Chiffonesque

All happiness begins with knowing what you want. All unhappiness begins with not knowing what you want. All chaos begins with trusting other people to know what you want. All chaos persists with other people giving you what you don’t know you want. All frustration stems from getting what you may not want. All homicidal instincts arise from having to pay for what you definitely don’t want. Giving you what you want is a promise. Giving you what you may or may not want is a compounded promise. A compounded promise is a ‘com’-promise. You don’t want a compromise. Nobody does. It makes one unhappy. It does not make one happy. All happiness begins with knowing what you want…… Someday, this will be my response to a client’s feedback: ‘So…this is it? I’m not sure…not what I had in mind.’ And when he says, ‘Huh?’, I shall pull out his design document, flutter it in the air, and say, ‘Exactly.’

I am very, very sad today. Fearfully enough, I would have lived through this day not knowing that I was sad. What brought home the realization was food. It was a perfectly productive day. There is a lot about my work (as opposed to my job) that I really like. This is despite the fact that I have been thwarted for it several times. But that’s okay. I believe that I should be certain of at least one skill I bring to my job. That must remain sure and steadfast, even though no-one else notices it. The song of an eclipsed moon. I know that song and that is why I get hired, or berated. So, things at work are good. My other life, which I shall unimaginatively refer to as ‘personal’, is good too. Parents are happy, even though there is tumultuous distress over who gets the remote. I wonder why my father even bothers to try. He will keep complaining that he is sick, to which Ma will want to know whose fault that is and why should the remote go to a weak viewer when it can entertain a more robus

In Powai, my office was located in a very posh building. Unlike the other buildings I had worked in, this one had an impressive façade, a fancy name, and Greek grooves and moldings on pillars. It was a modern building. As is the case in the province of ‘modern’, several thoughtful outrés were provided. There were huge mirrors on both sides of the lobby, so that you could quickly look at yourself and primp up before getting to work. There was the marble floor over which heels clicked in refinement as they made their way to moneyed alcoves. There was also a huge, bright chandelier that lent the requisite whiff of opulence proper for multi-national companies. Another example of a thoughtful, modern service was the lift system. This building had four lifts to accommodate the hundreds of people who used them. You could call any of these lifts by pressing the panel of buttons.(In this regard, this was like the other lifts all over the world – except for this building in Bhubaneshwar where th

Since J and I are practically neighbors (apart only by a shoddy, dark, rocky lane), I spend many happy hours with her daughter. Because C is only three and I have given up alcohol this birthday, happy hours have got nothing to do with consuming liquor at student-budget prices. A good thing because the Pogo channel needs to be viewed with acute sobriety, else you may completely miss the chump’s motive to woo the serpent. A lot has changed in the animal kingdom since ‘Jungle Book’. When you spend so much time with a child, who innocently asks you why her mother is working so hard when you are not (an anomaly I hasten to rectify), I wonder what it takes to be a parent. It’s not what I had imagined – financial security, unreasonable levels of compassion, physical endurance to go without sleep for days, so on and so forth. All this is necessary, but you could have it all and still not be ready for parenthood. I now understand that what is actually required is a thick skin. Last evening, J w

In this world, there are busy roads and not so busy roads. People jostle to move past or move ahead. Each of them walks these roads in his own faulty, perfect, hesitant, cocksure gait. But each one takes a step in a direction – some with the urgency of getting away from, some with the earnestness of getting closer to. Every road is a maelstromific bubble. Every person who walks it, walks it with little spurts of crackle. No matter how small or desolate a path, it is someone’s highway to somewhere. And on these roads, there are stalls that stand vanguards to the ultimate emblem of the free spirit – an open road. These stalls are frequented by an ilk that hasn’t gone soft. Their hearts are still simple, their minds are still unfettered. There’s rawness in their bustle. There’s quickness in their transaction. These stalls are no place for the mind to get plush or lofty. When the sun beats down on these stalls, people with unfinished business stop here. They have a grit in their eyes that

Maybe we have come a long way from the position of ‘Show me the person, and I’ll show you the law.’ Maybe we are very clear that celebrities are no different from regular citizens. So, if they do the crime, they must do the time. But maybe, just maybe, the judiciary that is acting according to such strong, potent impartiality, doesn’t quite believe it. That is why there is a 150 page judgment (in a bid to be a ‘landmark case’ no doubt) when a much more concise sentence would do. If only evidence is weighed to administer punishment, then why should it matter if a guy is a celebrity? Salman Khan got famous acting. How does that mandate that he have stronger ethics than others? Why does his fame make him responsible for other people’s conscience? Why should his getting punished be an ‘example’ for other people? Maybe the judiciary itself needs to think of whether it’s trying to overcompensate for its lapses. Maybe it needs to look at whether it’s going all out to punish those who get caug

It is a very hot day. As much as one expects heat in Indian summers, today is unreasonable. The roads are getting charred and leaves are turning crisp and dried. Some giant finger can take a pick of the choicest summer leaves, dip it in ketchup and eat. What else can the giant have? Yes, there are those vast cottony white spindles that look like froth on cool lassi. The giant can have that. There are some clouds that are slightly yellowish and perfectly rounded. The giant could help himself to one scoop of that honey-melon ice-cream. It will be refreshing – the icy, light, sweetness. All that is good. But somewhere behind the tender lining of the pale, blue sky is clear, sweet, spring water. It’s cool and nourishing. The giant will quarter off a bit of the sky and press it to his mouth. The cool wetness will dribble through the cracks of his dry, parched lips and roll down his dusty neck. The water will gush about his tongue and hold it in rapture, such that the watery manacles will al

Earlier, about some love, I 'd talk, For some love I'd shout, Now, for the kind that's really important, I simply don't talk about. It's nice - the kind of peace and silence the heart can hold for someone who truly matters.

Sometimes, I look at my family photos. There is one with me, aged five, sitting on my grandfather’s lap. We are surrounded by my brother and five of my male cousins, aged between three and six. All of them are dressed in my clothes. Now that childhood is over, my brothers do not know the difference between pink and peach and would sooner die than be seen in anything mauve . My Cotton World tops and skirts are safe. There is much to be thankful for. A benefit of having very strange siblings is that I can learn to relate to weird men all over the world. Of course, I haven’t met all the weird men across the globe, but I think I’ve made the acquaintance of every strange male who takes the bus from Pune to Mumbai. Men who have made me see myself in a new light. Last week, I bought my ticket from a guy who breathlessly insisted to all concerned that the bus was jusht leaving. I didn’t believe him at all but I did wonder how closely he resembled a goat. Another girl, with orange MTV trouser

Very strangely, I feel sleepy now that my birthday is over. It was very, very good – all these celebrations that began a whole day before and continued a whole day later. But now I feel like sleeping in a chilled AC room with soft pillows, crisp sheets, and a fluffy blanket. However, before this satiety, there was anticipation. And then, the drums rolled. Sunday, 2nd April, I met my girl gang who I seem to have known for an eternity now. We all used to work in the same office and share an almost unhealthy affinity to food. Of course, some like S and C are vegetarians and then there’s Anumita who likes green salads despite being a non-vegetarian (and you can’t really do much about people like that). But these exceptions apart, all of us like food…a lot. We met at Mocha at 11:30 in the morning. Some were fashionably late and others were startlingly early and I was pleasantly surprised. Very very pleasantly. I had imagined only C to be there and possibly SK. S is too posh and now works in

I have just finished reading ‘When we were orphans’ by Kazuo Ishiguro and have started ‘The Argumentative Indian’ by Amartya Sen. They differ in genre, content, and writing styles but both distinctly give this impression about their authors – they are gentlemen. Truly and impeccably. First, there’s Kazuo Ishiguro. I have noticed that when I recommend this author to anyone, I recommend him, not his books. I don’t usually tell people to read ‘Pale View of the Hills’ or ‘Artist of a Floating World’ or ‘Remains of the Day’…but I do tell them to read ‘Kazuo Ishiguro’. His books, while not necessarily slow, do take their time coming around. The contrast of the individual story to the social setting is what I find most interesting. For example, he would write about a man’s silent love in a historically fractured environment, such as the World War. Or the feeling of constantly searching for shadows in crowds when one is left orphaned suddenly. Notable is the ability to write about such contras

There's a time for joy, There's a time for sorrow, There's a time to remind It's my birthday tomorrow. Yay! Yay! Yay! Yay!