We are all wearing the same Tee

Fridays are usually a great day at work in most offices.
For one, wherever it is permitted, T-shirts surface on this day.

It is amazing how a T-shirt can shave off quite a few levels of hierarchy.
You walk into a conference room with men and women in tees and you definitely can't figure out who's the boss. Usually.

Fridays are also a day when  the cafetaria boys at work also wear t-shirts.
Suddenly, the pale blue shirts and dark blue trousered uniformed masks disappear and they appear younger, brighter and yes, happier.

T-shirts are a big style statement for ( and sorry for using a demographic jargon) the lower SECs.
They are easy on the wallet and heavy on attitude. Low maintenance as well.

You get them  in all possible branding and bold statements.
From Eat, Love, Pay to Harley-Davidson ones which are a clear favourite, to  variations of  slogans with the word Cool.

In a somewhat class conscious society like us, T-shirts are indeed a great leveller.
They shave down divides of finance, position, society, the tie- brigade.
They showcase common values of someone who wants to look good and get on with life.

Maybe T-shirts can do what most of us have been wishing for.
Uniformity of life, without the shackles of a uniform.

A Day for Mums

Haven never seen so many profile picture changes.
Black and white, sepia, colour... young mums, middle aged mums....

And no matter whose picture it was, it made me feel good.

While there are some who ask questions like why just this one day?
We love our mother's every day.
Why display our affection on social media?

I feel this flood of pictures on social media have behind them, a loving call today to mums, a lunch or dinner date if they are in town, a long distance gift or more.
I feel most mums who are actually on social media would have felt proud to see this expression.

That's what celebrations are for.
No matter how much we see celebrations can be every day, there are always special days where we set aside every thing else.

And though I know there are many who will deny this, I also feel that this day has become what it is for them and their mums, because of social media.
The effort of looking for a picture from an old album comes flush with memories of yesteryears.
You remember selfless nights and days of young mums , times when they were firm but gave you an extra hug at night, the smiles, the tears.
You feel good when you see others talking about how good your mum looks or looked.

You feel a stronger connection.
You make that call again.
You tell her she is special.
You look at that picture again and again every time someone hits a Like or keys a comment.
You feel good.
She feels better.
And special.

And for one day, the bonds are tighter than ever before.

Mother's Dressing Table

Mother's dressing table came as part of her wedding furniture.
One long mirror balanced on a small low table, with a set of three drawers on one side.
A stool with matching "sun mica".

The dressing table braved many lorry travels from Jorhat, my grandparents house, to Digboi , Guwahati , back to Digboi and again back to Guwahati. The sun mica was replaced twice, not because it was worn out but because mother wanted a change.

The dressing table  had stuff which we don't see today.
Starting with a stand where mother hung her hair pieces.
"Khopa", as we call in Assamese.
In those days, hair fashion was a khopa with rolls and layers, stuck in place with a packet of hair pins.

Then there was a jar of "snow".
And Charmis cold cream.
An ornate "powder case" with a puff.
The puffs were replaced quite often, so they always looked fluffy and pink with a satin ribbon for holding.

A hair oil bottle surfaced once in a while.
The drawers had a few lipsticks.
Some of them had been used and the remnants were like a well inside the plastic case.
But mother never threw things till they were completely used.
She used a clip to scoop the lipstick out for a bindi.

I remember a lipstick she had years back with a green cake which was pink when applied to the lips.
Don't remember the brand now.

Mother would always sit on the stool, pull open the drawer, take out her "make up"- some foundation, compact, powder, lipstick etc.
I would sit on the floor next to her and watch her  as she transformed her tiredness into gorgeousness.

My dressing table looks quite different today.
Well, I have a mirror and a dresser in front.
The lipsticks are still there.
I have lip glosses and rouges and colour palletes.
And a moisturiser and sun block cream.
But nothing else remains from those days.

My daughter does not stare at me when I am in front of my dresser.
She is busy . But she also does not see any magic in the moment.
The TV, the games, the screens are more magical.

I guess  we took great joy out of little moments which seem so insignificant now.

As for mother's dressing table, it finally got carted out of our house quite unceremoniously a few years back.
Maybe it lies in an old shed, forgotten by all.
With memories of a beautiful woman turning gorgeous every day in front of it.

When in Rome, (do not) do what the Romans do

It's time some of these adages are questioned.
Or not taken at face value.

Today "fitting in", or being overtly compliant  may be , unfortunately , seen as a weakness.
And personally, I believe, is a compromise on one's own personality.
And strengths.
Beliefs.

There's always room for some adjustment.
Some nudges.
Shifts.
Creating space.

But just because Life brings us to a different place, or a situation, we don't need to feel out of place.
Noone can make us  unbelong.
Nothing belongs to anyone anyway.

Adjustment is a two way road.
Some give, some take.

If that doesn't happen, just be who you are.
Work on your strengths.
Build on what has been your drivers.
Never trade off.

Leaders are born not because they adjust.
But because they collaborate.
Without compromising themselves.

EXPRESS and Lose!!

Before some of us jump at this as a comment spurred by conservatism, or some angst ( blogs really help express angst!), this is a thought that struck me this morning.

Weight loss was doing its early morning warning drumbeats in my ears, and I started thinking about ways that can be a part of life instead of a regime e.g gyms.

Which led me to the idea of EXPRESSING ONESELF.

Expressing means standing up ( no offence to a great creative from a coffee brand)
Means waving hands.
Furiously, Fast.
Walking. Pacing.
Energy. Vigour.
Movement.
Walking up to people.
Checking out views.
Hands gesticulating to complement words.
Head thrown back in laughter.

A celebration at the end when the point has been made.

I mean, every time I think of someone making a great point at the podium or conference room, I see one word, besides the inspiration.
That's  energy.

Which is a great antidote to the stubborn layers.

Maybe we should try this out.
At least we will shed inhibition.
If not weight.

The Milkmaid in our Kitchen

One of the things that we used to love as children was the tin of Nestle's Milkmaid Condensed Milk.
My mother had a ritual around it. Must have been a combination of economy, recycling and small treats for her family all rolled into one.

So the Milkmaid would rest on our kitchen counter and mother would make two small gashes. Small is operative here because it was about controlling the flow. The gashes were made  parallely to let in air and help the flow. Kitchen physics.

The tin was then placed on a saucer of water which soon had hapless and ambitious ants floating on their watery grave.

Mother was clear. Milkmaid was for making her amazing cups of tea. A concoction of fresh ginger , Assam tea  and the thick creamy milk. No sugar needed.

On Sundays she would make some rice pudding ( sometimes) and the gashes were made bigger with the kitchen knife being pounded with the "bellan" ( rolling pin).

But what gave my sister and me great joy was sneaking into the kitchen, tilting the Milkmaid and gulping the milk directly from the tin. The tin was held just above our open mouth and we waited for the slow thick trickle.

Years went by and Milkmaid now had recipes printed on its label.
Mother carefully cut them out and we had a Milkmaid recipe book- kheer, cakes etc.

Don't remember her baking so much but do remember the recipes.

Without us realising it, one day the Milkmaid  disappeared from our lives.
Maybe we started having more of black tea.
Father had diabetes so no desserts or cakes.

And Life weaned us off Milkmaid.

I miss the lady with her buckets , on the kitchen shelf.
Think it is time to get her back.

Partners Day at Work

I don't think we could have managed our work lives without the support of our partners.
That morning cup of tea together.
The early morning kitchen rush to pack lunches and have the breakfast out on time.

Being a sounding board to office woes
Suffering the tension of increments and more
Celebrating success
Calming us down when we want to call it a day

The smile we have every morning when we walk into the work corridors is sparked off with that goodbye wave and hug

Supportive partners in our lives - whether it is our parents, our other halves, a sibling....do make work a better place.

Maybe we should celebrate this.
Have a Partners Day at Work.

Where they walk in and see our work stations.
The softboards where joblists jostle for space with happy pictures
The colleagues
The seniors
The canteen boys
The terraces and balconies

When we give them an ovation over a coffee and snacks
And thank them for making work a better place.

Like someone said- know the lives of your team when it comes to concerns and celebrations.
It makes us more humane.
And creates a great work place.

Promises are made to be ...

This thought struck me in the morning.
Was looking at the array of hair products I use religiously to give some body to my amazingly limp hair.
Each one with a promise that made me rush to the cash counter with new hope.
Active hair. Volume. Shine.
Haven't seen any obvious difference.
But I still hang on to the brands.

It's in fact so much like the promises we are used to in Life.
Mom saying- one day we will go to the Himalayas. ( For some strange reason I always wanted to go there)
I believed her. While knowing that there were no plans to even remotely suggest that this would come true in the near or distant future. When income is limited, the Himalayas are not exactly the most sought after holiday destination.

Or what I myself say to others.
"Yes I will make it happen".
Don't worry, we will get that next week".
"We will celebrate your birthday next year".

So many promises.
When we ourselves break them every day and assume it is fine in the course of Life, why worry about brand promises and whether they are always absolutely true.

In fact, I love promises. Brands or Life.
A promise is about hope.
It helps us move on , do things, get active, because it is a reward. Of some kind.
Even if it does not always come true at the end, we ourselves do gain  in some way because of a promise. There is some benefit. Some recognition. Some motion .Some achievement.
And some happiness along the way.

So promises are best when kept.
But even a broken promise or a half met one can work wonders at times.

The Art of Happy Breaks and Mash Ups

Like millions of other wives, mums, professionals  home-makers across the world, I have learnt ways to lead a life of balance.

Where nothing is a trade off.
Professional responsibilities co-exist with personal passion.
Spend time with my family.
Have great conversations with my work team and colleagues, even outside of work.

Some of the ways I have managed to do this are just a smart mash up.

Like,
Spreading my entitled leave  over 12 months in short bursts  instead of one long break.Utilise weekends and holidays in a way that the leave can be stretched.
The mash up I often do is combine something close to my heart with these breaks.
My teaching sessions in management institutes.
A two day course on writing in a city or country I would also love to holiday in.
A Harley Ride across the country.
A book launch . A workshop on blogging.
Tea with someone I have been inspired by.
An art journey.A culinary trip.
A wine and cheese appreciation.
Or just write a piece that I have been wanting to.

Could be anything.
I come  back rich - not just with pictures  and memories of a lovely vacation , but also enriched with some new learnings and experiences.
Which help me immensely back at work.
And as a person.

It needs some hard work.
Teaching means intense prep work.
Attending a workshop means pre-reads.
Even meeting someone who I have looked up or an art journey  means some amount of pre-work.

But then, that's what Life is about.
No pain, no gain as they say.

Today, I feel so proud and happy at the way things pan out.
No compromises on any front.
More effectiveness.
A sense of being complete.
And of course, happiness and good cheer.
Which, I have realised, is pretty infectious as well.
Both at work and at home.

So here's wishing everyone happy breaks and smart mash ups.

Fighting our worst enemy

Assumptions.
They rule our lives, don't they?

My boss does not like me.
My spouse finds me boring .
I think that dress is too expensive.
How can we afford a holiday?
Who will read my writings?

What if they take action against me?
I can never convince them. They are way too intelligent.
My work sucks.
Their work sucks.
What's the point of asking? The answer is NO.
Does she love me enough?
He must be seeing someone.

Truly, the list is never ending.
And then one day we realise that all that we had assumed was only in our minds.

Made us miss out on opportunities.
On love.
Relationships.
Work.
Recognition.
Peace of mind.
And more.

Let us make Assumptions our worst Enemy.
It's worth the Fight.

The Divan

Most of us would have memories, even if misty or cobwebby, of the "divan"  occupying one side of the living room in our homes.
The divan was usually  like a single bed, minus the head board and footboard.
Two things set it apart from the regular beds.
One, it had cushions instead of pillows, arranged horizontally along the wall which also served as a back rest. The cushions were hand embroidered at times, often multi coloured, and placed diagonally, resting on one of the four square tips.
Two, it was part of the living room.

The divans served as home for many a cousin, brother in law, brother, elder son.
Unexpected visitors would see the occupant scurry inside with a pile of books , after a quick straightening of the divan cover.
Visitors hardly sat on the divan. It was reserved for the hosts. Maybe guests in those days found it awkward to sit on a "bed", maybe it was also a part of our hospitality.

At night, most divans morphed into make shifts beds for the additional family member who had a prolonged stay in the house.
Like I said, a cousin in his final year at college.
A brother in law in his first job- looking for suitable accomodation.
The elder son, who definitely had more privacy on this than the big four poster.
Women hardly ever slept on divans- it was too public.

The morning maid who swept and swabbed would show her irritation at this humble wooden piece.
The occupant would usually be still lying down, fast asleep while the rest of the family was awake.
She would have to manoveure her broom skillfully around Bata Hawaiins, a cushion that got shoved off at night and was lying on the floor, pick up the odd ballpoint that had rolled out of the trouser pockets thrown casually on the stool next to it, wash the dregs of the tea in the cup that was the last drink the night before.

Divans had their use in social occasions as well.
In Assam, it was bedecked with marigold and rajnigandha, glittering velvet spread and served as a couch for the bride and groom on their "reception" evening.
The wedding gifts would be stacked on one corner of the divan, carefully guarded by a young niece given the sole responsibility of shipping them to safer confines  inside with her siblings.

Some of our lives are so like the divans.
Always useful. Always used.
Given a place of pride during the day. Abused when no one was looking.
Be the first to be forsaken  when good times mean better opportunities.
Non complaining.
Accepting.
Yet basking in the morning sun rays everyday, making our living rooms and lives brighter and warmer....

Yes we lie

Yes we lie

When we say we are not hungry when people offer us food we cannot have
When someone is wearing something outlandish, and compliments make a day
When we tell our little kids we are not tired and can play that last game with her
When we say  "I have done this"- to save a young nervous trainee in front of a client

Saying no to that last piece of  bread  when we know there's not enough to go around
Smiling bravely when our heart breaks
Being brave when our souls are crippled

Hiding that tear
Ignoring that insult
Pretending not to know that there are things being carefully left unsaid

We lie
That's what makes  us bond
Shows our love
Our strength

Yes, it's ok to lie
At times.

A Truck full of Returns

Saw a truck parked near the kerb.
Outside the Family Court the other day.

Two sets of stern looking lawyers in their blacks and whites.
Serious legal juniors taking notes.

Taking notes?
I looked closer.
Two sets of families taking notes as well.

The men unloading the contents of the truck had half amused, half irritated looks.
They carelessly dumped things onto the pavement.

I saw a two seater sofa set, bereft of upholstery.
A rolled up mosquito net.
Kitchen utensils, work with use.
A cane stool.
Wooden chairs with faded varnish.

Apparently  these were belongings being returned to parties post a legal case.
A broken marriage.

The two sides ticked the lists furiously.
Engaged in debates.
Consulted the lawyers again.

I moved off.
At first I wondered, what good are these exchanges when what one has lost is time.
Precious time, precious years... that can never be returned.
Why do we hold on to material things so much?

Then I realised.
Material things stand for what we have lost.
They symbolise the memories.
They stand for what we have earned. Owned. Grown.
Such exchanges and victories give us the confidence to move on.

Its like the idols in our prayer room.
Lifeless. Yet so full of power and Life so far as we are concerned.

Belongings give us hope.
And once in the hands of their rightful owner,  even a faded wooden chair stands for a victorious end.
And a new beginning.

Of Fifty Shades and Reveals

We all talk  about "black money" turning "white".
This piece goes a little beyond those currency notes.
And talks about Life. And about the Fifty Shades Trilogy that's outsold even Harry Potter.

When I was young, my mother had complete control of all vocabulary in the house.
Forbidden words were, well, forbidden.
Some were bad words. Like swear words, "vamps"( those were the days of cabarets in movies).
Some were superstitious. We could not say "cancer".
Some would get up a sharp slap. Like "masturbation".

So we grew up, like most kids, with solid mental walls that no modern day sledgehammer could bring down.
There was a world of bad words, bad visuals, bad activities- which as years unfolded, were actually quite pleasurable. But only behind closed doors, or in the company of friends. never out in the open.

But times changed.
With the female actors in hindi films doing the same "vampish" moves and wooing friend and foe.
With Google spinning up every kind of search our mind and heart desired.

Maybe that's why Fifty Shades- The Trilogy caught my attention. I devoured the books.
And thought- why?
Not very well written.
Not a great story.
Seen better characterization.
But the why niggled me.

Think it's because the author managed to remove the wall between "porn" and "regular reading".
We don't paste our social world walls with porn sites. But we are writing, talking, discussing Fifty Shades.
The movie being released in 2013 already has Facebook likes and followers. There are innumerable discussion forums. Media blogs. Stories. Merchandise.

Are we only discussing the book?
Or has the author unleashed all the constraints, broken down all the walls- about accepting such literature as just one of the many things we CAN talk about without wondering whether the world will label us negatively.
Maybe we are enjoying the fact that we can actually have the trilogy on our book shelf and not tucked away in cupboards.


Finally, in my mind, Fifty Shades has removed  some of our own demons.
That this world will not accept the "bad".

There is no "bad".
It's just the way we choose to live our life.

Loyalty

Loyalty.
It's a strange word.
On one hand, it means trust, belief, faith, love, bonds.
Forgiveness.
Happiness.
It means partnership. Dancing in tandem.
Breaking out for solos once in a while but always taking the final bow together.

Works at the workplace. At home. In life. As consumers.

But what happens if trust breaks
Beliefs shake
Faith wavers
The knots of bonds start unravelling

Maybe it means its time to refresh.
Understand the issues.
What are those demons gnawing away at the bonds that have kept this relationship going on for so long.
And yes, both have to work to set it right.

What happens if this is not set right

Well, clearly the loyalty does not pay dividends to either partner anymore
And it's time to  move on

Set the bond free
Loyalty is after all not a handcuff
Nor an imposition

It is an option

One that we choose to honor.

Phones are for Talking

Just spoke to  wonderful Raka.
Someone who I worked with, and who quickly moved from being a smart client to an amazing friend.
Always welcoming me to her home when I travel.
Always praising me to the skies, even when I know I don't deserve it.
There to reply to a WhatsApp when we need to talk.

But we spoke today.
As in, spoke on phone.
Heard each other.

Laughed. Giggled. Said wows and sweared.

How do you capture all that on a WhatsApp or an email or a status
How do you make the other person realise you are laughing till tears flow down your face
Or that you have become pensive as memories flood your mind

One smiley?
One frowny?
Two digital roses?
Three electronic hearts?

We have become so conditioned to assuming that what we have today is a great substitute for conversations that we have blindly adopted the new
Lack of time is not an excuse
The call today did not take more time than an email

Am thinking about how guilty I have been of this as well.
How the least functionality of my phone today is a call.
There are days when we do everything but talk.

Maybe we should make that call.
Maybe a call a day  keeps those bonds alive.

Thank you Raka.

Guilt.. feel or made to feel

There are days when  we feel guilty.
Miserably guilty.
Over small things. Or big.

Maybe because we traded off family time for our own.
Given up that lunch date we had blocked off long back.
Chose a path off the beaten track.
Said NO when we could have smiled a YES.
Ignored that tear.
Looked for that non existent smile.

And then I think- maybe we feel guilty because we are made to.
Because we have been conditioned to believe we must, we should, we ought to.
That there's only one way to do things.
That choice is also a compromise.
That freedom is sometimes a bad word.

Making someone feel guilty is a strong weapon one can use.
It breaks a spirit.
Makes one question oneself.
Weakens us.
Prevents us from taking that step.

So World,  feel guilty if you have to.
But not because someone else wants you to.

The Invisible CEOs

Behind every successful man, there is a woman.

Was quite a popular quote in yester years.

Till women themselves refuted it, saying why should women be "behind"?

History regales us with stories of empires being won and lost on the whims and advice of queens, empresses and beloved.

We have seen our partners, fathers and friends discuss work , the problems, the conflicts at home.

And the pearls of wisdom and advice from the other halves, over the kitchen fires , dining table .

Pillow talk is not always always about love and gossip.

It is about the day at work as well.

If a partner is truly the one to be trusted , it is only natural that one reaches out at times for advice.

Even if it is just  as a sounding board.

Wonder how many partners have been invisible CEOs.

Peppered in friendly words of advice.

Nudged their loved ones into taking that risk.

That step.

Or just given that extra hug to say- I believe in you .

Enough to make one confident.

Truly, we owe a lot to the Invisible CEOs.

Transfer of Emotions

Woke up  at day break to add final touches to a presentation - a session I am taking for the younger team members today.
I feel passionate, alive,  full of energy.
There is something about sharing.
Whether it is learning.
Or skills.
Or just an experience.

And when it comes with passion, we go that extra mile to make the session come alive.
Stories take shape.
Slides have a life of their own.
Fonts spread their message in their own soft subtle way.
While visuals make their impactful entry.

Making a presentation  sounds small.
We are doing more than that.
We are communicating.
And communication is nothing but a transfer of emotions.

About something we feel strongly about.
Something we justify, support with evidence.
Convince the other person to believe.
And leave them feeling better, even if just slightly... but better, than what they were.

It is the power of finding our own voice.

The Dance

The rehearsals , "practice" as Ma would sternly say, would begin more than a month before.
No nap after school. No running out to play before "practice".
Masterji would wheel his bicycle up the hillock where our house stood, sip the hot cup of tea and Britannia Marie Ma served him, and then sit down on the floor with the "khol" ( dholak).

I would be ready with my anklets. One two three and start... he would beat the rhythm on his palms first as his melodious voice rang out, seamlessly transitioning to the Khol, as I swayed and twirled and bent and tapped and finally came to a panting halt.
"Hold your smile"
"Look at the middle finger of your left hand, that way you are not staring at the audience"
"Graceful, graceful... softness of steps"

He would go on and on, till the curtains were drawn and the lights warmed the room with their golden hue.

The last week would be with full costume on.
The last two days with full make up and costume on.
The last day on the final stage.
The dry run.

On the day of the performance, Ma would make sure we had light food.
Arrived at the venue well in time.
Last minute instructions.
Daddy's calm " You always dance well, don't worry".
Ma's " Don't forget your smile".

Wait in the Green Room.
The final rush to the wash room.
Walk to the wings.
Hear the anchor describe my act and announce my name.
Take a deep breath. One last prayer.

And then, step out into the spotlight.
Before the expectant eyes of an audience who I couldn't let down.

And I would start my dance.
Forgetting everything and everyone else.

Years later, the only dance I manage now is a quick move at a party before I pant and slump into the nearest sofa. Have forgotten the acts, the moves, the steps.

But I use my learnings every day.
At work, when I speak.
At a presentation.
In meetings.

Everything, at the end of the day, is a performance.