Bagged

I can’t get over my bag. No shit, seriously. There’s just enough space, and plenty of compartments for keys, a wallet, sundry bits of paper (train coupons and post-its ok!), the handy spruce up kit,  a can of deo, the office diary and other stationery, my iPod and phone, a blasted umbrella!

I’ve been desirous of a new portable storage space for a while now, but finding one was a challenge first – thanks to the Annual Reports season, and then finding the right bag is, as always, the biggest matter of chance. But I quite like my find.

It’s the perfect brown. It’s got the right amount of embellishments. The brand emblems aren’t beyond belief and god it’s so me! The studs are adequately matted, the chains work fine, the stitching is neither too shiny nor too old looking. It’s the perfect new old-looking bag. Here, have a look for yourself!

That's the new find, on its first day at work!

Bought from the high streets of Bandra (which Arunav so loves enunciating with stress on the ‘ban’, as if he could ejaculate on it) – streets nevertheless – this as one of those unexpected little joys (or cheap thrills) that Bombay doled out. And I’m not one to waste time on browsing six shops and looking at three hundred pieces, so this was even more brilliant.

Enter shop.

Look around.

Ask to look at two.

Zero in on one.

Bargain for ten minutes while looking at the next shop expectantly.

Begin to leave.

Finally pay half the quoted price and buzz off.

Linking Road rocks.

This bag will probably go down in my list of one of the loveliest cheap buys off the streets of Bombay. The first I remember was that pair of yummy chappals (Berkenstocks in white) and then that fantabulous first pair of skinny jeans (bought two more on this trip too – only, also tried them before parting with the price I’d’ve paid for half a pair in a Levi’s store).

But the significant difference was that this time there was no selling, not even an element of it. these street seller types have all become gala arrogant haan. चैय्ये तो लो वरना कट लो. I mean, क्या यार... but then I recently also read online about the Vero Moda opening sale where there was a kilometre-long queue.

What is the shopping world coming to?

Ittefaaq ya What the Faack?!

In October, whilst attempting to churn out a good school book for ToI, I wanted to do a story on private equity investments. My research was meagre, and the resources that came up were either unwilling to talk or rather hush-hush about it – “प्यार भी यहाँ लगे है गाली” types. After innumerable attempts, I had to give up, के हट साला नै हो रहा है. Time was running out, the deadline loomed awfully close, book बंध.

It has been nine months since. The baby is ready to come out. I’ve just read a comprehensive analysis of the K12 business around the goddamn world. साला no one can ace me on it now. And I’d probably be able to vomit out not just a story, but perhaps a whole goddamn pamphlet on it! All this out of an annual report का MDA.

And then I met an old college acquaintance last night! And that was a seriously IYWTF moment. We actually stay just across the street from each other. And that is a scary prospect, cuz we didn’t even bother speaking to each other in college, beyond the passing acknowledgement of a smile to suggest any of the following: 1. You too are human; 2. You exist; 3. Er...; 4. *royal roll of the eyes*

So from avoiding, if we could help it, to adding each other on Facebook and meeting for ice cream last night, we seem to have come a long way – in growing up perhaps, having an hour-long civil conversation – ice cream, and walk, our only companions. In a strange land, it is funny how two people belonging to totally different worlds unite in some ways: noticing the transvestites that dot the street, thinking how funny is all the make-up and beef cake that suddenly spills out post-9 ’o clock on the streets, missing food, adjusting with new company, being slaves of a job that you somewhere have begun to love, and a guy who we both met about two months ago for the same purpose (only his was served and mine, well, I was destined to be his neighbour).

No, I don’t find him as much of a pain as I did all those juvenile years ago. He even ventured to call me a friend he was out with, to a friend on phone. He was gracious enough to hang up on a call and continue speaking. To me. And listening. Wishing for some quiet. Looking forward to returning to our comfortable grottos in a while.

Takes me back yet again, to that passage we read in school about Tolerance by Forster?

On reading

The past week has been a roller coaster. I met a guy through the pseudo-traditional matrimonial site, contemplated marrying him, found out in the nick of time that he and I were not only mismatched, but also belonged to two brilliantly separate worlds. That was interesting. Since when did men become excellent decision-makers?

But i'm still trying to figure out what is worse - that a guy says up front that he doesn't read, that he doesn't manage to find the time to read, or that he finds reading BORING? And therefore, does that make all of us who read lesser mortals or simply redundant?

I mean, here I was, practically changing my wardrobe after Bridges of Madison County's Francesca Johnson because she got to be photographed by a Robert Kincaid. Leave alone the romanticism and tragedy of their love, but merely to be appreciated by that one man, through studied vision... in the most exotic locale... like a modern fairytale without a happy ending. Heck, who wants a happy ending - I want a stimulating conversation! To which I can add something meaningful, or derive learning.

Think about it, after having socialised with the likes of research scholars from the best institutions in the country and abroad, after knowing people who travel the world and know the insides and outs of how the planet functions, oh for god's sake - having been a writer and an editor (and therefore, primarily a reader) myself, how does anyone expect me to tolerate a non-reader?

When there is such limited reading (or the complete absence thereof), where will there be the element of ambition to explore new worlds - in terms of thought, in terms of activities, in terms of destinations? How will he know when to be really nasty I call him a Nazi? Will it even strike him as remarkable when I suggest Berlin or Rome for a vacation? And he will be so lukewarm when I mention a bike ride across the Konkan, or spending the afternoon cooking together or reading poetry at Prithvi!

Uf! no no no no no no no noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!

Landmark Month!

This might turn into one of the most significant months, and perhaps even years or times for good. Not, I have yet to begin my book. I wouldn't say my career's taking off either. But some things are falling in place. I've said my final goodbyes to a few, and I'm about to say HELLO! to some others. The right people are being valued, the right people are a seemingly right person is being evaluated. On what parameters, now that is for me to see.

I am still not sure how high I should set the bar, or what should be my criteria, but the mildly pleasant feeling has not left me yet. And yet, as Nidhi puts it, तुझे चार दिन जो अच्छा लगे वोह पांचवे दिन पसंद आना बंध हो सकता है.

So the contemplation continues...

Resume redux

I am a team player.

In a resume, the cliche would play spoiler with my recruiter. It would sound only unbelievable. But four jobs and five years in the industry later, I can't shy away for the sake of being original.

I've become a catalyst to quality as well as productivity. When I'm not churning our edited reams of annual report text, I'm talking. I'm reasoning, I'm justifying, I'm dictating, I'm correcting. Without condescension. I ideate, I plant seeds in people's minds to focus at work, on work. I'm always polite to the generally abrasive and brusquely dismissed, and snap and dole out sarcasm to those who can take it and glean value.

I embrace, I kiss foreheads, I pat backs.

I'm loved, I'm missed, I'm respected, I'm sought. I'm your quintessential rockstar.

I'm the office DJ.

And this statement could cost me even my current job - perhaps the worst thing attached to one's professional  profile, but i'm proud of it. For the first time ever, I'm not ashamed of liking more than a genre or two in music. In fact, I'm proud I can take them all and have great taste so I can play the best to cater to all at work: old Hindi, new Hindi, Hip Hop, Bhangra, Heavy Metal and Rock, Ghazals, Jhataak, anything melodious.

Music binds us, it keeps us upbeat, it helps us work tirelessly. Despite the rats, despite the filth, despite the lack of water.

Makes us our own little Monsantos. Makes us active CSRers.

My favourite painter

The title to this post may sound rather like one for a primary school essay, but then, that's the way I felt about the grand old man of Indian art. Picasso of India Dies, flashed Times Now as I waited at the lounge of CORE.


When the first time I walked past a lowered shutter in Town, opposite the David Sassoon Library at Kala Ghoda, my heart stopped - an MF Hussain horse head painted on it in one bold stroke. Needless to say, the classic head was impossible to miss. The mystery of Kala Ghoda was finally solved in my head. That, for me, became a symbol of perhaps the most accessible and self-righteous celebrity painter ever to be born.

And today, he breathed his last.

Hussain, they said, had kept very ill lately. He was in London to to treat a lung infection, said a relative.

It will be interesting to see to see the the report on his burial. I wonder if his soul will ache or laugh at the controversy. Gulzar sa'ab was quoted saying, "The country will repent that this happened outside his land."

Until last night, Titli Daboch Li Maine from Minaxi played on my laptop. This morning it will play for a reason. Who will adore movement the way he did? Who will put it into strokes on canvas like his? Who will love the Indian woman his way? And who will paint horses like his now? And his red Ferrari?

There is a print of one of his paintings at office. I know of another painter who considers Hussain (incidentally his name is Gossain) his guru and inspiration.

Koi Sachche Khwaab Dikha Kar....