Weirdo

“Weirdo”

They thought he hadn’t heard it, but he did, he always did. The thinly veiled comments had stopped and it was now full-fledged vehemence that he heard and what he saw was uncontained gleeful faces saying it.

He walked on. He had always walked on.

He sat at his desk and plugged in his earplugs to the dusty CPU and fired up VK. He knew the rest of the people in his bay all shared music through it, listened to the same songs, breaking out in peals of laughter at the same time and from his peripheral vision he could see heads bobbing out of the symmetrical cubicles, all at the same time, with the same gay looks of mirth on all their faces, looking at each other and glowing with the joy of their shared camaraderie. All of theirs except his, from his corner cubicle, from where he had showed one of them how to use VK. Of course they promptly used it to make him feel even more excluded. But he didn’t really mind.

When he had sat with the rest of the kids at movie time every week, oldest among the lot, he was as curious as the rest of them, childlike, always waiting to see what came next.

When he was told he would be tutoring with the nice lady who was going to carve out time and money because he had “potential”, and he nodded, he wanted to see what came next.

When he was told there weren’t enough funds for him to go to college, because the rest of the kids at the home needed to go to school, he said okay, waiting to see what was next. He helped clean, sew, mop, cook at the home in return for continuing to live there even though he was past the age and had to move on. The kids liked his unobtrusive presence and let him pick the movies, but only after he had checked through all of their homework.

When the nice lady’s daughter came by a year later and said the nice lady was no more, with tears in her eyes, and left him with an envelope full of money, he looked up at the teary eyed woman and before he could react she was gone. My mother saw potential in you, she had said, she had great hopes that you would make it in engineering, she said.

At college, he sat through one class after the other, always waiting to hear what was next. In the company of his long silences, he absorbed every word, always waiting to see what was next. When the men in suits took over the entire college for a day and walked around looking important, and he was asked to interview, he found himself wondering what was next.

He heard whispers from the teachers about the sadness, the potential, and the luck that was bestowed upon this orphan boy. He heard about diversity in multinational corporations. He heard how his life would change.

And it did.

He began to notice things he hadn't before. He noticed that mismatched socks were gross. That worn out Converse sneakers that were drawn on with doodles were disgusting. That tiny hole in his shirt he hadn’t noticed made him a hobo. The lack of a girlfriend meant he was gay. Not liking pizza made him a loser . That the word sick didn’t mean someone was ill. Slay didn’t mean there was violence involved. That calling somebody a bitch with a smile meant they were friends. That his inability to find every little thing awesome, amazing, mind blowing meant he didn’t get it.

He felt bewildered. He was unsure now if he wanted to see what came next.

He didn’t agree, he didn’t understand. He did not think he was the child of tragedy he was made out to be. He didn’t know how to be dramatic at every new song and baby goat and every new internet sensation. He didn’t feel like he was a hobo, or a prude, or gay. 

He knew what was amazing and it was not a cat video.

And now, as he sat looking at the screen with lines and lines of code, he heard it again. In between all the laughter, a head nod and a pointed finger in his direction, with a smile that tried to look friendly but the lips saying,

“Fucking weirdo”.

They never knew that sometimes songs end and you can hear these hateful words through the ear buds.

He pulled open his drafts on email and sent in his resignation letter.

This time, he would know what was coming next.

A Letter To My Brother - Why I am a Feminist and Why I Read Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

I am not the most articulate person. I lack a brain to mouth filter and most times it takes me a while to realise that the flurry of thoughts in my brain and what has spewed out of my mouth in a hurry to explain those thoughts before I lose them, means that I have not said what I meant to say, and you have not understood what was in my brain.

Add to that fact that I am a Feminist. (Yes, I am. I don't burn bras, at least not yet. I do not think men should be burned at the stake. I do not think women are better than men - I do not think anybody is better than anyone else.)

Add to that the fact that we do not live under the same roof any more.

Add to that a huge generation gap that makes it exponentially tougher because it is the age of the internet.

What you get is my complete inability to help you understand why I am a Feminist, and why I need to be one.

And therefore, I hope that I can articulate it better as I write.

You do not understand my need for feminism because you live in a house where the need for it has been non existent. You learned to cook, same as me because it was a life skill, and not because of a gender role (and I will admit your Dosas turn out far better than mine, just this once). You were expected to learn to clean, sweep, clear up after a meal, same as me because it was a life skill, and not because they were tasks assigned by gender. You grew up in a home where your mother went to work, same as your father, and your father knew how to cook, same as your mother. 

You still are in a home where Amma stays up worrying whether it is you, or your sisters, who are out late at night. She does not worry more, or less for you and us, she worries the same.

But I got out of that house, willingly, and for reasons I then believed in. And once I was out of that environment, what was a small voice at the back of my brain, always shut down, always drowned out in the noises of work, and friends, and fun, and worries, finally made it to the forefront and demanded my attention. It was not a demand I conceded to easily, but it got to me in the end.

I paid attention to the voices around me that were condescendingly saying "she may not come back to work, she is getting married". I paid attention to the people saying I got lucky (the man I married was never lucky to have married me). I paid attention to the subtle things that I missed before because I lived in a home that did not allow me to think that way - you did not do something, or did not get out of something, simply because you are a girl.

Oh, the things I heard! Here is one person in particular, every single day a new gem : 
"She cannot go to X-City! She is a girl!" 
"Oh my God the women here drink more than the men!" 
"She went to X-Country with her friends and without her husband" 
The very same person wanted a wife that was employed, and can cook, and was fair and beautiful, and would be his version of a good wife, without ever questioning his skills, his looks, always implying he qualified simply because he is a man. I am glad the person in question is still single. Thank God for small mercies.

As the voices got louder, I began reading more. And I began reading Adichie. She made me think - put the book aside after a few pages and actually think about was she had written, before I could pick the book up again. She may have been talking about race, about colour, about things nobody wants to talk about or admit they even think about, but it was a resounding - "yes, yes, that is what it is" in my head. It was fantastic! Here was somebody asking me questions I was scared to ask myself, and nudging me and prodding me to think, think, think.

You need to understand that the minute you identify yourself as a Feminist you are casting yourself into a mould that is already lodged deep and etched vividly in people's minds. You are a violent, loud, irrationally angry person with possible lesbian tendencies - it is unfair on straight and lesbian women to assume that a lesbian is automatically a feminist - who is out to get men and does not appreciate the benefits of being a woman and is unnecessarily creating a hue and cry over nothing.

I finally got to a point where I admitted there is a problem. And I thought it was worth being  a Feminist despite that ugly mould in people's minds about what being a Feminist means. As much as it took me a while to get there and acknowledge it and get over the fear of that judgement, I do identify myself as a Feminist. I am a lot of other things, but I am also a Feminist.

And so I was vocal. I did not scream (you have to trust me on this one), I did not shout, but only politely asked a question, or gave my opinion. 
"Did you ask the girl in question if she can travel alone?"
"But I do not have to move because my husband wants to?"
"Why don't you learn to cook so you can help your future wife?"
"Why don't you consider moving instead of your fiancee?"
"I have been wanting to go on a solo trip - yes that means without my husband".

Here is what I was tagged - Aggressive. 

And here is something to think about - when you are older and can make the above statements in a relevant conversation, make them. There is a good chance that you will be tagged - Progressive.


I will not pretend to believe that I can change people, I do not want to. But I want to be able to do what Adichie did - make people think. I do not have the ability, nor do I want to get people to understand, but I would love the ability to help people think about what they are saying and why. I am trying to make my peace with the fact that most people will not think, will not change, will always laugh at Feminists and Feminism, and that is okay.


I will not pretend that I am right, that I know everything, that all feminists are always right. That would be pretentious and stupid. I am still reading, I am still learning, and I admit I could be wrong about a lot of things. But here are some things I am not wrong about because they have all been deeply personal experiences (and also because I will never let go of the chance to write something in bullet points). How the world is so different for you and I, who grew up in the same home, who have had the same upbringing, but the world is a different place to me than it is for you because you are a boy and I am a girl.

- You do not have to think about where you are wearing shorts to, if it's safe, what your safest mode of transport is when you wear shorts. I do. You wear shorts in the summer like you wear jackets in the winter. I don't.

- You do not worry about how anything clothing above the knee can be seen as an invitation to flirt. I do.

- You do not hear catcalls when you walk alone on the beach. I do.

- You do not hear "hey" a few times followed by "Too much attitude to talk? Bitch". I do.

- Whenever it is that you get married, if you do, you will never be penalised for not overtly displaying that fact by wearing a chain around your neck and rings on your toes. I am. You will not be judged and told you are trying to "appear single to attract attention". I am.

- When you take solo trips, nobody will ever ask you how your girlfriend or wife "allowed that" and not tell you how lucky you are. I am asked, and told those things.

- When you get promoted or move up in your career you will never be told you did that "despite being a man". But I am told that I did well despite being a "married woman".

- Your major life decisions like deciding to get married, will not make you worry about  how it affects your promotion and how you are perceived at the workplace. Mine did.

- Your boss will never ask you over and over "are you pregnant?" out of a deep worry that you may not be able to travel. Mine did.

I can go on, but I will stop.

You do not see the need for feminism because you have never experienced these things, and you never will. You may not even fully comprehend it because these are things that happen to someone else. I do not expect you to wake up one day, suddenly aware of what these things feel like, or change yourself and the world around you. But acknowledging that these things do happen, everyday, many times in the same day, is a big first step.

I do not want to change you, I want you to Think.

An Approval

“It won’t last.”

“What won’t last? Do you think the colour will run? Man they over charge for cottons!”

“No, not that overpriced rag in your hand that passes off for a tunic. This. This phase you’re in, with your head in the clouds. It won’t last. It’s a lot of work, and you need to be practical about these things”

“Pessimist much?! Come on, get over it! I found the guy. You thought I never would. You even asked me if I was gay, remember? Offering your support. Saying it will be okay. I don’t see what the trouble is now. I’m there – a committed relationship. I’m happy. I’m buying a girly tunic in red for God’s sake. It’s not black and it’s not a t-shirt. How do you NOT attribute this to love?

I was there once. With my head in the clouds. With that feeling that convinces you that love makes you invincible, and you can take on the big, bad world and all its monstrosities. Everything feels like a UG 15 Hollywood movie set – the colours are brighter and life looks like it is the most beautiful thing.  You truly believe la vie en rose.

But it sets in though, and slowly. So slowly you hardly see it coming.

Along the way, when you are driving to one of those mundane weekend chores, you suddenly realise that there isn’t a hand that’s reaching out for yours, there isn’t a caress at every red light, no fingers brushing the hair away from your face. What is there of course, is a tattered t shirt and old shorts that walk into a store and look for tooth brushes.

You look in the mirror and wonder why there isn't that need to spend another extra minute – it will only take a minute – to line your eyes with kohl. And then that dreaded thought pops in - what for. The pair of mismatched socks and faded shirt across the room do not care whether your eyes are rimmed with kohl or tears.

It slowly seeps into you, and takes over who you are, and becomes a part of you. You don’t realise it until you catch a stranger giving you a look with such disdain that you truly start to take a look at yourself. The way you catch a passer-by looking at your house, and you look around, truly see, and wonder why the cracks and faded paint have gone unnoticed and for so long, time to give the whole place a lick of paint. Maybe next year. And it turns into the next, and the next. When you walk around without realising that you have batter caked on your shirt at a checkout counter that earns you the look, you know you have become the living and breathing version of the ancestral home you've inherited after ammamma passed on. Cracked, malfunctioning, with a shaky foundation that means a complete overhaul of the whole place.

But that was my inheritance, not hers. I look at her as she wrinkles her nose at everything she sees. I patiently wait for her to lose patience and give up so we could walk into a store with tees and jerseys. I know those will be the only ones she will wear. The lovey-dovey clothes will rot in the corner of her cupboard until she discovers them one day when she is frantically searching for something to wear to a wedding she doesn't want to go to in the first place.

We were opposites in every way. From the clothes we wore, the work we did, our choice of public transport (she will smart at the idea of not being in control, auto drivers are my saviours). She will use the “da’s” , the “podas”, the “dei’s” and the “dude” at the drop of a hat, I wish I was in Austenland and live there indefinitely so I could hear people talk the way they did.

Not for her the disappointment and the settling. Not for her the killing of a sunny disposition.

As far as I remember, the fact that we were different only made me protect her more. Not for her the killing of the idea of love. Not when it took her so long to take the plunge, trust someone outside of her little circle. When she broke out of her shell of ferociousness to finally let somebody in, how do I bring myself to break her happy bubble?

We finish up, walk in to the place and plonk our bags on an empty chair, look at each and burst into a fit of giggles. We had done some strange things together, but this was by far the strangest. She didn’t feel young enough to be asking for approval, and I didn't feel old enough to be approving any man she was with.

The minute he walked in, the look of joy on her face just took my breath away. I even saw this look of pride that for a minute unsettled me. She was proud, of herself, of me, our little circle, but this was new. He sat next to her and I could see this was a different person. She was not the girl I knew anymore, she looked like she was a young woman who knew her way around the world. He put an arm around her and I could almost swear that she glowed!

We talked, she glowed some more, and I jokingly asked him if his intentions were honourable. He swore they were, that he meant the best, that they were in love, did they have my approval. And that made me laugh. Not because I was nowhere qualified to be handing over approvals, but because I had a vision of a similar intent and vociferous submissions of love. The flashes of memory were so distinct and clear in my memory they almost threw me off. I remembered the feeling of being held and being moved across the floor. I remembered feeling as graceful as a Duchess in a ball. They were immediately followed by memories of feeling broken and misshapen. Of that distinct feeling of being alone and alienated. In my mind, they would always be connected – the girl who was envied for being carried across a dance floor and the girl who wept out of such heartache that it changed her world.

I wanted to protect this happy being so fiercely from all that pain, that I did a double take when two expectant faces looked at me. Of course I was not okay with this, far from okay, definitely not okay. I excused myself.

As I looked at the mirror in the harsh bright lights that all these new-fangled places seem to have, I could clearly see how much I had changed, aged, but not by the years. No. I did not relish the prospect of seeing her turn into a shell of what she had once been. She cannot turn out to be me, as much as she was mine. She was a strange being, a heady mix of me and her father, the one that came into the world when I was nowhere close to ready. But here she was heading into the same pit that I had taken no heed and fallen into. I headed back with the clear intention of finally being a mother, of telling her she was forbidden. My God, for never having said that her entire life, it was going to take some kind of courage to tell her that I was deciding to be a stereotypical mother when she least expected it. But no, I was determined to never let her feel the things I felt.

I walked back, and I had to stop in my tracks. She was right there in the middle of the floor, with her head on his shoulder and they moved like they were in a world of their own. She held his hand and looked up at him, and he laid a gentle kiss on her head. She looked more at peace than I had ever known her to have been.

And that was the end of my determination. Oh, my sweet summer child.

Being A Brahmin Girl....

....means I wake up at the crack of dawn, and after a bath, I commence my ritual rigorous pooja of two and a half hours, before which I would have milk and Prasadam cooked and ready to be offered after my pooja is done. After which I help with cooking and cleaning while chanting the Hanuman Chalisa. And then I leave for work. Of course I will make my prostrations at the pooja room before I leave. After a fruitful day at work (of course I am a techie, would you think I would let my brainy Brahmin brains rot?) I come back home, quickly freshen up, and do a half an hour pooja again. I know I know, what's the world coming to? But my very important tech job means that I have to cut down on the one hour long proper evening pooja. I am hoping the Gods are kind. And it goes without saying I say my prayers before bed. I mean which Brahmin does not do this? Because god forbid if you don't! Abhisthu abhisthu! 


NOT.


Because I am not a god-fearing Pooja (not the girl the religious ritual) loving techie. I would not know SSL (is there something called SSL?) from SAP or whatever it is the techies do (and then obsessively abbreviate). I also am very unhelpful in the kitchen, and if it NEEDS to look like a recently bombed war zone, my mother would ask me for help. I have forgotten all the mantras and chants I learnt when I was little. I can still recite a little bit of the Bhagavad Gita, but the pronounciations will be quite questionable of course.


 I also know that every Brahmin geek with a computer and access to internet would have thrashed this subject from every possible angle. Like this, and this.


But THIS:

This takes the cake! 


I have no idea which newspaper ran this, all I know is that when I saw this at work I had a fit! I was rendered speechless at how stupid the whole thing seems.


Brahmins are not the small pox or the plague to "die out". 


I have always been the first one to crack the nerd jokes, the techie jokes, curd rice jokes and generally join in the revelry online that takes a poke at all the nerdy absurdity we Brahmins love. But blithering statements about "late marriages" and "some couples have only one child" is not funny at all. 


Who are these self appointed "Community Elders?". Where did they pop out of? I think there is enough of a plague of matrimonial sites, sabhas, and magazines.  Brahmin moms (mine included) are tech savvy enough already. Any further "awareness" will lead to mass migration of the younger generation to the "yoo yess" as a means of escape. These "Community Elders" will then have a much bigger problem to deal with.


I belive the ONLY reason Brahmin weddings have a turn out of any sort is to hunt for prospective son/daughters in-law. I know for a fact that neither the food, nor the evening reception's kacheri is any way an attraction. Uncles and Aunties are usually doing the rounds, smiling and giving the girls/boys the "Brahmin-once-over". (Move over Manhattan-once-over. The Brahmin-once-over beats you in speed AND accuracy). I am sure their "databases" are far more accurate and up to date , when compared to anything these so called "Community Elders" are planning to create!


Also, I choked when I read about the apparent Lack of Education. "Some have done ONLY B.A. or B.Sc. ???". Three years after I completed my apparently useless Graduation in Commerce, I still get "Aiyo! No B.E?? Che! " from a whole host of Brahmins who are not even remotely related. Because a non-technical education is viewed with the same distaste as they would a doped hippie ragpicker or a non-Brahmin tech genius. But it is bordering on stupidity to air views like this on a national newspaper (assuming that it was. I still haven't got my hands on the original article.) How do they propose to find a "Solution" in any case? Send all the non-technical Brahmins to a Special Techie Camp so they find brides? Learn How To Be A Techie in 30 days.



I am guessing their next "bride" Idea is to replace "B.E" with a "B.E plus M.B.A".

And we wonder why we are the butt of all jokes? 

The Cubicle Adventures (Part III)

On special demand (yes, you crazy women, you owe me!) the  Cubicle Adventures make a comeback.


So it has been about a year (how the time flies) and I am still in the same job! There IS a God and miracles happen, I guess. And if I think back to a year ago when I started out, I cannot believe the kind of whirlwind changes, and all I have that passes for a reaction is "huh". Very eloquent.


But this is not about how I feel or what I do for a living or how the time has flown. This is about the what passes for an office crowd around me, everyday.I still sometimes feel like a school kid who mistakenly finds herself in a really bizarre place with funny people passing for adults, every morning! 


If you are one of those people who's reporting manager sits around where you do, and you hate it and think you have really sore luck, here's some news:  We have two Bosses. And if you think that's bad, BOTH of them sit BEHIND me.


Aha! Are those "oooh"s and "aah"s and "ouch!"s of sympathy?


The Hummer and The Screamer. The Hummer was the original boss. Hummer is not a reference to his Hummer-like huge hulking personality. It is because I have it from a very reliable source that he apparently hums un-decipherable songs while he pounds on the laptop maniacally. The Hummer has a fan club AND a stalker. Which is very, very bad for ME. Because the stalker keeps dropping by and pretending to be friendly with ME just so she can stalk Hummer. The Fan Club seems stable and does not give me any trouble though, thank God for small mercies. But last I heard a Facebook page was in the works. 


The Screamer was brought in because the work was pouring in and multiplying like the germs they show in those toothpaste ads. Not the cute germs. The really gross ones that make you want to throw up. We were told that this was the reason. But we have reasons to believe that The Hummer couldn't take the Giggling Madness (more on that later) any more and was slowly but surely heading to insanity. We could see the signs. He just kept running around like a loose cannon on the floor, laptop in hand. Anyway. We look at The Screamer like she's a grenade. For now, she is this nice, plump, sweet lady who talks like a kindergarten teacher. But it's a known fact that kindergarten teachers are monsters in disguise (Goosebumps are all true stories) so we are waiting for that giant explosion. Any day now.


I need to meet people from one of those those fly-in-the-wall documentaries. How are they DOING it? I feel like there are cameras focused on the back of my head, watching my every move. It can be very, very unsettling. Bosses are a bad idea, bosses sitting behind you? Now that can compel you to contemplate a career change.


And just when I started contemplating that, enter Giggling Girls.


I am never one to cut a long story short. To start right at the beginning, know how they say you should learn from your mistakes? So i decided to put that to practice. I decided I would not make the same mistakes I made at my last job. (And I don't mean work-wise, I dint really work at my last job. I used to work shifts, and only remember walking around bleary-eyed at odd times, sometimes stopping to wonder where I was and what I was doing there.) So I decided this time round, I was going make a fresh start, and not be the shrill annoying over-friendly person that I tend to turn into without warning. I was going to be (drum roll) the Ice Queen. Ha! 


So the Ice Queen thing lasted about 6 months, I plugged in to music, did my job, came home. I did not speak unless spoken to. I discovered that I could, indeed, converse in monosyllables (a monumental discovery. I also discovered listening to music continously for a few hours gives you a serious case of vertigo, leading to misconceptions that you have a secret stash of booze hidden in the office somewhere ).


UNTIL.


Until the 2 girls decided to ruin everything. They're like drama meets comedy insanity meets shrill giggles all rolled and packed into two cubicles. Hard to contain. Which is why giggles keep bursting out of those two cubicles at two-minute intervals. 


Work could be a threateningly growing mini-mountain, mails could be whizzing around yelling threats, there could be a thousand mind-numbing-ly boring training sessions and maybe even the false ceiling in office could fall on our heads. But the Giggling Girls WILL giggle. I kid you not, if the ceiling did happen to fall on our unsuspecting heads, there will be some shrill giggles emanating from underneath the rubble.


And they are also the single most important reason I like going in to work and are the prettiest girls on the floor. (It is morally and ethically wrong to publish untrue facts like this in return for Snickers, Mars bars & Gems. Just saying.)


There are also some other regular features that roam "the floor".


The "Pole". The Pole is a veritable "chick-magnet". And no "The Pole" is NOT slang for a Polish immigrant,this blog does not believe in racism. "The Pole" is an unbelievably tall individual, and wherever The Pole goes there is a buzz and a gaggle of girls around him.It's quite funny to watch sometimes- The Pole moves, the gaggle of girls moves in synchrony. The Pole stands, the gaggle stands around him adoringly. Oh and the Pole seems to revel in it! I sometimes wonder if I will see him at work the next day, most of the guys throw him these very vengeful glares every time they see him (along with his gaggle) pass by. And if looks could kill The Pole would be dead a thousand times over.


Megalomaniac. Made an appearance in Cubicle Adventures I & Cubicle Adventures II. Still going strong with the megalomania. He also keeps a hawk eye (oh those beady eyes are the stuff of nightmares) on the Giggling Girls and ME. His pretexts are so brilliantly creative. They range from "what did you girls eat for breakfast today.." to "the reason why I'm bald is...". And all this to see what we are up to when we are standing there giggling for no apparent reason. Well we definitely aren't planning a suicide mission or scheming for an embezzlement, we are also pretty incapable of helping him with any Ponzi scheme he might have, so he usually walks away bored.


Mr Bean, débutante in the Cubicle Adventures, and we think soon to be successor of Megalomaniac. He has all the markings of a fledgling megalomaniac. That crazy glint in the eye, that bordering-on-arrogance strut when he walks, and the "hey could you please talk a little softly because my very important very secret mission to earn billions for my company is being hindered by your noise levels" lecture. I was once the recipient of his meant-to-intimidate-you cold glares. Definitely Megalomaniac Junior. 


The Newbie. He is definitely another "chick-magnet". And since he sits right next to me, I am subjected to listening to a lot of "coo-ing" from the girls who find excuses to come talk to him. But the upside is that The Newbie is actually quite, quite funny! And gets along with the Giggling Girls like a house on fire! It has been decided - Judgement reserved, Newbie will be observed for a further (undisclosed) period of time and any increase in funniness will be made note of and considered favorable for a good Cubicle Adventures review.


The College gang. For almost a month there was a huge buzz at work! There was so much excitement and the guys were all "oh the college girls will be here soon!" And honestly it was a little insulting. The rest of us might not be recent pass-outs, but we weren't exactly crazy women with warts everywhere and smelling of cats, were we? But anyway, the College gang arrived. With a bang. And did splendidly and lived up to expectations. It has been a few months and the buzz is still going strong! The floor is noisier. The men seem more enthusiastic. Even the conversation in the restrooms has changed from "my mother in law, my domestic help, oh my mid life crisis, my husband" to "oh yes lets go drinking Friday! where did you buy your blah blah! yes I'm so excited about that new thingammajig we learnt today!". I shudder to think what kind of conversation change this has brought on in the restrooms of the opposite sex.


All in all, it's a little easier walking in to work knowing that the craziness could lead to good things. Like providing fodder for a sorely neglected blog. 

Ok, so, my phone is reverse-psychic.

In the general craziness that is a regular work day, my phone seems to be poking me and nudging me and trying to say "look! THIS is how you see the funny side of things!"

It's not my phone per-se, maybe just my service provider. But picture this, there is a massive issue and so-called discussions with a person i would love to empty my entire knowledge of cuss words on, (let's call him "B" shall we?) and I'm actually considering putting B on a permanent hate list, when my phone beeps and the text says "Will your friendship turn to love?" followed by "to know sms blah blah bleh". Bad sense of timing?

But it was not just the one time!

Weight jokes are a daily occurance. And not fat jokes, i am the butt of all "thin" jokes. (And believe you me I am NOT thin, just regular weighing average individual). If you think people got creative with fat jokes, you should hear some of the Thin jokes. I envy the fat-joke bearing guys, they at least have the sympathy of the world!
Anyways, there was this regular coffee thing going on when a not-so-regular guy decided to join and take the jokes to an insulting level.
So there I am seething and fuming and wondering where all those bars of chocolates and the cheese and junk have disappeared, and beep goes the phone, "Reduce so-many kgs in so-many days! Guaranteed results! Try the Slimming Sauna Belt"

And there was this other day, a Monday, and by some crazy, inexplicable miracle, it's a happy day at work! All laughter and jokes and no crazy emails and no people trying to snap my poor brain in two. I'm thinking, "well, it's not so bad after all! I do think I like my job!" and it pretty much went on some more in the same vein (I can get VERY talkative, even when I'm only talking to myself.) and beep. "Stuck in the wrong job? Find the right one! Sms blah blah bleh bleh".

Phone in bin. *wipes hands*

So after what seems like an eternity, I am finally at home with nothing to do except the fierce determination to churn out a post on my barely read almost dying blog. I do not want to bore anybody with details about how I am dreaming about work. Oh, wait. That would be a nightmare!

There are about 5 drafts of the Cubicle Adventures III. But they come across as a frustrating rant of a really pissed off person (which sadly was my state of mind when I wrote it) so I decided never to publish them. Because I had one of those brilliant flashes at work one day (the ones where are supposed to be hard at work but suddenly an unrelated but brilliant idea flashes in your brain) and I decided my blog should have a point to it - to not have a point. To be only about non-serious observations. That will obviously, help nobody in any way and will not spread knowledge of any kind, or be intellectually stimulating. I should do what I do best. Be nonsensical to a degree and make as little sense as possible and add a little confusion for good measure. Yes, that works best.

So apart from work, I have been spending my weekends trying to master a foreign language. The aim is to speak like a native. So far I'd say I have been so successful that the only native I spoke to looked a little stunned at the funny sounds I was spewing out confidently, and got out of that cafeteria as fast as he could.

When you register you are put in a class of 25 people. The first time around I was thrown together with a motley crowd - a 65 year old translator learning his 5th foreign language, an exotic Iranian woman (who stopped turning up, to the despair of quite a few people) an Afghan journalist who was very passionate about Indian movies and music, the usual bunch of techies, couples emigrating to other distant lands and a few students. Since I am neither exotic nor a techie, and nor did I have a show-offy art-y job, I didn't fit in anywhere.

After what seemed like an eternity but what was in fact only three months the batch got done. And by some miracle I even managed to pass, and for the next level, I got thrown into a new batch with new people and a teacher just a couple of years older than I was. After a round of introductions I realised that most of the class was comprised of students, and not even graduate students.Some of these were kids in the XIth & XIIth. I prepared myself for three months of quiet boredom. What could possibly be interesting with a bunch of kids I had nothing in common with? I even came home and ranted a good bit about how everybody in my class was a kid and how old I felt.. (I don't think it made a difference in any case, I think my mother has now developed the ability to "hmmm" "haa" "ok" "oh really" at all the right places without actually listening to anything I say.)

And then I had to eat my words.

I basically spend almost my entire weekend (It's a six-hour session) with a myriad bunch of kids, their age ranging from 16 to 21. They are all mostly still in college, and use a vocabulary that I have had to consciously suppress the minute I set foot on "the floor" first day of my first job. But the minute i entered class and heard "daaaa"at the end of every phrase and sentence ... oh, music to my ears. The lingo came flooding back like it was never, ever forgotten to be replaced by polite-deathly-prim-sounding corporate dialogue that passes for actual talking.

We would finish class, hang about aimlessly and then, go have dessert on a whim. Or just muck about right there because the food is cheaper and everybody is broke. (They don't even pass judgement when I say I'm broke. I usually receive the "what-an-irresponsible-adult" look when it slips out that I am hard up a particular month and can't make it to dinner at that overly-expensive new restaurant). Remind you of something? Oh yeah! College. Back in the days when we made plans that were executed the next minute. Unlike now when I have to intimate people a couple of weeks in advance to have a measly cup of coffee at a strange sounding new fangled place, and all we would ever do is complain about how hectic work is and how "career pathing" is important and how bad our bosses are (I have GOT to meet some people who love their jobs).

It's a refreshing change to hear things like "so you're in e-commerce retail? I dunno what that means, but I think it's cool bro!" and even "hey you have a job?? cool bro!" and "bro I am just going to be this kick-ass musician in a few years and you can take care of all my public relations stuff, you know?" And yes. I'm now a "bro". Ha! (And just to clarify, gender does not matter. You are a "bro" irrespective of your gender when you are a part of "the gang").

There have been some other interesting additions to my vocabulary too. Like "Haw" for instance. "Haw" is a word that can be used as an adjective, pronoun, verb, as a question, as a response to a question, as a word to cover up a swear word, etc etc. Why say a sentence when all it takes is a word? Haw! Also "shahbash". And a bunch of other words that cannot be repeated here for decency's sake.It was also an equal exchange of knowledge. I passed on some defunct words from back in the days, you know, knowledge transfer, from one generation to the next?

We even made an attempt to study this one time. It went amazingly well. We gobbled down dessert like food-deprived 5 year olds, cracked jokes that were not remotely funny, guffawed at the silliest things. Discussed music, twenty minutes where I sat cringing, feeling like I belonged to the age when dinosaurs roamed the earth. And oh maybe picked up a phrase or two from the books lying in front of us.

So finally my weekends are normal again and I am finally in a state of mind where I can at least write without every second sentence being a rant about murdering my cubicle-neighbour or wishing the boss's boss's boss a painful stomach ache induced by "all that spicy eeendyan foood, ya know".

Some people turn to meditation, some to alcohol, some to kickboxing, most turn to this popular support group at all work places - the smoke group. What can I say, I prefer living in denial two days a week, pretending to be 16 again with not a care in the world. To each their own. Haw! 

A Walk to the Park

There is a reason I do not get out of home. A very good reason.

Neighbors.

Call it Fate, Karma whatever. But I live bang in the middle of a street that puts the word Neighbour on par with Terrorism. Not a day goes by when i wonder how peaceful life would be if I had lived elsewhere. My Neighbours actually make getting out of the house a task that requires stealth, speed and a conniving nature. Which I unfortunately lack. The street houses a myriad bunch of lunatics. And I am being polite.

They are in-escapable. You cannot go out to buy groceries or even a simple bag of crisps. You cannot expect silence. And you definitely cannot reach the Park for a Walk.

Right opposite live Sir Bald-Head Sour-Face and Lady Fat-Ass (Original names we christened them with cannot be mentioned for decency's sake). In short Baldy and Fatty. They are a match made in heaven, and what a sight they are to see. Him, all short stout and sneering, and her, towering a foot and a half above him with hair that puts Medusa to instant shame. They have let loose on the world numerous children, who in turn have let loose an insane number of screaming, crying, screeching grandchildren. Needless to say Fatty and Baldy are very proud every time the kids torture the dogs, break window panes and generally make the world a very noisy place. These kids have really...Really...made me appreciate the value of silence.And if you try to step out they feel free to pelt you with stones, tennis balls , or whatever else they may happen to have in their hands or, care to pick up from the street. I almost break down in relief when the entire clan leaves for the Village during Summer Hols.

And Iron Man. (Because it is apparently impolite to call him Dhobi, although thats what he really is.) Has rented out a shop beneath Fatty and Baldy's residence. Iron Man is very sweet, and not to mention useful. (you'd realize if you were very late to work, the electricity goes off, and you're standing with a very crumpled shirt in your hand. And are rescued by Iron Man who smoothens the creases and makes you look civilized when you land up at work). No he is not the problem. But imagine you decide to walk out to the balcony to get a breath of much needed fresh air....and your vision is blocked by a huge, hairy man in trousers and a vest, staring up at you while Iron Man irons his shirt.Nightmare.Balcony therefore rotting and unused.

And Colonel LIC. Next Door on the Left. An ex army man who decided Insurance is the best thing to do post retirement. Curse the day he found out I was employed. Everytime he sees me he decides to stop and tell me one gory tale or other, always inadvertently ending in..."If only they had INSURED themselves..they would have died in peace...tch tch...now see?? You need to get Insurance!! From ME." , in his booming voice that drowns my stutters informing him my insurance is taken care of.

Family Friends. Oh what a misleading term that is! A building down the street that houses five families. I still cant figure how they are our family Friends, since that is exactly how they describe themselves. And they have been telling me One thing since I was in Class Ten : Get Married. When i reached Class Twelve they told my mother that i was running out of time and all the good guys would be gone. They look at me with such pity in their eyes. They spend the day in front of TV watching Kannada soaps. Cooking Cleaning etc etc happens with Kannada soaps in full blast. Walking into that House and hearing the same evil Laugh blasting forth from five different television sets simultaneously can jangle the nerves, and badly.Everytime i step out I am bound to find one or the other of these women, (since there are so many of them) lounging around on their porches! And they start..."Aiyo ...still not planning to get married????".

Psychopath-Nerd. Next door on the Right. Apparently four years in an IIT addled his brains. His pastime is now terrorizing anybody who happens to walk on the road in front of his house, threatening to file a case against them, as his father is a lawyer. Dunno how he'd manage that, as his father has been deceased for very long now, bless his soul. Nevertheless, he has filed complaints against cows for biting off his shrubs (weeds) and chases children with a stick, and will start yelling for his mother if you talk back. And the Mother, she would've made Phoolan Devi look tame. Together they take Danger on the Streets to a whole new Level of Fear.

Getting out now involves techniques adapted from spies of lore and tips picked up from Hollywood thrillers. Opening a particular window and checking for any Nieghbours on the loose...And etc etc... And once the long process is completed.. bolting down and rushing with mad speed to the end of the road and jumping into the first auto you see.

Because God forbid you bump into any of the Neighbours.

Which explains why I sit here ranting about them, instead of that walk I intended to go on.

Bangalore has changed, and this reality check came in the form of a post from a blog I have read and loved for a long time now.

It's like seeing your best friend put on weight and not realizing it, simply because you've been seeing her every single day. So one day you suddenly do a double take and wonder how you overlooked such an obvious change.

We were walking down Brigade road, and at the junction where Brigade road joins MG Road, I was asked "You're here after a long time aren't you?". Fair enough, because I have lived here all my life, and could not answer a single question about the Metro. And that REALLY got me thinking. I am at brigade road 3 weekends out of 4 simply because it works as a hangout/ midway meet up point for most people I know. And how blind have I been? I finished with college in 2008, and for the first time in these  three years, I opened my eyes and took in the changes, only to realize I do not recognize this city anymore. It has been a horribly rude awakening. This is a double take times million. Because these are changes that have been slowly creeping up, bit by bit in unnoticeable installments, to have culminated in this mammoth tribute to so-called progress.

Bangalore is the sweet young girl, who got pushed into growing up and turning into this sophisticated woman. But lost her roots in the process. There are still bits of the old Bangalore though, tucked away in remote little corners, fiercely guarding the originality like the last vestiges of the sweet young girls untainted and content soul.

There are no places where you can get filter coffee for a few rupees that tasted like the remedy for all your problems of the day, no street food that can be consumed without worrying about the lining of your stomach. There is definitely no clean air to make you feel like you are lucky to live in the garden city, and I really have forgotten all the laughter on long strolls we took on MG Road a few years ago when I was still in school. We have watched huge edifices take over the happy open places, swanky joints ruthless replace the comfortable and cozy, inexpensive eat-outs, and The  Metro has changed the city in more ways than one.

And when a city changes, so do its people. I am now acquainted with a generation of direction-less individuals. The city is overtaken by clones; if you do not look, dress and talk like them, you are rewarded with condescending stares. Individuality is lost to the next generation like the city's claim to being the garden City. There was a time when every other person I knew came from somewhere outside of Bangalore, and they were all thrilled to be here and were wonderfully vocal about how great the city is. I don't hear that anymore, worse, all the true blue Bangaloreans I know are desperate to relocate.

Somewhere inside this sophisticated exterior lies the soul of a city that really misses the old days and the old ways, beacuse when I remember the city I knew just a few years ago, I remember a place that knew contentment. We did not have the mad rush of Mumbai, the super-enthusiasm of Chennai, the bustle of Kolkata, but if every city had a word to describe it, Bangalore's would have been "content" a few years ago.

Right now, though, just like a generation of young people, it is just restless.

This is what bliss must feel like.

Because Bangalore can suddenly surprise you with showers in summer, and make everything seem beautiful thanks to the steady drizzle. A steaming mug of south indian filter cofeee, brewed just right, music in the background (that is thankfully, and by some miracle, NOT death metal); and best of all, I finally raided the bookstore! After a too-long period of exercising tremendous self control, I finally caved. Thanks to a friend who did not stop me from being an uncontrollable over-enthusiastic almost-shopaholic. (He in fact egged me on. Thank you C, I owe the dent in my finances to your encouragement.)

I finally bought my copy of Eat Pray Love. I've read only about 50 pages and already love the style of writing to bits (I'm a girl after all, and chick lit is necessary once in a while). There is also Chanakya's Chant, and that book can cover an entire post, so I will let that be for now! And Alexander Mc call Smith, my current favorite, favorite Author. (Mma Ramotswe, I cannot wait to get to know you!) The man is a genius. And it is never a good day without a Calvin & Hobbes's the Lazy Sunday book.

I could not care less that I have to study for my French tests, that I have work to go to, come Monday and things to deal with once the long weekend is over. I do not care what new scams are brewing in the country. Or the bad roads. Or the corruption. Or the distant royal weddings. Or pesky arrogant auto drivers. It can all wait another day.

For now I just love that I am SO undecided on what to read first, I am going absolutely berserk and trying to read them all at once!

So after a long crazy phase with no time to read, I finally, finally, got my hands on Jeffrey's Archer's latest, the first of the Clifton Chronicles. And it feels like heaven to finally have a book that you enjoy every word of and you never want the book to end!

But this post isn't really about the joy of reading. (Heaven knows I go on about it worse than the school librarian, harping on about it here isn't going to win me any new followers)

And then I was reading the Clifton Chronicles, in transit, when i came across this stranger, who looked at the book in my hand, and snorted. Actually snorted. i kid you not. I did proceed to explain to him that yes, Archer can be predictable,that he writes almost entirely in cliches. but, he really is a master story teller, beacuse despite the cliches and the predictability, a reader is putty in his hands (?) the minute you pick up his book and start reading. I love stories, and unashamedly love his writing.was he convinced? Sigh. No. And of course that got me even more mad! Which of course led to a pointless argument where i resolutely stood by Archer's story telling and the other person refused to budge about his "awfully shameless" "pleasing the masses" style of writing. What right did a stranger have to snort at my book?

That is when I realised, would I be convinced if somebody pointed out the literary merits of Twilight? NO. We all seem to look down on other people'e taste in reading at some or the other point. And that cant be right! The morality of reading should say, read, let the others read, and don't judge!

And then of course there was this very insightful comment on my post Serendipity.

You can sing praises about love and patience and justice and all the other virtues, but really the hardest of all, is tolerance. Because it requires you not to judge. And that is second nature, to scoff at somebody's clothes, their views, their job. And why? Simply put, it makes you feel better. And fighting that is hard.

So there are women who like chick lit. Not everybody can devour a Gabriel Garcia Marquez in one sitting. Or appreciate the subtlety of Milan Kundera. There is a certain level of understanding and intellect you require for that. And not everybody can get there at the same pace, or even get there at all! But the right thing to do, is NOT scoff. Because it is easy to scoff and think how well read you are compared to a girl reading a perfectly cheesy chick lit, and it is hard to not judge a person by the book she reads and forego the ego boost.

Looking down at somebody engrossed in a Twilight book is easy-peasy. Tolerating the twilight mania and all the screaming enthusiastic girls going gaga over a frying pan faced guy, well thats easier said than done.

But that snort changed it all!

Cough Syrup-ed

These are the weird things that cross my brain when cough syrup is in the system:

Ben Ali's period of lording over Tunisia is exactly as old as I am. The Bofors scam is about a year older than I am.
There is that strong smell of rebellion in the air, or maybe it is just my neighbour's maniacal midnight cooking-fest.
Most status updates on social networking sites are relationship/love-related.
People seem to hate Justin Beiber. A lot. So much that there is now a Rajnikanth-Beiber joke. Isn't it more effective to completely ignore him?
The list of Books-to-Buy is disproportionately growing. My salary is not.
Then again, why is my theory of Lets-Go-Back-to-Barter-System laughed at? I could have traded some of my stuff for the books I want. (No, we cannot go into the economics of that)
Anarchy. Is it good? Is being an Anarchist "cool"?
Alexander McCall Smith is by far my greatest accidental-discovery.
Ideas always come to you when you least expect them: in the middle of the night, when you're desperately jabbing on the keyboard at work, when there are serious parental-lectures underway, when pen-paper/electronic devices are not within reach, when you are most likely to forget them in about 30 seconds.
So that is why i'm typing bleary eyed, because I did have an idea that needed to be put down, but by the time it reached Blogger, it is now forgotten.
Sigh.
Good Night?

Little brothers can be a HUGE pain. Especially when said "little" brothers are over 6 feet in height, 7 years younger, but are somehow experts at bringing reality crashing down all around your poor unsuspecting head.


First, you begin to understand that in trying to keep surroundings neat, clean and habitable for humans, you are, in fact, fighting a losing battle. The highest record so far is about 30 seconds. 30 seconds that a a floor was clean and unoccupied until a pair of stinky socks landed there. 


Survival skills. You can run, duck, zig zag around most types of surfaces, reflexes are much quicker than those whose lives are devoid of younger brothers. And all that escaping from flying objects (sometimes flying object is the brother itself) makes you so agile, don't be surprised if the armed forces come recruiting.


And, I will believe in miracles the day my brother and I like the same song. 


Also, you might sit through an explosion, and not blink an eye, because you will assume that your brother is just playing his music somewhere close by.


Younger brothers make you stronger. Really. It starts with fights for comic books, novels, remote, computer, bandwidth, and then moves on to Apple-is-stupid-No-it-isn't. And since you learn never to take it lying down from a little twerp, you will never, ever, take it lying down from anybody in the world! And also, those fights over the remote might just give you arm-strength.


Then there are those moments. When said little twerp tells you that his music is "against the system", doesn't stop there, and goes on to give you a lecture about exactly what he thinks is wrong with the "system". You don't know whether you should feel secretly happy that your younger brother, by some strange mysterious unexplainable accident, has the exact same views as you. Or if you just smack him on the head and say "stop that damned loud music and get outta here". 


But nothing, nothing, brings reality crashing on your head, like when in that routine fight for the computer, you pass a routine comment about "....blah blah it's just Facebook!". And without even looking up, in a very matter of fact way, you are told that "maybe you don't get the whole Facebook concept because you are too old for it."


The next step is obviously a fight that is the stuff of nightmares, but it is also the beginning of a very depressing thought process about growing up and all the related nonsense that will haunt you for a long, long, time. Until of course, you decide to write about it because there really is nothing else to write about.

Falling Apart

Anger and sadness
bleary eyed madness
candid shots
Story of love priceless junk
relentless berating, finding and feeling
believing, hating
Bonfires and terrace trains unbearable 
laughter, monkey on the window's 
broken leg,
and a broken heart. Falling apart.

The Cubicle Adventures (Part II)

So there is a cubicle. And every work-day confined to its mind numbing space, is a whole new (mis)adventure. Part 1 (I honestly din't think this could run into a Part II, but I also din't know a whole load of other stuff that is "corporate culture", so, ha.) was mostly about a routine day at work. Part II, is what NOT TO DO in your cubicle. These are the words that are a product of learning the hard way. It's stuff I have to remind myself everyday as i inch closer and closer to that blasted cubicle. And having it written down somewhere might help, i thought.


DO NOT leave chocolates lying on your desk. the cubicle maybe yours, but there people that eat your chocolate without your permission, as you watch, too shocked to react. And pretend like it does not matter , is no big deal at all. It is. A very big deal. But apparently only to me. Goodbye dark chocolate, i'm sure you would have been lovely, had i known you.


DO NOT log in to any social networking site from the cubicle. People will feel free to gawk at whatever pictures are displayed like you are a freak alien and not an average human. They will also feel free to comment on how "weird" you look, making you wonder if it is advisable to leave any pictures of your(weird) self on any said site.


DO NOT leave your ID card on your desk. Your megalomaniac superior will hide it. (juvenile behaviour? haha. Leadership qualities you see.) And upon realising that you do not care two hoots that your id card is missing, will give it back, and give you a lecture (throughout which you stare flabbergasted). Icing on the cake? Hiding the ID card was to show you that your ID card needs to be on you and not on the desk. 
Corporate India, I might depend on you for a job, but you don't own me, and i refuse to wear something around my neck because I am not your slave. Megalomaniac superior or not.


DO NOT, even think, that you can have a phone conversation without people listening to you the whole time, and intently at that, without even blinking. I didn't think me telling my sister where the house keys are, can make for such an interesting conversation that people ignore work and give you their whole undivided attention. More than 5 people. For more than 5 minutes. It can be very disconcerting. It is advisable to text anybody who attempts to call you. 


And DO NOT, ever , try to have a conversation, via IM. Or if you do, be prepared to have peeping toms look intently at your screen, blatantly invading your cubicle-space. And then ask you a billion gazillion questions.


I haven't yet found out a single good thing i can do in the cubicle. And no, work does not fall in that category.

My large reader base has now touched ..... THREE.
It's very encouraging. =P

Thanks guys. You know who you are! =)

( And this is very bravely written from within the Cubicle. Ha. Take that, Corporate Culture Vulture. )

monday morning blues kick in big and bad, the cubicle adventures are a whole big misadventure, and to top it all falling sick somehow sneaks into the agenda. 


when you cannot breathe through your nose, you're shivering like a leaf, the computer decides to test your patience, people decide to see how many of those snide remarks you can endure, when cooking is not therapeutic anymore but a really tough chore, and auto drivers pick that particular day to be ruder than usual, the electricity board decides there has been enough light in your life, you run out coffee, and you want to simply run away...


you listen to dave matthews band,


you listen to "crush" a million times, soak in the music..breathe as deeply as you possibly can...


and then you say screw it all. 


and sing out loud till you drown out the world.

The Cubicle Adventure

For months I sat home, scoffing at people who complained of Monday Morning Blues. Little did I know that it would hit me too, and how. Sunday is gone way too soon and as the dreaded monday morning approaches, i'm beginning to realise that my cursed cubicle awaits me. I can always picture those chairs, and in my imagination, they always seem to have an evil sneering smile plastered across their seats, for having me trapped there monday through friday.


There are quite a few hard workers where i work, diligently slogging to earn their bread and butter, loyal to the employers, reverential in their attitude to work. But MY cubicle adventure isn't anything remotely like the above.


This is how a regular work day would go:


Anywhere between 9.20 to 10.10 : Walk in like a zombie, throw stuff down, turn on computer, stare, curse the day you signed the offer letter. Fill water bottle.


10. 15 : Trudge upstairs and get that wonderfully energising cup of south indian filter coffee. (If anybody asks me what the absolute best thing about my job is, i would very unhesitatingly say, filter coffee.)


10.30 to 11.30 : Now this one needs a bit of a recap. You see most evenings, i invariably begin to contemplate just WHERE I'm headed with this job deal etc etc, and conclude that I should not complain, and its not the job i'm in, but how good i am in the job i'm in etc etc blah blah bleh; you know how those "pep talks to self" sessions are! So 10.30 to 11.30 is the time I actually put it to good use. Jab those ancient keys a little harder, squint at the monitor some more, try to be the diligent employee. I even have a maniacal look especially for this time of the day. Ha!


11.30 to 12 ish : anticipate lunch. fidget. fill the water bottle.


12 ish : Lunch! Yay!


... to 1 something : nobody works, and it is SUCH a put off that i just sit and stare at the computer and curse some more.


1 something to 3 : The alt-tab period. N, a good friend, and a genius work ethics expert, taught me this very valuable lesson very early on, first week at my first job. "hitting the alt-tab keys multiple times makes it look like you're hard at work. Do that for a bit and meet me at the TT table." I send him chocolates at regular intervals even now, although the days of hours spent at foosball n TT tables are long gone. The "alt-tab move" saves me every time the hawk eyed megalomaniac superior makes the routine (and VERY creepy) over the shoulder checks.


3 to 4 : This is the time when i actually feel like earning my pay, and therefore, this happens to be the time that i absolutely cannot. I am forced to go on a "break" despite repeatedly pleading and pointing at the computer. Another shot of caffeine. Fill the water bottle.


4 to 5 : work.work.work. sigh. rub eyes. look for people online. work.work.curse.


5 to 6 : fidget. look at clock. curse. fidget some more. fill water bottle.
"fill water bottle" appearing too many times in this post is not a typo or disorganized writing on my part. It is the best excuse to walk out of the cubicle, head held high, water bottle in hand. Having a water bottle is the smartest investment you can make. Carry it around so you can go to the pantry and "bump into a friend" for a chat. Needless to say, I treasure my sipper more than any other work-accessory (?).


6 PM : fidget. fidget. pick up bag. run.


Monday through Friday, the cubicle adventures continue.