A modest, self-effacing vegetable, questioning, introspective, peeling itself away…

All this recent talk of the obscenely high salaries of B-School Graduates has got me to think about my own much poorer placement days. If only I were born a few years later!

Placement time usually was quite an exercise in social dynamics and there was a collective assault on one’s sense of self-worth as well. It was about the “mind games” that people played with others. So BOB aka Babe of Batch will tell everyone, ‘You know I got a POP (Pre-Placement Offer) from Self Actualization Limited Company, but I have turned it down!’ And this after a very reliable source suggested otherwise. Or like SJB aka Studly Jat Boy who will ensure that he spends quality time with every visiting faculty and get not only into their good graces but also get us some much needed insider dope on recruitments and the like. ‘They have chosen to cut down on campus recruitment this year; you see they are too bottom-heavy. They may just take one person,’ he informed us with that smirk. We would all look at each other most suspiciously in that Gabbar Singh like way, ‘Job ek aur itne saare aadmi… bahut nainsafi hai!’

Anyway in the midst of all of these were the preliminary screening processes that many companies had. At a very basic level this included writing one’s resume and filling up company forms that required the most inane details.

Now writing your Resume was a matter of some skill. And given how much a B-School education encourages group assignments; these were done in the same way. There were also designated Resume Consultants and Form Filler Consultants who would help you in the process, usually in return for a favour like a Maggi at the canteen and such like stuff. These consultants normally needed to fulfill any of the following criteria:
a. Someone who was a very good friend, with whom you could get beyond the petty placement woes
b. Someone who was out of the placements cycle by virtue of having gotten a PPO, or had decided that the rat-race wasn’t for him/her
c. Someone who didn’t want the job you wanted
That made people like Ditty very special, fulfilling all the above criteria!

Besides the resume and the forms some companies also had Screener Tests. Which were most of the times, the usual mumbo-jumbo to-test-powers-of-superior-analytical-ability. You know the types that will have questions like:
Ram drives at a speed of 24 km/hour in his second hand car. He fills 20 litres of fuel. While driving he in manner of Tom Cruise like sings ‘Free Falling’. About 27 minutes of driving later the car breaks down. He stops a cyclist on the way and trades his car stereo for the cycle and starts riding the cycle. The cycle is being ridden at a speed of 2.77-km/ hour. However after 10 minutes of riding his cycle is stopped by, ya you guessed it right – Shyam! Shyam wants a ride on the cycle. Now having a pillion rider reduces the bike speed by 11.77 percentage points. After 15 minutes of riding the cycle, Ram and Shyam stop for a cup of tea. They pay Rs 5 per cup for the tea and the time then is 11:57 am. Ram is vegetarian and Shyam likes only White Spirits. So what is the distance between Ram’s and Shyam’s house?

And unlike your B-School entrance test, these don’t come with those four options (including one that says, ‘Insufficient data to answer question’)
It is sheer genius that the whole batch got placed in a jiffy inspite of all of this! :)

Yet there was hope for some of us. The tests were not always so bad. After all there are industries that work only because god made people with ‘softer skills’. So there were tests that asked you questions like, ‘If Laloo Yadav and Backstreet Boys were captured by the aliens, what would they tell the aliens and how will it impact the parallel life form?’

Okay, that might seem bizarre but so much more scope for creativity. Some of them were less bizarre and were things like, ‘Imagine that you were a fruit, which one you would be?’

The good thing about these kinds of tests was that, the questions remained the same every year. So that gave you adequate amounts of time to prepare and answer them.

So anyway the night before the test, people fulfilling (a), (b) or/and (c) criteria as stated above were invited to one’s room for a brainstorming session on the ‘fruitiness’ quotient of self!

Now the key thing was that nobody wanted to be a fruit which was way too exotic or way too basic. You needed to take the nice middle path, for that way you wouldn’t be the odd fruit out in an organization. So nobody was ever a Strawberry. I mean it is nice and all of that, but to most of us from middle class families that was still an exotic fruit. And one didn’t desire to make one’s elitist feathers apparent now! At the other end of the continuum, you didn’t want to be a banana either. So what if it was the fruit from the most versatile plant on earth, you didn’t want to be something that has typically been associated with slapstick comedy. Na placements were a serious thing after all. You also couldn’t be a fruit that had very limited ‘personality’. Like grapes for instances. Grapes - one tiny fruit, associated with royalty and some kind of hedonism could lend to incorrect perceptions.

Orange was a big favouirte. For one it was layered. It had the softer core and a harder cover. It was about Vitamin C and therefore health. It is bright, happy and cheery. Your personality could be all bright and sunny like an orange.

Or you could be an apple. Red, bright and happy. Sweet and reasonably versatile. It is the first fruit that most of us begin to eat (babies are fed apples) and it is usually the first word that many of us learn (besides Amma, Appa and No). Nice emotional story can be built around the apple personality of yourself!

However the fruit that had most personality and one that everyone had a story about was the Mango. Well it needs to justify the title of the, ‘King of Fruits’ after all. I personally have most of my childhood fruit memories around Mangoes.

In every city/ town that we lived in, we had a Mango tree. And most of my childhood games were centered around the mango tree. So if the Tulsi plant symbolized peace/ prosperity of the household for the woman in the house, for the children it was the mango tree. It was in many ways an accessible sort of tree. I mean did people have a strawberry tree? Litchi tree? No, na? But mangoes were easy enough! Anyone could have a mango tree in their house. All regions, soils and climate seemed to be suitable for mango farming.

Now it didn’t matter what family of mangoes we had, but the fact that we had them was fun. Like when we were in Calcutta, we had what we call – Country Mangoes. Nothing terrible exotic yet the fact that every March the trees would be laden with pretty pretty white flowers. By April almost magically these flowers transform into a small green fruit, which you are strictly forbidden to touch. Every day looking at the fruits required some serious will-power to resist plucking them.
‘Why can’t I have just one of them?’, I would demand my mom most sulkily. Mom wouldn’t relent and instead would give me permission to go and play with Tupur and Tapur the twins who lived in the neighbourhood and my LKG classmates!

Every summer vacation we would along with the many boxes of rasogullas that we took from K C Das, also throw in a cardboard carton of mangoes. By the time the Coromandel Express would take us to Madras, the whole train will smell of Mangoes!

The grandfather’s house in Madras was even more exciting. Because we had every possible tree that there could be. Two mango, two amla, two coconut, one jackfruit and one papaya. The mango tree was once again the favourite. And what was even more exciting is that we didn’t have any country mango here, but the very tasty and well known – Banganapalli, typical of the southern India climes. Now the desire to pluck the mangoes here were much more owing to the fact that the BCA (Bratty Cousins Association) was there in full strength! BCA would constantly try and motivate the various members to attempt climbing up the tree and risking life, limb and property in quest of the mangoes! Usually the one who would succumb to the pressures of this kind of endeavor was Fearless Nandu! She was also the lightest and we could carry her, lift her - so many advantages. She also could cry the quickest and we found that as a good way to handle the disapproving adults.

But while intent and ability conspired. There was also some ‘fear factor’ – the grandfather. The grandfather claimed that he knew exactly how many mangoes were there in the tree every day. He apparently counted them each day and across various parts of the day as well. Of course, this was an adult-bluff. And we knew that. Yet in the interest of self-preservation we chose to believe it after all. However in a way to work around this problem we would pluck the mangoes and drop them from the terrace. We would then make ‘claims’ that the mango fell down on its own – you know gravity and all. This worked for a while till the evil aunt – Urmila Chitti spotted us once. Sigh.

Then one day in the month of May, Plucker Man would come. The BCA would crowd around him and plead that we be allowed to help him. And then we will watch him with much awe as he would begin to use that long stick with a hook and an attached bag and pluck the green green mangoes. Once all the mangoes had been plucked, the daughter’s-in-law of the house would begin the sorting exercise. First a gradation on quality – Good, Medium and Bad. The good ones were green, firm, large and without any spots. The medium ones were ones that could be salvaged. The bad ones were either to be thrown or demanded immediate consumption. Then the good ones would be distributed across all the family members, neighbours, servants. There was a complex formula that was used to compute how much mango each family got. Our family was given three dozen mangoes. I used to be super-excited. I don’t think I even knew how to count till 36, all I knew that we got, ‘many tens’. So the Coromandel Express journey back to Calcutta saw us carrying back mangoes.

The mangoes now needed ripening, and that was an interesting process too. As they were placed in the brass drums that normally stored rice. I and my brother would each day want to check if the fruits were ripe enough now. Sometimes even checking within an interval of an hour! Oh well, patience was not a biggie virtue as you can imagine… And then one day Amma would declare the mangoes were fit for being consumed. Much excitement would happen as she began to chop the same. The two sides would be sliced and then cut in the hedgehog pattern and then there was the seed. By far the funnest experience of mango eating was when you got that seed. It normally didn’t fit my palm; it was the least ripe part so was fun… it was gooey, messy fun! But sadly one mango had just one seed and dividing that among her three children was quite an exercise for Amma. She resolved the problem by giving everyone an opportunity to eat the seed part!

Then there was the Bombay uncle, who was always the big favourite. A visit by him during summer-time meant we would get the much sought after Alphonso mangoes. I am not even sure we could actually tell the difference between country versus Banganapalli versus Alphonso… but Amma would get so excited about it that we also found ourselves getting excited.

My obsessive love for mango took a turn when Appa was posted in Allahabad. Now this was the biggest house that we lived in – which had three guava trees, one mosambi tree, one custard apple tree, one lime tree, a huge vegetable garden, a rose garden and of course two mango trees. And no ordinary mango here mind you, but the famous Dasheri. That was the pride of the house. And every visitor we had from down South was proudly shown the two Dasheri trees.

Now the problem began. Because by the time we reached Allahabad, the siblings had moved out of home in pursuit of academic excellence. That just left me, Amma, Appa and a few hundreds of mangos. The Dasheri was totally special as a mango type. For one you could not chop it. You just sucked into it, like it was a Frooti or some such. For one week it was fun. Then we decided that so many mangoes being consumed by three people would be a bit much. So we did the neighbourly thing and I was sent with a basket of two dozen mangoes to Colonel Talwar’s house. Aunty graciously accepted and thanked me ever so nicely. I came back running, and me and Amma did a mini celebration of having got rid of 24 mangoes. That evening Talwar Aunty’s daughter Tanvi came to use with 3 dozen of mangoes!
No No, we said. There is so much here.
She pooh-paahed and let us know that this was Langada, another sought after variant.

This led me and Amma to conclude that distributing mangoes would result in an exponential increase in the number of mangoes that we will have at home.

Post this Amma started a minor food processing industry. She made mango jam, mango jelly, mango preserves, mango chutney. She would make me have Aamras when I got back home from school. Day one I liked it. Day two was okay too. By the time it was Day three, I let my mom know that I didn’t want anymore.

Aam-Papad is the solution to our problems, Amma decided. Yes, I gleefully agreed. But in those days of non Google pleasures, how does one get the recipe of Aam-papad. We decided to experiment. So the mango pulp was put into sugar syrup and cooked for a while. They were then laid out on trays under the 45 degrees Celsius sun. I would go and touch the mixture on the trays every 10 minutes to see if they were solidifying. It was a disaster to begin with, but eventually mom improvised and got it right. Much celebration.

But finally the Laws of Diminishing Marginal Utility caught up with me and I could have no more mangoes. I mean, how many mangoes can a girl eat? Surely there must be a law against mom’s who sneak mango into every meal? After I threatened to run away from home, mom gave up on the, ‘If it is food, then it must have mangoes Mission!’

And so in a Summer of 1991, me Smugbug, an erstwhile obsessive Mango Lover was scarred of mangoes forever.

Oh in case you are curious, the fruit that I share the personality with is the Water-Melon! Because it is so multi-faceted with the outer dark green, a white and the gorgeous red inside. It is light and fun. It is guilt-less fruit. And it is always some amount of anticipation to cut it to see, if it is indeed as red as you expected it to be.

So that is me – ever the bundle of surprises, bright, happy and all of that.

Oh and do hold the snide remarks, because not only did I get through the Screening test, I also go the job! And they happen to be my present employer!

So the next time someone suggests a co-relation between mangoes and the kind of job you will get, don’t snigger!

Even better than the real thing...

What happens when Bloggers become real people? You know that type that has a name, a face and a personality. Somewhat disconcerting actually…

You will discover that there is a Blogger:
… Who went to the same school that you did
… Is from your work-place
… Whose mother you see on prime-time television
… Who lives in an apartment that you pass by everyday you go to work
… And so on

Patterns are excellent, especially when they match ever so nicely. It can potentially lead to great amount of socialization. Many a Hindi movie blockbuster was made in this – my-pattern-is-similar-to-your-pattern revelations. And of course life imitates art and all of that! But sometimes you don’t want any patterns. You are this anonymous person and as every anonymous commenter on a Blog will vouch for, that is the most comforting/ empowering feeling.

Eventually you reach a stage where you can’t Blog like no one is watching. Which may or may not be a good thing? I am yet to make up my mind.

So anyway in this patterns quest, I recently discovered someone I sort of know. Someone with whom, I share some common past life type connections. So while I sheepishly revealed to her who I was, she had one pertinent question, ‘Why do I need to blog anonymously?’

Sigh. Now if I had a name as exotic as – Charukesi, I would certainly have considered this non-anonymous blogging. Like how cool will I be – single, ready to mingle chick with musical sounding name. I would have been the average troll fantasy I am thinking. But jokes apart, do read her Blog – it is one of those non self-indulgent, intelligent Blogs around. The type that I hope to have someday!

So anyway, I subjected her to a rather long-winded (Surprise! Surprise!) monologue by way of explanation on the same. While god is in the details, I will spare you the ordeal of my line of defense.

But suffice to say, I am not anonymous because of a desire to perpetuate any kind of mystery woman persona myth. I suspect I could be far dreamier with a real-person feminine name as opposed to calling myself a BUG and such like creatures that are somewhat scary and urrgghh. I just like it better this way. There is no baggage attached. And how much we all hate baggage no??!

Thankfully people who read Blogs are nice and civil and usually don’t get into chat-room like, ‘a/s/l please?’ kind of queries. Some people do ask me stuff like, ‘Did you even go to college?’ Aink? It would have been easy to get disheartened after hearing that, but someone else also told me, ‘You bloody of elitist college fame moron!’

Well, what can I say? I must come across as truly multi-faceted type of a personality on my Blog.

Of course the Blog does create various perceptions about the person. And this forming of perceptions is not the prerogative of trolls alone. Everyone forms opinions of X, Y and Zee Blogger basis what they write no?

I have been part of two hate shrine sites as Megha likes to call them. Now I will not get into whether the perceptions held by those two Bloggers were correct or not (I shall leave that to your superior judgment), but those were perceptions that my Blog seemed to convey. Not just trolls, even nice people do write about you every now and then.

So if all this happens, why should it be a surprise that someone develops a Blog-Crush on you?? Mind you, this is not to be taken as a subtle reference to someone developing any Blog-crush on me. But a few posts back, I did get a comment about how a commenter thought he/she was in throes of a – Blog-Crush! No names revealed mind you. I was very very happy when I saw that. Why?

Firstly, my poor old spinster heart was filled with much hope and happiness!

Secondly, the Internet is a great equalizer. Because everyone is very very sexy. It takes remarkable skill to not be actually. So even better.

Thirdly, I spend loads of time on the Internet. I do read a whole many number of Blogs. Okay, so I am not a Power Blogger like this person, who apparently tracks (200*10 or some such number) blogs!!!! If someone paid me some money, I could do that. At this point I am happy reading some 23 Blogs. But given all the happy statistics involved (one Blog created every some minutes), the world is indeed your oyster. And if we slap in the number of Blog-readers the number will jump some more. Also, past experience suggests that it is the non-Bloggers who will love you more!

After the initial enchantment of the situation sunk in, the more rational left-brain began to come up with some questions and think through this some more. Naturally, you could either be the ‘hunter’ or the ‘hunted’! Which brings about some important questions?
Scenario 1: How do you know if someone has developed a Blog Crush on you?
Scenario 2: How do you know if you have developed a Blog Crush on someone?

Let’s take Sceanrio 1, because it is so much more fun. So how do you know that you are the chosen one? Here are two sure-fire signs:

… You are the only Blog that this person comments on (and let us leave out friends from the real world for a bit here, I am assuming none of them have a crush on me). You read 23 Blogs and you have a fair idea who are all the people commenting on most of these 23 Blogs. If five people read your Blog, there is a good chance that they will all read at least one other Blog on your Blogroll. Yet, fatboyslim42 only comments on your Blog. The content of the comments don’t matter. But as long as it is just you, it is a good indicator that you are the one. Creating an id just for you is not the big thing. But creating an id to only be nice to you is slightly suspicious! Yes one must be suspicious of all these nice people!

… The crusher has a blog which is completely inspired by your Blog. So all posts will be inspired by your posts or the comments in your post. So franklintempleton42 should follow up this post of mine with a post about Blog crush’s and such like. Basically his/her Blogging life (as opposed to real life) revolves around your Blog!

I bet there are many more, but lacking in some experience of being a Crushee, I am able to think no more. But I would encourage all you women (and I daresay some men as well) to feel free and contribute to this list. Especially the ones who have been at the “receiving” end of such affection!

Let’s take the not so pleasant, Scenario 2. Now having a crush on someone is a bad place to be in. And I mean this in a very real world context here. Let us see what all does having a crush involve:
… it is usually meant to be a secret that a large number of people know about
… it is usually not reciprocated
… it usually leads to some kind of socially awkward situations

Given all of this, an Internet crush is most tragic. Because the Internet is meant to be the great enabler and is the easiest way of social gratification. Imagine now to have a Crush on hottamchick777, cannot be too good. And there is such a thing as a hot Tam Chick, so spare me all those, You-moron-from-land-of-Silk-Smitha arguments! The Internet is the truly happy place in the world and to have this happiness ruined by icky feelings cannot be too good, can it?

Now besides the above two behaviour, if any of the following happen you might perhaps need to consider that you in the throes of a Blog Crush:

… If you dream (and remember it the next morning) about a situation which features GreyMatter111 in it, then you might consider that there is possibly a crush type thing. It also depends on how vividly you are able to describe GM111.

… Actually all mental image that you might have of a Blogger, inspite of lack of any visual aid is suggestive of finer feelings. So for example if you read fourteen posts on the, “New Economic Order” by Adamsmith42 and conclude that he probably has nice brown eyes then you can imagine it is just a bit worrying!

… May be you might develop irrational dislike for BongBomb0091 as PunjuStudMuffin1154 shows a distinct desire to socialize with her than you! Though some people might argue that most hatred tends to be irrational! :) But jealousy is a good benchmark as all the Chic-lit you ever read must have told you!

Anyway one might want to add further to that list. But since I am trying (with limited success) to write shorter posts, I will stop for now.

However, all of this is not a subtle (or actually not so subtle) reference to either me being a Crushee or a Crusher. But it is to do with grand moment of realization that my Blog gets commented on by a large number of people,(whom I don’t know from various other worlds that I inhabit) who neither have a Blog, nor do I see them anywhere else. And also to do with my keen analysis of various other Blogs (lets keep it vague, shall we?)

None of this is to suggest malice to any party. I personally have great appreciation for the concept of a Blog Crush. And am furiously reading Blogs that I think are crush-worthy. I do have some ideas though, not that I am telling (so don’t even ask!) Reminds me of a great poem by Seth:

Unclaimed

To make love with a stranger is the best.
There is no riddle and there is no test.

To lie and love, not aching to make sense
Of this night in the mesh of reference.

To touch, unclaimed by fear of imminent day,
And understand, as only strangers may.

To feel the beat of foreign heart to heart
Preferring neither to prolong nor part.

To rest within the unknown arms and know
That this is all there is; that this is so

The purpose behind this post was very simple, ‘When thou has nothing to Blog about, thou must Blogeth about Blogs!’

Obtuse Triangle...

So I glanced through the menu that I actually knew without even having to look into. It hadn’t changed in the last three years that I frequented the place. In fact, nothing had. The furniture was the same, the people looked the same, and the air-conditioner was always a little colder than what one liked. Rather unremarkable. Yet I always came back here.

I cast an indulgent look around the place, with this almost sense of ownership. Okay they call it – Café and Conversations. Almost unacceptably simple, like a six year old coined the name. But that is what the place was. Of coffee that tasted faintly of the paper cups that they served it in, the kind you would snort at most other times. And the conversations that were measured by, the number of cups of coffee that you had, which you never wanted.

The coffee was incidental. It was always the conversations.

You know those that were peppered with stray references to Dylan Thomas and Altaf Raja. Post modernism would attempt to displace (and with very little success) discussion on the best Sindhi food place in all of Bombay. Of conspiring, cathartic bitching, of plans made, advice sought, advice given. Of promises made and broken.

Anyway while I once more seem to be going to places that are best left in the dark confines of the memory, A interrupts. She looks at the waiter pointedly and asks me if I had made up my mind about what I wanted. I guiltily look at the menu again and unable to make up my mind mutter, ‘Hot Chocolate’. A looks at me surprised. ‘You are a coffee person’, she points out to me. ‘Well, I am an all new person now’, I tell her in that tone, like the women who come on Oprah. A looks at me raised eyebrow and proceeds to get into a detailed description of her order.

A was my friend for the last couple of years. She was one of those friends who became an important person in your life, without you realizing it. Without, you wanting it. So she was Mr Poet’s friend that is how I met her first. Mr Poet, the boy I knew as a child. Our families knew each other forever. He was the person whom you call your childhood friend. I had always disliked him and the feeling was entirely mutual. Then we grew up and somehow the dislike mellowed and was replaced by a comfortable camaraderie. We could be asexual beings with each other. He was my guy friend, minus those icky complications. All was well.

Oh and he was Mr Poet not because he wrote poetry, but because he read it. ‘Who reads poetry, unless it is part of school?’ I asked him at age fourteen. He was aghast. He got me the works of Neruda. I didn’t understand. He would read them to me, during dusk time, in the month of November in Delhi. Those almost wintry days… He introduced me to the world of poetry – from the angst of Thomas Hardy, to the wit of Dorothy Parker, to the simplicity of Erich Fried to the pain of Keats, to the profoundity of Dylan Thomas, to the lyrical poetry of Ghalib. And sometimes, just sometimes I would delude myself with the happy cliché notion that Mr Poet found all that poetry just for me. Reading between the lines became my favourite past time.

Then one day, he called me. ‘We must meet’, he told me excitedly. We were in different cities by then. And those were the nicest three words that he could have told me. Almost.
‘There is a new place that they have opened in Bandra. It is called Café and Conversation. Say I meet you there at 6,’ he asked. ‘Make that 7, and then we can do dinner too,’ I said. ‘Even better,’ he said.

I hung up and sort of floated happily around. I was even nice to J, colleague who always left me feeling faintly out of my depth.

The day of the meeting finally came. 11th February 2003. I ask roommate, ‘What do you think I should wear?’ ‘Clothes’ she replied, most helpfully.

I can’t get any work done. Tell boss at 5:20 that I was feeling rather unwell. She tells me I needed a few days break. I guiltily mumble how I will be okay tomorrow. Call up Mr Poet and tell him, let’s meet earlier. He agrees. And we have a fabulous time. We argued, we fought, we looked at what the other had ordered with disgust and we promised to do “this” again. We discovered the most inane of things, like for instance, that we were both reading, ‘Catcher in the Rye’ when the Gujarat earthquake happened.

That is a sign, I thought.

Every month, on the second Saturday, we would meet. He would travel 642 kilometers to have a cup of coffee. With every meeting, roommate would be more disapproving. ‘I don’t know what kind of dysfunctional relationship this is,’ she would remark. You, cynic you, I would pooh-paah.

Exactly nine months and three days later, we met again. And he told me about her – A. ‘You know, we have such a connection’, he said. ‘She is the most beautiful woman I have ever met. She can complete sentences that I start. She is fabulous. You will love her.’
‘Um-hmm, so how long have you known her?’
‘About nine months now…’
As my roommate got me another Disprin for the headache, I could see it in her eyes, ‘I told you so.’ I wish she said that aloud, but she never did.

‘I am so excited that the two of you are meeting. I think you will get along famously…’ he told me the day before I was visiting their city. Her city. Her house.

The maid answered the door and I was stuck by the perfection around the place. Everything looked pretty and the way it was meant to be. I sensed the flowers in the vase were glowering at me. The red beanbag stared at me moodily. Stop being fanciful. Okay so I wasn’t used to being alone in a stranger’s house. Her house.

‘Memsaheb asked you to wait, she will be here in half an hour’ the maid told me.

I nodded and stood up with this desire to steal away a small piece of the idyllic perfection for myself.

Feeling sinful I stepped into the study. There were a dozen bookshelves of all sizes and Camus jostled with Wilde and Sylvia Plath to adorn them. I picked up a book bound in an earthy brown. Did she match her books with the colours of her wall? Or the furniture? Drapes?

'Dripping venom, are we?’

I was perhaps transgressing boundaries, but I just got a little more curious. I stepped into the bedroom and the picture perfectness remained. Did Mr Poet come here, I wondered. I picked the happy couple picture of the two of them at the bedside, stared at it for a while and deliberately dropped it. Did I just see the maid walk by?

I came back to the hall and waited for A to return. Finally she did come, accompanied with Mr Poet. ‘I hope you made yourself at home’, A trilled. I guiltily blushed. Mr Poet had this, I-just-won-the-grand-prize-look on his face. I had this urge to physically brush away that smile.

I looked at her closely and realized that she wasn’t as pretty as her picture. Her teeth were this uneven shape and her eyes too small. I was feeling better, already. I didn’t like her. Her almost exaggerated niceness. Her tour-operator voice… That is us in Florence you see. That is when we had gone to Leh, wasn’t it awesome Mr Poet, she looked at him smiling. He nodded and went into details, by which time my mind had blanked them.

After the longest three hours, I left.

I would have barely got into the car, when my phone beeped. It was Mr Poet texting me.

So?
What?
Did you like her?
Do you like her?
Of course, I do. She is awesome, no?
Ya she is nice. Does she like poetry?
Well, not much.
Well she does seem to have many books no?
Oh yes. I got them for her. But we have so many other things to talk about; we never get to the poetry bit. And besides I love enough poetry for the two of us. She doesn’t need to love it as well.
Right. So, I will see you around.
Yes, I am so happy that you two girls got along so well.

Two months later, he called me again.
‘She is gone’, he wailed.
Did she die, I wondered.
‘Gone where’, I asked in neutral tones.
She has decided to end this. She says that that is it. I think we must meet.

I braced myself for the meeting. The only thing worse than a friend in throes of love is one in throes of a broken-heart…. I saw him and my heart went out to him. He looked so vulnerable. So broken hearted. I wanted to hold him and tell him it will all be okay, but I didn’t. Because I knew then, it will not be.

I don’t know why she is behaving like that. Suddenly she seemed to have changed. Remember the day you came to our place, I mean her place?
Um-hmm.

Well there was this favourite photograph of the two of us, which she had kept in her bedroom and it broke. She got upset. She yelled at the maid and you won’t believe what she said, that madam who came went to your room and was checking everything.
Huh!

Exactly. Then A got so hysterical. Why did that woman come to my room she kept yelling? I also yelled back and left.
We met two days later and she was calmer. She kept saying how she was not comfortable with our closeness. I assured her that we have no deeper feeling for each other. We don’t right?
Of course not.

Yes. But she just kept picking up fights. She began avoiding my calls. Refusing to meet me. And now the silent treatment. How insecure can she be? I hate her.
Hmmm.

That evening I got back my friend and something more.

It was a very happy three weeks that followed. Of stolen moments, of holding hands in a dingy movie hall, of stolen kisses on the ride back home, of being deliriously happy.

Then he disappeared. Just like that. None of those daily phone calls. None of those planned rendezvous. Nothing but broken promises.

It was then that I met her again, at the ethnic clothes store. First there was awkwardness.
I am good too. And you?
Very well thanks, she replied.
There were a million things that we needed to talk about…

At the billing counter I asked her, ‘Care to get a cup of coffee?’ Sure, she said. My place?
Errr no. How about Café and Conversation, I said? They had opened a branch here as well.
Sure, lets go.

How is Mr Poet doing, she asked with that careful, nonchalant tone.

I really wouldn’t know. He must be good.

Oh, you are not in touch with him?

Well I suppose it’s a good time to tell you. But we had a close, dysfunctional sort of relationship. And then he just disappeared. He told me, that it was always you and not me for him.

Oh and he told me, it was you and not me.

Oh. What a moron!

Totally. I bet he was commitment-phobic.

Yes. Or plain slimy.

Lucky escape, eh?

Absolutely.

You know I am moving to Bombay and I think it will be nice if we can keep in touch. I think we both need a friend. And let bygones be?

Sure, I would like that.

So here we were once more at the place where it all began. As friends.

Keep your friends close, they say. And keep your enemies even closer…

PS: Belated realization, the narrator in the story is not me. So I did make up her side of the story. But that is not, my story! :)

The tale of a bat wielding bug...

Me: *Annoyingly sweetly* Why don’t you tell me a bit about yourself.
BT1: *Annoyingly annoying* Like what?
Me: *Most helpfully* Like what you do? What you like to do when you get some free time?
BT1: *Bored* I am in FYJC. Ruia. Commerce.
Me: *With that ‘what joy’ tone* Nice nice. So how is it to be in college?
BT1: *Bored* Is okay.
Me: *Persistent tone* What is the best part about your college?
BT1: *Bored* It is cool.
Me: *Upbeat tone* How very nice. So what all do you apart from going to college?
BT1: *Bored* Nothing.
Me: *Persistent tone* Errr, surely you have hobbies? What are your hobbies?
BT1: *After longest pause* I like to watch TV. You know, Fear Factor.
Me: *Oh-I-totally-understand tone* Right right, how nice. What about other hobbies?
BT1: *Face brightening* I like to chat.
Me: Errr, right. Internet?
BT1: Na, with my girl.
Me: *In despair* Right, right.

Me: *Annoyingly sweetly* Why don’t you tell me a bit about yourself.
BT2: I am in SYJC. Computers. I want to do Engineering.
Me: *Wow-you-are-so-smart voice* Oh great. That must be tough!
BT2: *D-uh* Uh-Huh!
Me: So why engineering?
BT2: *D-uh* No Idea.
Me: Right! So tell me apart from going to college, you must be having hobbies no?
BT2: *D-uh* Nope. I don’t have time. I go for tuitions.
Me: *most helpfully* What about weekends? Do you play cricket?
BT2: Play?? *Incredulous-You-Moron Expression* I need to go for “extra” tuitions during weekends!
Me: *in despair* Oh dear!

May I have the pleasure of introducing to you - BT1 and BT2 (BT aka Bored Teenager). BT’s can be found in your neighborhood, wearing American University or European Football Club/ league T-shirts, looking rather angry, mostly undernourished, carrying books filled with incomprehensible questions on Quantum physics and seen hopping from one tuition class to another (usually in pursuit of Mathematical Genius).

Occasionally cheer (!) is added to their lives when “evil” marketers trap them and subject them to the world’s most inane questions in hope of selling more toothpaste (what else?) You see every person walking on the road is a library of “insights” and once I get under their skin/ into their shoes I might have the next big idea! Honest. That is the business-model that we operate with. We promise our clients on how we can develop this kind of “cosmic connect” with the consumers.

Establishing a connect with a random person walking on the road as you can imagine is hardly the most easy thing to do. Hell this connect business it is tough as it is! But one tries very hard to do that (in the interest of keeping those kitchen fires burning). And to do that, we catch hold of these people and usually ask:
a. A comprehensive bunch of questions, that can be used as missing pieces of a jigsaw puzzle to construct the big picture
b. The same question over and over again, in different ways (usually up to the point when the person being questioned doesn’t slap you)

Now if your job is all about, ‘asking questions’ then you need to take care right? When I started working, my then supervisor gave me the simplest piece of advice and suggested that I never ask people questions that “I” cannot/ will not answer. It is a good benchmark to keep in mind. And there is a very thin line that separates healthy curiosity from being inquisitively obtrusive.

Over the years of working I have concluded that “I” cannot answer many of the questions that I ask my consumer. Heh! I mean I have no clue:
… Why I buy X brand of shampoo
… What is the Freudian connection between the colours of the packaging of the ready-to-eat food and the shared moment of intimacy with my partner? (Okay, so I don’t have a partner… but it is a tough question anyway!)
… What animal my toothbrush will morph into, should I personify the qualities to it.
… If the colour of the model’s sari in the toilet cleaner ad adhere to what I believe about the brand (!)
… Why should Dhoni be advertising a Sandal soap brand?

Thankfully I am on the side that asks all these questions!

The most difficult people to interview are – men and teenagers. And the grief increases manifold when your audience is the 17-year-old boy. Now I empathize with their trauma of being subjected to such inane questions (and it can bore any person in the world). Yet, these are people who like to “demonstrate” their boredom. Gah! Thank god for the cultivated thick skin, which makes you go ahead and ask those questions anyway.

Anyway, let me get to the “point” of this post. Of course, I do have a point most of the times, except that it is usually never a point, but a three dimensional geometrical thing! Honest.

So before we get to asking consumers about fabric wash preferences and the number of times they need to rinse their mouth with different brands of toothpaste we need to “warm” them up. And spare me any innuendoes will you! Warming up consumers is usually the regular ice-breaking thing. You basically give the person a fair OTT (Opportunity to Talk) by asking questions that are usually simple to answer/ or fun to answer. And so you ask women about their mother’s-in-law/ husbands/ aspirations for children etc. Rather easy. You modify the questions basis the life-stage/ gender of the people you are meeting.

However one has realized – new questions need to be invented after all. The old questions simply don’t seem to work. I have got the sense over the last couple of years, that asking anyone, the classic (and I daresay the mother of all warm up questions): “Okay, tell me about your hobbies?” Just doesn’t work. Nope. You will usually get any of the following:
1. Errr, Errrm, Ummm, Hmmm and their sisters (The Buying Time Syndrome)
2. Who has the time for hobbies (The Let Me Be in Denial Syndrome)
3. How much time will it take? (The Kill her with Aggression Syndrome)
4. Watching TV (Right!)

Welcome to the New India – the hobbies-are-what-my-mom-had generation.

Okay before you jump at me and show me all that empirical evidence of the various “hobby” courses that are blossoming in every nook and corner of all of our neighbourhoods (this so that our children morph into multifaceted talented individuals and what not), stop! These are not really hobbies. The child is thrust into it (with very little say in it). It is usually another one of those “classes” that he/she must attend and it becomes as painful as going for Sanskrit tuitions.

Hobbies are meant to be fun no? It is something that you do because you want to (even at the risk of getting disapproval from others). It is something that you would want to spend a languid Saturday afternoon with. It is something that you want to talk about with your friends. It is something that you want to show to others (if it can be shown) and it usually stays with you for a longish period of your life…

Like the dictionary definition says, ‘An activity or interest pursued outside one's regular occupation and engaged in primarily for pleasure.’

The key here is the pleasure. The inexplicable joy that the right brain perceives that the left-brain can never really articulate.

I am your regular 80’s child, having spent some of the most impressionable years of my life in this period. Forget all the political turmoil of the decade (including the Sikh riots, Indira Gandhi’s assassination, Thatcherism, Reganism, Russia, Iran-Iraq war), it was the decade when we won the World Cup, when Aamir Khan made his debut, when ET smashed box office records, when Batman, Indiana Jones, Ghostbusters, Friday the 13th etc became cult movies, when John Lennon was shot dead, when designer stubbly dudes became a fashion statement, etc.

In spite of / because of / no connection to all of these macro factors – this was a good period to grow up in - enough amount of free time to pursue hobbies and not enough of technological advancement that could come in way of such hobbies.

So if my interest was, “Collecting Stamps” it was possible to do that because people who lived across the globe would indeed send you snail-mails. So collecting stamps [the process of extracting the stamps was itself a laboured task, I remember my dad would ask me to soak the envelope (after removing the letter naturally) and slowly pealing of the stamp. The trick was to soak the envelope for the just-right amount of time], collecting coins [more tougher as people needed to go to someplace and come back for you get coins… but I knew this boy who used to have many coins by virtue of having a large number of relatives in the Middle East. So he used to trade his coins for Indian currency, and we followed our own exchange rate depending on the size of the coins. So if he had a coin that had a diameter similar to the Indian 50 Paise, I would get two such coins for a rupee! Heh! I think, I got the better deal], collecting something, anything were all what broadly fell under the category of hobbies.

But now all of that seems to have gone out. Those happy days of seeking immensely simple pleasures…

Not to say that people don’t have interests. They do. But the way I understand Hobbies - that almost obsessive streak that it demands, is perhaps missing. Someone asked me recently isn’t reading a hobby? Or listening to music? Or even Blogging? I am not too sure. Somehow I associate some amount of – collection and creation with a hobby. So may be collecting every live recording of the Beatles might still be a hobby (though, it still does sound a bit strange to call that a hobby). Blogging is closer to a hobby (you are usually not paid to do it and it is fun as well). Yet it is not something I can keep in a cupboard and take it out on a day when I am feeling low, I can’t hold it in my hands, and it won’t age and fade away… It looks the same every single day. If at all with technology, it can only get better…

So I am a hobby-less person too. I mean, I wouldn’t know how to answer that if someone asked me that question. And I would be most embarrassed (apologetic even) to tell someone – reading and music are my hobbies. Oh well!

However, there is one place where hobbies still exist. And how!

I have been doing some content analysis of matrimonial websites profile adverts as a matter of academic interest. My quest for WMD (Web Made Dulha) has met with mostly comic results, which you don’t even want to know. But since I was helping an aunt put up a matrimonial profile for her son (aka Psycho Cousin No. 15) I did check out a few of those sites. Yes, the irony of the situation is not lost on me.

Basically I wanted to check, what it is like “out-there” now and come up with a profile for my cousin that will beat all the other boys (after all, blood is thicker than water). I noticed so many things, which deserves a post in itself actually, but I will spare that ordeal for self and others. But quick observation:

... That all boys with profile pictures broadly fall under two categories – Nikhil Chinappa look-alikes or Sonu Nigam look-alikes. This is a slightly worrying trend. Sonu Nigam is a no-brainer really (unless your mom is checking out the site for you… moms like Sonu Nigam, a legacy of the TVS Sa Re Ga Ma days). But Nikhil Chinappa is slightly scary. Okay, so Designer Stubbly dude is all nice, but you can’t marry boys who wear more rings than you and has more piercing than you, right? Or can you?

... That nobody actually asks for that tall, fair, slim, beautiful wife (unless the advert is being posted by a parent). Subtlety is totally in. You must read them to understand what I mean

... There has to be a mention of Culture and Values. Especially if they are in the wicked West themselves, they are reassuring you that none of that have-been-culturally-uprooted angst has affected their lives. Or may be they are reassuring themselves!

... That girls as young as 22, have their profiles. Sigh. Now how does one compete with that?!

Anyway, I can go on. But let me stop. The most common trait of these profiles is that all of them are very multi-faceted and have hobbies to boot! Yes, Hobbies. Not one, not two… usually half a dozen at least! Impressive eh?

What is even more impressive are what constitutes as hobbies – Bungee jumping, Para Sailing, White water rafting, Deep-sea diving, kickboxing! Errr? O-kay. Nice. The new adventure seeking generation, eh?! :)

But really, what I did once (as part of 100 things to do before I die) is surely not a hobby, is it? Else how does one do stuff like deep-sea diving in the vicinity of Bangalore is something I would like to know?

If you thought that was bad, take this – People, Minds, Cultures, Rains, Boat-rides and so on. Now you may like all of these. You may get an emotional high out of them. But how are they hobbies. And how come the people I need to interview, never ever say such things? Sigh.

However the important thing is that I have written out the Profile for Psycho Cousin 15 and have made him sound like a bit of a cross between – Cary Grant and Srinivasan Ramnaujam. Okay, so whatever chance he might have had of finding a bride is ruined eh?

I still remember Smugbug (Age 8) and Psycho Cousin 15 (Age 11) have this conversation:
SB: I want to bat now.
PC15: Girls don’t bat.
SB: What do you mean? I will not field at the boundary. The ball never comes there.
PC15: Listen, girls don’t play cricket okay?
SB: Well says who.
PC15: I do.
SB: Well in that case return my bat.
PC15: No way. That is mine. Your name is written, what?
SB: It actually is. *Pointing to neat printing of SMUGBUG at the bottom*
PC15: *Hysterical laughter and pointed the same gleefully to all the boys he was playing with... who all proceeded to laugh loudly* Girls are so silly.
SB stormed out of scene with bat in hand.

SB was never let to forget the story. Every time she came for vacation, she was the girl with a cricket bat that had her name on it. *Snigger Snigger* Boys always made fun of poor child. All boys in neighbourhood always sniggered behind her back and she was christened not so creatively - The Batty Girl. Oh well.

So the profile has been created, with twenty-three hobbies no less! Time has come for some Poetic Justice. Hah!