Haider - Hamlet in Kashmir

The sludge like greyness that I woke up to this morning was a perfect nod to the movie I had picked for the day – Haider. From the moment the lights dimmed in the theatre and the movie opened to a rather dreary scene, I knew that it was going to be two and a half hours of hard hitting cinema. Through Vishal Bharadwaj’s lens we are whisked to an eerily silent village cradled in the beautiful yet bloodied Kashmir valley of the 90s. The only sound that resonates once in a while is the collective clattering of soldiers’ boots as they hit the stone pathways or the muffled whispers of those who scuttle back home, trying to make it in time before the curfew sets in. Within this premise, unfolds a tale of a boy (Haider) who returns from college to charred remains of his childhood home, a missing father (Dr. Meer) whose name now bears the black mark of a terrorist-sympathizer and a mother (Ghazala) who is seen happily humming Kashmiri folk songs with her brother-in-law (Khurram) instead of being crazed with grief.

Even though the story is primarily about Haider’s hunt for his father and his burning desire to avenge everything that he has lost, there is a haunting larger picture. To me, the poignant exchange that takes place in the first few shots between Ghazala and Dr. Meer sums it up. To Ghazala’s quivering question – ‘Kiske taraf hain aap’ (Whose side are you on - India, Pakistan or the Separatists?), the composed doctor replies ‘Zindagi ke’ (I am on life’s side). It is an exchange that is rife with many unanswered ideological quandaries. On one hand the humanitarian aspect prods us to believe that a human life, irrespective of whether it is that of a fierce terrorist or an innocent bystander, is of utmost importance. On the other hand, the possibility that the same terrorist will, in all likelihood, end up mauling anyone who poses a roadblock in his quest for validating fanatical beliefs, makes us question the humanitarian within.

That the Indian Army isn’t shown in a particularly positive light is definitely a big dampener for me especially because the story feels lopsided in its narration. This is not to say that the plight of Kashmiris whose loved ones have been taken away for interrogation is in any way less excruciating than what has been depicted. What is missing though is the delineation of the circumstances under which troops are obligated to conduct cordon and search operations and catechize those found suspicious. Contrary to what is shown in the movie, this task isn’t one that our soldiers find amusing or pleasurable.

A close personal source once shared his own experience of just how physically strenuous and mentally draining these operations are. Imagine waking up at 2:30 am and preparing for an exercise that will last almost 20 hours, carefully shepherding the village men (many of whom are often hostile towards you) to a designated area, thoroughly scouring the village for hidden troublemakers – all under the constant threat of sudden ambushes and open fire from unseen vantage points that might leave you dead within seconds. Having seen them at close quarters for the better half of my life, I can assure you that these soldiers and officers are far removed from what they are made out to be – insolent louts lounging inebriated in interrogation camps which double as torture cells, deriving sadistic pleasure in the misery of those imprisoned.

Apart from the above, the movie is quite riveting in its account of Haider’s journey. As he painfully exhumes the rancorous truth about the iniquities perpetrated by his uncle, Khurram, the unintentional flaws in his mother’s character and the confusing canons of the ‘Azad Kashmir’ movement, you can see his soul swell with a black rage that eventually pours out and destroys everyone. Tabu as Ghazala, the woman torn between a desire to fulfil her personal needs and those of her enraged son is as usual a pleasure to watch. Her eyes speak a thousand words with the help of which she credibly portrays Ghazala’s insecurities and failures.

Kay Kay Menon plays out an apt version of the treacherous uncle Khurram – a consequentialist who believes that the end justifies the means. Without a flicker of remorse in his hardened eyes, he not only pretends to be a messiah to the grief-stricken masses with the sole intent of furthering his own political interests, but also double-crosses his brother in order to bring to fruition his personal agenda. Irrfan Khan brings a cold metallic insidiousness to the story with his character – Roohdaar – an ISI agent. In sharp contrast to Haider’s fury and Khurram’s greed that profusely dominate their expressions and dialogues, Roohdaar’s calculated vileness is subtle. Yet he is successful in sending a shiver down your spine. It suffices to say that Irrfan Khan has proved his mettle once again.

Shraddha Kapoor as Arshee, Haider’s love interest, breaks the morbidity for a few rare moments with her scintillating smile that calms raw nerves and her hazel eyes that are pools of innocence. And last but not the least, Shahid Kapoor’s aura as Haider himself is a far cry from the chocolate boy image that he has been known for in the past. Dangling precariously between sanity and insanity, Haider’s character demands a certain degree of precision which Shahid Kapoor has painstakingly achieved. Through him you experience the five stages of loss – denial, anger, bargaining, depression and eventually acceptance and at each stage his emotions are honest and palpable.

The director clearly focuses on telling an unsparing tale and carving out characters and dialogues that fit like puzzle pieces in it. Resultantly, the landscape fails to win even a smidgen of screen space. There are no wide angle shots of the serene Dal Lake and the umpteen houseboats bobbing in it or of the breathtaking apple orchards and snow-capped peaks that Kashmir is famous for. Snippets of still life in the region are however recreated by things like carved walnut-wood furniture, multi-hued namdas and firans, rows of arched windowpanes and handle-less cups brimming with steaming kahwa that can be spotted in the background in most scenes.

All in all, in spite of not sharing the storyteller's beliefs on the subject of Kashmir, I enjoyed the multi-layered intrigue of the story itself. And to the naysayers, more importantly the ones who are foaming at the mouth about the movie’s lack of patriotism, all I would like to say is that in a democratic country like India, each one has the right to form an opinion and talk about it. After all, isn’t that what sets us apart from countries like North Korea and Afghanistan where every non-conforming voice is unceremoniously muted?

Syria - Where is the Humanity?

 

Ornate marble domes and minarets, almond-eyed dancing girls twirling in chiffon harem pants, narrow cobbled streets lined with mounds of fragrant spices, vials of perfume, plump, juicy dates and bolts of rich fabric ready to be sold in exchange for pieces of gold, olive-skinned men going about their daily business and turbaned bards with snow white beards reciting fantastical tales of magic and mystery. Fed on fables from the 'Arabian Nights', my imagination once invoked this portrait each time I thought of cities like - Damascus, Baghdad, Kabul, Cairo and Ankara. They sounded exotic, wealthy and clairvoyant beyond words.

Sadly, pictures and news clips from war-torn Syria have brusquely obliterated every inch of this fairy tale image. It is more than evident that over the years things have taken an unsettling turn. Streets aren’t paved with prosperity any more and people are no longer engrossed in the healthy humdrum of every-day life. Instead, amid concrete ruins of once bustling alleys, bloody carcasses and armed men with a maniacal glint in their eyes, a sea of innocent men, women and children, most of whom are missing a limb or two, wearily make their way to the aid trucks handing out food packets. While some of these people might get lucky today and go back with a meal, others will yet again sleep miserably on empty bellies, urging themselves to feel grateful for at least being alive.

A potent concoction of political discord and religious dissonance has left Syria a shadow of its former glorious self. What started out as a peaceful protest by citizens advocating democracy as opposed to a one-party dictatorial government, has in a mere 3 years exploded into a civil war of cyclopean proportions. Several different warring factions have in the course of time jumped in with their own varied philosophies adding fuel to the already out of control fire. Not only do you now have pro-democracy blocs like the Free Syrian Army fighting the security forces controlled by President Bashar-Al-Assad but you also have a landslide of radical Islamist groups and Kurdish opposition wings embroiled in violent scuffles amongst themselves. The fact that these groups pledge allegiance to disparate foreign powers doesn’t help either.

In the chaos, the number of wounded and dead civilians skyrockets with each passing day. Those prudent enough to have sensed the looming danger in advance find themselves in a slightly better situation cooped up in refugee camps which have mushroomed all over neighbouring Jordan, Lebanon, Turkey and Iraq. Grief-stricken little Syrian boys and girls stare at you wistfully from the glossy pages of magazines like ‘Time’. It is either the physical pain of injuries or the mental trauma of losing loved ones or in some cases both, that is writ large on their agonized faces. And it makes you wonder - aren’t these kids entitled to a secure childhood brimming with good health, love and learning like our own children? What is it that they did wrong to get dealt such a rough hand?

‘The quality or condition of being humane’ – this is how Merriam-Webster dictionary defines Humanity. You might thus expect humanity to be a basic characteristic, ingrained deep within every specimen of the human race – a trait that sets us apart from savage animals. Alas, heinous reports such as the one about children as young as 6 being taken away from school to have their fingernails pulled out by barbarians suggest otherwise (Source - Syria through the eyes of children). Humanity seems to have died a rather brutal death along with the rest of the war causalities in Syria. All that remains now is an abysmal hollow shell of a country with a handful of antagonistic elements feeding on its battered remains.

Why your money is safer under your mattress than in a Citibank Account

My name is Preeti Sharma. I am just another average 29 year old. I love food, shopping, books, hanging out with my friends and all the other things people my age are fond of. I dream of a comfortable future and I work hard towards securing one. Recently I became a victim of a fraud which took away a part of my faith in humanity and replaced it with hard cynicism. I paid a heavy price for living in this modern age of eBanking. An Internet banking fraud left me devoid of all the savings I had accumulated over the past 6 years (INR 10,49,301.85). The unfortunate incident happened on the 27th of Aug 2013 in the form of 14 fraudulent online transactions within 24 minutes. Luckily I am a compulsive ‘email checker’ and so I caught the 14 auto emails that I had received from Citibank (informing me about the transactions), fairly quickly (within an hour and a half) and immediately reported the issue by calling the Emergency Hotline. However, much to my horror, all my money had been drained out by then.

The bank (Citibank) registered my complaint and an Investigation team was supposedly put on the job to look into the matter. The following day I was told by the bank that they needed me to lodge an FIR at a local police station so that the investigation could be carried out. I was in the US when all this took place and was quite baffled with the bank’s repeated insistence on me personally filing an FIR. They refused to acknowledge the fact that I wasn’t in the country and could not make an emergency trip back because of unavoidable circumstances at work. At this a Citi official had the audacity of suggesting that I lodge a complaint at a precinct in the US. Somehow I got my aunt to file a complaint on my behalf at a police station in Bangalore (although not without a lot of running around). In the meantime, a signed letter to the Bank Manager of Citibank, Bangalore (where my account was maintained)had initiated a flurry of responses from Citibank. I think this sudden interest was also a result of the fact that I had taken my banker aunt and uncle’s advice and forwarded this letter to the Banking Ombudsman and other senior officials in Citibank (CEO-Citibank, Head Customer Care-Citibank etc.). The disputed amount was provisionally credited to my account but since it was frozen, I couldn’t use a penny of it.

Citibank’s Executive Response team based in Mumbai was given the responsibility to keep me informed about the proceedings by speaking to me regularly. At first, these people seemed pretty confident that within a week or so my case will be resolved even though they said that typically an investigation takes 45-50 days. But as days went by with no conclusion in sight, it was evident that the bank was just as stumped as I was about the root cause of such a massive fraud. Over the next 35 days, the frequency of status update calls from the Executive Response team went down to once a week. Each time they spoke to me, I was given the same standard update: a) the merchant has not billed the bank for the disputed amount as yet b) the investigation will take 45-50 days c) if the merchant does not bill the bank within this period, we do not know if the transactions will become null and void d) we cannot give you a fixed answer right now. What infuriated me the most was when these people made oblique comments about how this whole fiasco was in some way my fault. ‘Well, you must have shared your debit card details with someone’, ‘You might have given your debit card to someone’ or ‘Someone must have flicked your card’ – statements like these drove me up the wall. I am an educated individual with a fair amount of experience under my belt and I understand the concept of information security. I most certainly do not go about distributing confidential information about my bank account. As for my card getting flicked , since the said card is of no use to me in the US, it has never left my wallet. And, most sane people will agree with me when I say that if I had lost my wallet, I would have known almost instantly.

Another unbelievable fact that emerged was (the Investigating Officer who was responsible for my case brought this up) that these fraudulent transactions were all unsecured transactions which meant that my Ipin/OTP weren’t used to make these transactions. When I questioned the bank about why such unsecured transactions were allowed in the first place, I got no clear answer except for some vague references to international banking associations which allow unsecure transactions internationally. Which means someone who by some means got their hands on your debit card number, CVV and expiry date – which are all clearly stamped on the card itself – is equipped with enough information to empty out your account. So, the next time you hand over your debit card to the server at that restaurant you frequent, or when you are in a queue at that favourite mall of yours and the person behind you who, guess what, has two eyes and can see your card details when you are swiping your card, or for that matter each time you think your money is safe in your bank account because you have your IPin memorized and not carelessly scrawled somewhere, think twice. That server, that man standing behind you in the queue and for all you know even that devil-minded Citibank employee who has access to your information, can go wild on international websites and bill all the resulting expenses to you. Though it is hard to believe, Citibank WILL allow any Tom, Dick and Harry to bleed you dry and walk away into the horizon with every last new penny of your hard-earned money.

My awful experience prodded me to do a bit of research. What I stumbled upon was enough to blow my mind away. Did you know that US, UK and other developed countries have long established the ‘zero consumer liability clause’ in order to protect customers from the inevitability of Internet banking frauds. This has kept banks in these countries on their toes when it comes to investing in state of the art security measures and keeping them up to date. Each time a customer disputes a transaction, the bank has to reimburse the money immediately and if the stolen money is not traced back and retrieved, the insurance company insuring the bank takes care of the claim and in turn raises the premium charged. On the other hand, even though India, in its hurry to ape the developed countries, introduced Internet banking and all its fancy advantages, it failed to bring along the entire package which included ‘consumer protection’. For some strange reason, India felt it unnecessary to protect the nickel and dime consumers and thought it more prudent to safeguard the big-fat-richie-rich banks instead. It makes me sick to the gut when I think about all those unfortunate people who have fallen prey to similar fraud and have nothing else to fall back on. With no financial resources left, most victims of such fraud give up without a fight and the bank gets away without an iota of regret. I, on the other hand am not going to give up. At least not till I expose all the muck that banks like Citibank in India try to hide under layers of swanky advertising and elaborate but false promises of high customer focus.

An Obsessed Organizer

My name is Preeti Sharma and I am an Obsessed Organizer. There, I have said it! I can almost hear a collective sigh emanating from harried souls around the world – half a dozen ex room-mates who sacrificed many a weekends to the crack of my cleaning/dusting/arranging whip, a bunch of friends murmuring ‘we always knew’ under their breath, a set of parents who cannot stop blaming each other for passing on the ‘hyper-organized' gene to me and finally one poor husband who has to deal with it for the rest of his life.

At first my symptoms mushroomed as seemingly innocent quirks. Arranging my dolls in a perfect straight line so that they sat in ascending order of their heights on top of the olive green cupboard in my room gave me immense satisfaction. Inside this cupboard was a treasure cove of books which also adhered to one of my many patterns of organization-alphabetical, author-based, subject- based……..What passed off as adorable nuttiness should have set a hundred alarm bells ringing and perhaps the condition would have been nipped in the bud.

As I left the pristine boundaries of home to hunt for the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, I found myself staring at a big, bad, MESSY world which lay like a repugnant pool of spilt tea on a marble floor, waiting for me to wipe clean. I began yearning fervently for a world where pairs of shoes were organized in neat stacks on shelves instead of lying asymmetrically crooked on the floor, a world where coats and shirts were hung separately instead of mixed together, a world devoid of specks of dust enveloping all exposed surfaces, a world where dishes were done immediately after a meal and dabbed dry before being replaced in designated spots inside cabinets, a world where clothes always smelled laundry-fresh and tidily occupied allotted slots…my wish list went on.

I walked a tightrope for many years, trying to balance work, friends, hobbies and my unrelenting fetish for patterned harmony in spaces I called my own. Truth be told, I was always happiest when I was engaging in some good old fashioned housekeeping. An ensemble comprising a pair of comfy pyjamas circa 1998, an over sized tee from the same era and a head scarf to keep the powdery dust off my crown of curls easily kicked the rear end of pretty dresses and dainty heels. And eventually I started trading in parties for spending time dolling up my house. Since my most favourite section at the super market has always been the one which stores all sorts of cleaning products, I invariably possessed a plethora of objects to help achieve my standards of perfection in the task at hand.

State of the art mops and brushes, surface cleaners which promise a spotless clean house - fragrant like flowers in spring, glass cleaners to scrub window panes so perfectly that for a minute one would wonder if there was any glass at all, thick blue toilet bowl cleaners and a multitude of detergents (one for keeping my woollens supple, one specializing in retaining colours, a fabric conditioner to pamper my favourites, starch for my cotton 'kurtis', a stain remover for times when clumsy people subjected me to the horrors of their gaucherie…..) - This was my ammunition to wage a personal jihad against the forces of filth. When I was done banishing trash to the confines of a trash bag, I focused on arranging furniture, books, clothes, accessories and other things in exact locations and positions, just as my heart desired.

They say ‘Hell hath no fury as a woman scorned’. My private version is: ‘Hell hath no fury as when you spoileth what Preeti arrangeth’. Loved ones understood and resorted to rolling their eyes and toeing the invisible line I drew. In return I sometimes offered to do up their rooms for them. Like a whimsical artist I admired my handiwork every few hours for the next couple of days till my almost satanic arch nemesis - dust and grime - found its way through cracks and fissures and lay dirty, mangled, gaunt fingers on my spick-and-span dwelling. And then the entire cycle repeated itself.

After years of filth-fuelled crankiness and working myself to death, I have finally realized that sometimes it is all right to coexist with a tiny modicum of clutter instead of driving everyone, including myself, insane. To be honest, despite this epiphany, I still jolt out of deep sleep once in a while to stow away a pair of errant socks which somehow found their way on the living room couch or to wipe off ring-shaped coffee stains left behind as a stubborn mark of defiance by coaster-less mugs. I suppose the journey to a neurosis free life is long and difficult. But I am determined to reach my destination and am slowly inching forward.

Now that I have written this cathartic article and the weight is off my chest, I want to get back to what I was doing earlier – polishing the kitchen counters till I can see my reflection smiling back at me, giving me the thumbs-up... Satanic grime, here I come!

Conversations with a cabbie

Yet another week in Michigan and I find myself staring at an even more dismal sight than what I beheld the last time I was here. The weather app on my phone shows a tiny grey cloud showering drops of water over the city and sure enough, the view outside is a real life, zoomed-in replica. I walk out of the airport lugging my satchel and trolley bag, engulfed in a mighty overcoat, the tag on which assures me that it is lined with the finest quality felt to keep me warm. I am still shivering despite these assurances. The makers perhaps didn’t comprehend how cold a girl from India can get.

I approach the Metro Cabs booth and shudder at the thought of eliciting services from a cab driver after my past experience. This time though, I am in store for a pleasant surprise. My cabbie – Mahmoud – looks nothing like the surly brute I encountered last week. On the contrary, he has clear blue eyes which never stop dancing and an almost musical Middle Eastern lilt. His cheeriness feels as comforting as a cup of hot cocoa on a cold, rainy day. With my luggage safely tucked in the boot and the heat turned up I feel my good humour rise from the dead.

As we cruise past familiar landmarks, Mahmoud informs me about the Tsunami that has recently hit Japan. His depth of information on the subject startles and embarrasses me all at once. With a hint of scepticism, I surreptitiously cross check the news on the internet and am surprised by the accuracy of his knowledge. I realize that in the routine chaos of my day, I haven’t had the time to browse the headlines of a newspaper or pay attention to the newsreader’s monologue on TV. In short, I am clueless about what is happening in the world around me. In addition, his succinct description of the topography of Japan leads me to conclude that he can easily give Geography teachers around the world a run for their money.

Now I am all ears, eagerly waiting for Mahmoud’s next flurry of wisdom. This time I get a brief but power packed lesson in History. He talks about varied subjects like the British colonization of America and the American Civil War. It isn't just facts that he is rattling off; he has his own perspective about everything he speaks. Mesmerized, I sit upright and absorb everything he has to say. Somewhere in between,the conversation turns philosophical and we discuss the futility of being one in a million rats in the rat race of life. ‘Life is meant to be enjoyed, not frittered away, consumed in jealousy and greed’ he says. I couldn't agree more.

A few more nuggets of wisdom about propane laws and traffic rules in the state are thrown my way before Mahmoud promptly pulls up in front of my hotel. For the first time I am feeling sorry about having covered the distance so quickly. Before I know it, Mahmoud is gone and I am left standing on the curb, a lot more enlightened than I was thirty minutes ago. In a world teeming with over ambitious, over stressed and over cranky people, Mahmoud and the likes of him who are knowledgeable, hard working yet cheerful form a fast diminishing breed. The world would certainly be a more interesting and happy place if there were more of his kind.

Up, Up and Away

Painful skeletal remains of once lush green trees stand braving an ice cold draft. The sky is overcast and gloomy as if mourning their demise. Even though the heater in my room is working overtime to keep me warm and toasty, I find it difficult to crawl out of my quilt. With promises of a hot water shower and a fresh cup of coffee, I finally convince myself to leave the warmth of my bed. The aroma of coffee emanating from the coffee pot is comforting but the aforementioned view from my window isn’t.

It is my first day at work in a new city after a blissful six-month vacation. The butterflies in my stomach haven’t allowed me much sleep last night. Michigan – my current abode – has been a strange experience so far. After the pleasant cheerfulness of southern folk in Texas and the well bred mannerisms of the affluent populace in California, the grumpiness of ‘Michiganites’ is a rude shock. Of course, one cannot generalize and as always there is a mixed bag – a foul mouthed cab driver, a polite security guard, a bunch of courteous strangers at a restaurant and a surly front desk staff at the hotel.

Bundled in layers of woolly nirvana, I step out hoping to walk the less than half a mile distance to work. A bitter winter draft slaps me hard across the only portion of my body which is exposed – my face. It jerks me right out of my dreamland and shakes out all dregs of drowsiness left. I scramble as quickly as possible towards my destination, silently cursing the celestial movements which cause seasons to change. A wrong turn and a near death experience with a speeding vehicle later, I manage to walk into my office in one piece. My nose is red and numb and my fingertips, even though encased in fleece lined gloves, are frozen. I soak in the delicious cozy interiors of the office and my Rudolph-like nose slowly returns to its original colour.

It is going to be a hard day at work as the rusty gears of my brain slowly creak into action. I have tried to keep them oiled during my sabbatical but I am sure they are still going to oppose working ceaselessly towards achieving our unrealistic project deadlines. Was I happier doing my own thing at home at a relaxed pace or will I be happier working under pressure on a difficult project? I don’t know the answer to that yet but I do know that the solace I get in peacefully writing or reading at home cannot be replaced by the adrenaline rush that is associated with being able to hand over quality work against all odds and vice versa. Till I find an answer, I shall dabble in both with the hope that I will find my true calling one day.

With these thoughts I head in trying to work out a game plan for the day. Walking past the cafeteria on my way to my desk, my now near normal nose is further placated by a whiff of oven fresh muffins. I resist only because I have been warned about winter binges and the kilos they add. However, it is just a matter of time that I succumb. After all I deserve a tasty treat for valiantly fighting the vile Queen of Winter, don’t I?

Bas ho gaya Boss!!!

There is always at least one villain in every story, period. No arguments, no ‘world is beautiful’ theories, not even from the folks living in a world of luminous optimism. My story spanning across 5 years of corporate slavery is no different and thereby between the pages of each of these office tales hides a villain who goes by the alias: ‘The Boss’.

But I was not to know this yet, as at the stroke of 9, I entered the imposing stone building of my very first workplace with stars in my eyes, a spring in my step and a naïve heart bursting with positivity. Little did I know that destiny was playing a dirty game, a game with the sole aim to cut the spring in my step to size and crush the stars in my eyes to dust. My foray into the world of management was to begin in the daunting shadows of one of the worst variety of bosses– ‘The She Worm’.

Being a borderline feminist I am all for gender equality and when I was told that I would be reporting to Ms. J, I felt I had hit jackpot. My elation quickly spiraled down the drain as Ms. J turned out to be my first She Worm. In the following years many more ‘She Worms’ plagued me as a result of which I deciphered an overarching trend in their behaviours and although I have always looked up to the league of women who have successful careers and blossoming personal lives - all at the same time - I developed a strong distaste for the ‘She Worm’ variant. ’The She Worm’ comes from the very same league of dynamic women but her success seeps into her head like a virulent acid eating into whatever modesty and humility it finds in its way leaving behind a hollow shell of narcissistic arrogance. Her narcissism washes over everyone else like a wave of mucky street water splashing over unsuspecting pedestrians. What exacerbates the situation is when, in her quest to be the only success story around, she incongruously doles out additional flak to her women subordinates. With at least one sycophant male subordinate under her armpit, she casually tramples the rest of the staff-subordinates and coworkers alike- under her feet.

I was reeling under the after effects of the She Worm when I was thrown in the arena with another bizarre specimen – ‘The Smitten Kitten’. Just when I breathed a sigh of relief at the thought of not reporting to a female supervisor, the Smitten Kitten started showing his colours and boy, were they not to my liking. Mr. Smitten Kitten, as his name suggests, had his eyes and heart set on a pretty young thing in our team and nothing could stop Ms. Pretty Young Thing from making the most of it. She simply had to bat her eyelids and feign distress for him to scoop large portions of her work into other people’s plates. As the ‘Smitten Kitten’ conferred one exclusive perk after the other on her, she hopped, skipped and jumped her way to the top, rubbing her luck in our faces on the way up. Exploiting her benefactor’s benevolence to the hilt she enjoyed extended vacations, perfect performance ratings, recommendations to senior management for early promotions and the list goes on. As for the rest of us, we couldn’t do much except turn a new shade of green every time a new favour was bestowed upon her.

From the claws of the ‘Smitten Kitten’ I landed straight in the lair of ‘The One with a God Complex’. I held my breath each day as I witnessed a specimen of this variety in its full glory. This guy knew his stuff like the back of his hand. However, his cockiness and overly self assured demeanor were quite the killjoys for most people working with him. Despite all this, he has by far been the best boss I have worked for. His God Complex made him a good teacher as he liked to show off his breadth and depth of knowledge to a perpetually awestruck audience. Oozing confidence from each pore in his body, he made his presence felt wherever he went. To some he was intimidating, to others he was infuriating and to still others he was odd. But to me he was someone whose each action meant something – a learning experience to be made use of at work, a funny anecdote to be related to friends later or simply a shrewd move which resembled a tactical chess strategy. Working with him meant hard work - unimaginably late nights owing to crazy deadlines and perplexing tasks. His motto of pushing people to the maximum to bring out their true potential did not improve his chances of winning a popularity contest at work.

As if they weren’t enough, the above were interspersed with specimen from other interesting varieties as well. For instance, there was ‘The One without a Spine’, who had no qualms about thrusting his unarmed juniors headlong into enemy lines so that he could escape a sticky situation, there was the ‘King of Sarcasm’, who only spouted sentences laced with vicious sarcasm whenever he opened his mouth and the ‘Dumb, Dumber, Dumbest’ trinity, a set of three inanely brainless supervisors who would zone off into a world of their own as soon as conversation around them took an intellectual turn. Another noteworthy specimen was ‘Mr. I-love-massacring-the-English-language’. True to his name, he repeatedly slaughtered the language of the world. Sentences like ‘Saar, if you don’t finger me, I won’t finger you (read: Sir, if you don’t trouble me, I won’t trouble you)’, ‘I could not able to do it, you could able to do it (read: I wasn’t able to do it, were you able to do it?)’, ‘What ball in my court, ball in his court, I want your balls in your court and his balls in his court’ (read: I do not understand the phrase: ‘the ball is in their court’) would render us breathless with peals of laughter.

As each boss left an indelible mark on me, it appeared as if I was stuck at the receiving end of a damaged assembly line which produced only faulty bosses. Notwithstanding the trauma and strain they inflicted on me, I managed to learn a little something from each of them. ‘The She Worm’ and ‘The Smitten Kitten’ taught me what not to do when in a position of power, ‘The One with the God Complex’ taught me the importance of confidence that comes from being thorough with one’s work and ‘Mr. I love-massacring-the-English-language’ taught me how bouts of laughter at work could be highly effective in beating stress and work- blues. Lessons learnt from each specimen, odious or otherwise, now seem precious and I hope to put them to good use someday.

The Auto Rickshaw tales

Autorickshaws are to commuters in developing countries what cabs are to those in the developed countries. At first, they resemble tiny insects trying not to get squished under the large ungainly tyres of other co habitants of Indian roads but beware, do not get fooled by their harmless demeanor. More often than not these bright coloured seemingly innocent three wheeled capsules are operated by greasy haired, roguish Autorickshaw Waale Bhaiyyas who have the ability to ruffle the calmest of feathers. In the past 7 years, especially after me and my beloved Scooty parted ways, I have had the misfortune of availing the services of these strange characters to drive me around the city. There are several categories in which these people can be profiled. Here is an ode to some of my favourite ones  :)

1) The one with the verbal diarrhoea: I would like to confess at this point that I am absolutely not a morning person. In fact I usually try to fight the morning blues by keeping quiet and steering clear of potentially explosive encounters which can bring out the worst in me. So, one typical Monday morning (morning blues accentuated manifold by virtue of the fact that it was a Monday), I scrambled into an ordinary looking autorickshaw driven by a chubby overgrown child like bhaiyya. As soon as the three wheeled contraption whirred to life, the aforementioned man-child fired a volley of questions at me:  "Madam, kaun sa raaste se chalne ka? Left'aa'? Straight'aa'? Aajkal baut baut traffic aane laga hai ma?"…he driveled on in broken Hindi as I felt myself being sucked into a vortex of question marks. I stuck to monosyllabic answers in a desperate attempt to dissuade him from further verbal assault but did my ploy work? No sir, my Auto waale Bhaiyya was determined to use me as a piece of sandpaper to polish the rough edges of his Hindi language.By the time I reached my destination, my head was spinning. Viva exams from my engineering days weren't half as grueling as the past one hour in the autorickshaw from hell. Ever since that fateful day, I say a silent prayer each time I get into an autorickshaw, hoping that I do not have a similar experience again.

2) Schumacher ke bhatije: Now these are the weirdest of all specimen. They like to believe that their green and yellow toy vehicles are just as good or perhaps even better than the Ferraris and Jaguars driven by the likes of Michael Schumacher. They fly over speed breakers, zip through potholes and swerve between lanes to avoid traffic with the dexterity of a cheetah. As the unsuspecting passenger is flung mercilessly from one corner to the other the Auto waale Bhaiyya  races towards an invisible finish line. Maybe it isn't a race, maybe the Auto waale Bhaiyya  has bad memories of a swarm of angry bees chasing him and he just cannot get over the trauma. Whatever be the reason, at the end of the day, yet another poor commuter is left with a mutilated back bone and a fit of nausea.

3) The one with the Tsunami in his mouth: Of all the repugnant people on earth, this one is the worst. The road, to him is a giant wash basin in which he constantly spits. One might wonder from where he gets this unsual quantity of spit in his mouth. I personally believe that it is a disease which causes Tsunami like waves of spit to burst out of the patient's mouth at regular intervals. Much to the horror of the passengers, who may conclude that the poor Auto waale Bhaiyya has tuberculosis or some other ghastly disease, he continues to cough and spit violently while somehow managing to steer the auto rickshaw through traffic. Made popular by Leo di Caprio as Jack in Titanic, spitting while emanating a sharp guttural noise has taken the fancy of many Auto waale Bhaiyyas . I wonder if they also believe that it would help them bag a voluptuous Kate Winslet a.k.a Rose look alike. After several encounters with this variety, my self defence mechanism now includes an ipod and a set of headphones which not only safeguards me from them but also from their 'verbal diarrhoea' cousins.

4) The ugly one: Just when you are about to conclude that all Auto waale Bhaiyyas fall in one of the above three categories only, the most vicious fourth category attacks. Step aside for the expletive spouting devil who exudes a repulsive arrogance and reeks of greed. The first question he asks you when you hail his auto is where exactly do you want to go. If where you want to go is not where he wants to go, he will give you such a dirty look that you would want to evaporate into thin air. In the rare circumstance that he agrees to take you to your destination, he will proceed to run some complex arithmetic in his head which would result in him quoting a ridiculously high fare. Incidentally this figure has nothing to do with the black fare meter installed inside or the actual distance between the start point and the end point. Try haggling only if you are thick skinned enough to stand resolutely as a tide of abuses washes over you. Also, never ever expect him to return the 5/4/3/2 rupee change that he owes you. If you do, he will give you a mean smirk and ride away leaving you standing on the road, palm stretched out, feeling like a beggar. While dealing with this variety, fortify yourself with Glucon D and take deep breaths to keep yourself focused else you might lose the battle. The I-know-the-ACP-so-you-better-get-your-act-together bit usually works wonders with them. However, I do hope that this variety is soon extinct.

5) And finally the good one…I never thought that I would have an opportunity to come face to face with a specimen from this variety but lo and behold just like a specter he appeared in front of me one fine day. His fare meter was perfect, the passenger seat was not broken and I did not have to worry about sliding off each time the auto rickshaw went over a speed breaker, he spoke little but whenever he did he was polite and last but not the least he was perhaps the most well behaved and immaculately dressed Auto waale Bhaiyya  I had ever met. That day there was no blaring music hurting my ears, no hurling on the road and no broken bones after the ride. There wasn't even a photoshopped Karishma/Aishwarya/Sushmita, bearing leech like eyebrows, staring at me from a poster taped to the interior of the auto. This was an auto rickshaw straight from Paradise. Had I died and gone to heaven? When I received the exact change for the 100 rupee note I gave, I couldn't contain myself and blurted out, "Bhaiyya, this has been the best auto ride I have ever had.  Thank you ! ". He beamed at me and rode off into the horizon in search of yet another lucky passenger.

A Modern Day Vanity Fair (2)

Chapter 2: Praise Thy Offspring Syndrome (PTOS)

Have you ever been subjected to the supreme torture of hearing over enthusiastic parents gush about the accomplishments of their offspring? If not, consider yourself a part of a fast diminishing population my friend!

In today's day and age 'praise thy offspring' has become a practice adopted by all sections of society alike. This struck me as an epiphany last night while I was being bored to death by an aunt who seemed to believe that her daughter was the epitome of virtue with the looks of Audrey Hepburn and the brains of Shakuntala Devi. To me this easily qualified as a social disorder. Permit me to take the liberty of coining the acronym PTO syndrome (PTOS) to define this disorder.

As I mulled over this thought, it occurred to me that everyone around me was afflicted by either one of the two variants of PTOS. The first variant can be called 'Saas Bahu' ishness while the second could be known as 'Page 3' ishness. Allow me to explain with examples.

Exhibit 1(Page 3 ishness): Symptoms: Regular use of the following statements- "Our daughter/son is very career oriented", "Why does our daughter have to cook after she gets married, she has a job too you know. She will employ a cook", "Our daughter is so pretty that there is a line of suitors for her but we do not want to rush her into marriage.", "Our son is brilliant at his work, his supervisor just cannot do without him", "Oh what is our son/daughter not good at…they have tried their hands at everything: sports, public speaking, programming etc etc"….

One particular festive weekend I found myself at Mr. and Mrs. 'Page 3's house. To the naked eye it appeared as if they were as close to perfection as anyone could get. A plush bungalow in a suave locality, cushy jobs, a 24/7 on deck maid, a pretty daughter with a decent career and so on. However, as I got an opportunity to spend considerable time with them, I  realized that Mrs. Page 3 was an obsessive compulsive PTOS patient. Her praises were occasionally directed at her own life but a major chunk was directed towards the awesomeness of her daughter. Her monologues ricocheted between her daughter's various qualities with such lightening speed that the poor victim (read me) was left dazed and gasping for breath. In her opinion, her daughter was a demi goddess who had never experienced acne, shyness, bad hair days and other similar growing -up pains. She was born perfect which essentially meant that she always always had perfect skin, shiny hair, best grades in school, lovely friends, perfect clothes, outstanding appraisals at work……..the list was never ending. It was amusing to note that anything and everything that was ever decreed to reflect culture and class had to be aped by her and her daughter  As Cosmopolitan and Femina showcased feminism as the 'hip' new school of thought, Mrs Page 3 deemed it apt to tell me how her daughter was a great champion of women's lib. Similarly since reading as a hobby was synonymous with good pedigree she ensured that wherever her daughter appeared, she appeared with a book in hand  The fact that the daughter would rarely express her opinion during a discussion as she was always too busy thinking about how she looked was never of any importance. So, how does one react when one is an unwilling audience to such rants? Is one expected to grin dumbly and nod in agreement or is one allowed to broach another subject which will not include opportunities to restart the rant?

Exhibit 2 (Saas Bahu ishness):Symptoms: Regular use of the following statements- "Our daughter is so fair that people mistake her for a foreigner", "My son has always been my support, he is such a mature boy", "My daughter's in laws cannot stop praising her for being so cultured and well mannered", "My daughter can cook, clean, shop, manage her career and do everything under the sun with such efficiency"

Meet the typical middle class Indian parents suffering from acute PTOS. Morally upright and many a times uptight, these parents derive pride from the fact that their children are supposedly balanced. In reality, these children are equally conceited and shallow as their Page 3 counterparts. They have grown up hearing their parents fawn over their 'accomplishments despite hardships'. A friend who belongs to this section of society couldn't stop regaling me with stories of her daughter who according to her is very pretty, solely by virtue of the fact that her complexion is milky white. In the same breath she glorified her daughter further by telling me how she can cook perfectly round and fluffy aaloo paranthas while doing stunningly well at her job. All this while the daughter sat right in front of us with an annoying smug expression plastered on her face. The Saas Bahu clan will shower adulations on their children for reasons spanning from a good spouse to an average career. I once heard an aunt whose daughter was as wheatish as wheatish can get, exclaim: "Arey meri ladki phoren jaake kitni gori chitti ho gayi hai!!!! Aap toh use pehchan hi nahi paayenge", leading me to suspect that the girl had resorted to Michael Jackson's solutions for a white skin. Unlike the children of the Page 3 clan, the children of the Saas Bahu clan are not born perfect but according to their parents have braved all hardships and achieved perfection.

If you notice, the underlying theme for symptoms of both variants of PTOS is the same- Praise Thy Offspring. On closer examination the content of the praises may be different yet the conclusion remains the same.


What is it that prompts parents to transform into live advertisements promoting their own children? Is it the constant societal pressure of self branding and acceptance? Or as my husband puts it-"Is it the fact that proving to the world that your offspring are brilliant indirectly reflects your brilliance as well". There is no doubt that children in modern times don't have it easy as at a very young age they are expected to master the art of marketing their skills in order to get accepted at a higher notch in the social order. In a highly competitive environment it is becoming increasingly difficult to find people outside the nuclear family who genuinely appreciate a task well done or a God gifted talent or hard-work while on the other hand it is common to come across people who are forever willing to prick your confidence. I believe this has led to the rise of a new breed of parents who find it necessary to publicly laud their progeny in order to protect and maintain their rather fragile self esteem. Gone are the days when parents were of the opinion that praising yourself or your children in public was crass and uncultured and only resulted in inculcating shallowness and conceit. Confidence was built over a period of time through equal doses of motivation, appreciation and healthy criticism . The poise and self assurance thus built was very difficult to crack and did not need the crutches of public applaud. Then, actions spoke louder than words while now it seems that words have become bolder and way more important than actions.

A Modern Day Vanity Fair (1)

I come from a family of book lovers - people who literally devour books by the dozen. It is at home that I have always come across books of all kinds - paperback, hardbound, autobiographies, classics, books on history, books on warfare…the list is endless and so when I stumbled upon a well thumbed copy of ‘Vanity Fair’ by William Makepeace Thackeray gathering dust on our rather rickety book shelf, I was not surprised. This, at a time when I was preparing for my impending trip to a far far away land and warnings regarding how lonely one tends to get in a strange country (doled out in large portions by well meaning friends) were still ringing loud in my head, ensured that the battered manuscript found a place in my 'to be shipped' carton. Last week when I finally put down this brilliant piece of work after being at it for almost three weeks, I couldn't help drawing parallels between the characters described in the book and the people I have had to deal with in today’s world. This series is thus a result of this comparison and is dedicated to certain individuals from my everyday life who rarely fail to amaze as well as amuse me with their vanity.

Chapter 1: The General Saahib's daughter

When I ran into a fellow fauji kid on my first day at work in a new city, I felt a surge of relief flood over me. Just so that you know, the fauji-kid club is a tight knit fraternity which nurtures a great sense of camaraderie amongst its members and finding one of my kind in an unknown unfamiliar workplace was a stroke of luck, or so I thought. A rather effusive round of introductions rallied between us in the usual vein - 'Which regiment is your father in, which cantonments have you lived in…Oh, so you must have studied with so and so, which APS did you pass out from….' and on and on we went trying to find as many common threads as possible. As the months rolled by and my interactions with the aforementioned lady became more frequent, I realized (much to my consternation) that she was a compulsive show-off.

Over the next few months, I had the misfortune of enduring her vociferous rants concerning her brilliant brother who had an encyclopedic memory and could spout scientific and historical anecdotes ad infinitum, her super-mom who not only was a university professor with an overly broad minded outlook towards life (she apparently encouraged her daughter to try everything in life including cigarettes, pot, sex etc.) but could also whip up exotic cuisines in a jiffy, shop like a fashionista, design their house along with the architect and fix anything and everything under the sun. As far as Daddy dearest was concerned, there were entire monologues dedicated to him as the charismatic ex army general who could outwit anyone on planet Earth was her absolute favourite. She would bite off your head if you were callous enough to suggest that after retirement Lt. General-Daddy could have transformed into well, a general Daddy and might be relaxing in their multi-roomed mansion possibly spending his retired life playing golf. (Note: Mind you, if you mention the number of rooms in her parents’ house in each conversation, you would qualify for the post of her best buddy). “How could he afford to do that?”, she would screech. After all the world cannot continue to exist without him and his brilliance and so, for the benefit of the world and it's intellectually challenged lesser mortals he had conceded to be on the board of directors for not one, not two but several organisations. While discussing a particularly difficult boss, who happens to be a Senior VP in the 125 year old organization for which we work (imagine how ancient he is), Lady Braggart couldn't stop herself from mentioning how the gentleman in question should not boast about leading a 50 member team in front of her, especially when her own Popsey (father) has commanded 2 lakh Indian troops as a General in the Army. Oh, how my ears bled each day after being subjected to such brutality!!! It was insane how she could chatter on and on about anything remotely related to her.

Her divine self was also nothing less than perfection personified. She had dabbled in everything: all kinds of sports, music, public speaking, dancing…you name it and she had done it. 'We fauji kids can do everything' she opined in public, making me cringe each time the rest of the crowd rolled their eyes at us. I did not want to be blanketed in the same category as her. This is not what I was brought up to believe. There is no doubt that I was always pestered to be an all-rounder but I was also taught softer qualities like humility and modesty. She continued to bore me by regaling stories which invariably ended with her being the toast of the town. Now, something that she was born with was good skin and the looks of a little girl. This was what she used to pull off one 'damsel in distress' act after another to get her work done. I must give her the credit for mastering the art of feigning innocence and helplessness. Many specimen from the male species were ready to slay dragons for her when she batted her eyelashes and spoke in a child-like tenor. Such was her obsession with her trouble free skin that when a lady colleague posed a question about how to treat acne, madam braggart gave a wide eyed, disgusted look making the poor victim conclude that 'pimples' were a revolting disease which struck only the extremely ugly and un-cool people on earth (and maybe the green coloured unattractive aliens from planet gabberdashook).

When Lady Braggart followed me to the far far away land that I spoke about earlier, I was certain that God was trying to punish me for the sins I committed in an earlier life. I was now to be subjected to her inane self-appreciation in a strange foreign accent which she had suddenly acquired during her 2nd week here, perhaps to fit in. This was simply lovely (can you read the exasperation in my voice?). It is during one of these unending monologues of hers that I drifted off and began to wonder what could be the pimples in her life which she was so desperately trying to powder puff ? There were definitely creases which she was trying to smooth by relentlessly trying to prove to the world and herself that her life was perfect.

The answers to my questions hit me one after the other with lightening speed in the next few months. To begin with visiting her house was like visiting the government zoo in India. The place stank!!! Not just that, I challenge you to find one clean surface inside her house to park your backside on and if you do I will give you a standing ovation. Noticing the disdain writ large on my face, she immediately started rambling about how they have always had sahayak bhaiyyas doing all the menial jobs at home and as a result she is not used to doing these chores on her own. It was also a mystery to me why she had the most unhealthy lifestyle and habits even though her father was such a steadfast army man? Aren't people and families of people from the forces supposed to be extremely disciplined in all respects? Her refrigerator offered nothing healthy and I could only spot tins of cheese, cakes of butter, frozen pizza, ice cream and other nightmarish food stashed in it. An hour later as my bladder demanded, I gingerly made my way to her bathroom hoping against hopes not to come across any more horrors. As I surveyed the bathroom, I spotted something that made me sad. There standing tall on her shelf were endless anti hair fall products along with a hair brush jammed with already martyred hair strands. This was the final answer to my questions. I was now privy to a lot of secret holes in her personality that she was trying to gloss over.

I couldn't help feeling sorry for her. Here was a poor soul who would give an arm and a leg to ensure that people outside did not perceive her as a normal human-being with flaws. How I wished she could understand that No one is perfect! The art of being able to laugh at yourself is worth learning as humour is most certainly the best medicine. I hope someday she would be able to let her guard down and enjoy who she already is rather than trying to be little Ms. Perfect. Till then, my advice to all those who are unfortunate enough to be associated with her in one way or another, please buy good quality ear plugs…This would be an investment you wouldn't regret :))