Whenever I am asked to name my favourite actor, I stop, hesitate and think. I have no clear favorites, but some names do spring up on the mind. Dev Anand, while he was young, Aamir Khan barring a few seriously pathetic movies, and and Sunil Dutt. Hang on! I liked him in all his movies. So he’s probably my favourite actor!!!!
I can never forget Sunil Dutt in ‘ Mera Saya’. As he cried over Sadhna’s corpse, I would have given my life to be in her shoes. The light of truth that shone in his eyes, when he stood in the courtroom later, challenging the existence of his wife. I loved Sunil Dutt in ‘Padosan’- where he played the simple boy in love with Saira Banu- the winsome lass next door. And years later, I loved Sunil Dutt in ‘Munna Bhai M.B.B.S.’ when he played father to his son Sanjay Dutt. But his most stellar performance must have been in ‘Mother India’ where he played son to Nargis.
Today Sunil Dutt died.
I am told that he championed the cause of the poor and the sick. He was our Sports Minister till today and that he will always be remembered as an upright honest gentleman. I still recall, how he defended Sanjay Dutt when the latter was arrested under TADA and how he felicitated our cricket players in Eden Gardens. I remember seeing him in ‘Jeena Isi Kaa Naam Hain’ where he was so overcome by emotion that it was difficult to make out his words. The Prime Minister has flown to Mumbai for his cremation. There are organizations that have benefited by him and they have come to be with him in these last hours. The media covered his death all day. They say, he was the original actor-turned-politicians. The rest are pretenders. They say he was good human being.
For me its immaterial how he was. For me he will always be Sunil Dutt, who wept inconsolably when Sadhna dies in ‘Mera Saya’ That’s the image that will linger on……
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
Monday, May 23, 2005
Kahani Ghar Ghar Ki- Of contended housewives and forged bond papers
So I do confess, that after a day of writing CMMI level 5 code, I actually take pleasure in watching Saans-Bahus fighting it out on the small screen and that when I left office at 8pm last Wednesday, my only concern was that Shruti should not be discovered posing as Gayatri during Gayatri’s wedding. Welcome to the world of Balaji Telefilms’ prime-time soaps, where every new daughter-in-law is painted either in pristine white or gory black. Where no episode is complete without a “song and dance” sequence and where the only aspiration of a young boy or girl is to find the soul mate of their dreams.
Kahani Ghar Ghar Ki aspires to structure itself along the lines of a modern day Ramayana. The story weaves itself around Om Agarwal, his wife Parvati and his brothers Gaurav, Ajay and Kamal. Parvati stands for truth and honesty and thereby hangs a tale of ideological conflicts between Parvati and Pallavi (her sister-in-law)
Watch KGGK for the interiors of the Agarwal house, that are guaranteed to awe you. Watch out for the clothes worn by the members of the cast. It comes as no surprise that Parvati goes to bed in a silk sari, replete with jewellery, bindi and makeup. Watch out for girls who seem to be living in jeans but slip into a sari - the day after marriage - with equal élan. Contented housewives fish out dusty LLB degrees to turn into legal eagles overnight (Ajay’s wife Avantika, for one) and win their first case against the best of lawyers for their ‘Suhaag ki Raksha’ Money seems to flow like water. People sign bond papers without looking at the contents and the bad guy always gets the entire property transferred to his name with a single signature. And all the male members of the Agarwal household seem to be on personal terms with the Police Commissioner (who is always ready to oblige old friends) and at least one mandarin in the Income Tax department.
It is difficult to say whether KGGK is really a story that could happen in our daily lives. In fact, the far-fetched reality of the story line provides a means of escape and an opportunity to be a part of a make-believe world that could never be true. There are lessons to be learnt of course. Of values, ethics and respect to our elders. Parvati epitomizes the perfect ‘Bahu’ that every mother-in-law would love. Her greatest virtue is that she puts others before herself. However, KGGK portrays the 21st century female as super-woman who can manage a family and career with effortless ease. Shruti and Gayatri handle their careers while being wonderful daughters. Pallavi is chided for being so career-conscious that she could not be the perfect daughter-in-law. Such portrayal creates a role model for women that is impossible to emulate and has negative repercussions on society. Overall, not a bad job, considering that four years into it’s screening, the TRP ratings are still going strong. Next time you see Parvati do remember to say, Touché!
Kahani Ghar Ghar Ki aspires to structure itself along the lines of a modern day Ramayana. The story weaves itself around Om Agarwal, his wife Parvati and his brothers Gaurav, Ajay and Kamal. Parvati stands for truth and honesty and thereby hangs a tale of ideological conflicts between Parvati and Pallavi (her sister-in-law)
Watch KGGK for the interiors of the Agarwal house, that are guaranteed to awe you. Watch out for the clothes worn by the members of the cast. It comes as no surprise that Parvati goes to bed in a silk sari, replete with jewellery, bindi and makeup. Watch out for girls who seem to be living in jeans but slip into a sari - the day after marriage - with equal élan. Contented housewives fish out dusty LLB degrees to turn into legal eagles overnight (Ajay’s wife Avantika, for one) and win their first case against the best of lawyers for their ‘Suhaag ki Raksha’ Money seems to flow like water. People sign bond papers without looking at the contents and the bad guy always gets the entire property transferred to his name with a single signature. And all the male members of the Agarwal household seem to be on personal terms with the Police Commissioner (who is always ready to oblige old friends) and at least one mandarin in the Income Tax department.
It is difficult to say whether KGGK is really a story that could happen in our daily lives. In fact, the far-fetched reality of the story line provides a means of escape and an opportunity to be a part of a make-believe world that could never be true. There are lessons to be learnt of course. Of values, ethics and respect to our elders. Parvati epitomizes the perfect ‘Bahu’ that every mother-in-law would love. Her greatest virtue is that she puts others before herself. However, KGGK portrays the 21st century female as super-woman who can manage a family and career with effortless ease. Shruti and Gayatri handle their careers while being wonderful daughters. Pallavi is chided for being so career-conscious that she could not be the perfect daughter-in-law. Such portrayal creates a role model for women that is impossible to emulate and has negative repercussions on society. Overall, not a bad job, considering that four years into it’s screening, the TRP ratings are still going strong. Next time you see Parvati do remember to say, Touché!
Sunday, May 08, 2005
It’s been ages since I had a summer break...to be more precise...one year! Last year I suppose I had what I would call without hesitation the longest break of my life so far and boy! Was it not fun!!!!
So I woke up at 5am this morning with a vague recollection that school was not supposed to open before the 18th of this month and that it was no use waking up so early. Baba woke me up an hour later....get up or you'll be late for office....
Poor me!!! The good ol' days of summer vacations....cycle rides in the dark, swimming in the pool just when the sun strikes it big and getting tanned all over.
Sneaking around while everyone's asleep during the noon and stealing mangoes from the fridge and the baton relays in the afternoon.
The kaal boshakhi in the evening...picking up the mangoes that had fallen and the long walks after the storm to the library to pick up the Enid Blytons.
The home work that was done grudgingly; but just in time to watch chuti chuti on TV. Calling up friends, writing long letters to the class mates, visiting grand parents....
Mishti Doi, Pochise Boiskakh, Jamai Shoshti, Raaj Bhog!
Now its the same the year around, the hectic mornings in the train, the evening rush, and the work that never seems to end....I have been sleep walking all these days and I suppose it will go on forever.........
So I woke up at 5am this morning with a vague recollection that school was not supposed to open before the 18th of this month and that it was no use waking up so early. Baba woke me up an hour later....get up or you'll be late for office....
Poor me!!! The good ol' days of summer vacations....cycle rides in the dark, swimming in the pool just when the sun strikes it big and getting tanned all over.
Sneaking around while everyone's asleep during the noon and stealing mangoes from the fridge and the baton relays in the afternoon.
The kaal boshakhi in the evening...picking up the mangoes that had fallen and the long walks after the storm to the library to pick up the Enid Blytons.
The home work that was done grudgingly; but just in time to watch chuti chuti on TV. Calling up friends, writing long letters to the class mates, visiting grand parents....
Mishti Doi, Pochise Boiskakh, Jamai Shoshti, Raaj Bhog!
Now its the same the year around, the hectic mornings in the train, the evening rush, and the work that never seems to end....I have been sleep walking all these days and I suppose it will go on forever.........
Tuesday, April 26, 2005
Not quite myself
In a perfect demonstration of how I sometimes forget the meaning of the words 'limit', 'bounds' and 'control', I spent the last weekend in a hectic flurry of activities, hitherto unknown to me.
No no no.....they aren't exactly the stuff to take my readers by surprise , titillate the senses or scare the daylights away. Nor do I guarantee that you will be pleased with my progress, because I have miles to go before I sleep. But fact remains, that I have been upto work and that alone should draw a few gasps from those who have known me since childhood to live the archetypal life of a Bohemian. No, I have not been this weekend, the lazy, sleeping, yawning, chatting, grumbling, frowning, again yawning, over 60, bored with life, toothless grand ma that I pretend to be.
I HAVE BEEN COOKING.
Well, I cooked chicken for the first time and I swear that I am not going to do it again. I hated its impertinence- it refused to boil for a good 20 minutes. Just when I thought I was going to give it up, inspiration stuck and with some generous help from Som over the phone (some running commentary that was) we won the day. Ummm..the taste was quite good for a beginner, but I can do better if I break my pledge.
Then I made pasta for dinner on Sunday. Now I had been planning this for quite sometime, but there was a tougher thing ahead. That was convincing Baba, who hates pasta because that's all he gets to eat when he goes to Italy. Of course, mention Pizza to him and he goes ballistic- just can't digest that stuff too. That was easier and it was more edible I can say with confidence. You ought to ask me where this confidence springs from. Hmmmm...you see, if the pasta and chicken were both leftover, I would prefer the pasta to the chicken. There you go.
Then I did the unthinkable. I studied. Yeah, I spent sometime with SQL, trying to conquer cursors and procedures and materialized views. Pretty decent stuff, if it goes into your head. Unfortunately it didn't. The harder I tried, the worse it seemed. With due consideration to the stress I was putting on my tender brain, I postponed indefinitely the 'Study SQL' session.
Well, there is so much more that I did and its so difficult to put all that in words. So, I would leave it at that. Till I catch up with another momentary burst of inspirational energy, I better get back to being the ol' self.
No no no.....they aren't exactly the stuff to take my readers by surprise , titillate the senses or scare the daylights away. Nor do I guarantee that you will be pleased with my progress, because I have miles to go before I sleep. But fact remains, that I have been upto work and that alone should draw a few gasps from those who have known me since childhood to live the archetypal life of a Bohemian. No, I have not been this weekend, the lazy, sleeping, yawning, chatting, grumbling, frowning, again yawning, over 60, bored with life, toothless grand ma that I pretend to be.
I HAVE BEEN COOKING.
Well, I cooked chicken for the first time and I swear that I am not going to do it again. I hated its impertinence- it refused to boil for a good 20 minutes. Just when I thought I was going to give it up, inspiration stuck and with some generous help from Som over the phone (some running commentary that was) we won the day. Ummm..the taste was quite good for a beginner, but I can do better if I break my pledge.
Then I made pasta for dinner on Sunday. Now I had been planning this for quite sometime, but there was a tougher thing ahead. That was convincing Baba, who hates pasta because that's all he gets to eat when he goes to Italy. Of course, mention Pizza to him and he goes ballistic- just can't digest that stuff too. That was easier and it was more edible I can say with confidence. You ought to ask me where this confidence springs from. Hmmmm...you see, if the pasta and chicken were both leftover, I would prefer the pasta to the chicken. There you go.
Then I did the unthinkable. I studied. Yeah, I spent sometime with SQL, trying to conquer cursors and procedures and materialized views. Pretty decent stuff, if it goes into your head. Unfortunately it didn't. The harder I tried, the worse it seemed. With due consideration to the stress I was putting on my tender brain, I postponed indefinitely the 'Study SQL' session.
Well, there is so much more that I did and its so difficult to put all that in words. So, I would leave it at that. Till I catch up with another momentary burst of inspirational energy, I better get back to being the ol' self.
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
Never knew that Baba could be so efficient at home. All my life I’ve seen my Dad plunging himself neck deep in his office, without a thought as to what was going about at home. When he came home for lunch on weekdays, Ma and I could clearly see that his mind was still in office and when he gobbled insipid food without complaining, we knew that he was dying to get back to work. When he forgot to do the groceries, or take us out for dinner, we didn't know whether to laugh or get angry. That's Baba for you; love him or leave him.
But things changed since Ma left for Delhi three weeks back. Baba has been the model of conscientiousness. He makes sure I get my breakfast and that my lunch is packed and that when I eat dinner, the food is actually warmer than room temperature. He has been doing the groceries and keeping stock of what's running out. He's been managing the helping hands at home and his department in the factory; amidst 60 phone calls a day that start at 6 in the morning and end at midnight.
When I reach home at 9pm at night, I am exhausted and so is Baba, but he never lets me know that. Always ready to clean up after dinner, so that I do not have to do it. The metamorphosis is complete.
This morning was Neel Shosthi. Mothers are supposed to fast for their children and put a doi-er tip on their foreheads. When Baba did that for me, I realized that he had finally discovered the mother hidden in him.
But things changed since Ma left for Delhi three weeks back. Baba has been the model of conscientiousness. He makes sure I get my breakfast and that my lunch is packed and that when I eat dinner, the food is actually warmer than room temperature. He has been doing the groceries and keeping stock of what's running out. He's been managing the helping hands at home and his department in the factory; amidst 60 phone calls a day that start at 6 in the morning and end at midnight.
When I reach home at 9pm at night, I am exhausted and so is Baba, but he never lets me know that. Always ready to clean up after dinner, so that I do not have to do it. The metamorphosis is complete.
This morning was Neel Shosthi. Mothers are supposed to fast for their children and put a doi-er tip on their foreheads. When Baba did that for me, I realized that he had finally discovered the mother hidden in him.
Saturday, April 09, 2005
I never thought that trains could get so crowded
I never thought that trains could get so crowded. Certainly not at this time of the night. Someday, when this ordeal is over (or so I hope) I fear that I would have got so used to it that I would actually miss it. Till then I try to make the most of it.
But yesterday was different. I got a seat in the train in the morning. What it means is that everybody else got a seat. Quite unwittingly, I have come to acquire a burden of a conscience that does not permit me to sit in the train if anybody else is standing. Of course, anybody covers a gamut of women starting from school kids in white shoes (poor kid, - if she stands somebody will surely step over her shoes) schoolgirls studying in the train (if she does not sit, how would she study?) girl going to college (she’ll get exhausted if she continues to stand), woman going on a holiday (such a huge traveling bag- she must sit) woman going to office (you ought to start the day with a seat in the morning train) old women- no excuses- they must sit- if necessary at the cost of unseating somebody else.
But yesterday, I say it again, was different. While was I coming back, I got a seat once but gave it away to an old lady hoping that I would get a seat soon. Strangely enough, I did not get another seat and a tragedy of this scale occurring at 8PM at night when trains are not very crowded, surely ranks as a catastrophe. Add to it, the fact that I was carrying home a bulky book and the thought of studying through the weekend was weighing down my shoulders as well as my morale. In a compartment where there was not enough place to stand, hawkers were moving about seamlessly, gliding through the multitude and savagely competing with one another to sell bananas and ear rings. At regular intervals, I took to shifting my weight from my left leg to my right. A few women were examining cushion covers and the girl standing next to me was reading a newspaper. I thought I spotted a friend, but before I could wave to her, the climax of our most extra-ordinary journey took place. A man got up in the ladies compartment, and amidst the entire din, started singing an awful song, and begged for alms in the meantime. If Satyajit Ray had been present, he would have surely used this shot as the opening scene of his next art film. I would be the protagonist looking calmly at the pandemonium, while thinking wistfully about the SQL query that I left behind in office and ways to improve it. I would be taking a stoic view of the situation and when my train reached my destination, aah! Cut the crap. Baba is here…………..
But yesterday was different. I got a seat in the train in the morning. What it means is that everybody else got a seat. Quite unwittingly, I have come to acquire a burden of a conscience that does not permit me to sit in the train if anybody else is standing. Of course, anybody covers a gamut of women starting from school kids in white shoes (poor kid, - if she stands somebody will surely step over her shoes) schoolgirls studying in the train (if she does not sit, how would she study?) girl going to college (she’ll get exhausted if she continues to stand), woman going on a holiday (such a huge traveling bag- she must sit) woman going to office (you ought to start the day with a seat in the morning train) old women- no excuses- they must sit- if necessary at the cost of unseating somebody else.
But yesterday, I say it again, was different. While was I coming back, I got a seat once but gave it away to an old lady hoping that I would get a seat soon. Strangely enough, I did not get another seat and a tragedy of this scale occurring at 8PM at night when trains are not very crowded, surely ranks as a catastrophe. Add to it, the fact that I was carrying home a bulky book and the thought of studying through the weekend was weighing down my shoulders as well as my morale. In a compartment where there was not enough place to stand, hawkers were moving about seamlessly, gliding through the multitude and savagely competing with one another to sell bananas and ear rings. At regular intervals, I took to shifting my weight from my left leg to my right. A few women were examining cushion covers and the girl standing next to me was reading a newspaper. I thought I spotted a friend, but before I could wave to her, the climax of our most extra-ordinary journey took place. A man got up in the ladies compartment, and amidst the entire din, started singing an awful song, and begged for alms in the meantime. If Satyajit Ray had been present, he would have surely used this shot as the opening scene of his next art film. I would be the protagonist looking calmly at the pandemonium, while thinking wistfully about the SQL query that I left behind in office and ways to improve it. I would be taking a stoic view of the situation and when my train reached my destination, aah! Cut the crap. Baba is here…………..
Thursday, March 24, 2005
Trains and me
My tryst with Indian Railways continues unabated. For sometime now, she has been annoyed with me. As a consequence, whenever I am on time, the train is late and if I am late, the train is on time. If only she would understand, that being late everyday isn't exactly making me very popular among my colleagues, perhaps she would take pity upon me and commiserate. I have now come to accept that being packed like a molecule in the train is normal and days when I do get a seat in the train, I sniff the air with suspicion. I have realized that days when I am hungry, no one will sell 'jhaalmuri' and just when I call for the man who sells those pretty hair clips, he will get off the train, in search of greater fortune. It has now become a practice to give away my seat to nameless strangers, whose suffering seems far greater than mine and while away my time listening to the tales of sorrow that my co-passengers recount.
It has been raining all day and last night too. The trains were late last night and they stopped running this morning. I came to office in a car with a gora (a guest of Baba's) who insisted on being informed about my salary, 'working' hours and how many days a week I 'worked'. It is difficult to explain to someone who has been installing heavy electrical machinery all his life that I earn my livelihood by pretending to work.
The weather has undergone a drastic change. No one would have imagined that it would rain so much at this time of the year. There is a new building coming up, next to ours and because of the rain, construction work had to be stopped. We took a walk this afternoon among the muck and it was fun stepping into the puddle, getting my clothes soiled. How I wish we'd never grow up, never have to behave like prim and proper adults; never have to wear the right clothes for the occasion, the right expression on our faces as the situation demanded.
Its Holi tomorrow and I don't think I’m going to take part in it. None of my friends are here. They're all gone in search of greener pastures, yellow sunshine. Is red the colour of success? Maybe, blue is the colour of confidence. Green should be the color of ambition. Yellow for joy. Whoa! Its spring time and its raining- what greater misery could there be?
It has been raining all day and last night too. The trains were late last night and they stopped running this morning. I came to office in a car with a gora (a guest of Baba's) who insisted on being informed about my salary, 'working' hours and how many days a week I 'worked'. It is difficult to explain to someone who has been installing heavy electrical machinery all his life that I earn my livelihood by pretending to work.
The weather has undergone a drastic change. No one would have imagined that it would rain so much at this time of the year. There is a new building coming up, next to ours and because of the rain, construction work had to be stopped. We took a walk this afternoon among the muck and it was fun stepping into the puddle, getting my clothes soiled. How I wish we'd never grow up, never have to behave like prim and proper adults; never have to wear the right clothes for the occasion, the right expression on our faces as the situation demanded.
Its Holi tomorrow and I don't think I’m going to take part in it. None of my friends are here. They're all gone in search of greener pastures, yellow sunshine. Is red the colour of success? Maybe, blue is the colour of confidence. Green should be the color of ambition. Yellow for joy. Whoa! Its spring time and its raining- what greater misery could there be?
Friday, March 11, 2005
Born Again
Three days ago I completed a year of work. From the looks of it, I haven't really done much of work for the last 365 days. For example, I did not learn to pretend that I was working hard when there was no work. I did not learn to stay back after work and check mails, just to be physically present and make my boss happy. I did not learn to smoke a cigarette or two and have a nice chat with the seniors. When I completed my work on time, I did not learn to advertise it with a loudspeaker. When somebody asked me for help, I did not tell everyone that I was teaching an ignorant colleague the tricks of the trade.
In the days to come, I will have to learn to be more "pro-active". I have to actively seek solutions to the problems of my organization and apply lateral thinking to provide answers to emerging technologies. In order to promote a healthy competitive environment, I must learn the art of effective communication with an aim to progressing the interests of my company and siphon the mercury up to the highest level of the customer satisfaction index. Remedial measures shall be taken to upgrade my know-how with esoteric knowledge transfer sessions that will gauge my learning effectiveness and the subsequent profit to the company on the whole. I must build myself and my fellow associates to become valuable and indispensable resources to the organization, so that together we create a synergy that will help to build cutting edge technologies.
A day ago I grew a year older.....perhaps not wiser still........
In the days to come, I will have to learn to be more "pro-active". I have to actively seek solutions to the problems of my organization and apply lateral thinking to provide answers to emerging technologies. In order to promote a healthy competitive environment, I must learn the art of effective communication with an aim to progressing the interests of my company and siphon the mercury up to the highest level of the customer satisfaction index. Remedial measures shall be taken to upgrade my know-how with esoteric knowledge transfer sessions that will gauge my learning effectiveness and the subsequent profit to the company on the whole. I must build myself and my fellow associates to become valuable and indispensable resources to the organization, so that together we create a synergy that will help to build cutting edge technologies.
A day ago I grew a year older.....perhaps not wiser still........
Tuesday, February 15, 2005
VD
I think I must have had the most boring VD ever. I stared at the PC and the PC stared back at me. It was shifting time, Jaya had left and I moved to her place and all through the day I was immersed in moving papers and transferring files, informing the people who mattered and getting things started. Well, the initial hiccups have remained and my mail is not working and despite the terrific forwards that my friends have been sending over for the past few days, I have not been able to read anything at all.
It’s a lot fun now sitting where I am, amidst friends; but for them I would have lost my head in this absolutely mindless place. Three times now, my core team-members have changed in the past three months. I have remained…residue? Sometimes I think of the Brooke’s Song- ‘For men may come and men may go but I go on forever’
Work is a little under control, its been nearly two months since I started taking it seriously and I think I am getting the grips. Good for me, because it was getting a little tedious opening my mailbox every ten minutes to check for mails, out of sheer lack of any constructive activity. I used to solve puzzles, write blogs (apologies though this is no mean meaningless time pass) and chat. These nefarious activities are now a thing of the past, because cry has gone around the workplace ‘The Costing Module suffers, because Anwesha- the most diligent insufferable worker of them all is neglecting her work and the module is languishing!!!!’ Its fun now, writing code and seeing it execute actually. A new baby is born every week and Mamma is happy.
It’s a lot fun now sitting where I am, amidst friends; but for them I would have lost my head in this absolutely mindless place. Three times now, my core team-members have changed in the past three months. I have remained…residue? Sometimes I think of the Brooke’s Song- ‘For men may come and men may go but I go on forever’
Work is a little under control, its been nearly two months since I started taking it seriously and I think I am getting the grips. Good for me, because it was getting a little tedious opening my mailbox every ten minutes to check for mails, out of sheer lack of any constructive activity. I used to solve puzzles, write blogs (apologies though this is no mean meaningless time pass) and chat. These nefarious activities are now a thing of the past, because cry has gone around the workplace ‘The Costing Module suffers, because Anwesha- the most diligent insufferable worker of them all is neglecting her work and the module is languishing!!!!’ Its fun now, writing code and seeing it execute actually. A new baby is born every week and Mamma is happy.
Monday, January 24, 2005
Elegantly Wasted
One of these days I am going to turn insane. A couple of friends of mine would chuckle at the future tense. They would rather accept it as one of those inevitable things that happen to people like me. But I am going to turn insane and I know it.
It’s the work. Its getting on the last nerve left in me, twisting and turning and playing footsie with it, till I begin to feel like I do not belong to the race of humans anymore.
This never-ending grueling work that has chained me to the wheel of civilization has taken its toll upon my mental health. I am but the cog of the wheel and the day I break away, the wheel I know will move on; perhaps a little slower till the new cog fits in....but it will move on.
Up again this Monday morning, with no mood to leave the warmth of my blanket and embrace the winter chill, I was late. 7:32 never turned up. Was once again packed like a molecule in another train. Met a friend, but she was too busy talking to her boyfriend over the phone to make any kind of intelligent conversation. Sprinted through the station, just in time to catch the bus. Had to sit right at the back. Ugh! Seems like a punishment to me.
Monday morning blues don't seem to have changed anything. Bugging colleagues, irritating bosses and mundane mails that suggest nothing new. Over that, couple of us had to leave the project and that included a good friend of mine and that has added to my misery.
Dunno.....someday things will change. The clouds will move and weather will get warmer when the sun shines on my face, and I will be free!!!
It’s the work. Its getting on the last nerve left in me, twisting and turning and playing footsie with it, till I begin to feel like I do not belong to the race of humans anymore.
This never-ending grueling work that has chained me to the wheel of civilization has taken its toll upon my mental health. I am but the cog of the wheel and the day I break away, the wheel I know will move on; perhaps a little slower till the new cog fits in....but it will move on.
Up again this Monday morning, with no mood to leave the warmth of my blanket and embrace the winter chill, I was late. 7:32 never turned up. Was once again packed like a molecule in another train. Met a friend, but she was too busy talking to her boyfriend over the phone to make any kind of intelligent conversation. Sprinted through the station, just in time to catch the bus. Had to sit right at the back. Ugh! Seems like a punishment to me.
Monday morning blues don't seem to have changed anything. Bugging colleagues, irritating bosses and mundane mails that suggest nothing new. Over that, couple of us had to leave the project and that included a good friend of mine and that has added to my misery.
Dunno.....someday things will change. The clouds will move and weather will get warmer when the sun shines on my face, and I will be free!!!
Tuesday, January 11, 2005
Faces
Today I met Aparna on the train. 11 years ago when she left our school to join another, we had parted as best friends. I still retain the calendars that she used to give me in January every year and the lyrics of the songs that she made transcripts of. I wonder if she remembers the songs we sang together when we performed or the sums that I solved for her homework.
11 years later Aparna is married and cannot recognize me anymore. She stood in the train without a seat complaining about the crowd and the daily drudgery in a dull monotonous voice, about the French lessons she was taking (I wonder why) and as she spoke to another co-passenger she glanced at me. I stared at her, smiling and without blinking, hoping that she would recognize me and she did not respond.
Faces....there is something about faces that torments me. I forget names; but I never forget faces. And then those familiar faces come back to haunt me like a tiny little monster eating into my mind, gnashing its tail and growing bigger by the moment, till the pain is overwhelming and I cannot take it anymore. It’s a curse that I must bear. Faces that I must forget but cannot. Names that I must remember but I cannot. Everyday in the train I meet familiar faces. Faces that shouted out to me in the field during lunchtime in school or stood in a line during the morning assembly or waited with bated breadth before the report card would be given out or stole a moment to grab the forbidden 'jhaalmuri' when the prefects were not looking. I remember all of them....but they never remember me.
I think I gave up the staring game when she got a seat facing her back to me. I wasn't going to let her disappear again. Not my ex-best-friend if ever there was something like that. Besides, the guilt was overwhelming; the guilt of recognition. Went up to her and introduced myself. A tiny flicker of recognition and I knew that she remembered. It was too late. I was about to get off the train and we could not speak anymore. But we parted this time promising to recognize each other again, if the train would permit. I know I shall honour my promise and I live in the hope that she will too.....
11 years later Aparna is married and cannot recognize me anymore. She stood in the train without a seat complaining about the crowd and the daily drudgery in a dull monotonous voice, about the French lessons she was taking (I wonder why) and as she spoke to another co-passenger she glanced at me. I stared at her, smiling and without blinking, hoping that she would recognize me and she did not respond.
Faces....there is something about faces that torments me. I forget names; but I never forget faces. And then those familiar faces come back to haunt me like a tiny little monster eating into my mind, gnashing its tail and growing bigger by the moment, till the pain is overwhelming and I cannot take it anymore. It’s a curse that I must bear. Faces that I must forget but cannot. Names that I must remember but I cannot. Everyday in the train I meet familiar faces. Faces that shouted out to me in the field during lunchtime in school or stood in a line during the morning assembly or waited with bated breadth before the report card would be given out or stole a moment to grab the forbidden 'jhaalmuri' when the prefects were not looking. I remember all of them....but they never remember me.
I think I gave up the staring game when she got a seat facing her back to me. I wasn't going to let her disappear again. Not my ex-best-friend if ever there was something like that. Besides, the guilt was overwhelming; the guilt of recognition. Went up to her and introduced myself. A tiny flicker of recognition and I knew that she remembered. It was too late. I was about to get off the train and we could not speak anymore. But we parted this time promising to recognize each other again, if the train would permit. I know I shall honour my promise and I live in the hope that she will too.....
Monday, January 10, 2005
Meanings
Standing for what you believe in,
Regardless of the odds against you,
and the pressure that tears at your resistance,
Regardless of the odds against you,
and the pressure that tears at your resistance,
courage
Keeping a smile on your face,
When inside you feel like dying,
For the sake of supporting others,
When inside you feel like dying,
For the sake of supporting others,
strength
Stopping at nothing,
And doing what's in your heart,
You know is right,
determination
And doing what's in your heart,
You know is right,
determination
Doing more than is expected,
To make another's life a little more bearable,
Without uttering a single complaint,
compassion
To make another's life a little more bearable,
Without uttering a single complaint,
compassion
Helping a friend in need,
No matter the time or effort,
To the best of your ability,
loyalty
No matter the time or effort,
To the best of your ability,
loyalty
Giving more than you have,
And expecting nothing
But nothing in return,
selflessness
And expecting nothing
But nothing in return,
selflessness
Holding your head high,
And being the best you know you can be
When life seems to fall apart at your feet,
Facing each difficulty with the confidence
That time will bring you better tomorrows,
And never giving up,
confidence
And being the best you know you can be
When life seems to fall apart at your feet,
Facing each difficulty with the confidence
That time will bring you better tomorrows,
And never giving up,
confidence
Wednesday, December 29, 2004
Memoirs of a Practising Physical Therapist
As a practicing physical therapist, everyday life brings before me an opportunity to meet new faces and a chance to probe deep into their lives. This is simultaneously enlightening as well as depressing. Sometimes, it is painful to hear the story of the hardships that people endure to lead normal lives, their pain, difficulties and disappointments become a part of my life for the days to come. Sometimes, the triumph of their spirit to conquer obstacles becomes an inspiration for me. Raka was one such who touched me forever.
She was ten years old and was the victim of a gruesome road accident, while returning from school one day. When she first came to my clinic, I could see that she was a hopeless case. Her limbs were paralyzed and there was very little chance to recovery. I was about to tell her parents who had accompanied her that there was nothing I could do for her, when I saw her tiny face smile with hope. I decided to give it a try.
As a Physical therapist I provide services that help restore function, improve mobility, relieve pain, and prevent or limit permanent physical disabilities of patients suffering from injuries or disease. My clan restores, maintains, and promotes overall fitness and health. Our patients include accident victims and individuals with disabling conditions such as low-back pain, arthritis, heart disease, fractures, head injuries, and cerebral palsy.
I examined her medical histories and then measured Rakas’ strength, range of motion, balance and coordination, posture, muscle performance, respiration, and motor function. I also had to determine her ability to be independent and reintegrate into the community or workplace after injury or illness. Next, as a physical therapist, I had to develop treatment plans describing a treatment strategy, its purpose, and its anticipated outcome.
We started our sessions. I showed her exercises that would not be difficult for her to grasp. But I found that she could not do them. Despite the apparent inability, she was trying and trying harder than I thought she was capable of. I had to use electrical stimulation, hot packs or cold compresses, and ultrasound to relieve pain and reduce swelling. I also used traction, deep-tissue massage to relieve pain. There were sessions where I had to show her how to use a wheelchair.
All through the entire exercise, Raka smiled and tried hard. There were times when I was sure that we were losing and almost ready to give up, but she would always beam a brilliant smile and I knew that we could try harder
Six months later, Raka could walk on her feet again. As she took her first slow steps, I did not know who was happier, her parents or I. We had dinner at her place, where I saw photographs of her school. She had to quit school after that accident. Although, she took lessons at home, she longed to go back to school and be with her friends. It was tough for a ten year old to realize why her friends almost never came to visit her, or why she could not participate in their games, much as she wanted to.
One day Raka was strong enough to go back to school. I came to see her off that day. As she smiled gratefully at me and walked up to her bus, I knew that this tiny heart had more courage in her than an army of soldiers and that had made all the difference.
She was ten years old and was the victim of a gruesome road accident, while returning from school one day. When she first came to my clinic, I could see that she was a hopeless case. Her limbs were paralyzed and there was very little chance to recovery. I was about to tell her parents who had accompanied her that there was nothing I could do for her, when I saw her tiny face smile with hope. I decided to give it a try.
As a Physical therapist I provide services that help restore function, improve mobility, relieve pain, and prevent or limit permanent physical disabilities of patients suffering from injuries or disease. My clan restores, maintains, and promotes overall fitness and health. Our patients include accident victims and individuals with disabling conditions such as low-back pain, arthritis, heart disease, fractures, head injuries, and cerebral palsy.
I examined her medical histories and then measured Rakas’ strength, range of motion, balance and coordination, posture, muscle performance, respiration, and motor function. I also had to determine her ability to be independent and reintegrate into the community or workplace after injury or illness. Next, as a physical therapist, I had to develop treatment plans describing a treatment strategy, its purpose, and its anticipated outcome.
We started our sessions. I showed her exercises that would not be difficult for her to grasp. But I found that she could not do them. Despite the apparent inability, she was trying and trying harder than I thought she was capable of. I had to use electrical stimulation, hot packs or cold compresses, and ultrasound to relieve pain and reduce swelling. I also used traction, deep-tissue massage to relieve pain. There were sessions where I had to show her how to use a wheelchair.
All through the entire exercise, Raka smiled and tried hard. There were times when I was sure that we were losing and almost ready to give up, but she would always beam a brilliant smile and I knew that we could try harder
Six months later, Raka could walk on her feet again. As she took her first slow steps, I did not know who was happier, her parents or I. We had dinner at her place, where I saw photographs of her school. She had to quit school after that accident. Although, she took lessons at home, she longed to go back to school and be with her friends. It was tough for a ten year old to realize why her friends almost never came to visit her, or why she could not participate in their games, much as she wanted to.
One day Raka was strong enough to go back to school. I came to see her off that day. As she smiled gratefully at me and walked up to her bus, I knew that this tiny heart had more courage in her than an army of soldiers and that had made all the difference.
Friday, December 17, 2004
Home Alone
For the last two days I have been all alone at home, and since my lonely sojourn promises to last another two days, the unknown ghosts of the dark that threaten to break upon my reverie might as well gear up for action. Meanwhile, I stand prepared, my arsenal all set and ready to go!
First in the line of fire is the TV. I never had it so good. No more fighting over the remote, no more fidgeting over which TV channels are "not appropriate" and no more mutted gasps of disbelief at my amazing ability to change channels before the wink of an eye. I have been having a time of my life, waltzing away to the sound of the music when "my" favorite shows are on.
Hmmm….and then there is my computer. Spider Solitaire, my father's sworn enemy is no longer pursued surreptitiously. It makes a grand entrance and is welcome. My folks have declared it persona non grata. Who cares when they are not around.
The microwave comes next. It’s been long since I tried my now famous experiments with food churning out unmentionables that only I could eat in order to save my pride. Now between my stomach and me lies the dustbin and even if I’m left hungry I would not have to swallow my pride, there's always the friendly take-away outlet close to home.
For once, there will be no reprimands if my wardrobe resembles the remains of a robbed Egyptian Pyramid and if the table is not cleared and if the washing machine is over stacked with idonnowhats till it threatens to overturn.
But for once, there will be no Baba to take me home from the station at 9pm at night. The rough job will be mine and mine alone. For once, there will be no Ma fussing over how little I eat, even if it’s more than a truckload of eatables. For once there will be no parents to tell me to go to bed, because if I don't get enough sleep, I would not be able to wake early enough in the morning. For once, no one will run behind me with the food plate when I get late, or pick up the newspaper in the morning or give me breakfast.
Isolation...........it’s not good for me
First in the line of fire is the TV. I never had it so good. No more fighting over the remote, no more fidgeting over which TV channels are "not appropriate" and no more mutted gasps of disbelief at my amazing ability to change channels before the wink of an eye. I have been having a time of my life, waltzing away to the sound of the music when "my" favorite shows are on.
Hmmm….and then there is my computer. Spider Solitaire, my father's sworn enemy is no longer pursued surreptitiously. It makes a grand entrance and is welcome. My folks have declared it persona non grata. Who cares when they are not around.
The microwave comes next. It’s been long since I tried my now famous experiments with food churning out unmentionables that only I could eat in order to save my pride. Now between my stomach and me lies the dustbin and even if I’m left hungry I would not have to swallow my pride, there's always the friendly take-away outlet close to home.
For once, there will be no reprimands if my wardrobe resembles the remains of a robbed Egyptian Pyramid and if the table is not cleared and if the washing machine is over stacked with idonnowhats till it threatens to overturn.
But for once, there will be no Baba to take me home from the station at 9pm at night. The rough job will be mine and mine alone. For once, there will be no Ma fussing over how little I eat, even if it’s more than a truckload of eatables. For once there will be no parents to tell me to go to bed, because if I don't get enough sleep, I would not be able to wake early enough in the morning. For once, no one will run behind me with the food plate when I get late, or pick up the newspaper in the morning or give me breakfast.
Isolation...........it’s not good for me
Thursday, December 09, 2004
Once again i woke up late this morning! Had to rush with the trappings of the day and some extra work what with reviving my poor old battered mobile phone and emptying my bag of yesterday's remnants of samosa (yes yes yes, there are days when I don't find the time to eat) and finding clothes to put on -- its still a civilized country after all--- I got late as usual Rushed to the station to find out that my 7:32 had decided not to turn up at all today! You ditched me! You dumped me! 7:32 sniff ;-)) Got another train where we were packed like molecules-- I’ll change my mind about that. Even molecules get space to breathe. Somebody was singing 'Que sara sara' and I swayed to the rhythm of the train rocking along the lines, merrily skipping away without a care in the world. A group of girls were preparing for an exam and they seemed to find no trouble at all in that crowd. I clutched onto my bag for mercy. The woman standing next to me could have picked it. Thank God, at least this is the Ladies compartment. Yesterday, they conducted the 1st International Festival of non-verbal arts in the office grounds. It was fun watching very talented people from Ireland, Sweden, Japan, South Korea and India performing mimes, and songs and dances. There was a sitar recital. We left office late and I got back home really late! No regrets. Felt so refreshed after a long long time. Had a strange dream last night. Thought I saw that Mukesh Ambani and Anil Ambani were my neighbors. On a warm winter afternoon, we were strolling along the park and I was trying to get friendly with Anil's daughter who belonged to my school. They even asked me to help sort their crisis with Reliance Infocomm and Reliance Energy. Train got me to the station at a time, when I had to run for my life if I wanted to catch the bus. Got it! With some help from Santosh, who was on my train, but remember, I was in the ladies compartment. Hmmmm........so you are late yet again!!! Thought I saw that written on everybody's eyes. I can't understand, why I look so worried and scared when I get late. There are people who catch the bus at the eleventh hour everyday as a rule. Neither do they look paranoid nor does anybody question them. Beats me..... FM blaring loud in the bus. 'Dil Chahta Hain, kabhi naa beete chamkile din' my favorite movie after Anand. Haven't seen a better movie since then. At traffic junction a blind man was begging for money. Before I could fish out anything, the lights had turned green. Early in the morning, the city looks like a child who's just woken up and realized that there's a lot to do today, but he's still feeling sleepy. The bus rumbles on, I am yawning and trying my best to enjoy the remixes, but truth is that they are jarring.
Office office...loads of work, disgruntled boss, Anwesha Chatterjee, overworked and underpaid...Another day has just begun.
Office office...loads of work, disgruntled boss, Anwesha Chatterjee, overworked and underpaid...Another day has just begun.
Wednesday, December 08, 2004
Days
Wake up every morning and start the grind again. It’s been this way for the past nine months. A hasty breakfast and a long long journey after that. But thanks to Indian Railways, if the things could have been worse, they made it happen. I have trusted the infallibility of our trains so much that I know that my 7:32 train will never come before 7:45 and it never fails me. Seats? Did you talk of seats in the train? Whatever in the world are those? Here you will find sacks of homegrown vegetables trudging their way to the wholesale market proudly taking their place among seats meant for humans. And you find, fellow passengers who refuse to load their luggage in the cargo....the seats belong to the suitcases and the tomatoes and the flowers and the sacred unmentionable idonnowhats of this country. Meanwhile I stand....
And then my mind flies along with the train to the country side, taking along with it memories of the years gone by, the peals of laughter and the tears of joy, the pouts of disappointment and the frowns of frustration. I remember the train rides that I used to take as a child. Stations flying past me, each with its own story lost in the maze of people thronging to it every day. The jhalmuri and the pepsi, the potato chips and the hair clips..They’re all still there.....the balloons are still there...the stations stand testimony to the days that are past.
Only I have changed.
And then my mind flies along with the train to the country side, taking along with it memories of the years gone by, the peals of laughter and the tears of joy, the pouts of disappointment and the frowns of frustration. I remember the train rides that I used to take as a child. Stations flying past me, each with its own story lost in the maze of people thronging to it every day. The jhalmuri and the pepsi, the potato chips and the hair clips..They’re all still there.....the balloons are still there...the stations stand testimony to the days that are past.
Only I have changed.
Tuesday, December 07, 2004
After a While
After a while you learn the subtle difference between
Holding a hand and chaining a soul,
And you learn that love doesn't mean leaning and
Company doesn't mean security,
And you begin to learn that kisses aren't contracts
And presents aren't promises,
And you begin to accept your defeats with your head
Up and your eyes open, with the grace of an adult,
Not the grief of a child,
And you learn to build all your roads on today
Because tomorrow's ground is too uncertain for plans.
After a while you learn that even sunshine burns if you get too much.
So plant your own garden and decorate your own soul,
Instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.
And you learn that you really can endure . . .
That you really are strong,
And you really do have worth.And you learn and you learn . .
Holding a hand and chaining a soul,
And you learn that love doesn't mean leaning and
Company doesn't mean security,
And you begin to learn that kisses aren't contracts
And presents aren't promises,
And you begin to accept your defeats with your head
Up and your eyes open, with the grace of an adult,
Not the grief of a child,
And you learn to build all your roads on today
Because tomorrow's ground is too uncertain for plans.
After a while you learn that even sunshine burns if you get too much.
So plant your own garden and decorate your own soul,
Instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.
And you learn that you really can endure . . .
That you really are strong,
And you really do have worth.And you learn and you learn . .
Monday, August 09, 2004
The last page of my Maths notebook
All of us out here
Have something to dread
The maths exercises at the end of the chapter
That have to be read
Read on, and stared at, and gaped at and sighed
"I can't solve a single problem,
I don't deny"
Pen in my hand and notebook before,
Every time, I get a solution, the answer cries, "Encore"
Try again and again and you may get it right,
But chances probably are that you never might.
Out of desperation
And sheer frustration
And consolation
For my battered soul;
I turn to the last page of my Maths notebook,
Nothing else will condole.
For here lies my kingdom of total fantasy,
Here I am the King, here is total ecstasy.
Little additions, subtractions, multiplications and divisions,
And all those wee little things
That'll drive away my arithmetic inhibitions
Small notes alongside, curses and remarks,
Every minute thought that this soul embarks.
Here is where I've drawn Mona Lisa with my pen,
And here is where I find succor again and again.
Here lie my best poems, couplets and rhymes,
And here is where during my study hours,
I commit my most heinous crimes.
The last page, the very last page of my maths note book,
Come ye all who will, come and have a look.
Here is where I'm creative, when the world says "NO! NO!!"
Here's where I’m Einstein or Newton or all the great ones that you know.
But, the last page, why the last page why not the first?
Why don't you turn to the first page?
If you are all that well versed?
Well, you see the last page has a charm that's one of its kind,
It’s like chicken for the soul, the heart and the mind.
In moments of distress or extreme anxiety,
We always seek solace from the most ignored.
THAT symbolizes the last page,
You'd hardly look at it
It’s treated as a burden wearisome and misfit,
But ironical that life is, we always turn to this,
Whenever in our lives, something is amiss.
Life is too complicated; try to make it a bit light,
Turn to the last page, its guaranteed to fill you with delight.
We all have a last page, only that we don't seek to find,
We'd rather seek back and sulk, we're just not inclined.
So, in moments of sorrow or anger or rage,
One great idea, turn to the last page.
Honesty is the best policy is an age-old adage,
I'd rather be honest,
This composition too, was written on the last page!
[September, 1999, Delhi]
Have something to dread
The maths exercises at the end of the chapter
That have to be read
Read on, and stared at, and gaped at and sighed
"I can't solve a single problem,
I don't deny"
Pen in my hand and notebook before,
Every time, I get a solution, the answer cries, "Encore"
Try again and again and you may get it right,
But chances probably are that you never might.
Out of desperation
And sheer frustration
And consolation
For my battered soul;
I turn to the last page of my Maths notebook,
Nothing else will condole.
For here lies my kingdom of total fantasy,
Here I am the King, here is total ecstasy.
Little additions, subtractions, multiplications and divisions,
And all those wee little things
That'll drive away my arithmetic inhibitions
Small notes alongside, curses and remarks,
Every minute thought that this soul embarks.
Here is where I've drawn Mona Lisa with my pen,
And here is where I find succor again and again.
Here lie my best poems, couplets and rhymes,
And here is where during my study hours,
I commit my most heinous crimes.
The last page, the very last page of my maths note book,
Come ye all who will, come and have a look.
Here is where I'm creative, when the world says "NO! NO!!"
Here's where I’m Einstein or Newton or all the great ones that you know.
But, the last page, why the last page why not the first?
Why don't you turn to the first page?
If you are all that well versed?
Well, you see the last page has a charm that's one of its kind,
It’s like chicken for the soul, the heart and the mind.
In moments of distress or extreme anxiety,
We always seek solace from the most ignored.
THAT symbolizes the last page,
You'd hardly look at it
It’s treated as a burden wearisome and misfit,
But ironical that life is, we always turn to this,
Whenever in our lives, something is amiss.
Life is too complicated; try to make it a bit light,
Turn to the last page, its guaranteed to fill you with delight.
We all have a last page, only that we don't seek to find,
We'd rather seek back and sulk, we're just not inclined.
So, in moments of sorrow or anger or rage,
One great idea, turn to the last page.
Honesty is the best policy is an age-old adage,
I'd rather be honest,
This composition too, was written on the last page!
[September, 1999, Delhi]
Managing IIMs (Intellectual Indian Male)
I like them. I enjoy their company. I'd count some among my good friends. But I couldn't handle them in large doses, and I emphatically could not live with one of them. Yes, I speak here of my own secret brand of bigotry-my deep-seated visceral mistrust of the Intellectual Indian Male (IIM).
Yes, I know generalisations are odious. They flatten rich, complex, idiosyncratic individuals into faceless homogeneity. I accept that's unfair. So let me clarify at the start that all I'm venturing here is a hypothesis-and one based on my own circumscribed personal experience of Indian mankind of the self-consciously cerebral variety. And anyway, given that women are constantly having to negotiate cliches about dumb blondes and hairy-legged feminists and bespectacled plain Janes, I don't see why I shouldn't run the risk of perpetuating a couple of truisms from an ovarian view of the universe. Let me first make a crucial distinction between the average thinking male and the IIM. In my book, the first is simply a man capable of some reflection, some analysis, of generating a few ideas (some inspired, some average)-basically a man who owns a cerebrum, like the rest of humanity, and uses it when he needs it. The IIM, on the other hand, Owns a Cerebrum-and how. He'll never let you forget it. He can't forget it himself. He struts it, he flaunts it, he jiggles it. He owns it with a ferocious zamindari arrogance, a naove self-consciousness, a Born-Again zeal.
His ancient forbears' primitive fetishisation of the penis has simply been replaced with a new-found reverence towards the new totem of the times: the Cerebral Cortex. The IIM has demarcated it, has set up his flags, manicured its hedges, careful to keep out any marauding impulse from the neighbouring vicinity of the cerebellum and hypothalamus. For the IIM has no use for these lesser cognitive mechanisms, these embarrassing throwbacks to a messy non-rational past.
Not surprisingly, the wilful schism between old brain and new brain has given rise to certain brands of convenient schizophrenia. And so the IIM is used to living like the Grand Trunk Express-in compartments. The divide between the boardroom and bedroom, between seminar room and locker room-these are some of the binaries the IIM thrives on. The IIM is fully capable of delivering a lecture, replete with bibliographical flourishes, on Lukacs' concept of reification, and promptly retiring to the Gents to share a lascivious wink with a fellow-lecturer on the proportions of the female chairperson's posterior. The IIM can offer you a cogent critique of the manifestations of patriarchal hegemony in diverse cultures of the globe. (His speeches about the Indian woman's Right to Orgasm have, in fact, a tinge of testosteronal hysteria that women are immediately wary of.) But question him about his family life, and you're likely to find that on an annual vacation back home, his wife spends three weeks at his parents' place, while he drops in for a token weekend at hers'.
Double standards. Mention the phrase in his presence, and the IIM will take instant umbrage. Catch him on a Sunday morning doing the crossword with his feet up, while his wife makes aloo parathas in the kitchen, and he'll shrug it off with, "I hope you aren't one of those politically correct feminists who doesn't understand that life is all about inconsistency and contradiction." Fair enough. But how about grappling with some of those contradictions, instead of blithely accepting those that suit you? The IIM won't deign to answer. He has his mind on higher things. He's busy plotting new paradigms for planetary perfection, while his wife sews on buttonholes and attends PTA meetings.
He's earned the right to be sensitive now. He can talk for hours about his childhood traumas and adolescent angst. He's allowed to sniffle through war movies. He enjoys these privileges to the hilt, and loves to tell you about his sensitive female side (IIMs are notoriously deluded.) But his wife hasn't yet earned the right to be smarter than he is. Woe betide her if she were to find fault with one of his learned monographs, or suggest that their second kid take on her surname. For when a self-conscious sensitivity gets together with a self-conscious cerebrum, what you get is an outsized case of self-absorption, a narrow self-serving intellectual sophistry. Knowledge for the IIM is about acquisition. It's about grasping and jealously hoarding a body of information with a view to monopolising power. The self and knowledge are two entirely separate categories for the IIM. Learning, consequently, isn't about self-enquiry and internalisation; it's about naked colonisation and annexation.
I have a private litmus test by which I separate the regular thinking bloke from the IIM. The strategy is to mix up contexts and see how he reacts. (The IIM simply cannot handle sudden shifts in register, especially when initiated by a woman.) Discuss rabi crops and Richard Gere, J. Krishnamurti and your grandmother's mango pickle recipe-all in the same breath. If he brightens up at the mention of James Joyce, but looks uncomfortable or furtive or lecherous (or worse still, emits one of those high-pitched, repressed, quintessentially Indian male giggles) at the mention of Jennifer Lopez, banish him forthwith to the IIM category. There is surely nothing more pitiful than the male who's intellectually bullworkered, but psychologically pre-pubescent.
Of course, he deserves sympathy. Don't give up on him. Befriend him, civilise him, edify him. Remind him that it's possible to be honest and open, even playful, about sex, without having to retreat into some furtive old boys' clique to ventilate a festering adolescent male fantasy. Remind him that there's a vast terrain between the head and the loins just waiting to be explored. Remind him that it's possible to own a mind without doing a tribal dance around it to prove that it's yours. And advise him to learn the following by rote-the fact that genuine liberalism has always been much more a matter of the gut, than the cerebrum.
Yes, I know generalisations are odious. They flatten rich, complex, idiosyncratic individuals into faceless homogeneity. I accept that's unfair. So let me clarify at the start that all I'm venturing here is a hypothesis-and one based on my own circumscribed personal experience of Indian mankind of the self-consciously cerebral variety. And anyway, given that women are constantly having to negotiate cliches about dumb blondes and hairy-legged feminists and bespectacled plain Janes, I don't see why I shouldn't run the risk of perpetuating a couple of truisms from an ovarian view of the universe. Let me first make a crucial distinction between the average thinking male and the IIM. In my book, the first is simply a man capable of some reflection, some analysis, of generating a few ideas (some inspired, some average)-basically a man who owns a cerebrum, like the rest of humanity, and uses it when he needs it. The IIM, on the other hand, Owns a Cerebrum-and how. He'll never let you forget it. He can't forget it himself. He struts it, he flaunts it, he jiggles it. He owns it with a ferocious zamindari arrogance, a naove self-consciousness, a Born-Again zeal.
His ancient forbears' primitive fetishisation of the penis has simply been replaced with a new-found reverence towards the new totem of the times: the Cerebral Cortex. The IIM has demarcated it, has set up his flags, manicured its hedges, careful to keep out any marauding impulse from the neighbouring vicinity of the cerebellum and hypothalamus. For the IIM has no use for these lesser cognitive mechanisms, these embarrassing throwbacks to a messy non-rational past.
Not surprisingly, the wilful schism between old brain and new brain has given rise to certain brands of convenient schizophrenia. And so the IIM is used to living like the Grand Trunk Express-in compartments. The divide between the boardroom and bedroom, between seminar room and locker room-these are some of the binaries the IIM thrives on. The IIM is fully capable of delivering a lecture, replete with bibliographical flourishes, on Lukacs' concept of reification, and promptly retiring to the Gents to share a lascivious wink with a fellow-lecturer on the proportions of the female chairperson's posterior. The IIM can offer you a cogent critique of the manifestations of patriarchal hegemony in diverse cultures of the globe. (His speeches about the Indian woman's Right to Orgasm have, in fact, a tinge of testosteronal hysteria that women are immediately wary of.) But question him about his family life, and you're likely to find that on an annual vacation back home, his wife spends three weeks at his parents' place, while he drops in for a token weekend at hers'.
Double standards. Mention the phrase in his presence, and the IIM will take instant umbrage. Catch him on a Sunday morning doing the crossword with his feet up, while his wife makes aloo parathas in the kitchen, and he'll shrug it off with, "I hope you aren't one of those politically correct feminists who doesn't understand that life is all about inconsistency and contradiction." Fair enough. But how about grappling with some of those contradictions, instead of blithely accepting those that suit you? The IIM won't deign to answer. He has his mind on higher things. He's busy plotting new paradigms for planetary perfection, while his wife sews on buttonholes and attends PTA meetings.
He's earned the right to be sensitive now. He can talk for hours about his childhood traumas and adolescent angst. He's allowed to sniffle through war movies. He enjoys these privileges to the hilt, and loves to tell you about his sensitive female side (IIMs are notoriously deluded.) But his wife hasn't yet earned the right to be smarter than he is. Woe betide her if she were to find fault with one of his learned monographs, or suggest that their second kid take on her surname. For when a self-conscious sensitivity gets together with a self-conscious cerebrum, what you get is an outsized case of self-absorption, a narrow self-serving intellectual sophistry. Knowledge for the IIM is about acquisition. It's about grasping and jealously hoarding a body of information with a view to monopolising power. The self and knowledge are two entirely separate categories for the IIM. Learning, consequently, isn't about self-enquiry and internalisation; it's about naked colonisation and annexation.
I have a private litmus test by which I separate the regular thinking bloke from the IIM. The strategy is to mix up contexts and see how he reacts. (The IIM simply cannot handle sudden shifts in register, especially when initiated by a woman.) Discuss rabi crops and Richard Gere, J. Krishnamurti and your grandmother's mango pickle recipe-all in the same breath. If he brightens up at the mention of James Joyce, but looks uncomfortable or furtive or lecherous (or worse still, emits one of those high-pitched, repressed, quintessentially Indian male giggles) at the mention of Jennifer Lopez, banish him forthwith to the IIM category. There is surely nothing more pitiful than the male who's intellectually bullworkered, but psychologically pre-pubescent.
Of course, he deserves sympathy. Don't give up on him. Befriend him, civilise him, edify him. Remind him that it's possible to be honest and open, even playful, about sex, without having to retreat into some furtive old boys' clique to ventilate a festering adolescent male fantasy. Remind him that there's a vast terrain between the head and the loins just waiting to be explored. Remind him that it's possible to own a mind without doing a tribal dance around it to prove that it's yours. And advise him to learn the following by rote-the fact that genuine liberalism has always been much more a matter of the gut, than the cerebrum.
Never Been Ragged
Wheezing past my second year at Delhi University at a characteristic speed of three hundred and sixty five days a year give or take the vacations, I suddenly find myself at the crossroads. Arguably the last summer vacation of my life (the third year is spent scouting for a job and the fourth; looking after it) at this juncture, I am in a mood to reminiscence.
From the very-certain-of-herself teenager who left Kolkata (it was still Calcutta then) to the girl who lost her way in the maze of Delhi buses, life has been a rumbling journey on a Delhi Transport Corporation bus generously punctuated with the stops. Like my second day in college when I fractured my leg, trying to jump off a speeding bus (that too in block heels) because I had miscalculated and hence missed my stop. Like the month we took off from our classes for our fest. Like the week our professors refused to teach us, because they decided to reverse roles and mass bunk. Or the days when we slipped out from the Maths classes to go to PVR or Connaught Place or even good old Kamla Nagar (the Connaught Place of Delhi University), anything to avoid Prof. RRM (name withheld even without request)
There have been days when all that my wardrobe held for me was a dirty pair of jeans and a crumpled T-Shirt. I donned them for who cares for etiquette at an age when "we were young and restless; we needed to unwind" But true to Bryan Adams, I guess nothing can last forever.........Like the ragging sessions where my friend Upasana who hadn't a pair of Salwar suits in the world; had to get a dozen stitched for that one month. Like the smell of the college loo where I hid for three hours in order to escape being ragged. Like being there at Rajghat, the day Bill Clinton was there. Like squatting on the streets in my brand new Salwar Kmaeez and shouting "Hamaari Maange Puri Karo!"
Then there was the computer laboratory. The great misadventure. Where computers crashed at the innocence of my well-meant C++ programs. When seven of us sat at one terminal not because it was the only connected to the Internet, but because we wanted to read each other's "private mails". Where the air-conditioner offered us respite from the summer of forty-five degrees. We stayed there till we were driven out.
When we chatted with unknown netizens we knew we had arrived. When we hacked email accounts and fought over our favourite terminals we knew we belonged.
From here to eternity, God alone knows where destiny will take us- Wipro, Infosys, TCS, Hughes, Cadence, IBM, Microsoft, - the names whirling round us in a labyrinth of bewilderment. Sometimes it scares us, like now, when they are saying that the bubble has burst. Sadly though, what I’ll always regret about college is that despite all the fun that I had I probably remain the only one in my class who's never been ragged.
[Written during my summer vacations, 2001]
From the very-certain-of-herself teenager who left Kolkata (it was still Calcutta then) to the girl who lost her way in the maze of Delhi buses, life has been a rumbling journey on a Delhi Transport Corporation bus generously punctuated with the stops. Like my second day in college when I fractured my leg, trying to jump off a speeding bus (that too in block heels) because I had miscalculated and hence missed my stop. Like the month we took off from our classes for our fest. Like the week our professors refused to teach us, because they decided to reverse roles and mass bunk. Or the days when we slipped out from the Maths classes to go to PVR or Connaught Place or even good old Kamla Nagar (the Connaught Place of Delhi University), anything to avoid Prof. RRM (name withheld even without request)
There have been days when all that my wardrobe held for me was a dirty pair of jeans and a crumpled T-Shirt. I donned them for who cares for etiquette at an age when "we were young and restless; we needed to unwind" But true to Bryan Adams, I guess nothing can last forever.........Like the ragging sessions where my friend Upasana who hadn't a pair of Salwar suits in the world; had to get a dozen stitched for that one month. Like the smell of the college loo where I hid for three hours in order to escape being ragged. Like being there at Rajghat, the day Bill Clinton was there. Like squatting on the streets in my brand new Salwar Kmaeez and shouting "Hamaari Maange Puri Karo!"
Then there was the computer laboratory. The great misadventure. Where computers crashed at the innocence of my well-meant C++ programs. When seven of us sat at one terminal not because it was the only connected to the Internet, but because we wanted to read each other's "private mails". Where the air-conditioner offered us respite from the summer of forty-five degrees. We stayed there till we were driven out.
When we chatted with unknown netizens we knew we had arrived. When we hacked email accounts and fought over our favourite terminals we knew we belonged.
From here to eternity, God alone knows where destiny will take us- Wipro, Infosys, TCS, Hughes, Cadence, IBM, Microsoft, - the names whirling round us in a labyrinth of bewilderment. Sometimes it scares us, like now, when they are saying that the bubble has burst. Sadly though, what I’ll always regret about college is that despite all the fun that I had I probably remain the only one in my class who's never been ragged.
[Written during my summer vacations, 2001]
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