spontaneity versus being interesting, witty and intelligent

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?

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

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

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.

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

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

7 signs your life sucks

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