I have racked the remains of my fried brain to figure out why I haven't been able to log some of the most eventful days of my life... and this is the best I came up with. Married women can't blog! How else can you explain that I have not found the energy to write in almost 6 months, in spite of the number of memorable things that I have to write about? Like the 300 bucks I won in Las Vegas, or the lonely waterfalls we scrambled up in Hilo... and what was that other thing that's slipping my mind... oh ya, my wedding?
Friends have been asking both Ganya and me whether marriage has changed anything in our relationship. I feel no different now than I did living-in-sin, so I tell them so. Well, except, as I already told you, I can't seem to blog. And I read more trashy chick-lit now than I ever did in my life. I can blame Ramiya for the neverending supply of the 'Shopaholic' books. Or my work that demands constant travel that demands long flights that demand mindless page-turners. Or Ganya, who bolts off to Alaska every other week, since the aforementioned marriage. But I shall 'be-a-man', and roundly place the blame on the strong square shoulders of the institution of marriage. Also, Ganya's ever increasing interest-in-Golf seems to have met his interest-in-me at the wedding and overtaken it at an alarming rate. How do I know? Well, when conversations and quiet times are punctuated with the swish of the seven iron, you kind of know. Mmmm... what else.... Both Ganya and me seem to be drinking more since the wedding. Now, the excuse is "what if we decide to have a baby next year? we will have to be non-alcoholic for a good (gasp!) two years atleast. let's make merry while we can".
So ya, come to think of it, really nothing has changed. Ganya and I travel on work. We drink. I talk, he listens. With Golf club in hand. There's a healthy amount of trashy chick-lit in the world. Ramiya and I read an unhealthy number of them. And I blog about once in six months.
Monday, July 10, 2006
Friday, January 20, 2006
TGIF!
It's Friday afternoon and I'm watching an episode of 'Mad about you' in which Jamie loses her job and drives Paul up the wall by being in his face all the time. She spends all day watching daytime TV, buys stuff she doesn't need from infomercials, invents chores that she would otherwise have never touched with a barge pole, and calls Paul several several times during the day. Somehow, the image seems vaguely familiar. Except that I work from home and I don't buy stuff I don't need from infomercials... I buy stuff I don't need from the internet. And I don't call Ganya without reason. I mean, I absolutely do have to call and tell him whenever he gets a telemarketing call at home, don't I? How would he know, otherwise? And I do have to call him when I'm eating lunch. And it's out of the sheer goodness of my heart that I call to give him the summary of that day's Gilmore Girls episode. Sometimes they are repeats, but that's hardly my fault! Ofcourse all those calls after 2pm are just to remind him that it's ok to leave the office if he doesn't have that much work that he is picking up my calls :) I'm not really all that bad, but seeing that episode on TV made me re-resolve that I will find a regular job, which requires going to a normal office and watching the clock like normal people do on work days, rather than watching TV (which frankly is not that much more entertaining than the clock during the day). And yes, it also made me thank god it's friday. Finally.
Monday, January 16, 2006
"And I have to live with a boy!"
I spent the better part of yesterday mourning the Colts’ loss in the playoffs. It was just incredibly sad to watch Vanderjagt’s lopsided last kick and see Peyton Manning and Tony Dungy mouth ‘He missed it’ in slow motion. And I’m not even a football fan! At least I wasn't, the last time I checked. I remember a time not too long ago when I couldn’t understand football… couldn’t stand football!
What living with a guy can do to the best of us!!!
Monday, January 02, 2006
New Year. Same old story.
The first day of 2006 felt much like the first day of 2005. And the first day of 2004. And I made the same resolution this yr as I made the yr before. And the yr before that. "I WILL NOT drink... ever again!!!" You know the feeling. It lasts for about 2 weeks... and then you forget what a hangover feels like and in a moment of weakness reach for that fateful glass of wine again. Another new yr resolution dies a silent death.
And then there's the other resolution I make every year- I will brush my teeth every night. In the past coupla yrs, it also includes a sub-resolution- I will floss every night. And I've been going real strong on that one this yr. 2 nights down. Just 363 to go! I know how this one will end as well... in roughly about 2 weeks, I will reach for that fateful glass of wine, get drunk silly, and end up crashing without flossing. Or brushing.
Then there's that eternal favorite... I'm gonna get fit this yr. Ha! At least no one can blame me for not believing in myself :)
Well this half-hearted post is the result of yet another resolution. To be good about blogging regularly. Well its 2 resolutions really. To be good. And to blog regularly. But I do know my limitations. So will try to blog regularly.
Happy new yr!
And then there's the other resolution I make every year- I will brush my teeth every night. In the past coupla yrs, it also includes a sub-resolution- I will floss every night. And I've been going real strong on that one this yr. 2 nights down. Just 363 to go! I know how this one will end as well... in roughly about 2 weeks, I will reach for that fateful glass of wine, get drunk silly, and end up crashing without flossing. Or brushing.
Then there's that eternal favorite... I'm gonna get fit this yr. Ha! At least no one can blame me for not believing in myself :)
Well this half-hearted post is the result of yet another resolution. To be good about blogging regularly. Well its 2 resolutions really. To be good. And to blog regularly. But I do know my limitations. So will try to blog regularly.
Happy new yr!
Thursday, December 01, 2005
Nebrrrrrraska
The last two weeks have been kinda unkind. I've been tossed from shore to shore... from sunny San Jose into bitter cold Omaha and Lincoln (free beer for anyone who can point it out on an unmarked map) and then onto a snow storm in New York. Now, while I may grudgingly go along with Ganya to the occasional skiing holiday, I'm no polar bear. Gimme sun over snow, and rain over sun anyday!
But I'm finally beginning to understand what people see in this ... snow. So my colleague and I arrived in Omaha at noon and we didn't have to be at the focus groups till 6. We had a good 4-5 hours to kill in hip-n-happening Omaha. And we did what any hot blooded woman would do on a cold cold afternoon with boyfriend not around and 4-5 hours to spare. We shopped! By the time we got out of the mall, it was dusk and the evening had a weird golden glow from the heavy air and the flood lights.
It was then that it started to snow. Little flakes of white nothingness wafting down from nowhere. As we made our slow progress towards the car- clutching each other and taking cautious short steps in our high heeled boots on the iced ground - it started snowing harder. Millions of glowing snow flakes were making their way carefully towards the ground. And even in the drone of the mall, if you looked up into the sky, it was silent night. It was, at the cost of sounding cliched ... magical!
I remember thinking then that rain and snow couldn't be more different from each other. Rain falls. Snow parachutes and lands gracefully. Rain is loud and sensuous and smells of sex. Snow is Ssshhhhhh. Rain is of the earth, belongs to the earth. And standing there in white Nebraska that day, I got the distinct impression that snow isn't.
But I'm finally beginning to understand what people see in this ... snow. So my colleague and I arrived in Omaha at noon and we didn't have to be at the focus groups till 6. We had a good 4-5 hours to kill in hip-n-happening Omaha. And we did what any hot blooded woman would do on a cold cold afternoon with boyfriend not around and 4-5 hours to spare. We shopped! By the time we got out of the mall, it was dusk and the evening had a weird golden glow from the heavy air and the flood lights.
It was then that it started to snow. Little flakes of white nothingness wafting down from nowhere. As we made our slow progress towards the car- clutching each other and taking cautious short steps in our high heeled boots on the iced ground - it started snowing harder. Millions of glowing snow flakes were making their way carefully towards the ground. And even in the drone of the mall, if you looked up into the sky, it was silent night. It was, at the cost of sounding cliched ... magical!
I remember thinking then that rain and snow couldn't be more different from each other. Rain falls. Snow parachutes and lands gracefully. Rain is loud and sensuous and smells of sex. Snow is Ssshhhhhh. Rain is of the earth, belongs to the earth. And standing there in white Nebraska that day, I got the distinct impression that snow isn't.
Friday, October 28, 2005
Young and disturbed
...And I'm not talking about myself here. However, I'm deeply distrubed and not so young after reading this news article about Lamb and Lynn Gaede, 13 yr old twins from Bakersfield, CA. They are cute as identical buttons, about as musical as the Olsen twins... and spreading messages of white nationalist supremacy and racist hate a la ze nazis!!!
Some quotes from the news article...
"We're proud of being white, we want to keep being white," said Lynx. "We want our people to stay white … we don't want to just be, you know, a big muddle. We just want to preserve our race."
Since they began singing, the girls have become such a force in the white nationalist movement, that David Duke — the former presidential candidate, one-time Ku-Klux-Klan grand wizard and outspoken white supremacist — uses the twins to draw a crowd.
Gliebe (operator of one of the nation's most notorious hate music labels, Resistance Records) says he hopes that as younger racist listeners mature, so will their tastes for harder, angrier music like that of Shawn Sugg of Max Resist. One of Sugg's songs is a fantasy piece about a possible future racial war that goes: "Let the cities burn, let the streets run red, if you ain't white you'll be dead."
Check out the kids' song lyrics on their home page prussianblue.net. Also, read the full news clip below and feel your black or brown or white blood pressure rise...
http://abcnews.go.com/Primetime/story?id=1231684&page=1
And I thought being 13 was about 'best friends', braces and heart breaking idealism.
Some quotes from the news article...
"We're proud of being white, we want to keep being white," said Lynx. "We want our people to stay white … we don't want to just be, you know, a big muddle. We just want to preserve our race."
Since they began singing, the girls have become such a force in the white nationalist movement, that David Duke — the former presidential candidate, one-time Ku-Klux-Klan grand wizard and outspoken white supremacist — uses the twins to draw a crowd.
Gliebe (operator of one of the nation's most notorious hate music labels, Resistance Records) says he hopes that as younger racist listeners mature, so will their tastes for harder, angrier music like that of Shawn Sugg of Max Resist. One of Sugg's songs is a fantasy piece about a possible future racial war that goes: "Let the cities burn, let the streets run red, if you ain't white you'll be dead."
Check out the kids' song lyrics on their home page prussianblue.net. Also, read the full news clip below and feel your black or brown or white blood pressure rise...
http://abcnews.go.com/Primetime/story?id=1231684&page=1
And I thought being 13 was about 'best friends', braces and heart breaking idealism.
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
Cheat post
I shamelessly copied this hilarious post off banterist.com.
The fund for ribbons
The statistics are gut-wrenching.
Every twelve minutes, another cause suffers from lack of a ribbon.
Many of us take ribbons for granted. When cars pass us on the highway with 2, 3, even 8 ribbons it's easy for us to think that every cause has a ribbon.
Unfortunately, that's far from the truth.
No doubt you've seen breast cancer ribbons, patriotic ribbons, autism ribbons, lupus ribbons and dyslexia ribobns [sic].
Amazingly, they're only the tip of the iceberg. The sad fact is there are hundreds and hundreds of causes that end each day completely ribbonless.
Even in America.I know it's hard to believe, but even in the land of plenty, unwed mothers lack a ribbon. Cross-eyed bandits. Sephardic pimps. Churro Awareness. The list goes on and on.
That's why I'm asking you for your help.
I'm counting on you to make a small financial sacrifice. Your much needed funds will help us identify new causes.
Like Chicken Envy.
And your funds will then help us assign those causes new ribbons. Unique ribbons. Ribbons that say we care.
I'm thinking yellow and white - for the chicken part - with a frilly green edge to symbolize envy.
See? We can make a difference. That difference starts with you. Don't be discouraged by the seemingly overwhelming task ahead of us. Though there are countless un-ribboned causes - like Fat Acceptance and Dandruff Pride - we can come up with ribbons for all of them. But we need you to help.
Your contribution will help buy hundreds of shades of blue or green or yellow, not to mention low-cost icons, clip art, squiggles - whatever it takes to get the message out and stuck on the back of a car. Once we do that, we're halfway to a cure. Unless it's not a disease, in which case we're halfway to acceptance or awareness, depending.
But one thing is certain: Without your help, we can not cover this great country in ribbons. While god, guns and guts made this country great, ribbons help keep it together. Ribbons, ribbons, ribbons. And rubber bracelets.
The Fund for Ribbons needs your support. And ironically, we need a ribbon ourselves.
Sincerely,
Jan-Michael Vincent & Tone-Loc
The fund for ribbons
The statistics are gut-wrenching.
Every twelve minutes, another cause suffers from lack of a ribbon.
Many of us take ribbons for granted. When cars pass us on the highway with 2, 3, even 8 ribbons it's easy for us to think that every cause has a ribbon.
Unfortunately, that's far from the truth.
No doubt you've seen breast cancer ribbons, patriotic ribbons, autism ribbons, lupus ribbons and dyslexia ribobns [sic].
Amazingly, they're only the tip of the iceberg. The sad fact is there are hundreds and hundreds of causes that end each day completely ribbonless.
Even in America.I know it's hard to believe, but even in the land of plenty, unwed mothers lack a ribbon. Cross-eyed bandits. Sephardic pimps. Churro Awareness. The list goes on and on.
That's why I'm asking you for your help.
I'm counting on you to make a small financial sacrifice. Your much needed funds will help us identify new causes.
Like Chicken Envy.
And your funds will then help us assign those causes new ribbons. Unique ribbons. Ribbons that say we care.
I'm thinking yellow and white - for the chicken part - with a frilly green edge to symbolize envy.
See? We can make a difference. That difference starts with you. Don't be discouraged by the seemingly overwhelming task ahead of us. Though there are countless un-ribboned causes - like Fat Acceptance and Dandruff Pride - we can come up with ribbons for all of them. But we need you to help.
Your contribution will help buy hundreds of shades of blue or green or yellow, not to mention low-cost icons, clip art, squiggles - whatever it takes to get the message out and stuck on the back of a car. Once we do that, we're halfway to a cure. Unless it's not a disease, in which case we're halfway to acceptance or awareness, depending.
But one thing is certain: Without your help, we can not cover this great country in ribbons. While god, guns and guts made this country great, ribbons help keep it together. Ribbons, ribbons, ribbons. And rubber bracelets.
The Fund for Ribbons needs your support. And ironically, we need a ribbon ourselves.
Sincerely,
Jan-Michael Vincent & Tone-Loc
Thursday, October 06, 2005
...Left on a jetplane
Finally, after a whole week of being back and jetlagged, I am sitting down and taking stock of the two weeks that I spent back home in India. It has been hard for me to put my hands around the trip and actually digest every second and every sensation. Too much happened. In two short weeks. Feels very much like I just swung past the two weeks on a vine going 'aaaAAAaaaaAAAA'. The image is savage, but imagine slow motion and soft sentimental lighting.
Home! Aaah! Home! It was like I never left. I had friends zipping in and out all the time. Me zipping in and out with friends for long parts of the day, or night, as the case may be. And my parents fondly complaining (wouldn't quite feel like home without that:) ). Meeting family and old friends once in 2 years just doesn't feel right. But the amazing thing about family and old friends is that you can meet them once in 2 years, and you can start right where you left off... like you met them just yesterday. And as you sit there having chai, incredible conversations, and a bloody good time, you wish so hard that you could actually have met them just yesterday... and the day before, and the day before that.
Then there was meeting the friends of the boy friend. It's kinda like meeting the 'family'. I was already not a little nervous. And Krix the you-know-who willed that I meet the 'family' for the first time amidst loud music and lotsa alcohol. So all you who were there, kindly blame the copious amounts of alcohol for any and all nervous chatter, awkward pauses and inappropriate conversations! Yennyways, as all of the above imply, I had an absolute blast that night. And although I was initially rooting for a quieter evening, and inspite of the fact that I woke up the next morning in my in-laws' house with a god-awful-hangover, I wouldn't trade the Ghetto's night for all the wine and violin dinners in life :)
And oh! I have to mention the babies. Not in relation to that night, although it may seem that way right now. Read on. I met some of the most adorable babies in the world during this trip. First of all, they were all so unbelievably cute. Add to it the fact that they all belong to people I love. And to top it all, they all don't cry! At least they didn't during the limited time I spent with them. (Although I must confess at this point that I may not quite be able to return a baby, if she were to pop up next to me right now, to the rightful parents... coz I met so many of them little people on my trip this time. )
... And then before I could say Hattangadi, it was over. It was time to say the goodbyes, to get ganyamanya to pack our bags and to head back here.
Aahhh. India! Home! Sigh!
Home! Aaah! Home! It was like I never left. I had friends zipping in and out all the time. Me zipping in and out with friends for long parts of the day, or night, as the case may be. And my parents fondly complaining (wouldn't quite feel like home without that:) ). Meeting family and old friends once in 2 years just doesn't feel right. But the amazing thing about family and old friends is that you can meet them once in 2 years, and you can start right where you left off... like you met them just yesterday. And as you sit there having chai, incredible conversations, and a bloody good time, you wish so hard that you could actually have met them just yesterday... and the day before, and the day before that.
Then there was meeting the friends of the boy friend. It's kinda like meeting the 'family'. I was already not a little nervous. And Krix the you-know-who willed that I meet the 'family' for the first time amidst loud music and lotsa alcohol. So all you who were there, kindly blame the copious amounts of alcohol for any and all nervous chatter, awkward pauses and inappropriate conversations! Yennyways, as all of the above imply, I had an absolute blast that night. And although I was initially rooting for a quieter evening, and inspite of the fact that I woke up the next morning in my in-laws' house with a god-awful-hangover, I wouldn't trade the Ghetto's night for all the wine and violin dinners in life :)
And oh! I have to mention the babies. Not in relation to that night, although it may seem that way right now. Read on. I met some of the most adorable babies in the world during this trip. First of all, they were all so unbelievably cute. Add to it the fact that they all belong to people I love. And to top it all, they all don't cry! At least they didn't during the limited time I spent with them. (Although I must confess at this point that I may not quite be able to return a baby, if she were to pop up next to me right now, to the rightful parents... coz I met so many of them little people on my trip this time. )
... And then before I could say Hattangadi, it was over. It was time to say the goodbyes, to get ganyamanya to pack our bags and to head back here.
Aahhh. India! Home! Sigh!
Sunday, August 28, 2005
Incomplete complications
I’m reading this Independence Day special issue of India Today on my flight to Montreal. And I start pondering, like I have done ever so often in the recent past, about Nationalism, India and my nationalism and my India. Every time I hear, read, talk, see anything about India, I’m filled with this irresistible urge to go running back home, grow roots and never leave. Then I wonder… what is it that keeps me from doing exactly that, right now?
Five years is a long time. I started my adult life here in the US, and in five years you “weave tangled webs”- make friends, create routines, build patterns- that are hard to leave behind. It’s here that I came into my own as a person, as an adult, earning my own keep and doing my own laundry. It’s here that I experienced the incredible convenience and utter loneliness of island living. It’s here that I live with my boyfriend, my books, my weekend India calls and my many pairs of shoes. This cocoon I have, is hard to give up. Also I have this niggling suspicion that there are things to do, places to see, oceans to swim in, people to meet in this part of the world … all of which may never happen if I pack my bags and leave right now, never to return, as the story goes.
So I don’t leave right now, and wait instead for the right time and the right opportunity. Months could become years could become a lifetime and I could still be here- with confused teenaged children and all- still waiting for the right time and the right opportunity. The thought scares me silly. I wonder why? I wonder why human beings feel the need to be where they can say they belong. It’s such a strange need… this need to belong.
But this obsession of mine to return to India is a bit more complicated. There is, of course, the need to belong. There is also the sheer joy of living in a complex cultural set up like India. Only the monotonous sanity and sterility of life in the US can teach one to savour the unpredictability and quirkiness of our homeland. But in addition to all of these, there is also the random feeling of guilt. At leaving, at not being ‘home’…the guilt of a deserter.
I think of these boundaries of nation, which should be no more sacred than those of religion, language, caste and place… but somehow they are or have become! If I should feel guilty about leaving the motherland to live in some strange country, I should also feel guilty about leaving my native Chennai to go settle in Bangalore, Bombay or wherever within India.
I remember reading Tagore’s denunciation of Nationalism when I was much younger, and wondering if he was not just making excuses for his lack of national fervour. I wonder now if I’m making the same excuses too. Or maybe I am just growing up.
Five years is a long time. I started my adult life here in the US, and in five years you “weave tangled webs”- make friends, create routines, build patterns- that are hard to leave behind. It’s here that I came into my own as a person, as an adult, earning my own keep and doing my own laundry. It’s here that I experienced the incredible convenience and utter loneliness of island living. It’s here that I live with my boyfriend, my books, my weekend India calls and my many pairs of shoes. This cocoon I have, is hard to give up. Also I have this niggling suspicion that there are things to do, places to see, oceans to swim in, people to meet in this part of the world … all of which may never happen if I pack my bags and leave right now, never to return, as the story goes.
So I don’t leave right now, and wait instead for the right time and the right opportunity. Months could become years could become a lifetime and I could still be here- with confused teenaged children and all- still waiting for the right time and the right opportunity. The thought scares me silly. I wonder why? I wonder why human beings feel the need to be where they can say they belong. It’s such a strange need… this need to belong.
But this obsession of mine to return to India is a bit more complicated. There is, of course, the need to belong. There is also the sheer joy of living in a complex cultural set up like India. Only the monotonous sanity and sterility of life in the US can teach one to savour the unpredictability and quirkiness of our homeland. But in addition to all of these, there is also the random feeling of guilt. At leaving, at not being ‘home’…the guilt of a deserter.
I think of these boundaries of nation, which should be no more sacred than those of religion, language, caste and place… but somehow they are or have become! If I should feel guilty about leaving the motherland to live in some strange country, I should also feel guilty about leaving my native Chennai to go settle in Bangalore, Bombay or wherever within India.
I remember reading Tagore’s denunciation of Nationalism when I was much younger, and wondering if he was not just making excuses for his lack of national fervour. I wonder now if I’m making the same excuses too. Or maybe I am just growing up.
Thursday, August 11, 2005
Gilmore girls and other guilty pleasures
I have no clue how this happened. It happened suddenly, and against my iron will. It all started at Yellow Stone. Amidst much girl-talk on a particular hike at Yellow stone, conversations drifted to the G.Girls. Some one remarked, rather mildly, that they liked the show. Some one else seconded it. And then a month later, on one rather sleepy tuesday afternoon, desperately trying to find something...anything... to keep myself occupied, I stumbled across G.Girls. And now, I'm hooked!
It's one of those things that you don't talk about, things that you don't admit even to yourself... like one's weight, for example, or like the fact that one opens a bottle of wine by oneself on some boring work-day afternoons (perks of working from home :) ). Being addicted to Gilmore Girls is like that. It came as shock even to me that I was enjoying a soap. But hey you learn something about yourself every now and then. It's what keeps the joy in life... and your hair from turning gray.
Anyways, here's the worst part. I learnt very recently that the season that I'm watching right now is the one at the very beginning- much before Rory got admission into Yale... or Lorelai started going out with Luke. I happened to catch one episode from the current season one of these days, and maaan was I shocked to see how my flock had grown.
It's one of those things that you don't talk about, things that you don't admit even to yourself... like one's weight, for example, or like the fact that one opens a bottle of wine by oneself on some boring work-day afternoons (perks of working from home :) ). Being addicted to Gilmore Girls is like that. It came as shock even to me that I was enjoying a soap. But hey you learn something about yourself every now and then. It's what keeps the joy in life... and your hair from turning gray.
Anyways, here's the worst part. I learnt very recently that the season that I'm watching right now is the one at the very beginning- much before Rory got admission into Yale... or Lorelai started going out with Luke. I happened to catch one episode from the current season one of these days, and maaan was I shocked to see how my flock had grown.
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
Rarer than a blue moon...
... here it is, the double post. This one is more like a news flash, really. Ganyamanya and I are coming/going to India in September! It's been almost two years... so I'm reeeelly looking forward to it.
And Krix, nottum fairum to be running away to some god forsaken hell hole right when I plan a trip to India. Pliss o pliss... be there!
And Krix, nottum fairum to be running away to some god forsaken hell hole right when I plan a trip to India. Pliss o pliss... be there!
Monday, August 08, 2005
Post script
... there is illustration. Just spent a few happy minits of my increasingly hectic life viewing Paige Pooler's blog. http://eyeswideapart.blogspot.com/. No- she's not a friend of mine, and no- this is not a plug. Just sending out happies into the universe.
Talking about illustration and such like, there is something meditative about art. And sports. Or physical labor, for that matter. I remember being lost for hours on end on a single sketch, trying to get a certain twist of the eye or twinkle in the arm just right. 6 and a half hours would have gone by; my left leg would have gone to sleep and woken up several times over; i would've skipped several meals in the meanwhile; and I would not so much as notice (try taking one snack away from me now, let alone a meal!). These days, I try to work for 20 minutes straight... and in that time I've made 7 trips to la la land! I take 22 chai breaks in a day. I browse. I blog. I call random people. All in an attempt to break up the dreadful monotony in my slow and painful trudge up the corporate ladder.
Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi (pronounced Chick-sent-me-highee, i swear am not making this up- he he he) spends his life studying human beings and happiness, and he determined that human beings are happiest when they are in a state of 'flow'. I think he defined 'flow' as an intensified emotional state when one is immersed in a challenging activity which requires one to extend one's abilities in order to complete the task at hand. I think that's what is missing in corporate careers... there is no immersion, no passion, no happiness, no nothing. Well, one can hardly be passionate about opening and closing excel spreadsheets, attending meaningless meetings and filling toner in the printer. I do not exactly stay up outside the window of my 'corporate career' all night going "But, soft! What light through yonder window breaks?It is the east, and 'corporate career' is the sun."
I wonder... what prompts us to stay in these meaningless jobs... and many-a-time, for life?
(True Post Script: This ponderous meanderous post is multipurpose:
1. It's an excuse to get away from the above mentioned lifeforcesucking work
2. Implied in the post is the excuse for not having blogged in forever
3. It's an opportunity to show off that I have heard about someone called Chick-sent-me-highee (he he he) )
Talking about illustration and such like, there is something meditative about art. And sports. Or physical labor, for that matter. I remember being lost for hours on end on a single sketch, trying to get a certain twist of the eye or twinkle in the arm just right. 6 and a half hours would have gone by; my left leg would have gone to sleep and woken up several times over; i would've skipped several meals in the meanwhile; and I would not so much as notice (try taking one snack away from me now, let alone a meal!). These days, I try to work for 20 minutes straight... and in that time I've made 7 trips to la la land! I take 22 chai breaks in a day. I browse. I blog. I call random people. All in an attempt to break up the dreadful monotony in my slow and painful trudge up the corporate ladder.
Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi (pronounced Chick-sent-me-highee, i swear am not making this up- he he he) spends his life studying human beings and happiness, and he determined that human beings are happiest when they are in a state of 'flow'. I think he defined 'flow' as an intensified emotional state when one is immersed in a challenging activity which requires one to extend one's abilities in order to complete the task at hand. I think that's what is missing in corporate careers... there is no immersion, no passion, no happiness, no nothing. Well, one can hardly be passionate about opening and closing excel spreadsheets, attending meaningless meetings and filling toner in the printer. I do not exactly stay up outside the window of my 'corporate career' all night going "But, soft! What light through yonder window breaks?It is the east, and 'corporate career' is the sun."
I wonder... what prompts us to stay in these meaningless jobs... and many-a-time, for life?
(True Post Script: This ponderous meanderous post is multipurpose:
1. It's an excuse to get away from the above mentioned lifeforcesucking work
2. Implied in the post is the excuse for not having blogged in forever
3. It's an opportunity to show off that I have heard about someone called Chick-sent-me-highee (he he he) )
Thursday, July 28, 2005
Travel woes or How I survived yet another flight without taking the law into my own twitching hands
There are two kinds of people in this world. Those who don’t have to travel regularly on work… and those blighted traumatized wilted scarred souls who do. To identify a member of the latter category one needs to do the following:
1. Pick target human being to be classified
2. Pick one child under the age of two-and-a-half feet
3. Take such child and bring within a 100 yard radius of target human being
4. If target human belongs to the former category, one notices smiling, purring, cooing and occasional babytalk interspersed with copious amounts of ‘aaaawwwwww’.
5. If target human is an unfortunate member of the latter category, one notices an instant furrowing of eyebrows, pursing of lips, hoarsening of breath, occasional swearing and the unmistakable glint of bloody-murder in one eye.
6. Remove such child quickly from the scene for the well being of all concerned.
It’s not my intention here to diss children… or parents. But believe me. There’s nothing worse than being on a delayed plane- for four hours at a stretch- crumpled into a seat too small for mankind- without much sleep the previous night- with screaming child who swallowed the microphone in seat behind you. Mmmm… that is a little harsh. There are worse things, I suppose… like being boiled in hell’s oil… or slow death by tickling… or sitting on same plane for four hours with screaming, kicking child who swallowed the microphone, in seat behind you.
It’s not that I don’t like children. Au contraire, I luv 'em. Just keep the li’l bastards off enclosed spaces where other human beings have to live for stretches of time longer than 60 seconds. I understand that there are instances when children have to be transported over long distances. For this very purpose, I propose “kindergarten flights” - separate air carriers for carrying children. That, in my opinion, would be a fair and just situation- a battle of equals, if you will- where all concerned can bawl and scream and kick and drool to their hearts content. Compare this to the gross unfairness of today’s flight set up. If I resorted to any of the above mentioned activities in sheer self-defense or retaliation, I’m positive I would instantly be given the boot… shown the door… flung into the outer darkness. This new solution, I believe, is a vast improvement over my previous proposal, which was to transport the dear ones in specially built trappings (I wouldn’t ever call them cages, but you get the idea) along with the cargo… just as you would poodles, Chihuahuas, felines and other equally adored creatures under three feet.
P.S. Rohan, Diya, Maya and that golden haired boy sitting across the aisle from me from whom i could not so much as hear a pip throughout the journey are all exempt, although all of them are under three feet.
P.S. 2. This picture is for you, Krix- the intrepid fighter pilot a.k.a Blogpest
1. Pick target human being to be classified
2. Pick one child under the age of two-and-a-half feet
3. Take such child and bring within a 100 yard radius of target human being
4. If target human belongs to the former category, one notices smiling, purring, cooing and occasional babytalk interspersed with copious amounts of ‘aaaawwwwww’.
5. If target human is an unfortunate member of the latter category, one notices an instant furrowing of eyebrows, pursing of lips, hoarsening of breath, occasional swearing and the unmistakable glint of bloody-murder in one eye.
6. Remove such child quickly from the scene for the well being of all concerned.
It’s not my intention here to diss children… or parents. But believe me. There’s nothing worse than being on a delayed plane- for four hours at a stretch- crumpled into a seat too small for mankind- without much sleep the previous night- with screaming child who swallowed the microphone in seat behind you. Mmmm… that is a little harsh. There are worse things, I suppose… like being boiled in hell’s oil… or slow death by tickling… or sitting on same plane for four hours with screaming, kicking child who swallowed the microphone, in seat behind you.
It’s not that I don’t like children. Au contraire, I luv 'em. Just keep the li’l bastards off enclosed spaces where other human beings have to live for stretches of time longer than 60 seconds. I understand that there are instances when children have to be transported over long distances. For this very purpose, I propose “kindergarten flights” - separate air carriers for carrying children. That, in my opinion, would be a fair and just situation- a battle of equals, if you will- where all concerned can bawl and scream and kick and drool to their hearts content. Compare this to the gross unfairness of today’s flight set up. If I resorted to any of the above mentioned activities in sheer self-defense or retaliation, I’m positive I would instantly be given the boot… shown the door… flung into the outer darkness. This new solution, I believe, is a vast improvement over my previous proposal, which was to transport the dear ones in specially built trappings (I wouldn’t ever call them cages, but you get the idea) along with the cargo… just as you would poodles, Chihuahuas, felines and other equally adored creatures under three feet.
P.S. Rohan, Diya, Maya and that golden haired boy sitting across the aisle from me from whom i could not so much as hear a pip throughout the journey are all exempt, although all of them are under three feet.
P.S. 2. This picture is for you, Krix- the intrepid fighter pilot a.k.a Blogpest
Thursday, July 14, 2005
Teething problems
I have issues. I can see some of you out there nodding sagely muttering 'told ya so'. But this is different. I have teeth issues. I'm productively spending every waking moment these days obsessing over my dental problems. I wonder if I'm going to have any teeth left by age 33. I regret all those candies stolen from my baby brother. I am shopping for dentists practically all the time. (Do you know a good one?) I browse the net for symptoms of dental issues in the meanwhile, and it feels like I'm suffering from practically all dental problems possible... including teething. Apparently "Signs of teething may include Poor mood, Loss of appetite, Chewing of objects, Bruises/swelling in gums, Excess salivation, Slight fever". And I have all of these symptoms. Okay... maybe not the slight fever. And granted I don't show any 'loss of appetite'. But I have all the other symptoms. I swear!
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
N'oublie pas
For better or for worse, Paris to me is inextricably bound with the movie, 'Before Sunset'. I watched it a few weeks before we left for Paris. I remember really liking the film, but it wasn't like an earth-shaking life-altering experience for me.
And then about a week after we'd left from Paris, on the journey from Madrid to Cordoba, the movie was being played on the train... in Spanish. This time, it felt different. I knew all the dialogues; in fact, I didn't need to listen to the dialogues. That lump in the throat, that tug at the heart strings, that faith, that romance that I couldn't summon when I was watching the movie at home- I found all that while watching the film on a moving train... in mute. That's when I got it. The movie wasn't about those two people; it was about those two people... in Paris.
You need to be an adventurer or a romantic at heart (aren't they both the same?) to fall in love with Paris. Seeing the Eiffel or the Louvre or the Chateau de Versailles couldn't do it for me. But walking up to the Notre Dame in the cool breeze of the early morning, I suddenly felt the incredible sense of romance that is Paris. It is that moment that comes in every relationship, when you can chose what this will mean to you. It's a decision that is based on whether you like who you are in that relationship. And I must have really liked who I was in Paris; I distinctly remember thinking then that I would give anything to live in this city awhile.
Monday, July 11, 2005
Before Barcelona, there was Paris
May 7 2005
Day One
I know I should not put down on paper my first impressions of Paris. But just between you and me, here’s exactly how I felt when I got my first good look at the city of lights: “Whaddever!” (Roll the ‘r’, and repeat to fade)
It was probably because the hotel we had booked on price-line was in a god-forsaken end of the city, and we traveled a whole hour on the metro getting there. Mind you, this does not include the 20 minute trudge, heavy back pack and all, to the hotel from the metro station. Whatever the reason, I am probably one of the few who can not claim to have fallen in love with the city at first sight. Love didn’t happen until much later… on Day 3.
Having thus quickly redeemed myself in your eyes, I’ll continue with the uneventful sequence of activities on day one.
6pm or some time thereabouts: Check into L’Hotel Sofitel. Flung into the outer reaches of Paris with nothing other than McDonalds in its vicinity. This McDonalds is to figure heavily in our meal plans in the next 3 days, but we didn’t know it yet.
6:05pm or some time thereabouts: Disappointed with hotel room. Small room with no personality. No iron or ironing board. We will find out later that this handicap pans Europe. You realize at this juncture that this blog will be filled with sweeping generalizations and opinions masquerading as facts.
8:00pm: Leave hotel to visit La Tour Eiffel. Very kicked that we have already figured out the metro.
9:00pm: Done seeing La Tour Eiffel, flickering lights and all. We are too late to take any of the boat rides on the Seine. Highlight of the evening is the egg and cheese crepes we ate in a roadside stall. Thank you, Kanna! We start walking to Champs Elysees. From the map, Ganyamanya figures it’s not very far.
9:45pm or so: Turns out it IS far!
11:00pm: Arc de Triomphe. Check.
Walking on Champs Elysees. Check.
Coffee on Champs Elysees. Expensive Check.
There was a show on Champs Elysees about seating, particularly car seats. Fascinating, except for the fact that all the documentation was in French.
Talking about seating, there was something extremely interesting about Paris, and at the time I thought it was unique to the Champs Elysees. A healthy number of coffee shops pepper the streetscapes in Paris. And in all of these coffee shops, all of the seating… I mean ALL… face the street. (Did we already have a chat about my propensity for sweeping generalizations?) So there’d be a table, and you’d have three or four chairs around it, but they would ALL be facing the street. It feels funny walking down the road and having a family of four all sitting in a straight line staring at you. All the world’s a stage, I say!
12:00am: On the metro, Sofitel bound.
Day One
I know I should not put down on paper my first impressions of Paris. But just between you and me, here’s exactly how I felt when I got my first good look at the city of lights: “Whaddever!” (Roll the ‘r’, and repeat to fade)
It was probably because the hotel we had booked on price-line was in a god-forsaken end of the city, and we traveled a whole hour on the metro getting there. Mind you, this does not include the 20 minute trudge, heavy back pack and all, to the hotel from the metro station. Whatever the reason, I am probably one of the few who can not claim to have fallen in love with the city at first sight. Love didn’t happen until much later… on Day 3.
Having thus quickly redeemed myself in your eyes, I’ll continue with the uneventful sequence of activities on day one.
6pm or some time thereabouts: Check into L’Hotel Sofitel. Flung into the outer reaches of Paris with nothing other than McDonalds in its vicinity. This McDonalds is to figure heavily in our meal plans in the next 3 days, but we didn’t know it yet.
6:05pm or some time thereabouts: Disappointed with hotel room. Small room with no personality. No iron or ironing board. We will find out later that this handicap pans Europe. You realize at this juncture that this blog will be filled with sweeping generalizations and opinions masquerading as facts.
8:00pm: Leave hotel to visit La Tour Eiffel. Very kicked that we have already figured out the metro.
9:00pm: Done seeing La Tour Eiffel, flickering lights and all. We are too late to take any of the boat rides on the Seine. Highlight of the evening is the egg and cheese crepes we ate in a roadside stall. Thank you, Kanna! We start walking to Champs Elysees. From the map, Ganyamanya figures it’s not very far.
9:45pm or so: Turns out it IS far!
11:00pm: Arc de Triomphe. Check.
Walking on Champs Elysees. Check.
Coffee on Champs Elysees. Expensive Check.
There was a show on Champs Elysees about seating, particularly car seats. Fascinating, except for the fact that all the documentation was in French.
Talking about seating, there was something extremely interesting about Paris, and at the time I thought it was unique to the Champs Elysees. A healthy number of coffee shops pepper the streetscapes in Paris. And in all of these coffee shops, all of the seating… I mean ALL… face the street. (Did we already have a chat about my propensity for sweeping generalizations?) So there’d be a table, and you’d have three or four chairs around it, but they would ALL be facing the street. It feels funny walking down the road and having a family of four all sitting in a straight line staring at you. All the world’s a stage, I say!
12:00am: On the metro, Sofitel bound.
Saturday, July 09, 2005
Spanglish
No. I'm not talking about the movie here. I was just thinking back to the time ganyamanya and I spent in tantalizingly colourful, guttural, spectacular, spirited Spain. And we managed to get by with un poco de Castellano and muchos Ingles! Long live globalization! Or maybe not. Because the things I most enjoyed about Spain were the elements untouched by American cultural colonization- the crowded streets, the random traffic, how everything shuts down in the afternoon for siesta, the amazing night life and the tremendous feeling of community that permeates everything Spanish.
It might be a good idea to start at the beginning.
First stop in Spain: Barcelona
We arrive at the airport and head to baggage claim to pick up our back packs. Oh.... did i tell you about our back packs- our incredibly cool back packs- the very first that i've ever owned- and mine is better than ganyamanya's- you can see mine here- http://www.rei.com/online/store/ProductDisplay?productId=47690734&storeId=8000&catalogId=40000008000&langId=-1&color=SAPPHIRE/BLACK&img=/media/705784_4742Lrg.jpg&view=large&vcat=REI_SEARCH - no! i'm not getting a commission from REI- and NO! i don't have A.D.D.!. Anyways, where was i???... haan... so we get to baggage claim and there were 15 or so boys (they were old enough to be men... but Spanish men will always be boys, just like French women will always be girls) playing futbol while waiting for their luggage. And they were playing serious and rough... in an airport... like it was the most normal thing to do in airports. I knew then that we were definitely in Spain!
The first three days in Barcelona I spent with clients and company people. So nothing to report there. I think ganyamanya had fun roaming the streets by himself- would've earned himself a few brownie points by telling me that he got bored without me, but no, that was not destined for him.
There are just 3 things to know about Barcelona: La Rambla, FCB and Antoni Gaudi.
Thing no.1: La Rambla is a centrally located pedestrian thoroughfare with lots of roadside shops, peddlers, live statues, performers, passersby and tourists. This is where ganyamanya spent most of his time when i was working hard at the conference. Once I was done with that shit, we spent time at la rambla- with lots of paella and sangria.
Thing no.2: FCB is the barcelonian equivalents of God. On the night before we left from Barcelona, FCB won the Spanish league after 5 years. And I have never seen so many people with so many beer cans on the streets before or after. Everyone in Barcelona was out on the streets, in cars or on their feet or as the night wore on, on all fours. Honking started at about 11pm at night and went on until 5 am in the morning. Anthems were being sung, shop fronts were being attacked, beer was being consumed and thrown up - a martian visitor would've thought this to be a strange tribe indeed... with blue and red striped exoskeletons and cans/bottles attached at the end of one of their limbs and a smouldering, smoking white pipe attached at the end of another.
On to Thing no.3: Antoni Gaudi is at the heart of all tourism in Barcelona. If you don't like Gaudi, pack up your bags and leave right away. Cause if you stay, you will probably start liking him. I remember being in shool and feeling that la Sagrada Familia was the strangest architectural work I had ever seen. Once you visit his buildings and read about his architectural philosophies and his commitment to his work, you just cannot feel the same way. One of the nicest afternoons in the entire trip was the time we sat in a small streetside restaurant facing the Sagrada Familia, sipping sangria and just looking at the incomplete church.
More about the Spain trip on my next post. I just realized that my blogs are a chronological nightmare. And if you have a problem with that, all I have to say is "You’ve got a nasty mancha on your camiseta".
p.s. I have no idea what that means.
It might be a good idea to start at the beginning.
First stop in Spain: Barcelona
We arrive at the airport and head to baggage claim to pick up our back packs. Oh.... did i tell you about our back packs- our incredibly cool back packs- the very first that i've ever owned- and mine is better than ganyamanya's- you can see mine here- http://www.rei.com/online/store/ProductDisplay?productId=47690734&storeId=8000&catalogId=40000008000&langId=-1&color=SAPPHIRE/BLACK&img=/media/705784_4742Lrg.jpg&view=large&vcat=REI_SEARCH - no! i'm not getting a commission from REI- and NO! i don't have A.D.D.!. Anyways, where was i???... haan... so we get to baggage claim and there were 15 or so boys (they were old enough to be men... but Spanish men will always be boys, just like French women will always be girls) playing futbol while waiting for their luggage. And they were playing serious and rough... in an airport... like it was the most normal thing to do in airports. I knew then that we were definitely in Spain!
The first three days in Barcelona I spent with clients and company people. So nothing to report there. I think ganyamanya had fun roaming the streets by himself- would've earned himself a few brownie points by telling me that he got bored without me, but no, that was not destined for him.
There are just 3 things to know about Barcelona: La Rambla, FCB and Antoni Gaudi.
Thing no.1: La Rambla is a centrally located pedestrian thoroughfare with lots of roadside shops, peddlers, live statues, performers, passersby and tourists. This is where ganyamanya spent most of his time when i was working hard at the conference. Once I was done with that shit, we spent time at la rambla- with lots of paella and sangria.
Thing no.2: FCB is the barcelonian equivalents of God. On the night before we left from Barcelona, FCB won the Spanish league after 5 years. And I have never seen so many people with so many beer cans on the streets before or after. Everyone in Barcelona was out on the streets, in cars or on their feet or as the night wore on, on all fours. Honking started at about 11pm at night and went on until 5 am in the morning. Anthems were being sung, shop fronts were being attacked, beer was being consumed and thrown up - a martian visitor would've thought this to be a strange tribe indeed... with blue and red striped exoskeletons and cans/bottles attached at the end of one of their limbs and a smouldering, smoking white pipe attached at the end of another.
On to Thing no.3: Antoni Gaudi is at the heart of all tourism in Barcelona. If you don't like Gaudi, pack up your bags and leave right away. Cause if you stay, you will probably start liking him. I remember being in shool and feeling that la Sagrada Familia was the strangest architectural work I had ever seen. Once you visit his buildings and read about his architectural philosophies and his commitment to his work, you just cannot feel the same way. One of the nicest afternoons in the entire trip was the time we sat in a small streetside restaurant facing the Sagrada Familia, sipping sangria and just looking at the incomplete church.
More about the Spain trip on my next post. I just realized that my blogs are a chronological nightmare. And if you have a problem with that, all I have to say is "You’ve got a nasty mancha on your camiseta".
p.s. I have no idea what that means.
Friday, July 08, 2005
Sound prints on the sands of time
I love Spanish, although I don't I understand the language. Try saying Pablo Neruda. The 'b' exists... and it doesn't! Love it!
Love the sound of water- running, gurgling, babbling, roaring, pittering, pattering, gushing, hissing...i can go on.
Love kid's voices- chokes me up, sometimes.
Love hearing ganyamanya swear in hindi... except when he's behind the wheel, that is.
Love long phone conversations.
Love the sound of heart beat, corny though it may sound.
Love poetry, when its read out.
What I mean to say is, don't mean to play favourites, but I might finally have an idea as to which of my senses I would abso-fucking-lutely hate to live without. So while I have cheerfully signed off my organs in the event of death, I secretly hope that no-one desperately needs ears or eardrums at around that time.
Love the sound of water- running, gurgling, babbling, roaring, pittering, pattering, gushing, hissing...i can go on.
Love kid's voices- chokes me up, sometimes.
Love hearing ganyamanya swear in hindi... except when he's behind the wheel, that is.
Love long phone conversations.
Love the sound of heart beat, corny though it may sound.
Love poetry, when its read out.
What I mean to say is, don't mean to play favourites, but I might finally have an idea as to which of my senses I would abso-fucking-lutely hate to live without. So while I have cheerfully signed off my organs in the event of death, I secretly hope that no-one desperately needs ears or eardrums at around that time.
Friday, June 24, 2005
Bloggers park
I have resisted blogging for a while now. Friends, romans, country men, people standing behind me in the queue at grocery stores, the post man, and a neighbor's dog have all waxed eloquent, at some point or another, on why I should start blogging. The idea of blogging, however, has never quite inspired in me an irresistible urge to jump up and down with pom-poms in my hands and go 'gimme a B!'.
For some reason, I am reminded of how it was when people first started working out in a neighbourhood park, close to my house in Madras.
You notice a couple of bloggers in your neighbourhood for the first time on a foggy friday morning. Freaks!, You tell yourself, wonder what the hell they are upto, pull your jacket tighter around you and walk on. Another day, you see two more of them, and then three and then seven in one day. Ahh, Another fad, you think, This too will die its natural death by the next full moon.
Then you start noticing bloggers by the handful... hanging out, doing stuff together, forming communities. A little voice in your head whispers, Could there be something to this idea?. You casually but carefully evaluate the concept, and come to the brilliant conclusion that its a marketing gimmick... or a communist propaganda... or a conspiracy, depending on which way you swing.
People now start talking to you about how a friend of a friend of some one they know is an active blogger. The air is abuzz with myths of how blogging changes lives. Here a blog, there a blog, and before you know it, everywhere a blog blog. You see people actively blogging, no matter when and where- in the middle of a hot humid Madras afternoon, or at the dead quiet of 3 in the morning.
And then one morning you wake up and realize that your world is filled with active bloggers, dormant bloggers, secret bloggers, lapsed bloggers- at work, at pubs, at the doctors clinic, even among your own friends. This time you know that blogging is here to stay.
There is nothing left for you to do now, but to be a man and slink un-noticed into the bloggers park- bend backward and stretch, roll your head 360 degrees and hear it click at multiple points, rotate your wrists clock wise and anti-clockwise... and start a slow well-paced blog, whistling to yourself like you've done this routine a gazillion times before.
For some reason, I am reminded of how it was when people first started working out in a neighbourhood park, close to my house in Madras.
You notice a couple of bloggers in your neighbourhood for the first time on a foggy friday morning. Freaks!, You tell yourself, wonder what the hell they are upto, pull your jacket tighter around you and walk on. Another day, you see two more of them, and then three and then seven in one day. Ahh, Another fad, you think, This too will die its natural death by the next full moon.
Then you start noticing bloggers by the handful... hanging out, doing stuff together, forming communities. A little voice in your head whispers, Could there be something to this idea?. You casually but carefully evaluate the concept, and come to the brilliant conclusion that its a marketing gimmick... or a communist propaganda... or a conspiracy, depending on which way you swing.
People now start talking to you about how a friend of a friend of some one they know is an active blogger. The air is abuzz with myths of how blogging changes lives. Here a blog, there a blog, and before you know it, everywhere a blog blog. You see people actively blogging, no matter when and where- in the middle of a hot humid Madras afternoon, or at the dead quiet of 3 in the morning.
And then one morning you wake up and realize that your world is filled with active bloggers, dormant bloggers, secret bloggers, lapsed bloggers- at work, at pubs, at the doctors clinic, even among your own friends. This time you know that blogging is here to stay.
There is nothing left for you to do now, but to be a man and slink un-noticed into the bloggers park- bend backward and stretch, roll your head 360 degrees and hear it click at multiple points, rotate your wrists clock wise and anti-clockwise... and start a slow well-paced blog, whistling to yourself like you've done this routine a gazillion times before.
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