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.

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!

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!

Baggit

I have a cousin who said that no self-respecting adult should be caught dead carrying a baby bag.

A baby bag of course, is entirely different from a bag that has baby stuff in it.

A baby bag is the one with pastel colours and pictures of clowns or toy trains on it. It's large, unattractive and always knocks people over when the carrier of said bag walks by. It is not clear what purpose the clowns and toy trains serve. The kids for whom the bags are carted around don't know their elbows from their knees yet, never mind being amused by a clown face. In most cases it would seem they are quite as entertained with a spoon. Or mud.

Moreover (and it has to be said), the bag does nothing whatsoever for the adults carrying it. Absolutely. Nothing. It does not add to the style quotient, and it doesn't help to announce that they are parents; the fact that they have a child attached to them serves to do that quite well.

But then there's the issue of how convenient they are.

Well, it would seem that an ordinary bag, something that may (heaven forbid!) not attract the attention of everyone within a five-mile radius but still attractive enough to be taken out in public, would serve to carry around the nappies, bottles, bibs and baby trinkets just as easily. I've even seen some parents do this (including the aforementioned cousin), so this is not a figment of my imagination or me waxing eloquent from my childless utopia.

To all those companies that manufacture and endorse these hideous things, please, stop.

Let parents regain their dignity and pride.

God knows that when they're changing the 100th soiled nappy for a new one out of that bag, they're going to need it.

Ah the Space

So few are the people who truly understand space.

No, I don't mean the great beyond where the great mysteries of life lie etc etc.

I mean my space.

The place and time that I want for me. And only me.

When it's okay to be selfish and do whatever I want to do - be quiet and read a book, hang out with my friends or take a good long nap.

There's only one person who ever really got it. I'm tired of trying to explain it to anyone else.

And because of this tiredness, I'm going to retreat a little into my dark corner, where it's quiet.

Because, you guessed it, I need some damn space!

Children in Churches

There is no good reason served by taking children to church.

The children are bored, the parents frustrated and the entire congregation distracted. I'm secretly convinced that even the priest sometimes wants the kids to just shut the hell up or leave! So much for the holy environment and all that...

I know some parents have the idea that if children go to church from a young age, they develop a reverence for the place and become accustomed to the traditions of their religion.

Perhaps they're right.

Then again, my sister and I went to church when we were young and all I remember from those times was that my mum's lap was very comfortable to take a nap on until the whole singing, praying, bowing heads bit was over. I don't think that quite equates a reverence for Catholicism. Then again, that's just me.

In a perfect world, and by that I mean the world where I ran things the way I wanted to, anyone that did not understand volume control could not enter a church.

We can all agree that children have no concept of appropriate voice modulation (some adults don't either, but lets not deviate from this present subject). Therefore, until such time that they do, church is a no go.

Unfortunately, the church I frequent does not subscribe to this theory.

I believe it is time to look for another parish.

Tone It Down

I sometimes find myself backing away from the loud people.

I know sometimes I forget myself and talk at a higher volume than I should.

These times are usually associated with alcohol or a subject I feel strongly about. Or both.

But for the most part, I'd like to think I speak at a volume that is acceptable to the majority.

Which is why when I now come across someone that shouts at me instead of talking to me, I find myself cringing and taking a few steps backwards.

I can't stand it.

Unless we're in a place with ear-splitting music or other such detriments to the audibility of one's voice, I see no reason for the shouting.

It seems perfectly logical to me that there should be no shouting.

Either that or I'm getting old and cranky.

Blindsided

My college in Bombay had a system of students doing social work at another Postgraduate college which had several blind students enrolled in programmes there.

A few days ago, I came across a girl who was with me in college who told me why she had stopped at 10 hours of social work instead of the usual 60 hours. It was because she felt extremely uncomfortable with one of the blind students she used to read to. It was an intuitive feeling, and luckily, nothing had actually happened. She stopped going there before it did.

Two other friends of mine however, did not.

The same boy had molested them and they felt absolutely conflicted about what they could do about the situation because after all, he was blind. Who would believe them?! They felt bad about reporting him because of his disability. He apparently, felt no such qualms about exploiting it to its full potential.

I'd love to say that there was a point to this post, but the truth is, there isn't.

The story just absolutely and wholeheartedly sickened me.

So I'm going to proceed to break a self-inflicted rule of mine on the blog and name names... to an extent anyway, and say, 'Rajesh, you are an absolute BA****D'.

Fillers

When I was in my second year of college, a friend and I found ourselves sitting in the canteen foyer, chatting aimlessly about the various things that constitute nothing at all. Amongst these was the frequency with which the word 'like' was used as a filler in everyday conversation.

E.g. He said he was going to the pub, and I was like, 'How could you possibly stand it?', and then he was like, 'But it's fun', and then I was like...etc.

We both agreed it was overused and annoying.

So we challenged ourselves to give up using 'like' unnecessarily for a week; and would you believe, we managed it. We noticed that our conversation was much improved and we had managed to reach within our vocabulary to substitute 'like' with actual words that had more relevance and meaning.

So today as I waited at a bus stop, I listened to three young girls (when I say young, I mean younger than I am) have a conversation that featured 'like' 26 times in ten minutes.

I know this because I counted.

In my defence, it was cold, I didn't have a book, and I needed something to take my mind off the fact that I couldn't feel my fingers any more.

After listening/eavesdropping on this fascinating discussion, my bus thankfully arrived.

I left with the regret that my one week challenge of dropping-the-word-'like'-from-all-conversation-where-it-is-not-necessary could not be shared with all those who are so clearly in desperate need of it.

RSVP - Comprendez Vous?

Whenever I was invited to a birthday party of a schoolmate, my mother would make sure that I replied to the invite and let the person know if I would be attending the party of not. The day after the party, I had to call and say thank you for a wonderful time, even if the party was a dead loss with soggy chips.

Years later I found out about the RSVP on wedding invitations. I took this to mean the same thing that the school birthday party protocol entailed - you had to let them know if you were going to be there or not. On one occasion I did not reply to a wedding invitation in time, and was mortified at how rudely I had behaved. I avoided the bride for six months thinking she may still be mad at me. As it turned out, there were 800 people at the wedding. For all she knew, I was there!

But never, ever during all those years of birthday party and wedding invitations did I think that a reply was optional. RSVP meant you had to!

Repondez s'il vous plait! They even say Please! In French!

And yet over the last few years I find that when I invite my friends to a party or ask them to confirm their attendance, they seem to think this comes with an added condition of 'if you feel like it'. They do not see it as impolite, or an inconvenience that I have to moonlight as a psychic and play guessing games as to whether or not they will be making an appearance.

When did it become passe to let the host know that you will be present at an event, eating the food and yes, perhaps you will bring three or four guests?!

I find this really annoying when it happens. And the only thing more annoying than this, is when someone confirms that he/she is coming and then 'sends word' through somebody else that they won't be able to come. I have realised halfway through a party that a friend was missing and when I asked where she was someone else pipes up with, 'Oh yeah, she said to tell you she couldn't make it.'

For the love of God, we live in an over-connected world. We've gone all the way from the place where it was hard to get in touch with people to where you have to try really hard to avoid someone! Between cell phones, facebook, gtalk and real life - you're always connected. So why on earth would you need to 'send word'?? Was it too hard to expend five minutes worth of energy to type out a message or dial a number to make your own apologies?

Needless to say, my list of invitees is getting a LOT smaller every year!

Pollution Control

There are women in this world who have particularly annoying voices.

You know the kind - screechy, loud, grating on the nerves.

I'm sure they're lovely people when you get to know them, but I don't care to. Especially since several of this variety seem to be packed into one tiny space, that is the women's first class compartment on the Panvel local train to Andheri.

I can't miss this train, because if I do, it means changing two trains in order to get to work and I am nothing if not practical (= lazy) when it comes to public transport.

So the only option I have is to be squished up against four other women, all of who insist on narrating, re-telling, discussing and in one case, re-enacting (I kid you not) the most mundane and boring episodes of their lives, which in all probability they had discussed the day before...when I was also an unfortunate audience.

Ear plugs.

I need ear plugs.

Follow the Lines

Everyone attributes India's lack of progress to the poverty, the population, the corruption etc. And they're all wrong.
The real reason that we can't get it right is because of our skewed sense of logic.

Case in point:
I get off the train after work and go to buy a railway timetable so that I knew what quarterly pass to buy. I've never bought a timetable before, but went to (what I thought) the most logical place - the railway station counter. I was informed there, after standing in the line behind 10 people, that the timetables were only sold on the platform.

Having experienced the grumpiness of the station counter attendants before, I decided to go to the office and make absolutely sure.

It was here that I was casually informed that the railway timetables were indeed only sold on the platforms.

So in essence, the only way to get the timetable was to buy a platform ticket, then go to the bookstore on the platform, purchase the timetable (Rs 8 for anyone who's interested) and then come back to the station counter and buy the railway pass for where I wanted to go to in the first place.

Needless to say, by the time I went to the platform, got the timetable and came back, the counter that sold the pass was closed.

On the way home, the rickshaw driver didn't have any change.

Figures.

Sunny California: The Myth

In India,we have two seasons. Summer and Not Summer. It's really just that simple. The summer months are hell on earth that you suffer through in the hope that you live to see the two weeks of pleasant weather that may or may not occur in December. You grumble when it's hot, you grumble more when it rains and you get down on your knees and thank God when you're not dying from a heat stroke or drowning in the floods.

But while watching television sitcoms based in California, we were lulled into believing that this far-away paradise epitomised the place with perfect weather. It was sunny, but not muggy. It was pleasant without being cold. It was just nice enough for men and women with perfectly shaped bodies to walk about at all hours in various stages of undress... but that's a post for another time.

The fact is, California is just as cold as the rest of America. My hope for experiencing one day in this state where I would not have to be bundled in socks and a sweatshirt have been shot to hell. I have visited here on three different occasions, all at different times of the year, and it has ALWAYS been cold. This myth of a sunny, warm California which has been perpetuated for decades via glossy TV shows have given us a completely false impression of the place. So the next time you're watching TV and yearning for the sun and warmth of the Californian paradise, remember, it's all just one big marketing illusion.

I'm sure that there are indeed a few spots here which experience optimum weather conditions all year round... but they could not possibly exceed one square mile radius.
For everywhere else, it's just plain COLD.

The eleventh commandment: Don't offer your opinion unless it's asked for

Conversation with one of the neighbourhood (self-appointed) Goan matriarchs.

Matriarch: Arrey baba, how are you?
Me: Fine, thank you.

Matriarch: And how is everybody at home? All well?
Me: Yes, thank you for asking, everyone is fine.

Matriarch: And your sister? Getting married no?
Me: (downright surprised!): No! Who told you that?

Matriarch (fishing for information): No... I thought I heard your mother mention something...
Me (knowing my mother would be critically injured if she indeed insinuated something of that nature): I doubt it aunty...

Matriarch: And what about you?
Me: We're both quite happy as we are aunty, thank you.

Matriarch: Yes, but you know, time is running out... you need to get married soon, there's not so many years left on the meter. Nowadays all you girls are waiting so long, you should get married now only, when there's still time... later, who knows?
Me (Thinking 'who the f***ing hell asked you????????'): Ok aunty, I'm in a bit of a hurry... must run...love to the family.


Someone told me that the eternal excuse for old people saying inappropriate things - 'But they mean well!', is no longer going to suffice for them poking their noses where they certainly were not invited.
I can't wait for that day.

Money maketh the marriage?

A friend of mine (well, lots of them actually, but for now, i'll use one example) said that a man's wealth was one of her main criteria to decide whether she would marry him or not. i.e. it would be one of the top three deciding factors. And as more of my female friends reach the 'marriageable' age (i'm still not sure exactly what that is by the way), they too seem to find their prospective partner's financial stablity to be quite a point of concern.

Of course, money is important. Anyone stupid enough to say otherwise is obviously living in a parallel universe where everything is free. But for the rest of us, you can't seem to do very much without the moolah. That's not the point in question however. My friend's argument was this - If my father has worked his whole life to bring his family up to a certain standard of living, why is it wrong to want to stay at that same level, or rise above it?

Fair enough, no argument with that either. My question is, why are you dependant on someone else to provide that lifestyle for you? Isn't it sort of insulting to your father that you've learned nothing about working hard and providing for yourself and your family, rather than just mooching off someone else? A lot of well-to-do girls even see it as their 'right' to the money, even though they did absolutely nothing to earn it.

My father routinely drilled this fact into us, "It's not your money, it's mine", and even though at the time I was quite resentful of this statement, I've come to appreciate his principles on the subject. I may inherit a big fat chunk of money later on in life, or I may not... either way, I was given an education, and a good one at that, so that I would not have to be dependant on someone else to maintain me or whatever lifestyle I had become accustomed to.

And the same applies to those girls' parents that look into the financial stability of the prospective boys' families. Even if his family does have pots of money, how does that have any reflection on the boy himself? I can understand if you were looking at the father as a future partner for your child, but if you're not, then how could his money possibly interest you? It bears no testament to the ability of the boy to earn a living and stand on his own feet, never mind about keeping your daughter well. Which in turn brings us back to the original point, if you educated your daughter, possibly sent her abroad, invested all that money in making sure she was prepared to work her way up in the world, why the bloody hell does she need to be kept?

It's a vicious little circle.

Torn

After almost two years spent in denial, I have finally had to admit to the fact that my job entails little more than being a glorified secretary. I have fought this label tooth and nail (primarily because I had some semblance of an ego and a little bit of dignity), but today as I "co-ordinated" between a young journalist and an incompetent travel agent, I found myself wondering if the money was really worth it.

True, jobs that don't let my brain atrophy won't pay as much, but at least I won't want to kill myself, a client or a journalist on an average of 17 times a week.

It was pointed out that this was a bit rich coming from someone that had just sat on her butt for four and a half months and twiddled her thumbs, but that never stopped me from whining before, and it certainly isn't going to start now. But I have a feeling that as I indulge in my next retail therapy trip after a long day at work, it's going to be just as hard to think about quitting...