and I still do that).
5.Calling up/sending emotional emails to newspapers/magazines (with my blog link and sample stories) hoping to get hired.
6.Writing articles/introductions for start-up portals by cousins/friends.
7.Editing CVs/ Appraisal Forms of friends.
8.Writing resignation letters and farewell emails of my colleagues.
9.Writing wedding invitations for friends who wanted their invites to stand out and not follow the usual sloppy (forever together) styles.
10.Finally, yesterday, I hit rock-bottom when I created the online matrimonial profile of a friend, in an attempt to make him stand out among the numerous other cocky, “modern yet traditional” and ‘simple living high thinking” creeps.
And yes, I am STILL struggling to get noticed…
Friday, July 8, 2011
Sorry Mr. Vadukut
This was supposed to be another rant: life has been tough lately (what with work and the rains and the waiting). Turns out that “being dignified” and “letting go” are not as easy as they sound.
But, something happened THIS MORNING which shocked me considerably but made me happy too. Sidin Vadukut (yes, the famous writer and editor of Business Line) commented on my post, “Pride and Peace”!!! Now, I have no idea how he came about the existence of my blog, given I have like FIVE readers (now that Neil is no longer here)… sniff sniff. I don’t mean “no longer here” as he is dead or something, just that he has stopped visiting/commenting on my blog. So the only explanation I came up with is the respected Mr. Vadukut, being humble and down-to-earth as he is, refuses to get carried away by his success, and looks for critical feedback online. So he must have randomly typed in “sidin vadukut + bastard” on google and lo and behold, he was directed to my blog. My sincere apologies Mr. Vadukut. In my defence, I never imagined in my wildest of dreams that you would EVER visit this godforsaken blog!
So all you anon readers, now that you know FAMOUS people are not ashamed to leave a mark on my blog, please own up and introduce yourselves. It would mean a lot to me.
This is what Mr. Vadukut had to say:
Lucky b***** indeed. :)
Thanks for reading the book.
My sincere apologies. I may have used the b-word, but what I actually meant was ‘brilliant’ with a few stars missing. Really really loved the book, and I am not just saying that because you are famous and I abused you on public forum.
So should I like post my resume or something on this blog and abuse nwspapers/editors/pulishers so that in case they are also looking for critical feedback may come across my blog and discover my HIDDEN TALENT? Should work better than sending emotional emails about how writing is my lifelong dream even though I am a MBA working with an investment bank?
Sigghhh… I need a break or just a publisher may be…
But, something happened THIS MORNING which shocked me considerably but made me happy too. Sidin Vadukut (yes, the famous writer and editor of Business Line) commented on my post, “Pride and Peace”!!! Now, I have no idea how he came about the existence of my blog, given I have like FIVE readers (now that Neil is no longer here)… sniff sniff. I don’t mean “no longer here” as he is dead or something, just that he has stopped visiting/commenting on my blog. So the only explanation I came up with is the respected Mr. Vadukut, being humble and down-to-earth as he is, refuses to get carried away by his success, and looks for critical feedback online. So he must have randomly typed in “sidin vadukut + bastard” on google and lo and behold, he was directed to my blog. My sincere apologies Mr. Vadukut. In my defence, I never imagined in my wildest of dreams that you would EVER visit this godforsaken blog!
So all you anon readers, now that you know FAMOUS people are not ashamed to leave a mark on my blog, please own up and introduce yourselves. It would mean a lot to me.
This is what Mr. Vadukut had to say:
Lucky b***** indeed. :)
Thanks for reading the book.
My sincere apologies. I may have used the b-word, but what I actually meant was ‘brilliant’ with a few stars missing. Really really loved the book, and I am not just saying that because you are famous and I abused you on public forum.
So should I like post my resume or something on this blog and abuse nwspapers/editors/pulishers so that in case they are also looking for critical feedback may come across my blog and discover my HIDDEN TALENT? Should work better than sending emotional emails about how writing is my lifelong dream even though I am a MBA working with an investment bank?
Sigghhh… I need a break or just a publisher may be…
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Stay Angry But Stay Put...
There are times when you want to jump from the top of your office building
There are times when you want to wring someone’s neck
There are times when you want to break your PC (point to be noted, we STILL use a PC)
There are times when you want to keep eating chocolates
There are times when you wish people around will JUST.SHUT.UP
There are times when you wish you were somewhere else (Lebanon for example)
And then you are consumed with hope and longing and excitement, even if it’s just a system-generated auto reply to an email you sent.
Steve Job may have urged you to stay hungry and stay foolish, but the thought of being unemployed and starved is enough to knock off the foolishness… at least for the time being.
There are times when you want to wring someone’s neck
There are times when you want to break your PC (point to be noted, we STILL use a PC)
There are times when you want to keep eating chocolates
There are times when you wish people around will JUST.SHUT.UP
There are times when you wish you were somewhere else (Lebanon for example)
And then you are consumed with hope and longing and excitement, even if it’s just a system-generated auto reply to an email you sent.
Steve Job may have urged you to stay hungry and stay foolish, but the thought of being unemployed and starved is enough to knock off the foolishness… at least for the time being.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Pride and Peace
I am reading again: Three books in parallel! Well, to be honest, initially it was just one. Pickwick Papers by Charles Dickens, something which my dad has been trying to force down my throat for ages now, but I had been avoiding, well, because of the sheer size of the book and the mini font, not to mention the old world language. I so admire the idea of reading classics but why does it have to be so hard? Each time I read one, it seems to reduce my life expectancy by at least five years. So just to give myself some respite, I picked up Nothing Serious by PG Wodehouse. Again. The familiarity makes me feel happy, so I treasure this one for the Sunday evenings when I am feeling particularly depressed. Finally, yesterday I got myself Sidin Vadukut’s Dork: The Incredible Adventures of Robin 'Einstein' Varghese and it’s hilarious! I laughed myself to sleep for a change. I have a serious suspicion he worked with Company D (you know my previous organization). Can anyone throw some light on his career before he became the managing editor of LiveMint? Lucky b******.
I have something to look forward to: Even though it’s not really going anywhere, it still gives me a reason to rush home from work and check my mail even before I kick off my shoes or get super excited every time I get a call from an unknown number (though every time it turns out to be some bank/insurance company trying to sell me something I don’t want). It’s like I am back to last year, when I would absolutely hate weekends because nothing would happen over those two long days (remember my love-hate relationship with placement consultants and HR department of EVERY company in India?). Now it’s the same, though thankfully placement consultants/HR are not part of it. I really like my constant obsession for doing something, though rejection, depression and humiliation are part and parcel of it. At least, I have a dream.
I have become super domesticated: I get up at 6:30 in the morning to cook my lunch and pack my dabba for work. Ladies and gentlemen, I rest my case.
I have started walking again: Auto(nomy) restored. Yayyy!
I have been strong enough: To resist temptations of happiness. Greed is NOT good, no matter what Gordon Gekko says. I would rather be peaceful than happy. I no longer have this obsessive need to know things. I am ok with the romantic idea of “What if?”
So yeah, I have been proud of myself, or just proud…
P.S.: Proud here doesn’t mean vain/arrogant. It just means ‘peace’
I have something to look forward to: Even though it’s not really going anywhere, it still gives me a reason to rush home from work and check my mail even before I kick off my shoes or get super excited every time I get a call from an unknown number (though every time it turns out to be some bank/insurance company trying to sell me something I don’t want). It’s like I am back to last year, when I would absolutely hate weekends because nothing would happen over those two long days (remember my love-hate relationship with placement consultants and HR department of EVERY company in India?). Now it’s the same, though thankfully placement consultants/HR are not part of it. I really like my constant obsession for doing something, though rejection, depression and humiliation are part and parcel of it. At least, I have a dream.
I have become super domesticated: I get up at 6:30 in the morning to cook my lunch and pack my dabba for work. Ladies and gentlemen, I rest my case.
I have started walking again: Auto(nomy) restored. Yayyy!
I have been strong enough: To resist temptations of happiness. Greed is NOT good, no matter what Gordon Gekko says. I would rather be peaceful than happy. I no longer have this obsessive need to know things. I am ok with the romantic idea of “What if?”
So yeah, I have been proud of myself, or just proud…
P.S.: Proud here doesn’t mean vain/arrogant. It just means ‘peace’
Friday, July 1, 2011
Rejection...
You know these people to whom things come easily: life, love, success, happiness (ok may b not the latter, because happiness is a state of mind and not events)
Well, I am NOT one of those people; in fact I am the EXACT opposite of them.
So throughout my life I have always struggled with everything: whatever I have done have been achieved after tasting the bitterness of failure, which is why may be I appreciate it more. But I thought I was done with my share of rejections (at least for some time) after the deluge last year. However, it seems I haven’t paid my dues YET and there is more to come, albeit I am exploring new channels now. I should have a world record in the total number of rejections amassed in one’s lifetime.
But this one really hurts…
P.S. On the bright side, what doesn’t kill me, only makes me stronger
Well, I am NOT one of those people; in fact I am the EXACT opposite of them.
So throughout my life I have always struggled with everything: whatever I have done have been achieved after tasting the bitterness of failure, which is why may be I appreciate it more. But I thought I was done with my share of rejections (at least for some time) after the deluge last year. However, it seems I haven’t paid my dues YET and there is more to come, albeit I am exploring new channels now. I should have a world record in the total number of rejections amassed in one’s lifetime.
But this one really hurts…
P.S. On the bright side, what doesn’t kill me, only makes me stronger
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