Valentine's Day 2014

Valentine’s Day this year started off on a really high note. He got me a single-stem rose…and served me coffee in bed. I put on our favourite playlist on my phone and brought out an old photo album. And then we cuddled up in bed, looking at some old photographs...of our most romantic days.

One was taken at my home in Kolkata, when we were planning the wedding guest list. I was in familiar surroundings...sitting on my bed in my PJs, looking happy….and smiling at the camera. He was on a chair, in his favourite brown jacket, poring over a sheet of paper (the guest list), unaware of the camera. It was a simple, candid snap …but there was something magical about it. It almost took us back to that moment…the excitement, the nervousness, the joy and the promise of a future together.

Another one was taken at a temple (in Dakshineswar) where we had gone with our families, just days before the wedding. I was in a white salwar-kameez, looking coy and innocent. He was in a faded kurta, squinting at the sunlight that fell on his face. We stood at a distance from each other (although there was no one else in the photograph), mindful of the presence of the elders. But we had never felt so close.

Then there was one taken at our first home together, in Bangalore. I think it was taken on the New Year’s eve of 2008 (by a dear friend who had just moved to Bangalore too). He rested his head on my shoulders and we both looked slightly drunk….and VERY happy (was probably just the drink).

As I was about to turn over the page in the photo album, I felt a kick. First a light one….and then a strong, purposeful one.

And there ended my dream.

There was no rose…or coffee…or music…or photographs.  But there SHE was….our little bundle of joy, kicking us away for her morning feed. No photograph could capture that moment, where two individuals, longing for a few more minutes of sleep, force their eyes open….only to see a wide-eyed ball of cuteness looking at them from under her sheets. And that’s how Valentine’s Day started off this year….and I hope that’s how it starts for us every day of our lives (minus the kicking perhaps).

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And now for the part that the censor board cut out so that the romance in this story wasn't tainted:

The first light kick that I felt was from the above-mentioned bundle of joy. The second one…stronger and more purposeful, was from the bundle’s dad, who was trying to wake me up so that I could feed the bundle and let him sleep in peace.

When I grow up...

Much has been said about the latest Clooney-Bullock space-drama, Gravity. Mostly good things.  No one doubts that it will be a big name at the 86^th Academy Awards, in almost every category. I have nothing more to say than what has already been said. Except that it left me feeling inadequate and like a total loser.

Don’t get me wrong. I LOVED the movie. Loved it so much that I wanted to be “in” it.  And although no one asks a 30-something old “What do you want to become when you grow up?” (assuming that all the “growing up” would have been done by then….or in some cases,  there is no more “growing up” possible or advisable after you reach a certain kilogram in weight), I think I finally have the answer. I would love to be an astronaut. 

I mean, hey, if your profession is not worth making a movie about, or at least a documentary, what’s it worth? Whoever made (or even thought of making) a movie on a technical writer (like me)? Actually, there is a movie called “The Technical Writer”, but one of its reviews say “The Technical Writer is a numbingly bad movie and a glorious inspiration to every wannabe filmmaker with a 'deeply personal' script wasting away in the bottom drawer of his or her desk.”. So am not vouching for it.

Astronaut, on the other hand, …..smells of glory. These people are so smart that even the whole earth couldn’t hold their interest! They had to venture out….for bigger, better, brighter things. Things that don’t walk or crawl or swim or fly….but revolve and rotate. Things that don’t breathe….but spit fire. Things that glow and sparkle in the night sky…stuff that dreams are made of. 

And so, the more I watched the movie…the more I couldn’t focus on it. My mind kept drifting to my numbingly ordinary life. While I sit at my desk writing about software (scintillating, isn’t it?), somebody from NASA makes a round trip from the Earth to Mars! While I research the latest authoring tool, somebody has found traces of life in some other planet! While I struggle to assemble Ikea furniture, somebody has built an entire spaceship! 

Bottom line….if the answer to the question “Honey, how was your day at work today”, is anything less than the plot of a movie or a book, you could do better. If you think you need at least two coffees to survive a day at work, you could do better. Because there are professions out there where there is no time/need for coffee…the adrenaline is enough to keep one going (apart from the fact that there is no office- kitchen in space where you could make yourself a cuppa).

At least I know what I want to be in my next life. Mars, here I come….

The weed with the yellow flowers....

Our first rental home in Perth was a small blue cottage on a busy road. While most people here would find the noise from the street annoying, I quite enjoyed it. It reminded me of India. Of course there was no pile of foul-smelling garbage, rickshaws in all their bright-coloured glory, cows crossing the road in snail pace, the all-too-familiar cycle honk, roadside vendors selling tea and deep fried pakodas, kids (who should be in school) running around shirt-less to sell flower garlands, street dogs happily mating in the middle of the street and finally, grey smoke from the cars to cast its spell over all the hustle bustle. None of that. So, I settled for the noise and decided that I loved it.

At home for a month without internet or a phone connection was like solitary confinement. Worse, actually....because at least they serve food in the prisons. Here, I had to cook it myself. At one point, I decided to send back all the hired furniture.....because buying them would cost us less. But we could only go out and buy new furniture over a weekend, as A would be away at work on week days. Unfortunately, the hire-furniture company picked everything up on a Thursday. So, I spent two days at home with no furniture. I had one pillow, one bed sheet set (probably a wedding gift), some basic utensils and plastic cutlery, my clothes and The Namesake. I sat on the floor, resting against the wall  for hours, gazing out of the window at the busy road. When the backache was too much to bear, I walked up to the street and sat on a bench at the bus stop. At least these benches had back rests and I could sit there undisturbed for hours. But the bus drivers would pull over, thinking I had somewhere to go. I smiled and waved, to indicate that I wasn't going anywhere. I had had no human interaction for days, except with A when he got back from work or the phone calls I made to India, every alternate day. So waving at bus drivers was turning out to be quite exciting! But when the same bus drivers came back on their next trip, they looked at me with suspicion (thinking I was up to no good). So I decided to stay at home, on the floor with my pillow and read The Namesake for the third time.

I never enjoyed cooking. I still don’t. So I lived on Maggie, or dal/rice or ghee/rice or sandwiches. When A came back from work, we would cook dinner together and eat on our plastic plates, sitting on the floor. He would tell me about work, his colleagues, his trips to the city at lunch time, the food court and the car showrooms he had stopped at. I’d tell him about the bus drivers and how my backache was getting worse. Then, we would sleep on our bed sheet and share the pillow.

I realised I could make myself a little more useful until we got internet connection at home (and I started looking for jobs). So, I focused on our backyard. It had plants …some in pots and others in the garden beds. They were nothing like the ones we have in India, except that they were green too. Some had bright yellow flowers, and these were my favourites. I watered them and trimmed them occasionally. Our landlady would be delighted to see how well I had maintained them, I thought.

But when the landlady did come for an inspection, she nodded her head in disapproval. “You have to keep the garden weed free. Look at all this mess!” I was confused. Mess? I thought it was beautiful. Apparently, my favourite plant with the yellow flowers was a weed. I had been nurturing a weed with such care….for so long! Clearly, I had a lot to learn. So I decided to go back to The Namesake for the fourth time.

It’s been five years since then. We no longer live on a busy road. I don’t have to leave home for a comfortable seat. I have a job and 10 pillows. I don’t rely on bus drivers for human interaction. I have a few friends and acquaintances, and more stories to share than that of my backache. I still don’t enjoy cooking….but I can tell the difference between a weed and a plant.

On completing my fifth year in this country, I realise that Australia has been no less than a university to me…and it taught me the most important lesson in life..."One person's weed is another person's flower".

The weed with the yellow flowers....

Valentine's Day 2013

“And where is my gift?” I ask A.  We are both still in bed… the morning sun trying desperately to throw darts at our eyes through the gaps in the window blinds. Having snoozed the alarm clock a good four times, we know we are getting late for work. But the thought of squeezing in another 10 minutes of precious sleep, is too tempting.

Minutes before, I gave him a Valentine’s Day card and a massage voucher (a couple’s massage, actually). Knowing well that he wouldn’t worry about VDay gifts, I thought a couple’s massage would cover us both. To be honest, we don’t really celebrate VDay. We are too old for it, we say….although, we said that six years back too. But I really wanted a massage…and I knew A would enjoy one too. So I just timed it around VDay. Simple.

Surprised at my new-found love for VDay celebrations (that’s what he thought), the poor guy was a little embarrassed. He had nothing to give me, in return. In fact, the look on his face was like “now-come-on-this-is-cheating-we-never-do-VDay”. And it gave me immense pleasure to see his discomfort! Yes, I am nice, like that.

So he thanked me and finally got out of bed and went straight into the shower, while I decided to laze for another 10 minutes. Out from the shower, he looked like a man on a mission. Clearly, he had utilised the shower time to think (strategise/plan…to be more precise).

Clearing his throat…he makes an announcement.

“I’ll go out at lunch time and buy you a BIG gift”.

And what made this extremely scary was the tone. The tone was like “Wait and watch. I’ll have my revenge.”

To my ears, this sounded like a threat. I usually don’t appreciate surprises, especially if they haven’t been thought out and involve a lot of money. My theory is, if you want to give me a gift…ask me what I would like before spending a huge amount. Don’t get me wrong. I like little surprises like flowers, breakfast in bed, a dinner date, a home-cooked meal, a book, a card with a lovely note placed at my desk, a fragrant bath with scented candles lit in the bathroom. But buy me an iPad or a mobile phone or diamonds without consulting me…and I won’t like it a bit.

So, his words naturally scared me. Especially the word “BIG”, which I knew he had carefully chosen, just to irk me.

What followed next was a series of “No, please don’t” and “Oh yes, you wait and watch”! I think I even said “Sorry, I shouldn’t have bought you anything for VDay”. Imagine….apologising for buying someone a gift, which he clearly liked!

Out from my shower, I run to the breakfast table because I could smell something. And this time, it did not smell like trouble. It was the smell of “anda-bhurji-pau” (an Indian version of spicy scrambled eggs cooked with onion and tomatoes and herbs, served on a thick slice of toasted bread…a popular street food in Maharashtra). It was my favourite, and he knew it.

And while I cleaned my plate, he smiled the smile of victory. His revenge was taken.

 

Pain(t)

Our kitchen wall needed some art work. Without it, our recent renovation wasn’t quite complete. How that renovation could have led to a divorce, is another story. Two people painting tiles together, especially grout, isn’t a happy scene. Especially if one is low in patience and the other is clinically panic-prone.  I am in a good mind to sue all the paint brands whose advertisements show a happy-looking couple painting walls with smiles on their faces….music in the background…wine and take-away pizza on the messy floor, casually splashing paint on each other just for fun. We tried all of that (except the deliberate splashing of paint; ours was totally accidental and the worst part of the project)…and trust me, it was a hundred miles from fun land.

Anyway, the tiles and the marriage were somehow intact at the end of the two-weekend long battle of paint, sweat and tears. But one of the walls looked naked without something on it.

It had to be a single piece (not a set of canvases) as I was reluctant to drill more than one hole on a newly-painted wall. It had to be somehow related to the kitchen theme.  And it had to be red, to match the rest of the décor. Needless to say, with such criteria, I was very restricted. Because I wanted it to be unique too, Ikea and the other popular homeware stores were out. What I was left with was expensive boutique stuff, way beyond our budget.

If I couldn’t buy one…surely, I could make one. So many of my friends paint, sew, knit, draw, and do all sorts of creative things. How hard can it be? With new-found confidence in my creativity, I walked into an art-and-craft store. I would need some paper, paint, brushes…easy. But nobody told me there were 342 varieties of brushes and 216 types of paint! Feeling like a complete idiot, I made my way through the different aisles. Yes, there were shop assistants around…but what would I ask them? “Hello, I want to paint something for my kitchen wall. I don’t know what and how. Can you help?” So I avoided that route altogether.

After a good couple of hours of browsing, I had practically read the instructions on all the different varieties of paint and brushes. Finally, I picked up some acrylic paint and some “normal" looking brushes (the kind I remember from my art classes back in kindergarten). Teeming with pride and the hope of creating something marvellous, I headed home. "A" was away on work that weekend; so I could have a quiet afternoon of creativity.

I had decided to paint a fork and a knife (see image above). Red ones, of course. Best to start with something simple, I thought. If I could find a decent frame for it, it would look nice on the wall.

I drew on the canvas with a pencil first, not trusting my shaky hands with the paint yet. Thank the Lord for erasers! I rubbed off my scribbles a dozen times until there was a hole in the paper. For god’s sake…it was just a fork and a knife! How hard can it be?

Pretty hard, it turns out. So I took a break….made myself a cup of coffee…and listened to some relaxing music. Back to the table…this time, I would nail it, I knew!

After four hours, I had something on the paper. It did look like a fork and knife. And it was red. I had nailed my brief. Now, all I had to do was to wait for A. I imagined the look of awe on his face when he saw this…and I was pretty damn happy with myself!

When he got home, there was a look on his face. But not quite of awe. More like a mix of horror and amusement. And all he said was “Let’s hang it on our wardrobe wall.”

Just so you know…that’s the only wall in our house that’s totally hidden from the public eye. In fact, even we don’t have a full view because of the way the clothes hang.

The rest of the evening was sombre.
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Edited to add:
This is what finally hangs on that wall. When everything else fails....one turns to Ikea.

 

Mahalaya 2012

Contrary to last year, there were no major dramas this Mahalaya.

The Man-Who-Doesn’t-Get-Mahalaya actually made an effort this year and was surprisingly nice.

Not only did he not put up any fight when I told him I wanted to listen to the CD at 5am today morning, he actually downloaded Mahisasura Mardini (lost my CD again) for me last night! Believe it or not, I also convinced him to place the laptop on his side of the bed (saying that my bedside table was too cluttered already), which meant that he would have to hit the Play button at 5am. He agreed to that too (I am quite suspicious of the angelic behaviour).

Maybe I’m being evil. Maybe he was just too happy that I bought him a body pillow as a Mahalaya gift (and bought one for myself too). These are as tall as me and are just the right balance of firm and soft (not so soft that you feel like you’re hugging a squishy lizard…nor hard enough to remind you of a tree trunk). I would highly recommend it to anyone with back problems or partners who hate to be hugged when sleeping. I think body pillows make perfect Mahalaya gifts too. If you have a comfortable night’s sleep, you are more likely to be less reluctant to wake up in the morning. No?

Anyway, we went to bed last night hugging our new body pillows. And when the alarm went off, I nudged him lightly to see if a kick was to follow (like last year). Nothing. He actually turned to the other side and turned the computer on.

Suddenly, a horrible scary thought gripped my lungs. What if he had downloaded something else by accident? You know the weird things people post on the web these days with deceptive names! Damn, I should have checked. What if it wasn’t Mahisasura Mardini at all but yet another version of Gangnam Style? Can you imagine how scarred I would be for life if that was the case?

My misery did not last for long. The familiar voice sounded loud and clear and filled our room with the “pujo-pujo-gondho”.  Except that he had put it in a loop and the chandipath started again, just when it had ended.  

Would the goddess be angry for being invoked again, right after she has taken all that trouble to kill the evil forces? Does anyone know?

Stuff that heroes are made of...

Now, I am the kind of person who carries a box of tissues even to a comedy movie…just in case there is some mush or teary moment. Been told a thousand times by embarrassed friends and family who have to listen to my sniffs and sobs “It’s just a movie…it’s not true. STOP crying!”

With Satyamev Jayate, it’s all true! The kind of truth that's stranger than fiction. But while I shuddered at the sight of dowry deaths and medical malpractices …..wept profusely at horrifying stories of ill-treated aged parents and female foeticides….shook my head in disbelief at the way we were treating our natural resources and some communities, I was mainly overwhelmed by the greatness and the goodness that still exist in our society. To me, the show was a celebration of people who have taken compassion to a whole new level…and have lived by the only thing that makes us different from other forms of life - our conscience.

This post is not about the epidemic of malpractices that seems to have crippled our nation. The show has covered that well enough. It’s about trying to analyse the how and the why behind those who are able to look beyond their immediate selves. In short, I am curious to know what heroes are made of….
 

While I haven’t personally come across female foeticide, I have seen/heard real instances (in varying degrees) of  dowry claims, untouchability, alcoholism, medical malpractices, domestic violence, resistance to inter-caste/religion marriages and sexual abuse. I am myself guilty of three things shown in the show – not conserving water as well as I should; not buying organic food (an indirect way of raising my voice against toxics in our food); not being able to support my Ma in her old age, as much as I would have liked to (being in different continents does not help). I have worked with children with disabilities….so it’s another subject close to my heart. That sums up my involvement with the 12 issues that were highlighted.

 Needless to say, I have mostly come across people who live privileged lives. That includes people from various socio-economic backgrounds. Mashi, an elderly lady who helps my Ma with her chores, has battled with poverty all her life…but I think even she is more privileged, when compared to most people interviewed on the show.

 We spend our entire lives as though we were made out of a template. Myopic with personal aspirations and problems, generations have come and gone living their lives in a certain pattern – chasing good scores in schools/colleges,  pursuing certain professions, paying off mortgages/loans, buying that dream car, saving for the occasional vacations, providing the best care and facilities to kids…and the cycle goes on.

But how do some people manage to break free from this self-centred pattern? What gives them the strength to have different dreams…dreams that will benefit not just themselves and their immediate family, but society at large?  What gives them the optimism and courage to do something about a problem….instead of taking the easy option of blaming others/government/infrastructure and saying “India will never change” or “What can I do?” or worse still “Why should I do it…it’s not my problem.”?

How does a Subasini Mistry dream to build a hospital for the poor, when she has just lost her husband to poverty and sickness? Doesn’t she have other things on her mind…like how she’s going to get the next meal for her little boy? Isn’t she a bereaved widow left with the huge challenge of raising her kid on her own, on the mere earnings of a roadside vegetable seller? Why does she think she needs to make a difference? What makes her think she can make a difference? Why not leave it for the government or the NGOs or the rich people, who clearly have the resources to do so (if not the intention)? Isn’t that what most people in her situation would do?

 What makes a Sunitha Krishnan dream of rescuing other rape victims like her? Isn’t the little girl of 16 scarred for life by the brutality of a gang rape? Shouldn’t anger and hopelessness be the predominant feelings tormenting her for the rest of her life? How does she detach herself from those feelings...or channel them for doing something positive? How does she overcome the temptation to “give up”? What makes her think that anything positive can possibly come out of her experience?

Why does a Sanjeev Kumar leave a promising MBA career to fight for the rights of unknown people in a distant village? When his colleagues and friends are perhaps fleeing the country and relocating to foreign lands that hold a better promise for the “house-car-vacation” dream…what makes him relocate to a village and spend the crucial years of his life there? Untouchability and caste system were not even “his problems”. Why not just shut his eyes to the suffering of strangers and chase the next “onsite” opportunity at work? Why does he want to be involved?

What makes a Naseema Hurzuk see beyond the helplessness of being a paraplegic and dare to help others with similar problems? She confesses how at one point in her life, she just didn’t want to live anymore. From there, how does she get to a point where she inspires others with disabilities to live happy, self-sufficient lives? Her words at the end of the interview provide the answers to a certain degree, “When you don’t feel like living for yourself, you must learn to live for others”.

This concept of “living for others” is almost alien to us.

For most of us, “others” consist of our own immediate family. The biggest sacrifices we are capable of making are the ones for our own children (like not taking a promotion that comes with a transfer or giving up a career to spend more time with them).  Sometimes, even making small life adjustments for our own parents seem too hard! At the most, we’ll lend some money to a friend in need…or sponsor the education of a few kids through our preferred charity. And we think that’s enough work-out for our conscience. We go to bed feeling happy that we’ve done something good for “others”. But we take care not to do anything that puts us into any sort of inconvenience.  Nothing that disturbs the pattern of our lives. While any sort of good is good, as the saying goes “A bone to the dog is not charity. Charity is the bone shared with the dog, when you are just as hungry as the dog.”

For our heroes, “others” could mean total strangers... people who were far removed from their own lives. It does not matter that they are themselves often in worse situations than those they are trying to help! Yet nothing deters them from their mission…not personal benefits, not inconvenience, not even big threats to their own safety and well-being!

What gives them this peculiar empathy that negates all their personal aspirations? Is it the balance of chemicals in their brains? Something in their DNA? Something in the environment they were brought up in? Something their parents did differently than ours when raising them? A life-changing incident that shook them from their very core?

What exactly is this strange, strong, beautiful species of real-life heroes made of? Can it be taught? Transferred? Inspired into others?

I am not sure what studies and surveys say about this…but if it’s something that can be taught or transferred, I want it included in our school curriculums. And guess what, for this one thing…am ready to go back to school.

 P.S. Apologies  if I have hurt anyone by using "generalisations" like "most of us".

The BIO of a person who had no story to tell...

So, our company was updating its intranet and wanted all staff members to post brief bios.

I write for a living…but the idea of writing a bio freaked me out. Capturing in a few words what I have done for a living all these years, without sounding vain or frivolous, was clearly a challenge. Resumes are different – task-oriented and factual, detailed and often exaggerated. The person can almost hide behind their professional achievements or a fancy template. Moreover, you have a few pages to make your point. That’s my resume anyway…I don’t speak for everyone, of course.

Bios, on the other hand, need to bring out the essence of who you are as a person and as a professional. It’s like writing your blog profile, except that you can’t quite mention your OCD or your fear of cats. For a person like me, who’s not done anything that would make anyone raise their brows and say “Really! You did that?”, it’s even harder. No odd job as a poker machine technician or a cigarette tester or a window cleaner for a horny couple or a hairdresser at a correctional facility. Nothing that makes good stories. Nothing that makes even a bad story, for that matter. I remembered all the times when we had to write autobiographies of an ant or a shoe, at school. Autobiography of a technical writer clearly did not make it to the syllabus because it could scar kids for life (with boredom).

But it had to be done. And I managed to scribble this up, consoling myself that no one ever reads anything on the intranet anyway:

After completing her post-graduate degree in English Literature, D started her career in the NGO sector. Writing for the rights of children, she realised how powerful the pen indeed was. She was then offered a job as an Instructional Designer in the e-learning industry, and she took it up mainly out of curiosity to know what those words meant (some of her friends’ guesses were that an Instructional Designer would design charts/aids for teachers who were graphically challenged or would create fancy covers for text books no one wanted to read).

Ever since, she has pursued a career as an instructional designer, technical writer, content developer and report writer (for companies like Oracle, PricewaterhouseCoopers and the TATA group in India). No matter what the sector (finance, L&D, IT etc.) D's focus has been two-fold:

To create quality documentation fit for the target audience

To improve the way an organisation approaches and perceives its documentation tasks/processes

Keen to prove that good documentation ensures good communication, she has often been caught proof-reading bills, junk mails and post-it notes at home, much to her family’s annoyance.

 One day, she hopes to have her home-office in a tree house.

What do you think of it?

Must admit that this exercise made me think. Do bios become epitaphs when people die? Are visiting cards made from putting bios in compressors? Could a person make a living out of writing other people’s bios? Is there a Pulitzer equivalent for best-written bios? Was Tolstoy’s bio as long as his War and Peace? If Homer Simpson had a bio, what would it say? Would Joey copy Chandler’s bio and forget to change the name on the header? Things like that, you see. Important things. 

If anyone has answers to any of these, let me know. Until then, here’s hoping that your bios have a story to tell.

Of Jimmy Choo and All Things Profound

Warning – Some people may find this post shallow. Recommended for those in the mood for some mindless-profundity.

Where Am I?

• If thy heart desires a Jimmy-Choo, thou shalt have it. Fake though it be.
• If thy body aches and thy muscles twist, thou shalt be relieved. Massage is the cure for all.
• If patting a tiger has been on the list of “top-10-things-to-do-before-I-die”, thou shalt be allowed a pat. And a picture with the cat.

If you have answered “Thailand/Bangkok” to the question above, now is the time to jiggle your backside in a “I-know-it-all” happy dance (the one you saved for your game-show win).

So Thailand was where I was in the second week of the new year. My 5-year wedding anniversary gift from A.

While I loved the shopping and the food and the massage and the tiger-patting, these were not my main take-aways from the trip.

The first thing my colleagues told me when they found out that I was going to Bangkok was “You will come back with your first fake Jimmy-Choo”. I did not quite comprehend what that meant, except that all of them had fakes of the biggest brands, courtesy their Thailand trips. Once in Bangkok, I was hit by a tsunami of fakes. You name it…they’ve got it. To my amazement, I wasn’t overjoyed. I was appalled. (Clearing throat and raising head to bring out the philosophical look.)

I believe we must all have wish lists of things we desire. In the petty materialistic world, these things can range from TAG-Heurs to Tiffanys to BMWs. If someone brought down the price of any of these so that everyone could afford them, would they still be our magical objects of desire? We yearn for them…work hard for them…save for them (ahem!)…so that one day (if we are fortunate enough), we can afford to have one, and rejoice at the accomplishment. It’s the journey to that illusive thing…the years of sighing in front of shop windows…the years of envying the lucky few who actually have them, that make the whole experience remarkable. If I could buy a BMW from a weekend visit to the grocers, I would value it as much as a bag of raw potatoes!

In Thailand, you can have a Jimmy-Choo at the cost of a bag of potatoes. It’s a good thing that everyone can have what they desire…some may argue. But at what cost (pun intended)? It’s a lie. Every time you walk out with the fake…you’re either making someone else envious with something that’s not even worth it. Or, being a joke to those who can tell the difference between real and fake (must admit, I usually can’t).

The shopping centres in Bangkok were gorgeous, don’t get me wrong. But I had to spend double the time looking for decent bags that did not sport some sort of fake branding. I remember asking a lady at the shop counter “Do you have anything without a brand logo on it?” And she looked at me as if I had requested to have her fingers for breakfast.

Now, I haven’t always been like this. Of course I have bought fake Gucci bags from New Market as a teenager. And I loved them to bits. But I am a teenager no more (said with a heavy heart). And it’s not like I don’t use anything non-branded. I have plenty of cheap bags and shoes to last generations (except that cheap things don’t usually last that long). But I have changed so much since I wrote this. I I hereby promise to never buy something that sports a fake logo.

And if this isn't the most mindlessly-profound post you've read, you surely need help with your reading list.

Things I Hated as a Child but Miss as a Grown Up

Oiled my hair after a decade. And what’s strange about it...I wasn’t even forced. I actually volunteered for it when Ma arrived last weekend. Funny how things you absolutely hated as a child, become acceptable....to the extent that you “miss them”, as a grown up. Here’s my list of top-10 things-I-hated-as-a-child-but-miss-as-a-grown-up:

1. Patla macher jhol and bhaat (mild fish curry, Bengali style, with rice)
2. Oiling my hair
3. Having house-guests who took over my room (and sometimes my life)
4. Loudspeakers playing “popular” Hindi/Bengali songs during pujo
5. Having nosy neighbours who would drop in any time of the day and sometimes stay back for dinner
6. Uchchey bhaja with kasundi (fried bitter gourd with a mustard sauce, popular in Bengal)
7. Having to do any sort of art and craft (how I hated my SUPW classes!)
8. Visiting relatives and spending whole evenings listening to them complain about some other relative or praising their own kid
9. Rituals and traditions (not of the “fasting” variety...but of the “make-yummy-food-and-decorate-the-house-and-wear-traditional-clothes” variety)
10. Being told what to do (so much easier than having to decide)

Image below stands proof of #9. My first Laxmi Puja at home.