I hadn’t heard our National Anthem, in years, not being a type, who wakes up fanatically, every Republic Day, and switches on the TV to see our guards march past. I think the last time when I really “heard” it, was when I “sang” it, an odd 10 years ago, at our school Founder’s Day. With pristine, WHITE uniforms, starched till it almost crackled, we would stand, shoulder to shoulder, backs straight, and heads held high. Our school song, and the national anthem, lead the general proceedings. And damn, did we feel proud of all that we symbolized, with those two refrains.
Last nite, I heard it again. On TV. Zubin Mehta and his orchestra. He began the show with the Anthem. For a moment, I just sat there, slack-jawed, as I hadn’t been expecting it. Then, some deep inner being kicked into place, and up i scrambled. And even though I felt weird standing there alone, I couldn’t NOT do it. And I’m glad, for it proved to me, that I’m yet not overtaken by the blasé-ness of our times. I know many people, even some who are good friends, who wouldn’t have bothered. I’m ashamed to say that I honestly don’t know what I would have done, if in a totally public setting, with none others standing.
Guess it sometimes takes a grand old man, and a team of wonderful musicians from far-flung Bavaria to remind us of what our families and our schools taught us, in our innocent days. And what we still hold precious.
Monday, February 13, 2006
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
this is a rant
I have an idea what fanatics feel now.. how an obsessive hate drives people to maim and kill. My dear dear colleague, after screwing up on work, and he does it really well, believe me…was creating a racket. So asked him to pipe down a bit, as I couldn’t think straight.
To which, his answer was “u think? Wow”.. in a tone that mingled contempt nicely mixed with condescension.
Counted till about a million, till my curls bounced with the electric current around me. Didn’t deign to reply (too much) as I believe some people don’t have the basic intelligence to comprehend even a retort. I would call him the missing link, is it wasn’t such an insult to Darwin, the big bang and all of that.
I think if I had a good sharp knife, and an opportunity, I would have of all that precious hair from the Punj head of his. And would feel damn good if he was blown up by rabid gun toting freaks, from wherever. Please note here, that this is NOT against Punjs in general, I have some of my closest friends of both sexes, in that category.
However, not this one.
To which, his answer was “u think? Wow”.. in a tone that mingled contempt nicely mixed with condescension.
Counted till about a million, till my curls bounced with the electric current around me. Didn’t deign to reply (too much) as I believe some people don’t have the basic intelligence to comprehend even a retort. I would call him the missing link, is it wasn’t such an insult to Darwin, the big bang and all of that.
I think if I had a good sharp knife, and an opportunity, I would have of all that precious hair from the Punj head of his. And would feel damn good if he was blown up by rabid gun toting freaks, from wherever. Please note here, that this is NOT against Punjs in general, I have some of my closest friends of both sexes, in that category.
However, not this one.
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
Home (in Calcutta) is..
..my doggies. They are my babies, and what/whom I miss the most, in Bangalore. Everything, and anything else, including family, friends and sundry loved ones, comes in a second by a wide margin. To be greeted at the door by tails wagging so fast, its almost a blur, hear whines of petulance/love which mean “where were you all this while..its so wonderful to have you back with me”. Fresh clean fur I bury my face into, and draw a deep breath in. Only another animal lover may be able to understand and appreciate what I’m rhapsodizing about right now.
..being woken up with bed tea, at random hours, depending on my whims. And the kind of biscuits I like.. little flaky and crisp. Gitadi, who has worked with us for years, asking me what else I would like, and then in the same breath telling me “don’t eat too much.. u’v gotten a little plump”. I love her concerned understatements.
..Calcutta sunshine. I sit in what was till a year ago, my dida’s room, and a year later, is now just another room. I bask in the crisp sunshine that filters thru the windows. It makes nice geometric patterns on the floor. A storybook, churan to pique my taste buds, a good book, and I laze like a cat in the sun.
..books. Old books, from almost another era, opening a floodgate of childhood memories. Of a relaxed, stress free life, lay days spent on my stomach in bed, feet kicking the air, reading voraciously. Enid Blyton, Tolkein, Christie.. anything I can lay my hands on.
..reunions. With friends, near and far. Friends lost and found again, after years and years. Those who sailed mighty seas to study, work, live.. and when we meet, it’s a jumble of joyous faces, bear hugs and delighted exclamations. Its like the years melt away, and we pick up where we had left off, in some cases, as much as 12 years ago. The group is now much bigger, as most of us have significant others who have mostly meshed within the lattice of the group, with a gentle and happy ease. And there are solemn promises to DEFINITELY keep in touch this time around.
..being woken up with bed tea, at random hours, depending on my whims. And the kind of biscuits I like.. little flaky and crisp. Gitadi, who has worked with us for years, asking me what else I would like, and then in the same breath telling me “don’t eat too much.. u’v gotten a little plump”. I love her concerned understatements.
..Calcutta sunshine. I sit in what was till a year ago, my dida’s room, and a year later, is now just another room. I bask in the crisp sunshine that filters thru the windows. It makes nice geometric patterns on the floor. A storybook, churan to pique my taste buds, a good book, and I laze like a cat in the sun.
..books. Old books, from almost another era, opening a floodgate of childhood memories. Of a relaxed, stress free life, lay days spent on my stomach in bed, feet kicking the air, reading voraciously. Enid Blyton, Tolkein, Christie.. anything I can lay my hands on.
..reunions. With friends, near and far. Friends lost and found again, after years and years. Those who sailed mighty seas to study, work, live.. and when we meet, it’s a jumble of joyous faces, bear hugs and delighted exclamations. Its like the years melt away, and we pick up where we had left off, in some cases, as much as 12 years ago. The group is now much bigger, as most of us have significant others who have mostly meshed within the lattice of the group, with a gentle and happy ease. And there are solemn promises to DEFINITELY keep in touch this time around.
Friday, January 13, 2006
Road Trippin'
Neil Diamond croons on my headphones. A relaxed sigh and my thoughts flow through my fingers.
I’m on my way to Shantiniketan. The land where once Tagore made poetry, under a famous banyan tree. In the recent and less famous times, it’s the place where my aunt has a divine farmhouse, where we escape to. I’m going there after two whole years. It will be a good experience, I think.
The road is long.. and wide. Smooth and sinuous, it winds along roads that glimmer in the sunlight. Both sides of the highways are marked by fields. Clad in autumn colors, they are shades of gold and brown and very dusty washed out green. The lack of water is evident. Sometimes the fields give way to a copse of trees, all huddled together as to escape the sun.
Shonajhuri gaach. Tall thin trees, with square-ish leaves. A whole forest of them, on either side. Leaves glinting gold in the light. Inviting shadows that beckon one to stop and stay a while. I seem to remember the forest stretch being more than this, though.
The heat haze gets to you, and the road shimmers in the sunlight. Suddenly, you think you’re driving into water. But Moses, we are not…
The wind whips through my hair, and it’s a tangled mess as I run my fingers through it. We stop at a random point, to refuel with lovely piping hot coffee, and samosas. My sister’s joke about a “somash’ (a Bengali grammar thing) runs through my mind, and I laugh silently to myself.
Our car screeches to a halt in surprise. A procession of camels. Easily an odd 200 of them, walking across in stately procession across the road. A very unusual sight indeed, on the NH1. They are better suited to the sand dunes of the desert, than to the dusty roads of the city. And through it all, they still manage to look elegant, carrying themselves with an odd lanky gaited dignity.
And I say to myself, it’s a wonderful world..
I’m on my way to Shantiniketan. The land where once Tagore made poetry, under a famous banyan tree. In the recent and less famous times, it’s the place where my aunt has a divine farmhouse, where we escape to. I’m going there after two whole years. It will be a good experience, I think.
The road is long.. and wide. Smooth and sinuous, it winds along roads that glimmer in the sunlight. Both sides of the highways are marked by fields. Clad in autumn colors, they are shades of gold and brown and very dusty washed out green. The lack of water is evident. Sometimes the fields give way to a copse of trees, all huddled together as to escape the sun.
Shonajhuri gaach. Tall thin trees, with square-ish leaves. A whole forest of them, on either side. Leaves glinting gold in the light. Inviting shadows that beckon one to stop and stay a while. I seem to remember the forest stretch being more than this, though.
The heat haze gets to you, and the road shimmers in the sunlight. Suddenly, you think you’re driving into water. But Moses, we are not…
The wind whips through my hair, and it’s a tangled mess as I run my fingers through it. We stop at a random point, to refuel with lovely piping hot coffee, and samosas. My sister’s joke about a “somash’ (a Bengali grammar thing) runs through my mind, and I laugh silently to myself.
Our car screeches to a halt in surprise. A procession of camels. Easily an odd 200 of them, walking across in stately procession across the road. A very unusual sight indeed, on the NH1. They are better suited to the sand dunes of the desert, than to the dusty roads of the city. And through it all, they still manage to look elegant, carrying themselves with an odd lanky gaited dignity.
And I say to myself, it’s a wonderful world..
Road Trippin"
Neil Diamond croons on my headphones. A relaxed sigh and my thoughts flow through my fingers.
I’m on my way to Shantiniketan. The land where once Tagore made poetry, under a famous banyan tree. In the recent and less famous times, it’s the place where my aunt has a divine farmhouse, where we escape to. I’m going there after two whole years. It will be a good experience, I think.
The road is long.. and wide. Smooth and sinuous, it winds along roads that glimmer in the sunlight. Both sides of the highways are marked by fields. Clad in autumn colors, they are shades of gold and brown and very dusty washed out green. The lack of water is evident. Sometimes the fields give way to a copse of trees, all huddled together as to escape the sun.
Shonajhuri gaach. Tall thin trees, with square-ish leaves. A whole forest of them, on either side. Leaves glinting gold in the light. Inviting shadows that beckon one to stop and stay a while. I seem to remember the forest stretch being more than this, though.
The heat haze gets to you, and the road shimmers in the sunlight. Suddenly, you think you’re driving into water. But Moses, we are not…
The wind whips through my hair, and it’s a tangled mess as I run my fingers through it. We stop at a random point, to refuel with lovely piping hot coffee, and samosas. My sister’s joke about a “somash’ (a Bengali grammar thing) runs through my mind, and I laugh silently to myself.
Our car screeches to a halt in surprise. A procession of camels. Easily an odd 200 of them, walking across in stately procession across the road. A very unusual sight indeed, on the NH1. They are better suited to the sand dunes of the desert, than to the dusty roads of the city. And through it all, they still manage to look elegant, carrying themselves with an odd lanky gaited dignity.
And I say to myself, it’s a wonderful world..
I’m on my way to Shantiniketan. The land where once Tagore made poetry, under a famous banyan tree. In the recent and less famous times, it’s the place where my aunt has a divine farmhouse, where we escape to. I’m going there after two whole years. It will be a good experience, I think.
The road is long.. and wide. Smooth and sinuous, it winds along roads that glimmer in the sunlight. Both sides of the highways are marked by fields. Clad in autumn colors, they are shades of gold and brown and very dusty washed out green. The lack of water is evident. Sometimes the fields give way to a copse of trees, all huddled together as to escape the sun.
Shonajhuri gaach. Tall thin trees, with square-ish leaves. A whole forest of them, on either side. Leaves glinting gold in the light. Inviting shadows that beckon one to stop and stay a while. I seem to remember the forest stretch being more than this, though.
The heat haze gets to you, and the road shimmers in the sunlight. Suddenly, you think you’re driving into water. But Moses, we are not…
The wind whips through my hair, and it’s a tangled mess as I run my fingers through it. We stop at a random point, to refuel with lovely piping hot coffee, and samosas. My sister’s joke about a “somash’ (a Bengali grammar thing) runs through my mind, and I laugh silently to myself.
Our car screeches to a halt in surprise. A procession of camels. Easily an odd 200 of them, walking across in stately procession across the road. A very unusual sight indeed, on the NH1. They are better suited to the sand dunes of the desert, than to the dusty roads of the city. And through it all, they still manage to look elegant, carrying themselves with an odd lanky gaited dignity.
And I say to myself, it’s a wonderful world..
Thursday, January 05, 2006
I’m leaving on a jet plane…
[a bit I wrote while sitting at the airport, disgruntled]
….Only, not quite. The flight has been delayed by a whole fucking hour.. thanks to some strange flight delay from the Calcutta end. It’s miserable. I’m sitting at the lounge, feeling most piqued.. and that’s an understatement.
All around, are passengers in transit.. as the case should be. People who I saw sitting once I had first walked into the place are all gone now. a whole new horde have come in to take their place.
And with all my luck, this new horde brings with it.. kids.. all around me.. swarming.. yelling for “mamma, teetos”.. that’s cheeto’s for the uninitiated, being fed chocolate by dear mom and granny.
Into the valley of death, rode I..
Babies to the left of me, babies to the right of me, babies to the front of me..
Hollered and thundered..
I’ve chucked my shoes. Sitting with laptop comfortably on my knees, and busily tapping away. It’s a way to vent, without VENTING..
Not that I have anything better to do. I have, in a flash of brilliance, put my bag, with all cash and cards, into my luggage, which is now happily along with other luggage, wherever. So, I cant even buy a book or a coffee.. THIS is true urban riches.. the woman has a laptop, but no money.
People around me.. all looking ahead with blank faces, and dazed expressions. When they get tired of that, they look around surreptitiously, to see, what other people are doing. Bangalore is probably the place where one sees the maximum foreigners.. all in a state of flux. Tall white, short white, fat and thin white.. and the occasional yellow, blank and brown. What I have to give them is that ability to carry off the worst outfit with shabby-chic flair. In front of me is a tall blonde woman with this ghastly skirt, and top. If I wore it, my own mother might disown me. However, on her it looks pretty good.
A kiddie stuffing her face with peanuts peers with great interest into my laptop. Maybe she thinks it contains the more important secrets of the universe. If she comes too close and tries to touch my laptop with saliva coated fingers, and I wont be responsible for my actions.
The boombox just told “passengers traveling to cal that “they will be served snacks at gate number 3”. Immediately, mass exodus to gate number 3. Bongs just cant get enough of food.. even totally crappy flight food.
Currently, I’m ok sitting here tapping away.
….Only, not quite. The flight has been delayed by a whole fucking hour.. thanks to some strange flight delay from the Calcutta end. It’s miserable. I’m sitting at the lounge, feeling most piqued.. and that’s an understatement.
All around, are passengers in transit.. as the case should be. People who I saw sitting once I had first walked into the place are all gone now. a whole new horde have come in to take their place.
And with all my luck, this new horde brings with it.. kids.. all around me.. swarming.. yelling for “mamma, teetos”.. that’s cheeto’s for the uninitiated, being fed chocolate by dear mom and granny.
Into the valley of death, rode I..
Babies to the left of me, babies to the right of me, babies to the front of me..
Hollered and thundered..
I’ve chucked my shoes. Sitting with laptop comfortably on my knees, and busily tapping away. It’s a way to vent, without VENTING..
Not that I have anything better to do. I have, in a flash of brilliance, put my bag, with all cash and cards, into my luggage, which is now happily along with other luggage, wherever. So, I cant even buy a book or a coffee.. THIS is true urban riches.. the woman has a laptop, but no money.
People around me.. all looking ahead with blank faces, and dazed expressions. When they get tired of that, they look around surreptitiously, to see, what other people are doing. Bangalore is probably the place where one sees the maximum foreigners.. all in a state of flux. Tall white, short white, fat and thin white.. and the occasional yellow, blank and brown. What I have to give them is that ability to carry off the worst outfit with shabby-chic flair. In front of me is a tall blonde woman with this ghastly skirt, and top. If I wore it, my own mother might disown me. However, on her it looks pretty good.
A kiddie stuffing her face with peanuts peers with great interest into my laptop. Maybe she thinks it contains the more important secrets of the universe. If she comes too close and tries to touch my laptop with saliva coated fingers, and I wont be responsible for my actions.
The boombox just told “passengers traveling to cal that “they will be served snacks at gate number 3”. Immediately, mass exodus to gate number 3. Bongs just cant get enough of food.. even totally crappy flight food.
Currently, I’m ok sitting here tapping away.
Poush Mela
It’s just past midnight. Family is pottering around me, getting ready for bed. A husky contralto sings ‘500 miles” on the CD player. It’s been a long day, and a good one.
Arriving at the farmhouse, to be greeted with cocktail sausages and beer, is enough to get anyone’s’ mood on an upswing. A gentle, relaxed conversation later, washed down with lunch, and 40 winks, we were off to the ‘poush mela’.
This is a humungous affair, held in Shantiniketan, around Dec-Jan. It coincides with the “dhaan-katar shomoi’ (when the crop was cut) and signifies festivities for all around. One has to get down from whatever transport that one is using, and hoof it quite a way inwards, to the actual field, which hosts the mela.
The sound hits you, before anything else does. Songs and recitations, made sonorous with the mike. Its interspersed with announcements by frantic people, who have gotten separated for their group, and is trying to locate them at such-and-such place. As we draw closer, the rhythmic beats come to our ears. The streets are lined with men selling little drums. One boy starts beating out a rhythm. A few others pick it up, and soon there is a interwoven percussion being flung across the street. Deep beats, and short staccato bursts of sound, they make me want to tap out a quick rhythm with my feet.
Voices and people accost me, all at the same time. A happy, yelling, jostling crowd, that sweeps me along, without even trying. I look around to make sure that I can see at least one more of our group. Moving from stall to stall, fingers made happy examining little trinkets, silver and brass jewelry, little dolls and unusual ganesha morthis made of wood, metal, stone and terracotta. They are indigenous to this area, I have never seen any like these. I buy up things, for my friends and family and me, till my wallet tells me I have nothing left. I promise myself, to come back tomorrow, to see more stuff.
Arriving at the farmhouse, to be greeted with cocktail sausages and beer, is enough to get anyone’s’ mood on an upswing. A gentle, relaxed conversation later, washed down with lunch, and 40 winks, we were off to the ‘poush mela’.
This is a humungous affair, held in Shantiniketan, around Dec-Jan. It coincides with the “dhaan-katar shomoi’ (when the crop was cut) and signifies festivities for all around. One has to get down from whatever transport that one is using, and hoof it quite a way inwards, to the actual field, which hosts the mela.
The sound hits you, before anything else does. Songs and recitations, made sonorous with the mike. Its interspersed with announcements by frantic people, who have gotten separated for their group, and is trying to locate them at such-and-such place. As we draw closer, the rhythmic beats come to our ears. The streets are lined with men selling little drums. One boy starts beating out a rhythm. A few others pick it up, and soon there is a interwoven percussion being flung across the street. Deep beats, and short staccato bursts of sound, they make me want to tap out a quick rhythm with my feet.
Voices and people accost me, all at the same time. A happy, yelling, jostling crowd, that sweeps me along, without even trying. I look around to make sure that I can see at least one more of our group. Moving from stall to stall, fingers made happy examining little trinkets, silver and brass jewelry, little dolls and unusual ganesha morthis made of wood, metal, stone and terracotta. They are indigenous to this area, I have never seen any like these. I buy up things, for my friends and family and me, till my wallet tells me I have nothing left. I promise myself, to come back tomorrow, to see more stuff.
Sunday, December 11, 2005
We are the World!!??
Nowadays every second person one meets on the Bangalore streets is white. By white, of course, we mean white/cream/yellow/brown/black and a few shades of gray in between. Anyone who isn’t Indian, out to “experience” the great Indian whatever-they-think-it-is, and stopped in Bangalore by the lure of a dirt cheap (by their standards) KFC or Benetton.
Most of them settle in pretty well, smack their lips like the “Southies” over a idli sambar, boogie the nite away at some random pub, and enjoy their time.
However, met someone a while back, who has, or at least had, a decidedly myopic approach to India. It was all “dirty, and ugly, and he actually wanted to go elsewhere, but landed up here by fluke”. Lovely European intonations, very musical, but the words were unpalatable. Remember being a bit irritated at his views about this place.
So, it came as a horror as I walked down Shivanagar Market area this morning, with people throwing buckets of mucky water on the roads, in everywhich way, to find myself muttering “bloody Indians!” and other expletives that would make a sailor blush.
Does this make ME a un-patriot, or is it merely a growing testimony to an era of people whose allegiance is only to themselves?
Most of them settle in pretty well, smack their lips like the “Southies” over a idli sambar, boogie the nite away at some random pub, and enjoy their time.
However, met someone a while back, who has, or at least had, a decidedly myopic approach to India. It was all “dirty, and ugly, and he actually wanted to go elsewhere, but landed up here by fluke”. Lovely European intonations, very musical, but the words were unpalatable. Remember being a bit irritated at his views about this place.
So, it came as a horror as I walked down Shivanagar Market area this morning, with people throwing buckets of mucky water on the roads, in everywhich way, to find myself muttering “bloody Indians!” and other expletives that would make a sailor blush.
Does this make ME a un-patriot, or is it merely a growing testimony to an era of people whose allegiance is only to themselves?
neurotic ramblings
Have resolved to talk about anything and everything, in this blog.
So, whatever random neurotic thoughts I might be having, will from time to time, be reflected in this space. And god knows, I might be another late 20-something, wise ass, weird bordering on strange, Bridget Jones’ Diary, in the making!!! :-D
So, whatever random neurotic thoughts I might be having, will from time to time, be reflected in this space. And god knows, I might be another late 20-something, wise ass, weird bordering on strange, Bridget Jones’ Diary, in the making!!! :-D
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
the truth about cats and dogs
I have a dog at home. He is this humungous sized, typical blonde, slightly vain and eminently cuddle-able Lab. My mom, in moments of true irate-ness, swears that he is a cat in disguise, as Leo has the remarkable habit of living life only for himself. He growls deep in his throat and does a bored rendering of “lifting the lip into a curl” when one wants to drag him close and cuddle him, unless of course, HE is in the mood. The only one he cant do without is his older “brother” , Sasha, a Spitz.
Most unlike a dog really!!!
And now, in Bangalore, there’s a cat. She belongs to my neighbor, 2 doors down, a slim sinuous feline. And she’s most unlike a cat I have ever known.. I think she’s a dog in disguise. She has taken a fancy to me and my house, for reasons unknown. So whenever the door is open, she comes scampering in, till I drag her out of under the bed and send her homeward.
When I get home, and she’s around, she comes running up to rub herself against my legs till I bend and pet her. And then stands up on two hind legs, purring up at me in impatience for me to open my door.
She’s also the only cat who I have known, who plays “tooki”(hide and seek in Bengali). So, if u stand behind a pillar/wall/door and want to beckon to her, all u have to do is “hide” behind it and say “tooki”.. and she comes running.
Most unlike a dog really!!!
And now, in Bangalore, there’s a cat. She belongs to my neighbor, 2 doors down, a slim sinuous feline. And she’s most unlike a cat I have ever known.. I think she’s a dog in disguise. She has taken a fancy to me and my house, for reasons unknown. So whenever the door is open, she comes scampering in, till I drag her out of under the bed and send her homeward.
When I get home, and she’s around, she comes running up to rub herself against my legs till I bend and pet her. And then stands up on two hind legs, purring up at me in impatience for me to open my door.
She’s also the only cat who I have known, who plays “tooki”(hide and seek in Bengali). So, if u stand behind a pillar/wall/door and want to beckon to her, all u have to do is “hide” behind it and say “tooki”.. and she comes running.
Friday, December 02, 2005
Walk Tall
Saw a little girl in the bus today.
She got on, as the bus trundled through the streets, from what can be called as a "lesser economically well off" area.
Frayed socks, typical black school shoes from which both her big toes poked out of holes, a uniform too sizes too large for her.
But the uniform was spotless, the socks pulled on without a crease, the shoes polished till they shone. Her hair was neatly oiled and pulled back with 2 ribbons, as is common among all good little Southie girls.
Amongst all the pushing and shoving, she stood there holding the back of the seat, with a steady hand. And there was a sparkle in her eyes, a smile on her lips, and excitement at the thought of a new day, of playing with her friends at school.
Leena D, of class IV b, as her school bag proudly proclaimed…may you go a long long way.
She got on, as the bus trundled through the streets, from what can be called as a "lesser economically well off" area.
Frayed socks, typical black school shoes from which both her big toes poked out of holes, a uniform too sizes too large for her.
But the uniform was spotless, the socks pulled on without a crease, the shoes polished till they shone. Her hair was neatly oiled and pulled back with 2 ribbons, as is common among all good little Southie girls.
Amongst all the pushing and shoving, she stood there holding the back of the seat, with a steady hand. And there was a sparkle in her eyes, a smile on her lips, and excitement at the thought of a new day, of playing with her friends at school.
Leena D, of class IV b, as her school bag proudly proclaimed…may you go a long long way.
Wednesday, November 16, 2005
And here, there be Dilberts..
Quick office update.
Have settled down amidst bilious pink walls. Poor R., who had just landed in B’lore, ran around getting plants to decorate the office with. Which led to some of the more.. erm.. hideous members of the fraternity to arrange themselves artistically around foliage and take numerous pictures.
We also have 3 clocks which range askew on the walls, and show wrong timings on India, US and Switzerland. And more importantly, a huge TV, where people watch enraptured while India looses match after cricket match.
We have no windows, so we actually call up friends at the other office, and ask them “is it raining?” 9am and 9pm are one and the same. Pathetic, really!!
A little counter, fondly dubbed as the “canteen”, storing our tea/coffee/lassi/assorted biscuits etc. is where we escape to, when in severe need to “let it out into willing ear”..
We are ALL uniformly Dilberts. We clutch and we cling, to our little cubicles, and even our own chairs and stationary, having hysterics when they are removed (our water jugs even have our names written on them).
Life is beautiful, or so says Roberto Benigni..
Monday, November 14, 2005
Sunshine on my shoulders makes me happy, Sunshine in my eyes can make me cry
Sat in the bus today to come to work, bright fall sunshine on my shoulders. A motley crew crammed into the vehicle, an old woman with leathery skin squeezed me towards the window.
If I concentrate hard enough, it’s almost like our mountain bus trips at 4am, sleepily getting into the bus to go from one place to the other. People, faces split in wide friendly smiles, connections made because you share a same love and wonder for the land.
The Bangalore roads fall away, and up rise steep mountains on one side and the gorge on the other.
The mountains beckon…
If I concentrate hard enough, it’s almost like our mountain bus trips at 4am, sleepily getting into the bus to go from one place to the other. People, faces split in wide friendly smiles, connections made because you share a same love and wonder for the land.
The Bangalore roads fall away, and up rise steep mountains on one side and the gorge on the other.
The mountains beckon…
Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens
Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens
Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens
Brown paper packages tied up with strings
These are a few of my favorite things...
In random order.. mine..
Raindrops lashing my window panes, the sound of thunder as I sit sipping delicious hot coffee..
Soft baby whiskers on puppies, their cold noses snuffling in surprised enquiry..
Packages.. wrapped up in any paper.. I love surprises.. but my mother is terrible at them, her patent words are “I don’t know what you would like”..
My honey colored Lab and my baby white Spitz.. hugging them close can drive any blues away, miss them with a deep rooted ache..
Not strudels, but chocolates…with dark bitter centres, melting in my mouth.. and god only knows what “schnitzel with noodles “ is…
Crisp winter mornings bundled up under blankets, and I don’t have to get up for another hour..
Treks up mountains, nose and cheeks pink in the cold, smelling the crisp air, reveling in the quiet..
Rolling in hysterical helpless laughter with old friends, at nothing in particular..
Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens
Brown paper packages tied up with strings
These are a few of my favorite things...
In random order.. mine..
Raindrops lashing my window panes, the sound of thunder as I sit sipping delicious hot coffee..
Soft baby whiskers on puppies, their cold noses snuffling in surprised enquiry..
Packages.. wrapped up in any paper.. I love surprises.. but my mother is terrible at them, her patent words are “I don’t know what you would like”..
My honey colored Lab and my baby white Spitz.. hugging them close can drive any blues away, miss them with a deep rooted ache..
Not strudels, but chocolates…with dark bitter centres, melting in my mouth.. and god only knows what “schnitzel with noodles “ is…
Crisp winter mornings bundled up under blankets, and I don’t have to get up for another hour..
Treks up mountains, nose and cheeks pink in the cold, smelling the crisp air, reveling in the quiet..
Rolling in hysterical helpless laughter with old friends, at nothing in particular..
Dum maro dum..
Religious fervor can only be understood, when one lives, travels and learns in the heart of South India. On my trip to Tirupati, with a gaggle of office mates.. which we shall comment on at greater length in another rave/rant party… we found ourselves with 24 hours as god had decided against giving us darshan.
Deciding a day in hand in worth two in the..well, whatever, we fell to doing our own bit of sightseeing. After much arguing… I found myself resigned to running around multiple other temples that seemed to be EVERYWHERE. In an effort to placate me, I was told that we would go to this place called “paapvinashanam” which was a WATERFALL, where one would also be able to wash away one’s sins, as the name suggested..
If any of you have seen Charlie Chaplin movies, you will know what I am talking about. As we walked down huge stone slabs crawling with people, saw an area where men would stand in line fully dressed. Each would go into a little room, and from the other side, would pop out a guy, wearing what can only be called “chaddis”.
By this time I was mystified AND skeptical. And my skepticism didn’t fail me. Paap-whatever turned out to be a huge wall, in which were embedded 5 PIPES.. from which sprang water. Millions of ghastly looking men, swarmed around in their underwear, vigorously having a bath under aforesaid pipes, in a concentrated effort to wash away god-knows-what sins. The Lifeboy ad put to shame…
Sigh!!! It WAS a trip all right…
Deciding a day in hand in worth two in the..well, whatever, we fell to doing our own bit of sightseeing. After much arguing… I found myself resigned to running around multiple other temples that seemed to be EVERYWHERE. In an effort to placate me, I was told that we would go to this place called “paapvinashanam” which was a WATERFALL, where one would also be able to wash away one’s sins, as the name suggested..
If any of you have seen Charlie Chaplin movies, you will know what I am talking about. As we walked down huge stone slabs crawling with people, saw an area where men would stand in line fully dressed. Each would go into a little room, and from the other side, would pop out a guy, wearing what can only be called “chaddis”.
By this time I was mystified AND skeptical. And my skepticism didn’t fail me. Paap-whatever turned out to be a huge wall, in which were embedded 5 PIPES.. from which sprang water. Millions of ghastly looking men, swarmed around in their underwear, vigorously having a bath under aforesaid pipes, in a concentrated effort to wash away god-knows-what sins. The Lifeboy ad put to shame…
Sigh!!! It WAS a trip all right…
I dream in Sepia
Have decided to record bits and pieces of those dreams which some people who read this, can identify with. Last nite, dreamt that P., my coz, and I were wondering in some rag-tag flea market. And discovered, in this delightful little bookshop, with dusty panes, and fading sunlight coming through the windows, and an old man pottering around after us, while we took in the wonderful smells of old books.. these old old notebook sort-of things, which were relics of P. and my past.. childish scribbles, recording random things.
My dida teaching us both English, on a weekend afternoons, from fairytales/storybook like text..
The two of us struggling manfully to write our own version of an M&B, about a female oceanographer and a man on the team, who calls her “boss”.. even at age 10/12, we were well on the way to emancipation. :)
And sepia toned pictures of the two of us, in an assortment of other people, pigtails and scruffy elbows, at diamond harbor, gorging on eelish maach.. P. did we EVER take pics that time?
In real life, I wouldn’t, couldn’t, for the life of me, remember our handwritings of all those years ago. But here it was like crystal..
The subconscious is a wonderful thing..
My dida teaching us both English, on a weekend afternoons, from fairytales/storybook like text..
The two of us struggling manfully to write our own version of an M&B, about a female oceanographer and a man on the team, who calls her “boss”.. even at age 10/12, we were well on the way to emancipation. :)
And sepia toned pictures of the two of us, in an assortment of other people, pigtails and scruffy elbows, at diamond harbor, gorging on eelish maach.. P. did we EVER take pics that time?
In real life, I wouldn’t, couldn’t, for the life of me, remember our handwritings of all those years ago. But here it was like crystal..
The subconscious is a wonderful thing..
Saturday, November 05, 2005
Last nite I dreamt I was in __________ again..
Last nite I dreamt I was in __________ again..
That’s a famous opening line in a famous book, tho I forget which right now.. if someone remembers right now, please enlighten me.
I think it was a confused entangled dream sequence with rain and family et all. For those of you who are unaware, various bits of the country are suffering under deluges.. one keeps wondering if a bit of land will suddenly break off and float off into the Indian ocean, like cream in a mixing bowl.
Anyways, I was back at home in Calcutta. Hugging my doggies and feeling so very happy, when suddenly, out of nowhere, came a little toddler with curly hair who just HAD to snuggle up to Leo (MY Lab).
“God knows where my mother had been hiding this brat of hers”, I thought irritably. “What audacity, doesn’t she know these are MY dogs, and she has no business to be here?” Wanted to rap her, for cutting into my time with dogs..
Looked out of the window, and the road in front of my house was gone, in its place was a beautiful, shimmery green expanse, gently undulating as people walked thru it. Faint dark shadows of roads that once were, could be seen in the semi-depths.
Spied didubhai (my pet name for my gran), wearing shorts and a t-shirt, cap perched jauntily of her head (similar to her attire at the beach) waving to me.. I think my dream must have caught up with her AFTER she finished her “dead float” :). Went down to the road, and brought her back home, with her on my back, like the “old man of the sea”.. not a very flattering allusion, but I’m talking of the mere posture here, people.
Back in my room, which, by the way, my mother has lovingly reconverted into a living room, the MINUTE I left home… and looked down to feel and wetness around my ankles. My room was afloat. Looked out of the window again, as I heard waves crashing into rocks below. We were perched on a little ledge, and our house had become a little hut, being buffeted by gales. Behind us stood a little helicopter, to carry us away to safety.
It says a lot of things about a lot of things, that my reaction was to pick up Sasha and Leo, and leave aforesaid kid behind. Remember dumping didubhai in the copter as well. I must have been really irritated, that I don’t remember Ma.. she must have been behind with strange brat. :-D
Came back to wakefulness with sounds of rain lashing my window panes.
That’s a famous opening line in a famous book, tho I forget which right now.. if someone remembers right now, please enlighten me.
I think it was a confused entangled dream sequence with rain and family et all. For those of you who are unaware, various bits of the country are suffering under deluges.. one keeps wondering if a bit of land will suddenly break off and float off into the Indian ocean, like cream in a mixing bowl.
Anyways, I was back at home in Calcutta. Hugging my doggies and feeling so very happy, when suddenly, out of nowhere, came a little toddler with curly hair who just HAD to snuggle up to Leo (MY Lab).
“God knows where my mother had been hiding this brat of hers”, I thought irritably. “What audacity, doesn’t she know these are MY dogs, and she has no business to be here?” Wanted to rap her, for cutting into my time with dogs..
Looked out of the window, and the road in front of my house was gone, in its place was a beautiful, shimmery green expanse, gently undulating as people walked thru it. Faint dark shadows of roads that once were, could be seen in the semi-depths.
Spied didubhai (my pet name for my gran), wearing shorts and a t-shirt, cap perched jauntily of her head (similar to her attire at the beach) waving to me.. I think my dream must have caught up with her AFTER she finished her “dead float” :). Went down to the road, and brought her back home, with her on my back, like the “old man of the sea”.. not a very flattering allusion, but I’m talking of the mere posture here, people.
Back in my room, which, by the way, my mother has lovingly reconverted into a living room, the MINUTE I left home… and looked down to feel and wetness around my ankles. My room was afloat. Looked out of the window again, as I heard waves crashing into rocks below. We were perched on a little ledge, and our house had become a little hut, being buffeted by gales. Behind us stood a little helicopter, to carry us away to safety.
It says a lot of things about a lot of things, that my reaction was to pick up Sasha and Leo, and leave aforesaid kid behind. Remember dumping didubhai in the copter as well. I must have been really irritated, that I don’t remember Ma.. she must have been behind with strange brat. :-D
Came back to wakefulness with sounds of rain lashing my window panes.
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
an old old tale
Well, first there was the Pujos.. Shosti I was at work.. my concession to the celebrations was manfully managing a slithery chunni of a new churidar.. Saptami I took off.. and just went to the parlor, spent 3 hours there being pampered, and slept.. then in the evening, non-Bong friends came over, to experience “pujo”.. needless to say, it rained so heavily that the "maath" was floating in a sea of red muck… so, came back to the puja near my place, where they proceeded to gobble up fry, chop and mishti.. and came back to my place, ordered in food, and played taboo till 3 am..
Ashtami was the day our entire office set out for a corporate offsite, which was to last 3 days.. we left in the afternoon, for a place near Banerghatta.. we were staying at the Jungle Lodges.. so there we were, in timtimey light, getting relaxed.. a lot of drama stuff incorporated to get us “comfy” with each other.. role playing, trust exercises, so on and so forth.. very interesting.. winding down with lots of beer and kebabs over a campfire, while strange jungle sounds happened around us..
The next day, we were given some stuff to figure out our strengths etc, and also to see how well we collaborate/compete… needless to say, the 2 teams collaborated well within themselves, and competed really badly.. we became quite horrible.. tried to walk a plank, and slipped twice, after which my poor back refused to let my mind dictate it
After which, we were given this exercise of designing, building and executing a raft.. we had to plan how to build it, make it, and sail across a huge lake with it… 6 people to a raft.. so, we had this brainwave of building one designed for speed.. rather like a Kerela snake boat.. what we forgot to take into account completely was the fact that it was also the most unstable.. I was one of the “rowers ….so ¾ into the lake different people just tipped over.. the ones who knew swimming, practically refused to get back on, so we backstroked back to shore.. a very long haul…
Sat there dripping… with ACHING appendages.. I didn’t know so many muscles existed.. then went for a midnight walk in the forest, and pointed out constellations to each other..
Came back to camp around 9.30.. changed, went to campfire, guzzled more and more beer.. danced on the way to dinner.. then tried planchett.. 4 of us daring souls… we had gotten fired up by the stories I told of Ma’s planchett-ey days…obviously it didn’t work…. So we went for another walk through the forest at 1 in the night… intrepid explorers all….
Next morning, a particularly boring session with lots of “self- back-patting” the bosses.. where we all in different stages of “nod-off” then back home to sleep…
Lots of new friends made, and old ones renewed.. overall, very eventful..
Note:
Maath: a large park-like area, where usually pandals are built and pujas held
Mishti: the ever-so-famous Bengali sweet.. the most famous type being the rasogulla
Timtimey: light.. coming usually from a hurricane of sorts.. the ambience lends itself particularly well to ghost stories
Ashtami was the day our entire office set out for a corporate offsite, which was to last 3 days.. we left in the afternoon, for a place near Banerghatta.. we were staying at the Jungle Lodges.. so there we were, in timtimey light, getting relaxed.. a lot of drama stuff incorporated to get us “comfy” with each other.. role playing, trust exercises, so on and so forth.. very interesting.. winding down with lots of beer and kebabs over a campfire, while strange jungle sounds happened around us..
The next day, we were given some stuff to figure out our strengths etc, and also to see how well we collaborate/compete… needless to say, the 2 teams collaborated well within themselves, and competed really badly.. we became quite horrible.. tried to walk a plank, and slipped twice, after which my poor back refused to let my mind dictate it
After which, we were given this exercise of designing, building and executing a raft.. we had to plan how to build it, make it, and sail across a huge lake with it… 6 people to a raft.. so, we had this brainwave of building one designed for speed.. rather like a Kerela snake boat.. what we forgot to take into account completely was the fact that it was also the most unstable.. I was one of the “rowers ….so ¾ into the lake different people just tipped over.. the ones who knew swimming, practically refused to get back on, so we backstroked back to shore.. a very long haul…
Sat there dripping… with ACHING appendages.. I didn’t know so many muscles existed.. then went for a midnight walk in the forest, and pointed out constellations to each other..
Came back to camp around 9.30.. changed, went to campfire, guzzled more and more beer.. danced on the way to dinner.. then tried planchett.. 4 of us daring souls… we had gotten fired up by the stories I told of Ma’s planchett-ey days…obviously it didn’t work…. So we went for another walk through the forest at 1 in the night… intrepid explorers all….
Next morning, a particularly boring session with lots of “self- back-patting” the bosses.. where we all in different stages of “nod-off” then back home to sleep…
Lots of new friends made, and old ones renewed.. overall, very eventful..
Note:
Maath: a large park-like area, where usually pandals are built and pujas held
Mishti: the ever-so-famous Bengali sweet.. the most famous type being the rasogulla
Timtimey: light.. coming usually from a hurricane of sorts.. the ambience lends itself particularly well to ghost stories
Monday, September 26, 2005
if only I had a hachet
So, it was my birthday weekend.. well, technically on Sunday, but what the hell, I deserve a little pampering..
So, dear cousin of mine, invites family friends over to my house, and tells them, in a somewhat grand gesture.. “Come over, I will cook”..
She repeats the same dialogues to another family friend.
She then proceeds to write a blog about how I made HER cook for the teeming masses, as it were…
And very happily chooses to ignore the fact that she made me shop (while she read Archie comics by the dozen) chop, clean chicken thingys, fry, etc etc etc…
Revenge, when it comes (and it will), will be dire and sweet..
So, dear cousin of mine, invites family friends over to my house, and tells them, in a somewhat grand gesture.. “Come over, I will cook”..
She repeats the same dialogues to another family friend.
She then proceeds to write a blog about how I made HER cook for the teeming masses, as it were…
And very happily chooses to ignore the fact that she made me shop (while she read Archie comics by the dozen) chop, clean chicken thingys, fry, etc etc etc…
Revenge, when it comes (and it will), will be dire and sweet..
Monday, September 19, 2005
the shift
I have not shifted so much in my whole personal life, as I had to do, in this one office. Let me explain. When I joined this company, we were a small bunch of 11 hardworking, enthusiastic youngsters. We had a huge expanse of grey-blue carpeting all to ourselves, and would happily rattle around there. Lots of windows, lots of light and fresh air.. we thrived on it.. makes us sound like a bunch of plants, don’t it?
Then we moved, literally across a plank, into the next building. By this time, we were a large bunch, getting larger by the day.. about 100 odd employees. Not bad, as things go. The office was nice and large, light colored walls, embossed pillars, etc. We sat at our desks, and became quite Dilbert-ish about our spaces.
Today, we walked across the gangplank yet again, back to our old building, but on the top floor. Not all of us, only a select few. Amidst the curiosity of what the new office is like, a general sadness fills us all. We are leaving behind close friends, whom we have shared our “goods and bads” with. People we have literally grown up with, in strange office parlance. We all promise to meet respective workmates for lunch” and “coffee breaks”.
Getting ready to move. All over, are stragglers, lugging accumulated junk across 7 floors..3 down one office, and 4 up again. There is a reluctance to leave the old, the friends, the light. It will take a day or two, for all residual scrap to be cleared away completely.
The office is gloomy. Dark wood, strange pink walls, the smell of fresh paint pervades the air. No natural light, no ventilation (except for the receptionist, who gets to have that prize). The power is off today, as finishing touches are being given, so no ac either. But they have shifted our machines, so we don’t have a choice but to follow. I can only hope I will loose a few pounds by sweating it out.
This must be what civilization is all about.
Then we moved, literally across a plank, into the next building. By this time, we were a large bunch, getting larger by the day.. about 100 odd employees. Not bad, as things go. The office was nice and large, light colored walls, embossed pillars, etc. We sat at our desks, and became quite Dilbert-ish about our spaces.
Today, we walked across the gangplank yet again, back to our old building, but on the top floor. Not all of us, only a select few. Amidst the curiosity of what the new office is like, a general sadness fills us all. We are leaving behind close friends, whom we have shared our “goods and bads” with. People we have literally grown up with, in strange office parlance. We all promise to meet respective workmates for lunch” and “coffee breaks”.
Getting ready to move. All over, are stragglers, lugging accumulated junk across 7 floors..3 down one office, and 4 up again. There is a reluctance to leave the old, the friends, the light. It will take a day or two, for all residual scrap to be cleared away completely.
The office is gloomy. Dark wood, strange pink walls, the smell of fresh paint pervades the air. No natural light, no ventilation (except for the receptionist, who gets to have that prize). The power is off today, as finishing touches are being given, so no ac either. But they have shifted our machines, so we don’t have a choice but to follow. I can only hope I will loose a few pounds by sweating it out.
This must be what civilization is all about.
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