Blank Slate

The art of forgetting requires great craftsmanship;
the careful peeling of sacred memories,
and an iron will to scatter them to the winds.

It is not for the fainthearted,
or those of weak mind.

The art of forgetting,
my friend,
is for you and I
who had the strength
to just let go.

This movie is amazing and by the way, I earn an embarrassing amount of money

Is it just me or are more and more people dropping how much they earn into completely unrelated conversations?

I can understand it as a response when I ask you how much you earn.
And if I don't know you well enough, please respond by saying it's none of my business.

But in a conversation about movies, random travel, birds, and all manner of arbitrary things...not so much. Then you're just the weirdo that tells people how much he/she makes because clearly, you're in desperate need of validation. 

The thing with boundaries in India

I met a girl at the gym who looked familiar.

I thought perhaps we went to the same school (which proves I am in severe denial about how old I look, because it turns out she’s about six years younger than I am) so I asked her which school she went to.

A few minutes later we’re having a perfectly pleasant conversation about things that strangers usually talk about, and then she pop in this question:

‘So, are you married?’

Me: ‘No.’

She, with an understanding nod: ‘Ahhh, so that’s why you’re working out?’

Um. No. Strangely enough, I’m not running on a treadmill just so I can catch a man. This is just for me.

Yup. That’s what I should’ve said. 

Instead I went with, ‘Um. No.’

The thing with boundaries in India is, there sometimes aren’t any. 

Leaving the dabba behind

The time has come.

We've been through good times, my cell phone and I, but now it is hanging on by a thread (or scotch-tape, if you want to be literal about it), and I think I'm strong enough emotionally to finally cut the cord.

The thing about an ugly phone, is that no one wants to take it from you. I've left it in dozens of places and it has never been stolen. And though I've had to deal with some very snide and sometimes funny comments about my archaic choice of technology (including: Oh no, she can't give up her phone. What dabba will she carry her lunch to work in?), it served its purpose well. I could make calls, send texts, and in some truly great moments, even check my email on it.

So for the past few weeks, I've been asking for suggestions regarding the impending upgrade to a phone that actually looks like it's not prehistoric, and the overwhelming response has been, 'The Blackberry'. Points in favour include:
-Messaging is free! Your phone bills will be much lower.
-You can send pictures, etc, at the drop of a hat.
-All your emails are at your fingertips.
-It's cool!
-Everyone has one.
-Rinse and repeat all of the above.

All of these are true, and I have to admit that I was sorely tempted. After all, I'd had a smart phone before. And as frighteningly addictive as it was, perhaps the day had come where I could actually be cool. Who doesn't want that?!

Turns out, I don't.

And the decisive factor was actually the very people who wanted me to get a Blackberry in the first place. I recently spent a few evenings with some BB friends (yes, I'm categorizing them now) and an afternoon with another. And I found that no conversation lasted longer than 30 seconds (I kid you NOT!) without something pinging or buzzing or ringing, and simply had to be replied to. So I'd be left mid-sentence, or even worse, they would stop talking in the middle of a story, so that the the seemingly-critical message/email could be dealt with.

I realize this is the norm now. And yes, that not everyone does it. I know a few people who can actually put their smart phones away and have an uninterrupted conversation. Kudos to them.

But the truth is, I don't quite trust myself. What if I become one the shifty-eyed BB-owners with no ability to concentrate on the real-life conversation I'm having because I'm so compelled to continue the virtual ones?
I don't think I want to risk finding out.

The dabba remains for now.
And in a few days, I'll look around, and find something that's not quite falling apart. A cell phone that lets me make calls, and send texts, and if I'm really adventurous about it, will also give me access to the Internet.

It turns out I may not be cool after all.
Ah well. 

Flying Irony

When we're kids and our bladder control is... limited, we always want to bag the window seats on airplanes. The view (of clouds, no less. Just endless oceans of clouds) wins out over a clear route to the toilet that doesn't involve jumping over people and upsetting trays of half-eaten food.
Which is just silly, as the view will never be good enough to justify peeing in your pants.

But as adults, when most of us can hold on for quite a while, we have little or no interest in the view and an aisle seat takes priority. No more jumping over grumpy-middle-seat-person for us. Oh no, when we need to go, we're going to do it with dignity.
Of course, once we have this unobstructed path to the loo, we probably don't need to go as badly as we did when we were kids.
But then, there's the irony for you.

It's official

I'm the oldest 26 year old in history.

Last weekend I indulged in excesses that would have been nothing more than a mere blip in my teenage years. Not so in my mid-20s it seems.

Four days later, and my feet still hurt from dancing in heels, my tummy is still griping from something I ate (or alcohol poisoning), and my memory remains firmly in a foetal position regarding some things better not recalled.

Don't get me wrong, I had a great time! But now I need a vacation to recover from my vacation. And it seems that two nights in a row of staying up until the wee hours of the morning are enough to prove that wild-times, short lived though they were, are firmly over. Could it be that I am officially... (gasp!), a grown up?

I'll consider it while I take another day to recover.

Self Preservation is

instinctive.

It's the reason why we clutch at our possessions the minute we think someone is going to take them away (I have that reaction when anyone comes near me when I'm eating chocolate), and perhaps why despite all our endeavours to be wonderfully selfless human beings, we will kick someone else to the curb if it means our survival depends on it.

It's just the way nature works.

It's the reason I'm taking a deep breath, and letting go of a lot of things, people, memories, and mementos.

I have to.

In the long-run, it's either me, or them.

And really, I'd much rather choose me.

So, in apology, I'll steal a really corny line and say, "It's a self-preservation thing, you see..."

Added to the list of things I just can't understand

The Jegging phenomenon.

Work in Progress

You can fill up your days with inconsequentials. Shop till you drop and buy things you don't need.

You can work and work and work until you've stopped counting the hours you clock, driving your mind to places where exhaustion doesn't even begin to describe how you feel.

You can socialise and talk on the phone and rebuild friendships from the scraps left behind, knowing all the while that these new ties won't erase the old, no matter how hard you try.

Try everything. Stuff your days with everything you can.

Because when night comes, and your mind goes quiet, it all comes back.

Your memories emerge, wave after crushing wave.

Until the morning comes and you try again.

I am what I'd like to think of as a born-whiner. It's a natural talent and one I've steadily improved upon over the years.

So for us born-whiners (and I know there are more of you out there than you would care to admit!), it's especially hard to drum up the energy to be happy and grateful. Grateful about anything really. Even if life is one giant bed of roses, and one teeny, tiny thing goes wrong, the whiner tendencies bubble to the surface quicker than you can say "I can rise above it".

So it takes years of self-restraint and training, and perhaps a harsh word from a well-meaning friend about how no one likes a whiner, to focus on the good things. The things that you can be grateful for despite the annoying bits that are vying for your attention.

I'd like to think that I've now arrived at this place. It's been a long, hard road, and by no means is the struggle over. On an off-day, I go straight back to my natural inclinations and complain about everything in sight (and some out). But for now, life could really not be any better.

Well, perhaps if New York were a little closer... but that's another whine coming along.

Focus!

Life is good. Work is good. Friends and family are great. Almost no one I love and care about is getting sick(er) or dying (just yet).

I AM GRATEFUL!

Yay!

Oh nothing, I'll just stand here and ... watch.

There are tons of blogs and books on netiquette and office etiquette. But one that combined the two, and especially addressed the issue of 'hovering' would be greatly appreciated. At least by one reader... me.

Those who have not encountered the hoverers (and yes I know that's not a real word) cannot understand the extreme irritation they cause. It's not even that they're really doing anything annoying.

Then again, that's just it. They stand there. Doing nothing.

Not really engaging in what you're working on, offering constructive advice, or suggestions on how to make things better.

They just... stand there.

Watching.

Making you nervous.

Distracted.

And in the end, ruining whatever productive streak you had going.

I have a job now where I have to write stuff all the time. Make the content seem witty, articulate, and (dare I say it?) half-way intelligent. None of which I can do when some twit is hovering over my shoulder and watching my every click on the keyboard. I'm suddenly paralysed - forgetting what I'm saying and how I'm going to say it. Every seemingly-brilliant sentence construction I had planned suddenly goes out of the window, leaving me annoyed, irritated, and most importantly, behind on deadlines.

The hovering has got to stop!

Seasonal Whinging

When the monsoons arrive, I run outside and splash around in the puddles.

Yes, don't ask how old I am, I continue to do this every single year without exception. Everything looks green, an average cup of coffee starts to taste better (damn Nescafe ads and the power of suggestion), and even the mud starts to smell divine!

But then I have to travel to work and there's never a rickshaw to be found when it's pouring down. Just before I get into one, a car will speed past and plaster me with water and filth. A couple of years ago it got to a point where I kept a change of clothes at work just so I wouldn't have to spend the day in dirty, wet clothes that would chill me to the bone after encountering the office's Arctic temperatures.

Then the roads will flood and I won't be able to get to work, but will have to make a pretence of it anyway just so I can say I tried, before turning around and crawling back through the immovable traffic.

All of this, and I haven't even started on the state of the trains yet.

So about two weeks into it, I'm ready for the monsoons to be over and done with and wait longingly for the winter (such as it is in India) to come around.

You know, so that I can crib about how cold it is.

But for now, it's *$%#ing hot, people smell a lot, and I'm even more cranky than usual because of the mere 45 minutes I spend commuting from one air-conditioned environment to the other. So even though I'm probably spoiled as hell and going to regret saying this in about a month or so...

I can't wait for the monsoons!

Brevity

I have ideas fleeting in and out of my head, but when it comes to putting it down in writing, I lose all interest and decide to look up random videos on YouTube. There; that explains why nothing has been posted here in a while (of course, this is assuming that someone has been wondering why. To my knowledge, there are only two such individuals.)

Anyway, a couple of days ago, I realised that I finally ‘got’ Wordsworth’s Daffodils. We did it in my sixth grade English class, complete with a page and a half worth of interpretation. This involved what had inspired the poet, his background, his family, what the author of the textbook thought the poet meant by each and every word in the poem, etc. If anyone had asked for my honest opinion regarding what I thought had inspired the poet, I would have replied, ‘Maybe he just liked daffodils.’ But of course, no one was looking for an honest opinion, least of all mine. So I dutifully replicated the textbook author’s thoughts and words and managed to get a fairly decent grade as well.

Now, thirteen years later and in England, I've seen the daffodils. Without a page and a half explaining why, what, where, and how, I feel the poem. Which makes me wish that every poet/author/composer/artist would add to their work a short paragraph or even a few sentences explaining what inspired them and what the poem ‘actually means.’ This would immediately eliminate all this presumptuousness on the part of textbook authors, and future generations of students will be infinitely happier. I may go even so far as to say a little original thought may emerge from not having to constantly reproduce someone else’s ideas. Case in point, Wordsworth on Daffodils could have been as follows; Good piece of work, quite proud of the rhyming. Enjoy it as just that. For those who want a deeper understanding, go look at a field of daffodils. Else, leave well enough alone.

Now all that's needed is for the millions of other poets/authors/composers/artists to follow suit. Easy as that.

As fun as job hunting is...

I now consider myself an expert at job hunting. I can write cover letters and tailor CVs to particular job profiles in my sleep. Then again, maybe that's why its taken me this long to find a job I want to have (you'll notice I didn't say I was an expert at finding a job, just the hunting part).

Anyway, the point is, I've applied to a LOT of jobs over the last few months. And while reading a job profile, I always have this little movie playing in my head. I can imagine the type of office I'd be in, the co-workers, the kind of tasks I'd be doing, and yes, I also imagine the work clothes wardrobe. This lasts all of six minutes and then I move on to another profile and a new movie.

But now that I've actually decided on a particular job, signed on the dotted line, and gotten comfy with the idea of being paid more than peanuts, it's a little sad to be saying goodbye to my movie series. As happy and relieved as I am to have found something I want to do, it also means it's the end of all the endless possibilities and what-ifs.

On the upside, solvency is a good antidote for my disappointment.

Well looky here, there's a call button on this phone too!

I should state at the outset, sometimes I'm not great at keeping in touch.

But, since I know and accept this fact, I also recognise the difference between the following two sentences;

'We haven't spoken in a really long time.'

'You haven't called me in a really long time.'

In the first one, perhaps we've both been at fault and just haven't had the chance to catch up. Or maybe the other person has called me loads of time and I've not responded, in which case, they are fully justified in using the second sentence.

But here's a heads up for those who haven't called me in a really long time either; you don't get to complain about me calling you. The phone lines are connected both ways.

I know, I know, it takes a little getting used to. But try it.

You'll find the results quite educational, and perhaps even just a little rewarding.

Everyone's got problems

This was brought to my attention during a conversation with a friend (one of the select few that is privy to the less frequent but still energetic whining that I must indulge in). So she was taken in by the woes and troubles of a colleague, a minor something that was made to seem like the Armageddon, and only later realised how piddly and downright silly these complaints were in comparison to the significantly larger and more serious problems in her own life.

The point, as she told me, was this; whether you've got a broken toe nail or a terminal illness, your problem is great and all-consuming only because it's your problem. No one has problems bigger or smaller than anyone else. They're all big. And they're all terrible. And only because they're personal.

Now, this insight may be as old as time, but I've taken the little gem to make my own woes just a little bit better. So when I've got the broken toe nail, I think of those with terminal illnesses. And should I have a terminal illness... well, then I'll know that what's required to make me feel better is to think of someone out there who's hopping around with a broken nail and thinking that the world has come to an end.

Try it. I think it works!

Where did you get that?

This is how you know you've lived away from your siblings for way too long.

You look at recent pictures of them and don't recognize any of their clothes.

If you have to ask more than twice 'Where did you get that?' or 'When did you get that?', then it's been too long.

100-114

That's the average IQ of the human race (give or take a few points depending on group statistics, etc).

When I was younger, I wanted to be the gifted child.

The genius who could do math without getting an instant headache, and remember all the formulas required for the chemistry exams.Even my doctor dream died because I didn't have the intellectual aptitude for it, never mind the mythical status of being an astrophysicist or engineer par excellence.

I had to face it - I was normal. Just regular, average, nothing special.

As far as academia went, I was nothing outstanding. I had no grades that would be legendary; I was just normal.

Now though, when I see the geniuses with limited (if any) social skills, or the eating disorders; the brainiacs who hate their parents for all the pressure; the heavy-duty achievers with all the accolades and not much else; I am more than grateful for my normalcy.

For every one genius that appears to be relatively well-balanced and still make it to the top, there seem to be about ten that are totally screwed up.

Lesson for today people, embrace the normal; it's sadly underrated.

Navigating the World of HR

True story.

I was looking for a job and as you do, applied to more than one place. One of the companies I'd applied to got in touch and asked me to do an editing test. Then I spoke to one of their senior managers. Then another. And finally, a third. Then the HR lady called me back, and asked me how much I was expecting in terms of a salary - I told her. Finally (about a month later), they offered me a job. At which point, I was sorry to inform them, that I'd decided to give it a miss. I really was sorry to be passing on the opportunity, but in the grand scheme of things, I'd probably regret not giving another path 100% of my efforts.

The HR lady was livid. I should have told them I was looking around elsewhere, I should have given them some indication etc etc. Okay, understandable that she was upset about losing a candidate after so much discussion and time.

However, consider the situation in reverse - A company interviews several applicants for a job. Every applicant knows that there are other candidates for this position, and not one will delude him/herself that he/she is the only person being considered for this job. Finally, someone is chosen and there is a polite mail (if you're lucky) saying that you have been unsuccessful in your endeavor, or else, there is simply no word from them and you are left to guess where you went wrong.

The second scenario of course, is what is expected. It is expected that there will be more than one candidate for a particular job but heaven forbid that one candidate should consider more than one company to apply to for a job.

Is it just me or is there something seriously out of balance with this thinking?

HR people, fix it!