My sister, the pirate

My general evening tranquility was chased away by my younger sister rushing about the house like a mini tornado. Coat after coat was tried on and discarded. My irritation mounted as the pile of discarded clothes grew. Finally exasperated, I bellowed, "What do you want?" Her face broke into a smile, "I thought you’d never ask!" Their Microbiology Department was having a farewell party for their seniors the next day and the theme was pirates. Since she was the compere, she needed to look like a pirate. (all this at 10 o clock in the night) "Why are you collecting boy pirate clothes when you're a girl pirate?" I asked. She looked at me blankly. I knew Jack Sparrow had a cult fan following but someone who could identify microbial cultures and autoclave with their eyes shut couldn't even think of the obvious?!? But that's why I was there -the guiding light, the bordering on insanity 'ad' girl. Some burrowing in our bottomless closet revealed a very 'piratey' white shirt. Since she'd be the first pirate to wear jeans we figured the rest should be a little believable. Then I bundled her in a Jacket and tied a rag round her waist. The eye patch and hook would come tomorrow. A bandana and two oversized pens (her weapons) finished the "look". Sweating profusely under layers of clothing she eyed her 70 plus kilo frame in the mirror and said dismally, "I look fat!" Well Chubbs, you ARE fat. Muttering mutinously at the impracticality of pirate-wear she wondered how they raided anything in all those togs!
Now that her costume was in place, she looked at me beseechingly with her puppy eyes, “I don’t have a script.” I knew it was coming! After yelling at her for a few minutes for effect, I got down to writing it. There’s nothing to pirate talk really. Mostly half eaten words and exclamations like “Shiver me timbers” and sea specific words like “Shark Bait”. Aye! It be easy t’ git on with. I couldn’t understand how such smart kids could come up with a wholly unoriginal name like ‘Crystal Violet’ a rip-off from ‘Black Pearl’ methought. My sister looked at me wondering which ditsy planet I came from. “Crystal Violet is a stain” she said. Oh! My bad! But hey, I’m not the microbiologist! A full dress rehearsal ensued thereafter and “Arrrr!s” were flying left, right and center.
So that’s my sister, a cross between Jack Sparrow, Captain Hook and Elizabeth Swann.

A day in the life of a Client servicing exec (mine)

The following events describe the total chaos that precede and follow a visit from the ever exuberant Dee.
A sunny morning, when the rain gods have taken pity on us, wonderful weather greets us on our day to work.Our spirits buoyed, we file into our desks and plan our day. Okay. Urgent press gets priority.Our 5 member team is whittled down to 3 since our a.d. is out with a bad back and our a.e. has suspected flu.

Having no clue about the job that’s just been thunked on my lap, I familiarize myself with the need to connect telecom and Indian independence. Also juggling horrendous hoardings that have been changed at least thrice.
The sup and trainee hover around protectively.

Our merry pace at work suddenly accelerates (with our heartbeat) when we are informed that Dee and S.P. are on their way to “personally supervise & approve” the press ad. (translated as ‘sit on our head till we expedite’)

Poor D Ray G and Sidee have been given the task of making the obscure connection between telecom and independence. One option has been bombed and time till 11 has been spent trying to salvage it in vain. No recycling possible for option 1, 1 A, 1 B and 1 C despite valiant attempts.

Arrival of Dee in a breeze sets everyone going at a typhoons pace. Her black skirt and stockinged legs draw people’s eyes like magnets. She nonchalantly skips about and cracks a couple of sad ones with M G P and COO.

Given the task of tailing her and sticking to her like a burr, I keep at it fervently. Her meanderings are cut short by my leading her into a conference room to repose. S.P. meanwhile lodges himself in the COO’s cabin, deep in discussion with Wabs on strategy.

Since storms cannot be contained in teacups, I’m half dragged to the creative side trying to hold Dee’s curiosity on how our press ad is turning out.

A sweating Sammy working things out with Sidee and D Ray G as quickly as time permits. Voila, layout almost done. Dee gives her blessing, S.P. gives his.
Then comes the fine tuning.

AGM at 3, and at 2 S.P. promptly heads in that direction. Lunch in the aforementioned conference room with Dee. Sammy comes in to help with the PC (polite conversation). In non work related things, Dee is actually quite cool. Lunch is spent eating subs and discussing Feng Shui fish. At 5 minutes to 3, Dee trots off giving us breathing space till 6.30 to figure our lives out.

Artworks etc happen and the legal twist needs approvals. So we wait till 6.30. high level stress since we have around 6 of them to go (2 double spreads and 4 language ones).

At 6.30 they saunter in hungry. After being fed and watered, they suggest changes that are made super fast. Thrice we show them, thrice they ask for changes. The fourth time we hit a jackpot and are lucky (or so we think). Our creative guys decide we haven’t had enough for one day. D Ray G begins making noticeable changes in the layout.

Deadline crossed by a wonderful 5 hours, we send out the files.

“Oh! What have you sent” accompanies a shocked expression by our Sup as he checks it.
I have a near heart attack and the trainees knees buckle.
His face breaks into a smile. What a time to play a prank!!!

S.P. has left about 2 hours ago. Dee hovers around looking into other people’s computers and taking advantage of our general busy-ness to play Polly pry to perfection.

Ché holds fort making ultimate PC. First she gives subtle hints about cabs.
Then it becomes not so subtle till I image she is going to forcibly pack her into a one and send her away.
No such thing. Dee decides she wants to go back to hubby and after a sweet round of goodbyes she leaves in a whirl.

All our nerves near collapse we gleefully make our way home. The end of another exciting. Adventure-filled day.

Confrontation

I wonder what people do when confronted wit something they’ve been trying to avoid they’re entire lives. Like if someone they’ve loved deeply for a long time doesn’t love them back or they’re a total loser with no scope for redemption. It could also be something positive, like they’re made for bigger, better things and were wasting they’re lives until now. Does it break down the entire construction of their lives leaving debris of brick and mortar? Does the building (life) develop cracks but still not crumble? One thing is for certain though; life cannot go on as it were. It has to change even if it doesn’t want to simply because this certain suppressed “fact” has come to light.

I have realized many people build their lives on false hopes, constructed realities and tend to gloss over all that is imperfect. On the outside they are happy and smiling, but on the inside the truth eats at them slowly, unconsciously clawing its way to the surface till one day, in a burst of fresh air, it breaks free. In its aftermath it leaves behind change.

Basically it’s a confrontation between the individual they think they are and the individual they really are. The time and money they’ve spent trying to keep their secret personalities under wraps has gone to the dogs. I wonder if they try and salvage their ego and pride from the crumbling edifice or begin rebuilding it. And if rebuilt would it be the truth or an alter-ego?

Shopping? (cringe!)

The dictionary defines Chores as a hard or unpleasant task. Shopping for me is a Chore (with a capital C). On my one free day –Sunday, mum decides to drag me shopping at the supermarket. It’s pouring and by the time I get there, I look like a wet chicken. With as much dignity I can muster, I enter the fully air conditioned supermarket and listen to the background score of my teeth chattering (very kelvinator). It looks like they’re giving everything away free, judging by the number of people who’re there. There were all sorts of people–fat ones, thin ones, tall ones, short ones…mostly fat ones.

For someone with motor skills two levels above an ape, my mother very adventurously asks me to maneuver the shopping cart. I sigh and grab my cart only to have one of the wheels run over my toes. Mentally yelling at myself for wearing Floaters instead of shoes I sigh and follow mum into the labyrinthine shopping area. “Ouch!” the wheel again as I tried to reverse my cart. As I peer at my toe to evaluate the damage, one supreme shorty decides she wants biscuits from the topmost shelf and causes a cascade of crème biscuits on my previously unbruised head. Now I’m bruised from head to foot (well, my inbetween is miraculously unscathed… not for long though). Looking daggers at her isn’t helping 'coz she’s scuttled off. It would have been better if I had kept my eyes firmly in front of me. Someone with motor skills even worse than mine decides his shopping isn’t interesting enough and playing bumper carts might enhance the experience. Result: a bruised middle. In spite of all the blubber that shields my tummy, I know it’s gonna be a blue bruiser.

Somehow I make my way out of aisle one (in my head, it pops up like a video game: LEVEL 1 COMPLETE: LEVEL 2)

A fact I’ve accepted is, the wheel of my shopping cart has an affinity for my toes. It doesn’t help that other people want to run me over too! And in all this, my mother is blissfully unaware, in her wonderland of aisles filled with things to stack her cart with. The heavier my cart gets, the more unmanageable it becomes.

To make my life a little more bearable, I add some Sprite to my cart only to have mum promptly put it back on the shelf and launch into the “diet” lecture. The chocolate I sneaked in is sneaked back with “the look”.

Feeling great pity for myself, I decide to tame my undomesticated cart. By then, my toes hurt, my legs are aching and my head is throbbing. Just then a kid decides to throw a tantrum and launch himself onto the floor kicking and screaming. Half of me wants to pick him up and pet him, the other half wants to spank the brat. I ignore wailing Wally only to find myself abandoned by mum. The 4 yr old in me wakes up and I panic (why?! I’ve been here a gazillion times) still, I want my mum!!! I scan the aisles and find her looking at some new fangled precooked mishmash. Relieved, I rush to be near her. I go one way, my cart goes the other and the stack of soups comes down crashing. The staff is now glaring at me (they think I’m the creme biscuit crasher). Mum decides the faster she gets me out of here the better. She doesn’t want to be “black listed” for having a delinquent daughter. Luckily, the checkout is reasonably empty as I pile my stuff on the counter, grab my bags and leave.

Will you be there for me?

Lately, so many people have been asking me this. As if, in their storm tossed lives, they look for one constant, one rock… weather-beaten but there. They are unsure of where they go and when they will come. But if they do come back, they need the assurance that someone will be there for them, someone they can come back to. They want me to be that person- who will listen to them, be a balm on their travel weary bodies, soothe their uprooted hearts and minds. In the dynamic, ever-changing they ask, “will you be there for me?”
I say, “Yes, always.” Not forever, because forever has ceased to mean anything…. So, always, till the end of time. But when I ask them the same question, they look apologetic as if making an excuse for their fickle minds, hearts and loyalties.
So I sigh, and continue being there for them, without anyone “being there” for me.

YIKES! SAVE ME!

What am I doing sitting and writing an exam that I don’t care to study for and one whose outcome I’m unworried about? I should be sitting at home writing agnostic treatises, tearing popular beliefs to bits! I should be “out here” propounding theories and instigating people to a pseudo-intellectual debate about existence (or any other NON MBA topic) or making non-mainstream, experimental movies that make people sit up and think. I should be prodding, poking and pushing society to reach a higher level and stop running after the petty. Alas, I don’t have the mind of Socrates (thank God! look what happened to him!) nor the guts of Luther. So I shall be pushed and shoved against my will to do an MBA… can you imagine that?!?! I cannot see myself stuck in “bored” room meetings, telling people how to go about their work! How can I manage a company when I can’t manage my own life?! My ambitious parents want me to throw away my God-given talents and run with the herd (who are, by the way, making money). Money? Ça ne m'intéresse pas. I’d rather be a chocolatier in Belgium or a travelogue compére (even if I have to live on bread and water for a while). Who understands? Who will explain? Every time I tell anyone my plans, they sigh and say “Another dream snuffed out!” “ Another talent bites the dust!” Should I be another casualty? Another statistic in this graveyard of dreams? Is there anyone who’ll pull me out of this Hades and support my stand?

the self

This is it. The fragmenting of the self (saṃ). The cohesive forces of the atoms comprising of me undone by my own bidding. When categorical words like forever and never have faded into the background of an unworthy past (I love you forever, friends forever, I’ll never leave you) …. It’s all Maya – illusion… delusion… disillusion? Like a heavy fist of iron it struck deep, it struck true… forcing the essence of my being apart… by my own folly… My nascent atoms roam the universe each carrying my former trait of being a wanderlust in search of answers. And yet each seeks to conform with different beings… separate… individual. A goal unachievable for the fact that they are a part of my being, linked through intangible cosmic threads interwoven to form the fabric of my conscious… the pain… the agonizing pain I seek to numb is only accentuated when I try to cut each thread loose… as if by subduing my conscious and sinking into the subconscious (unconscious maybe), I can somehow forget, alleviate my pain… but that is not to be…. Not in this life, nor in the next. Like Cerberus, it guards the door of my soul and keeps me from peace. The pain is a testimony to my humanness, my vulnerability, my mortality.
Eons ago I lived protected and shielded, my naïveté shielding me from the wallops of this hard-hitting world. The subtle cruelty the world seeped into my innocence forever poisoned a pure, unsullied fountain that seeks to be purged daily.
Sleeps offers no respite as dreams shape themselves into my darkest fears. I cry out and jolt awake only to be confronted by them in reality. I sink into a cycle of sleeplessness and wakefulness.
“You are your own master” they say. True for those who blindfold themselves against the vagaries of fate and ignore the twisted plots of destiny. They who choose to live life unquestioningly and uncomplainingly –complacent and happy with whatever is doled out. Do they even realize there’s a higher calling?
Alas, I have been cursed with a mind that asks “Why?” more times than I draw breath. Unanswered questions crowd around, pushing for space to be heard. Would I choose blissful benightedness over the predicament my questioning mind has set down on me? Negative. I refuse to be beguiled by ignorance’s pretty face that urges me to accept it all and move on. ‘So be it’ is not a part of my existence. No matter how painful it may be, I cannot go through life not knowing, not asking. The tribulation and distress are all a part of this journey. I wait in joyful hope, that someday, all mysteries will be made clear, all my questions-answered and peace will line my eyes. Till then I have to pick up the pieces of my fragmented being and forge ahead on my weary way.

destination destiny

Is that really me? Pushed into a vortex of circumstances I have no choice in… Existing, not living, by the dictates of other people- family, friends, society… doing what is needed or required, not what I want or choose to do. And in all this I can’t reclaim the life that is supposedly mine because “I owe people things”… I owe my family for bringing me up, society for accepting me, so on and so forth. But why in all this meaninglessness should I exist? Why? Hmmm…. That is the first word that confronts me every morning. (Blame it on the existentialist in me… and Camus for influencing me) WHY must I get up and go abut doing things as if I mean them? WHY must I study what in my opinion is conformist bulls***? Unanswered questions of the pseudo-intellectual, rebellious mind. Society has always served to wipe out and eliminate entirely beings who question her ways. They are pushed into the inconspicuous subcultures and slowly forgotten. Society beats everyone into conformity0 in the flow of the river, in the run of the herd and anyone who sticks his neck out… “Off with their head!!!”
Must I meekly submit to this stomping of all that I hold dear or should I fight for my ideal ideals and risk getting ‘cut-off’? My own family doesn’t understand why I behave this way…. How do I expect an entire conformist civilization to do that??? “Please be a little more normal!” they beg. But can’t they see? I’m better than normal- I’m abnormal! Under the lie of teenage counterculture I have gotten away doing most of what I’ve wanted to do. But time is running out and soon the validation period to use that excuse will expire. I’ll need to face my fears and tell them that in all this orthodoxy/ compliance / consistency / accord / submission I need to be an individual. Or I’ll have to face the music and finally ‘grow up’. Two words I dread and have come to hate. Associated with untold responsibilities thrust upon members of a society once they are deemed to have reached a certain age- mentally. Shakespeare said “All the world’s a stage…” But this ain’t my kinda show baby! So I’d better get my act together with people who think like me or bid the old life a toodaloo and begin from scratch, away from the influencing currents of all that I have come to abhor in this place.