This Day, Every Year

So today is the morning of my sixth Last Day at Work of my career. Sounds skewed and suicidal for any rocket scientist’s career, doesn't it? But it's surprisingly emancipating. There have seldom been interesting last days, but this has been by far the jitteriest. I have yet to receive my resignation acknowledgement email and relieving date officially. Yup, beat that. However that's not what's really bothering me.

A lot of movement is in the pipeline. A lot of changes, and a lot of adjustments.

The last time I was taking this decision, I had a choice - I was asked. This time, I've been told. I am not resenting it, I appreciate the break. The fact that I've been presented with ample time to get used to being truly myself. Not having to think of other people - just the cats.

This time alone has freed me of my fears, hesitation, mind sets, judgement, dependencies... Stimulants, decadent food, loud music, jarring yellow lights, other people - I have lost the need for any of these and realised the stark difference between want and need.

This phenomenon has helped me sort out precisely what gets packed and what goes into the bin, to the maid, or just stay back. I wouldn't say I have lost my sense of attachment, but even the stalest of shirts lose their stench after a few days. All that remains is the physical accumulation of dust on them, and then they must be given to the laundry guy.

As for the last day at work, I foresee a lot of boredom, barring some work here and there - just because most people may not want to accept the fact that I am leaving - and some do not know still that I'm leaving. The latter variety is mostly those who I, nor anyone I know around work, speak to. Last days are strange. There is this sense of emptiness. Of everything snapping in just a fraction of a second. Whether there is disapproval from your employer or complete support, the feeling is always that of having fallen short. Of course, in my case I have almost always fallen short. I put myself in the employer's and the spectators' shoes.

I have always been happiest when I've discontinued working with an organization. The opportunity to revive oneself as a person and as a professional presents itself like a clear slate on which to draw a brand new picture. The relief of not having to see the same old faces of course is unparalleled. Isn't there any job that allows one to meet new people and take in a plethora of experiences each day? I reckon it's a rather superficial and flitting attitude towards work - this not wanting to know people – colleagues –under their skins. Then again, I've never much enjoyed socialising with people at work barring one job. And even there, my eventual pickiness got me quite a bit of scorn.

I wish all of these negative thoughts would leave me. For once and for all. It’s not worth thinking so much. Shouldn’t I be putting all this energy into more positive affirmations? Thinking forward; looking towards how best I shall give myself to my new employer. But how do I do that, when that very idea has come under scrutiny? Will I or won’t I? Both parties will surely make me slog before I make any headway.

It is not time. There’s a bigger plan. It is not right. God always answers a prayer. It may not be to your liking, but it doesn’t mean it isn’t for your best. Surrender. Accept His ways. You shall be more at peace. This has been my greatest takeaway from Goa. That too from a tv programme that I chanced upon in the midst of a disinterested weeping session about my predicament!

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.

At a Meeting with Boss, Superboss, Parag 'n his Boss

Shit. I've been noticing blackheads and white heads. On the faces of men. I thought I was idle-obsessing over Neenu - jobless as both of us were and distracting as his daane are. Either it is a genuine new 'interest', or my attention span is weaning. Writing poems during meetings, doodling, interspersing long monologues from the three grey-heads with doubts or silly, childish questions... Yawning.

Staring at people's shoes. Shoes, just shoes. Period. And hair. Jairam's is quintessential Mallu curls. Sajeev has happy, wavy "set" hair. Imagine it slightly longer. Almost hippie-like. Mr. Morada's... is crinkly. It's crinkly, thin, long on top and neatly trimmed at the back.

And where Satish's is the neatest, most appropriate, most suitable for his age-position-personality-style, one must see Parag to believe how untidy-yet-cute a guy can look. I have a feeling he puts gel in his hair to make it look that messy. Then there's Vijaya and Yogita who have pan-Mumbai hair-dos. Neat, functional, nothing fancy.

Sanchita's is a standard new-in-Bombay-cut: well conditioned and taken-care-of, but can turn pretty bad given a chance. Oh, and she wears the cheap Nariman Point- inner road- wayside shop-sandals. Thick sole, inadequate heels, all puffy and dusty and plastic. The straps, tacky; broad; out-dated.

Heels. I'm obsessed with those as well these days. Height is highly (pun! pun! pun!) underrated.

Written during a meeting at the Bakhtawar Office

My boss's boss is really just a child. He goes up to others for approval. Professionally or personally. Whether it is a business decision, a doubt in sentence construction, a proposal he must make to the Chairman, a new white shirt he may have recently bought and worn to office, or even a tacky navy blue tie with tiny L&T logos splattered all over, like mud stains on a 3rd standard football player's white sports t-shirt (God knows why schools have white uniforms for PT classes).

He could be easily perceived as young-at-heart, passionate, dedicated, et el. Alas, his height gives away his insecurities, his diffidence behind the heavy facade of aggression and understanding - of knowledge as a weapon of mass control.

(A)ND

It was this afternoon, when Neelanjan was fooling around with Parag's poetry (Parag writes soulful Marathi poems in first person), at office today, that it dawned upon me that he happens to be a variety of Bambaiyyas the city seldom acknowledges.

'Neel', as we like to shorten, is like a visitor who's decided to extend his trip to no particular date in the future. A tourist who forgot he must return. An 'objective observer', an outsider for whom it is and will always be "Mumbai", not "Bombay". Despite a confident gait, Neel still fumbles with new routes; he is totally kicked by the whole idea of the purple Merc AC buses; shows streaks of literary brilliance in banal bitching/ pep talk, like, "I know what it's like to be in a relationship with a voice." This is a man who reads Marathi Poetry with a Bong accent and understands all the scattered English sprinkling. He's a complete goof with lots'a taste when it comes to beauty. He's still the fucking intellectual, who refuses to wear tapered shirts to look all "with it" or go gymming for that dream physique every Bombay-boy fantasies. He loves Monalisa-smile Marianne's sarcasm- the privacy of her humor to which even he is often debarred.

Neel would dance his fave step with panache, when no one's looking at work, in that photocopy enclosure for his seating space, as he listens to Arnob or Manna De buried in his laptop screen. He's noisy when he laughs his nasal laughter, loud in expression (read: foulest sprinkling through a 20-minute lunch chatter), yet his ways are quiet, calm even.

He's not a loner, but in his body language, you sense a looking down upon yourself for being the dud you ARE. And he knows you: smart, stupid, emotional (read: stupid), practical (read even more stupid), brilliant, happy, melancholy, miracle maker, heart breaker, funny, never-boring, all-knowing, wise.

So, why the rant about some colleague/ friend at office? Because, my dear, as I began, this city often ignores this extremely entertaining yet endearing variety of individuals, who you must be lucky to come across, yet, merrily dissolve into the flow that throngs the Mantralaya-to-Churchgate parade every evening. One more virtue that resurrects Bombay for me. It shelters quirks. All sorts.

Fly

There is a fly,
It deserves to die:
It is very irritating.
Spreading illness like that
Bringing shit to your hat
It's a claimant on collective hating.
Rubbing its hinds,
About to devour your health
Disgusting like a Star Wars villain.
Let the electric fly killers
Attract them and burn them
Let the swatters take care of
The carcasses in flight
Let newspapers get to their real jobs
Let the hum finally cease.

Written at the L&T Orientation Programme

When I was on the bus to Haji Ali last evening, I noticed a house. All that was available to the eye, from my vantage point on the road, was the verandah on the first floor, with a couple of windows open. The windows allowed a peek into what could be the outermost "layer": clotheslines, spare mattresses stacked one on top of another, toys from another era, peeling paint, rusting pot stands, corroding aluminium on the windows themselves.

It was a feeling of deja vu. As if I have been told about this house, this verandah, this place before. A few years ago, may be. And then it strikes where, by whom I was told. I remember exactly my source of this prior description. Rohinton Mistry's A Fine Balance told me.

What came as a surprise though, was how close the house was to the vicinity where I live. And how close to the description's likeness.

Bombay takes me back to books now.

Nerd.