Now having carried an umbrella around with me for a week, and having to use it almost everyday, I personally can declare that the rainy season has arrived.
Many other cities in India however are unable to boast of the same. While some are getting cloudy skies, others are simply stuck with an over-extended, unwelcome summer. Global Warming sure has caught up with us, and how! It is declared drought in many states now. Sad.
Till the rains started here, the intolerable heat and humidity day after day had an inverse effect not only on people, but their behaviour as well. More intolerant people, more impatience and more unrest in the world. And then it rained.
Monsoons seem to unleash something in the primal spirit of man. It mellows down their outlook and makes the world a better place. Getting wet in the rain touches something so basic inside us that no matter what, at some level we like it. Sure it is inconvenient. To think of going to office drenched, is horrible. To have wet shoes all day is unbearable, and to think of acutally cleaning up the now sullied clothes - ugh!
But abandoning all that, and just letting yourself think of the raindrops on your face, the feeling is indescribable. A feeling of joy, fun, abandon and freedom. And a feeling that something is really, 'washing you clean'. For that moment, all the practical problems can be laid aside, all the worries kept in a box and locked up. While walking towards the shelter without an umbrella, it is best to just give in and enjoy the freedom that a blast of raindrops give you, rather than worry about how your silk gown will probably never look the same again. Believe me, it is totally worth it. The silk gown cant be salvaged anyway, afterall.
In India, the monsoons come after peak summers. After months of harsh heat, combined with humidity in 3/4ths of the country, the monsoons are like the much needed glass of water after a hot hike. And the people love it. There are odes written to the monsoons in every language, praising it, pleading it, asking it to come as soon as possible. Some of the favourite names chosen by parents for their children has much to do with rains, monsoons, and rainy clouds. And so many blogs written by Indians have rains in some form or the other, as their blog name. All this is indicative of the importance and reverence given to rains. Even when some cities complain about it being an eleven month monsoon per year, the moment rains delay by even a week, no one cares about any inconvenience. It is the relief that negates anything else.
For that is what it comes down to. Relief. Rains bring in wet soils and blue skies and greenery everywhere. They bring in clouds to block out the harsh sun, temporarily make it bearable to venture out without squinting, and then, once the clouds losen their burden, leave you with a clean, washed look everywhere, including the sky. And the effect on Man is palpable. People mellow down, problems seem smaller, and tempers running high for so long, temper down.
In cities like Mumbai where winters are only a term, and not a reality, and peak winters provide only 10C as the minimum in three months, monsoons drop temperatures to a pleasant below-25C, and add strong winds laden with tiny droplets into the bargain - which of course, make it really much cooler. And this may go on for days. Of course, nothing beats the view of Marine Drive with the sea waves cresting over the high embankment onto the roads in peak monsoons.
In other cities, like Calcutta, monsoons are torrential outbursts, sometimes continuing for days on end, with large drops of water splashing, with thunder and lightening and gusty winds - a Big Drama Spectable. Rumble of thunder on the horizon, puddles of water, slanting rain pelting down, strong gusts of wind and drops in temperature! Going out on the streets one feels that they can be blown away, carried away by the winds and rains to the black thunder clouds, to another land. There are very few people who actually do not like it at all.
In Delhi, the dry heat saps away everything from the surface of the earth, and then the monsoons bring everything back. Bringing in cold winds instead of the Hot Loo(wind), the monsoons add to the beauty by bringing in water as well. Suddenly the landscape which had turned brown and dustry turns green. Things start to sparkle, the dust settles and there is a rainbow in every mind. All Air conditioners and coolers can finally be switched off, and the air becomes a little humid, providing relief to parched bodies.
With the monsoons also emerges another primal desire - the love of food. When its raining outside, and you are cool and sheltered inside, feeling the spray on your face carried with gusts of wind through the open windows, nothing completes the setting like a plate of hot bhajias and tea. Or corn on the cob (bhutta) - roasted with salt and lemon rubbed on it in your hand. Or piping hot Khichdi (not the North Indian one for ill people) with papad / fried potatoes and tangy mango pickle for lunch. Or hot buttered aalu parathas - yum! In fact, anything hot is fun to eat. And when its raining, we love to much. It prepares one for the forthcoming rain dance ;)
And then, to emphasis the cold chilled feeling, there are ice creams and kulfis and cold drinks. The other end of the monsoons spectrum.
Yes, its monsoon once again, my rain gear is out, and though the mush, the irritation of arriving disheveled and wet to office and the impossibility of keeping things dry increase, one thing is for sure. With the extende summer, I realised just how much I missed it. Im glad its back. As for asking the rain to go away? Not me!
- Mood:
good
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We have people like Queen. Every note was thought out and nothing was incidental. No guitar riff was there without premeditation. To them music was not just joy, it was important. Then we had people like GnR, to whom music was fun. It was more important to make it sound good and yet it was heartfelt because they loved what they did. They loved having fun with their instruments, their voice, the notes.
And then there were some musicians who fell somewhere in between. To them music was a medium - a way to show their true selves, their ideas, and so it was important. And then again, they experimented with their music and played with it. Into such category was Michael Jackson. Irrespective of when he came to lime light, irrespective of which era he was born in, he was one of the greatest singer/writer/dancer - in short, performers. If the Moonwalk had been showcased in 2009, it would still become the rage. Billie Jean, Beat It, Thriller, Bad, Blood on the Dance Floor, etc would have been hits even today. Perhaps the videos would have been more cutting edge. No. Make that definitely more cutting edge than what we see now. MJ was known to push boundaries while making his videos. Perhaps modern day music videos would be totally different were he not there in the picture.
Unlike many modern day pop artists, music by Jackson was not dismiss-able. Whether one liked it or not, it was undeniable that there was a catch to it, which made it irrepressible. You could not forget a song once you'd heard it. The energy with which he sang was infectious. It is apparent just how much time he must have spent fine tuning a song before turning out the record. Exactly where the creak of the door should be heard and exactly when he should give on of his famous shouts was very well thought out. It was not a whim. At least, I refuse to believe that - they were all too well timed for that. He cared about his every move.
And then his dancing. There simply cant be a parallel. And it is not just about the moves. When he danced, he had a palpable aura of repressed energy. Like a man who is straining against the leashes, waiting to just break free yet reigning himself in and doing a few very difficult but very elegant dance moves. His moves were not just graceful, they were, and are, a delight to watch. His feet barely touched the ground, and his hands and body were almost-shaking, always, but not shaking. In a world where stage shows are common and talent springs up on every TV channel, it is rare to come across anyone as talented as him, as true a performer as him.
That slight man, terribly screwed up in his head by a lifetime of strife and troubles, made a place for himself all over the world, in every village of distant countries, in a time when there was no internet, and barely any television. Now thats talent. I shall not call him a star or a superstar. When Paris Hilton is a star, MJ does not deserve to be called one. For all his personal problems, to me he was, and is, an unmissable part of History of Music. He has given a couple of full generations hope in music, addiction to music videos and high expectations from their artists. I guess many wannabe stars would have had it easy if Michael Jackson had not made his appearance. For a man who was pushed into his career by his father at a very very early age, he did remarkably well.
Show me one person from my generation who has not at some time sat open-mouthed, idolising the man dancing and singing away on-screen. A few months ago I went through as many music videos of his as I could find on youtube with a frnd. And we wondered where the man had vanished. How bad he had it that a complete part of the world had forgotten his undeniable contribution to Music and Dance and Performance and instead cared only about his looks, his estate, his lawyers. MJ was not a media man. He was good at what his job was - making music. Not exactly a sweet talker to a talk show host.
Upon the news of his death, I was surprised, yet in a way relieved. Michael Jackson did not deserve to live as thoughtless and respect-less life as he had been living. For all his hard work, his fights for causes, and his talent, he had to give everything up, one by one. I never thought Ill write a Eulogy for him (for anyone in fact) but here I am, dedicating a whole post to Michael Jackson. The hearthrob of so many girls my generation and older and younger, and as many men. May his music be remembered, his dancing be remembered, and not the latter 25% of his life. One thing however, is for sure. With Michael Jackson, there has never been moderation. Super success and a Super downfall. The downfall was personal, the success touched everybody who cared to be touched. May the success be remembered. A frnd of mine mentioned had he died while performing, he would have been more legendary. I however think the man deserved a quiet respectable death, and he got it.
- Mood:sad
- Music:AnjanDutta - 2441139
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Dont believe me? Let me retrace over some of the last few times. Once I was returning from Calcutta and there was a transport strike. Which meant I had no means of transporting myself home, except by bus - which was a little far from the station and I had heavy bags. Eventually I managed to rope in a frnd who picked and dropped me home.
Another time my boss quit while I was on leave. Which meant on my return, I had no real boss or understanding of my job responsibilities. Quite a worry I assure you.
As long as the Bombay airport was under renovation, the flights were always delayed by an hour or so - circling over the city. Which meant I was always late - late to reach home or late to reach work.
Once, I returned to see there was no water. No drinking water and no bathing water as the building had water supply under repair, and everyone had been notified a day earlier. However, I was unaware as I was not there. So, for a day, I had to live off a small amount of limited water I made the guards give me.
This time, however, I saw a lot of interesting activity around my travel both sides of the journey. I have been in Ahmedabad for a few days, for work. On the day I left, the flush (at home) broke just at the last moment - so theres work for a plumber in the house. My luggage had to be sent by Rush Baggage on another flight and then someone fell ill in the flight and it left 30 mins late. Elaboration? OK. Though I left home on a non-traffic time, fairly early on a saturday afternoon, I faced a LOT of traffic. Though I had already checked in, my luggage was not. And so, though I was allowed to board the flight, my heavy baggage with my office stuff and loads of reports, was not allowed to board it. Hence, the ppl at Jet Airways sent it by the next flight - 2 hours+ later. I would have to collect it sometime the next day/ late night.
If that was not enough, the lady beside me in the flight stank. The flight was full, not a seat to spare and here I was pre checked-in on a nice seat right in front, with a lady who fidgeted a lot. Every time she fidgeted, I had to stop breathing. I guess it was her hair. An African lady with hair permanently braided onto her scalp. Or whatever its called - you know what I mean.
Then, just as the wheels started rolling, the stewards showing off the safety features stopped mid-sentence, and had all kinds of interesting expressions on their faces. Further investigation of the direction of their gaze showed me nothing. Because there was a group of some more flight attendants. Apparently someone had fallen ill 23 rows behind me. S/he was then escorted out of the plane by a doctor from the airport, under emergency procedure. It was interesting (we taxied back to parking, there was a lot of communication with ground staff using airline style sign language, a medical van and a practitioner were called along with oxygen n stuff, and then a huddle was seen to depart by the rear door and finally all doors were closed again. Oh! and we got to hear a lot from our Dutch pilot attempting English), but well, it meant the flight left late. However, credit to the airlines, we reached only 10 mins late than the original arrival time. We took some shortcut over the sea and the view was awesome. That also meant a lot of turbulence as monsoon was approaching Bombay, and we moved through cumulo-nimbus clouds. This was one occassion when if the flight wouldve been late, I wouldnt have cared - it wouldve made my baggage collection easier!
My return journey was another ballgame. This time I ensured that not only was I checked in, I was early enough to have my baggage checked in as well. And then I made my way and waited to board the flight. Finally our call came, and we sat down. It was late and I thought I would have dinner - some sandwich which turned out worse than I expected. My advice? Never try the Chicken Tikka s/w of Jet.Usually their food is decent but this was - well the bread was yellow (dont ask me why) and the chicken was tasteless. Then, just as we were arriving our kind captain told us there was not landing room. No landing room for a scheduled flight?!! After the airport has finished its renovation work over a year ago?! Ah hell. After a lot of dipping and circling around raining clouds, we eventually landed a whole 40 mins later than the scheduled time.
And then we waited at the luggage belt. Everyone got their stuff, except me. It turned out, they sent my bag over to transition for International Flights. God knows what country that poor used bag full of office documents would have arrived in, had I not demanded it brought back to me immediately.
Finally, I was back home. Today morning my newspaper man and my maid assumed I will be out of town for some reason and didnt turn up. And then, the rains resumed. I have to now go and get rain footwear, and check on the raincoat I carried, but didnt use today. Oh! and get a plumber.
Like I say, my trips back to the city of Mumbai have yet to be peaceful transitions.
- Mood:
hungry
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The AC in office is on full blast. And all I want to do is curl up in bed with a book and music, while the AC at home is on full blast. However, I will probably head out for drinks and dinner.
A little like the famous Miss Marple, I find people can be categorised. Like the super-efficient, sentence repeating, genuinely fake people, especially women, who remind one of a pre-occupied Aunty with three well-behaved kids -the type in whose presence one didnt know what to do as a kid. They nod at every sentence, have a small smile on almost all the time and their faces mirror your expression to the 'T'. Problem is, with them you dont know when they are genuine, and when they are fake. So I have concluded that they are so fake, they dont know what genuine is. Their life is one long tryst of political-correctness.
It helps to write down a few lines than just pretend to work, I can see my frndly neighbourhood clock telling me six minutes have ticked by. But the time means nothing anymore. Six-thirty may be the time on paper to leave work, but nothing here moves as per whats written on some paper. The advent and departure of one in this place is independant of logical work hours. It is dependant upon the Holy Being also known as Boss. So though the clock may tick by, unless The Man leaves at the alleged time, it holds no meaning to the life of a mere mortal like me.
However, what does give comfort is the knowledge that the next few minutes may give him reason to move away from his beloved desk, for the weekend.
Considering that the aforementioned being doesnt have anything of much value to achieve in office, except an ability to brag to his wife about the work load he manages, it is to be hoped that he will bow to the time rule today.
For lack of exciting things happening in my personal life, I await news from frnds.
With time having passed in between writing a post and getting entertained by colleagues wrestling with the printer, I give up on office politics and just head for the door. Weekend, here I come.
- Mood:
listless
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Haan, hum chahte hain ki aapke beti ka haath aap mere bete ko dein.
Kya baat kahi aapne S-ji. Agar humari beti aapke ghar aa jaye to isse badi khushi hume nahi hogi.
To yeh lijiye, muh meetha kijiye!*
And so the boy and the girl met.
Thankfully this time, in real life, the sweets were not procured that fast and the couple were allowed to meet and choose each other.
Yes, this truly happened, though the dialogue above is conjecture, but allow me some writers freedom to make it Filmy. This happened in Bangalore, Karnataka between an Andhra Pradesh family and another Rajasthani one.
This interesting brand of marital alliance between one of my closest and oldest frnds and the mystery girl was quite hush hush till the last moment, at least to
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
rexzilla and me. Surprisingly put together by two families with nothing more than freindship in common, this rather filmy get-together worked romantically. Bangalore seems to be a city seeping with love ;)Within a month of moving to a new city, a new job and a new house, alone, this man has found himself a few steps away from the altar. The same man who till months ago quaked at the serious thought of being wed.
Till the year 2005 there was a spate of weddings within my friend circle. A break was seen by me in 2007 when M, my erstwhile flat mate got married. This year seems to be again quite busy maritally and my calendar is filling up with wedding invites. My brothers wedding in December was expected. Now I have to add this frnds wedding and skip his engagement, as another of my frnds is getting married on that very day, in a different location. Auspicious day indeed!
Which basically reduces the trio to a duo of single spirits. Thank goodness we had the Goa vacation earlier this year and didnt wait till later. Because in the present scheme of things the later wouldnt have come.
Now to wait and meet the lady. And of course, attend the wedding to check whether 'baratiyon ka swagat Pan Paraag' se hoga ki nahi.**
[For my non-Hindi speaking audience:
We is used as a substitute for 'I' to show higher rank as compared to middle class families
* - a famous dialogue from most Bollywood movies in the 80s where two high ranked business men converse about their eligible children:
We want this friendship to culminate into relationship
O Rly?
Yes, We wish that your daughters hand is given to my son (in marriage).
What a wonderful thing Mr S. If my daughter is wed to your house/ family, it would give me great joy.
There then, here are some sweets to seal the deal
**- a famous advertisement from my childhood, where the only 'dahej' that the boys side want is that everyone is given Pan Paraag (a mouth freshener) when they come to attend the wedding.
So I wait to see if we are welcomed keeping the fimly manner alive, with Pan Paraag]
- Mood:
creative
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Which brings me to Mothers and Daughters. Its an old joke in books, movies and any other medium how fathers never see their daughters as grown up enough to be married, yet Moms have just no problems with that. Perhaps to a mother, it is satisfying to see a daughter grow up. Though much importance is laid on the sons and the paternal line, eventually, it is the woman who usually ends up running the house.
In olden days, with a joint family, it was the new wife who was the outsider, the one who had to mould herself to the traditions in the new place. The boy of the family, thus, was important. He & his family would be the one carrying on the traditions and views of the family. He would bring in his mate, and they would do what His parents had always done, as had his grandparents. The food, the family traditions, etc would continue with the male sire because it was a big joint family where the man's family lived.
Today (as in for the past decade or more), the families are usually nuclear. And till date in most cases, most of the housework is done by the woman. The in-laws (bride or groom) come to stay only when they are old and infirm. In this case it is the lady who brings home the customs. The housekeeping, the food, everything is as it is in her home. As she has grown up. The husband only gives his touches in his choices or in the small chores he does. Not in the daily running. The new family is moulded as per the mother, even though the surname remains of the father - in most cases.
As a mother sees her son grow up, it is a man she looks at, someone who would perhaps be like her husband later. Someone who would be nice, kind, helpful, dashing, energetic - whatever you can think of - but as a man. When a man looks at his son, its probably as his scion. But, as a boy. He definitely does not see him as a grown man, until perhaps the father himself is old. Till then, his son is still his 'boy'. One that needs to be taken care of till he is independent. To him he passes on character, but not traditions.
With daughters too, a father would usually think of her as a young fragile thing who is to be taken care of (ref: the link above) rather than a grown woman who is to battle out her life. He would rather not have her battle on. To her he passes on the will to battle, and yes, character.
To a mother however, a daughter is a reflection of herself. With time she sees in her daughter what she did when she grew up. The social changes and how her daughter saw it all better. And her traditions. And her cooking.
The housework is passed on to daughter from mother. As is the cooking. When a mother sees her daughter grow up, she sees her emulating the only other source of housework - her mom. So the daughter (adding in her own character) continues the tradition of the family. When a man talks about 'Moms Food' he is not talking of food his father's family endorsed - he is acknowledging the food that his mother (and her mother before that) have made. The wife may serve that to him once in a while, but she definitely is going to prefer her 'family' food - it is what she knows, it is what she cooks, and ultimately, it is what she likes. Eventually, her children like that too. The tradition carries on.
In the world of Patriarchy, almost every man is living in a world created by his mother or his wife. The Mother echoes her mother and the wife, hers. Though lines remain patriarchal, traditions flow matriarchally.
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- In mixed religion marriages, it is assumed or often noticed that the child tends to follow the mothers religion. If the mother is vegetarian, the chances of the child being vegetarian is higher. It is because it is her who eventually does the banal every day tasks, and hence spends more time with the child.
- Dont ask me why I had the thought, I just had it. And no, none of this is influenced by my family.
- Mood:
thoughtful
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Which brings me to Mothers and Daughters. Its an old joke in books, movies and any other medium how fathers never see their daughters as grown up enough to be married, yet Moms have just no problems with that. Perhaps to a mother, it is satisfying to see a daughter grow up. Though much importance is laid on the sons and the paternal line, eventually, it is the woman who usually ends up running the house.
In olden days, with a joint family, it was the new wife who was the outsider, the one who had to mould herself to the traditions in the new place. The boy of the family, thus, was important. He & his family would be the one carrying on the traditions and views of the family. He would bring in his mate, and they would do what His parents had always done, as had his grandparents. The food, the family traditions, etc would continue with the male sire because it was a big joint family where the man's family lived.
Today (as in for the past decade or more), the families are usually nuclear. And till date in most cases, most of the housework is done by the woman. The in-laws (bride or groom) come to stay only when they are old and infirm. In this case it is the lady who brings home the customs. The housekeeping, the food, everything is as it is in her home. As she has grown up. The husband only gives his touches in his choices or in the small chores he does. Not in the daily running. The new family is moulded as per the mother, even though the surname remains of the father - in most cases.
As a mother sees her son grow up, it is a man she looks at, someone who would perhaps be like her husband later. Someone who would be nice, kind, helpful, dashing, energetic - whatever you can think of - but as a man. When a man looks at his son, its probably as his scion. But, as a boy. He definitely does not see him as a grown man, until perhaps the father himself is old. Till then, his son is still his 'boy'. One that needs to be taken care of till he is independent. To him he passes on character, but not traditions.
With daughters too, a father would usually think of her as a young fragile thing who is to be taken care of (ref: the link above) rather than a grown woman who is to battle out her life. He would rather not have her battle on. To her he passes on the will to battle, and yes, character.
To a mother however, a daughter is a reflection of herself. With time she sees in her daughter what she did when she grew up. The social changes and how her daughter saw it all better. And her traditions. And her cooking.
The housework is passed on to daughter from mother. As is the cooking. When a mother sees her daughter grow up, she sees her emulating the only other source of housework - her mom. So the daughter (adding in her own character) continues the tradition of the family. When a man talks about 'Moms Food' he is not talking of food his father's family endorsed - he is acknowledging the food that his mother (and her mother before that) have made. The wife may serve that to him once in a while, but she definitely is going to prefer her 'family' food - it is what she knows, it is what she cooks, and ultimately, it is what she likes. Eventually, her children like that too. The tradition carries on.
In the world of Patriarchy, almost every man is living in a world created by his mother or his wife. The Mother echoes her mother and the wife, hers. Though lines remain patriarchal, traditions flow matriarchally.
-------------------------
-In mixed religion marriages, it is assumed or often noticed that the child tends to follow the mothers religion. If the mother is vegetarian, the chances of the child being vegetarian is higher. It is because it is her who eventually does the banal every day tasks, and hence spends more time with the child.
-Dont ask me why I had the thought, I just had it. And no, none of this is influenced by my family.
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Everyone has a name. In the normal course of events, one meets a person and gets to know their name. However, in the world of internet, one is usually acquainted with the name first, then an email, a phone call and eventually, perhaps a face. This results in people having images of a name in their mind.
Certain names conjure up certain personalities and ages. An email style is no indication of the person's age, yet we tend to categorise. As is talking to a person on the phone. An old man may have a surprisingly youthful voice and vice versa.
This is the age of dissociated understanding of a person. The age where one may judge another person solely by their actions and words, with no preconception regarding their expected acts.
For example, earlier, meeting an old person, one would forgive him/ her certain gestures - since s/he was from the 'old world' where those qualities were the norm. However, the same thing on email sounds either quaint, rude, or chivalrous, depending upon the act. A rude dismissal is just that - a rude dismissal, and not an 80 year old mans impatience. Courteousness in emails is just that. And not the habit of a 70 year old man from years ago. The same stands true for younger people.
However, these emails are actions. The actions are coupled with names, and we humans being what we are, like to put a face to every name/ gesture/ action. So we imagine a personality behind the names/ emails. Not consciously, but a vague idea. An idea that effects how one reacts to an email, and talks on the phone, but basically, something that is not actively decided.
On meeting the said person, we unconsciously expect certain things - and are surprised. Hence we realise that we had a presupposed personality in mind.
To me, certain names convey certain personalities, like the name 'Naval'. Coupled with the prompt email responses and informal note, I expected a strapping man in his early 30's. Instead, I met an old man, short, shriveled and very knowledgeable.
The name Sanjeev meant nothing, his unavailability on phone however led me to presuppose him to be in his mid 40s. His curt email and asking his secretary to set up an appointment told me he would be in his mid 50s at least. The secretary herself sounded like an unmarried quirky christian in her mid 80s.
Guess what?
I was right.
About the seccy. The man? He was an early 30's Dynamo. Vibrant, energetic and young. And oh so bald!
And yet, because of the time spent interacting via emails and phone calls, my mind still sticks to the preconceived notions. And, when I see Naval and Sanjeev on paper, I have to remind myself what the man was really like. Like the tiny bespectacled man behind a big desk, when I expected a fat jowly person. Like the young irritatingly slow, balding man with a tic, when I expected a young, energetic dynamic person. I could go on.
Most of the times though, the thoughts and realities don't clash wildly. As a result, the mind does not remind us of what we had preconceived. However, it does remain that we always imagine. We always put mannerisms to actions, and faces to those mannerisms.
- Mood: contemplative
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Thanks to Facebook and its integration feature for Google Reader which I use, I now get a staple question from most of my frnds - what is 'shared on google reader' thingie displayed on ur FB ?
So I tell them. I think its time Google starts acknowledging me for their sudden increase in reader users from India ;)
However, the real question that comes has more to do with using the reader, than just well, using it. The most common problem people face, is keeping up with the feeds. Generally, people subscribe to news sites. These are sites that are updated a million times daily, and the number of 'new' items inundating the reader is mind boggling. To someone who is new, this usually results in them spending hours just to scan through, read and delete items.
After some such discussions, I have come to the conclusion that reading feeds is an art. A skill form. With every passing year a new skill form is developed for the Net. And reading RSS feeds from an aggregator is such another. To some it comes instantaneously, to others it comes with practice. Many give up and die.
Like most things on the Net, an aggregator just makes it simpler to track whats happening on few selected sites, and is not really an invite to read it all - unlike emails. Emails have to be acknowledged. All of them have to be scanned or read, whereas all the web page updates one gets probably dont need to be read. A scan through all the headlines once a day, followed by a 'mark all as read' can be good enough for feeds of news sites.
Also, it is very difficult for an unused brain to get used to the fact that though the aggregator updates immediately, it is not important to read it immediately. Once updated, that information is available thereafter (unless deleted by the originator site) and can be ready at personal discretion - a minute/ day or even month later.
Small things like the above are difficult to explain to people who get emailers with news on them - and usually just junk the email than read its difficult to read headline based material. To explain that a feed reader makes it easier to do so, is difficult without a practical demonstration. Even then, usually people get stressed by the 'unread' count. Bloglines, Google Reader, NewsGator, etc. all show an unread count, or at least mark topics which still have unread articles, if not the actual number. To people who are used to 'staying on top of their emails' this is a Herculean task to reflect on their feed readers. So, they give up and never check on them again. I wonder if Google will have the statistics of unused reader accounts - it would be quite interesting.
Google of course, it seems, is the most popular feed reader. Not only because of its great interface, but also because its seamlessly integrated with the other Google applications like Gmail, Calendar, Documents, etc. and the great publicity it gets on FaceBook thanks to people like me.
So, I say, get onto a reader, add your bookmarks and enjoy their information sans ads, flash, colours etc. - just for the information. And do not worry about the unread count. A reader is one of the most useful ways of keeping track of activities on the Net. I suggest everyone go experiment!
- Mood: creative
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The economic world is at a virtual collapse and though it may have been propped up by a walking stick, money is still hard to come by, as are jobs. Sure, there is a vast majority who has a job, but all of them are thankful for it. We all know someone personally who has lost a job in the recent past, and that is a reality our parents did not experience.
The political world is - well, almost non existent. Our leaders are either people with zero experience, chosen to lead because the other alternative was scary. Like, for example, in India.Those who care about making a place for themselves in politics are decades old, withered and on the verge of collapse - not just physically, but also in their mental faculties.Forget changing the country, it would be an ordeal to see them uphold what we had for the past few years. The younger ones are too highly influenced and under the thumb of parent to make any difference to how the country runs. An open economy, fierce competition and really bad leadership - a broth that can make anyone feel ill. The election results are a mystery - but there seems to be no hope. One worse than the other.
Socially, the world seems to be battling away to keep faith. Because when there is no money and no social security, people turn to Gods. And what Gods. Talibans making headway everywhere, with their unbalanced view on humanity. Christians up in arms about simple things like salt and evolution. And in India, so-called Hindus trying to convert it into something the faith never was suposed to be. The only religion in the world where the Gods drink, have consorts and allow lies (if the truth hurts someone you love, tell a white lie), has been twisted in the hands of frustrated groups calling themselves 'Ram Sena' and the likes into a violent, regressing, Taliban-ish version which has imposed the purdah of fear on women in their cities.
As work reduces and money dwindles the power of brawn rises, so does the ego and ergo there are more cases of robbery, murder, rape. Not a day goes by without a news of gang rape, a woman killed, forced incest, murder, dacoity. When we study History, we read of the Dark Ages - when money was less, crime was high and power was in the hands of a select few while religion swayed the public mind. And though the European Dark Ages are popular, there was one in every part of the world.
Is it much different now?
Are we entering another Dark Ages? Or are we already in it? Things really are as bad as they look. See no further than your private sphere - where those who hold power use it ruthlessly - like the employers, the local politicians and rule makers, and religious heads, and the inordinate power and addiction to the Media.
Perhaps it all comes from a weak economic condition. If so, things can improve in a year or so. However, something makes me feel this is not so simple. Not with terrorist strikes, flaunting of nuclear warheads, decreasing resources to share, increasing population, and skewed religious beliefs.
- Mood:
sad
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All went well till I was left with almost nothing on my plate, and no intention of reloading it. Then I decided to have that tiny bit of chicken left on my plate. I pierced it with my fork. And then came a split second which extended for minutes. My fork made a loud noise as it hit the plate. The chicken was not chicken. It was gourd. It was a hard piece of gourd that refused to be pierced by my unsuspecting fork. It was a hard piece of fork which made no qualms about skidding away from my plate and make a beeline towards my left, leaving a streak of angry red behind it.
I closed my eyes, I waited for a reaction. Any reaction. I saw there was none. The man on the table next to me refilled his glass. The waiter came and asked to refill my plate. My table fellows continued their conversation. I looked down at my plate. It was empty.
After a while I circumspectly looked at the table next to mine - it had a beautiful level, single streak of red, not leaving the cloth at even one point, slimming down as it traversed around a foot-long journey. I wondered at what speed it must have sped me. I could not locate that errant gourd.
As for me, the sooner I could leave that place, the better I felt.
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What would you do if you were me? And if you were the Man, perhaps not so dulled by alcohol?
- Mood: uncomfortable
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Cooking was never a great deal in my family. Eating was, is and will remain big though. However, the Kitchen is primary in everyone's mind. Its a cardinal sin to have guests to whom only two courses are served, and with vegetarians my extended family knows not where to go. However, they survive with soya and paneer saving the day.
My paternal grandfather was a vegetarian in all senses of the word that a Bengali can derive. He ate fish, and the occasional chicken, but did not touch meat, eggs and garlic and ginger. Hence cakes for him had to be egg-less. My paternal grandmother was an eternal foodie. She loved food with an enthusiasm I am yet to encounter in another. She loved food for its worth and she loved to share. She loved it in masses and she loved people hordes moving towards it. Needless to say, the food was 90% of the time, non-veg. This meant she would not touch an egg-less cake with a barge pole. Even on days after fasting all day, she would ensure everyone ate what she was about to eat, because she wanted people to revel in the joy of food - even if it was a mix of boiled rice and potato.
On my maternal side, my grandmom loved to cook and made many delicious and now rare foods at home. My grandfather loves shopping. To him there is nothing better than feeding his guests prime produce from wherever he can. Even if it is an apple. Over the years he has made connections all over the marketplace and people keep aside their best for his verification before they sell it to another. Even now, when he goes to market rarely, he gets missives through the cook (who goes shopping now) about certain fish, vegetables and upcoming fruit bonanzas. To him and my grandmom, there was nothing more pleasant and important than feeding people right. And 'right' obviously meant loads of courses and fish in almost every one of them. Even on the rare occasions vegetarian food was required, there would be the exotic preparation to make up for the blandness.
Thanks to all this, one would assume cooking would be important and that the cooks would be over taxed. Interestingly enough, in both families, the cooks have had a decent enough life. The important dishes were always handled by who made them best. My paternal grandmom would make the mutton or the rare fish, while my paternal grandad would grill the kebabs or bake the eggless cake in his favorite GE oven (which he had shipped with him from London). Both would make periodic trips to the kitchen to advice and even take the cooking over from the cook, ensuring the meal would be good - even on normal days.
While my maternal grandmom was healthy, no cook dared enter the kitchen, but my grandad was the one who made all milk products - the ghee, the butter, even the fruit creams served as dessert on certain occasions. The menu was decided together and there was constant interference from grandfather while grandmom presided over the kitchen.
As a result, from childhood I have seen the kitchen as a pretty central, yet neutral area for the family. My father has always shown no qualms about entering the kitchen, even before his lifestyle demanded that. In fact, with his father being kitchen independent and my grandmother being blasé about cooking, it was but expected that he would have no hang ups about cooking. So it was that since childhood, rustling up lunch/ dinner depended primarily upon whoever came home first. When in the mood, my dad would make something exotic, and experience the wrath of my Mom (at the mess he would leave behind). If it were me, I had to make the rice, and I resorted to the simplest fried rice as an ends to all needs. All this of course, was when the cook were absent.
The same held true for morning tea/ coffee. My Mom being an early riser would typically make it for the family, but many times my Dad, up and about, would wake me up with coffee which he made while he made himself and my Mom tea. So, no one was spared. The kitchen is and was, everyones equal domain (scratch that - my Mom does have more rights over it). Actually, the eventual (p)resident of the kitchen in all these houses has been the cook. No one cooks unless they want to, and then there are no hangups as to who that person is.
My father is visiting, and yesterday, my maid/ cook took leave. Armed with this prior knowledge my Dad took it upon himself to make me lunch and as I discovered later, dinner. The lunch was quite tasty, and quite unlike what my cook makes (it was luchi and cauliflower-pea sabzi). On letting my colleagues and friends know that my dad cooked for me (thrilled as I was with his excitement), I met the astonishment and a general level of awe. Which is when I realised, how in most families, men consider cooking the 'womens' job and rarely, if ever go there. They would rather order first (correct me if Im wrong). Considering how important food is to a family, I never cease to get amazed by this. How can something so innate to the family's well being remain the stronghold of one person. I have never understood men who cannot (and will not) cook. Innately, I have found it unnatural.
My maternal cousin brothers also being from the Army are fairly well equipped in the kitchen and take pride in making their speciality dishes when they are home - it is not unusual to see my aunt throw up her hands in despair as my brothers coach her on making the cheese omelette or the even gravy chicken - this when they dont even have their own kitchen to experiment in - till they take over and proudly feed the end result to whoever is present.
As kids I remember my paternal brothers and I would close the kitchen door from inside in our attempt to make food (of which we had no idea) where I being the youngest would be given the menial tasks while my brothers tried their hands at cooking.
Cooking in my family has always been a family affair, genderless, ageless. It has been one place to showcase ones strengths and prowess. And the place to have discussions. As children we were expected to hang around the kitchen to ensure any of my elders listened to what I had to say. Else, it was over the dinner table that the most important and eclectic discussions were held.
Creating something sumptuous has always been a plus and being unable to enter and cook in the kitchen, well, as of now its unheard of, so I dont know what the reaction to it will be, if ever. I hear of people talk about how in x,y,z family the guy helps in cooking and how great that is. It usually does not effect me. Till I realise that its an exclusive affair and the men cant hold a handle to save their lives - or rather, wont. I have usually seen the chef make everyday food, under guidance from my mom, but my Dads never restricted his opinions either.
So, to me when my dad makes food for me, its not an unusual honour. Its his way of relaxing, of checking out what my life is like (by seeing what I eat) and also, in some way, contributing to the house. When he made lunch for me, I was delighted - it was nice to be woken up with coffee after so long, and not many Dads would pack a lunch - I had expected just a dinner. Of course, when in the evening I went back and found the kitchen a mess, I could totally empathise with my Mom losing her temper after my Dads cooking sprees.
And, after being told that I have too many things in the living room (like decoration pieces, TV, DVD player, computer, etc etc), I was ticked off for not having a proper 12pc cutlery set >.<
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I have suddenly realised Ive been on 'radio silence' for a while now. No outgoing emails, except the occasional reader items, no phone calls, and no blogs. I suppose I have been busy with innumerable things, but I know for sure, that the state will not ensue for too long. Goodness! The last few week shave meant I have written many posts in my head, but not translated one of them onto paper or a computer.
Meanwhile a colleague left the company for good, and I discovered I have a silent reader (SK), who hopefully will also comment whenever she gets the time.
- Mood: excited
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However, as it shaped up, I thought it would be way cooler to keep it as a pouch which I could hang somewhere, using the holes in the circuit or simply by magnets. And I made this.
Its pretty handy, and I intend to keep recipts and bills of immediate use as well as a few often used take out menus in it. Of course, it contains a little stationary to make life simpler. On the whole? Im pretty happy with it.
- Mood: creative
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I moved from the bed, feeling relaxed and happy. Not delighted, just satisfied - and that made me feel happy. A morning of peace, no phone calls or doorbells and music of my choice with a book. Even my maid Vijaya who came late today was happy, smiling and laughing and talking about irrelevant stuff when I paused and lifted my head from the book. The book was finished now. A marathon completed, and my brain was rewiring itself to start on a new jog, feeling happy at having finished the race, and rejuvinating itself before the next one. Because, happily I have two more books lined up for me, by authors I like. There is nothing more rewarding than reading someone who agrees with you, knows what you like and tells you that they are nice things. Haruki Murakami in his real-fantasy world did that.
Just like telling me that Bob Dylan sounds like a kid standing at the window watching the rain. And then he marvels at it himself. And I marvel at him. It cant be truer. And I had put on Tambourine Man to play. I wanted to verify the truth.
I suddenly realise Im famished, I havent eaten a thing since morning, only my mediocre cup of coffee. I go to the fridge and stare, there is so much food, yet nothing I want to eat. Finally I take out the salami and keep it out to thaw. It gives me time to decide what I want to eat. I pick up a slice of cucumber from the plate I had asked Vijaya to prepare - a plate full of cucumber, beetroot and tomato slices, no dressings, no salt. I wonder what they would call this - its not exactly a Salad, but add salt and its what passes as salad in a dhaba. The cucumber is nice, ice cold and crunchy. I pick up a beetroot and remember its been ages since I ate beet. It lovely. Mildly sweet, crisp but not crunchy. And juicy. The tomato is too tangy so I pick up another beet circle and close the fridge door. The big bite into the circle of deep red beet leaves it in the shape of a less than half moon - kind of like the moon from the production house - Dreamworks. Only with jagged edges on one side and uneven polygonal ones on another, and thicker. I take another bite and feel the cool of the other edge of the arc brush my left cheek. I finish the slice, and walk back out of the kitchen. I think about what I mean to do today. And I pick up a brush and brush my hair. Its been so long since I brushed my hair without a reason - the brushing before going out or getting dressed. I enjoy it. I enjoy the sensation of the brush edges touching my scalp lightly, passing through my hair, leaving it rejuvinated. I pull back my hair into a ponytail. I dont use my regular scrunchie, but a simple plain band of purple. I like the purple band. I re-found it last night in an unused purse. While Im at it, I thought I might as well wash my face and see if it can remove the cottony feel of satisfaction from my brain as well. Make it sharper. The mirror shows the drop of blood left by the succulent beet on my cheek. I wash it away.
I feel refreshed, calm, serene, but not yet ready to take on the small jobs I mean to do today. I look at the computer and I think after I write this down I will get a coffee to go with crisp, deep fried salami and soft buttered bread. Perhaps some of the chicken soup as well. But Im not to sure about that. And then I will be energised. And so ready to move out of home and do my self designated work. I pause and listen - there is no sound apart from my fan whirring. And distant cars. I feel nice, relaxed.
Having written it all, I already feel better. The brain a little sharper, the edge a little more refined. I will make strong hot black coffee now, perhaps with a drop of milk. And put on Aerosmith. Crying.
- Mood: content
- Music:Silence
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Yes, this is a post on Bombay. Almost everyone I know seems to know the parts of the city because of the media centric role it plays, and has an opinion. (In case you, reader, have doubts about any part of the city, here is a map tp help you.). Oh and this is a long post, and not a rant, really. People are free to choose how they live. Choice of travel modes and property prices are individual decisions, I believe and not a factor of circumstances (usually). So this is just casual observation about people in Bombay, as free from judgemnt as I could muster, because most people anyway know what I feel about the city. I dont need to blog it.
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Bombay is two cities. It is not about rich and poor (which is indeed very contrasting in Bbay unlike most cities) and neither it is about religion (unlike what movies and books may make you think). It is two cities because it is one city forced to become larger than what it is. It is, perhaps, at some level about Bombay and it becoming Mumbai.
Traditionally Bombay was a city at the edge of a cliff, barely any aerable land, area scooped away from the harsh sea. Then, somehow, it became the land of opportunities. And people came to Bombay from all over India. And Bombay grew. The suburbs became part of the city, and what was not Bombay 10 years ago is now almost central. And what was an uninhabited island when I was young, well, its mainland now, almost the place where I live - part of 'old Mumbai'. And the city is still growing. One day it might reach Pune. And at this pace, the day is not far.
All that is beautiful. All that is nice. But that has divided the city into two parts - 'The Town' and 'Suburbs' - nomenclatures used only by people living North of the Mahim Creek. The southern tip facing the sea became the 'town' region and a the city grew northwards - the only available landspace - suburbs grew and became part of Bombay. For those who life in the 'actual Mumbai' or in the suburbs, they are the 'mumbaikars' while anyone from South Mumbai just say they are from South Bombay. Suburbans of course, call them 'Townies'. According to them townies are snobbish. Amongst many other things. Bandra lies at the cusp, unable to choose. Unable to be accepted into what was Bombay and not deigning to be a part of the suburbs. And so anyone who comes here from other cities goes to neutral land, Bandra.
But it is not about that. It is a lot about the way of life in these two parts of the city which differentiates them so totally, that the moment you clap eyes on someone, you can guess which part of Bombay they are from - South or North. For one, it is north Bombay that is so immersed in the famous Bollywood culture. It is remarkable. Pass Santacruz and enter Juhu and from there to the ends of the city the movie feel does not leave one. There are posters of every single film that has been filmed - and you realise just how many there are.
However, the biggest divide of them all are the train travellers and the road travellers. The population count in South Bombay is relatively lower than that in North Bombay. Also, most workplaces happen to be concentrated in South, though there are hubs in Bandra and Andheri as well. So people travel, from all ends of the city, people traverse distances to reach their workplaces and then leave for home, tired, beginning their home work on the way itself (cutting and buying vegetables, deciding on kids' homeowrk etc). Because of the way the city grew, infrastructure did not keep up and the nodal transport means are Trains. Indian Railway trains that connect smaller towns to major cities - the locals - are the main transport means for Mumbai. And people willingly pack themselves into these trains, spilling over, trampling each other and zealously guarding their right to be there.
A glance can tell a person whether s/he are a train traveller. They have a haggard look to them. No matter if that day they have travelled by the most luxurious car. train travellers are usually thin. Extremely, anaeimically, thin. Not the worked-out, dieted thinness that is more common in South Bombay. Also, their shoes - they are extremely flat. Like bedroom slippers, almost. It can be skirts, dresses, jeans or salwar kameezes. Footwear is slippers. Most train travellers have hair severely pulled back and tied up, in defiance to the wind in trains else if left open (rare) are meticulously brushed, often, all the time. Men wear shirts tucked out when they can, but anyway they are dripping with sweat. And, to my nose, no matter how much they use perfumes and deodorants, I can smell the train. The slums areas that the train has to travel through.
Train travellers always seem to be eating. And the fd seems to go nowhere. Its like they live to chew. To eat, to catch up on the time they lose between the autos and the trains and their destinations which could have contributed to a sit down meal. They carry big bags - men and women. And the bags contain food, the newspaper (folded into a tiny square), an FM or music player (nowadays phones are more common), and a small bottle of water. Then there is the attitude. The way they stand. The way they abhor personal space. Can you feel someones breath on your shoulder? Oh not to worry, Mumbai hai, yahan jagah kahan hai! And thats the attitude. People stand so close to each other for such a large percentage of their lives that even in an open area, a train traveller will stand centimeters away from a person, probably brushing them, breathing down their necks (literally).
And then the dressing sense. Perhaps there are more middle-class people in the suburbs than in South Bbay, but the clothes can be classified into 'suburbs'. Where the clothes from a small shop in south Bbay will scream South Bbay, the same holds true for vice versa. The 'bling' factor seems magnified. It may be the Bollywood effect or it may be the hurry, the buying from station markets and not proper markets, or just lack of discerning customers culminating to a lack of choice. But even a casual observer can differentiate men and women just by what they wear. Even the higher end shirts on men somehow seem woebegone, just by how they are worn (loose) or by their colour and designs. train travellers stay away from pearly whites you see. And I have not yet broached women clothes with regards to deeper necklines and skirts and dresses.
Contrary to poplar belief, and quite like any other Indian city, dressing for women in Bbay has to be just as well thought out. But its lesser of a worry if you happen to be travelling South. For while the city has fair share of travellers and women, just like the rest of India, men in the suburbs are stll unused to women with plunging necklines and hems.Hems, period. Somehow a woman in a body hugging teeshirt and tight, tight jeans is OK as compared to someone in a knee length skirt. Anyway, the point being, travelling to North Bbay makes one realise that the wardrobe that is normal in South may just not work. And if you are travelling by train, in a general compartment as compared to a Ladies one, there is no scope of sitting down unless its totally empty. You dont want men stading right on your toes while you sit. And the beggars. At crossings, in trains, everywhere.
The car travellers from the suburbs therefore, span the opposite end of the spectrum. Because of being surrounded by train travellers, they are usually snobbish enough to not even want to grace a taxi, forget autos. And this attitude extends to every other thing.
South Bombay on the other hand exudes a different feel. For one, public transport is restricted to Bus and Taxi. No autos, and trains are badly connected. On women, there is a prevalence of heels (and not the sensible block heels of the adventurous North Bombaiites) and clothes that are chic - if not from coutoure houses, then they look like they are from expensive shops. Its all very different from the feel of a Bollywood movie, and more like a neutral city. And that is because the emphasis seemsto lie more on style than whats de rigeur for the latest Hindi movies. And sequins seem rare(r). Even in the poorer sections an eve teaser is rare and so are the starers. Wear what you may. Women smoking is not wierd, and somehow the crowds are more structured. The personal space factor may be low, but as compared to the train travellers, it is a football field. In short, this part of the city seems more comfortable with itself. Perhaps because of its history it consists of older residents, more at ease with being a part of a rich, growing, multicultural city. Perhaps this very comfort reflects in their clothes and their attitude. Perhaps thats why the more affluent (and not noveu riche) are attracted to South Bombay (apart from property prices) as are the more affluent foreign residents.
And the major problem that any suburban has with a South Bombaiite is - they dont travel by train. No matter how many cars they own, a suburban has to travel by train for some part of their lives. And as per them, you have not lived in Bombay unless you have travelled by train. And the townies seem unable to grasp that.
Bombay has its own caste system. A geographical one. And one gets pulled into it no matter how hard one tries to stay away. Because the caste system ensures a life style difference. A difference so stark, yet so subtle.
And I did not even speak of the subdivide of East and West as seen in suburbs, and that of the 'western line' livers and harbour and 'central line' livers. I have not seen such strong, apparent, distinct differences within people of the same city in any other city. I guess its part of Bombay?
- Mood: apathetic
- Music:Aerosmith - Jaded
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After much hype, and much talk, I relented and saw Delhi 6. I walked out maybe 10 minutes before it ended, because the movie just did not end. And for some reason it was full of religious propaganda. And Delhi, Chandni Chowk, is not Haryana. People do not speak Haryanvi there. People do not discriminate by caste there. Not now. Maybe 15 years ago. Not now. Police is not evil. Delhi police is amongst the most helpful in India. Coarse, rugged, but they work. Yes, there are cases where they go wildly wrong and misuse their power, but not as blatantly and as regularly as shown. And women in Chandni Chowk wear jeans.
And, if the director felt he should show negatives of every religion, then there should be equal emphasis on all sides, not biased in a bid to please some fagments. If relegious propaganda is what is the motive of the movie, the director should have the guts to be true.
The Movie should have been called 'The monkey man episodes' and not the loving slang used by people of Chandni Chowk - 'Dilli 6'. Because its more about an alleged monkey-man murderer, which was rampant almost 10 yearsago, and religion than about the people, and even less about the accidental love story.
There is no scope of reminiscing and liking whats shown about the city - it is too matter of fact a portrayal. Snapshots do not a story make. And the best actor of the movie has a total of 15 minutes on-screen time. OK maybe 20. Abhishek Bacchhan needs to spruce up - in looks and acting (really, too much beard). And Sonam Kapoor deserves more. The pigeon and she fight for screen space it seems, and both excel. As compared to the rest.
But. I loved the music. After ages Rahman has given music that is nice. Music you dont have to 'get used to'. Which is true for most of his songs. And for the past few years, they have definitely not even grown on me. However, after a long time he has given a really nice score. And it was needed. Afterall, there are some decent songs in Indian movies now.
- Music:Delhi 6 - Dilli-6
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At work, there is a department which is responsible for photocopying and scanning and making binding files (the spiral bound reports etc.). The department is manned by two people, one of whom is also an odd-job man and does the scanning. And the other, handles photocopying and coloured printouts and file binding activities. Needless to say, these are things which not everyone can handle efficiently, and neither are these activities which are of frequent need given that most documents are electronically shared. However, it is necessary, especially for departments like Compliance, Audit and the Company Secretaries, if not for marketing material and introductions to companies.
However, this means the person handling the department is, to a large part of the day, free to do as he pleases. Being efficient in what he does and having little or no knowledge of other activities (apart from being outside his Job Description), he is in a niche which is important but low on demand. The rights and wrongs of that can be debated, but I will not. What I will mention here is what he does in that free time.
Unlike the other people I have seen, he does not dedicate his free time to gossip and using the company phone for personal calls and so on and so forth. He makes small craft objects for himself.
He takes up small pieces of thermocol boards and plastic boxes, left-over useless papers from photocopies, cut off its of spirals from the spiral binding and almost used up highlighters. He then modifies them into pieces of art, as pleases his fancy. Most of the time they are houses with gardens, flowers, people figures. The beauty is, each of them is made from pieces no one misses. They are meticulous in details and were it not for making him self-conscious I would take photographs. The house would have curtains drawn on them and if the windows have cut-outs, you would see chairs and a rug inside. All with paper. Normal A4 sized paper. And the houses would be not more than a hand in amount of area covered. They are as sturdy as can be possible, but look as if made from one of the better shops with high class art objects. He displays them on his corner shelf for a few days, and then lets them go. If one of the office boys request it, he gives it to them, else just trashes it and makes a new one. He refuses to give them to me, though he ensures I see every one of his creations and add a comment to them. Including the spelling of "Home Sweet Home" he added to the house with a green, green lawn and few mango trees surrounding it (Yes, he ensured they were mango trees).
Once he took an empty Money Plant pot, and used that as a base to make a bouquet of artificial roses and sunflowers made of thermocol and plastic. I mistook them for real.
I wonder at what he will create if I hand him a shoe box!
It takes him time, and he is willing to spend it. He uses up his lunch time and sometimes a little after office hours, as he waits for someone to send him the final file which he would then print and bind for the next day's meeting.
Today, he was not there in the photocopy room. I sneaked a photograph of his latest creation. It is made of the neck of a plastic water bottle (that makes the petals) and a pink and green highlighter pen and a blue ball pen and some sponge which came with packed materials. He showed the rough cut to me yesterday and I suggested some yellow in the flower center. Today I saw this, and used my camera phone to the best advantage - which is pitifully not much. You cannot see the details on the leaves, and the details on the stem and flower.
Any suggestions of going commercial are met with a smile and a shake of head. 'It is for myself to enjoy' is what he says and rushes off, delighted that someone liked it. I dont know his name, but I know his face, his work, and the meticulous way he washes his lunch box at 4pm at the pantry everyday, not leaving it dirty for his wife to clean, like most other office boys do.
- Mood:appreciative
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They say, in the Army, you need to be smart, but not too smart - because then you would'nt fit in with the rest of the troops.
I think its true for every industry. You need to be as smart as the person next to you, maybe a percentage higher though. But more than that, and your chances of success are limited. I guess that's why smart people (with risk taking ability) become entrepreneurs.
In a general office environment, it is a bunch of people thrown together randomly by someone, and no matter whether you like it or not, you are supposed to like each other. Much like every other scenario in life. However, to continue to be in the 'just-about-your-intelligence-level' game, everyone underestimates everyone else. It is but natural. And hence, the collective interest level of the group is narrowed down to the shallowest of the lot. Much like the famed bottleneck. It does not do to laugh at jokes which the more important members of the team, namely boss, cannot understand, too often. Sure you can. But that does not mean it will be taken lightly after the third time. It is more likely that after the second time people will avoid having a scenario where you crack a joke that is sharper than what they/ majority of the group can understand.
The skill required thus becomes the Art of Acting Dumb. Which is the most difficult skill of them all. Anyone can be intelligent. Infact, most are. But to be intelligent enough to be dumb, now that is something I think is remarkable (and lack). When you are just about dumb enough (or not too sharp) externally but sharp internally, people trust you, people tell you stuff and include you - since you are sharp enough, you can get the work done. There are very few teams and roles in a normal organization which need you to be an individual, colourful, intelligent and unique. Most of them just want the job done, and you to be a part of the herd. (Sad but true).
It is in this environment of combined underestimation that someone slips past something that they like. From their personal lives. Sometimes its a mobile phone ring tone. Sometimes its a joke, a shared cartoon, a book name, a movie - anything. And you suddenly get a glimpse of the real person. The person behind the façade, the person in evenings, outside office. It is just below the seams, waiting to be found, but no one really wants to find out. It is risky. So people carry a part of their character in their key chains, their Friday Dressing, their phone ring tone, and keep it as a bait. Waiting for someone to snap at it.
To reach out and ask someone about ones likes and dislikes is risky. To go ahead and wax eloquent about, say, the scene in Pulp Fiction where the splatter the head of their hostage in the car and worry about the interior decor more than the human being, is risky. If the other person knows, then you are in luck. You are just as intelligent as him/her. However, otherwise you are not in the same 'range'. You are either a wierdo, or too intelligent for comfortable conversation in future.
However, to have someone to say 'yes, me too' to is much simpler. But then again, not too much. A friend in office is different from a friend. The quest in office for like minded people is just that. It may be incidental if the friendship lasts longer than office hours, but for most it is a chore outside office. People just want to be a little more comfortable than what they usually are like in office. They want someone who shares something in common.
So people wait, with their bait hanging, waiting for someone, anyone to snap at what they are baiting. Waiting for a comrade.
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Sometimes the cues left by people can be misleading. Like the time I asked a colleague after her phone rang for the nth time whether it really was the tune off American Beauty. She replied with a wary 'yes' but my waxing eloquent about the movie was met with a vacant stare.
I guess she just liked the ring tone, but dint much care about the rest. And that is why people wait before picking up cues. They may be false. Its easier to leave them to be found than to go around picking them up. If people comment on my ring tone positively, at least I know what to say.
- Mood: chipper
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Which Cowboy Bebop character are you?
Sheesh! How did I end up being Andy? Well anyway.... at least I have a horse, look good and can give Spike a fight worth remembering!
hm... remember Gren? ^____^
I remembered CB after a long time today, and what better way to push along a dreary day than to look at a 'which Cowboy Bebop character are you Quiz?!
And yeah - no cheating! Just answer the questions, not what you think will land you in a certain role :D
- Mood:happy
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About Me
Regurgitations of my mind. Specific, Vague, Memorable, Forgettable, Thoughtless, In-depth.
More variegated than your dreams or colours off a crystal. More than I can pen down. What I can, you can read.
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