yada, yada, yada

Renewing vows won't seal it, doing groceries will.

2012-01-23T14:02:00.000Z

I spend the last weekend with my friend and her husband of two years. She has been inviting me to spend some time with her and also to get to know her husband better. As I landed in her city, the topic of love crossed my mind more than once, We would discuss love, and I'd get tips on how giving space is a horrible thing, how love requires work, sacrifice and being scarily honest. I knew it would be the weekend of love.
The moment I stepped inside their apartment , the first thing i notice was love. It was everywhere - in the air, on the refrigerator, in the closets, in the curios, on the walls, in their hearts and right above the wash basin. Touché. They are the most loved-up couple I've ever met. No, there was no queasy PDA, everything was cute, playful, romantic and often childlike. They pray every evening. Together. They do their groceries, holding hands. He leads her from one aisle to another with his hand gently around her waist. This is love alright. He likes the horror and the super natural, she likes the soap-sob stories. He likes his steak, she loves her soy. They have found their in-betweenness, holding hands. Even in a crowd, they are together, a couple in love. Even the guy who served us coffee could tell, and not because they were gazing into each others eyes. If this isn't love, what is?
Yesterday, on my way to the airport, we were discussing their plans for their second anniversary, which is just 2 days away. I told them, their kind of love deserved something regal, something that's not everyday. Something that you and I don't do. Something like renewing vows in exotic locales like Heidi Klum and Seal do... of course I was just trying to be funny. But if there's any couple I know, who could possibly do that, it would be this one.
This morning, dailymail.co.uk tells me Heidi Klum and Seal are separating, after 3 kids, 7 years and as many renewed vows later. Duh! yeah.
Dear Heidi and Seal... before you sigh those damned papers, may I urge you to go to the nearest Trader Joe's, pick some steak, tofu and strawberries, holding hands...

The importance of a sucker punch and why comfort is a bad, bad word.

2012-01-04T13:13:00.009Z

You are in your sweet little cornucopia... hours, days and months go by, every bit the way you had imagined. You have more than just a vague idea of how the future will look like. Life is predictable, in a good way. And if you are a little lucky, you might just have a few surprises too on the way. Of course there are ups and downs. The ups and downs you have learnt to tread. It's your world after all. 'Lucky me', you gush, follow it with a knock on the wood, or sometimes you just give these rituals a miss. Saving them for those not-so-often celebratory moments of life. Your everyday life isn't nothing special. It's just normal. This is how it's meant to be. This is how it should be. You don't know any other way. You take your life and the people around you for granted, the way you think they have. You don't know better, or worse?... and then something hits you hard. A sucker punch. It'll take you a while to understand what just happened. And when you finally do, you realize, the world that you thought would thrive on its own, has in a way, ended. You look at yourself, closely. You put your every action, every habit, every moment under scrutiny. You start doubting the life you have lived, the choices you've made. You are left with questions, so many of them. You are begging for answers.
And then with time, you emerge from the wreck, not stronger, not wiser, not any less sadder but with a realization, that you've perhaps been a little too comfortable. Too oblivious to the world, that was changing. Comfort pushes you into an unreal world. It's the first step of being in denial. It also numbs you. Comfort makes you forget why you are here. It makes you confuse priorities and fight battles that are of no importance at all. Comfort is a bad word. Don't wish for comfort. It's not going to be pretty.
And as I write this, I realize, I'm dressed rather comfortably.
Tell me stilettos don't hurt.

Change before you have to

2011-12-30T12:54:00.003Z

It's that time of the year, the time for wise words, introspection, new perspectives, prioritizing, re-prioritizing, etcetera, etcetera. Though I think I am not a quote-quote person, 'change before you have to', however, stayed with me, it made sense to me, to the postponer in me. Change I will. Before I have to.

About the photo here, isn't it really good? I am not sure why I like it, it could be the sun, the simpleness of the composition, the couple's effortless energy or the lady's tiny derrière. Everything is just so perfect yet simple, easy and happy. May that's what 2012 be... perfect, yet simple, easy and happy.

My 'stop to smell the roses' edition.

2011-12-27T14:11:00.004Z

My apartment isn't anywhere near spectacular, in fact I have multiple issues with it – the closets don't close, one of the basins acts funny every time it's used, water isn't ample though leakages and damp spots are, there isn't enough light and the lights are too bright. Okay, now that I am done with my clever wordplay, I will tell you one adorable thing about where I live.

During the fall-winter season (That's so yves saint laurent no?), the trees lining the apartment buildings bloom. And bloom they do. The flowers are a lovely pinkish-purple. Google tells me it could be Southern Crabapple. I am not sure. The trees are covered with these flowers, and when I say, a single leaf isn't visible, I am not taking any poetic license. But the best part isn't the pink-purple spread. It's those tiny little things that would come visiting every morning. Humming birds. The prettiest humming birds resting on pinkness laden branches. It was beautiful. I wish I had seen more of it. But the fact that I use a getty image here, tells you I was too busy tiding up my bed, while gulping down the cold morning tea. Because I always thought I could catch the humming birds sitting pretty on the branches the next morning or the morning after that. But then the next morning and the one after came with its yellow to dos and messy closets. And then one morning just like that the flowers were gone so were the birds (yes, it was that dramatic). I stared at the bare brown branches and wished I had called in sick, on one of the mornings.

A little less love

2011-12-06T13:34:00.002Z

There are things we do for love and then there are things we do in the name of love. The latter sounds more real no? Something, people who wake up in the morning and drink tea do? Here I will refrain from what others do and talk about the things I do, in the name of love.

I like to fight. I like to be bitter. I like to be rude. I like to be irrational. I tend to be incoherent. I tend to be absurd. I become totally loathsome. I become over demanding. Yes, I do all of that. When you ask me why... all I say is because of love. Love makes me do all of that, can't you see?

No, it isn't an apology-through-blogpost to my man. It is a note to self... No love doesn't give you the license to be bad or crazy for that matter. If love is the trouble, then love a little less, if you may.

above is a quote from sex and the city

Love what you do, do what you love. Huh? Sorry, come again?

2011-09-15T12:45:00.003+01:00

This whole 'following your dreams' concept is a very recent one no? The fact that something, which pays your bills is got to be fun, is something you and I wouldn't be able to reason with our fathers. It's work, they would say, the rule is simple, when you gotta work, you gotta work. If you are good at something [the very reason why you have the job], you keep the job, you do the job.
But then unfortunately we were introduced to doing what you love, loving what you do. Like you must, must have fun at work, like the work place owes it to you. The picture[via huffingtonpost.com] above is hardly the invigorating fun job. But the women are smiling? What's with that? They don't look miffed, they are happy. Filing mail orders, for days and years. Are our expectations from our day job absurd? Yes, enough has been said about one excelling at a certain thing only when he enjoys it, has fun at it. But that's not possible, not sustainable. Even a painter has to sell his most treasured art. And selling would involve haggling. And haggling is not cool.

Note to self: The age of advertising being the most fun you can have with your clothes on, is seriously over.

The day of loss

2011-09-12T12:16:00.004+01:00

9/11 - loss of a world that could have been. Loss of faith, loss of hope, loss of what really matters, loss of the idea of a future.

That feeling of having arrived

2011-08-30T14:56:00.003+01:00

Pardon the clichéd title of the post, but to capture what I wanted to, something else wouldn't have cut it. Okay, so something happened last week, something phenomenal. Between 7 change in briefs, confused clients, stale dinners, messy closets, messier minds and an unspectacular weekend, something remarkable happened. I have started to enjoy The New Yorker. Yupe, that's the story. That's about it. I'm sorry if I've led you to expect something life changing. Non. Just that I am now into the new yorker. I get it. No it wasn't on my 2011 new year resolution, but every writer I respect and love to read, reads the new yorker. No it wasn't exactly in the aspirational space, but yeah I did feel I was missing out on something. But, my attempts [yes, I use the word attempt, because that's what it was] at reading the recommended articles, would fail. Say somewhere in page 3, I would stop getting it. And then move to the lighter reads.

Everything changed in the past week. I read an article, that came highly recommended by a favorite blogger. I read the whole thing, and understood whatever was there to understand. When I say the feeling was almost calming, I kid you not. Calming like when you get your corner office with a view.

What gives?

2011-08-25T14:07:00.003+01:00

Last night, after having worked for 10 hours straight [for most of you no biggie I know], straightened my back, picked up my bag and got out of office. It was dark, it was raining, the roads had more potholes than it's possible. And unfailingly the auto rickshaw guys were acting funny... 'it's late', it's raining, 'traffic jam' and what jam it was. After 70 minutes of being drenched by pothole water and choked with the soot from the rickety buses that crossed me, I reached home. Switched on the television, and scouted the fridge and the kitchen shelves. While nibbling on some stale cheese balls and watching Nigella cook a cuban chicken with ingredients from the freshest, prettiest farmers' market... I feel hopeless, goalless, tired and extremely lonely. Another day gone. Nothing done apart from having earned my living. That's what most people do. That's what most people are supposed to do. Yeah, yeah must sometimes, just sometimes the whole process of earning a living seems pretty pointless, away from family and friends, with no time to do what we like, with situations that make you curse the rains, with mornings that have turned into a nightmarish routine. Hmm, but then a woman has to earn her living... so would does she do. She leaves work a little early today, ignores the TO Do list, and the unanswered emails. Picks up her bag and heads to the food market. Tonight not, the cuban chicken but some fish curry and rice perhaps.

Condé Nast Traveler I'll be gone for a while

2011-08-12T13:40:00.010+01:00

the thought of zero network zone excites me
the idea of living without an ATM seems fine
covering only two food groups a day sounds perfectly healthy
the promise of a stranger's bed is enticing
waking up without a plan, what can be wrong with that?
living out of a backpack is cool too.

Getting people to buy stuff they don't need with the money they don't have.

2011-08-05T10:11:00.004+01:00

Hello Clients, Account executives,

Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur adipiscing elit. Nullam vehicula pellentesque ultricies. Pellentesque vel tellus magna. Maecenas consequat, nisl eu convallis fermentum, mauris velit tincidunt tortor, quis vulputate lectus orci et quam. Curabitur dapibus tincidunt tortor sit amet malesuada. Proin rutrum nulla et justo pellentesque non porttitor purus tincidunt. Suspendisse potenti. Donec laoreet lorem sed arcu consectetur at aliquet lacus adipiscing. In quis dolor orci. Phasellus ornare aliquet nibh accumsan gravida. Integer id nisi eget sapien commodo consectetur. Fusce semper molestie vehicula.
Donec congue felis eu est eleifend ut fermentum mauris scelerisque. Donec gravida, dui quis lacinia volutpat, neque metus mollis ante, vel pretium turpis mi quis dolor. Aenean orci velit, fermentum vel tempus id, tempor a nulla. Suspendisse eleifend porta purus eu pharetra. Nunc vestibulum eros sit amet ipsum consectetur quis tempus orci condimentum. Sed viverra nulla vel arcu iaculis molestie. Curabitur at eros sed nisi pulvinar accumsan. Aliquam rhoncus, nisi ut sagittis elementum, neque libero vestibulum eros, a facilisis metus velit a justo. Ut ut nulla ante, vitae feugiat est. Proin in est erat, vel consectetur libero. In lectus enim, facilisis ut ullamcorper a, vehicula eget lacus. Quisque egestas orci justo, ac faucibus sem. Nulla laoreet convallis ullamcorper. Sed congue condimentum mauris, vel suscipit diam vehicula vitae. Duis convallis mattis auctor.

Garbage in – Garbage out. How hard is it to understand that? Clients, why not tell us the REAL date of your product launch, how can it be 1st of next month when you are yet to start operations in this city? When you are yet to hire a team? Why not tell us who you are actually targeting at? How can your TG be everyone from Parvathy R. Kutty, part time teacher, mother of two, wife of Insurance seller from Vanandurai to nineteen year old NIFtian, aspiring bridal lingerie designer from GK? Huh?
And Account Executives/Managers could you speak up please? When I say speak up, I don't mean you asking us for 7 headline options or asking the client for money [which you do very well, and yes of course this is why you and I are around], but while you are at it, can you not tell the client, 3 campaigns by tomorrow evening is not possible. That google images isn't his property, that one more bullet point and the ad will burst. That the consumer doesn't give a dang about his vision? And, and could you please write a brief? It's important, non?

n.b. this is my 100th post. quite a feat, considering my attention span.

It's everything I had imagined it to be

2011-08-01T14:33:00.004+01:00

And before your mouth goes :-O, the 'it' above isn't a Cannes Lion. But it is – my first advertising award. And God it feels good. Like I said, the award is everything I had imagined it to be.
Not expecting it one bit. Check.
Heart Rate 220. Check.
Knees-going-weak while accepting it. Check.
Not remembering the name or the face of the gentleman who gave it to me. Check.
Looking at the camera and giggling like an idiot. Check.
Going numb once back to my seat. Check.
Staying numb for rest of the evening. Check.
Looking for eyes looking at me, but finding none. Check.
Discovering the Monday after to be as blue. Check.

Days when you need a pick-me-up

2011-07-27T13:14:00.009+01:00

Life or if I were to use a less dramatic word - the week so far has been less than great. Nothing killing [thank god for that], but stuff I could have been much happier without. You know nagging things... that are not there on your face. Yet lurking somewhere. Hmm that's the kind of troubles I have been talking about. There goes a saying 'don't sweat the small stuff'. How? Pray tell me how? How can you not sweat about things at work that are beyond your control [not talking about the looming deadlines]. How can you not sweat about untimely rains that make your commute a big hell. How can you not sweat about a sad roommate? How can you not sweat when uncertainties outweigh certainties?

The point is we do sweat the small stuff. Such days demand a pick-me-up. Do you have a pick-me-up? A stuff that always works? I do. Yes, sir I do.

www.dailymail.co.uk rocks my world. It always does. Try it on a day, when things are grey and sad. When monstrous clients seem like angels, and your cubicle companion plays the screaming demon. On a day when no planning seems like the best planning. On a day when waking up in the morning was possibly the worst thing you could do. Yes on that kind of a day. Do try dailymail.

After all, how can your world be difficult when in this very world Hugh Hefner's runaway bride decides to bare it all in a tell-all realty show. A world where Britney goes flab to flat, in three days flat and then back to flab again. A world where 'friends with benefits' or the 'no strings
attached' models work perfectly. A world where pretty young things sue their moms over misused funds. A world where Cheryl Cole keeps falling for her love rat multiple-time-cheater ex-husband.
Do give dailymail a try. On a day like today.

n.b. the dark brown stuff above works as well.

Mary had a little lamb

2011-07-22T12:56:00.003+01:00

My friends who have pets now, have always had pets when they were growing up. Pet(s) featured in their family albums, vacations, birthdays, mostly everywhere. The pet had its birthday too. And gifts during special occasions. Visiting aunts and uncles would never forget to pack something for them. Dare they. Now my friends' pets have moved from the dusty velvet albums to facebook, from pretty collars to fancy tweeter accounts. And nicer names too. Hobbes has replaced snowy. Rio is the new Pluto. Harper 7 anyone?

And people with pets, are different kind of people I've heard. Quite like athletes. No it's not about them being like athletes. It's about them being a little different from the rest of us, the way athletes are. Pet owners are kinder, friendlier and kind of nicer no? Not the ones with pet caretakers. They don't count. For them I'm guessing, having a pet is part of the checklist process. Penthouse check. Picket fences check. Monthly parties check. Pet check. Weekly spa check. They don't count.

I've always wanted to have a pet, but not badly enough to have fought my mom's hygiene concerns or father's transferable job factors. And now my own issues of not having enough time or space, or that green patch, or crazy hours at work. There will always be excuses. To not have a pet. Or to not live your life.

I have to go see about a boy

2011-06-17T12:58:00.007+01:00

i am aware that someone half my age should be blogging this... but, but, when you see matt damon smiling like that, and taking off his jacket like that, how can you not write that line and post that picture?

nb. yes i am in a black & white hollywood hunk phase. why do you ask?

spontaneity versus being interesting, witty and intelligent

2011-06-09T12:12:00.003+01:00

while the later combination promises more comments and followers and readers, spontaneity brings me joy. and with it a greater urge to write. where topics are not shortlisted but randomly picked based on the emotions they elicit.
i always hoped, maybe just maybe, in the course of my blogging life, i will realise that the two have merged. that i while writing things that i like to write, without much thought or care would come up with something delightful, something totally funny and intelligent. all at once. but that was not to be. blog posts were quite like the much-thought-out headlines i write at work, that's work. but that shouldn't be the case right? this is what i do for free, all i should get from it is joy. comment generated joy or just the plain old writing joy. this i have to figure out. till then, i will write about experiences that have something to write home about. at the risk of coming across as boring, dull and silly, i will write whatever i wish to.
so on a day when i l would like to write about leonardo de caprio, that's what i will do. write about leonardo de caprio, his smile, his ex gf, his current squeeze or why he is martin scorsese's favorite boy.

How will you measure your life?

2011-06-02T12:02:00.005+01:00

The graduating class of 2010 at Harvard Business School, was given an assignment. The assignment required the students to answer three questions.
First, how can I be sure that I’ll be happy in my career? Second, how can I be sure that my relationships with my spouse and my family become an enduring source of happiness? Third, how can I be sure I’ll stay out of jail? Seemed funny, but not so. Apparently 2 in a class of 32 had done time in jail. On the first read, the assignment sounded incomplete and lame. But on reading the questions again, I found that yeah, that's all you need to figure out about your life, to measure your life.

Happy in career would mean, you would go on to be successful and make money. Successful gets you power. Power to get back at that sassy showoff from college. Or buy out your ex-flame's dwindling business. Making money would mean, you would have all the pretty things and the comforts that the swanky malls and delicate mannequins have to over. Sometimes peace of mind too [there's nothing a spa in the Himalayas can't fix.]

Happiness from your spouse and family, well, well, well. Basically, you really can't do much about this. Being a good woman/man brings you a good husband/wifey, if you believe in that, then perhaps you also believe in good karma. Ergo, you are also into the past-life-this-life thing. Doesn't quite work that way does it? So, be good, do not cheat, and what? Keep your mouth shut?. I guess. Family, if you are born into one that's loving, caring, sharing and all things sweet, then knock on the wood. That's it. Else, it's sad and let's not go there. Alright, that was about being born into the family, what happens when you have to raise one? It's then all up to you, the aforesaid spouse and genes.

Staying out of jail. Okay sitting in our cubicles, doing extremely mundane and harmless work, looking out of the window, to a view that's as boring as the last meeting, and then walking up to the vending machine for coffee that's insipid, it's tempting to pass the last question as lame. Crazy or comic even. But in our cubicle, there's so much more we could be doing. Thinking for instance. Thinking up plans. Evil plans that involve people who are part of our everyday, every night. Or that guy who takes up the parking area every morning. Or just a momentary lapse of judgment could do us in. Thing is crap happens [Jailed abroad on Nat Geo is scary, after every episode you have to look heavenwards and say thanks. Thanks to be just getting to sit in your dilapidated sofa in your living room and watch some primetime television]. You can just not take anything for granted. But what you can do is be cautious. Cautious not paranoid. Spontaneous caution anyone?
And never forget to pray.

The need to write

2011-05-24T06:53:00.004+01:00

write is what I do to buy pretty shoes and that bag
write is what I do to be occupied 10 hours a day
write is what I do to have a retirement plan, or any plan that I can think of

so, why don't I write more? Because what I write at work doesn't exactly qualify as 'writing' writing you know. Conceptualization and other fancy words have taken over. Paper work, ppts, client calls, targets, graphs, briefs, team building initiatives and oh yeah deadlines involved. So that isn't exactly writing in its truest sense. And because I cannot find that perfect tree, or afford the beautiful summer home in kasauli, or be allowed to take beach vacations every thirty days, guess I will make do with this seat, which is near perfect and the screen that allows me to have wallpapers from any location from conde nast traveler.
And because when you got to write you got to write. Blogspot here I come.

The day Chef Wonton died

2011-04-12T12:13:00.006+01:00

As a 12 year old, Wonton knew what he wanted to do with his life. Though he decided to tell his father about his discovery right away, he didn't. His father, a paddy farmer, was a man of dreams. Dreams for his son. And if he were to find that all his son ever dreamt was to make the perfect dim sum, he would be shattered. So young Wonton decided to wait. Wait until he could wait no more. So he spent endless hours at the nearby local school, learning nothing. His real education came from his mother and his grandmother, at their dingy little kitchen. “Nainai, can you show me how to do that again? ”he would ask his grandma. His 80-year old Nainai, loved his enthusiasm. And often chided her son , for mocking Wonton about his culinary passions. And then, the day had come, when Wonton could wait no more. His father was enjoying his daily evening drink with his friends, Wonton thought he was better off waiting for his father to finish his drink, and for his friends to leave. But he could wait no more. Waiting is what he had done all this while, so Wonton summed all the courage he could and said, in his shaky adolescent voice, that he was leaving home. To be a chef.

In the years that followed, Wonton spent his days learning and perfecting his culinary skills. He later joined a group from Nanxun to a crowded city in India. Which he later found was Kolkata. Here he worked in a restaurant in Tangra, the Chinese locality of the city. Adjusting to city's dirt and grime, wasn't easy. But luckily, his love for dim sums never faded, not one bit. One of the guests at the restaurant, noticed his extraordinary skills and offered him a job as a head chef, at his restaurant in another Indian city. Wonton, wished his grandmother could see this. And his father too. His dim sums were certainly leading him somewhere.

Upon arriving in his new city, Hyderabad, Wonton wasted little time. He got the place as Chinese as he could. Manchurian was knocked off the menu, so was American Chopsuey. Cartons of cornflour went down the drains too. Much to the shock of the Sous Chef Lucky Lee from Gurdaspur. Sinova, was born again, as the most authentic Chinese restaurant in town. The owner joined in the enthusiasm, pretty butterflies and dragon table tops were included, so were little lights. Chef Wonton had no clue what branding was, but his real take on Chinese, made Sinova at Road No. 12 Banjara Hills, the non-glutinous Chinese Place.

It had been over 2 years since he joined Sinova, a trip to his hometown had been on his mind. March-April-May was off season, with exams everywhere; he thought perhaps this was the perfect time for a holiday. Hearinghis holiday plans, his boss asked him to wait for a couple of days, he had plans he said. Wonton loved nothing more than work, holiday could wait. Wonton had his plan ready, he would suggest province based food festivals. And then maybe something for the vegetarians – Something like Tofu in Town! Or a cooking class maybe. The anticipation of the days ahead gave him a new burst of energy.

There always are some signs, signs that try to tell us something. But signs in the current scheme of things are often banished. Sous Chef Lucy Lee, was humming, he was in a better mood than he has been in the last two years. The store manager ordered cartons of cream and butter. Wonton was confused, did he not make this very clear on the first day that cooking medium is always Peanut or Sesame oil and Chinese cuisine requires no dairy.

The owner was fond of Wonton, he begged him to stay, Sinova, would now, with Chinese will also serve Indian cuisine. So, he could continue to be the head chef, and manage the Chinese section. But Wonton knew better. The new Indian restaurant was inaugurated. It was called Ghazal. Guests were pouring in, the smell of chargrilled meat filled the air. It was a busy day at the kitchen. Wonton sat in a corner. The owner game him a half apologetic-half understanding smile and asked him if he could step in and take charge of the Kebab section. Woton nodded. Kebab section it is. The marinade could do with a little more zest, decided everyone. So, what would it be, what would it be? Chef Wonton headed to the pantry, where Lucky Lee gave him a a bottle of spice. He walked back to the kitchen, amid oil, saffron and cardamom. Wonton stopped for a moment, images of his village, of his father, of Nainai and of the dingy little kitchen flashed in front of him; he took a deep breath and returned to the marinade to add a pinch of Garam Masala.

Never trust a guy who draws a pyramid, and thank God for outlook express.

2011-04-07T14:48:00.002+01:00

Hello yellow-blue-red-floral-striped tie wearing, crass joke cracking, evil laughter laughing Client Man,

In all honesty, I would rather not see you again. Having said that I will now tell you what a obnoxious [now I know what it means] man you are. And without much ado, or pretty sentence formations, let me just bullet your horrid traits that I observed during our 2 hour meeting this afternoon.

While discussing a certain headline that required us to emphasize the joys of living high up in a high-rise, you said 'oh my God, ask me how it feels to be at the top, they say it's lonely, they are right'. We [I and the team] did little but nod, not because we agreed but because we were appalled. You are delusional, and I sugarcoat.

Looking at our blank faces, you might have thought, we didn't quite get the whole 'lonely at the top' bit. So, you went on to borrow one of our writing pads and a pen, and drew a pyramid. And then you shaded top of the pyramid, and with that horrible content smile, said 'yes I have reached here, and I know the feeling'. Phew! We were already one hour into the meeting, and no, the concerned work wasn't discussed even once. 60 minutes later, all we understood was, you were at the top and you were lonely.

And then your phone rings, you answer it, instead of excusing yourself out of the room, you talk at your loudest inside the conference room. You inquire about a certain woman, you also describe her – her body type, her complexion, hairdo and then that horrible laugh again. I could tell, it was some sick joke. You go on for the next 9 minutes.

Finally when you are done, and finally when we are about to discuss work, you crack a joke. About your body type, which is pumpkin. Just in case you missed the look on our faces again, no we weren't interested. Not. The. Tiny. Bit. Shocking I know. But no, we were not interested.

If you remember correctly, the work was discussed in less than 17 minutes. An email would have done nicely. Thank God for emails.

Another sign your life sucks

2011-04-05T08:25:00.003+01:00

when you have no use, absolutely no use of iPhone's newest app :)

7 signs your life sucks

2011-03-24T12:49:00.005Z

when someone asks you about your weekend plans, you say 'groceries'

when facebook album updates of your friends mean the world to you

when you think of work 17 hours a day

when everyone expects you to think of work 17 hours a day

when you develop an unhealthy love for travel magazines

when you call fellow bloggers friends

when you mark your calendar as per starworld's program schedule

The day of love. The day of ultimate Hollywood trash.

2011-02-14T10:29:00.002Z

Is it like, you underperform under pressure?
Did you get to work on say the 14th of January?
Did you write the script, whatever that is, while you were sleeping, changing nappies?
Did you and your five friends get drunk and write 5 different scripts? And let your dog pick one?
Did the ensemble star cast work for free?
Did you work for free?
Do you hate your job?
Or does love make you sick? Like really sick.

Last year it was Valentine's Day. This time it's No Strings Attached. Horrible movies. And that's when I am a sucker for mush.

So here's my take...
Julia Roberts isn't God. Neither is Jessica Biel. Ashton kutcher in the buff does not make up for shoddy acting. Natalie Portman in the buff, kind of makes up for shoddy acting. Please, please have a story to tell. Mills & Boon is a great source too. You could explore that. Read about thirty of them. And you are bound to come up with lovely things. If you can't come up with an amazing story on love. Then don't. Give us something on say shoes or the perfect stole maybe? People in love often bond over such things. So, don't you worry about us having a tough time dragging our men to watch such films. Give it a thought. I also have a title in mind – Jimmy loves Choo or Heels That Hurt The Heart. Like?

Men. Amen.

2011-02-09T14:24:00.012Z

What could I possibly say that hasn't been said already? Turns out, surprise, surprise, I have quite a lot to say. A blog lot.

If I were talented, if I had the money, or if I had really rich producer friends I could maybe, make a movie out of it, chronicling the lives of three women, separated by a few years, and their journeys into and out of the hearts of their men. So, since I do not have any of the mentioned things, I would settle for a post. And look at the sky above, and say a silent prayer – directors of movies like Turning 30, Delhi Heights, Dus kahaniaaa, chance upon my blog, get totally gobsmacked, and offer me hell lot of money for the movie rights. I act tough. They don't want to let go of this brilliant little post. They absolutely want it. So they double the offer. And give me distribution rights of the film as well. And ask me to begin work on its sequel. You with me?

Okay, so, this post is about men. Men I haven't met or intend to meet or don't know much about. But these men are a very important part of the lives of a few women, who I call friends. And that makes them worthy of my blog.

The last few weeks have largely been about solving men related problems. Oh no I am no authority. Neither I have proof of being good at it. But then that's not how we operate. Situations like these call for any advice. Just about any. Preferably from a woman. This is a dangerous and delicate territory with certain rules. The most important one being to never hold the one in distress responsible for the misery. NEVER. Because it's not the done thing. And during the course of the conversation, the advisor becoming the advisee, or the nagger turning the naggee [Thesaurus make note] is per usual. So while one moment is about how her man fails to call her at the promised time, next could be about mine not believing in surprising me, or making an effort to find the right gift. See? When we get talking, the lines blur. Topics merge. It's no longer someone else's problem. It's mine as much as it's hers. I listen. So does she. She weeps. So do I.

Problems discussed in the past few weeks – not enough calls, more than enough silences; caring too little, working too much; too little we-time, too much boys-time; too few vacations, too many business trips; gifts versus oh-shit-gifts, oh-shift-gifts versus no gifts; no sweet nothings, words that mean nothing; and then they get a little murkier.

So what do we do after we've discussed the troubles of the heart? well, nothing much. See we aren't doers. No we are not. Neither do we press each other for acting on anything. We just listen. And when we are done listening. We talk. And they listen. It's simple. And it works. Every. Single. Time. And we often end our conversations with - “no we did not sign up for this.”

nb. Such sessions go well with a pefect cup of tea and chocolate biscuits to dunk.

What's wonderfully indulging yet has zero calories?

2011-02-01T12:00:00.002Z

As indulging as a slice of cheesecake. Sans the 350 calories of course. It's also extremely liberating and also makes you feel in control. And as Joey Tribbiani would have said, what's not to like? Indulgence, goooood. Liberation, goooood. In control, goooood.

Advising. At 400 precious words per minute. Is an indulgence unlike any. It frees your spirit. Or some crap like that. Basically what it does is, it makes you feel good. In a purely do-gooder kind of way. And everybody can use such a feeling once in a while, right? But Of course like all things sinful, practicing restrain is of great importance here. Never over do. While cheesecake could leave you with unlovely love handles at worst, this comes down much harsher. Losing friends, losing partner [business or otherwise], being made fun of till your last day on earth, and not being invited to anywhere, are some of the problems you might face.

So, there's this lady in my gym, she will be in her early fifties. She is a banker. And she spends seventy per cent of her gym time advising the trainers. No not on mutual funds or investment plans. But guess what? On fitness. Yes, she does. She walks on the treadmill at a speed of 3kmph and goes on and on about the fitness regime the trainers need to follow. And the diet they should try. Obviously the poor lady is now quite a joke. And on those rare moments when she does concentrate on HER fitness regime, the trainers snigger and go up to her ask her with help-us-miss-fonda eagerness. Yep, you and I live in a very cruel world.

Then there's this sad case of a bored receptionist. On a day when the number of calls are low, and visitors are too few, this lady brings out her inner momma/grandma and does, what she does best. Advise. Right from the movies one should watch, to the take-away joints one should try to the right month when one should conceive. Receptionist lady covers it all. She means well, all of us know that. What can I say, this isn't the ideal world and she mostly eats her lunch alone.

And now, it's my moment under the sun, or some such phrase like that. While I understand nobody needs advices, I won't pass this opportunity. No way. I am no silly village girl. So, because I am a non-silly urban woman, here goes -
A. Know your priorities.
B. Pick your battles.
And that's all you need to have a happy life.

Quid pro quo, Clarice.

Can we have some answers please?

2011-01-24T12:10:00.003Z

It's a Saturday morning, a lovely Saturday morning at that. The sun is just right, the kind that's mild, not depressing-mild, but just-bright-enough-to-brighten-your-day mild. Yes, that's the kind of sun, we are talking about here. A day when your neighbor's 7 month old decides to let you have peace. Yet chooses to break the eeriness with her periodic giggles and attempted-chatter. Sweet. A day when the newspapers have features by your favorite writers. Favorites of Radia or not. And a day when Assam and Darjeeling forget their ego battles, and unite for the greater cause, of pleasing you that is. To give you that perfect cuppa. Yes, it's that kind of a day.

You get yourself out of bed, and get in to the treadmill. You run a mile. In eight minutes. You could run another. Right now. But you decide to shower. To get ready and seize the day. The bathroom looks goodhousekeeping-clean. You believe in angels. You get out of the shower, go to your closet. You can't decide what to wear. You like everything you see. Thanks to the ongoing SALE. You have quite a loot in here. But on a day like today, nostalgia is what the heart seeks. You reach out to the jeans you wore in college. And guess what? It fits. Beautifully. There's God. You step out of your home to walk into that quaint neighborhood bistro, where you and your friends are to meet for the weekend brunch. You reach the place, your friends are already waiting for you. You are looking as fresh as a daisy they say. So does the chef as he walks in to announce brunch is on the house. Why? Because you look so pretty. Could you ask for a more charming reason? The menu has been revised he says. It includes all that you love. He vanishes in to the open kitchen. You see him get to work. You see oranges being squeezed. You hear the sausages sizzle and smell the freshly baked croissants. The chef returns shortly. The table is laid. The spread is delightful. The chef comes to you and asks you to leave. Leave right now he says. You and your friends pick your belongings and prepare to leave. And as you close the glass door behind you, you watch the chef sit in your table, pounce on the food ravenously.

Yeah, and that's the feeling I was left with after watching Dhobi Ghat. Lovely. But not quite. Crafty. But very unfinished. Awesome. But abrupt.
Mrs. Aamir Khan, around here, we love nice stories. Nice stories with endings. It could be a happy ending or a sad one. You decide that. But not a random one please.

The Commute Chronicles Part Deux – The Conversations

2011-01-18T11:17:00.005Z

In my earlier post I had revealed my choice of vehicle, yeah the humble black and yellow autorickshaw, driven by the not so humble [mostly] auto driver. And I had also mentioned that I travel in autos of the second kind. The non-sharing ones. And when you travel 5 days a week, spending at least 120 minutes a day on the road, conversations are bound to happen. Conversations between me and the aforementioned auto driver(s).

I am not the chatty kind, wait, no I actually am the chatty kind; just not with strangers who try to fleece me [ oh yeah :-| you could say I am a tad cynical]. So more often than not, it's the driver who decides on the topic. Topics vary from – local politics, national politics, ugly politicians, the few good ones, inflation, 2012 and the end of the world, the new generation, the world a whole, the life in general, to that odd bitter-passenger-experience story [my least favorite].

If I were to separate those conversations, they would be something like this – hmm true; wow-I-didn't-know-that; scary; yawn-yawn-why-doesn't-he-shut-up; never-talk-to-an-auto guy; and finally the awww kinds, which leave me with thoughts like, maybe just maybe I shouldn't haggle after all].

Last week, I had a very meaningful conversation with this guy, on a current topic, the state split issue, and what the opposition's next move should be. He also spoke about how inflation will cost the ruling party at the center dear and how onions are going to make them cry [:D oh yeah he could write some badass ad lines alright!]

This morning, the elderly auto man, suggested that we [as in you and I and our friends] can make a difference, we can reduce corruption, and what we need to do is, to be more actively involved with the media. Hmm... wise words siree. Point taken.

And then there are the ones, that leave me bitter and make me want to jump out of the auto, out of the flyover and wish for a spiderman rescue. Hyper-boles. Aren't they l-o-v-e-l-y? Okay so a few weeks back, I was on this busy flyover on my way back, and then suddenly the auto man slows down a little and says, “madam do you see this flyover?” to which I reply 'yes', he goes on “well madam, in the year 2012, this will be gone, it will be in ruins, so will you and all of us. The world will be destroyed.” and after ten seconds of eerie silence, he says “completely destroyed.”many thanks mister Nostradamus, now can you please take me home.

And as the evening nears, I hope, today as I hop into an auto and head home, the only conversation we have is, he asking me 'where to ? ' and I giving him my address.

wishes for 2011

2010-12-31T12:28:00.008Z

may this be what you wake up to

may this be how you commute to work

may this be the place where you mull over life, bills and plumbers

may this be your 4 pm snack

may this be the place where you and your man/woman drink your evening cuppa and discuss bosses and babies

may you play more

Have I made it large?

2010-12-29T10:36:00.006Z

I used to eat paneer now it's Tofu.
But I ask myself, have I made it large?

It used to be levi's, now guess does it for me for me.
But I ask myself, have I made it large?

I used to jog in the park; now it's power yoga on my fuchsia yoga mat.
But I ask myself, have I made it large?

I knew cabbage was green; then i discovered purple.
But I ask myself, have I made it large?

I used to eat capsicums; then i got introduced to bell peppers.
But I ask myself, have I made it large?

I used to haggle with the auto walas; now I don't.
But I ask myself, have I made it large?

I used to hate spending 18 bucks on onions, now I am okay with 55.
But I ask myself, have I made it large?

I used to pluck guavas from the tree, now i have ones with barcodes on them.
But I ask myself, have I made it large?

It used to sabzi mandi every sunday; now it's ruci and idoni.
But I ask myself, have I made it large?

Guess you get the drift, I absolutely hate seagram's newest ad, the one featuring Sail Ali Khan and the other with Gautam Gambhir. It's so, so tacky. OMG and those lines. I cringe every time I watch it. you have to watch the tvc, to see what i mean. pretentious junk. and being born at Pataudi estate to Mansoor Pataudi Ali Khan and Sharmila Tagore isn't exactly our idea of starting small.

Dear Gautam, you are a prolific opening batsman, and Saifoooo, you have a lovely girlfriend, but doing that ad, and saying those lines, you have failed to make it large.

silent night, biright lights and some perspective

2010-12-24T11:03:00.012Z

the festive season while making you feel very festive, also gets me thinking. thinking about things, little things, and things slightly bigger - like say one's attitude towards life and people.

so as plum cakes, secret santa games, wish lists, red and white dress codes, do the rounds, so do thoughts like, 'what am i?'; 'is it the real version of me'; 'is this what i want to become?'; 'what lies ahead of me'; and 'am i happy with the version of me?', etcetera.

the last thought stayed with me more than i would have liked it to, and then it got me thinking. thinking hard. well, no matter what femina says [yeah, i browse through it sometimes, very, very rarely], there are, at last count, 47 things that i would want to change about myself. so, i am not at peace with the version of me.

so what's that thing about me that irks me the most? well, it would be my tendency of trying to fit in. in different groups and in different moods. so, on this beautiful Christmas eve evening, as i listen to silent night, holy night, see pretty little stars in gold, silver and pink, and eat my body weight in plum cake, i decide. i decide to no more trying to fit in. it's so much easier to make one happy than trying to appease around hundred thousand people, that is if i live up to ninety. and yes that one i was talking about would be moi. :)

merry christmas everyone.

The Commute Chronicles – part une

2010-12-17T13:23:00.004Z

Lately I have been spending a lot of time on the road. Lot would be over an hour a day. Which surely isn't much by most city standards, but it's a little out of my comfort zone. And if you are curious, my comfort zone would be anywhere between 0.5-1 mile.

And since I only travel from one part of the city to just another part of the city, again like most of us; I seldom see scenes like migratory birds returning home; sweaty and muscular, leather clad cowboys getting to work at the crack of dawn, or peasant girls in their pretty peasant tops eating warm bread and stew under apple laden apple trees. Sigh!

My mode of transport is always the auto rickshaw. AKA the thuk thuk, such a cool name isn't it, love the way anthony bourdain says it, I digress. Okay so there are two kinds of autos in this part of world – share autos and non-sharing autos also known as autos. Sharing autos are shared by around 6 passengers or more to go from point A to B, they function more like tiny buses. So you got to board and get down only at fixed points. You wouldn't be able to get down at a point say say P. But if the auto driver is a good man, he would be ready to drop you at any point between A and B, of course without him having to deviate from his usual route.

The other is the non-sharing kind, also known as the monsters; where you or you and your friends hire the auto and go to a destination of your choice. Sometimes you can also ask the auto driver, again if he is a good man, to wait, as you run errands. You could of course pay him some extra bucks for his kind gesture.

But the most significant difference between a sharing and a non-sharing auto is the meter-system. Sharing ones, usually have fixed rates. Not a penny more, not a penny less. Such a tiresome phrase I know, but the temptation to use it right now far exceeded my embarrassment for having used it. And I wander again. Also, the share-auto drivers never play the i-don't-have-change game. They have a certain work ethic.

Getting back to the non-sharing kinds, in an ideal world they would run on unrigged meter systems. And not ask for ridiculous fares. And not grumble about it being too sunny or to chilly, or it being too early in the day or too late in the evening. And not mutter annoying things every 45 seconds. And not lie about not having change. And not accuse you of manipulating neighborhood names. Like I said, in an ideal world...

Coulda - Woulda – Shoulda

2010-12-03T13:35:00.002Z

My friend, let's call her B, works in New York. She lives in a beautiful house in New Jersey with her husband and her 4 year old daughter. So, B manges her home, her kid, her job, and also did her CFA first level, and is now preparing for the next level. That's not all, she also learnt to swim, and now plans to go for ice skating classes. Yes having an extremely helping husband and an unfussy kid help of course. But isn't she incredible?

Last week, I met her on her annual vacation to India, she was visiting her parents and her in laws. My holidays with my parents and in-laws revolve around relaxation, and not much else. Not B's. Her free time was spent doing things and getting things done. And make no mistake, I am not talking about lame little things like shopping and visit to the spa [which figured too]. I am talking about heavy duty stuff, stuff like investments, properties, learning new things, etcetera. She learnt to drive, met up with as many friends and relatives as she could and most importantly invested in a land, a land that would be prime property, 10 years from now. B bought this land in a town, where she plans to settle after she and her husband retire. So, if this isn't smart, then what is?

Why I don't have any retirement plan or why am I not investing in lands in promising little towns, is beyond her understanding. She just doesn't get it. She often advised me, on properties, money, savings, and topics as drab. But has now, given up on me. Fittingly so.

I call her a super woman.

But she says being a part of New York's working population does it. The city's energy does it.

And I now agree, after having recently read about New Yorkers' obsession in a blog, about doing things and getting results. There's an old New York expression, summed up by a cartoon in New Yorker.
A patient is lying on the psychiatrist’s couch. He’s obviously just finished unburdening himself to the psychiatrist.

Divulging his deepest, darkest secrets, his fears, his regrets, his missed opportunities, his thwarted intentions, his unfulfilled expectations. The psychiatrist simply looks up and uses an old New York expression.

He says “Yeah, yeah, yeah: “Coulda - Woulda – Shoulda”.”

The year of a steep learning curve and not much else

2010-11-03T12:08:00.004Z

Caveat: a very self-indulgent post.

So, I have learnt a lot.
I have learnt that you got to be unapologetic about what you got/are
I have learnt that you need to be apologetic about what others haven’t got/aren’t
I have learnt that a person is never all bad, you are sure to find something good in him/her that you could use [but of course you don’t point it out to him/her, lest the bad takes over (no honestly)]
I have learnt to appreciate a relatively free day at work [they are too few and far in between]
I have learnt to appreciate a busy day [they are the reason I can buy those goodies]
I have learnt to not feel sorry for my over-worked colleagues, [they never do]
I have learnt that there’s no escaping paper work
I have learnt a way around escaping boring conversations
I have learnt to be bossy when required
I have learnt to be a sissy when required
I have learnt to be frugal
I have learnt to be generous
I have learnt to accept my dispensability
I have learnt to enjoy my worth [Tad trite? Hell yeah but that’s alright]

Giorgio Armani, a typo and his idea of luxury.

2010-10-28T11:20:00.005+01:00

Mister Armani you have a typo on your very, very chic website. Yes you do. It’s about the usage of ‘a’ and ‘an’. Okay, so having saved you a blooper, can we now talk business? Will you kindly offer me a job in your esteemed organization as an anything? While creative consultant for Armani sounds really cool, I am okay with a proof-reader’s position too. Only if you could fit in the word creative somewhere, err a creative proof-reader maybe. Pretty please?

Just so you know I am not a stickler. It’s just that when you call your frames – frames of life [nice name at that], price it upwards of $150, and have a killer website, you are better off not having a silly typo.

Now, moving on to prettier things, things like luxury.

“Real luxury is just a state of mind that allows you to live each day in a unique and authentic way. “

I am not sure if these are the exact words from the man himself, or thoughts of an over zealous writer at Armani Co. Whatever it is, for anything Armani this definition of real luxury does not work. At best it sounds pretentious and patronizing. Does my bitter interpretation come from the realization that I won’t be able to afford an Armani anytime soon? Possibly.
Coming from a super-luxury brand, how am I supposed to believe this take on real luxury? Humor me please.

Kia soo

2010-10-25T13:16:00.005+01:00

First, my sincere respects to a civilization that actually thought of having an expression as profound as this. Kia soo.

Kia soo is a Chinese expression that means the “Fear of missing out.” Fear of missing out on what someone else might have. Fear of missing out on what we have now. Fear of missing out on what others might get. So, one could safely say, Kia soo is what drives us to do what we do.

Does it make Kia soo a good thing? Not necessarily.
But we could make Kia Soo work for us. Finding out the things that we would want to miss out on and the ones that we would like to hold on to.

Be afraid, be very afraid.

2010-09-17T16:41:00.003+01:00

[This place looks like a typo-free zone to me.]

Believe you me, I tried to make a post of it right after it happened but just couldn’t. Typographical errors often do that to me. They numb me. They render me incapable of doing the only thing I know [or so I think] well.

On the first day of my job, my boss told me it would help me if I were paranoid. Which I was. But then as days go by, I forgot my lessons and the ignominy that follows.

This recent typo episode wasn’t even a typo. As in it wasn’t a spelling mistake nor was it a grammatical error. You could say it was trivial. But it was big enough for the client to call up the account executive and ask for an explanation. So, a typo it was. And I once again pledged to never walk that path again. To be afraid, very afraid.

I’ll call it the Straightened Hair Theory

2010-08-19T15:01:00.004+01:00

I have what you will call unruly hair; I’ll skip the part that tells you in detail about what I mean when I say unruly. Let’s just say, I have bad hair day, 6 days a week.
Okay, so last week I had this little party to go to, for which I neither had the right dress nor the attitude, so I decided to at least have the right hair. I went to the nearest saloon. 35 minutes of hot ironing and loads of Chinese chatter later, I emerged with poker straight hair, hair that shines, hair that you’d love to touch, hair that sways when you say a Yes or a No. Yeah with that hair I went to the party where my reply to every compliment was,”thanks but only till the next wash.” And then as I headed home it struck me maybe, just maybe I should get my hair permanently straightened.

The next morning, I woke up with hair that needed no brushing and a strong resolve to get a permanent fix. Yeah I had found my salvation. My world was about to change.

So I went about my day, writing and checking copy. Then sometime little after noon, out of nowhere, for reasons far too dull to go into, I started hating my hair. The straightness, the silkiness, the shine, I hated everything. It all of a sudden felt limp, scanty and phony. I wanted to get home, wash my hair and greet the unruliness back.

Just so you know, this post is not part of Dove’s real celebrities campaign, or some you are beautiful the way you are initiative. This hair episode is here because it had a little lesson for me. A life lesson if I may call it so. So, here goes – there could be many things that you would want to change in your life, important and trivial. And quite often the change that we had sought and worked so hard for turns out to be a huge downer. Unfortunately unlike straightened hair, which wears off in 6-8 months, this alteration could be a little more damaging. Well, so what’s the deal you ask, would one never do new things, would one never try to change? Of course one would. And this is where my Straightened Hair Theory comes to play. What this theory tells you to do is sample the change. Before you go for a complete overhaul. Say for instance, if you want to switch cities. Instead of going all lock, stock and barrel, take off and be in that city for a fortnight. Stay away from all touristy things, do the regular stuff. Ideally take a cab to and fro to your possible place of work, once daily for 5 days. Preferably during the peak hours. And on your way back try doing the groceries too. And while you are at it, collect the laundry from the presswala across the street. By the end of your trial stay, does the city still hold its charm?

And, this, ladies and gentlemen, is my STRAIGHTENED HAIR THEORY.

Why telling someone he is normal, is possibly the worst thing you could do.

2010-08-05T09:09:00.003+01:00

The smarts, they say always have that streak of madness in them. Being in Advertising and being a writer, one could almost fail as a writer if one isn’t a little crazy. And I do grudgingly accept that the best writers I have met were all a tad eccentric.
Someone very dear to me, who is also quite a gym fanatic thinks normal people can never be regular at the gym. “They aren’t insecure, they don’t have a reason to slog it out in the gym, why would they“, he says.

All my life I have been told I was normal. And all my life I was happy with it. Because I always associated normal with sanity, zero fuss, ease and simplicity. Which were all nice things, I assumed.

Now when someone calls me normal, I ask if I am normal to the point of being boring, ambitionless, uncreative and stupid. Answers often vary.

While that’s not being fair on the normal tribe, but there’s indeed a point here. Normal means you aren’t weird. Normal means you are kind of okay with yourself. And there lies the problem. When you aren’t troubled, you are happy and when you are happy, you wouldn’t want to change anything, and when you don’t want to change a thing, you would most certainly not work like a maniac. And when you don’t work that way, you would stay where you are, and not do anything great with your life. And which makes normal a not very pleasant thing.

So to sum it up, calling someone normal means he/she is not good at his/her desk job, is not capable of doing any better, is boring and is not in shape.

Weird is what I aspire to be.

Poetry versus Prada

2010-07-30T08:43:00.003+01:00

He was 21, she was 15. They had just become man and wife. He was away working in a city. She was with his family in village faraway going about her wifely duties. And those were the times when distance actually made the heart grow fonder. When poetries were written for the woman you loved. He wrote her a poem. It talked of gratitude, pride, longing and the love that he felt for her. It talked of how she was everything he had hoped she would be. It talked of how she was the perfect daughter-in-law to his parents and will be the perfect mother to their then unborn kids.
They were together for 66 years and had 9 kids.

She is 88 now and he is gone. But the memory of the poem written 73 years ago brings a smile to her now frail face. First she refused to recite it to us, said she was shy. And then when she did, she remembered every single word, and I could tell she read it just the way he had then. She paused in between the lines; I wondered what she might be thinking. Whatever it was, it was lovely, I am sure.

Have I ever had someone write poetry for me? No I did not. Neither did my friends or their friends. Because somehow a holiday in Prague or a boot from Prada made more sense.

Would I want to tradeoff my 3 promised gifts for 200 words of tenderness? I guess not.

It is the best of times; it is the worst of times.

2010-07-22T14:30:00.002+01:00

And yeah it was the age of wisdom and the age of foolishness. What does the season of SALE do to you? It gets the worst out in me. The evil, nasty, selfish, rude and wily self, the one that I keep under wraps, most months of the year. Case in point - I race with fragile strangers to reach that lone M shirt. I push the kids away en route to the 50% off section. And yeah as I stand in the 50m long queue outside the trial room I swear. That’s not all, the possessed me also screams at sales girls [which is swear I never do] when my alternations aren’t done, or when a promised shoe in my size isn’t found. Yes, it gets ugly. And at the end of the whole SALE season I feel very sorry for myself and whosoever crossed my path. My loot makes me happy but it leaves me with such a bitter feeling.

These are also the times when I get incredibly stupid, the times when I lose the sense of balance. And the memory of a depleted bank account suddenly vanishes. I buy a certain t-shirt in 4 different colours, do you ask, why? Because I like t-shirts. Because I like colours. Because it’s on sale. I buy a bag. Then I buy another, and then maybe another one, as I see 50 percent drop to 70 per cent. I do so because I like bags. Because I have a thing for bags. Because I have many things to keep in those bags. And because I am getting them cheap. Yes, moments of ‘oh it’s a steal!’ leave me happy and satiated but it also leaves me disoriented.

It could be momentary lapse of reason. Could be good ol’ greed. Or most probably in my case, could be a seasonal loss of memory, reasoning, intelligence and graciousness. Yes, the season of light, the season of darkness is upon us.

A case of blogger’s block

2010-07-16T10:24:00.003+01:00

In the past few months not only have I not been able to write anything of interest, I haven’t had any interesting thoughts either. Yeah, scary stuff. No, it isn’t a case of being stuck or being bored contrarily there have been too many changes. A new job, a new home, new locality, new restaurants, new gym, the works; so it is not a case of the stale routine. And so, it must be what I frequently experience at work. A block. A big, big block. The writer's block. [ooh la la the word writer has a such a nice feel to it, doesn't it? that explains the peanutish moolah in advertising]

Back to the block, yeah I did attempt to write on a few occasions though, wow see the word attempt, c’mon an attempt to blog? How sad is that? So, after rounds of navel gazing, I decided to wait, wait until the words came flowing, such a robust flow, that no deadline, no lazy mind can stop.

Well, that was not to be. So I wrote. See the post below, says something doesn’t it, it was so forced? This time round, I am going to wait a little longer, yeah there’s a risk involved, that I never start again. That the ominous block refuses to go. Tough times. Sigh.

And on that note, I leave you with a question… just how seriously should a blogger take her blog?

When the tough refuses to get going…

2010-06-30T14:39:00.003+01:00

There are times, when no matter how hard you try, how much ever, things just don’t change. For better. And then there are things you could do about it, sulk or to not sulk. Yeah of course you would keep trying to change things [I wouldn’t venture there in this blog, cause that will be little self-helpish, and I don’t want that.] Cut to the chase, times have been such that more often than not, I seek things that comfort me, things that tell me life isn’t a monster that there’s so much more to my day than the sore thing(s), which I will refrain from discussing here.

I talk to a friend, not the one who has 37 solutions to my problem, no not her. I speak to the one who cracks me up, oblivious to my troubles. This works.

Food. Of course. Trans fats be damned.

Newer goals [sounds dangerously self-help]. Goals not remotely connected with the pain point.

Television. 5 hours of it. It’s mind numbing, which in the given circumstances, is a good thing.

Books yes. Again like that friend, nothing too deep. Jeffrey Archer heals like no one else. So does Theroux, as he takes you through rainy afternoons in London and romantic evenings in Honolulu.

And yeah, there's nothing that a lot of chocolate can't fix.

Care but not that much.

2010-06-15T13:38:00.001+01:00

And never have more important words been spoken. I wish I had heard it sooner. Sooner

on an aside: But, because I care about this blog, and because I like to write, I am going to blog again. Soon enough. As soon as I get my chutzpah back.

“I hope I have it easy, for the first time in my life.”

2010-02-23T07:42:00.003Z

- An American Idol hopeful.

She did not have it easy. She did not make it to the top 24 of American Idol. After all the hard work, struggle, hope, she is out. And now her entire struggle will cease to matter. Of course she is a very gifted young singer, she has all the time in the world, and this is only the beginning, and how there are so many opportunities and all that soothing signoffs that people tell you. But the thing is, those opportunities will bring another round struggle, pain and hope. It isn’t going to be easy.

Why do some of us have to work so hard? And some just have it so easy? Yeah I am all for hard work and dedication and all that, but just sometimes, I wish I could have it easy like so many others. I envy them. There’s was this girl in my class, she had all the fun that school goers hope to have, and she very effortlessly got the marks that I did, while depriving myself of the fun. And there have been many such instances, at work, at gym and I am going to skip those because they bring back unpleasant memories. Yep, enough has been said about life not being fair, life being random, etcetera. But, don’t you just wish, you had it easy? I do. I am sure there’s a pattern that we are missing. I am going to figure that out, and hopefully before I am spent.

As Calvin put it, “Why should I have to work for everything? It’s like saying I don’t deserve it!”

There are two kinds of people in this world…

2010-02-12T05:38:00.008Z

[that's me fighting it out]

I am ashamed at being this corny, honest, I never thought I would use this damn ‘two kinds of people’ thing ever, but here I had to, as you see. I have always judged people who say - there are two kinds of people in this world, those who likewhite bread and those who don’t; those who use the straw and those who don’t; those who love to run and those who don’t, and its variants. But here, I had to. That said, yeah there are two kinds of people in this world – those who can freelance and those who can not.

By ‘those who can’ I mean those who can handle the whole process graciously and emerge unscathed. And by handling the whole process I mean procuring work, meeting deadlines, negotiating deadlines, talking money and collecting money.

I, however, as one might have rightly guessed by now, come under the ‘don’t’ group. I suck at it. And I gave had two ugly experiences so far, pretty ugly ones actually; and I have realized that my living-on-a-hilltop-sipping-on-chai-latte-writing-three-days-a-week-and-earning-a-neat-money dream is certainly not happening and I have also learnt to respect my day job, my only job.

[and that's my man fighting it out for me]

And since I am meek and coward and can’t do much about those two ugly experiences, I will say a silent prayer – May both the aforementioned parties, rot in hell. Amen.

Bliss often comes in the form of a pdf

2010-02-10T02:53:00.003Z

Not in the smiles of my neighbors’ kids

Not in the pretty hibiscus in that woman’s braid

Not in the smell of freshly ground coffee beans

Not in a beautiful, misty morning

Not in the days with no deadlines to chase

Not in the days that allow the pursuit of frivolous hobbies

Not in the orange of the dusk or the dawn

Not in the first rains of the monsoons

Not in lavender or patchouli

Bliss often comes in the form of a pdf, or a word doc for that matter.

Fuel asks: Can a 10,000 sq ft swanky gym get you in a 24W Levi’s?

2010-01-21T10:02:00.003Z

I go to Gold’s Gym, perhaps the closest I would ever get to the A-listers. Not that I want to get any closer, just mentioning. Gold’s Gym is unlike any gym I have ever been to, well that’s not too may, but quite a few you know. It’s the first gym, where I don’t queue up for the treadmill; where machines don’t make my hands greasy; where I find more than two nine pound dumbbells, where I don’t cringe at the thought of using the mat; where every single air conditioner works and so does every cardio machine; where there are 4 awesome instructors, all of them awesome; where I look forward to those post workout showers; where the locker room looks exactly like how random sweet teenage movies on HBO told us would, where every corner is squeaky clean and often pretty; this is the gym, which I have been most regular to.

And this is also the gym, where people [both men and women] come to feel good and just that; where lonely married women come to seek single men; where lonelier married men come to run away from the domestic hum-drum; where the rich and the beautiful come to be reassured they are rich and beautiful; where pleasantly plump young girls come to shed the flab and regain their sense of worth; where the not so pleasantly plump ladies sweat hard [or so they think] to reclaim their husbands or whatever that was once theirs.

Gold’s Gym is a sanctuary of sorts, a kind of escape that tells you there’s hope. Maybe a lesser gym can get you the body that you seek, but not the place that you would want to run away to, each day. A place that tells you, you are okay.

NO. Nah. Nada. Whatever, it’s a NO.

2010-01-19T10:24:00.002Z

Addressing NO, as I know it

You have no idea, how very important you are. You have often helped me salvage my self esteem. You have, in more occasions than one have saved me from hot red ears and a flushed face. You have protected me from being labeled a) liar; b) timid/sissy/pansy; c) nincompoop. You give me power, I feel in control.

Would it be wrong to say that you have quite changed my life? No it wouldn’t be. You have and I am looking ahead to using you more often than ever.

Well, now that I am done with what I consider a very clever wordplay; I take a moment to advice. Whenever in doubt, hmmm, doubt of the faintest, the remotest kind… just say NO. You have no idea, how simpler it will make your days. Easy no?

First there were none, then there were a few, then a few more and now, they are all gone.

2010-01-08T10:08:00.001Z

2010 will be about not having to worry about comments [more appropriately, the lack of it]. I will write anyway. Because I like to write and I want to write. Period.

Having said that I think I have been a confused writer, I write stuff that is targeted towards a TA who isn’t my TA right now. Holy moly! Did I just call myself a writer? And did I just use the words writer and TA in the same sentence? Yes, I did. Ooohooo it feels super nice. So, zero comments is not something I will worry about, I will not spend 3 hours on tweaking a sentence, I wouldn’t care much about that witty headline either. But images are something that need to be beautiful, so I will keep stalking corbis, getty and flickr…

side note: I will also not always explain my choice of image. They are here because they are nice to look at.

Addendum: did I also mention that I wouldn’t spend sleepless nights thinking about a sharp sign off? So in the days and months ahead, you [if there’s a you] can look forward to boring, silly posts, crazy, unnecessary posts and beautiful images. Am I taking my blog a little too seriously?

[An interrogation mark involves the reader, so said one of my ex bosses…]

Of New Year resolutions, few realizations and a stronger resolve

2010-01-04T09:44:00.004Z

Good that 2010 is here. Not that 2009 was bad, and I take a moment to thank God for that, but 2009 was very plain, nothing spectacular happened. Like there’s so much more I could have done, that I didn’t, then there’s a lot, which I shouldn’t have, which I, well have. So, I am glad 2009 is over, and the new year gives me yet another chance to do things right, and most importantly do things. To make new to do lists, to note things that I would want to change about myself. If 2009 was mostly about dreaming, yeah lot of dreams, about my perfect job, my body, the way I choose to live my life, the way I keep my home, the kind of fun I have, the places I go, the way I do away with things/people I don’t like/want. 2010, will, yeah most certainly it will be about doing it and doing it most of what I have been wishing to.

2010 will also be the year of being organized and structured in every possible and every little way. 2010 will be a year of zero laziness. This will be the year of doing things and getting things done. 2010 will be a year of being a more balanced, matured and knowledgeable person.

It’s the fourth day of the New Year, and no I haven’t done anything earth shattering yet. But I am very hopeful of a very energized and a busy 2010, busy in a good way of course. The kind that does me and my dear ones good, and first step towards is to plan ahead. Yeah, planning ahead… my day, my meals, my weekends, everything.

What I have here is an extremely structured resolution list. I have categorized them into - professional, personal and miscellaneous. And then, I have sub-categorized these categories. Yep, I do not intend to be interesting here. So in the sub categories we have,

Professional 1 Day Job

Professional 2 Knowledge for my day job

Professional 3 Goals

Professional 4 Priorities

Professional 5 Networking

Professional 6 Get Rid Of

Professional 7 Get More Of

Professional 8 The art of following up

Personal 1 Family

Personal 2 Friends

Personal 3 Me [this one would be quite complex, but will figure it out :)]

Personal 4 Goals

Personal 5 Get Rid Of

Personal 6 Get More Of

Personal 7 Learn

Personal 8 Priorities

Miscellaneous 1 Paper Work

Miscellaneous 2 Learn

Miscellaneous 3Organize

Miscellaneous 4 Get Rid Of

Miscellaneous 5 Get More Of

And apart from that impressive resolution list that I’ve compiled, I am also looking at being more in control of things, decisions, choices and the life in general. :)

Dear Santa…

2009-12-25T14:49:00.004Z

If you are looking at gifting me something this year, gift me time. Whole lot of it. Time to do what I love, like and enjoy. Time to read more, watch more television [a woman can have a few vices you know], to run more, spend more time with family and friends, cook more, and yeah do some real travelling. And yeah, loads of happiness and cheer.

I have never believed in Santa, not even at age seven. Let's say, Santa did't quite feature in our Christmas celebrations, 25th of December was all about cakes and cousins, and ten days of respite from school. I was that kid, who knew there's no Santa, but played along anyway.

At the risk of sounding pretentious, I now say, I want to believe in Santa, the chimney, the stockings... the whole thing. Maybe because now my wishlist is longer than it ever was.

Merry Christmas!

Wake up and smell the coffee – Part Deux

2009-12-22T09:54:00.002Z

The feelings. Be cautious. Very cautious.

Yeah the quintessential feelings bit. You are now at a very, very vulnerable state of mind. You have all the time to read between the lines, the words and often the alphabets too. So, do advise your friends, ex-colleagues, parents, neighbours, maids and particularly the spouse to refrain from speaking without thinking. And often refrain from speaking at all.

But make no mistake; you don’t quite function this way. You don’t have to. Remember, you are the vulnerable one. You have the liberty to let your feelings lose, thinking with your heart or the brain, as you please. Or for that matter, not thinking at all.

addendum - The image is here because, when you go to corbis and type 'feelings', this is the most arty and pretty image you get. The image description did not make sense, and why do I care.

Wake up and smell the coffee – Part Un

2009-12-09T08:28:00.003Z

The thing called TIME.

When you don’t have to worry about time, you tend to notice/imagine/comprehend things that you wouldn’t have otherwise.

Take more than 7 minutes to pick an orange and you imagine that the ones that you aren’t selecting have some rare skin disorder.

Don’t hurry with your walk back home from the corner grocery store and you would notice the three new stray dogs in your locality. All of them hate you. Make your move, stop to say hello.

You could also experience something murkier than cute dogs and bright oranges. Like witnessing a neighbourhood extramarital affair; one that could get you killed. No ordinary death would do, a let’s-silence-her-before-she-spills kind of death. And if you must know, the man and woman in question could be above 70 years of age; but what has age got to do with love or for that matter, the ominous look, that yes-we-are-on-to-something look. And that’s the look, you get every single time, you look at them. And why do you look at them repeatedly? What else can you do, when you walk at 2.1 mph for an hour.

A new month, a new number… new tidings

2009-12-03T10:33:00.002Z

[sorry about the most typical image, but it's pretty]

It’s been sometime since I felt this way. That feeling of uncertainty that hope, not knowing what to expect, not knowing what to let go. Wanting the phone to ring, the inbox to be busy. That funny feeling in the tummy [guess with this one I am going overboard, but really there is].

I have been wanting to advise. So what do I do when I want to advise and do not have any takers? I use my blog space to do so. Will you judge me if do a little advising here?

Good andt comfortable makes sense. Of course it does.

Boring but comfortable, still makes sense.

But bad and comfortable doesn’t.

If it’s bad and comfortable, then it’s time to scoot. Just run okay?

Don’t think too much about the repercussions, sure there will be. But if you think too much, you will never get to scoot, and which means you will never know, what awaits you after the run. Did I make much sense there? Did I?

Didn’t I start on a sunny note? Whatever… it’s time for new, new things!

It's cheesy, it's corny but really This Is It.

2009-11-06T11:15:00.003Z

I know, this is so cheesy, but was way too tempted to let it pass. Because this is it.

Other movie posters that come to mind, right now are Enough and Kill Bill :D

Pet bhar gya par ji nahi bhara [untranslatable]

2009-11-02T09:56:00.002Z

Translate, if i must... Tummy is full, but the heart isn't.

Two years in NCR, 4 Punjabi friends, 3 Punjabi neighbours later I am not done yet.
Even if you aren't a typical maa ki dal, rajma-chawal fan, you have to give it to Punjab for its sheer variety. Now, don't confuse Punjabi cuisine with Hariyanwi food, which has bits of paneer [cottage cheese] ]in everything.

Punjabi food is robust, flavorful, and unique, all at once. Quite like the punjabi kudi, now that was lame, but mind you, the food isn't. So, you have the variety, the flavours and yes, the style [visit a roadside dhaba and watch one of the guys, break an onion with his strong fist... cool stuff].

Pillow Talks

2009-11-02T09:33:00.002Z

I've business travelled just once [for the record, my job doesn't require me to], and I hated it.
Well, I hated the hotel. And needless to say, the whole trip turned out to such a drag. Both the room and the service sucked. Food [the local restaurants] and the shopping did salvage my trip though.

Coming back to, hotels and their rooms. Those who travel often, look forward to neat, fuss-free, comfortable stay [no gut feeling here, facts from frquent travellers]. The good room, and the good service are the most important factors; availability of multiple cuisine restaurants and other facilities follow next.

People are now warming up to luxuries on offer, more the better. New and special offerings always make the difference; setting hospitality trends and creating the buzz. Having said that, but you can not mess with your basic offerings, it's always the basic that make the cut... you know the mattress and the pillows.

The Good Housekeeping Post :)

2009-10-29T15:20:00.007Z

Those who relish cooking, enjoy the whole process. Yeah, the cleaning up after the cooking bit too.*
But what's most crucial is getting the ingredients part, a tedious job, but very fulfilling. Sourcing the freshest veges and the succulent fruits from the farmers' market rather than hopping to the nearest food mart. Threatening the butcher with dire consequences if he didn't deliver the required cut. Or spending, obscene number of hours at the spice market... sniffing for the right asafoetida or maniacally looking for the purest saffron. A real cook, enjoys the whole process. And Lebanese cuisine demands such cooks.
Though the cuisine has few ingredients, and simple methods, it is extremely flavorful, nutty, zesty etcetera. Freshness of the ingredients comes through in each bite. Try hummus at a fine Lebanese place, and you will begin to comprehend the magic that fresh lemon, racy garlic and plump chickpeas can create.

Now, can we talk a little about the humble eggplant or the aubergine, as we have learned to call it. I can't imagine doing anything with the eggplant, apart from roasting it, and then frantically smashing it to come up with Baingan Ka Bharta [eggplant smash]. And that's about it.

However, the French are known to create wonders with this vegetable - Ratatouille Terrine [go figure] and Yemenite Eggplant [go figure again] for instance. Very complicated and supposedly very delicious too.
French are very particular about their food, and about their recipes too. Google French Recipes and it prompts you with Easy French Recipes. :D Nah, nothing easy about this cuisine.On a completely different note, somehow I think, the French invented fine dining. Mac & Cheese needs no fine dining experience, neither does aloo paratha. But Ratatouille Terrine, certainly does.

Have you ordered Domino's pasta? Then you perhaps, ate pasta, because 1) you were bored of pizzas or 2) were in the mood for some Foreign khana 3) saw the ad, liked what you saw and wanted to try it[oh c'mon I want to believe this :)]. Thing is, if you are a true pasta connoisseur, you wouldn't want to ruin your pasta experience with some quick fix domino's. The gourmands know their cheese and their fusilli and rotelle. There's no fooling them with just a cream and tomato options. Comprendere?

*here's my tip – clean as you go. Don't pile up the mess for the last.

Done seeing my cake? Can I now eat it please?

2009-10-28T14:21:00.005Z

Birthday cakes for kids, are a big deal. And that makes it a big deal for the mommies too. So, what does the mommy do? She goes to the swankiest cake shop in town and orders a big, pretty cake for her little dahling's big day. The cake that would get the tiny tots swooning and their mommies trying to figure out, where it came from.

These days, birthday parties have themes, all of them do; so just a Chocolate double layer, butterscotch or black currant, won't do. Something fancier, something very unique, something that's personal, works better.

Of course the cake has to be yummy, but first it has to make a statement. A POGO statement.

Taking stock. One ad, at a time.

2009-10-28T12:41:00.004Z

The other day, a friend of mine asked me something as harmless as, “Aren't you into investing.”
Huh? Why the hell should I be into investing?

I am into movies, I am into working out, I am into baking, but I am not into investing.
Questions about Investing invariably led me to money... and that led me to my chosen career, which I terribly enjoy [not always, but mostly].

And then, out of nowhere, I had this moment. The moment when I realised that for the last five years, all I have been doing is chasing that witty headline, that lyrical bodycopy and that perfect ad. And now, it's that moment, that what-the-bloody-hell-were-you-up-to moment.

So, while I have shied away from saving and investing, there's no dilly dallying this one... I want to take stock of my work. One ad, at a time.

It's that bright, bright day...

2009-10-16T14:28:00.003+01:00

Today, there will be no clever commentary, no smart Alec anything.
Just a simple wish.

HAPPY DIWALI!

Happiness is a shoe called Jimmy Choo.

2009-10-13T10:25:00.001+01:00

I call her Ms Z, for reasons unbeknown to me. The only reason I can think of is that I know no woman with a Z in her name. So as to avoid any is-it-me? Is-it-her? questions, at any point in time. However, make no mistake, I quite like Ms Z. Well when I introduced Ms Z to my world, she was this one particular woman. But later, I started to notice a pattern, and Ms Z went on to become a type. Do I hate to admit the type? Yes I do. A type that I quite grudgingly approve of, a type that I even more grudgingly, hope to become. However, I have realized that there's nothing that will make me happier than being like Ms Z, and this I have realized it good.

Now, explaining this type. Ms Z knows what she want and works hard towards getting what she wants, leads a pretty simple life [not the simple living simple, but a fairly straight life, if you may call it so]. She pursues simple things in life, like a Gucci limited edition bag or the 47th pair of peep-toe heels. And she knows how to go about getting it. Well, the thing is, pursuit of such simple pleasures gives us the power to control. We know exactly what is required from us to get that. Everything – the kind of effort involved, the people, etcetera. Of course it requires hard work, but you at least know where you are headed.

Isn't that true for everything you say? No, it's not.
Being a decent copywriter for instance [if I come across as overtly ambitious, then no I am not, just a little maybe, but a better copywriter I do want to become]. So, the problem with wanting that is I have to depend on so many factors. Am I in the right place, writing the right stuff, for the right brands. What are the chances that someone else out there is working harder.

Now, let's talk about love/relationships. I have friends whose lives revolve around that perfect relationship. Now, that's not bad, but it's terribly sad. Because, for all you know, your object of affection could be pursuing a lofty pay cheque and not your heart. Now, these [career/money and love/relationships] are the only things I could think of, but I am sure there are many. However, should you choose to pursue any of them with much gusto, be prepared to end up sad.

So... Take a dream breath, close your eyes, think of Prada, Versace and all things nice, bring out the Ms Z in you, and discover a truly happier, newer you. [yes, this is so Chicken Soup and I am cringing too :D]

INGLORIOUS BASTERDS – oh no, it's not a review.

2009-10-09T06:04:00.005+01:00

Now, c'mon I wouldn't dare such a thing. Because I am so not qualified to write anything about it. Just that it's one helluva cool movie. And if you haven't watched it twice, you must. You must. And the reason for this post is , this awesome poster.

n.b. Mr. Tarantino, you are one of the coolest men around, you know that right?
And Mr. Pitt, thanks for changing the way i perceive mustached men.

But I think I am just right for Amul Chocolate.

2009-10-05T10:36:00.003+01:00

As you grow older, wiser or not, you come to terms with a few facts of life. The most important one being, coming to realize that there will be things that you wouldn't be able to do/get, not now, not anytime soon, not ever. However, you choose to move on. As we attempted to be adults, back then, long, long time ago, didn't we all think that the universe had just one agenda – to make us happy and help us get whatever we wanted. Didn't we all? And then suddenly you are this adult, you always attempted to be; and you realize, universe is out there busy with something else or someone else, and you don't feature nowhere.

Facts I've learned to live with -

That I wouldn't be creating that Nike ad.

That I wouldn't backpack across Europe, without a care in the world. [nope that's not happening; I am too bothered about my maid coming on time and pettier matters]

That no amount of conditioner can get me silky straight hair.

That kids no longer call me didi, aunty it is. [and even if they would, their mean mothers wouldn't let them. Damn.]

That every cliché holds true.

That I am still trying to fit in. Somewhere.

Now, the good part about getting older -

I don't expect much. Hence, will not do much. [Hee heee]

I, for once in my life, know my priorities.

Being rude is okay. Perfectly okay. [I don't know what this has got to do with age, but somehow it does.]

The sense of urgency.

Because it feels right.

2009-09-17T08:33:00.008+01:00

Advertising is perhaps one of the most intangible commercial arts around. Or so i would like to believe. While, after a given period of time, you kind of figure out what works and what doesn't; but first time round it's always the gut feeling isn't it, the 'it felt right' stuff. Creative team's bete noires, the servicing and the business development team, with their oh-too-many B-school rationales always manage to outweigh the 'feels right' approach.

Now, how as a clueless copywriter do I go about rationalizing that? If you are the chairman of starbucks, you don't need to. Starbucks outlets in New York, house New York Times but not USA Today, why? Because the chairman feels right about New York Times. A coffee concoction gets a go ahead, only if the chairman or some hotshot at starbucks likes it. How's that for research?

As I ain't that lucky, I must find ways to come up with a rationale for why it feels good. I am reading up stuff, knowing the necessary terms and the all important jargons, just so I can protect my baby. On a totally different note, I really hate this term, gets me a lot of unpleasant memories you know, stuff like, “this campaign is your baby (read.. you will be responsible for any screw up)”.. However, anything for my baby. :D :D

nb - why do i have these hummer ads in here? because i like it. :) and, and because it's my space.
Oh yeah, i got to have my own agency. yep i do.

The way you make me feel.

2009-09-15T13:58:00.003+01:00

'You' being, almost everyone I know, right now. It's me versus everyone I know. And if there's a picture that describes my present state, then that is it. And I have no clue who is who.

My store, here take a look.

2009-08-25T10:22:00.005+01:00

If I ever own a store, or when I own a store... this is what the outside of my store will look like. When my store gets too crowded, or before I open my store during the SALE season, or on any given good day, this is where people would wait, discussing my store, its owner and the stuff and the fact that I should soon open one in their neighbourhoods too.

This is how the signage would be, of course this wouldn't be the name of the store. But the signage would be very, very close to this. Eathsong isn't a bad name either. but c'mon i am a copywriter, the least i could do is not steal the name for my store. But earthsong is kinda pretty. Just perfect for my flea market stuff.

And this would be the billing counter, you see the chair there, that's where I will sit and make lofty bills. Get rich, make friends with my customers, talk fancy things like how it's a relationship that we share and that money is the last thing on my mind, etcetera. This is where i will get more business ideas, drink nice tea, etcetera.

images courtesy - the cherry blossom girl & peonies & polaroids; gracias.

So much for advertising being the most fun you can have with your clothes on.

2009-08-17T09:11:00.002+01:00

Yeah for that guy who created vodafone's newest busy message tvc, advertising is sure a lot of fun. Not for me. Creativity, kick-ass assignment, loving my job, oh-it-feels-like-a-paid-vacation, etcetera be damned.

I am just an ordinary girl asking for just another ordinary job. (cheesy i know, but c'mon i am having a lousy day)

Of purple houses, deli direction pointers, florescent mopeds, psychedelic bikinis, beautiful people and yes, the beaches too.

2009-08-13T13:43:00.005+01:00

Goa alone would have sufficed for the whole of Incredible India campaign.

Now about Goa. What about Goa? Everyone knows about Goa. Well I didn't. And when I did.. I absolutely loved it. It's beautiful. And it's so different than every place I've ever been to.

I saw weird and exotic couples; miles of tattoos and thousands of piercings; houses painted mustard yellow, royal blue, red and purple, ;small huts selling homemade mozzarella; shacks where FTV comes alive and restaurant menus without paneer butter masala.

Yeah the food, you possibly can't get any closer to great food than being at Goa. A detailed food post to follow.

Between seafood risotto and tuna salad, I had this absolutely delicious konkani fish meal. Especially the fried sardines. I got to go back for more.

'In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer.'

2009-07-30T10:01:00.001+01:00

When a quote like this starts to make sense, all is not quite well, is it? Will it be a good idea to talk about it on a public space? I don't know. But here I go. I have been feeling miserable lately. Nothing earth shattering, thank God, but it's just a feeling of nothing happening, part bored, part depressed, part frustrated. You know that bleak feeling, of nothing to look forward to, yeah that feeling. Strangely, retail therapy or gym hasn't upped my endorphin levels.

However, I am thankful that I have a home to take care of and a job to go to each morning. It would have been very insane otherwise, with all the free time, I would have killed myself just thinking and thinking more. Thinking is not a good thing you know. I know. But how can one not think, guess it's about exercising a control over what you think. It means being conscious and be aware of what to think. Complicated... but I guess I will eventually figure this out.

Now, not to belittle my state, here are few of the good symptoms
We (husband & I) went to Lifestyle, and came back without even checking out the women's section. (now, can u beat that?)

No 3 pm junk craving (I know, I know I am lucky, No under stress binge for me).

I have taken to cooking, big time.

While I am no Whiskey drinker, and while I am on quotes, I like this one - What Whiskey will not cure, has no cure for.

What went wrong Michael?

2009-07-15T12:28:00.003+01:00

It has been tough to not think about Michael Jackson often. With my gym giving its hourly tribute every evening and bloggers all over posting their honest and heart melting obituaries, it's tough.

Following his death, I read all those published stuff about his fragile form, health issues, weirdness and his impossible lifestyle, yet I can't understand why he had to go this way.

Looking at this kid here, I really want to know, what went wrong.

I'm feeling lucky!

2009-07-13T06:27:00.003+01:00

Yep, I am. And no this isn't about one of those tear jerker forwards that we haven't stopped receiving or forwarding, those that wish us enough, ask us to find happiness in that morning cuppa and believe in angels.

I am feeling incredibly lucky, for getting to do what I do. It's a different kind of Monday today. Imagine having to read Nat Geo archives, imagine spending hours searching for the perfect sunset shot, imagine thinking for hours, about that perfect holiday destination, imagine having to google up romance, dream destinations, enchanting, camping trips, perfect holidays; imagine spending 4 hours reading travel blogs. Imagine having to imagine all things nice and pretty. All in a day's work. Ahh... Sweet.

And I get to do all these, while not being a poet, author, photographer or a really rich man's wifey. So, ain't i lucky?

n.b. my only wish now, is to sit in that terrace and go about my work.

Are we really better off than our parents?

2009-07-07T10:41:00.008+01:00

I am the Unknown Indian Outsourcing Worker. And as I stare at the screen my over caffeinated mind drifts to whether I am better off than people who were born a generation earlier. It isn’t just a lazy thought. That’s the unsaid assumption on which all my life choices rest upon. And I am not sure if I know the answer.

Our parent’s generation always had a sense of community, and a sense of home that was as tangible as a dot on the map and a house they sometimes built brick by brick. We usually don’t have a sense of home that is so tangible. Instead, we have a series of cultural elements we are familiar with, want, or are made to want, sometimes with serious commercial persuasion - Facebook alumni pages, the willingness to spend a premium to be served in English, the familiar voice of a friend on the phone, endless series of updates on Orkut, the swoosh on a T-shirt, the iPhone, pasta, vegetables that look like what mom cooked but with exotic colours, the intro to a Pink Floyd song, that helps us recognise members of our tribe, and shun others. We go from city to city with little contact with the local culture, from one vessel of all of these things to another. We are tribal like humans always will be, however in supremely subtle and sometimes very expensive ways.

Our parents had people around they loved and cared for, or who were obligated to help them and visit them twice a year. We have friends who we went to college with, bur rarely see these days. We know that they have moved, or gotten married, became parents - through Orkut updates. We don’t meet them if it’s not convenient. At any given point in time our de-facto best friends are usually our current colleagues, a group that is promptly replaced when we get a new job and move.

Everything is subservient to work. The only thing that seems to be driving us is the belief that as long as we can buy more junk we will all be ok. Granted we are all buying security and undeniable comfort. Insurance wasn’t very common in the 60s and the 70s, and gated communities with swimming pools and gyms weren’t around. Now, I can understand that these things are important. But iPhone applications? – I am not sure. Cars with air bags? Sure, but cars that have additional speakers for 20K? I am not sure. Don’t get me wrong, I think cars are cool. But I don’t really know if I think they look cool because I am bombarded with images of leggy Russian models with these cars or because they are priced so high that I can’t buy them till I get my dream job. There is an infinitely complex path of associations between what every human likes (beauty, admiration, and power perhaps?) and a desirable thing that can be bought, and what I liked yesterday (like Mallika Sherawat) and a product that is launched today (like the label on a Jeans on her that I saw in a glossy at a bookstore). Perhaps the things we like, why we like things, and why we work hard for things will get even more abstract from here. Perhaps, as a generation we are condemned to work day and night to make enough money to buy our kids branded clothes in an alternative reality – like second life, or more ammunition in multi-player internet games. I don’t know, maybe I am just too old.

All of us work hard, and have seen periods of maniacal labor and stress. What are we getting for it? IMAX movies? Are they better than Rambo on video tapes? Reworked Chinese? Better than the humble road side vendors egg rolls? I am not sure again. High end sounds systems for over INR200, 000? How many of us have the aural hardware and education to appreciate the superior sound? How much of our lives and youth are we ready to give up just so that we could feel or appear cooler or be around larger than life images?

None of this is of course new and has happened a million times before in a million places. Perhaps the nostalgia for an imagined simpler time is universal, and could be found on rocks, frescos, and on papyrus. I am simply trying to chronicle the times I live in and the sense of loneliness that some of us face once in a while.

The nature of work has completely changed. A friend from North East once told me that his dad could point to power distribution plants while on long drives, and say – ‘I built this’. My friend and I make a living writing reports. My dad is in the business of taking production output from X to 2X at outfits that managed real widgets made of steel and other metals. Some of my earliest memories involve my dad walking with five storey high liquid oxygen plants and enormous liquid oxygen tanks in the background. I remember him telling me, “I run these things eight hours a day- they are extremely dangerous and could burn down this while area – by the way, they save lives”. I, on the other hand, talk to people, write reports, and then talk some more. Most of my friends do things that make text boxes and drop downs appear on the screen, or make credit card transactions a little safer, or do things that make bank customers or traders less pissed off about their lives, or make cell phones that do interesting things – like make a song play by giving it a little jerk.

Now, I don’t know enough about economics, the trajectory of progress, the shifting frontiers of value generation, intellectual property (or just about anything) to attempt a comment on whether my friend’s dad (the power distribution centers guy) was adding more value to the economy than we are- let alone philosophical questions related to which is more worthwhile. Of course, it could be argued that his dad wasn’t actually building it, but really orchestrating a complex chain of tasks and events – and that lighting a fire five generations ago was the last time somebody did something real. But to ordinary human instincts, building those majestic Christmas tree like structures with beautiful copper and silver, and gigantic arched foundations, seem a little more worthwhile than doing bar graphs and pie charts that might help a life as confused as mine in a little cubicle somewhere.

Again, I am not arguing in favour of one versus the other – I am just amazed and spreading the amazement (and the occasional misery) around.

And then, some of us have developed certain very funny habits. As question of tribal identity has gotten more complex, people don’t really know where they belong or should belong or claim to belong. Decades back, people from Punjab and Andhra Pradesh and West Bengal migrated to Delhi and formed clubs and friendships based on linguistic identity. Chances are my grandfather and my college buddy’s grandfather (the buddy is a Jat from Meerut and Ranchi) had never met. Their identities and lives involved cultural artefacts and practices that could be neatly linked to two regions in the map. They were proud of what their place represented. Now, these regional cultural artefacts are associated with certain aspects of our past we don’t always like. For example, a lot of things overtly bong reminds of the poverty associated with what Rajiv Gandhi called a dying city, and of my home town in the 80s and 90s which represents a life that is less prosperous than the one I have now. I know plenty of people who would be mortified if a stranger in a party identified them as Oriyas, or Telugu, or Tamils, or bongs, or Biharis (depending on where the are actually from. Strangely, a misidentification isn’t so gruesome). The alternative isn’t very clear to any of them (universities are probably taking their place) – but their own linguistic identities aren’t cool any more.

Meanwhile, I will go back to work, think of ways to earn more money, call Mom, and be paranoid about the possibility of burning the mid night oil someday to buy my kid (when I have one, someday) some more video game ammunition.

Nothing playing at a theatre near you.

2009-07-03T09:39:00.006+01:00

Come Friday, I no longer wait for what Bollywood has to display. I know, it will be something utterly insipid, foolish and totally worthless. I know what Bollywood's a) art house classics are, I know what b) wholesome entertaining films are, I know what c) romantic comedies are, and I of course know what d) not-trying-to-fit-in films are.

And I am so done. So done with Bollywood and its promises. Week after week after week, Bollywood has failed us. No, I am no great movie buff, nor do I always appreciate and recognize cinematic brilliance, yet looking forward to good, watchable movies aren't much to ask for.

A little repeat is no biggie, I admit. But, you can't give me love, betrayal, adultery, period dramas and the underworld, again and again and again. You just can not. Why can't there be a movie on the Mumbai during rains, the political scene, the Nandigram episode, the 26/11, gay rights, the IPL, the North – South divide (just having an Ayyo Swami and an Oye Puttar in the script doesn't count), the state of north-east students in Delhi, etcetera.

Hollywood has its good share of absolute trash too, I agree. But at least they have some variety in that trash. They try, they fail. That's respectable. What Bollywood does, isn't.

Is it a case of they don't know better? Unlikely, given the stuff they talk about in interviews. They come across as intelligent, witty people, deeply influenced by the best in their craft, and trying to get better. Hell, even Fardeen Khan talked sense. In one of his earlier interviews, he spoke at length about Martin Scorsese's Goodfellas and Roman Polanski's Chinatown and how he is greatly influenced by that sort of a storytelling. Then why a Prem Agan? I know, I know it's like saying if I can go on and on about the Marlboro Man, I can create one. No, I can not. But wouldn't I try... Prem Agan isn't a try.

Shah Rukh Khan's interviews are pure magic. His films aren't. The point is why doesn't he try, he could, with that kind of money, he could try anything. But he chooses not to. No, don't you blame them. They are just out there, doing their job, making great money while they are at it. You and I are to be blamed. I am guilty of watching Om Shanti Om and Swariyaan on a single day, for the lack of something better to do. I feel terrible about having watched Bachna e Hasino. What was I thinking? After which, I swore to never watch a Chopra or a Johar again. It's been almost a year, I've managed to stay off it. I should have watched Dilli 6 though, reviews weren't too good, but what the heck, the guy is getting out of the clutter. I will watch most of Anurag Kashyap too. And guess Imtyaz Ali too, we don't have anything against love do we... it's about how you show us love.

We are so used to this mall-movie-eat out weekends, that we are ready to settle for just about anything. Any movie would do. And that's exactly why they get away with churning out any kind and any amount of trash. This has to stop.

While there are countless so much more serious issues to think about, we could do our part. Perhaps, all it would take is to find something 'else' to do during the weekends.

Let us do something about it. Because you and I are responsible for the art we put in the world and in that multiplex too.

Why it's so good to go home to parents, more often.

2009-07-02T08:34:00.002+01:00

To start mornings with The Telegraph, Darjeeling tea and a piece of slightly burnt toast.

To realize that I can live without Facebook and dailymail for a week.

To enjoy the terrace on balmy evenings.

To understand that I am not indispensable at work.

To realize the importance of three major meals.

To get to eat those three major meals at times, they are supposed to be had.

To realize that spending 150 bucks on a sandwich is obscene; olives, pickled cucumber, exotic meats notwithstanding.

To take things for granted.

To not worry about the Outlook Express.

To not worry about what to wear, each morning.

To worry about calories though.

To find the refrigerator well stocked, at all times.

To understand the importance of a photocopier.

To be reminded that the last date to file the taxes is just round the corner.

To forget protocols.

To be happy.

To yearn for work.

Goodbye Michael

2009-06-29T10:54:00.005+01:00

I am the Unknown Indian Outsourcing Worker.

The year was 1989, and every second Wednesday was a treat. Every fortnight, Anondomela, a bong magazine for kids would arrive at the doorstep of my three bed room house in our steel and dust industrial town. That magazine was my link to the world. Anodomela would have cover stories about snow leopards, action heroes, the Beatles, blue whales, Disneyland, Maradona’s childhood, and sometimes pictures of Steffi Graff. There weren’t a million magazines around then, there was no cable TV – hell, I didn’t even have a TV set in 1989. From my balcony I could watch chimney spouting fumes and flames on the horizon – there was blank space for kilometres, with nothing but a thick forest of shrubs and a railway line between my place and the chimneys. It was a different time.

So one day, in May 1989, Anondomela arrived with Michael Jackson on the cover. An androgynous black dude looking a bit like a FTV model, with a smile and a jacket and a belt with a guitar shaped buckle. Intrigued, I flipped the pages. Michael Jackson apparently has been a star since he was five – was born in Gary Indiana, had an ape as a pet and also a big yellow and back striped snake, had won eight Grammies in a single year, was unpredictable and a good Samaritan, wore a white glove, had rhinoplasty, thought the Beatles were ‘pure’, wrote the Moonwalk, did the Moonwalk, toured Japan, had something called Vitiligo, and finally a sentence my young brain didn’t quite comprehend – Diana Ross – ‘she is my mother, lover, and friend’. I was still some time away from puberty. I was hooked, this guy was bizarre.

Michael Jackson had of course won eight Grammies in 1984. Poorly paid bong children’s magazine journalists had a five year phase lag with the rest of the world. But God bless them, they were my only connect with the world. My DD one childhood had nothing in the way of music beyond what my parents listened to, and the standard Anu Malik fare of the late eighties and the early 90s – with dholaks and words drawn out of a total corpus of about 200 words. I had to wait a few months to spot MJ on the TV.

Then I finally saw MJ on TV. This guy was barely touching the floor, leaning at impossible angles, making a half dozen movements at any given second, was walking towards the camera like an action heroes do in the final scene with a ball of fire in the background, with microphone in hand – he didn’t look like anything I had seen before. I didn’t know a human body could have so many degrees of freedom. Visual medium celebrities come in predictable types – beautiful, sexy, funny, suave, macho, of superhuman physicality, tears and empathy inducing – like Oprah (and unintentionally, the Johars and Chopras). But this guy was completely different. The voice wasn’t like a man’s, the music made you want to get up and do something, the moans, the screeches, the movement were all so synchronised, and the words were simple enough for a ten year old. It was like a jungle cat completely coiling up before a 70 kmph dash towards a loner wildebeest in the Savannah. He encapsulated rapture and abandon. That’s how I was introduced to MJ.

Two years later it was 1991. My school was celebrating its centenary and celebrations planned were at a scale out little town hadn’t seen before. Every class was to perform a complex drill on a football field, and everybody was on the field under the 45 degree sun everyday, six hours a day, for three months. My batch, standard six, were to do a ‘break dance’ routine to a MJ medley – ‘The Way You Make Me Feel’, ‘Man in the Mirror’, and probably ‘Billie Jean’. We practiced helicopter spins, jerky hand movements, moonwalks on the grass. Imagine this – 150 kids doing helicopter spins on a full sized football field with the mind pounding intro to ‘The Way You Make Me Feel’. For months, that’s all we ever though about, exchanging tips on how to perfect the moves.

I had to wait for another two years before I could buy the first Michael Jackson album, but I did catch him on TV. Once I clapped so hard while watching him receive a lifetime achievement award (at age 34) my mom had to rap me on the knuckles to shut me up. It was 1993 when I bought ‘Dangerous’. The album cover had Michael Jackson’s eyes looking over a canvas of angels, Hans Christian Andersen creatures, and a dystopian Sci-Fi like picture of industrial machinery at the center. I turned the album on an archaic piece of ‘tape’. ‘Who is it’ was haunting and paranoid, and finally ‘Will you be there’

Hold Me
Like The River Jordan
And I Will Then Say To Thee
You Are My Friend

Carry Me
Like You Are My Brother
Love Me Like A Mother
Will You Be There?

Weary
Tell Me Will You Hold Me
When Wrong, Will You Skold Me
When Lost Will You Find Me?

Man, the pictures it paints for a teenager with intellectual pretensions and the kind of scowl Calvin of Calvin and Hobbes use to practice. And, I can’t even get started on ‘In the Closet’ –

One Thing in Life
You Must Understand
The Truth of Lust
Woman to Man
So Open the Door
And You Will See
There Are No Secrets
Make Your Move
Set Me Free

This was in the Princess Stephanie of Monaco’s voice. Such words hit you hard when testosterone is flooding every cell on your body on a daily basis. There was plenty of ‘back’ing and ‘fast forwarding’ and lyrics scrawled on geometry text books and Shakespeare.

I earned my first ‘paycheck’ two years later through a book fair quiz – the princely sum of 50 bucks, and promptly bought ‘Thriller’. By that time I knew there was a perennially sad guy called Kurt Cobain who had shot himself, and I had bought my first rock album (Rolling Stones) but MJ had a red bull effect on you that no pointless introspection inducing and gloom celebrating rock anthem could replace.

Then MJ arrived. His concert was on1st November 1996 in Bombay. Sad that us poor small town kids couldn’t even dream of seeing Him in flesh and blood, my school best buddy and I gave ourselves a substitute treat – we cleared the school walls to watch a Silk Smitha movie, in a run down theater called of all things – ‘Durand Institute’!

Soon came college, with its own codes of what constitutes coolness (Pink Floyd) and what constitutes reverse coolness (retro Hindi songs), and MJ didn’t feature anywhere. But he was always there, whenever I needed a bit of red bull.

Years later in June 2005, I was down with fever and watching news updates of MJ’s second major brush with the law. The one time most popular dude on the planet (that’s the finding of an actual survey, MJ was an international language, like Football) had degenerated into the biggest freak show on the planet.

This dude was distributing autographs at age five and was home tutored most of his life. All of us learn the rules of the barely held together installation of balls and wire called civilization by being kicked around in the playground. We learn how much is too much, the games, the careful dance of words and insinuations, by continuously getting beaten up, rapped on the knuckles, being cheated on, and doing all of the above to others. MJ was in a bubble all his life, and didn’t have such a playground. In many ways, he was like a feral child – the ones that are raised by wolves or are locked up in a dungeon - most of them never pick up any human language and rules of society. MJ was such a feral child and we judged him by our rules, while he was in his dungeon creating his own little world.

I am a card holding atheist and I wish I could believe in heaven. But goodbye old friend – RIP in your Neverland.

No, there's no Professor Higgins in here.

2009-06-19T12:03:00.004+01:00

[for the lack of a more suitable image, apparently this is by Bill Watterson]

For the record, I was never one of those starry-eyed, infatuated with the teacher or the professor kind of girl. But, a cool prof is always better than the uncool ones that we are so used to. Wouldn't you agree? The kind that are pleasant to talk to, listen to, and I am not even getting into the looks bit.

This morning, with my colleagues, I went to a college to get briefed on some branding that they want us to do. This was the first time I was visiting one, after I left college, which was a long time ago. So, needless to say, I got all nostalgic. The corridors, the water cooler, the messy canteen, the chalk, the hurrying footsteps, the green board, the roll nos., the notice board, the staff room, the seminar hall full of professors and KAPUT. Bam! Bam!

After a three hour long briefing session with the professors, couple of HODs, I wanted to run away. They could be the most uncool lot anywhere. And no, calling me beta doesn't help. Not at all. Rather, work on your loud voices and bored expressions.

Those three hours just wouldn't pass. Too many things reminded me of my college, which wasn't Riverdale High by the way. I wanted to run away. Which I did, three hours and many, many eerie memories later.

I am happy in my cubicle. Monday mornings, I can live with; Long work hours, I don't mind. The boss, that's alright I say, really.

n.b.
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This happened when I searched for 'good looking professor' and 'cool professor' in corbis
:D :D told ya.

Bring on the iron baby!

2009-06-11T09:21:00.002+01:00

Iron woman, iron woman,
Does whatever Madonna can
Leg presses, like a pro,
Squats and lunges to and fro.
Look out!
Here comes the iron woman.
:D
.............. cut to gym, zoom on a woman lifting weights, (dull blue, pretty, rebook weights mind you, but weights nonetheless.)

I have come to like lifting weights. Yeah, like really into it. After years of cardio, and years of shying away from weights, I can now say, pass me the 12.5 Pounds, will ya. I did shoulders yesterday, let's do back today. Nice.
I like the sound of it. And yeah, I prefer calling weight training, strength training. Somehow, it gets the 'bodybuilding/ weight lifting' picture out of the mind, you build your core strength, that makes sense.

The transition, however wasn't easy, every time I lifted any weight images of Olympic medal winning women weight lifters flooded my mind. It took me more than 4 years to understand that a) lifting weights is very important, b) lifting weights will not make me muscular c) cardio alone doesn't do much d) it's impossible to get a body like say Shakira, without lifting weights e) muscle doesn't turn into fat once I stop working out, they are two different body tissues (hee hee talking technical, ain't I?). f) weight loss obsession ceases to matter, toned and taut is what I become.

While I have the deepest regard for Surya Namaskar, power/artistic/heat yoga, kick-boxing, Pilates, aerobics, taichi and the likes, I've learnt that a little bit of iron goes a long, long way. And yes, going to an incredibly good looking gym, with wonderful trainers and great mirrors certainly help.

I don't yet get that rush after weight training, the kind I do after a 20 minute run. But that's okay, I just got started.

A woman can dream...

2009-06-03T06:11:00.002+01:00

I dream of a slower life, the life with more square feet, the life with a little garden, a dog house and a dog, the life closer to parents and friends, the life with lazy breakfasts and long showers and quick meetings.
The life without rude auto drivers, crazy tele-callers and husband having to work weird hours. The life without limited leaves and obscene airfares.

I dream of that life you know. Yeah that life.

Chelpark, HB, Camel, Milton and one helluva nostalgia.

2009-05-25T09:22:00.003+01:00

[Though this was never a part of my growing up years, I wish it were]

When the last time you went to school, was 13 years back, you know it was way too long ago. When school is where people who call you aunty go to, you know it was very long ago. Yet, I have never really been very nostalgic about it; perhaps, the fact that I went to 9 schools in 12 years made me a little wary about the whole thing, if I may say so.

My memories are so scattered. Back in class X, I couldn't walk the corridor, the same old corridor, with a friend, the same old and laugh over how, 9 years back, right here we fought over a lost crayon. I didn't know what my class XI crush looked like when he was 7. I didn't see my favorite teacher age. I never chanced upon my 11 year old craft project. My best friend in class IX, never made fun of my pigtails. Class XII farewell party didn't mean much.

However, yesterday I was missing the whole school thing,, after seeing my neighbor and her 9-old daughter at work, covering the notebooks with brown paper, sticking labels – name, roll no., class, section, subject, school... incredible.

I miss going to school, doing homework, having a class teacher who would teach us all five subjects, having a recess and a 9-3 routine I missed having a pencil box full of erasers, pencils and one ink pen. I miss, trying to miss the PT classes, I miss exchanging lunch boxes, I miss the morning assembly, I miss distributing éclairs on my birthday, I miss hating the first girl, I miss loving May & June, I miss the bus, I miss the window seat.

I miss my school. Maybe, all nine of them

Don't you do that to me.

2009-05-21T07:47:00.000+01:00

Last time I felt so let down was when I had my first slice of pizza. It was hardly as cheesy, as crusty, as divine, as whatever as I was promised it would be. However, this time round I feel utterly crushed, cheated and very sad on a whole, perhaps because of the time and patience that went into it.

I've very recently learnt that my power point presentations aren't really going to get me anywhere. A shame, since I've really perfected my PPT skills over the years. I am now what you call quite a pro at it. After being bullied by my superiors and other PPT pros for not having propah skills, I made sure it was at the tippy top of my must do lists.

And now, nothing has changed for me. No corner room, no 30 per cent hike, no paid vacations. Just a 'good job' at the end of each of those fancy presentations, c'mon that wouldn't suffice. Whatever happened to that promise that I will be in a different league altogether? That the way I look at things and the way the world looks at me, will change. What happened?

A bad concept still needs a rework, a boring headline still sucks; a pretty slide, I've realized, does nothing for it. Damn it.

Très exotique. But no, thank you.

2009-05-13T13:15:00.004+01:00

[I am coming back to you]

Celery sticks dipped in low fat sour cream dip with blueberry flavoured soy milk on the side? No thank you. Though it features on my list of phrases I would like to ban, I absolutely have to use it here... been there and done that. And hating it.

I have tried every (whatever my swish departmental store offers, or my visiting New Yorker friend brings me) exotic ingredients, antioxidant rich drinks, gluten free grains, flavourful sauces, foreign veges, etcetera. Once into a departmental store, I turn into this biggest sucker ever. Sucker for all things of foreign origin. As fellow buyers look at me, admiringly, I keep piling my basket with a rare finesse. Almost as if I grew up on a diet of artichokes and hummus. Heee heee :D.

Fish sauce, chilly oil, tofu, celery, olive oil, kiwis, rosemary, oregano, chilly flakes, cream cheese I have tried them all. While tofu tastes like stale eraser, fish sauce is too pungent in a very nasty way, and celery tastes like nothing. Olive oil nourishes the skin (I agree) but makes food tasty, it does not. And cream cheese, tastes so much like paneer (cottage cheese). Oregano, thyme and rosemary do nothing to steamed veges. Neither do Schezwan peppercorns. And no, I cannot imagine tulsi on my pizza.

Quite like the tofu stir fry, my exotic sojurn has been pretty bland so far. And I am in no mood to take this any further.

Pass me the pudina lassi, will ya?

They made you go Awww... but will the zoozoos make you spend?

2009-05-06T10:20:00.000+01:00

I love them. All of them. Super creative, brilliant execution, so, so adorable. They are everywhere, and everyone's talking about them. But the point is will you press those numbers that they ask you to and get dating tips, prayer songs, beauty alerts, stock information, etcetera? Or if you are not a Vodafone customer, will you become one, enticed by their array of services?

While these cute egg headed white humanoids have of course taken care of the Branding and the buzz, what about the figures? Will this one and a half month long (during the IPL period) campaign make an impact on Vodafone's targets? Given the fact that, Vodafone is already big and known for its creative concepts and branding initiatives, what's the point? More so, at a time like this, When most brand managers everywhere (at least where I am, they are) are freezing ad spends. Maybe this is aggressive marketing after all. Maybe this is what works. But aren't we all discussing how cute these ads are and how smart their advertising guys (O&M) are. What's the ROI, I am thinking.

Dunno. Maybe it's too much to decipher for an obscure copywriter from an obscure advertising agency.

However, Zoozoo xoxo.

I rest my case

2009-05-05T07:57:00.006+01:00

I have been writing way too many long copy ads, so this sudden fetish for bullet points. And here, in no particular order are few things that I've figured out during my x years on earth -

a. Sign up for a crazily expensive gym, and you are sure to never miss it.

b. Staying close to family and friends keeps you sane.

c. Underdog is a good thing.

d. Hostel roommates are special.

e. Randomness is good.

f. Sorry doesn't mean a thing.

g. Neither do promises.

h. Not everyone can perfect that smoky eye look.

i. Everyone can try that much harder though.

j. You are not as good as you think you are.

k. You are not as bad either.

l. Secrets are meant to be secret.

m. A NO or a YES, often saves a lot of trouble.

Lost is a great place to be.

2009-04-29T09:55:00.003+01:00

[oh! what i'll do to be here :)]

While that dreamy headline isn't mine, I wish I had written it and I so wish I were lost. Lost in the middle of nowhere, somewhere pretty, with little mist maybe, trees, damp grass and red clay; somewhere cold. Where I can run. Not from one window to another. Where my legs hurt and my feet ache. Not where I'm left with a numb thumb and an aching index finger. Where it's eerie.

Lost is a great place to be... Take me to Lost, please.

n.b. Yep, right, past weeks have been really bad at work, with the crappiest copy getting through and the good ones being rejected.

Wish list

2009-04-21T10:54:00.003+01:00

Hire a personal proof reader.

Hire Shakira's trainer.

Hire four chefs (Bengali, Thai, Punjabi and Keralite)

Live close to a flea market.

Live in a place with pretty roads to walk and jog.

Persuade Bill Watterson to write more.

Have a home on a cobblestone street, with tiny wild flowers growing everywhere.

Carry the hippie look, effortlessly.

Have mangoes 12 months a year.

Have beautiful big windows in my living room.

Have a walk-in closet.

Get all my ads published.

Eat chocolate. Each. Single. Day.

Banish the phrase 'out of the box'.

Banish the word strategy.

Just so you know...

I want to mind your business, and yours too.

2009-04-10T06:45:00.004+01:00

It started with season 1 of Big Boss. My love for everybody else's business. The desire to know crazy little things of total strangers, small time celebrities, once upon a time celebrities or wannabe celebrities. Slowly, it didn't actually matter who they were. I wanted to know everything, from the amount of moisturizer Anupama Verma uses to Carol Gracia's brand of lingerie, you get the drift. Totally inconsequential, quite meaningless facts, that will never benefit me. But I wanted to know it all and I wanted to know more.

Apparently, it's not just me. Most of us hated Orkut's album locking feature. I did, and I know 105 other people who hate it too. C'mon I got to know what my friend's ex's current wore for her best friend's wedding. Or how that snooty hottie from school is faring after having turned into a total behenji. But then that doesn't quite feel right, does it... what's not meant for me, is not meant for me.
Note to self: There has to be an end. One step at a time maybe, but it gotta end.

Somehow, discovering itsy-bitsy details about established celebrities doesn't feel all that guilt laden. That's set then, no, peeping into albums not meant for me, no fishing for details that don't help me make more money, no 'hey what's her loser boyfriend up to?'.

Tapering off is the way. So, I'll just stick to discovering facts like Madonna's children don't know the taste of ice cream and bread; Scarlett Johanson in a bid to lose those curves has just started training with Gwyneth Paltrow's trainer; etcetera.

By the way, dailymail.co.uk is an excellent place to start.

A sabbatical? Going part-time? Freelancing? Or calling it quits?

2009-03-31T12:39:00.003+01:00

Is it the arrival of spring? Or is it just a bad week at work? Whatever, it's been a while now, that I've been wanting to scoot, from wherever I am. To someplace where there are no excel sheets, no meetings, no deadlines, no access cards, no vending machines, no year end reviews, no HRs, no presentations, no briefing sessions, no nothing.

I want to run away from it all and maybe just stay at home. Where empty pots in the balcony beg me to stay, and so do the naked walls of the living room. Unopened bottles of exotic spices look at me pleadingly too. Clumsy closets are tired of trying, but nod in agreement anyway. The unturned pages of Lonely Planet say they've never been lonelier. Jeffrey Archer peeps from the corner of my bedside table and screams... stay.

'Someday soon', I promise them as I grab my bag and set out, murmuring 'shucks I am running late.'

Hey twisted! Are you in love?

2009-03-23T05:35:00.007Z

VJ Nikhil: “So, what didn't you like about her? Her body or the performance?"

The King (I'll get to it later): "Hmmm.. it's the performance, she wasn't into it."

The performer: "No I don't think I have a bad a body, and I think my performance was pretty good too. It's just that we don't share a connection."

That's MTV SplitsVilla Season 2. Double the crap, double the sleaze but not double the mazaa.

(The performance being an erotic sway to some crappy music in the skimpiest clothes possible, after which the girl hopefully looks at the king, praying 'Oh God, hope he is pleased with my body and my performance.' )

The show is hosted by Nikhil, wearing a look that says – 'if it wasn't for all the money, I swear to God, I'd kill 'em all'. What the heck, downturn could lead to more awful things, like hosting MTV Couplesutra for instance (Yuck, totally). And surrounded by dumb guys and sexy dumb girls, isn't such a bad thing, after all.

Just when I thought, television couldn't be more mindless, here it is. The show is confused, it wants to be a juvenile show with some harmless adult content. I have absolutely no clue about its target audience, alright I maybe 10 years too old for it but c'mon this is plain crap. A Twisted Tale of Love says the baseline. Yeah, you got to be really twisted, to be here and to be doing anything with it.

The episode I watched, had a king and a queen (probably for their best 'performances' and bodies, whatever). Where they, sitting on their ridiculous wooden thrones, each week get to dump a girl and a boy and send him and her packing out of the villa, after rounds of erotic performances. Reasons for dumping may often be one or all of the following - She/he wasn't trying hard enough (which means didn't jump into the pool, and dance for the king/queen) , she/he wasn't really into me (wasn't drooling for me), and the all time favourite – we didn't have a connection (I can't figure it out, neither can they).

So, hey twisted! Come, fall in love on Saturdays 7 pm, only on MTV.

The Zoya Factor... Awwww!

2009-03-12T06:41:00.006Z

What do you do when you are closer to 30 than to 16, yet want to read a Mills & Boon? You pick up The Zoya Factor by Anuja Chauhan.

I quite liked The Zoya Factor.

Because the author is the creative director at JWT, I aspire to be her someday - a creative head at a hip agency with a lofty book contract for a chick-lit novella. Nice.

Because the protagonist works in an advertising agency, a story of a believable world, so what if, I have never written a TVC script with Sharukh Khan in it or am not on a first name basis with the India's cricket team? Advertising agency it is.

Because I am a sucker for all things mush., not over the top kind, but the ones that make you go all awwww and weak in the knees ... The Zoya Factor has many moments of it.

And mostly because the language is – very every day, very chic, very conversational. A tad too conversational maybe.

The details, were completely taken care of... the scene describing Zoya's garden, the drab clothes she goes to bed in... the typical Sunday feast at home, the creative & client servicing meetings, etcetera.

The only bit I did not like was the author's liberal use of 'Hello', almost every page would have a sentence like – 'Hello, like the Indian Team's skipper visited my suite everyday.' Then there would be one more in the next paragraph, 'Hello, you were the one who invited me', 'Hello, I am not exactly looking my best today' etcetera. Nothing wrong with 'hello' just that, it reminded me of someone who talks that way, and whom I am not particularly fond of.

So, if you are a woman and do not exactly hate cricket, chances are, you will enjoy The Zoya Factor.

Perhaps, scams are all I want to be left with.

2009-03-09T06:33:00.006Z

To show my grand kids and tell 'em, "look your thamma created this Volkswagen ad."
"Awww thamma, you are soooo cool," they would scream, hugging me.

I am cool with scam ads. Of all kinds - published just once in some obscure journal, never published, went to the client but got rejected, never went to the client, whatever.

What's wrong with creating ads that clients don't buy, they don't have to like everything. What's wrong with creating ads just for the awards? Why can't we sometimes, only sometimes, just forget the target audience? Why can't we create ads just to win awards? Why can't we create ads for pure pleasure?

Having said that, I know ideally we got to strike a balance between being arty and being good for the business. But then, what's the guarantee that our clients are right all the time. They have bad days at work too, bad budgets, or plain bad taste. However, why should that decide the fate of the ad, that probably could have won some award, seen by a few thousand people, fetched me a few minutes of fame and a hike.

With the kind of clients, the kind of work, the deadlines, the shrinking budgets and other unfavourable conditions that we have to deal with everyday, scams reassure us that our sensibilities are still in place. That we aren't in the wrong profession after all. That there's hope.

Scam ads are what make my portfolio happy, not those that made my client smile. By the way, the picture above, is my favourite scam (sadly, never went to the client). Bring on the scams, I say, hoping Cannes will introduce a 'Best Scam of the Year' someday.

It's my maid vs my man, my home vs my hobby, my job vs my acne.

2009-03-04T11:11:00.001Z

Mornings are pure nightmare. Afternoons are no good either. Twilights have ceased to matter. But, nights I remember, for that's when I make plans to seize the next day.

Yes, I need more time. To do everything. To up my metabolism, to tackle inflation, to defy age, to keep my job, to keep my friends, to stay married, to stay sane. I do need more time.

What the hell have you done lately?

2009-02-27T09:25:00.004Z

This is how the film Wanted ends, with the hero looking at me, eyes piercingly cold and asking me, 'What the f%$# have you done lately?' Wow!

A couple of hours and a few goose pimples later, I was still thinking about it. Really, what have I done lately? Nothing that I want to share, nothing that I can remember, but I am pepped up. And someday soon, I'll be ready to answer that at length.

By the way, what have YOU done lately?

The morning after...

2009-02-26T06:25:00.006Z

a typo is very bad...
It's a very bad feeling. A combination of feelings actually, extreme grief, denial, anger, damn-you, how-could-I, I-am-no-good, this-ain't-the- end-of-the-world, or-maybe-it is, etcetera. The world's suddenly not a pretty place anymore, everything ceases to matter and all you are left with is a crazy sick feeling.
Needless to say, I do everything to avoid a copy error – check the ad or any copy based deliverable until my eyes hurt, until the account executive snatches it away from me, until the art director threatens me with his I've-had-enough look, or until I decide to not care enough about my job. Most often, none of these happen, and I go on checking every word, like a maniac.

Yet, there's no sure-fire way to avoid a typographical error. Just when you think you are absolutely certain about the headline, the subhead, the bodycopy... you have screwed up the address, or the baseline in the logo. And likewise.
I remember every major copy mistake I've ever made. When I say major, I mean, a mistake that cost my agency a lot of money/cost my client a lot of money/cost my agency the client/almost cost me my job.

It's a weired feeling that refuses to go, nothing helps, not even hours of retail therapy, not even a comforting never-mind-that-sweety mail from a friend, or a it's-okay-let's-learn-from-mistakes mail from the boss. Only thing that gets that horrid feeling out, is the next piece of copy that you write, the perfect copy. The typo free copy.

And all will be well again.

So long. And sorry for all the haggling.

2009-02-20T11:30:00.001Z

'T-shirt ka 200 rupees madam'
'200 rupees? Kya baat kar rahe ho'
'Quality dheko madam, whole market me just single piece. Designer item hai madam'
'150 last, bas dena hai ke nahi bolo?'
'180'
'Nahi, bola na 150'
'madam 170,
'Nahi, 160, jaldi bolo, late ho raha hai'
Okay madam, le lo, 160'

Happiness.

I've grown up believing bargaining to be a time-honoured tradition. We (my friends, my mother, aunts and I) often take pride in admitting to who haggles the best. 'What kind of lousy shopper are you, giving the vendor whatever he asks for', my friends and I would scream at the non-haggler in our group. The best one would find herself invited to important flea-market shopping sprees.

I have bargained everywhere, for everything possible. And in every language – the polite Hindi, the rude Hindi, Bengali, English, English with Tamil accent, English with Punjabi accent and in pitiable Tamil. And I have also mastered, what I call the smart haggler attitude(s). Now, this is a tricky one, you got to decide on your attitude only after you have selected your shopkeeper. And no, you never feel bad for the shopkeeper. Look at it this way, if he is ready to sell a 450 Rupees skirt for 130 Rupees, he is certainly making a good profit. Now, about the attitude(s) – there's a 'Not interested but I'll buy it if I get it at my price' attitude, then there's an 'Interested but I'll buy it if I get it at my price' attitude, then the most common one 'Look I'm interested you're interested may the best man' win attitude.

Appreciation for a good bargain is one thing, being fanatic about it is quite another. Someone I know bargains so bad that she never goes to a shop twice. Lest she is booed at or chased away. I haven't been that bad, but bad nonetheless. None of these any more, it's time for redemption.

I have spent a thousand rupees on a flimsy pair of slippers, just for that swoosh. I have spent two hundred rupees on a bar of soap for its sleek packaging. I have spent a couple of hundreds for 100 ml of moisturizer, that promises me lavender. And even more on stuff that I never wore.

So, to all Bhaias and Unclejis of Atta market, Sarojni Nagar, Janpath, New market, Park Street, T Nagar, Beasant Nagar, Ooty Mall Road, Lokhandwala, Bandra, General Bazaar, MG Road, Brigade Road and the rest... I am sorry.

Dev D is a sensuous feast.

2009-02-19T12:58:00.000Z

Super chic visuals, stylish characters, escapisms that you can almost relate to, locations you have been to, clothes you want to be seen in, pretty colours, riveting music and a happy ending... What's not to love?

Really, there's nothing about Dev D that I didn't like. And if you are all for offbeat, Dev D has loads of it. The cast is perfect, very unrestrained, very believable. Abhay Deol is delectable, I wanted him to keep having a good time and just keep seeing him. But, how can this guy be related to Bobby 'Bicchu' Deol or Sunny 'No if no but sirf jatt' Deol', however Abhay Deol as Dev D will redeem your faith in Bollywood actors. The two women in the film, are great finds too, both good actors and utterly refreshing. One is well nourished while other, genuinely thin, not south beach thin, not power yoga thin but the high-metabolic rate thin. Oh yeah, the love scenes... I loved them, very stylized yet real. Brazen yes, but will you cringe? no.

Moments of discontent? None. Unless, you have a problem with
being manipulated into wanting Dev to be with Chandramukhi,
Dev not being in enough pain or pinning enough for Paro,
Dev living happily ever after.

Not me, I liked what I saw, everything. And I want to see more of Abhay Deol, Kalki, Mahi Gill and Anurag Kashyap. Nice.

Chopras, Johars, ... shoo!

Today's fortune: Your time is limited, so don't waste it living someone else's life.

2009-02-16T13:11:00.000Z

A harmless orkut break during work and I spot this on my homepage - 'Your time is limited, so don't waste it living someone else's life.' I am scared, scared like hell; Oh my God, is that a sign? Is it trying to tell me something. Is it sending a message? Where 'it' could be God/the Orkut fortune teller/my inner self/something spooky. Whatever, with deadlines a little away I indulge in some deep thinking.

Am I living someone else's life? Am I? Yes, I do try to be a better copywriter at work, the loving daughter during my twice a day phone calls to my parents, the caring and no cribbing missus to my man, the always-there-for-you-to crib-about-your-husbands to my friends, etcetera.

But, if I don't try to be any of these then what would I try? I certainly can't imagine being a hippie, nor can I imagine leaving all Moh Maya and heading someplace high. Nopes. This is the only life I know. But now that I am thinking some more, here's what I want to try -

I want to try leaving it all ( the world of copy check, typos and everything) and pursue size zero with utmost seriousness.
I want to try stop worrying about the downturn and thus stop working like a woman possessed.
I want to to try working out like a woman possessed.
I want to try not caring enough about anything.

P.S. Today's fortune: The guy who reads your fortune lost his psychic powers (and his job). We hope you are feeling lucky.
Huh?

Yep, the times are tough.

2009-02-05T10:53:00.000Z

I am working harder than ever.
And grumbling lesser,
I see sleepy shopkeepers.
And apologetic shoppers.
I decide on 'some place small' for my anniversary dinner.
Gifts or gifting don't feature however.
Queues in the ATMs get shorter.
And those in the bus stops get longer.
Everyone I know has some sad office story.
Yeah...things everywhere are getting pretty awry.

n.b.- “It’s really scary about the economy right now. So the way I’m playing my part in helping is doing a lot of shopping wherever I go.”
- Paris Hilton

Perceptive.

How I wish I had played a little.

2009-02-02T12:40:00.000Z

“God it's killing me.” That's what Roger Federer said minutes after losing to Nadal in that memorable Australian Open final yesterday.

Nadal gets to the podium, hugs him, and says, "Sorry for today, I know how you're feeling right now. It's really tough. But remember you are a great champion, you are one of the best in history and you're going to improve the 14 of Sampras.”
What a match. And what incredible men. Sigh.

I have never played a sport seriously, unless you count lock n key, hide n seek and that odd game of badminton once in a while; jogging, walking and cycling were the only outdoorsy activities I've ever done. Yet, for a brief moment yesterday, I wished I had pursued some form of sport. I should have played something. Not to win, or to learn to lose gracefully, just to get that attitude towards life that only sports can get you. Heard Shahrukh Khan say this – sports teaches you how not to be a loser, winning or losing notwithstanding. Yeah, right. And the fact that it ups metabolism rate, that's good too. I should have played something.

And as Nadal kissed his trophy, I got off the couch, wore my sneakers, dashed out, let the elevator pass, hopped down the stairs and ran a little.

A seaside vacation, 3 days of mindless eating and a few realizations

2009-01-27T12:26:00.000Z

'SALE' and not the sun's orange loveliness at sunset brings me happiness.
A room with a view is good, but the room should be really good, view often ceases to matter.
There's something called too much seafood.
There's nothing called travelling light.
I am very good at haggling. Anywhere.
Malls and multiplexes are a very important part of my life.
So is a television.
I gazed at the sea and rued missing Benetton's end of season sale back home. Do I need help?

The clouds parted, angels sang, and a golden beam of sunlight was cast...
Maybe I am not too fond of the sea after all. Maybe, Orkut & Facebook albums aren't the best reasons to go on a vacation. And maybe there's really no place like home.