Of Faux Pas and Morals - Part 3

In case you haven't read part 2 and part 1...

It came to me like an epiphany...

That the greatest morals...

Are born...

Out of the greatest Faux pas…

I was having a girlie problem. Let’s leave it at that. Now, to explain that to an all-male team...and a male manager, is not such a joy, as you would imagine. But you gotta do what you gotta do. Because coming to work every day was becoming a nightmare. I’d rather sit on my bed with my laptop on my lap and work from home. My company allowed that.

So, I guzzled my embarrassment with a piece of digestive biscuit and a glass of water. And wrote an email with the words “gynaecological problems causing acute and constant pain”. One can always guise the most awkward moments using serious clinical terms. I did too.

My manager (nice fellow, god bless him), read the email and came up to my desk to say “No worries, do what you have to.”

I gulped and sneezed....and then pulling myself together, I thought I better make a statement. So I said “I may not work from home at all. If I need to, I’ll figure out in the mornings.” And even this wasn’t enough to shake my manager’s poise. So he said “Yes, D. Whatever suits you” and walked away.

Now in the next few minutes, I visualised my reproductive organs being projected in the boardroom and my all-male team sombrely looking at a PowerPoint presentation that my Manager had made, titled “Let’s Make Our Womenfolk Comfortable at Work, Folks”. And he didn’t trust if his employees’ parents had explained the birds-and-the-bees story well enough. So he left no brick (organ) unturned.

Now, all of it was my imagination, of course. My team continued to write SQL code or talk in their usual database jargon that I still don’t understand. In short, they were far away from the birds-and-the-bees story.

But I shuddered, nonetheless. In an attempt to “clarify” my problem further (as if the poor man hadn’t had enough), I wrote another email. This time, I wrote:

Oh, just figured that I sounded very “strange” when I said “I’ll figure out in the mornings”. Just so that you know, I am not pregnant :). (there was no awkward smiley...so just used a normal smiley)

No warning bells sounded when I hit the Send button (and I was told Microsoft Outlook was so clever, huh!). But since I hit Send, I fidgeted on my chair... playing my email over and over in my head. If there was any “dignity” or “grace” ever associated with my name (I doubt, though)....I had poured acid over it. What an ass I had made of myself! Why on earth do I give silly unnecessary details to the most important people of my life? Why do I take a completely serious and logical situation and manage to make it hilarious to the point of being tragic? Where did “pregnancy” come from? True, in my last India trip, that’s the word I heard being used in as many emotions and contexts as could be:

As a “question”: An airline attendant, after carefully scrutinising me, asked A, “Is your wife pregnant?” And A, with a serious face, told him “No, she’s just had a big meal.” (Of course, A tried to make up to me later by saying that it was the “dress”, not me)

As an “exclamation”: Old aunts with nothing better to do or over-curious neighbours: “Married for four years and still not pregnant!”

In sympathy: You poor thing! Don’t worry. It’s all in God’s hands. To which I wanted to say, "It’s not a matter of “hands” anyway ;)”

As an advice (unwanted): "Have you tried doing the Supported Headstand yoga posture?"

Of course, all of these people assumed that we’d been trying to conceive and failed. Myth. So my irritation at all these people expressed itself as nervous humour (or a miserable attempt at it) directed at my poor boss (of all people).

And just when I was about to write my resignation letter (a suicide note would have been more apt, perhaps), my mailbox flashes with a new message. And my boss writes:

No worries ... I’m a man so I made no such conclusions :)

Yippee! Bless that man. Somehow, this one line convinced me that I can continue to work here. Nevertheless, will the ghost of Bridget Jones please find somebody else? Thank, you.

Moral: There is a reason why people don’t openly talk about certain things. Still. Not because they are taboo or awkward. But because very few people have the poise to talk about it without growing donkey’s ears.

We are Six...but we are One

I thought I’d hug them when I see them again. If I ever saw them again...all together, that is.

A tight, bear hug....one that would last at least a minute. One that would take their breath away, (literally)...till they screamed “let go of me”.

I thought I would stare at their faces...to familiarise myself with the lines I hadn’t seen forming. Just like we counted pimples when we were in school.

I thought I’d tell them how much I missed them...even though I told them so, every single day, for the last four years.

I thought I’ll scold them for thinking that visiting me in Australia...all of them together... was too impractical a thought (considering family commitments, job responsibilities and tours, financial constraints). Maybe I would squash them with my hug till they promised to visit. Like we said “god promise” in school.

When I really did see them this time, after three long years...T-H-R-E-E, I acted like a lunatic. I screamed out gibberish in public, as if I was having an epileptic attack. I gave them wet kisses too...much to their discomfort. But I couldn’t see their faces till I wiped off my misty eyes. And they turned misty again.
The reason I have never written about them in my blog is that I never thought I could explain the relationship we shared. “Friendship” doesn’t quite describe it. It’s not powerful enough for us. For what we have, only we can feel...and only we know. What we mean to one another, no words can describe.

We have known one another for years...since the days when F wore thick roundish Horlicks-bottle glasses, J could eat only chilly-chicken and fried rice in restaurants, A was a sports captain who made us proud, S was so thin that we had to hold her in strong winds, P had a mushroom-cut hairstyle and said the most inappropriate things in critical situations. Of course, I was, and still am, the Hitler...disciplining, correcting and trying to make brutal reforms in them.

Together, we have seen failures and successes...marriages and broken hearts....sicknesses and tragedies. We have shared a smoke, spilled more tequila than we drank...and laughed till we cried. In fashionable concerts, we have snorted like pigs, much to the dislike of the elite company. In movie halls, we enjoyed just sitting with one another...more than we ever enjoyed a movie. Till some of us parted cities, we spent every Durga puja together. We went on our silly boy-watching expeditions, where nothing fruitful ever happened. We simply watched our “secret” crushes...and came back home to talk about it through the night. We went shopping for earrings in Gariahat (every dress needed a matching pair)...and dress materials in New Market. We shared everything...from tailors and tutors, college notes and clothes, crushes and stresses, money and even blood. We spent nights consoling or comforting or gossiping or confiding....and woke up puffy-eyed next morning. We have praised and criticised one another...and our intentions were never less than the best. Some of us have flown across cities to be with the rest...to celebrate or to mourn. We have made long distance calls across time zones to share a laugh...or a tear. We have woken one another up in early mornings before exams...and also put one another to bed in times when even sleep deserted company. Gracefully taking care of one another...and our loved ones (be it aged parents or ailing siblings), we have been more than family. Our bond cotton-balled us during crisis...but also triggered us to overcome our weaknesses. Our united voice has fought with the world when needed...because a finger pointed at one of us is like a finger pointed at all of us. We have couriered gifts of love across continents....ice-creams even, (coconut-flavours from Naturals travelling in iced boxes from Mumbai to Kolkata). Our photos hang in our living rooms...the memories of which can soothe a tired soul. Blood isn’t thicker than water. But our relationship is. We are six...but we are one.

No matter what life throws at us, we know we are blessed. For to have just one such friend is a joy...and we are S-I-X.
So here’s letting you know...all over again...
You are the health in my sickness...the joy in my sorrow...the reason in my madness.
Love you all.

Image: Courtesy Santanu

The Litmus Test of Creativity

The difference between the creative and the non-creative...
The motivated and the uninspired...
The dynamic and the languid...
Is essentially the same.

And that is, the creative/motivated/dynamic, never grow up.

Don’t close this window or remove me from your blogroll just yet. Hear it out.

Be it in Norway or Nepal...country or city...in palaces or slums, there is one question that every child comes across.
Could be a cheek-pulling uncle or a school teacher trying to be motivational...or simply one’s own mind looking for answers, that one question hits a child from all corners.
And the question is:
What will you be when you grow up?

In olden days the answer to the question ranged between:
Teacher>doctor>pilot> writer>actor (I wanted to be a bus conductor, but I don’t think that counts) .

These days (with internet, television, play station and heaven knows what else), no one, I repeat, NO ONE, can predict what the answers might be. I saw a little girl on TV wearing a cute little pink dress and matching pink ribbons who said “Mujhe bara hokey mard banna hai.” (meaning, I want to be a “man” when I grow up.) I kid you not. She really said that...and it scarred me for life.
Anyhoo...
Many of us find the answer to this question straight after college/university. In fact, the current education system is such that we can rule out most of the options by the time we leave school. When I left school, I was convinced that they had forgotten to include that one subject in the curriculum that I would find interesting. Again, I don’t think that counts.

But what I mean is, we all move into jobs and careers...change jobs and careers...make drastic changes even (our plumber used to be a hair stylist). But somewhere down the line, we stop asking ourselves “What will I be when I grow up?” Either because we think we have grown up and are stuck with our lives/careers forever...or because we are too busy asking other questions (like, How does my neighbour make so much money? Who can I gossip about at lunchtime? When do I buy that shape-wear that promises to reduce two dress sizes without one having to even look at a treadmill? etc)
That is where the creative/motivated/dynamic differ from their opposites.

They never stop asking themselves “What will I be when I grow up?” I won’t insult your grey cells by asking you not to take that literally. Obviously they grow up physically (have bigger organs, lesser hair, etc, though some of the unfortunate ones continue to have acne)...and mentally (no longer eat mud or put their hands inside a puppy’s anus). What I mean is...they never give up on life and its possibilities.
The languid, like me, plod along in life...trying to keep their jobs , paying their mortgages off , squeezing in a few children and holidays, reading a few books at bedtime...even planting some trees on days they are feeling exceptionally energetic. But that question “What will I be when I grow up?” is wiped out from their memories.

The creative/motivated/dynamic however, continue to re-invent themselves, find new hobbies, create new talents, learn new things. They do all the mundane things, mind you (yes, the mortgage and kids and trees). But somehow, they can still take themselves to learn salsa, pottery, French cooking, photography or whatever it is they fancy. They build their garden bench...write a book...paint an interesting wall art...or even open a boutique by the sea shore. It’s only with their child-like confidence, youthful exuberance (or call it what you may) that they create new horizons every day.

In short, they never grow up...never give up...never, never.
So the litmus test, boys and girls, is in asking the question “What will you be when you grow up?” Try it on some adults you know. If the person frowns or scoffs, just give them another drink (they need it). But if their eyes brighten up...and they clear their throats to answer you with great excitement, just hug them and tell them how special they are.

So here’s a virtual hug to all my creative blogger friends...and here’s a pat on the back, in Aussie style: “Good on you, mate!”

One Good Thing

The other day, I realised that there are more things that annoy me than make me happy. That’s not a good realisation, as you will guess.

• Spot a skinny lady on the bus – Annoyed.
• Pick up a handbag at a store... and then make eye contact with a price tag that equals my pay check – Annoyed.
• Find a public toilet when I badly need one...but realise that there is no toilet roll once the job is done – Annoyed.
• Come back home to find no left overs or ready-to-eat food in the freezer – Annoyed.
  
  (All of the above happened to me on a single day, in that sequence)
  

But this post is not meant to be about the negatives. It’s about that one good thing that is so easily accessible, so affordable, so within my control...and such a joy.

It can light up an evening... even after the most terrible day at work.
It can light up a day...just the anticipation of going home to it.
It can make a whole weekend worthwhile.
It is easy and fun.
It can shut up when I want it to.
It is unconditionally good to me...even if I haven’t dressed up for it, or cooked it a meal.
It picks up my call even at the wee hours of night.
It doesn’t judge me when I burst into tears or laugh like a hyena.
It keeps me company when everybody else seems to have “other plans”.

Movies, what would I do without you?

Republic Day 2011

Yes, I enjoy being served with a smile at the bank (on the rare occasions when I do need to step into a branch) and not being barked at with a frown...

Of course I love the fact that we live just ten minutes from the beach...the blue, pristine, white-sand beach of my dreams; not the hawker-infested, muddy, bottle-floating, industrial-waste-smelling waters...

There is no denying that I started enjoying long drives once I left the potholes/traffic/pollution behind and moved to Oz...

True, I can go to work without feeling bogged down by dirty politics, useless rivalries and the constant feeling of not being recognised or appreciated. Much relieved to know that I can walk out of office at 5pm when I have completed my work...and not wait for the boss to leave (even if there’s no work), before I can sneak out...

And I would be lying if I didn’t acknowledge the material comforts that living in this country provides. True, I have to wash my clothes, do the dishes, cook the food, mow the lawn, fertilise the garden, fix the broken table, assemble new furniture, clean the cobwebs, spray pesticides, shop for grocery and even paint walls myself. But I can buy that Kindle for myself and the home theatre for hubby without a blink, swim in the pool of my own house, drive a decent car and still go for overseas holidays...

But none of the above-stated experiences give me goose bumps. I still rely on something like this for that rare feeling of pride, love, nostalgia and yearning:



Happy Republic Day.

Silly School Girls Club

I have known girls who drew the outline of a men’s brief on their answer sheets in response to a question that said “Give a brief outline of Shylock’s character in Merchant of Venice”. No, that’s not true. I don’t know any such girl. But wish I did, because am sure there are a few.

But I did know a Hindi-speaking girl who, in answer to a particular question in our Bengali exam, wrote this in her answer sheet:
Please refer to page 11, answer 2 of Obhagir Shorgo .

For a girl who chewed Pan Parag at that precious age, she did pretty well, I’d say. She had memorised word for word from a Questions and Answers book for that year, without hassling her delicate brain with the fate of Obhagi. Therefore, she had inadvertently done what many of us wanted to do i.e. directed our Bengali teacher to open the particular page in a book and look for the answer herself, if she was that desperate.

I also knew somebody who bribed me with a packet of chips in class 2, when she peed in her pants in class and wanted to keep it hush (I was the only privileged witness to the tributary).

But nothing beats another girl who took it a step forward. She pooped in her pants and obviously couldn’t keep it hush (even if she promised a lifetime’s supply of chips to the whole class). Our History teacher (a dainty, fragile, mouse-like lady) fainted at the stench. The school cleaner (one of the few male employees in an all-girls convent), came to the rescue with a broom . What was he thinking? To beat the last bit of shit out of her with a broom?

And of course there was that girl who slit her wrists to write a bloody letter to her class teacher...her latest “crush”. The letter never got posted or handed over to the person intended...but we all took turns to inspect her wrists and pinch her wounds too...to see if she was faking it. What a happy hetero-sexual lady she now is! Wonder what makes so many school girls fancy their female teachers. Or do school authorities intentionally recruit masculine female teachers (with beards) to stop little girls from fancying real boys?

The school authority too had their share of silliness, especially trying to outwit the smart girls. Note to self: At that age, the crown of “smart girl” went to anyone with a boyfriend. But I digress. I believe that our convent had assigned a dying nun (one who had as much fun and sex in her life as does a domestic mop) to set our “School Uniform” rules:

• The socks must start from where the dress ends
• The shoes must be bought from the nearest “disability” store
• Ugly, red, thick household curtains most be worn as ribbons on two equally oiled plaits
  

In short, no effort was spared to make us look as attractive as household rats. Therefore, any girl, who managed to acquire a boyfriend in spite of the household-rat look, was nothing short of “smart”. One such girl was spotted with a boy outside school premises, by one of the dying-nun brigade. On being interrogated, she said that it was her “brother”. The following week, we were to have a school fete, where families of students were welcome. Our noticeboard read “No brothers allowed, except infants”. The smart girls turned up with their boyfriends in the fete. On being interrogated again, they said that the boys were their boyfriends and assured the nuns that they had left all their brothers at home. Of course the girls spent their next weekend writing “I will learn to behave myself”, in immaculate handwriting, 500 times on ruled paper...but what the heck.

Silliness in school was so much fun. Don’t you think?

P.S. Obhagir Shorgo is a story about a young girl whose name pretty much defined her life. Obhagi = bad destiny.

Image - Courtesy Google

Packing Boxes and Boarding Flights

Call me old fashioned....boring...or unambitious. But I like stability. No, I love stability.

I wish I was part of an older generation...when people seldom changed jobs, cities, partners, cars, houses or friends. Our generation, on the other hand, seems to enjoy the adrenaline rush that comes with visa stamps on passports, flight tickets, removalists, mail redirection, house hunting and friend finding. In short, we love hassle. In fact, we love it so much that we happily give up everything that was truly ours (friends and family) to run after an elusive “something”. Some call it opportunity...others, quality of life.

I have changed jobs (innumerable times), cities (twice, with a strong possibility of a third time, which we talked ourselves out of), countries (once) and suburbs in the new cities (four times, twice in the same year). There is a general lack of loyalty to a place or phase of life. And this constant moving around has left me root-less, to say the least....and yearning for that feeling of belonging.

My dad retired from the company he joined straight after university. And I, his worthy daughter (NOT), changed four jobs in one year. F-O-U-R.  Yes, I have made more money. Yes, my learning curve also looks healthy. No regrets there. But the reason for changing from my third job to the fourth, is not that obvious to me. Let’s say, it happened...and I did not resist.

Only the other day I was telling a friend how my in-laws (who are in their late sixties, early seventies) are still in touch with friends who they have known since their college days. The same set of friends who came to my husband’s rice ceremony, came to our wedding...and will come to our kid’s rice ceremony (if we have any). And remember, they did not have Facebook to be in touch. No “poking a friend” or “sending a smiley” or relying on birthday alerts to wish your friends. It was all plain love...and a lot of sincere effort to keep the relationships going.

That’s the kind of shared history I miss. We make new friends every year. And by the end of the year, most relocate to other cities or countries, fading into the “virtual” world. I doubt if any of my current friends will be attending my kids’ marriage (note I don’t have any yet), who can teasingly pinch their cheeks and say “Getting married, dude? Remember how you peed in our bed once and covered it with auntie’s scarf?”

I have often heard my dad-in-law say “Your mom (in law) got this ABBA record as a gift for me, with her first salary. The sound quality is still superb.” That’s another thing I miss. I don’t really have any thing that goes back years. The books and CDs that I really thought were “mine” are "back home" still, in the room that used to be mine. The luggage allowance wasn’t enough to let us carry all our “emotional assets”. We carried the "essentials". Wish I can sit on a day bed someday, with wrinkled cheeks and toothless gums, and exclaim “Got this day bed on our sixth anniversary. Bloody good quality the mattress is.”

Remember “Central Perk” from the TV Series, “Friends”? It’s not a real place. It is based on Cholmondeley's, a coffee shop and lounge in Usen Castle at Brandeis University, the alma mater of the show's creators. But it was a coffee house that the “regulars” visited often throughout the series. In fact, they didn’t really have to call one another saying “meet me at the usual place”. They kind of stopped there after work, almost as a ritual. Wish I had something like that. Somewhere to stop...everyday...every-single-day, amidst the whirlwind of daily chores and responsibilities. Some place where my favorite people would turn up, every evening, by default. That regularity... that routine...is what I’d love. But alas! We have to send 571 emails to plan a dinner...and 689 mails to plan a picnic. And we go out of our way to make sure that we try a different place every time. What’s this obsession with “trying out new things?” Why not just find a place you like, and stick to it?

Until a few years back, there used to be a crack in the balcony of our home in Kolkata. Every time I asked my mom why she didn’t get it fixed, she’d say “Oh that! It’s when you hit the wall with your tricycle.” Now, how a toddler on a tricycle can cause such a crack on a brick wall is beyond me.  But what stands out is that fact that we lived in the same house for 30 years. By the time our kid (again, the one that’s not born yet) goes to high school, we may have changed more houses than his age.

 So, while we're packing boxes and boarding flights, are we really getting anywhere? Or are we only running as fast as we can in our own hamster wheels?

Confessions

Dear A,

I may curse you for sleeping peacefully (and snoring even) by my side, when I am awake all night biting my nails in anxiety...
But here’s a confession.
I love you for being Mr. What’s-there-to-Worry.

I may tell you how I hate you for spending hours trying to fix a broken pump or a rusty lock.
But here’s a confession.
I love you for being Mr. What’s-there-to-Give-Up.

I may scream at you for tearing my hair...and messing it with your sweaty hands...
But here’s a confession...
When you clumsily hold my hair straightener... narrowing your eyes and wrinkling your forehead... trying to focus on the back of my head...to help me straighten the strands of hair that I find hard to reach...you look the cutest.

I may tell you that I’d rather watch a movie with you...or go for a drive...than spending time in the kitchen...
But here’s a confession...
When you cut and chop and grate and stir and mix and blend and grind and pour...to me, you are no less than a magician creating magic with his fingers.

I may nag you every morning for taking so much time to take a bath...
But here’s a confession...
I love listening to the happy tune you whistle when you are in the shower.

I may tell you that sometimes you are such a child...
But here’s a confession...
You taught me all that is to be learned...for you taught me how to love.

Happy Wedding Anniversary.

Love,
D

P.S. Loved the anniversary gift you got me...a Sheesha to sit perfect in my Bali corner.

Christmas in a Bottle

Imagine a scene from a Hindi movie, where the protagonist is about to find out that he has lymphosarcoma of the intestine. The sombre hospital bed....white linen... and a tired looking patient with dramatic dark circles around his eyes. The doctor removes his glasses, pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs, before pronouncing the words that would trigger temple bells to ring for the next five minutes. And then the various levels of zoom in and out on the patient’s face, temple bells, doctor’s face, temple bells, patient’s mother’s face, temple bells and patient’s face again.

It was something similar. Though in my case, it was my school hall instead of a hospital...and my Arts and Crafts teacher instead of a doctor. But it was with the same drama (same removal of glasses, pinching the nose bridge and sighing) that she broke the news to my mother at a Parent-Teacher Meet at school. “I am afraid Mrs Sengupta...your daughter will never be able to make an embroidery or even as much as sow a button. I have never seen someone as clumsy and untidy as her. Keep her away from glue, scissors or anything related to art and craft. She is just not meant for it”.

That’s how bad I was (err...still am). I cannot even wrap a gift neatly or cut a piece of sticky tape without making a mess.

But with all the wonderful DIY projects in the blogosphere, can’t I get tempted? Have I lost the right to pick up a pair of scissors just because my Arts and Crafts teacher had passed such a verdict years ago? Absolutely NOT.

So this is what I did this weekend. I picked up empty beer bottles, which looked like this:

And glued some Christmas-coloured (red, green) ribbon at their mouths to make them look like this (please ignore the wrinkle in the ribbon...that’s just the lymphosarcoma of my clumsy fingers):

And placed a flower and butterfly in the bottle, like this:

Aren’t my butterflies cute?

Linking to Patty's Weekend Wrap Up Week 11.

It's that day again...

When a day is special for a particular reason, we celebrate it in a particular way.
For birthdays, we cut cakes and blow candles.
For wedding anniversaries, we renew our vows with a romantic candle light dinner.
For Valentine’s Day, we proclaim our love to dear ones.
For Durga Puja, we eat, pray and dress up.
For Diwali, we make sweets and light firecrackers and diyas.
For Christmas, we have a turkey roast on the dining table and gifts under the tree.

But when a day is memorable for not one, but several reasons, pray, what does one do?

It’s that day again.

The day when the sun rose, the birds chirped...but it was night all day long.
The day when we regretted every harsh word we said to one another...and rejoiced at every loved moment we shared.
The day when we recognised our true friends...and realised there were quite a few.
The day when the house was full...but we had never been so lonely.
The day when even the wisest amongst us didn’t have answers.
The day when we lost our faith...but found it at unexpected places.

The day when I woke up as a child...but never went to bed again as one.
The day when Ma lost her best friend...and I lost my Baba.

Baba, remembering you today...as every other day. I haven’t got you flowers...but got another bamboo plant (like I did last year). I will watch it grow...and remember how you smiled.

14.12.2010 - 9 years since you left...

P.S. I tried to write a positive post as last year's...but it didn't happen.