tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-293400182024-03-12T21:42:42.662-07:00Blue is a Happy ColourNanditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06517729541127190519noreply@blogger.comBlogger27125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29340018.post-79756845686818180732009-09-09T09:39:00.001-07:002009-09-19T02:21:00.884-07:00O CalcuttaI write this in Calcutta, my hurried second trip to this magical city. And yes I am intrigued. It is a city that I could not ignore, was not one of those cities that you land in, finish your work in the allocated time and zip out of. The city forces you to notice it, not that it is vying for your attention, the grandeur (yes I use that word) and the irony forces you to stop and stare. <br />The city whizzed past me in techni-color frames as I sat in an Ambassador and traveled from the airport to the factory. I have abandoned many a post started for this blog because I could not complete them, but this one I shall. I shall talk about the city and what I saw and eventually fell in love with. So here goes, a quick list:<br /><br />1. The city is layered much like many other old living cities. The layers co- exist, next to each other, often merging and blurring the boundaries. The most apparent one being the old and the new. There are old old buildings, some grand complete with facades often resembling half of a hexagon sometimes freshly painted sometimes old and peeling. Layers of poverty and comfort. Layers of rustic and urbane. Layers of literary and materialistic.<br />2. The many renditions of Durga familiar yet different but always beautiful with the kohl lined dancing eyes.<br />3. The Pandals being set up for Pujo, you can feel the festivity in the air.<br />4. The Bangla script, it is lyrical, poetic and artistic. I love how it adds to the many bill boards rather than just being a sub script for legal reasons as is happening with many regional languages.<br />5. I loved driving over the “Alipore Bridge 1932”, it was old and regal but the neglect saddened me.<br />6. The chaos, and how the women in their crisp cotton border sarees and big bindis seem to be dealing with it better. <br />7. How painting as an art form is integrated in the pop culture, how Vodafone does buntings with intricately painted Pujo scenes printed on them. How bill boards use paintings rather than photographs. <br />8. The color red splattered around the city in the old style big bindis, in the single bangle signifying matrimonial bliss, on the buildings and the bridges,in the CPM flags. It makes me wish I could paint.<br />9. All the buildings old and new had the beautiful and colorful cotton Bengali sarees hanging down from their terraces waiting to dry in the moist air, the Dhakai, the Kantha they added to the tapestry of the city in a wonderful way. <br />10. The city is green!!! Could not miss the mini swamps as I drove from the airport. The rain washed green foliage was refreshing.<br />11. I saw a building named “Artmosphere”; it does encapsulate the city in a way. The many music and dance schools I saw are a testimony to that.<br />12. How everyone is Dada, it is not just a word but the fact that the chaiwallah, to the taxi driver to your jolly old colleague is Dada in a way signifies dignity of labor. Somehow because I call the Taxi driver Dada, he is not compelled to dumb himself down or be cautious in my presence. He can be as intelligent as he really is and that is amazing.<br />13. As I drove past Calcutta I could not help but compare it with London, where I reveled in the old that London had to offer, but the old in London was grand, the old was heritage, the old was a lot of hard work and maintenance and preservation, the old was a matter of pride. Sadly old in Calcutta can also mean derelict. A lot of the old buildings are dying, peeling off and breaking down bit by bit door by door. These buildings are not abandoned; they are lived in but often because there seems to be no choice. In Calcutta I could see why it is easier to tear down the old, build the new and maintain it till the new becomes old and cumbersome. The difficult choice is to keep the old well old but mint new. The old in Calcutta sometimes doesn’t look like a choice but a compulsion, sometimes it doesn’t look heritage but more like hardship. But still the old in Calcutta is a matter of pride. Thanks for not tearing down everything like everyone else.<br />I wait for my next trip to Calcutta where I shall discover more of the city (and its food) not through a taxi. Because I am intrigued, I really want to know more about you Calcutta.Nanditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06517729541127190519noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29340018.post-21835604483993990082009-08-19T06:29:00.000-07:002009-08-19T06:34:07.977-07:00Happy Independence Day“The government has invited you to London to discuss your little idea of freedom” thus spoke the then Viceroy to the Mahatma, the disdain and ridicule in his voice barely concealed by the stiff British upper lip. As I watched Gandhi for the nth time I was overwhelmed as I recalled my conversation with the clerk at the VFS office who asked for irrelevant documents “in original” ranging from the marriage certificate to letter of leave and even NSCs in “original”. Also it is important to note that none of these documents were mentioned on the official website as a prerequisite to granting a visa to the UK. But before we could even get to the point of presenting our “incomplete documents” at “our own risk” we were kept waiting for 2 hours twice even after an appointment and were told that we had to wait if we wanted the much revered stamp on our Indian passports. I snapped at that point and gave an earful to the clerk as I reminded him I was not interested in driving a cab illegally in his country but wanted to go there as a tourist, spend money and probably even contribute to propping up their declining economy. I realize now that I have taken that freedom of speech for granted. I took the right to point out the small injustices for granted. But yesterday as I saw Gandhi, I was reminded who I need to thank for my fundamental right, the freedom I have. It was a goose bump moment, I know it sounds inane but I have always thought what I make out of my life, how I live it is the series of choices I make from the point I started out from, but I think I have taken the starting point as a given, never gave the starting point much thought. But yesterday I stepped back and thanked the men who fought for me to have that right, who knew I could make something of my life if I was given that starting point, the men who hoped we would make something of this country after reaching that starting point. Thank You. I am more aware of my responsibilities too.<br />As the film progressed, I was reminded of a conversation I was having the other day about prejudices and we observed that it was difficult for people who have survived the partition to let go off their hatred and prejudices that have had its roots in the madness of those barbaric days. As I saw Gandhi I realized that I have never heard any person who lived in the pre independence era declare that letting go off the pain and humiliation that was meted out by the Britishers is difficult to do. I have never heard any one discriminate against or just plainly hate the Britishers for what happened for more than 200 years. In fact come to think of it the world does not discriminate, incriminate, stereotype people who belong to the colonizing nations who well in a nutshell enslaved people, plundered nations and sometimes even wiped out civilizations. No, as mature, sane and rational cultures and nations we accept that these are different times, different people and most importantly not everyone who belonged to the imperialistic nations even in the times bygone, endorsed or participated in the atrocities. Isn’t it shocking that all of us without exception have been mature, adult and decent about dealing with the past? The pain is remembered but the hatred has been confined to the perpetrators of that violence. The hatred has not been extended to the entire community, the nation and its future generations. Peace did get a chance. <br />I said it is shocking because today the world that we live in does stereotype, discriminate and envelope an entire culture/community with the hatred and prejudice that at best should be directed to the misguided members and their heinous terrorist acts. We should not beat around the bush; it is a fact that the Islamic community today is living in a world that has declared them guilty till proven otherwise. I cannot bring myself to imagine living my life where everyday people make me feel unworthy of simple things like renting an apartment, applying for a job, boarding a plane and sometimes even making a friend because a moron with a similar last name decided to go berserk. If that does not alienate people further what else will? Why hold a community at ransom for what a few delinquents do? Maybe on this Independence day we should pray for freedom from these stereotypes and these prejudices, maybe on this independence day we should hope that our minds and hearts open up just a little more.Nanditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06517729541127190519noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29340018.post-5092103996604509272009-06-29T05:31:00.001-07:002009-06-29T05:36:39.295-07:00The Blog on BooksWell writing is my hobby but books are my passion, so to further my passion and give it it's due I have also started posting on my new blog appropriately named <a href="http://www.theblogonbooks.blogspot.com">"Book Bound"</a>. The few visitors, some of whom I gag to visit this blog, before I hound you personally into dropping by the new one, please drop in of our own accord. Enough said, let the posts speak louder than my threats. I hope to be regular there, I promise.Nanditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06517729541127190519noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29340018.post-62776312746616919132008-11-27T07:57:00.000-08:002008-11-27T08:13:57.505-08:00NUMBNumb, this has been my state of mind ever since I woke up in the morning to read vague headlines of “Rash of Terror Attacks in Mumbai: 80 dead”. In my foggy, sleepy state of mind I could not comprehend the headline, 80 dead how, when, I saw the news till 9 pm, there was no news of this sort till then. I even thought it was a cruel, insensitive media gimmick. But truth is never that simple. As the fog in my mind cleared, I read the newspaper in shock, in numbness not completely understanding what had happened, skimming through the papers searching for the obvious and now much too familiar modus operandi of bazaars being bombed through surreptiously placed tiffin boxes. There were no serial blasts. What does ‘firing indiscriminately” mean, what does they “threw bombs” actually mean. I just did not get it. What I did read clearly was that 80 people had died, that my brother in law lives on Napean Sea Road, that my brother lives near Vile Parle and loves Leopold Café. I called them up, relieved that they were fine, messaged friends and got back comforting replies that they are all fine. I spoke with my dad; he said that “this is war, it is not a terrorist attack”, I was forced to switch on the TV. And probably that is when the enormity of this ghastly, horrific attack dawned upon me. Yes, they “threw bombs”, they “fired indiscriminately”, they walked around with knapsacks on their backs and AK 47s in their hands and they wore jackets full of grenades. They stormed into the Taj Hotel, The Trident and Nariman House and opened fired at guests, staff. They opened fire on the streets, in CST; they opened fire and threw grenades at people generally enjoying a drink at Leopold, attacking hospitals where the sick were healing. And at 8 when I switched on the TV, they were hostages and guests trapped in Taj and the Trident. I could see smoke emanating from the beloved Taj Hotel. I saw images of some of these menacing crazy looking terrorists roam around the streets with hand grenades and AK 47s. I just could not believe that I was seeing those images on television, that this had actually happened. It was not about the numbers of causalities, but about how they entered Bombay on motorized dinghies through sea, about them just mocking and making a cruel joke of how “secure” we are in our own homes, on our streets, in our offices, our hospitals. About how they could walk around the streets opening fire where they wanted to, throw grenades in any direction they fancied. About how easy it was for them. <br />As I write this at 6 in the evening, Bombay has come to a halt, as a friend living on Cuffe Parade tells me; she heard gun shots all through the night and well into the day. The streets are deserted; the two hotels in question still have guests and staff trapped inside as the army combs each floor of the hotels. Images of guests dressed in white, leaning against the glass windows asking for help, trying to convey that they are safe waiting to be rescued have been flashed through the day. People are waiting outside, calmly, fearfully, hoping for the best and not thinking about the worst. I spoke with friends through the day and we all are terrorized, there is a fear unspoken at times but palpable immediately. Up till now we all felt that avoiding bazaars on crowded days, immediately reporting suspicious looking unattended bags would ensure safety, but now there is no plan on how to avoid this. All strategy fails, how many aspects of our lives will we change to finally feel safe. The terrorists seem like cockroaches; every time you find a way to kill them they mutilate their gene to be resilient against that particular brand of insecticide. There is a feeling of helplessness. I am incoherent but that is how a lot of us are feeling. <br />But come to think of it, maybe this attack, this war declaration, this brazen invasion on a city that is the financial capital of the country is not as dangerous as the unabashed north Indian “bhaiya” driving a cab in Bombay, maybe concern over terror is not as legitimate as the Gujjar demands, maybe this day is not as historically relevant as the Ram Sethu, maybe not as revolting as the MF Hussains paintings, maybe not as scary as couples making out in parks, maybe not as catastrophic as homosexuality, maybe restoring peace is not as important as ensuring no one else is “converted”, maybe these terrorists are not enemies enough as the opposition parties (only till you need to bed them for power after next elections). Because these are the issues all our “leaders” have been focusing on since time immemorial. None of them have ever addressed terror rationally, never has the political parties come together to fight this menace at a grass root level without getting political about it. They just cant seem to get enough of creating politics of hate. Terrorism and gun men firing randomly may be damned, only till the “leaders” can make a poll issue out of it. I am angry, angry that the prime minister addressed us after 19 hours of the beginning of this mayhem, that Shivraj Patil has not resigned even after this, that the NSG took 8 hours to arrive in Bombay as they were busy protecting the leaders of the nation, angry that since July of this year we have been attacked again and again and we have been watching like the timid shy school boy whose tormentors, the bullies are getting more audacious by the day, appalled that I sit every month watching a new city being attacked by a new group in a new way.<br /><br />As I watch the horror unfurl, I pray for the souls departed, thank the firemen, policemen and army forces fighting to save lives. I pray to God for this to end quickly. But we all know this is not the end.<br /><br />I have never been a jingoistic, patriotic Indian who shouts from the roof tops about Arya Bhatt or IT revolutions, I have always been confused about what I feel for my motherland, realistic, affectionate, sure that I would never want to be born as anything else but Indian though unsure about the reasons why I feel that way. However I have always been proud of our thriving democracy, smug that in this hot bed of troubled neighborhood we as a country have a functional democracy, an economy to be reckoned with and a country that does not have fatal and fetid issues to deal with like our neighbors have. I am not so sure any more. To the outside world probably we are just the same now. I know its not true, but am too scared to say that anymore. <br /><br />I want to do something about it, but I do not know what to do. I want to walk into the parliament and shout till I am heard; I want this nightmare to end. I want politicians to stop fuelling politics of hate because this is what happens at the end. Can you tell me what WE can do about this?Nanditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06517729541127190519noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29340018.post-82439380944054027142008-11-15T00:45:00.001-08:002008-11-15T01:41:24.215-08:00This is a FirstIn many more ways than one….<br /><br />1. The first time I am posting two posts in a single day<br />2. The first time I am posting a picture of myself, which actually come to think of it is no big deal since all of you already know me, but so what it is a first.<br />3. The first time through a piclog I talk about one of our many weekend jaunts…<br /><br />So here goes people brace yourself!!!!<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgj7X6K9OOkhBugby0eLBqzM8b6FFT0Y_Jv-CTahjjNfXbBwSXo0B-R60ajT8yOWhzccdoe_mvl6XgqPzLLDTyY92nMUqcwdgNYPjZ955FO6ikCabcZxzXe2MCt62SKDMuGUsQ_Q/s1600-h/new1.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 272px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgj7X6K9OOkhBugby0eLBqzM8b6FFT0Y_Jv-CTahjjNfXbBwSXo0B-R60ajT8yOWhzccdoe_mvl6XgqPzLLDTyY92nMUqcwdgNYPjZ955FO6ikCabcZxzXe2MCt62SKDMuGUsQ_Q/s320/new1.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5268806028367106322" /></a><br /> <br /> This is me sporting my new haircut!!!<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLQ_-ioS7oqnbUAQ6sTMsRI5Usqg64tnjr7SKquFyeNuiSkPO_PL_bqvQQF6-gK3yeirxHiAx9dD1fMY87Xa3INEQ7_3fsfXHAeDRavwZCEjVVsaeOjVC2sqrbJHd5zLhJyoTynA/s1600-h/new.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLQ_-ioS7oqnbUAQ6sTMsRI5Usqg64tnjr7SKquFyeNuiSkPO_PL_bqvQQF6-gK3yeirxHiAx9dD1fMY87Xa3INEQ7_3fsfXHAeDRavwZCEjVVsaeOjVC2sqrbJHd5zLhJyoTynA/s320/new.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5268806351538840018" /></a><br /><br /><br /> Same picture but now lo and behold with a torso and hands and all!!!<br /><br /><br />And now for the weekend jaunt!!!<br /><br />This was to Bheemeshwari Fishing Camp, ideal for a spontaneous weekend getaway, we planned this trip as we got bored on a Saturday evening, called up friends and we left for this magical place 90 kms away from Bangalore on a sleepy Sunday morning at nine am. I love weekend jaunts that don’t involve getting up at ungodly hours of 4 in the morning. <br />We reached the place at around 11:30, spent some time looking for a place to set up our little picnic, thanks to Mridula decided against it and signed up for a day trip to the much famed Bheemeshwari Fishing Camp, run by Jungle Lodges and Resorts. What was great about this is that we had been planning to plan a weekend trip to Bheemeshwari for ages, but could never get a reservation for an overnight trip. But signing up for this day tour that included an early morning trek, lunch, tea and boating in a coracle was fairly easy and required no prior booking. And now the Piclog!!!<br /><br /> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJS6kGDRox5tRYwR50ISh5sodBsTJ1USbCNMwkxGxU3qzg4wHVXc0t70Zp4mNxUVaLl9xNh8DRixT3dNWJJScv8GmwuPFQ6MF5aGhf_XrLgblvX6XaIAw1NKRwz2ekYZl0nvybPQ/s1600-h/cauvery.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJS6kGDRox5tRYwR50ISh5sodBsTJ1USbCNMwkxGxU3qzg4wHVXc0t70Zp4mNxUVaLl9xNh8DRixT3dNWJJScv8GmwuPFQ6MF5aGhf_XrLgblvX6XaIAw1NKRwz2ekYZl0nvybPQ/s320/cauvery.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5268806651311026594" /></a><br /> The Cauvery in all its glory<br /><br /> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi-A6yWYtdA7VBO11NtmYMFYYB5SrII9zs6_3t8quek-OakZ5RwF1kLOEU0kOyonpaGJQ09_sSsDQZwO0ko_ukXgGwKaX6A7NVKobGDdNJEE9sCCvD6BG-PFBMULleWBZx0Jwuiw/s1600-h/vie1.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi-A6yWYtdA7VBO11NtmYMFYYB5SrII9zs6_3t8quek-OakZ5RwF1kLOEU0kOyonpaGJQ09_sSsDQZwO0ko_ukXgGwKaX6A7NVKobGDdNJEE9sCCvD6BG-PFBMULleWBZx0Jwuiw/s320/vie1.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5268806957679179458" /></a><br /> Another view<br /><br /> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLVEXiprC4GjZhEKFm_02EB9ArOAVdQw9aeeLikalnOlfRnDw6DFnhZcpNIqX83r7CFxWBU5cb12dLLQxddBc7_cdibMe8Ljt19z9WnHjc8mxgr571dOBkYnimtR6z3SiayzGX5w/s1600-h/bheemeshwari.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLVEXiprC4GjZhEKFm_02EB9ArOAVdQw9aeeLikalnOlfRnDw6DFnhZcpNIqX83r7CFxWBU5cb12dLLQxddBc7_cdibMe8Ljt19z9WnHjc8mxgr571dOBkYnimtR6z3SiayzGX5w/s320/bheemeshwari.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5268807633045509618" /></a><br /> This is us, lazing on the riverbank.<br /><br /><br /><br /> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOPwXUnRuMv8_GIUcOFVUSooaf3aTdJjy5gEKWVTWOM7KrWfK-AIzosoxwuUyyQOhrnWvD-CCqXnrSdQ_4D1_hbLqmXtT8bMM4moP2GPtMOTnvgsNxy5RadaDGTP6fuX7NaUY_6w/s1600-h/bheemshari1.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOPwXUnRuMv8_GIUcOFVUSooaf3aTdJjy5gEKWVTWOM7KrWfK-AIzosoxwuUyyQOhrnWvD-CCqXnrSdQ_4D1_hbLqmXtT8bMM4moP2GPtMOTnvgsNxy5RadaDGTP6fuX7NaUY_6w/s320/bheemshari1.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5268808085267538962" /></a><br /> The two women all set to take charge.<br /><br />Do not get fooled by the picture, we realize navigating through the river Cauvery is no laughing matter. Please to be noting, we are alive to tell this tale because there was a professional boatman (seen in the picture making last minute adjustments to the coracle).<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxLtHUcQ5hKyJ7YkyoLnk3tRDQUBLLvnzCHl8sK4-Uus0NJ3W6bSx5fTOnylyIMhzqEf4iCJHJ7xnbakxXwpnUxZyzAxUtMU44KGgTUphvPmPOIp0A32Ve79HQTNkrhxehqNjWag/s1600-h/twomeninaboat.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxLtHUcQ5hKyJ7YkyoLnk3tRDQUBLLvnzCHl8sK4-Uus0NJ3W6bSx5fTOnylyIMhzqEf4iCJHJ7xnbakxXwpnUxZyzAxUtMU44KGgTUphvPmPOIp0A32Ve79HQTNkrhxehqNjWag/s320/twomeninaboat.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5268808452851944482" /></a><br /> Two men waiting in the coracle<br />Miffed a little as the earlier attempt to set sailing was foiled by big fat raindrops and a small thunderstorm. But we got back in again after the skies calmed down a little.<br /><br /> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtpg4sL44C0kmBPOjokhejibdVc6e9ONjvqdxZGYbLE1wUATxK1kKCMtyOXKcfJbLwFnrZKCEwhDx30st6p1bbwPWStSCCCcvjje3zCsxZwEdINfANDWcbbyLD2E7oN_S8sWdCvw/s1600-h/choppy.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtpg4sL44C0kmBPOjokhejibdVc6e9ONjvqdxZGYbLE1wUATxK1kKCMtyOXKcfJbLwFnrZKCEwhDx30st6p1bbwPWStSCCCcvjje3zCsxZwEdINfANDWcbbyLD2E7oN_S8sWdCvw/s320/choppy.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5268809162724718882" /></a><br />The waters were really choppy somewhere in the middle and we were glad to be wearing life jackets!!!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3-KN_4NbEPU7peCrkm2IYorjqo1n4DmA11ScYhL62IjZgqLilmMiqwoh9PZoTBWyaqDap5TMHIRwg7WQBfwnsaF5Csqgm0ABrgk2tuZHXQBrKIhfUl8HZxfTSM8QNGV6-JL0wPQ/s1600-h/darkandchoppy.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3-KN_4NbEPU7peCrkm2IYorjqo1n4DmA11ScYhL62IjZgqLilmMiqwoh9PZoTBWyaqDap5TMHIRwg7WQBfwnsaF5Csqgm0ABrgk2tuZHXQBrKIhfUl8HZxfTSM8QNGV6-JL0wPQ/s320/darkandchoppy.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5268814310785437250" /></a><br /> The deep waters and dark skies.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc4dPP9RAXF-SUQX02o3R7vgFnLcA3b23_G7QUMDhl2ILHH5DanJ0QmCx9pFbgFBkjvOwr6r7JXEruFZPGA0NLtg_H2o7HIFd7I6HmIvlEISNTzTTnQUPDhC9FCOF5_aLUoTOqQg/s1600-h/rainbow.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc4dPP9RAXF-SUQX02o3R7vgFnLcA3b23_G7QUMDhl2ILHH5DanJ0QmCx9pFbgFBkjvOwr6r7JXEruFZPGA0NLtg_H2o7HIFd7I6HmIvlEISNTzTTnQUPDhC9FCOF5_aLUoTOqQg/s320/rainbow.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5268814548005497410" /></a><br />And then a bright (well not that bright) rainbow, had been a while since I had seen one of them!!!! Umm Can you spot it.. go on squint a little turn your head a little there you go...<br /><br /> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRZgO_Ys3pdXDLuKGRFgKvIXC5aX2keueXQRo0g4byaW5TeANMh4q_igI-dcHnNZeEeezsAvrJ90u9vSQ0W7J_dwjYbhdA_gyAJSmv7y519PJ12UdZ_6P3VAG4Zoy3i0e4sPwlZw/s1600-h/thatbringsmetotheend.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRZgO_Ys3pdXDLuKGRFgKvIXC5aX2keueXQRo0g4byaW5TeANMh4q_igI-dcHnNZeEeezsAvrJ90u9vSQ0W7J_dwjYbhdA_gyAJSmv7y519PJ12UdZ_6P3VAG4Zoy3i0e4sPwlZw/s320/thatbringsmetotheend.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5268815073397824674" /></a><br /> And this brings us to the end of our little adventure!!!!<br /><br />We drove back happy and content reached home at 9 in the night, glad to have taken this impromptu trip.Nanditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06517729541127190519noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29340018.post-63599266911137551552008-11-14T12:00:00.000-08:002008-11-14T21:15:02.407-08:00Because I am Daddy’s Girl<meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CNANDIT%7E1.SIN%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C03%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Trebuchet MS"; panose-1:2 11 6 3 2 2 2 2 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:swiss; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:647 0 0 0 159 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} /* List Definitions */ @list l0 {mso-list-id:490799904; mso-list-type:hybrid; mso-list-template-ids:-1223898178 67698703 67698713 67698715 67698703 67698713 67698715 67698703 67698713 67698715;} @list l0:level1 {mso-level-tab-stop:.5in; mso-level-number-position:left; text-indent:-.25in;} ol {margin-bottom:0in;} ul {margin-bottom:0in;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Well I have been going through a rough patch at work. The one’s where you believe that the entire world is conspiring against you, trying to make life difficult for you at every given opportunity while they drive their own agenda. The kinds where the entire day is spent screaming and banging your head against deaf and stupid walls. It is not the kind of crisis where you are not getting along with your Boss, or you seem to be caught up in meaningless work, or you resent the slaving away for long hours. It is the kind of crisis where you see the whole year’s hard work come crumbling down, days clocking away with asking rates climbing upwards, days where you are at your tethers ends as seemingly simple solutions are twisted beyond recognition by complicated situations. Basically I am feeling lost and dejected. What makes matters worse is the fact that I have 15 people in my team who look up to me for support and guidance and everyday I feel that I fail them as a leader. And the thought that the success or failure of these three months is going to affect each of them of them personally, professionally and monetarily weighs me down. It does not help that I actually care for my team and am genuinely pained as I am forced to be a mute spectator to their trials and tribulations. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Now as is clear from the address of my blog,I can be a little capricious, to quote myself from the very first post of this blog I easily fluctuate between extremes, <i style="">“there are times of extreme happiness followed by those of extreme melancholy, extreme optimism followed by extreme pessimism, extreme anger followed by unreal forgiveness; annoying verbosity followed by worrying restraint, profound courage followed by loathable fear</i><i style=""><span style="">....”. </span></i></span><span style="font-size:85%;">And for all those who know me I am not one for hiding my emotions, what you see is what you get. This entire fortnight my team really saw my emotional, angry and desperate outbursts sometimes caused by them and at other times just aimed at them. The fact that my team also cares about me makes my misery painful for them too. Basically it has not been a good work week.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Today was particularly bad, I sought advice from close friends at work and the super efficient and extra professional husband, got the usual spiel on detachment and dispassionate approaches, all of which I knew were right and were probably the only things that would salvage my sanity. But somehow the burden of acknowledging that there has been a fundamental flaw in the way I deal with professional crisis made making amends all the more difficult. The sense of defeat as I witnessed my greatest strength compassion, turning around its head, teasing me as it rolled its eyes and tongue at me to become my greatest weakness made me cling on to the impassioned, emotional reactive frame of mind that I had gotten into. The more the voice of reason and well meaning colleagues told me to distance myself and care a little less, the closer I pushed myself to the problem till it became a blur I could not see but could not help caring about. <span style=""> </span>As I dealt with all this, quite emotionally may I add, I got a call from my dad. Normally conversations with my dad are about things back home or about what we do apart from work with some fleeting and inconsequential references to work. But today I just spilled the beans and cried my heart out as I told him how bad things at work were and how I have been struggling to bring myself together to deal with things a little more effectively. I cried about how much I cared and how I felt cheated every time something went wrong for no fault of mine. I complained about how other seemingly casual colleagues seemed to get past all the daily tribulations like a breeze. I cribbed without the hope of learning anything new; with the sense of quite defeat as you anticipate yet another person embark upon the familiar lecture of the wisdom of being pragmatic and practical and the foolishness of being emotionally involved with work. To my utter surprise I heard my dad in his usual matter of fact tone say, “But what is really wrong with being emotional, passionate, what’s wrong about caring for the people you work with?”. I was shocked to say the least, I mean even though I agreed with what he said, I knew it was not the right thing to do. He went on as I listened spell bound, “Who would not want a boss who cared and did not treat her subordinate as just another resource at her disposal, I would be glad to have such a Boss and so would you.” Somehow what he said started making a little sense to me. This seemed like the conversation I had wanted to have in a long time. He went on to recount stories from his work life, where sometimes his passion and emotion were misdirected but he did not seem to regret his passion and emotion. He was sure that at the end of it all people around him had been left a little better off than before because of his passion. At the end they seemed to care about him too. He went on, and so did I cringing a bit while narrating various incidents and events that had been nagging me for a while. He listened patiently and each time cajoled me to look at things in a different perspective, a perspective that forced me to be a little less censorious of myself than I have been and a point of view that gave me a little more credit than I was willing to give myself. I was already feeling much better, the smile was inching its way back and my head felt much lighter. And at the end of the phone call, my dad very simply told me; “Be emotional, be passionate but don’t take it personally”. As the conversation with him ended, I realized that not only was my father probably the only one who knew what it is to be me, who appreciated my motivations and motives, the only one who empathized with my agony, he was also the only one who knew how to set me free. It was not about my misguided passion or emotional outbursts or about caring a little too much, it was about not taking it personally. My dad reminded me of the two lessons I had learnt the hard way in school and college:<o:p></o:p></span></p> <ol style="margin-top: 0in; font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;" start="1" type="1"><li class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Accept who you are, be matter of fact about it, be neither apologetic nor cavalier about who you are.<o:p></o:p></span></li><li class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Its not personal, professional things are never personal. <o:p></o:p></span></li></ol> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10;" ><span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;" >As I came in from the balcony, I smiled as I realized what my mom always knew; I am Daddy’s little girl.</span><o:p></o:p></span></p> Nanditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06517729541127190519noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29340018.post-32611864422502194352008-09-17T06:47:00.000-07:002008-09-17T06:50:32.076-07:00HappyA Haircut can really change the way the world sees you and the way you see the world. It was the welcome break I was seeking....I mean I am Happy!!!!!!!!!Nanditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06517729541127190519noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29340018.post-89286656182991952562008-08-11T12:48:00.000-07:002008-08-11T12:59:53.127-07:00Suspended Animation<meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CNANDIT%7E1.SIN%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" name="place"></o:smarttagtype><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><object classid="clsid:38481807-CA0E-42D2-BF39-B33AF135CC4D" id="ieooui"></object> <style> st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style> <![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Trebuchet MS"; panose-1:2 11 6 3 2 2 2 2 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:swiss; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:647 0 0 0 159 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--><b style=""><u><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10;" ><o:p><span style="text-decoration: none;"></span></o:p></span></u></b> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="">An ode to my friends who made some of the best days infinitely better</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">
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<br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Remember the first day we entered mystical Malviyaland,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Marking the beginning of four years in that wonderful quicksand.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">All of us looking shy, well almost demure, <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">The ragging week with giggling, crying and depraving of the pure!!!!<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">We dealt with homesickness pangs and such sundry pressures,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">And then the finale with us singing Jo jeeta la la la at the freshers.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">The first year of having “cycle loads” of fun,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">As we regaled in the ratio of having thirty for each one.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">All of us getting into an auto, holding each other to prevent a fall,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">As we go watch a pot boiler in a dripping cinema hall.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Or the Saturday special lunch and the damned drafter,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">I mean who can forget the “call”ing guys and then the raucous laughter.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">It was all about learning the special survival tricks,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Dealing with secret admirers and fans, the letters and the limericks.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">The first year of making friends was all fun and game,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">With everyone wondering would we ever be tame.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">(Did I mention the guys who were “just friends”)<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">The second year promised to be much more exciting,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">The possibility of ragging the facchis was truly nail biting.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Remember the faithful “Compus” we all pooled in for,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">And the all night compu game wars vying for the highest score.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Discovering the maggi at nochus and the canteen chai,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">While some of us were falling in love with the “guy”.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Cycling back madly after classes at four thirty,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Sharing everything that happened, the good and the dirty.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">The generous swapping of clothes, shoes and ear rings,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">I guess the friendship was worth more than just a few things.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">It was not easy dealing with those Birla Bhaiyas and IT morons,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">To top it all the professors were mostly clowns.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Carrying ourselves in that jungle, sometimes clumsy but mostly with poise,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">In the second year our hearts searched for the men amongst the boyz.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">(Did I mention that you all made everything a cakewalk and loads of fun)<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">The third year brought us at the cusp of change,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">We were calming down, now wasn’t that strange.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">There were more serious heart to hearts in the courtyard,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Planning for the future and working really hard.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Of getting used to the constants of the years,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">The “ooncha” rickshaws, Kashiytara and after evening fears.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">I know don’t jump, how could I forget,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">The delicious Aaloo Parathas and butter that would just melt.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Falling in love with the <st1:place st="on">Ghats</st1:place> and the Dhroopad mela night outs,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Getting less annoyed everyday by the goons and the louts. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">It was not always exchange of sweet sound bytes,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">There were times of serious disagreements but mostly silly fights.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Three years down we had finally quit tryin,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">We would never study in time to save nine.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style=""> </span>(Did I mention I think the third year was the best) <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">The fourth year started with us leaving beloved principal quarters,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">And moving into a lightless, lobby-full hostel that was admittedly hotter.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">There was our tryst with PPTs, stupid tests and the occasional interview. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">And the weekly CAT & Mouse PT test rendezvous.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">It was a year of nostalgic farewells and a filmy “sangeet”,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">An end to the bitterest cold and the torrid heat.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Putting up a final fight for a “just” cause we thought.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">It was good to know the “fire” was not completely doused out.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">The hurried trips to fave nooks and crannies in the last few days, <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">And the million pictures we took marking the end of that phase.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Finally they were teary goodbyes and poignant adieus plethora,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Yes little women it was the end of an era.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">(Did I ever say sorry I did not handle failure well)<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">I learnt as the years after that unfurled,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">You taught me to revel in being a woman in a man’s world.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">You all were not just “friends for having fun”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">But each one of you was, is a “loved” one.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Let me admit lately I often struggled to understand,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Where does our friendship today stand?<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">I often wondered why our paths cross so rarely,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Why we meet, laugh and remember each other so rarely.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">But then I saw: actions of the present and the future will have to spare,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Maligning the beloved past that we all share.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-size:85%;">It actually requires no toil and zero perspiration,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10;" ><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:85%;" >I know “true love” can survive in “suspended animation”.</span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10;" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p> Nanditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06517729541127190519noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29340018.post-53659950308706215112008-07-15T23:29:00.000-07:002008-07-15T23:34:51.797-07:00<div style="text-align: justify;"><meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><link style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CNANDIT%7E1.SIN%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--> </div><p style="font-family: trebuchet ms; text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">I know possibly this is not the most logical response to the tragedy that happened in the family.. but here I am with my profound grief. </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="font-family: trebuchet ms; text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">Life is fragile, hanging by a delicate balance and however smart we assume we are God outsmarts us all the time.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="font-family: trebuchet ms; text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">I still can’t believe we lost him and I am not saying this because this is the politically correct thing to do but he was a nice person, a genuine, righteous and affectionate man. He loved us as his own kids. </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="font-family: trebuchet ms; text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">I don’t how the ones left behind will cope with this, but I shudder to think of the days ahead. Mausi deserves more from life.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="font-family: trebuchet ms; text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">Trivial things are really trivial and should have no place in one’s mind-space. Life is too short for grudges, if you love someone and you are convinced that s/he loves you back that is all that matters. Finally life to too short to crib, grudge or repent. I think I knew all of this but today I have really learnt it. </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="font-family: trebuchet ms; text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">God, give mausi the strength to cope with this. Help her become what he would have wanted her to become.. help her smile again.</p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="font-family: trebuchet ms; text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">It was so sudden no time for good byes, no time to say how much we cared for him and appreciated him. I now know that people who truly matter need to know this all the time. There is no such thing as too much love. </p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="font-family: trebuchet ms; text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal">Just wanted to let you know through this blog how much I love you, thank you for bringing happiness in all our lives. I will miss you.</p> Nanditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06517729541127190519noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29340018.post-50899830655162062482008-07-15T00:18:00.000-07:002008-07-15T00:31:57.088-07:00Go Green<div style="text-align: justify; color: rgb(102, 102, 102);"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I don’t know how it happened but the green bug has bitten me, please don’t judge me for having jumped on to the band wagon as late as I have, I am happy to have be bitten by the bug and as the wise men once said “ its always better to be late than never”.</span><br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">As I go about writing this I realize how a few decisions in my life will now literally have to pass the GREEN signal before implementation: (before you read and judge all the decisions are mundane.. but so is my life… read on)</span><br /><br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">1.Buying a washing machine(like I said redefine mundane): As I was reading articles on how to go green in one’s life a lot of them talked about running full loads on washing machines and dishwashers. For once I thanked the Lord for the simple life we lead and the new fangled machines we don’t own. We don’t have a washing machine and I have been really happy with the current arrangement of the help washing the clothes and them drying out in the good old Indian sun. I now have a GREEN reason to not buy the washing machine I have been so avoiding. I knew it did not make sense I know why now.</span><br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">2.Newspapers: We subscribe to 3 newspapers and giving the two of us due credit, both of us read all three everyday. However considering all the trees that have been cut to ensure us the daily dose of news I guess now the time has come to completely embrace the e revolution and read atleast one of them online. Inshallah, in due course we shall wean ourselves away from the physical form enough to only subscribe to one of them. Amen to that.</span><br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">3.Carrying one’s own Jholla to the supermarket. Like I said just get back to good old simple life of Lucknow till the late 80s.</span><br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">4.Walking to where ever we can, instead of driving, taking the stairs instead of the I mean this is awesome not only is this good for the environment but is also good way of containing the ever expanding waist line.</span><br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">5.Simple things like switching off the lights, fans, heaters et al when not in the room.</span><br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">6.Not wasting tissue papers, never using kitchen paper towels and sticking to the good old cloth wipes.</span><br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">7.Using gmail (green mail) for every communication, not printing documents if not absolutely essential, printing on both sides of the paper etc etc</span><br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">8.Trash management: will try and segregate waste into recyclable, reusable and compostable trash. </span><br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">9.Have been thinking of joining a gym and give up the thrice a week running around the block routine. Am re-thinking it now, treadmills guzzle electricity….</span><br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">10.Buying books: I am fascinated by the written word and love owning and reading books. I buy 2-3 books a month. Have never been into e books, have not been a member of a library as an adult because I love buying books. I love reading them, love the smell of new books; don’t mind the sneeze when I discover an old forgotten book in some dusty corner of the house. Books are my passion. With the green bug biting me I am rethinking the appropriateness of indulging in my passion ever so often. I am thinking about E books (shocker!!) and about joining a library. Also this amazing thing called Kindle from Amazon has caught my fancy, not only is it green it also promises a huge number of books at your disposal in less than a second.</span><br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">11.Just read that 3% of global warming is contributed by airplanes. Now given that I fly twice a week, I think the only way to counter this is to in future look for jobs that require minimal traveling or better still use technology to minimize traveling.</span><br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">12.Finally for the 1st time in 8 years I regretted not having gone into research pursuing maybe a PHD in “development of bio degradable plastics” ok regretted only for a nano-second and then came crashing back to reality. Now that would have taken my go green campaign to a completely new level. People who know me or who have read about my Technical PIS will appreciate the U turn I at least thought of taking for a fleeting moment from what has been a firm belief for a very loooooooooooooong time i.e. GOD did not intend for me to remain an “engineer”.</span><br /><br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">The list is endless but basically the guiding principle from now onwards is: REDUCE, REUSE and RECYCLE. </span><br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">As I write how the green bug will manifest itself in my life I realize it’s really very simple, at least for my generation of Indians. It’s just about “unlearning” a lot of things we learnt in the exhilarated delirium after 1991. It’s about going back to the frugal and minimalist way of life our dads proposed and we tried to wiggle our ways out of. It’s about pausing and then beginning again to guzzle a little less. It’s about being careful about spending, about consuming not because it’s expensive but because it’s precious.</span><br /></span></div>Nanditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06517729541127190519noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29340018.post-46251263480275972142008-06-20T07:08:00.000-07:002008-06-20T07:11:36.941-07:00Roadies Are Smarter<meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 11"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CNANDIT%7E1.SIN%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C10%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Trebuchet MS"; panose-1:2 11 6 3 2 2 2 2 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:swiss; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:647 0 0 0 159 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} a:link, span.MsoHyperlink {color:blue; text-decoration:underline; text-underline:single;} a:visited, span.MsoHyperlinkFollowed {color:purple; text-decoration:underline; text-underline:single;} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --</style><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";"><o:p> </o:p></span> <p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">I know the sentence is incomplete and grammatically incorrect but given the subject(s) of this post I am guessing it does not matter at all. At the outset let me admit (please no snickers) that I did catch of few episodes of Roadies while it was on. And no it was not because I thought that the demented juvenile delinquents were my role models or smart, neither did I think that the format had an iota of adventure, thrill or goose bumpy moments. I just watched it because I was intrigued by it all. I was intrigued by how any one could take the insane and incessantly screeching bald guy seriously or how could this group of “roadies” be so incredibly dumb or whether their Attention Deficit Disorder had actually been captured as a pathological condition.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">Anyway to sum it up I was intrigued, they were dumb and I caught a few episodes on the telly. Thankfully the show ended<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">I was flicking through channels on day and I stopped at something called “splitsvilla” on guess what….yes, MTV. I know, damn that intrigue, I mean can you blame me, “splitsvilla” does sound intriguing. And I know I have no only else to blame but myself and my intrigue for the onslaught on my senses that followed after that.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">It suffices to say that those young girls made the Roadies look smarter. Considering their inability to construct sentences that had more than three words it is safe to conclude that they were inarticulate. They had more exclamation marks than words or ideas to express themselves and to top it all they were not even pretty!!! From whatever I could make out in those 5 minutes the format of the show involves girls being dumped week after week by two losers of the Roadies. Anyone who agrees to participate in that is an undisputed nincompoop without an iota of self respect or dignity. Or more scarily without anything better to learn, or without any other rainbow to chase or any more cherished friendships to make and nurture……<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">Before you all conclude that I am being judgmental please sample what happened in those five minutes.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">Nincompoop 1: She called me a “sweet bitch”<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">The “tortured yet outwardly smiling and minting loads of ka ching” Host: Wow that is something, but did she really mean it?<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">Nincompoop 2: No I meant it in a good way.<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">Nincompoop 1: *%$$$$###<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">Nincompoop 2: &*^&$&^#&^%#<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">The host: *%*($@)&$@#$$%&<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">Basically it was all Bull shit… <o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">The only thing I can safely say after those five minutes is that these girls have their priorities misplaced. At 17 you don’t need to be told that a complete stranger judging and “dumping” you on bizarre standards is what will write your destiny. At 17 you need to know that you will become your own person, you will chase your own rainbow, you will chart your own destiny and finally people who care will never judge you. I am feeling sad to report that the girls were superficial, one-dimensional and without a doubt completely disconnected from reality. And that brings me to the point of the tirade: reality television today is NOT REAL. <o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">Reality Television is as artificial as the much maligned K Serials on the tube. I don’t think I need to write about the fact that none of the shows deal with anything REAL, to top it all the emotions on the each one of them are also completely FAKE. Fake laughter, fake tears and fake excitement. What petrifies me is that is builds “Fake Role-models”. The out of tune “Indian Idol” who wins because of regional biases, the hysterical dancing starlet, the emaciated size 0 aspiring model, the conniving Roadie…. are these the real role models? Can I please get the “reel” role models of RDB back?<o:p></o:p></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><p style="text-align: justify;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">But like always I am overreacting. It is comforting to know that there is also the Hunt for India's Environmentalist on <a href="http://green.ndtv.com/">NDTV Green</a>, that kids came out in support of handling the Aarushi case with dignity and finally that there is a kid who forces his mom to switch off all the lights for an hour every week. <o:p></o:p></span></p> Nanditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06517729541127190519noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29340018.post-89097956420572471602008-04-04T07:30:00.000-07:002008-04-04T07:31:06.035-07:00At times, I Just Don’t Know what to doI walk out of the airplane and quickly make my way to the car waiting outside. As usual the rush hour madness has caused a road block. Harried passengers are standing on both sides of the road waiting for their pick up. I stand there not thinking of anything particularly. And that’s when I see him. He is on all his fours, crouching, as polio has rendered his legs weak. He can’t stand, he can’t walk, his legs are weak, thin and disfigured. But, he has mastered the art of crouching and hopping using his hands and two legs. He hops to me and stretches his arm.<br />I instinctively turn away; I am programmed to block my vision so that I don’t see him. I look ahead at people chattering, waiting and getting annoyed in general. I don’t see him anymore. But I just can’t seem not “see” him. I can’t help wondering how calloused his hands are from all the hopping he does. I feel my palms, soft and moisturized. I wonder if his palms have ever been soft and moisturized. Curiosity gets the better of me. I turn back, he’s gone. Was he a figment of my imagination? I am sure not. I have not gone totally bonkers yet. I turn again, and see him deftly crossing the road to the other side of “waiters” having tried is luck on this side. <br />I can’t bear to look at him. I don’t know why I am disturbed. I thought I had straightened this out. Evidently not. I think it’s his calloused hands. <br />I never pay beggars because momentarily helping them will never solve their problems. Also they are either healthy looking albeit underage mothers with deliberately tattered clothes and doped children, or they are kids performing some weird acrobatics, and anyway aren’t all of them part of a mean gang. A gang that kidnaps kids, disfigures them and then lets them loose onto the world to “beg”. It is a syndicate, that’s what they all say. Or aren’t most of them collecting money to get doped? I don’t know why exactly I am programmed not to yield to their misery and pay. The voice of reason without giving me any specific reason has told me not to pay. But as of now, I just don’t know what to do.<br />I try and ignore him. I try and surreptiously steal a glance. A car blocks his view. I heave a sigh of relief. I don’t see him anymore. But I just can’t seem not “see” him. I take a decision; a decision that is like all of my decisions, emotional. I decide to pay him. I know I have a hundred Rupee note in my wallet, but I fish around and find a thick wad of tenners. I start counting as I “cross over to the other side”. But counting seems so futile; I am in a hurry to get it over and done with. I reach to the other side of the car. He is gone. I look around and see him again hopping over with his arms outstretched. I quicken my pace and follow him. I try not to think all this while. He senses my presence and turns around. I hand him over the wad, avoiding eye contact. He seems to be in an equal hurry to get this over with. I turn away and at that moment I know. I have not paid him because I feel sorry for him, neither because I think his misery is more deserving than others, nor because I think it will help him in anyway. I just pay him so that I can stop “seeing” him. I think he knows that.<br />I cross back to my side of the road waiting for my car to come. When I think all is over I see him again. He is hopping with a renewed vigor and speed. Wait, he is hopping towards me. Have I challenged the age old wisdom and “voice of reason”? Have I “encouraged” a “street urchin” to “tackle me emotionally”? I relax because I see he can’t be bothered to bother with me. He is carrying on with his business. I turn away and I can’t see him anymore. It is true money can buy you most things. <br />The car comes and I speed away with it. As I sit in the car I see a bill board screaming: “Why party with your friends this weekend when you can party in Singapore?” Like I said at times I just don’t know what to do.Nanditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06517729541127190519noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29340018.post-34525036884811047482008-02-03T10:16:00.000-08:002008-02-03T10:22:12.475-08:00New Year Resolutions<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">I know it is a little late in the day for New Year Resolutions but what the heck, this is my blog and I can be as tardy as I want to be!<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <ol style="margin-top: 0in;" start="1" type="1"><li class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">No prizes for guessing this one. Shall exercise more and eat healthy. As I type this one, realization dawns upon me that this has been one of my New Year resolutions for the past 10 years. Talk about consistency, over the past ten years I have changed countless postal addresses, acquired degrees, got sucked into the big bad corporate world and<span style=""> </span>changed my marital status, yet this one steadfastly occupies its rightful position as the number one <span style=""> </span>resolution for the new year!!!! To set the record straight I do exercise and try and not succumb to the temptation of the fast food onslaught all the time. (But its criminal to ignore chocolates for a long time, infact its unhealthy to ignore chocolates, there is talk about dark chocolate reducing blood pressure and being a potent antioxidant. So that’s that; chocolate is healthy and I shall be having more of it in the New Year!!)<o:p></o:p></span></li><li class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">Learn a new sport. Well this was also on my last year’s resolution list. Without sounding like I am bragging I did learn how to swim last year and am ready to take on more grueling and competitive sporting and physical challenges. Okay don’t take that seriously just teach me how to hit the ball with the racket. <o:p></o:p></span></li><li class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">Read more and read more of what I have not read till now. For the past few years I have been trying to break out of the reading comfort list. So no more pretentious Indian writers writing in English with familiar themes, verbose and highly complex sentences but with no beginning, middle and end to the story. Having said that Vikram Seth is still my favorite author.<o:p></o:p></span></li><li class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">Write more. My blogging frequency is abysmal. Will work on improving the track record.<o:p></o:p></span></li><li class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">Rekindle my love affair with Music: I really liked singing and being part of the school choir. I loved learning Hindustani Classical Music. I did not like my last music teacher and just as teenagers as prone to do I rebelled against him and quit learning music citing the impending board exams as the reason. I wish I had continued. I wish I had taken it up again hen presented with the opportunity. But now I will so something about it and be back in the classes I loved.<o:p></o:p></span></li><li class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">I think I have saved the biggest resolution for last. I will in 2008 figure out what is it I really want in life. Figure out what I REALLY want to do… and then do something about it.<o:p></o:p></span></li></ol> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">Well that’s the end of my resolution list.. what have been your new year resolutions?? (Or are we already in that time of the year where the resolutions have long been given up on and all of us are back to our bad old ways!!)<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.25in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.25in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.25in; text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10;" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.25in; text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10;" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10;" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Nanditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06517729541127190519noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29340018.post-59842890020390395692007-12-10T01:28:00.000-08:002007-12-10T01:41:53.006-08:00A Brooding, Working and Traveling HomemakerBefore you say something let me tell you the above four make a lethal combination.<br />Also, let me tell you why I have been absent for such a long time, mostly because the humble homemaker in me who went to work but barely worked for almost 4 months got a new job. And the job involves both traveling and working (lots of both) leaving me no time to blog.<br />From a life where travel meant the 45 mins spent in traffic and work checking out interesting blogs, I sure have come a long way.<br />I hate working when I am off work and yet I find myself answering calls, sending frantic mails and messages to my team at all hours and as far as traveling is concerned well I board around 3 flights a week, take a few road trips and travel a bit in the city also. So where is the time for brooding you ask and pray why do I brood?<br />Well only a non brooder can ask a question as silly as that, for brooders don’t need a reason or free time to brood. A true blue brooder can brood about things as profound as Keynesian economics and its debilitating effects on monthly grocery purchases to inanities like how the toe nail growth affects the delicate balance of my sanity. Or vacillating between brooding about the inappropriate debauchery of the younger generation to how did life become so boring as to not include even an iota of debauchery in the daily, weekly or even monthly routine.<br />So what do I brood about? Well to summarize just about everything. On whether this was the right decision, or whether my traveling effects people I love adversely. And to my utter surprise I have also caught myself brooding about whether I am a good homemaker. First of all a big BOO HOO to all folks who think that only an individual whose primary responsibility is to take care of the home is a home maker. To my mind anybody who attempts to make his/her abode a little less of a pigsty and a tad bit more homely is a “homemaker”.<br />Having failed miserably at doing both as a hosteller, when I shifted into my new house I pledged to be a successful “home-maker”; making my new place a little more like “home”. And that began my tryst with doing up the house (which I love), cleaning, cooking (once in a while), setting up systems and processes, dealing with the helps and being generally in charge of things. All was well on the “home making” front till the new job happened and between getting overworked and traveling things started to slip a little. I was no longer efficiently in control of things. And that made me feel depressed, guilty and most of all broody. Mostly because I saw things slipping into the same old pattern of coming back to a dirty home, finding food the help just cooked with whatever was available and struggling for 5 mins before finding a clean place to plop on. And guilty because I felt that I was once again taking my roommate for granted. Now it does help that my roommate is also my husband and he takes his vows of “in sickness and health” etc etc very seriously, but I felt guilty nonetheless. Guilty that I am away a night a week, guilty that I don’t keep up to my side of the bargain by making tea every morning, guilty that we run out of daal at times, guilty because it felt like I was taking more than giving, well to put it simply guilty that I am not around 7 days a week. And before all of you jump off your office desk I don’t think that my feelings are archaic. Admittedly a bit juvenile, selfish and premature but archaic no. And I also know that what I really suffer is from is the “I want it All” syndrome. So when I had a job that was pretty much the worst I could have asked for but my personal life was a fairy tale I was still brooding and cribbing. And today when I have a job I like (it has given me more than I had hoped for), a personal life that after a bit of managing is well as good as perfect, I am still brooding. Not cribbing because I have decided not to. But brooding nonetheless. Brooding because I want it ALL. I want the perfect job and the perfect life. The problem is that I don’t really know what “perfect” means. Is it what my brain has been pre programmed to believe or is it what I think “perfect” is or better still is “perfect” the life I am living now? I think the answer is none of the above. The answer lies probably in what two wise men once told me (experience does count) the first one said “decisions are what you make of them and you have to make your decision work for you”. The other one said “judge yourself by the standards you set for yourself and not by what others do”. And finally though I hate what Vodafone has done to the pug I am going to “MAKE THE MOST OF NOW” because maybe that is what is “perfect”.<br /><br />P.S: I am happy to inform you that things on the “home making” front have not slipped into the familiar mess but are as organized as I want them to be. What with my “superior” management skills (ahem ahem), dollops of help and support from the roommate and mostly because things are never as bad as they seem at first!!!!Nanditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06517729541127190519noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29340018.post-51075723814217300302007-09-18T06:42:00.000-07:002007-09-18T06:44:00.896-07:00The One Where we get Locked Out<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms;">Well yesterday was an eventful day for scatter brained, careless (I prefer carefree but the husband will hotly debate that), “running into disasters” me and my cautious, meticulous and “preventing potential disasters” husband. <o:p></o:p></span> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: trebuchet ms;">So after a short day at work, we reached home well in time to see the setting sun, savored tea in the balcony, enjoying our new breakfast table and kids <span style=""> </span>(not ours!!!) shrieking in the background (what’s with them anyway do they have a mute button). After considerable dithering and dothering, humming and hawing there was no “running” away from what needed to be done next. With a good 90 minutes left for dinner we had no option but to go running if for nothing else but just to keep up the illusion that we are a health conscious couple and we are not letting blissful matrimony ruin that for us.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: trebuchet ms;">Well reluctantly (though outwardly cheerful) we got into the gear, took our respective music contraptions, mine the Ipod and the husband’s his phone (normally we go running without any music contraptions) and went out. After about 2.5 kms of puffing and panting, suddenly the husband yanked off his headphones and asked (with a carefully cultivated mixture of panic and irritation creeping in his voice) if I had kept the keys to our apartment in the regular hideaway. “Errr no” said I, smiling sweetly, hoping that would make this crisis blow away. Well that was not to happen. Neither had he and there we were at <st1:time minute="0" hour="8">8:00</st1:time> in the evening dressed in our tracks, smelly, sweat dripping down with no money (before any smart alec comments no plastic either to save the day). The only saving grace was my husband’s music contraption, his phone!!!!! Now the phone was a great source of security and relief for my husband even though he was completely aware that it would not miraculously fit into the keyhole and open the damned door for us. Having clearly established that we were in the middle of a full blown crisis the husband immediately started evaluating all the options we had and I just about controlled myself from gleefully declaring “isn’t this just like when THE Friends get locked out”. Thankfully I did not and therefore live to tell this tale.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: trebuchet ms;"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: trebuchet ms;">“Why don’t we ask the security guard for the key” meekly I suggested, the husband guffawed loudly declaring there was no way the security guard would have a spare key. I did try protesting “After all <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_recurring_characters_in_Friends#Mr._Treeger">Mr.Tregger</a> had the spare key to the apartment “, again good sense prevailed and I muttered something about it being worth a try. Try we did and I hate it when the husband is right. The security guard did not have spare keys; however he did have a few interesting ideas to break in, ranging from breaking the lock of the door, smashing a few windows, rattling the door to the balcony so as to yank the latch open. All ideas as expected were rejected by the cautious husband. <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: trebuchet ms;">So there we were with only one option left “collect the set of spare keys from the husband’s office drawer”. Hmmph now you are thinking with the spare keys tucked away safely the story cannot be interesting any more. Hold your horses and read on……..<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: trebuchet ms;">Well as luck (or the cautious husband) may have it the office drawer housing piles of useless correspondence( from Nirvana Diamond, Airtel and the likes) and the precious key was actually <i style="">locked</i>!!!!!!!!!!!!!! And yes the keys to that “drawer with the precious key” were locked inside the house. So there we were back to square one, stranded outside our home, smelly, tired and now hungry.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: trebuchet ms;"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: trebuchet ms;">This is the part where my faith in security guards and my husband’s faith in his phone paid off. So he called his office security guard and asked him if he had spare keys to the drawer. With baited breath he waited for the answer, after a minute’s pause the husband heard jangling in the background as the security guard woefully declared that he would have to locate that one small key in the bunch of thousand other keys!!! My husband suggested breaking the drawer open, but that was met vehement disapproval at the other end. So in the end the husband instructed the security guard to try all the keys one by one while we went ahead looking for a locksmith.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: trebuchet ms;"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: trebuchet ms;">Now in the city of <st1:city><st1:place>Bengaluru</st1:place></st1:City> where pubs/discos and even “shanti sagars” close at 11 we were to discover that no locksmith either is available at <st1:time minute="30" hour="8">8:30</st1:time> in the night. After trying unsuccessfully for a while we called up the office security guard in complete desperation. This time with the steely resolve to use all our United Nationsque negotiation skills and if required Uncle Samsque threatening skills.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: trebuchet ms;"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: trebuchet ms;">Luck finally did shine on us and the harrowed security guard informed an equally harrowed husband that the drawer had been “opened”. Halleluiah. Now all we had to do was catch an auto, reach the office, recover the keys and get back home. <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: trebuchet ms;"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: trebuchet ms;">But as they say in tinsel town the struggle had just begun. All those who have ever tried to hail an auto in Namma Bengaluru will painfully know that getting an auto at <st1:time minute="30" hour="8">8:30</st1:time> in the night, with signs of a downpour and no money in your pocket to pay the fare (that may actually buy you that auto) is not child’s play. But we were not to be disillusioned, having held our fort the entire evening we braced ourselves for the next challenge. So we were in the middle of the road wildly waving our arms to hail any auto that cared to stop and make that round trip to MG road. Miracle of miracles, after 3 autos rudely turned down our request of hauling us from here to there and then back here again (one of them did not even bother to refuse, he just hrmmphed and moved on!!!) one of them actually did agree to ferry us on our expedition. I swear at that moment I felt exactly like the front runners of the <a href="http://amazing-race-asia.axn-asia.com/">Amazing Race Asia</a> when they successfully negotiated with a taxi to ferry them around Kolkatta (yes I watch too much TV, but you are on the internet all the time so don’t judge me! Triumphantly we boarded the auto for what we prayed was the last leg of our adventure.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: trebuchet ms;">We reached the husband’s office, recovered the keys, quickly gobbled a few bourbon chocolate biscuits (in the process negating whatever little calories we had burned by running) and finally headed back to the auto. Our return journey started on a rather auspicious note, with the roaring of thunder, the cackling of lightening and big drops of rain falling on our noses. We huddled ourselves in the middle of the auto while the auto-driver unperturbed drove on. <span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: trebuchet ms;">Then around halfway through the auto wallah stopped and my heart missed a beat too. I could not believe that we were finally living our dream of starring in a Bollywood pot boiler complete with melodramatic twists and incredulous turns. <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: trebuchet ms;">Our legitimate marriage did play a spoilsport, I mean how romantic can a hungry, tired and “waiting to take your life if blamed for the predicament” married couple be? They certainly cannot hold a candle to a much in love, “tortured by society” and “I will give my life for you” dating couple. I overlooked the small complication as I mentally scanned the brimming over repository of Bollywood romantic rain songs. As I settled for “kaate nahi katte ye din ye raaat…” from Mr. <st1:country-region><st1:place>India</st1:place></st1:country-region>, the auto-wallah got out of the auto with a seriously dirty towel and wiped the window of his auto. Nonchalantly he got back into the auto, started it and off we were. My dreams of starring in the Bollywood pot boiler were ruthlessly crushed under the tyres of the auto and the auto-wallah’s dangerous driving.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: trebuchet ms;">We reached home at ten, without any further “twists and turns”, paid the auto-wallah and settled in with a hot bowl of soup to watch our favorite program on TV. Happy to be home. <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: trebuchet ms;">That was the end of our little adventure. Infact as I wrap this up I think all married people can empathize with me as I blissfully contemplate changing the title of this post to “The one where we get locked out and do not blame each other” <span style="">J</span><b style=""><u><o:p></o:p></u></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: trebuchet ms;"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: trebuchet ms;"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: trebuchet ms;"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: trebuchet ms;"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: trebuchet ms;"><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: trebuchet ms;"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify; font-family: trebuchet ms;"><o:p> </o:p></p>Nanditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06517729541127190519noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29340018.post-86591421034935030912007-09-13T10:00:00.001-07:002007-09-13T10:31:14.221-07:00ART ATTACK<b style=""><u><span style=""><o:p></o:p></span></u></b><span style="">Last week I got</span><span style=""> a gift. My husband got me an “art set”. Colors for painting fabric, ceramic, glass and what not. A set of</span><span style=""> c</span><span style="">rayons, a set of cartoon pens, </span><span style="">a drawing pad, some lovely drawing pencils wrapped in shiny gift wrap.</span><span style=""> And was I excited.</span><span style=""><o:p><br /></o:p></span><span style="">Now all those wh</span><span style="">o know </span><span style="">me please do not get shocked. For the un-initiated “fine arts” has never been</span><span style=""> my forte</span><span style=""> (putting it mildly). Colors rarely remained within their boundaries when I deigned to color a picture, no o</span><span style="">ne could give a s</span><span style="">uitable name to the forms I drew and drawing straight line</span><span style="">s even when there was a ruler around be</span><span style="">came a challenge. I was never the gifted child who copied the flower in all its glory from the blackboard during art</span><span style=""> class, I was neve</span><span style="">r graded an A+ by the insipid art teacher who actively deducted marks for not copying the flowe</span><span style="">r perfectly.<span style=""> </span></span> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=""><span style=""> </span>I once remember making a chart to be used as a class aid while the teacher taught us about the conquests of A</span><span style="">kbar the Great.</span><span style=""> I really slogged and put in all the artistic energy I had to ensure t</span><span style="">hat nothing was amiss in the drawing and the chart was </span><span style="">a befitting tribute to Akbar the Great. “Today shall be my redemption”, is what I tho</span><span style="">ught as I trudged happily to school, smiling</span><span style=""> as smugly as the mustached Akbar was on my chart. Well I CAME into the c</span><span style="">lass, the teacher SAW the picture and laughter <span style="text-transform: uppercase;">conquered</span> all. </span><span style="">After a few minutes of raucous laught</span><span style="">er the teacher quieted the class and declared it was best that we proceed with the </span><span style="">class without the “teaching</span><span style=""> aid”. To put it mildly my tryst with the fine arts ended there for the next few years at least.</span><span style=""> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="">As an engineering student I struggled considerably </span><span style="">with Engineering Drawing and Machine Drawing. It was</span><span style=""> horrifying to say the least. With a contraption called the “drafter” I stru</span><span style="">ggled to draw straight lines, angles, top views an</span><span style="">d side views. The only successful attempt at art o</span><span style="">f any sort was the birt</span><span style="">hday card I made for my boyfriend. The fact </span><span style="">that he is my husband today is only because he shower</span><span style="">ed lavish praise on that “sweet birthday” </span><span style="">card I made with active help from my more artistically gifted friends.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="">And then things changed.</span><span style=""> Su</span><span style="">ddenly one lazy weekend while aimlessly flicking through channe</span><span style="">ls I came across this interesting program called “Art Attack” on Di</span><span style="">sney.</span><span style=""> The non clinical approach towards art with the instructor actually acting as a guide while allowing </span><span style="">his viewers to make mistakes, innovate</span><span style=""> and lend their interpretation to various projects that he worked on made it really exciting. It also</span><span style=""> helped that most of his projects were</span><span style=""> about sticking things together</span><span style=""> and slapping loads of paint untidily rather than drawing intricate patterns and designs</span><span style=""> on thick art pape</span><span style="">r. Actually what really helped is that his projects were for viewers aged 7-10 and therefore none of them intimidated me at all</span><span style="">!!! (</span><span style="">Ok some of them did not).<span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span>A few weekends of watching “Art Attack” did the trick. I also discovered s</span><span style="">omething called MAD on Pogo on </span><span style="">the same lines. Finally the bug had bitten me. Finally the Art Attack had happened. I ATTACKED </span><span style="">all art supplies and art p</span><span style="">rojects with a vengeance and devoured them till the remnants of my attack could not be identified as art.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="">Some interesting atta</span><span style="">cks have been: <o:p></o:p></span></p> <ul><li class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="">Painting a tall biscuit jar into a flower vase. Well her</span><span style="">e it is proudly housing the bright flowers.</span></li></ul><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiETlCmSJcZgvRYam4n9pbVhCdQnuRH_G6YZYPh2Kq20lLFLp9DzPTrlI5IDiv0NbYlSwbXrLu5h_Vffjn1tsxCv2BxT68Q9p3MC9A7av2yQt-F_MtlT_l-fpTTEKDTCJbHCdXScw/s1600-h/14082007021.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 247px; height: 185px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiETlCmSJcZgvRYam4n9pbVhCdQnuRH_G6YZYPh2Kq20lLFLp9DzPTrlI5IDiv0NbYlSwbXrLu5h_Vffjn1tsxCv2BxT68Q9p3MC9A7av2yQt-F_MtlT_l-fpTTEKDTCJbHCdXScw/s320/14082007021.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5109740464898984562" border="0" /></a><ul><li><span style="">Painting </span><span style="">an unused saucer (unused because first we never bothered with it and then when</span><span style=""> we thought about restoring its rightful place under the cup during our</span><span style=""> morning chai routine, the cup broke.) Finally I think the saucer is living its destiny housing the creatures of the sea I have</span><span style=""> painted on it along with the smiling moon. Don’t ask an artist why? Just absorb the beauty of this piece of</span><span style=""> art!!! Don’t know what we will do with this, but suggestions anyone???</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLl2pvBcg77bBml3vVfXGPbLfD6ADODX0a7kMtNArkvQ9gtqvbpL1Uknhh0Iwtuja7qBcrFJf9-h6wTE419vE4kasa_mEboE8hBhKCgUgyUZdJsuI2saLT2j00r7nh0rsw8jJt9g/s1600-h/02092007031.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 255px; height: 191px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLl2pvBcg77bBml3vVfXGPbLfD6ADODX0a7kMtNArkvQ9gtqvbpL1Uknhh0Iwtuja7qBcrFJf9-h6wTE419vE4kasa_mEboE8hBhKCgUgyUZdJsuI2saLT2j00r7nh0rsw8jJt9g/s320/02092007031.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5109740469193951874" border="0" /></a></li></ul> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=""><o:p></o:p>Other attacks shall follow soon; other unused objects in the kitchen, bathroom and elsewhere shall get transformed into works of art. But what amuses me about this new found hobby is not that I pride myself in creating these obviously juvenile projects but how much I enjoy these art attacks.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="">I never enjoyed art as a kid. I never painted cute pictures of “my family” that were proudly displayed on the fridge for all to see. I never colored during lazy Sunday afternoons without a care to the world. “Drawing and Painting” (actually add stitching, embroidering, nib painting, soft toy making and all the forms of art “hobby classes” taught) were never my cup of tea. I never liked doing any of it.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="">Suddenly things have changed. Even while some of my friends go about creating life, their own flesh and blood, their screeching little ones and some others go about attainting great corporate heights I have found happiness in these childish “art attacks”. Friends guffaw when I tell them about this, even my mother is surprised. And what amuses me is that I really enjoy this and often wonder why as a kid when I was supposed to be blissfully trying my hand at art I abhorred it so much. And now I may sound bonkers but the answer to this question brings me to something I passionately believe in and that is the incompleteness and inadequacy of the Indian education system. If this blog had enough readers a lot of them would have jumped out of their seats to defend the famed Indian School Education that produces great IITians, IIM Grads etc etc. I am not for a minute saying that Indian schools do not teach us to slog enough. But I am saying that they do not teach us to think enough, be creative enough and be individual enough. Every time I attend a training session which exhorts us to “think out of the box” the irony of it all never fails to amuse me. We spent all these years at great institutions of learning with only one agenda: “How to think within the strict confines of the box”, reading very specific text books, dealing with specific questions and answering back with even more specific replies. Very Strait Jacketed, no room for any lunatic doubts, no space for a different point of view and definitely no liberty to draw a house with crooked windows in a garden full of red grass under the green sky. And therefore I never drew and painted. I know you think this connection is abstruse but the fact is that it was very inconvenient for most teachers I encountered to let children draw what they wanted to rather than what had been carefully planned for them. I just found it very stifling to copy the “vase full of flowers” in all its perfection, coloring it in the colors prescribed by the text book.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="">Don’t even get me started on how competitive the Indian Schooling System is. The concept of “doing your best” does not resonate well with Indian teachers, students and parents alike. It always has to be THE best. An even more alien concept is “ENJOY what you do”. The truth is that I never enjoyed drawing and painting because I was never good at it and definitely not the best. The pictures I made were always “wrong”. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="">Fortunately time passed by and education (which has nothing to do with my degrees) liberated me enough to understand that it is not about drawing the “right” picture but only about a lazy Saturday afternoon in the balcony, sipping some tea and painting away without a care to the world. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="">“Viva Art Attack”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Nanditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06517729541127190519noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29340018.post-43949878718945719892007-08-23T23:57:00.000-07:002007-08-24T00:07:53.858-07:00Of Posts and Comments<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";"><span style=""> </span>I had another thought for another post but then the lone, single but immensely encouraging comment on my last post made me abandon the other thought for the other post with glee, and I embarked upon my desperate plea for more such encouraging comments/reviews.<o:p><br /></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";">In the “Orkut” world an individual’s worth is measured by the number of friends, fans, scraps, testimonials and matrimonial/franship requests s/he has. In the blogger’s world a blogger is only as good or bad as the number of visitors on her page, the regularity with which posts are published, the use of technology to publish pictures, videos etc, the number of tags that one has, the number of comments that each post attracts and links to other similar esteemed bloggers.<o:p><br /></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";">Well all of you (yes all of the ten people who read this blog) have already figured out I am not an esteemed blogger. The number of “unique visitors” to my blog if I stretch it too far will be 10, the few lonely comments (one of which I forced my husband to make) on some of my posts reflect that these ten are apparently not engaged enough with my thought provoking, lucid and funny narratives. Refer to my technical PIS to understand why they haven’t been any funny pictures or “reveal too much” videos on the blog. No one has tagged me yet and I have not yet mustered the courage to link bloggers I admire to my post.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";">In this context the comment Inja made on my last post, was more than welcome, for three hours even the grimmest news could not wipe the grin off my face and the skip in my step and song on my lips was apparent to all and sundry. The aftereffects of the comment has forced me to send out an appeal to all my lurking readers to come out in the open and declare their love, hatred or general apathy towards my blog in the form of “comments”.<o:p><br /></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";">Once I set my eyes on the goal, like every marketing professional worth her salt I explored the various “media vehicles” I have to effectively communicate my fervent appeal to comment. Here were the options:<o:p><br /></o:p></span></p> <ol style="margin-top: 0in;" start="1" type="1"><li class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";">Call up the 10 readers with a request/threat to post a comment on the blog<o:p></o:p></span></li><li class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";">Email them with a helpful link to the “post a comment” section of my last post<o:p></o:p></span></li><li class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";">Spam everyone on my mailing list with my blog’s link and a fervent appeal to save the nation and a dying child by publishing a comment on my blog.<o:p></o:p></span></li><li class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";">Use Orkut to send scraps to all and sundry</span><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";"><o:p></o:p></span><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";"><o:p><br /></o:p></span></li></ol> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";">Well like a lot of marketing professionals I abandoned all the well thought of options and decided to pursue the appeal through a post itself. The reasons (yes I am a reasonable person, I find reasons to justify most absurd things I do) are as follows:<o:p><br /></o:p></span></p> <ol style="margin-top: 0in;" start="1" type="1"><li class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";">I don’t trust the “unique visitors” of my blog to post a comment if the appeal remains private.<o:p></o:p></span></li><li class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";">What if my desperation doesn’t come across completely in the one liner I mail?<o:p></o:p></span></li><li class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";">(Some more marketing jargon here) A post about it ensures that the medium itself becomes the message!!!! <o:p></o:p></span></li><li class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";">Finally it helps me add another post to my sparsely populated blog (as was mentioned by Pritha in one of her comments)</span><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";"><o:p><br /></o:p></span></li></ol> <span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS","sans-serif";">So, here I am folks having made my pitch waiting for “you know what”!!!!!</span>Nanditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06517729541127190519noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29340018.post-40114124903915426912007-08-06T08:10:00.000-07:002007-08-06T08:13:28.279-07:00The Atlas Frown Epidemic<span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";"><o:p></o:p></span><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">Well the “Atlas Frown Epidemic” is everywhere. On the streets, in the office, the bus, the elevator and even the mall. There is no escaping the “atlas frown”, chances are that as you waste company time reading this post the joker in the next cubicle has the frown, look into the mirror you may have it yourself!!!<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">Well before you start staring in other people’s faces looking for tell tale signs of the frown let me explain what it means. In laymen’s language “Atlas Frown” is the frown I imagine the mythical Greek hero Atlas must have had as he went around carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">As I flit around in my usual carefree, frivolous manner smiling unnecessarily at strangers I am greeted by the “atlas frown”. Everyone seems to be a tearing hurry, laptop in tow (some keep it open for good measure); the phone precariously perched between the ear and the shoulder, a memo pad in one hand and a chewed pen in the other. With time I have learnt to decode this for what it actually means. In simple English this look means one and only one thing: “My job is more important than anyone else in office, in fact I am the only one who works, actually you could fire everyone else and I shall still be running everything as smoothly as ever”. Yes you got it: the Atlas Frowner carries the weight of the entire office on his delicate shoulders <i style="">(there is a reason I have used his vs. her, men tend to have the frown more than women)</i> Look around and you shall be able to point out at least 5 such AFs (Atlas Frowners) dangerously close to you. The tell tale signs of someone suffering from this epidemic are:<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <ol style="margin-top: 0in;" start="1" type="1"><li class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">Their speed of pacing up and down (especially in front of the boss’s cabin)is never less than 60miles per hour<o:p></o:p></span></li><li class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">They are never, let me repeat, never caught smiling, laughing is unthinkable and completely unpardonable.<o:p></o:p></span></li><li class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">They are always on the phone, hmming and hawing loudly with phrases like “this is not done”, “the timelines are really tight”, “we have to stretch ourselves” et al.<o:p></o:p></span></li><li class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">In front of the laptop they are always typing at a frantic speed, the hammering of the keyboard heard at the other end of the building<o:p></o:p></span></li><li class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">They only speak in shorthand; they really don’t have the time to complete sentences.<o:p></o:p></span></li><li class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">They will loose their temper and rave and rant at least once a day (even if it is at the pre recorded IVR line).<o:p></o:p></span></li><li class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">No one talks to them or looks at them unless it is absolutely necessary.<o:p></o:p></span></li><li class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">Finally they are always frowning. <o:p></o:p></span></li></ol> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.25in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.25in; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">Well to be fair Atlas Frowners are also of various gradations. Like every dangerous epidemic worth its infection there are the <i style="">terminal</i> cases, frowners who actually believe that if they as much as de-crease the lines on their forehead and acknowledge the existence of their subordinate/colleague the company share price will come crashing down, the shutters will close and the rest of the office will loose their jobs any which way.. They are not faking it; their entire system over the years has been rewired to believe that they run the damn place. Their worst nightmare: the office functioning smoothly without their supervision, intervention and hyperventilation. For such terminal cases a wise man in Bollywood once said “inhe dawa ki nahin dua ki zaroorat hai”.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">Next in the food chain are the “Aspiring Atlas Frowners”. Unlike the terminal AFs the aspiring AFs are acutely and painfully aware that their existence does not make a difference to anyone except their poker partners at work. They aspire be the terminal Atlas Frowner, the super-worker who is perpetually chasing deadlines, the busy bee whose outlook calendar does not have space to accommodate nature breaks. Like silly school boys they pray fervently to become the terminal Atlas Frowner even if it were for a day.<span style=""> </span>And they practice wearing the “Atlas Frown” as even sillier boys practiced wearing their underpants on their pants. The Atlas frown is a proud accessory they sport all the time, an accessory that they hope helps them crawl up the official calendar. They don’t wear the frown naturally but their attempt is never to be seen without it. To them a wise philosopher says (ok me) “try and try again and you shall finally fail”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">Then there are blokes like you and me, the “opportunistic atlas frowners”. Now we maybe at the bottom rung on the official ladder with no hope in hell to climb, but as far as the self actualization ladder is concerned we have reached pretty dizzy heights. “Opportunistic Atlas Frowners” are evolved enough to fully comprehend that no ones (including their own) existence, absence or presence matters to any corporate conglomerate and in the end it doesn’t really matter. However to provide for their physiological and safety needs they realize the role the Atlas Frown plays. And do they wear the frown well; no one can cast an aspersion on the authenticity of their frown as they blissfully surf the net, coochie coo with their girlfriends/boyfriends on the phone, walk in late, leave early, illegally download music and films, chat with strangers from lands afar, write testimonials on various social networking sites and fill up online surveys for which they are paid measly sums. The Atlas Frown shields them from all queries, concerns, downward pay revisions and even pink slips. They are the “Opportunistic Atlas Frowners” who have wisely decided to cash in on this widespread epidemic.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";"><span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">Well to conclude, all I have to say is that considering I been writing this post and you have been reading it doesn’t it pay to be an “Opportunistic Atlas Frowner”???<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: "Trebuchet MS";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Nanditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06517729541127190519noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29340018.post-69960345522372387532007-06-22T05:00:00.000-07:002007-06-22T05:02:04.347-07:00A Newspaper, Radioshow and the Everest<div align="justify">Yesterday a newspaper article depressed me. Living under the self perpetuated delusion that nothing published in a newspaper possessed the capability of shocking, saddening or amusing me anymore, my depression shocked me. What with growing adult cynicism I was presumptuously convinced that newspapers were like the genies and ghosts of yesteryears that had long lost their intrigue, mystery and power to terrorise. Well, yesterday was one of those days when pompous self beliefs and assumptions were cruelly put into perspective. “China will build a $20 million, 67-mile blacktop highway on Mt. Everest. Now that appalled me. I shook my head in complete disbelief as one super power for the ostentatious display of wealth, power and impending superstardom had officially joined the race on “Who’s the bigger Idiot”. As one superpower wages war in a ridiculous attempt to recover “weapons of mass destruction” the potential superpower decides to plant its own weapons of mass destruction close to at the highest point on earth. Even at the risk of sounding repetitive and pedantic, I would like to shout it out once more… building a road, transporting machinery, making the base camp more accessible to fuel guzzling and green house gas emitting vehicles, littering humans and tourist hoarding ugly resorts is a BAD IDEA. Don’t argue, you know it and so do I. And let’s not even get into the sovereignty of Tibet issue here. That is for another day. I guess you get the picture, well I was depressed. Thought about it once or twice as I waded through some completely meaningless “crises at work” and mentioned it to friends over a couple (ok more than a couple) of drinks.<br />I woke up in the morning today. It looked like a promising day, no boss around, over cast skies and hints of a downpour. After my tryst with newspapers yesterday I switched on the radio. To put things into perspective, radio as a medium always manages to amusingly shock me. What with giggling RJs, bad music, pathetic ads (clients and agencies alike do not know how to deal with the medium) and completely inane callers. Well the morning show was on and the “serious issue” they were discussing took my (dis)respect for the medium to a completely unexplored plane. Now, now do not get all cynical as you dismiss RJS and callers with equal disdain, they were discussing the road to Everest base camp. Surprise, surprise read on. Here is how the show went:<br /><br />Stupid RJ: Hee Hee.. what a lovely morning it is hee hee and we have some great music(???) lined up for all of you hee heee haaa haaa…. Also today we are discussing with all of you a very serious issue (insane laughter follows).. China is building a resort at the everest base camp.. hee haa haa.. this is not the first time such a thing is happening.. many historical/landmark places have been converted to resorts… ha ha ha ha… the Bangalore Palace Grounds and the Fort Aguda Resort in Goa..ha ha ha ha (stupid geography and history lessons followed which I was too shocked to pay any attention to) so the question I am asking Bangalore today is .. hehaheha “do such “resorts (I am not exaggerating she said resort) make historical/landmark places more accessible to the common man or they spoil the serene beauty” more laughter and stupid music follows till K is on line<br />Stupid RJ: Well we have K online to answer our question for the day. Ha haa Heloooooooooooooo K how are you doing?<br />Stupider K: I am good …. Umm errr good.<br />Stupid RJ: #$@%^*****$$@@@^^^^ (stupid pleasantries) Well K what do you think of China building a resort on Everest??????<br />Stupider K: umm… I think it is err… a really bad idea (I hoped that she would bring some sense to this whole conversation exposing the stupid RJs stupidity.. but what do I know) because such resorts hmmm…are very expensive and are ummm…completely unaffordable to the middle class (ahh the famous middle class)<br />Stupid RJ: hmmmmmmmm hehahehaheha that is true.. these places are quite expensive.<br />(A pregnant pause latter)<br />Stupid RJ: But what if it becomes affordable to the middle class?? (What a solution bravo!!!)<br />Stupider K: ummm er… well also they cannot maintain “it” (I don’t k now what “it” was supposed to mean)<br />Stupid RJ: Well what if it was affordable and they could maintain “it”.. ha ha hee hahee (her moment of brilliance… such a simple solution)<br />Stupider K: I guess that would be fine…ummm errr<br />Stupid RJ: well thanks for ……….<br /><br />I get off the car and am thankfully spared further ecological, social, political and “it” discussions.<br />Well what do I say, maybe global warming is good as it maintains “it” and is quite affordable for the middle class? What do I know?<br /><br /></div>Nanditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06517729541127190519noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29340018.post-53231323416365894392007-06-19T23:46:00.000-07:002007-06-19T23:47:47.137-07:00Protective Incompetence Syndrome<div align="justify">“People who don't want to get dragged into some kind of work often develop a protective incompetence at it”. Today I came across this brilliant observation by a very smart person on the internet (which has these days become a faithful companion for reasons undisclosed). Much to my husband’s chagrin the sentence can very truthfully read as “When Nandita does not want to get dragged into some kind of work, she often develops a protective incompetence at it” as one of the solemn and not so flattering entries on my “life as an adult” report card. Everyone who knows me has been at some point been subjected to my “protective incompetence syndrome” (hereby referred to as PIS).And at some point wondered aloud as to how a smart person like myself (yes I am allowed to brag about myself in all the posts) can be beyond dumb while dealing with a few things. Before people (yes the all of ten people who read my blog can be referred to as people) jump to the conclusion that my “left-right recognition” disorder is feigned and is a protective device I use to prevent myself from walking/heading straight and reaching the right destination, let me assure all of you it is a real disorder and some day medical science shall evolve enough to prove my complete innocence and real incompetence.<br />Well getting back to the intriguing subject of “PIS” the first evidence I submit for the jury’s consumption is that I am technically handicapped engineer. IT BHU, one of the best engineering colleges in India, attempted to train me as an engineer, a ceramic engineer at that, in vain. However, living for four years with some people who believed that babbling about electrical circuits, java scripts and some motor qualified as conversation, I was acutely aware of the fact that I could never salivate at the thought of technology. However hard I tried I could never titrate, measure, calibrate or fix anything precisely. My poor lab mates after a year of struggling with my handicap, incorrect results and innumerable re dos finally took things in their hands (literally) and henceforth I was assigned the all important work of cleaning, recording, holding test tubes and cracking silly jokes to keep the spirits of the group high. It was truly a win-win situation. (Or that’s how I would like to reminisce about it). Three years were spent with the group successfully completing all experiments without my expertise, well within the allotted time, the rest of the time well spent at the cafeteria discussing the state of Indian/university/department/class politics, Norwegian literature and the latest champions of Age of Empires. I have worn my “technical incompetence” on my sleeve and till date have never tried to read the manual of any new appliance, always stare at the husband expectantly when people ask questions on how many songs can my new N 70 store (have not used its music features till now), what mega-pixel camera we have and expertly file my nails as the husband figures out why has the fridge suddenly gone kaput.<br />Just recently I went home and bought my parents a new DVD player, which my mother has only used till now to pause and watch my wedding DVD some 50 times, each time with a new guest to torture. Well getting back to the DVD player, I made a few feeble attempts to read the manual and get the player to play (well u guessed it) my wedding DVD, till my technical PIS completely took over me and I declared that we should call up the showroom salesman to come and give us the promised demo. For the umpteenth time I heard “engineer ho naa??” from my totally bewildered dad. My submissions on how we were entitled to the demo in this “customer is queen” era were dully ignored, Mr. Fixit Dad took over and a few buttons, rewiring and instructions later lo and behold hey presto the DVD player started belting out boring visuals and filmy music from my wedding DVD. Thus my tryst with technology continues as my technical PIS strengthens with each passing day.<br />My next submission to this audience is my non existing driving skills. Living in Bangalore with the extremely hostile public transport system often makes me wonder whether the time to shed my driving PIS has come but like all syndromes PIS is also not easy to let go off. My driving PIS however has a (legitimate) history. During my class 9 summer vacations my dad decided that my pursuit of nothingness has reached its zenith and there were a few skills that were to be passed on father to daughter, driving being the first one.<br />The lessons began with much fanfare early one morning on our beloved Fiat (those were its good old days, when all the four doors could be opened). Changing the gears, maneuvering the car while dealing with rickshaws, tempos, lunas and cars on the unruly roads of Lucknow was a daunting task but my tenacious soul was not to be deterred and I mastered the art of driving under the watchful eyes of my father. Till one day, fairly confident of my driving skills I maneuvered the steering wheel with the gusto and gumption of a seasoned driver as my dad sat next to me, basking in the contentment of having taught his daughter well. Till one wobbly cycle wallah decided to plonk himself right in front of me (or so I claim till date). As I started screeching at the top of my voice, not availing the benefits of having a horn (that functioned too in those days) and my dad shouted “brakes, brakes I pressed what I thought were the breaks with a vengeance, except it was the accelerator I was actually pressing. Fortunately I only rammed into an enclosed lawn in front of a house while the cycle wallah escaped unscathed.<br />Having recovered from the shock unhurt I saw a group of morning walkers, doodhwallahs and curious auntyjis congregating around mumbling on how much damage to “jaan – maal” could have happened due to the reckless driving of a heady teenager. My dad somehow managed to calm them in his true Lucknowi style and got construction workers to haul the poor Fiat out of a mangle of concrete, wire and bushes. I heaved a sigh of relief and my dad drove me back home. My brother claims the downfall of the Fiat began that very day (but that’s another story). Years have passed since, experiments on various cars have happened, the accelerator-brake confusion making its presence felt every time I think I am all set to hit the road. My husband has been desperately trying to teach me how to drive, but the driving PIS has survived all efforts.<br />Finally as I struggle with my usual inability of coming up with anything clever to end the post I am forced to write “These were some of my PISs what are yours???”</div>Nanditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06517729541127190519noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29340018.post-66497532113118545562007-06-01T10:44:00.000-07:002007-06-01T21:37:07.024-07:00These are a few of my favorite things<?xml:namespace prefix = o /><o:p></o:p>As I desperately try and catch a glance of the “pitter-patter” raindrops through the corner office window (to which unfortunately I have no claim) and insanely try and sniff the intoxicating earthy smell of rain that has expectedly failed to make it past the glass windows… I start humming in my head. The mesmerizing rains, the freshly washed greens and the buzz in the office (of which fortunately or unfortunately I am not a part of) often have this effect on me. As I hum “these are a few of my favorite things”, the lack of any (in) consequential or (un)productive work has inspired me to pen down the list of my favorite things. So Ladies and Gentlemen here goes the list:<br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify"><o:p></o:p></p><ul style="MARGIN-TOP: 0in" type="disc"><li class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify">Waking up in the morning 15 mins before the alarm goes off to gleefully realize that there is still sometime left before I am pushed unwillingly into the “hum-drum” of everyday life.</li><li class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify">Unexpected phone calls from friends far away. The heartfelt “just felt like talking to you” brings a toothpaste commercial worthy smile to my face every time.<o:p></o:p></li><li class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify">Summer vacations, only the fond, lazy and absolutely scrumptious memories of which remain in my heart now. I sit at my desk and curse the corporate world and all its trappings for having snatched away from me on4e of mankind's best inventions. I would like to take this opportunity to warn students of all varieties that the corporate world is not called “cruel” and “heartless” for nothing. <o:p></o:p></li><li class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify">All Enid Blyton classics. Like true love there is no sane reason why at my age (no, I am not telling you my age) I still louve all, I mean all, the works of Enid Blyton.<o:p></o:p></li><li class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify">My husband’s stupid jokes. He is funny, he cracks me up and no, I cannot for reviving your lack luster life retell his jokes through this blog, you have to be there to get them. But what I love more than his jokes is the involuntary bout of giggling that grips me when by some bizarre twist of fate I recall his jokes in a serious business meeting and the futile explanations I try to give my bewildered colleagues on why the giggle.<o:p></o:p></li><li class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify">Lending my artistic interpretation to songs and garbling up lyrics while I sing along at the top my voice to music being played irrespective of whether I am in the car, the loo, the living room, film theatres, restaurants etc etc. And yes, years of practice has made me view the dirty, pained and angry looks of friends and strangers with a pinch of pity, “tch tch poor plebeians”, after all no one understood Picasso while he was around either.<o:p></o:p></li><li class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify">The spring in my step, the glow on my suitably reddened face and the sweat in my armpits after a good workout. Like all good things in life this is also a rarity. Inspite of having promised to myself and declared to the whole world my solemn (and may I add rather desperate) pledge of exercising at least 4 times a week, the reasons to not exercise are galore. With each passing day the reasons (ok excuses) get more colorful, imaginative and completely original, but that’s for another post.<o:p></o:p></li><li class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify">Aloo ka Parathas (now you know why the desperation): I just love them. In the hallowed messes of IT BHU I learnt exactly how to savor allo ka parathas with loads of butter (sinful) on a leisurely Sunday morning. The hot, steaming and thick parathas with generous fillings of Aloo & spicy chilli with dollops of butter floating on them make my nerve endings tingle with delight even as I write this. This was the only thing served in the mess that was loved by one and all in our batch. The Sunday morning Allo ka Paratha (ok parathas) had become such a tradition that the very thought of not having them on the Sunday Menu for even a single Sunday spelt combined disaster for the mess in charge. Even as I finished a romantic, candlelight Saturday night dinner at a fancy (or what we thought was fancy at that time) restaurant I started hallucinating about the “parathas”. Years have gone by but the taste of those parathas remains firmly poised in my memory. (The number of words devoted to this point as opposed to the others is testimony enough).<o:p></o:p></li><li class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify">The winters of north <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 /><st1:country-region><st1:place>India</st1:place></st1:country-region>: The cold biting winds that hit my face always succeed in de-cluttering my head. As I rather loudly chatter my teeth and rub my glove clad hands everything becomes clear my in head and heart. The delightful woolens at United Colors of Benetton always add that extra color and zing color to my winters. I miss all of it, children packed in woolens with dry faces and red noses heading towards school early in the morning, warm roadside fires, peanuts, pleasant late morning sunlight, fog, gajar ka halwa and hot sweet roadside masala chai. I long for the winters as I stand in humid <st1:city><st1:place>Bombay</st1:place></st1:city> asking me my mom in January “kitni thand pad rahi hai wahan”<o:p></o:p></li><li class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify"><st1:city><st1:place>Oranges</st1:place></st1:city>: My love for oranges is legendary so much so that once amused by my unfaltering obsession with the fruit my mother declared that it would be best if I were married off to an orange orchard owner. My friends and colleagues know that I am extremely possessive about the fruit and when there are oranges involved my usual generous, amiable, friendly, well natured self (yes I am allowed to brag about myself in this post) jumps out of the window and a highly suspecting, possessive and competitive personality takes over as I zealously guard the oranges I have bought for <i>only my</i> and I repeat <i>only my</i> consumption. To celebrate my engagement (fortunately or unfortunately not to an orange orchard owner)My friends presented me with a box of oranges for obvious reasons. I gushed at their love and will never forget the thoughtful gesture. <o:p></o:p></li><li class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify">The Sea: The vast expanse of blue green waters, the sound of the waves against the shore and the sight of the small fishing boat in the distance calms me down like nothing else. I think people who live by the sea are the luckiest; the fact that you can turn your back to the world and all its inanities, to gaze at something so beautiful and boundless is priceless. It immediately makes life’s immediate problems seem completely trivial, silly and more often than not extremely solvable. <o:p></o:p></li><li class="MsoNormal" style="TEXT-ALIGN: justify"><st1:place>The ghats</st1:place> of <st1:place>Banaras</st1:place>: I remember my first visit to the ghats courtesy some very kind seniors who took all of us on a boating trip during the monsoons. As we made our way through the teeming crowds wading through all the mud and slush we just could not fathom the adoration all had for the <st1:place>Ghats</st1:place>. But soon all of it made sense. I know it sounds corny but the ghats were spiritual, the evening aarti and the floating diyas with the gongs complete with hippie foreigners, devout pilgrims and scary looking sadhus adds mystic to the city that is Banaras. And as a wise woman once said “the river looks different at different times of the day and seasons”. Visiting the ghats was like going to a completely new place every time. There were times when a boatman sang an earthy raag or folksong from his boat halfway across the river while regulars took a holy dip in the cold and really dirty waters, children ran gleefully flying kits and playing cricket while we sat on the sidelines enjoying a delicious aloo papad and hot masala chai while gazing at the river dance around in the sunlight. <o:p></o:p></li></ul><p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN-LEFT: 0.25in; TEXT-ALIGN: justify"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="MARGIN-LEFT: 0.25in; TEXT-ALIGN: justify">So these were a few of my favorite things… what are yours????????????????<o:p></o:p></p>Nanditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06517729541127190519noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29340018.post-90143307265790621522007-04-23T01:30:00.000-07:002007-04-23T01:37:21.465-07:00The First of Many LastsAs I take my last early morning flight to Bombay this Monday morning I abandoned another post in favor of listing what I would definitely not miss about these early morning torture drills and what I would miss (surprise , surprise read on).<br /><br />First stating the obvious: Things I shall <strong><em>not</em></strong> miss<br /><br />1. Getting up at the unearthly hour of 5:00 <strong>AM</strong>. Believe me it is as bad as it sounds. It took Monday morning blues to a completely new level.<br />2. The "running against time"; secretly hoping that I would miss my flight but egging on the Asia Travel driver to hone his skills for whenever the F1 track finally opens at Hyderabad.<br />3. The nauseating, sickening air plane smell that hits me as soon as I enter the aircraft. It makes me puke. I so dread it that many a times I have woken up in the middle of the night in a sweat wanting to puke coz I can smell "it". It is on me. And in those dark (at times drunken nights) I can completely empathize with Lady Macbeth as I say "All the fresh hot/cold towels shall not wipe away the smell of JP miles"<br />4. The sweet fake smiles plastered on the awesomely pretty/handsome faces of the cabin crew. I cannot believe anyone can be cheerful at that hour.<br />5. Being buckled up, waiting for the aircraft to taxi listening to the cabin crew declare for the nth time "We are 26th in line to fly" while somehow resisting the temptation to unshackle myself and run to the loo and pee.<br />6. Aircraft food. It is stale. Period.<br />7. The irritating "instrumental music" played during take off and landing. No one is humming it. Take a hint, everyone hates it. Actually Jet did take a hint and now plays the genre my brother calls "Adult Alternative" with words.<br />8. Traveling on any seat except emergency exit, 10 Aisle and Business class. I cannot contain my long legs in that tiny space. Please forgive my misgivings about myself and read on.<br />9. Being woken up from my head to toe blanket covered slumber with a "umm err excuse me.. excuse me please please will you have any breakfast" .I am covered in this blanket to obliterate any signs of my being in the aircraft, (the umm and err thus explained as they cannot decide from the form beneath the blanket whether it is a Sir or a Madam they are addressing), I don’t want the crew to ruin my illusion. Also had they ever been privy to points 1, 4 and 6 of this post they would have never risked waking me up with their fake smiles offering me aircraft food.<br />10. Filling up "feedback forms". I am every market researcher’s nightmare. Depending on my relative state of despair or hope either everything is very good or poor. Couple that with my really bad handwriting, I wonder why my name has not been flashed on people who should never fill the form ever. I wonder why I end up filling the form with an amazing frequency.<br />11. Circling Bombay skies hearing some strange drawl from the cockpit announce "due to unavoidable circumstances we are 31st in line to land, we apologise for the delay".<br />12. Bad landings and the consequent knot in my stomach. Fortunately inspite of numerous false alarms I have never thrown up on my co passengers and landed on their list of things they shall not miss on flights.<br /><br /><br />Stating what’s beneath the surface: Things I shall miss<br /><br />1. The sweet smiles on the awesomely pretty/handsome faces of the cabin crew. At times they were the only reason why I did not bawl like a baby at my predicament.<br />2. Reading Bombay Times, DNA, MidDay etc etc from front to back learning all the "important" going ons<br />3. To be fair I did pick up a few skills. I can imitate without a flaw the following. " Muasam kharab hone ke karan aap se anurodh hain ki apni kursi pe laut jaye aur apni kusi ki peti baandh le" I love the emphasis on "apni kusi"the underlying thought being "please don’t take undue advantage of the bad weather and land in someone else’s lap/chair"<br />4. The early morning free cookie jar. I am shallow I love anything that is free, these were cookies!!!!<br />5. The priority tag on my check in bag, I told you I am shallow I get the kicks out of small materialistic joys.<br />6. On those few occasions when I did not manage to fall asleep I did enjoy trudging through sudoko (the new national craze) and am glad have picked up a new hobby.<br />7. On these recent occasions using my upgrade voucher to travel in "relative" style and comfort.<br />Told ya am shallow.<br /><br />This was my list. But you know what I shall really miss: landing in my favorite city, getting sucked into the job I like on most occasions, meeting colleagues I shall miss, catching up with friends I shall cherish and walking into that building that is almost home.Nanditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06517729541127190519noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29340018.post-39882264879893017332007-03-31T00:58:00.000-07:002007-03-31T01:26:14.402-07:00Of Smells and SoundsI was sitting in a training session today (don’t snigger, yes another training session so what!!), well everything was the same. A vaguely familiar conference room in a vaguely familiar hotel, the same fashionable mumblings on how much “work” could have been packed into this day, the same apprehensive smiling cynics and the same unbounded joy that engulfs all while they attack food. All the same except for one sniggling difference, the training session actually set me thinking, thinking not only about the way I work (which it was intended to), actually on second thoughts it didn’t set me thinking, it set me reminiscing.<br /><br />Before all you philosophical types get excited, this post is not about my catharsis, its not about me going into a frenzy as I start hating my predictably un-intellectual and supremely uninspiring life full of self imposed audio and visual onslaughts (it will take much more than one training session to do that). It’s really about a train of thought that was triggered by something the trainer said. He asked us if we could go back into time… He asked if a smell, a sound, a color or a touch could trigger a memory and take us back to another place, another time. The answer is yes you dunce but that’s also not the point.<br />The point, in case you are getting bored and are about to close the page is the number of smells, sights and sounds that suddenly tingled my nerve endings at his question.<br /><br />How do I begin, maybe at the rumbling of the huge desert cooler outside the living room? The whirring motor and the rumbling cooler promised a cool, lazy afternoon reading an Agatha Christie (btw filling the cooler was an art because you had to be careful the motor stayed dry!!). The refreshing smell of Khus coming from the cooler is the best air freshener I have ever known. I can’t help but smile at the memory of my brother and me standing precariously close to the cooler fan, being blinded by the gush of dusty air, singing the latest song (that had caught our fancy and had been butchered beyond recognition) into the whirring fan. Believe it or not we got delirious with joy on hearing the roar of the fan transform the song into some extra terrestrial war anthem. I have argued with my brother on countless occasions that the three A.Cs now at our home can barely manage to cool as well as the huge rusting desert cooler. Maybe it’s global warming, or maybe it’s just the noise, or the lack of it.<br />Or how the smell of paint always reminds me of the one white washing (or was it distempering) we had either before or after the rains. All I know is that the smell of paint washed walls mixed with the khushboo (there is no word in my limited English vocabulary for khushboo; perfume is artificial, smell stands for smelly and aroma is pretentious) of the rains made an intoxicating concoction. We are decent people so the house has been painted many a times after that but that’s the only white washing I remember. Maybe because after that I plastered my room with posters of Dev Anand (yes I was/ok am a fan of black and white Dev Anand.. but so what you like Sachin!!), Tom Cruise and Pete Sampras (see I’ve always been “eclectic”) or maybe because that’s when I heard the soul stirring “Tum Pukaar Lo” or probably because that’s when I knew I could sing to save my life.<br />Or how the chirping of the birds early in the morning… before you go aww cho chweet, well the chirping irritated me no end. In the early hours of the morning when my sub conscious, conscious and unconscious being merged into one groggy, grumpy existence, the incessant chirping (louder and chirpier when they had caught a worm) was the end of the sweet slumber and the beginning of another torturous day of school, tuition, teenage politics and not so friendly sibling rivalry. Well to be fair to the birds, the day in the end always turned out to be much better than that but their chirping invariably made me think of the worst. Maybe it’s because I hate being woken up with a start. Ok I am lazy I hate being woken up.<br />Or maybe about how the roar of thunder and cackle of lightening reminds me of the word game (dude shall explain what that means). The thunder storm was always followed by a power cut, in those days we had no inverter and the power cut meant the four of us sitting in the candle light trying to stare at each other. In the absence of any distractions the fear of my brother and me breaking out into World War III necessitated that my mum find a way to keep us busy. Ingenious woman that she is, she invented the “word game” (probably someone else invented it.. but as far as I am concerned mommy did). Well to put it simply it’s a word antakshri; so I was supposed to begin a word with the last alphabet of the word my brother used. I know it wasn’t as entertaining as “inventive insults” antakshri or “how hard does my pillow hit you”, and certainly couldn’t hold a candle to “I shall irritate you to death”. But our “un”healthy competitive spirit soon got the better of us and we were completely enthralled in scheming/plotting and trying to beat the other at his/her own game. So much so that we didn’t notice the heat, the buzzing and biting of mosquitoes, our sweat or the ticking clocks… don’t know what was more fun, the joy of learning new words, or the chance of using words like “ostentatious” or maybe it was just the chance of getting even with my brother, at that intellectually!!! But thanks mum.<br /><br />Or how the smell of barbecue or byre as my dad (and the South Africans) cutely calls it, reminds me of the chilly winter evenings, the hot kebabs and the even hotter political discussions. Over a few drinks and my mum’s delicious kebabs the passionate leftists and the practical yet illogical rightists fought for their ilk and ideologies right into the wee hours of the morning. I sat in the sidelines interrupting once in a while (washing my dad’s drinks even more once in a while) with my fledgling leftist inclinations apparent to all. But mostly I just sat their admiring my father’s rationale and his political sensibilities. And this I say in no jest, my father in those evenings and most others opened my mind to the real world, the world beyond teenage candy floss, he made me think and wonder about the Mumbai riots, the mandir-masjid issue, the Palestinian crisis, the Afganistan bombings and mostly what I wanted to be when I grew up (I know it is an obtruse connection but it is true). Thanks to him I have what they call a “world view”.<br />Also did I mention that guests at times before they could partake off the “divine” kebabs had to sit through old LP records of Begum Akhtar and loads of people whose name I can’t remember?? It is true, my dad still has a (functioning) LP record player and the best things in life don’t come for free.<br /><br />Well those (any many more-too lazy to write now) are the sounds and smells that remind of my childhood/adolescence and for the want of a better way to end this blog… what are yours???Nanditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06517729541127190519noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29340018.post-16391500942457641532007-03-12T09:43:00.000-07:002007-03-31T01:46:21.245-07:00A BreakForgive my inability to rhyme as well as some people I know, this post is just an attempt to revive this inactive blog while I pen down some more random thoughts….<br /><br />I wish I could take a break<br />not for a day, not just for the heck.<br />But a break to take a reality check.<br />Am I meant for this dust and grime<br />these excel sheets and strategy<br />on how to sell some more tea?<br />The question is not that I want more<br />but that it has to be more of everything.<br />More of fancy visiting cards and holidays on foreign shore<br />of Jp miles, of mall jaunts and inane intellectualizing.<br />I want more of art and music and pursuits literary<br />More of volunteering and philanthropy.<br />More of shopping and the idiot box,<br />more of yoga and romantic walks..<br />Wait dear reader I saved the best for last<br />I want more of the future and more of the past.<br />more of freedom and more of bondage<br />more of butter and more of bread<br />And finally more of the heart and more of the headNanditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06517729541127190519noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29340018.post-1154361105656569662006-07-31T08:32:00.000-07:002006-08-09T09:38:06.316-07:00<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">Its a tale of three cities.... three cities that have for the past three years been the three legs of the tripod on which I stand and try and take a sneak peak into my future... till now there has been no luck.. I am still peaking and waiting for a vague image to appear.<br />However getting back to the cities: on a flight between two of them my friend and me hit the nail on the head on what these cities really mean to us.<br /><st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on"><b style="">Bombay</b></st1:place></st1:City><b style="">:</b> It is a magical city.... I fell in love with the city the moment I set foot in it the first time 10 years back. Unlike other love stories my love for <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Bombay</st1:City></st1:place> has never waned... the more I stay there, the more I be want to be with it. The ubiquitous yet non obtrusive buzz that engulfs the city at all times.... is to me reassuring, always convincing me that I am not alone in my trudge back from office at unearthly hours. It tells me that though no one gawks at me and no one tries to invade my privacy in the most blasé and revolting ways possible, at the slightest discomfort I feel the city will come to my rescue. I feel at home.<br />To be fair to the other two cities, the vast unbound expanse of sea does add to a lot of the charm of the city. When I stand on <st1:street st="on"><st1:address st="on">Marine Drive</st1:address></st1:Street> with my back to the world the roar of <span style=""> </span>waves drowns out all the silly noises in my head and the horizon I can’t see opens up a "sea" of possibilities in my confused mind. When I sit on a Sunday on marine drive with my book I see a mini <st1:place st="on"><st1:country-region st="on">India</st1:country-region></st1:place> pass in front of my eyes. The Gujrati millionaire in his Merc eating bhelpuri by the sea, the wide eyed and overdressed auto wallah and his family from "ajamgarh" on a Sunday outing living the dream that is Bombay for at least that one hour. I also see a vague impression of the now infamous marine drive policeman probably lurking somewhere in my mind. The young groupies with crazy new fangled toys and crazier dreams having an animated conversation, the great Indian middle class family with arguing parents and squirming adolescents. Some athletic and some not so athletic people running with a mission. <span style=""> </span><br />And that brings me to the other thing I love about the city its “egalitarianism”. The lifeline of <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:City>, the great local train is a testimony to the city's resolve to remain like that forever. Every time I am packed like a sardine with scores of other women I don’t know, as I see the train pull out of the station and cross contiguous blocks of high-rises and chawls I feel like one of the many women who board the train everyday. I cease to be Nandita Sinha and start sharing my journey with the bhaji waali, the sweat of strangers making me squirm uneasily, each station bringing me closer to home and each whiff of fresh air brightening my otherwise arduous journey.<span style=""> </span>The manager, clerk and driver all take the same train; “the same connecting thread” between the otherwise very very diverse two ends of their lives.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">But what I love the most about <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:City> is that it lets me be. Though my heart belongs to <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:City>, the city has never coerced me to belong. With its fair share of lifestyle divas, page 3 wannabes, corporate honchos, struggling artists, the hopeful homeless and the option less expatriate <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:City> does its bit to accommodate one and all without the rigid diktat of fitting into a single bill. <st1:city st="on">Bombay</st1:City> has never forced me to become one of many, in the maze that is <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:City> I was allowed to assume the contorted shape I wanted to and still fit in perfectly in the mesh. The association was “unconditional”.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">I could wax eloquently about the city I love, the quite walks in the sub-lanes of Marine lines, the innumerable vada pavs that have helped me get over hunger, depression and banality as the occasion demands, the anxious yet comfortable late night taxi rides, the late night conversations at Leopold, the random chats in my laughable bhojpuri with taxi wallahs, the frivolous weekends at Phoenix Mills, the brilliant plays at NCPA and the highly over rated music at “Not just Jazz by the Bay”, but its time to state the obvious now. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on"><i style="">Bombay</i></st1:place></st1:City><i style=""> to me is the “paramour” you love, you have a crush on, you want, but you can never have</i>. Even the grossest negatives become elements of adoration. There is always electricity and a vibrant spark in the relationship that comes and lights up your life for very brief moments of time but also a lingering sadness about the lack of longevity of the relationship. Every other relationship fades in oblivion while you are with that special someone. The twists of fate bring you face to face with your “paramour” time and again.. each time you leave with a steely resolve never to come back but as fate (and I suspect your own love) may have it you are thrown into his arms right back. Your pararmour doesn’t judge you, he lets you be , celebrates the unique quirks, encourages your strange tastes. The relationship is uncomfortable and defies all logic yet its <i style="">addictive</i>. Your paramour never laughs at you but laughs and even cries with you. Your paramour lets you go…. Never forces you to come back but welcomes you back (for however short the time) with an open heart.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">That my friends (and also strangers) is what <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bombay</st1:place></st1:City> means to me.. I have spent a better part of the hour raving about my love and I desperately need to get back to my job.. but as I promised it is a tale of three cities.. I will be back with the other two. <span style=""> </span>You may choose not to.</p>Nanditahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06517729541127190519noreply@blogger.com1