Status: Unmarried

Domestic violence, domestic abuse, domestic beating...how domestic to I have to be to qualify as domestic. Does abuse in a committed relationship qualify for abuse? A person in a relationship publicly declared as formal, liable to punishment if he or she abuses the other! A lot of young men and women do not want to get married, for the fear of the detour that they have to take if they decide to separate. Also, they are spared from rules that apply to domestic abuse.

So, if I am committed to a man, and he tortures me emotionally, beats me when he is drunk or tortures me to the extent that am mentally and physically bruised, is there nothing I can do about? He has the license to misbehave because he can always claim not to know me, and wander scot free. It leaves a man or woman at the receiving end so vulnerable. Men or women who are commitment phobic, fear taking responsibilities as much as they fear being accountable for their actions.

The man I loved ever so much left me in a jiffy. Because I exposed his infidelity. He had no remorse, no apologies for me. He was fearless. He knew, I will not be able to charge him, or drag him to the legal corridors. But if he were married, he would have had questions to answer, battles to fight and alimony to pay. Now that he could not stop cheating, he threw me out. So, did I or can the system do anything to ensure he does not emotionally wound another girl. That he does not mentally abuse and destroy a human life?

Why does being in a relationship leaves me vulnerable to all sorts of atrocities. Is intangible loss of peace, respect and confidence so intangible, that we find it hard to quantify it? Every man or woman, who has suffered at the hands of his or her lover would vouch that the wounds heal but bitterness remains. It would subside when there is justice met out. You feel defenseless, exposed and so helpless despite all the wealth and education.

People on the other side of the fence would always find reasons such as "you were in the relation out of choice", "you could have walked out",. Well, marriage is also out of choice. Then why do the rules that apply to two so different. They will not be able to understand or empathize with the gravity of damage, till they go through it. If parents can be punished for making their children work, why a man who damages the mental balance of a human being can’t be pulled up and made to pay for his doings. Is the value of a human life so low, or makings laws for man-woman relationship, not married, beneath the dignity of the tall and mighty court of justice.

I am no lawyer, so my knowledge about my rights and laws that exist for me is very limited. But, if there are rules that apply to relationships, we need to spread awareness. With India Inc. changing the face of the country, there needs to be provision for respecting emotions and acknowledging emotional pain as pain. Monetary loss, physical loss is all well taken care of (actually not so much, the speed of justice met out is glacial); is emotional loss no loss, is giving love exposing me without any resort. Being abused behind the closed doors, not abuse till my status is "Unmarried". Do I have to be married to be eligible for justice? Does the court of law discriminate between the tears of a woman who is married vis a vis one who is equally committed, just not married. What changes so drastically after a wedding that tables turn, the equation of the citizen and court gets altered.

All NGOs and women supporters rise on the occasion of domestic violence. But, no one comes to rescue the unmarried girl who has committed the sin of loving a person. If a husband has no right to beat up his wife, which article of the Indian constitution advocates a guy to do so with his partner? The fact we don’t discuss this topic actively is a reflection of our perception of a relationship which is not marriage.

We despise human relations and fight for protection. So self contradictory. The guy, who was never dealt with, when he was an abusive partner, will surely go on to be an abusive husband. We’d rather treat the crisis when it is nascent than allow it to become a habit and make the picture rancid.

I for one want to get married, for the right reasons like love and passion; Not for legal security and social cover.

Phone Call with Earth - Part 1

It has been a daily ritual to call home everyday and speak to Mumma. So today when I finished speaking to my mother and giving her a detailed description of my food and obviously "doodh", I decided to call up Earth. Yes, I called up mother Earth today. I wonder why I did, because turned out to be quite a rocky call.
I dialed the number, and the caller tune was the sound of a storm with rain splashing and wind making spooky noises all over.
A breathless lady, coughing loudly answered the call.
"Yes, what do you want" she asked. The voice was stiff and old.
"Gunja here. Hope you doing good", I said.
E: "Why? How does it matter how I am. You know, I am old and weak. I have served you and your ancestors since time immemorial. But, now my end seems near".
Me: "Don't say so. We all love you."
E: "Don't try to charm me girl. You just depleted me of some fresh water when you used the restroom. Can't you reuse water"
I apologized profusely.
Me: "Did you finish dinner?", food always works in conversations that get uncomfortable.
E: "Yes, loads of it. All the insecticides and medicines, and no fresh manure. It smells disgusting. It sucks my nutrition and that is why I can't even serve you good food. I need a break I feel. A break from all the digging and toiling.
Me: "Hmm.."
E: "I wouldn't mind being farmed on, I still have truck loads of minerals and metals. But, why suffocate me with concrete. You know when you put concrete on me, I get suffocated as my breathing pores get blocked. I am not able to breathe well since a few decades now. And if I cannot breathe, I will not be able to carry on for long."
Me: "Anything I can do Mother?"
E: "You are a spec in this planet. But, if you post on FB, may be.."
Me: "Please tell me, Mother. I will surely post it on FB and twitter as well."
E: " Can you ensure you don't change your phone for next 3 years"
Me: "Why??", I was not very polite, obviously.
E: "See, you can't. The silicon is getting over within me and piling over me. If I load plates of food on your table but don't allow you to eat any, how long will you survive?"
Me: "Hmm..and?"
E: "Stop buying so many bottles. I feel like a dustbin, and how much you guys waste? Why use if not required? Can't you just stop throwing away stuff? Your cousins at US throw much more but then they don't multiply as much. Am sick of your country"
Me: "Am sorry"
E: "Don't be", she was strict this time.
Me: "Uuuuu.."
E: "Look am very upset with the way you guys have been behaving. Just no respect for elders like me or rivers or hills. Make a mess wherever you go. Who do you think you are? If the rivers dry or hills erode, I will see how you make all tall buildings. And what is this with layers of packaging even on a candy. Gone off your head?? Anyways, I will let you know so that you can let others know that what happened at Kedarnath was a snapshot. Behave, else I will punish you all.
Me: "Urrr.."
E: "Okay, I will hang up now. Got to see what your friends at Japan are upto"
Click.
She hung up.
Mother Earth, spare us of your fury and wrath.
Next phonecall when I am dying of the chilly winter..I sincerely hope not.

Poor, Not Really

India is a diverse country and with so much variety, there is varied understanding and varied notions. But, as a country if we had to define poor, in monetary terms we ought to have a benchmark. It cannot be so difficult to ascertain how heavy a citizen's cash box is. But, we have certainly made it difficult. A farmer who farms on his own land is underlined as 'poor', even without batting an eyelid and exempt from all sorts of taxes, not to forget the sack of subsidies that come along. Even if he is debt free, with enough yield to make him eligible for tax, he still doesn't pay tax. A man staying in the carnivorous metro, earning just enough to pay rent and food bills is rich. Working in swanky offices, earning peanuts and saving flakes makes me rich, owning land double its size still keeps you poor. Irony! When dad got transferred to Nagaland, and we moved to our bungalow, I felt nothing short of a Yash Chopra set up. Sprawling gardens, pond of my own and a huge bedroom all for myself. The next morning, the gardener walked in. If you looked at him, you could mistake him for an official off to work. He came with no tools, no spade. He had come to inform my mother that 'his servant' (you got it right) would look after the garden. The house we occupied belonged to his father-in-law and he owned a nursery. Dad explained us that under Income Tax Act 10 (26), people staying at certain states in India are exempt from taxes if they operate a proprietorship. "But how did he manage this huge bungalow with a pond and garden", Mumma asked. Dad didn't really have one text book answer to this one. Perhaps, surrender ALPHA, may be forefathers, or just struck pots of gold while gardening. There are so many such instances where the beneficiary has amassed significant wealth just by being eligible to government benefits. So, is my gardener poor? Does he pay tax? The best is yet to come. His nephew was sent on state scholarship to Singapore for higher education. He was the first ST to score more than 85% in 12th standard. Statistics never fails to amuse me. The state topper struggled for admission at Kolkata, because he scored 92%, what with no tuitions and professional coaching like metros. Poor guy..you may guess whom I am referring to. It is disdainful how a man who is struggling to make ends meet in the wake of inflation is forced to shut shop to fight for LBT, while some people enjoy lazy evenings and still find claim to poverty. Why would a child, whose grandfather is an IAS, dad from IIM A and mother from LSR need support of reservation while writing his CAT exam. It amazes me how common sense is defeated so easily by all the laws and amendments. What happens behind the closed doors of the parliament, I shall never know. Who votes for whom, you will never know. All you know is you are poor when you have to compromise on your ambitions because your surname is not qualified enough. Brain drain has hit us worse, when we needed it most. The drain has been steady and consistent. Any specific reasons we never bother to discuss it at the Indian diaspora? The questions that the migrated will ask the country will exceed the number of articles its constitution boasts of. Rajdeep Sardesai recently tweeted while walking at his alma mater, Oxford “Yet to meet an Indian who is not successful abroad”. I asked him, are Indians successful in India. I hit the block again. The varied definition of success, the diverse interpretation of the word; doesn’t look like I am getting anywhere. So much like my motherland. India is a young country. It is, without doubts. But, with constant struggle for life’s basic necessities like public transport, clean toilets and nutrition the young are ageing faster than ever and anywhere. Blame it on whom? Blame it on my parents for the surname, blame it on the company for not paying me well, on the government for being as lousy as it gets, on the country for being so diverse, on British who didn’t divide it small enough to be managed, on myself for still sticking around and being able to do nothing about it. Am a rich man’s poor daughter, rich in values and patience and perseverance. Poor in being so stranded by the norms and the pitiful state of affairs that my motherland goes through.

O dear India, Yours is a struggle, your children can fathom, for what you see is the dashboard of each Indian’s life. You have some selfish children who want to eat it all, leaving their siblings hungry, asking for more. Don’t blame them if they abandon you soon, they will cry when you die, which thou shall, very soon.

Goodnight India!! This one seems to a long winter night..

Aunty Matt Kaho..

My love hate relationship for all the Aunty's I ever came across is directly proportional to my age. And its rate of growth is much higher than the rate at which their waistline grows. They have the most unsophisticated sense of humor and the loudest laugh you ever heard of. Their taste for lip colors remains unmatched (dark red is the color of week, season, year, and forever), all their efforts to lose weight in vain, and their gossip is so limited (just their husband, husband's colleague, kids, their friends, neighborhood, city, country, even Obama is not spared when he kisses his wife in public!) I always wondered, that these bunch of women would walk everyday without fail but not lose weight. I felt sorry for them. I decided to speak to them. One breezy evening in Bangalore, I waited for them to finish their daily regime. They finished 10 rounds walking on the jogging track. "Hello Aunty, how are you?", I walked up. "Ohh look who is here", they said in chorus. "Want to come over, we are going for a cup of tea at Balaji", a close friend of my mother invited me. I took the opportunity, considering I would be able to speak to them at peace. After 45 minutes of non-stop chatter and a hot "benne" dosa each and milky coffee with extra 'sugar free', their calorie count was back, if not more before they left homes for their daily exercise. I had obviously not discussed their weight. They discussed my marriage, career, my eyebrows, my vital stats and also ways to attract (read: phaanso) men. Grass is always greener on the other side", just like each aunty's son was worse than the other, her husband more careless and mother-in-law gave more tortures than the others. It is infectious. My mother is much stricter than others! They are blessed with the inane ability to nag me for marriage each time; each of them will always have a nephew in US, looking for a bride exactly like me. I am impressed how on every occasion they tell me about a new guy, with whom I will be super happy and rich. You can never reason them, and certainly not argue. They will go to the extent to say, that the guy is good at cooking and laundry, but not leave you till you agree to meet him, or at least add him on Facebook. (Some marketing skills here). But, there is something about them which is warm and so affectionate. They are forever there for a warm hug when you are tired of your parents' lectures. They make sure you eat when Mumma is away, design dresses better than expensive boutiques and give the best skin care tips. They are women who made their husband and kids their universe since decades. They were always busy packing lunch and coordinating tuition classes. Now, when the kids have grown wings to fly, they have more time and less to do. A phone call to her from me, makes the entire "park gang" talk about it for a week. They are an integral part of an Indian household, and certainly an extended family. Only if they would be little subtly with colors and jokes. Will the aunty clan dissolve with time? I hope not, and am sure will not. We will always have women leaving at the helm of their careers, to take care of kids. And join the park gang. To all my auntys out there, please put on those expensive reading glasses. This one is truly for you.
PS: I will not add anymore nephews on FB and not showing cleavage. :-) :-)

My First Love

We are in the age of “Double Income No Kids” (DINK) couples, surrogacy, and women climbing the corporate ladder keeping their biology at stake. However, at the very core of every woman lies a yearning desire to be a mother. Nature blessed her uniquely, and she is ever so grateful of it. With enough mothers around me, young and old, successful and not so successful, they have always vouched that nothing made them feel better than holding the bundle of joy for the first time. But, what made them anxious, eager and proud was when their husbands held the baby, and felt like proud fathers. A man who shows absolutely no signs of being a caring father will never make it to the best husband list. A woman is not looking for a Greek God, a sex symbol, rich suave man driving in expensive cars and has impeccable sense of humour. She is looking for someone exactly like her father. A man who can hold her the way her father held when she feared the lightning; who can be proud of every achievement, even if it was making the first cup of tea; who will walk with her in the rains just to see her smile as water tickles her tiny toes; who will wipe her tears and tell her it is okay to fail but still be with her as she pursues her dreams (very silly at times). It is not because she wants to be fathered by her husband, or be her guys’ princesses. Plain, ‘cause she wants her little ones to be fathered as she was. A woman is constantly living with the mother within her. And, at each stage in life there is a strong reflection of the same. Women take better calculated and less aggressive risks; she cannot afford to take chances when she has nascent lives or a young project alike. A woman learns to trust a man when she knows her father can solve all the problems that exist on this planet. She knows men cry, when her dad cried because his daughter’s heart was broken. She knows men are messy when her father leaves the kitchen like a tornado hit region. All that a girl knows about a man is all that her dad is. She wants a man with a strong head, as according to your girl, you have to be there when she goofs up, when she doesn’t know what to do at the family function and when she has had a bad argument with your mother. When your girl gets paranoid about your regular flu, she thinks you are helpless by yourself like her father. And if you don’t escort her at midnight, its criminal, she is a princess after all, her dad’s princess. I might stretch this a little further and say, while no girl can cook like your mother, no guy can care like her father. He never broke promises, so when the first time a guy broke my promise, I was destroyed. Never blame a girl for being an independent woman, just speak to her dad; He set the benchmarks high for you. He never lost trust in her decisions, and held her hand each time she tripped. He taught her that life is a wave of countless troughs; but just believe in yourself and rest shall be taken care of. A father makes sure his daughter grows by allowing her to explore her world, reason out those fairy tales and make a name for herself. He is apprehensive of others around her; will never stop his daughter from riding the bicycle but would keep a constant guard on the wheels. Guys, you might compare and crib your wife’s culinary skills and housekeeping ratings; you have a man to match with, who is the only benchmark in a woman’s life. Each time a girl thinks of the man of her dreams, the obvious qualities that flash her mind are those that her dad has. A father is not only the first man in her life, his nature and ways become a determining factor in her life. So, when she falls in love, she falls in love with the man who loves her like her father, points flaws like her father, and forever stands like a pillar so strong. A woman is a blend of her father’s daughter, and her offspring’s mother. I hope I make you proud Daddy just like your proud daughter.

 

Sukima's Fears - Short Story

“Jeenal, where are you?” Sukima called out. “Coming Mom. I am running late. Make sure coffee is ready”, Jeenal cried from her room as she hurriedly worked with the dryer. Jeenal was her parents’ only child. She was born eight years after their wedding. Sukima was all of 16, when she fell in love with Jeenal’s dad, Sarthak Patel from Gandhinagar. Sarthak was looking for business opportunities in Assam. His uncle owned a furniture shop there. Sarthak was staying in Dibrugarh. Sukima was the daughter of Mr. Barua, manager of the furniture shop. She would deliver lunch for her father. As fate would have it, two young people met day after day, and love blossomed. Sukima’s father threatened to kill her if she did not quit the idea of marrying the Gujarati businessman. On one cold night of December, Sukima fled with Sarthak. They came to Kolkata, the then Calcutta and struggled with new beginnings. Sarthak set up a tea stall outside the Secretariat. Sukima assisted him. Their hard work and Sarthak’s business acumen bore fruits. They started a tea-shop, and by the time Jeenal was all of five years old, Sarthak was running a sweet shop. Life became busier and as Sukima’s love became richer for Sarthak, his feelings faded. Sukima loved the wine growing better with age; Sarthak saw the dust settling on their relationship. Sukima always wanted another child. Sarthak never denied her. But, their relationship had become so dead, that only signs of its existence were those occasional moments in bed when two bodies united, satiated their desires and parted ways. Sukima could never conceive thereon. Jeenal became the center of her life. She ensured she provided for Jeenal in all ways. Sarthak loved his daughter like every doting father. He ensured she had the best possible amenities and loads of love from her dad. I am unsure if Jeenal ever received parental affection. The unison of her father and mother was a moment that was still alien to her. Sukima often told her daughter, that she felt guilty of hurting her father. She often felt she should not have fled with her dad. Jeenal would just exclaim how filmy her parents’ lives had been. “I also want to run away and get married”, Jeenal often told her friends. Her mother dreaded the thought of not being able to select the “right guy” for her daughter. “What if Jeenal makes a hurried decision like me? What if her husband’s love diminishes with time? What if her man leaves her? Will Sarthak support her, or become indifferent like my own father?” These thoughts had begun to race Sukima’s mind as she saw her daughter’s growing affection for a Muslim guy, whom Sarthak would never accept. He was a staunch Hindu. Sarthak would rather poison Jeenal than accept a Muslim. Sukima knew Jeenal was exactly like her. Same firmness, same fire for love, and same passion. That night, Sarthak slapped Jeenal, locked her in the room and went out of the house. The dreaded day was here. Jeenal had expressed her plans of getting married to Aatish to her dad. Sarthak slapped Sukima, then Jeenal. He broke a few artefacts in the process as well. Next morning, Sukima went to Jennal’s room to wake her. The bed was empty. Cupboard intact; Jewellery on the side table. Jeenal was nowhere in sight. Sukima looked around and screamed. “Did she run away, like you ran away from your house”, Sarthak broke in the room. He was silent. The daughter he doted on had gone. She had left him. He had lost his only reason to smile. Jeenal hung from the ceiling fan. She wore her favourite kurta, that Aatish had gifted her on their anniversary. Sukima saw herself in the mirror. Her daughter was not like her. She did not leave her dad for another man. She left herself for both the men. Would Jeenal’s life be as monotone like her mother? Why was Sukima so sure that Jeenal’s life would be an impression of her life? Why was Sarthak so against her daughter, when he himself ran away with Sukima. Did his definition of love change in 23 years? Jeenal had gone; Sukima was rid of all her fears now. Sarthak was busy managing the hotel. Life was as same as yesterday once again.

Black and White: So Grey

"I can't go on a vacation with my boyfriend, I cannot break my parents trust", the dilemma in her voice was evident of the fact that she wanted to go but just couldn't go due to shackles of trust and emotions that had chained her for decades."But, you did break their trust by falling in love, when you were sent her to study", I argued. We are not confused; we are driven mad by our mind that has attached degrees to everything. According to the mind, it is okay to love but not to kiss. It is okay to sit together in a cozy position, but not sleep. I am not sure who told us that we can break rules, as long as we stay in the boundary. But, whoever did, was not aware that whether in or out, rules broken are broken. Whether I copy one answer, or copy the entire answer sheet, the quantum of punishment is the same. We need to be courageous enough to break rules, and also, not measure the degree by which we violated the rule. The Indian parents are okay with their little ones finding their own partners, as long as they are taken for consent and the partner fits in their SRS (Spouse Specification Requirements). We are okay with copying in exams from neighbors but not buying a leaked question paper? We don't mind paying 20 rupees extra at the hostel entrance to enter post curfew time. It is okay to pay Rs.5, 000 for a quick passport? My friends think there is no liability in falling in love and breaking hearts, as long as they didn't "do it". This an upshot of the conditioning that we have been undergoing since ages. Even our mythology says that it is okay to lie, if it is for the benefit of someone. Now, who decided the beneficiary? Beneficiary will depend on the side of the fence you stand on. If I were to go find that a thief is stealing to pay hospital bills, will the theft become philanthropic? The fact that we reason behind an action to justify its rightness, is the root of all troubles. Spot fixing, be it out of pressure from the king-pin or to buy designer denims for your girl friend, is equally bad. The reason does not make up for the action. The reaction is the same either ways. A man who cheats on his wife in a drunken stupor, or in complete senses amounts to infidelity either ways. We cannot live in the root-analysis phase, where we try to see each action from the perspective of the doer, to give him due doubt benefit. When Rama tried Sita, was the doubt of whether Ravana forced himself on her considered? She was treated without any surrounding noise, no echo of circumstances. Let not perspectives and situations creep through the crevices of our actions, blotting the black or white, turning them into grey. A lot of people speak of severity of the situation, impact of the action and everything that helps in confusing the picture, by robbing the canvas of its original primary colors. How does the severity matter? We are not dealing with a software bug tracker, where the degree of urgency and severity are of utmost importance. In life, actions cannot be classified in the continuum of shades; you hurt someone by hitting them, whether you slap them or hit them. A few bright minds would counter argue saying that the "consequence" is not as significant when I slap someone. Once again, we have successfully divided the consequences in varying degrees of impact. It is all about levels and degrees. In reality, life is all about actions and reactions. “Black O White”, a lovely song. Why did the two colors unite to create the most mysterious shade, the shade that leads to all uncertainties, the shade that is devoid of all the properties its base colors have, courage, crime, peace, assurance and no grey!!

Life, a String of Journeys

Each time we begin a new phase, its the onset of a new journey, that has begun because the previous one ended. However, the journey that ended cannot be analogous to an exam. In life, you embark on a new journey, when you have completed your travel successfully, learnt all that you were meant to, and are ready to brace the next set of challenges. You cannot fail and move to the next step. Because, if you fail, life will not open the next door. It will keep teaching you till you learn it. A determined teacher, at that one. It is fascinating to realize that even before we know the end of the sub journey, we begin planning our next steps. Just like we plan our next vacation best, when we are on a vacation. And then comes life, making a fool of us by showing us the journey it has planned for us. If we look back, we all have planned our ends, but beginnings were never in our scope. We know we will finish our school, but "what next" factor continues to elude us. Each time a baby is conceived, its journey ends after 9 months. But, what is its gender, weight, color; we do not know. We do not know what the next moment holds for us. But, I hereby take the liberty to contradict myself and state that if we do not know the start of next journey, we obviously do not know the end of the present one. Life throws surprises and shocks alike, making life a bumpy ride. If you decide to do it your way, and challenge life, you are in for some rude shocks. But, if you let life plan, and keep your guards down, you will have some pleasant surprises in your kitty. Every time you feel things are not going "your" way, the culprit is you. Stop wanting life to be your slave. You are just a mere spec in the scheme of life, and you couldn't make a bigger blunder than assuming that you can live life your way. When you swam in your mother's womb, life was trying to tell you that, keep swimming, move with the flow, don't resist. If life throws oranges, its probably because they are best for you at this moment. If you keep getting lemons, you need to get your Vitamins of life in place. And, you will get oranges. So, learn from each failure, and till you succeed, you will not get the keys for the next door. Last but not the least, if you try and try till you succeed, you will keep trying forever. Don't try, just don't stop. Keep Going on!!

You are Written About

Every fiction was once a real life story. So with changing times, changes lifestyle, which cascades to change in reading habits. How many times, we have picked up a book, read a few pages, and decided to ditch it because it was the story of an era we do not relate to. In 1800s, life was devoid of technology, human mind was the most wired entity that existed. Countries were run by few men, wars meant newer countries and fiction was about tales of a warrior. When a convict decided to pen down, it involved human relationships, patriotism, politics and loads of picturesque pages making the book alive for the reader. The book readers wanted to know what was in store for them if they went to the prison. These readers were students in history, budding leaders and selected intellects. Reading was still a luxury. You had food and clothing to worry for. Then there were writers like Salinger. They wrote about young minds, the conflicts a teenager faced. The Great Depression was there, people read about money making and how the various parts of the world ran their economies. Benjamin Graham is for all to see. Things changed. The readers were in awe of technology. Sci-fi writers were satisfying the young readers with star trek novels. Warren Buffet, Jim Rogers were there for money makers and Robin Sharma if you already made money. Not many would appreciate if Sharma wrote his book in 1930s. The churning rate at bookshops is increasing with the rate at which our lifestyle is changing. Call centers mushroomed and we had writers telling us about them. With high rate of attrition in relationships, Bhagat made some quick bucks. Stress was all over, and here we had books on health, occult, meditation swarming the place. However, a disturbing trend that stares in our face is the declining number of readers. Books are competing with androids and apples, forcing writers to pour bedroom and smoking scenes in the college backyard. But, ironically they are an honest reflection of the lifestyle my young cousins lead. Two affairs, one divorce, one abusive relationship, a murder in the office washroom. Not exactly fiction. We have faced some of it, seen most of it and heard all of it in real life. Another thought that intrigues me, is that the audience for Bhagat’s readers end up reading books when we have nothing better to do. So if he were to write some serious stuff like a commentary on Darwin with changing mindsets, it would not really be read by the masses or the classes. It would be on a researcher’s table, on the syllabus of a few courses and win an award in a category that we wouldn’t know of. The books are read in coffee shops, with girls in little fabric distracting the reader’s attention or in boring lectures. It takes a lot in the book to keep the reader’s attention riveted in spite of all the distractions. It takes loads of porn, junk, expletives and poor grammar to make a reader of that guy, for whom reading ended at text books. Facebook definitely does not qualify for reading activity. Our lives are the data mines for the aspiring author. The surroundings are a melting point of ideas and our conversations are scripted in books with little editing. So while all we think of is satisfying our needs in bed, in luxury, in career, it is all being written about. We belong to the era of sex, weed, relationships, couches, fixing, aids, Osho, LV and the works. We are the characters in each book we read. Else, you wouldn't bother reading that book. Keep Reading, Its all about You!!

Rich Dad, Poor Son

"Hi", I responded to a guy who moved next door last week. He always appeared to be out of bed, irrespective of what time of day it was. "Hi, you coming so late?", as he saw me drained of every joule of energy that could possibly leave my body. "Yes, I work hard. You heading somewhere?", the smell of shower gel was strong and expensive. "Why would you work so much? I would never work so much", he said mockingly. "Because I like my work and I want to make it to the top", still hopelessly hunting for door keys in my bag I lived out of. "You want to be on top, with a job? Kidding me. Start your own business. Look at me". "So what do you do?", almost sure that his dad was dripping rich and he was here to make him poor by a few lakhs. "Nothing as of now. Just returned from the Thames University after studying business administration". "Which university?" "Thames, its in...." He had flunked his tenth grade exams, his father couldn't buy him a seat at Delhi University and mother couldn't afford her son to be seen at a college that would not earn her jealous looks at the club. So his parents packed him to an unknown university, no one had ever heard of. No, he didn't tell me this. I knew it. But how familiar the set up is. The father belongs to a humble background. He sweats out to look 50 when he was all of 35. His children never give a fcuk to their career. They think setting shop is in their DNA. They fail all exams,go to unknown colleges overseas, fail there and return. Still confident to make it bigger than their dads. However, when reality bites them they are in their mid-thirties. They are still struggling to come out of their dad's shadow while their wives have certified them as a loser. They have a few failed business ventures to their credit. They take solace in alcohol and just hope they can do half as well as their father. These men do not have loans to pay, they still get pocket money, now for family and friends both, and never really grow out of the wings of their parents. Another area where such foolish old kids never grow, is their false image about themselves. They never cease to believe that they were born to rule the world, farting on the surname. That is all they were born to use. The wealth depletes, their kids do NOT want to be like their dads, so they work hard. And the humble background, hard work, desire to make it big, it all repeats again. "You wanna join us at the Vegas Club? Its on me", the rich kid interrupted my thoughts. "Thanks, but I have an assignment to finish, critical for my next appraisal", I said with the air of confidence. I knew, I will never have as much bank balance as what his dad pays for his petrol and booze, but I will have much more wisdom and contentment. Its the high of making it all by 'yourself' than just making it. Stop dreaming of making it bigger than your dad under his wings. Leave that hand, walk alone, get bruised, get laughed at. Go, make half as him and learn the tricks of trade. The name of trade is humility and gratitude. "Be grateful for what you get, be contend with what you have, and you shall not want more" Joy Gurudev :-) :-)

My Office Elevator

My office is all of 9 floors, but the maximum time I spend, after my desk and pantry, is in the lift lobby. There are 6 functional elevators, neatly arranged in 2 rows, 3 on each side. The elevators are extremely efficient in blocking any network invasion. However, I still have colleagues desperately trying to scream, “Hello hello, Awaaz aai?” to their prospective love interests or “In the lift. Bye”, to their wives or mothers alike. As if they were caught off-guard and they never knew elevators have jammers. Is it to ensure no extra weight? Just another lifting thought. The expressions in the elevator, at each point in the day, are a very accurate indicator of how the person’s day has been in office. Morning, 10:00 am: Nobody wants to look at the floor number on the display. They wouldn’t mind hanging around, and shuttle to and fro a couple of times more. Some look as drowsy as they were when they woke up, (Mumbai offers its inhabitants some good time to nap on the roads, quite literally) or look freshly drowsy after getting off their swanky air conditioned cars. But no one wants to get out of the elevator. We all stare at the floor with perfect unison. Lunch, 1:00 pm: The lift is noisy with several sets of parallel conversations. The air is filled with the smell of chutney, sour curd or bhindi masala. They are all staring at the floor display, and frown each time the elevator opens to welcome some more lift-mates. Each stoppage means a few seconds of the coveted break wasted. Why couldn’t we just have smart elevators? I mean who risks upsetting hungry humans. Not even, your…you know whom. Tea, 4:00 pm: That is when the personal life takes the back seat and you are soaked in the office air. The corridor gossip travels to elevators, fully unaware that the stranger next to you is “watsapping” every word, with expressions of course to his car pool friend, who also happens to be your manager. People discuss their ETA home, how tired they are with same routine work or workplace. Wonder if they are tired of their constant monotonous breathing also. Snacks, 6:30 pm: The elevator is literally painted green with jealousy, as a few privileged ones press the exit floor button, while the jealous ones head to the cafeteria again. The gossip has matured, and now all they want to know is what time their manager is leaving. They obviously don’t know when they are heading home. The stranger is still “watsapping”. Dinner, 8:30 pm: Green is not evergreen. It has become red with anger. “WTF, you are leaving? Did you finish that note? Ahh, lucky you. I am here for a few more hours”, the angry bird says as she sees her friend heading home while she decides to take a dinner break. Her hair is awry and kohl smudged up. Her awaited dinner date turned into a 20 minute dinner break. Both of them are staring at the sky, one getting ready to nap in the bus again, another one looking hard for stars. She might just be leaving at sunrise. Dreaded, 2:00 am: Looks like we have come full circle. The angry bird is sleepy. She looks as drowsy as she did when she came, not looking at the floor display. She is staring at the floor, wondering if she should just crash at the carpeted elevator. Happy Elevating!!

Is slavery in the Indian DNA?

We have heard on several occasions, not just by the Americans, the English, the German, the Dutch, even the Chinese, that the biggest problem they face working with an Indian is not the accent, or crisp manners. It is the habit to over commit, kill their peace, and deliver. If the case was that of over commitment and under delivery, India would have never been able to effortlessly adorn the title “Queen of Outsourcing”. But, what problem could a client possibly have with over commitment and delivery that exceeded expectations. It is the problem of projecting the team or the organisation as a bunch of robots, which will be available at any deadly hour, 30 days a month, 12 months a year. My German client in one of my many former organizations once told me, “When you taking a vacation with your family?” Now that would depend on how much work he gave me, and also my father’s clients gave him. Not to forget my mother’s ever demanding boutique clients, who thought a wedding trousseau takes less than 48 hours to be finished. Client commitment takes precedence to all commitments in an Indian’s life. And if the client is white, speaks a language we do not understand, the only way to make our point that “Do not judge us by our skin”, is by killing ourselves to work. Forget the skin, after a few continuous weekends at work my mirror marshals me for a stranger. In each cross cultural training I have attended (which is many, due to the frequent job hopping; another DNA in my folks), a lot of emphasis is given on our inability to say no. And yes, we refuse to say no each time over and over again. What we do not understand is that we are educated, clothed, well groomed, and mentally fit slaves. All we need is the bait, and we are rearing to go. We do not think of changing locations twice before we accept a new job. Yes, similar to Africans who were pulled off their homelands (forests and anacondas). The only difference is that, before someone chains us, we chain ourselves. Now, that is the “Slave mentality” transiting to “Slave DNA”. So when you didn’t tell your teacher as a child that you have to visit the toilet, she assumes that you don’t need to. In case you pee in your place, you have boys laughing at you and your teacher writing to your parents, who slap you. So by being sincere to wait for lesson to get over or too scared to ask for a washroom break, all you get is wet pants and a slap. If you don’t tell your clients about your needs, for the fear of losing them or annoying them, all you get is a life where your only companion is an apple. Your life can give the best Japanese robots a run for their money, and you a run for your life. If you are good, your clients wouldn’t leave you for anything, and if you are genuine, they will feel a part of your work-life. Go talk it out. Share your woes and your smiles. “Being Human” always works better than “Being just Professional”.

Is coffee India’s new Garam-Chai..

India’s youth in suburbs belongs to that decade(s), when the white revolution was at its helm, and parents had decided to give their little ones the best education, without compromising on quality of life. As a result, the “bread-chai” breakfast was soon replaced by “bread-butter and milk”. So we all grew up watching Sachin Tendulkar hitting tones just by the virtue of sipping Boost. The system of parents sipping tea, and kids frowning at the glass of milk had strongly ingrained itself in the middle class homes. Juice was still for the elite. And, then a strong wind blew, bringing with it the fragrance of caffine, which was soon going to challenge the mother of all beverages, the Indian Chai. The youth never really got the chance to get their palettes addicted to tea. The college stalls were soon embracing vending machines, which oozed tea, soup, and coffee. Coffee could easily make itself sell more, considering it shared physical attributes, like colour and texture with cocoa. Cocoa had made itself indispensable in the generation, as their parents disposable income soared. So coffee was the new milk for the young. Parents opted for a cup of hot tea, and the young ones sipped on a cup of well foamed, milky and sweet coffee. Coffee was always there in South India, but that was filter coffee. Cappuccino was that decided to bury its ancestral versions and leafy drinks. The IT sector was booming, and with more and more habits of US and Europe illegally immigrating to the country, the taste buds were exposed to varieties of coffee. Since coffee didn’t require strainers or boilers, was neat, and not so Indian, IT companies parked vending machines all over to ensure the employees had enough caffeine in their veins to last them a week. One man’s loss is another’s gain. The quality of tea was fast deteriorating, and you found that outlets that served kadak chaiout of the pout with khari, were getting electronic vending machines that served freshly ground coffee, along with the much disliked dip-dip chai. Office hours had morphed from 9 - 5 to 9 to forever. More and more youth moved to IT hubs and weekends meant catching up with friends over a cup of coffee. Never heard anyone say, “Chai par milte hain”. Sounds more like a marriage proposal than anything else. Coffee has a different undertone altogether, with Rahul Bose dreaming of taking Sophie to bed, in Pyaar ke Side Affects flick. So while coffee culture was spreading fast, Café Coffee Day hooked the trend and booked the beverage as the affordable and the only hot beverage, fit for the youth drink. Till now, in mid 90s, coffee shops were always associated with glamour and business big-wigs. CCD with its affordable pricing and ambience, made itself available for the budding Indian population, who didn’t mind spending a couple of hundreds to spend some hours in the AC, chilling with friends. I remember my grandfather sipping countless cups of chai, discussing politics with his friends. They were the generation that had started their journey from Coffee House, Kolkata and settled at Red Label. I just spent my last weekend, at 3 different CCDs, each of them for a different reason, like using free wi-fi, meeting an old friend whom I can’t get home, if I want to stay peacefully with my landlady and lastly to finish my office assignment. I was just too lazy to do it at home. Cheers! I mean “Ccinos!”