Does it have to always be fair?

So, this is how a simple (relatively speaking, of course) shopping exercise can take frightfully frustrating turns to being insightful. It isn’t like I was oblivious to our sub continental obsession with “fairness”, but today’s incident made my heart ache.
Here I was at the mall, looking for some make-up products (read foundation, compact or mineral powder, ladies) to suit my complexion. With a great deal of pride, I will state that I am “wheatish”, “dark”, “dusky”, whatever you feel comfortable saying and stating. Fortunately, I am an individual who for long has known that brown is very beautiful but I can’t say the same about my countrymen. And women. Cutting back to the scene, I get assaulted at the counter by these saleswomen who dab spots of foundation on my arm, not one, not two, but three shades – all much lighter than the ones they should have tried. I gain control over the situation and draw my hand bag, all while vigorously shaking my head to register disapproval. “Madam, try this finish, it will look wonderful on you…splat!” “Isn’t this is a little light?” “Oh no, no, not light, it is bright.”
That’s right, the word's BRIGHT. I got around to biting my lip and explaining to the girls that the purpose of a foundation was NOT to make it look like you had any product on. *Blend, lovelies, blend like magic.* It was not an easy exercise and they did look at each other like I was a little batty but I came away with the product I wanted. *Aside, I love L’oreal’s True Match. Woohoo.*
Did I mention that these girls were as dusky as I am or perhaps a shade or two more? That’s the tragedy. All through their lives, they’ve been made to believe that being what they are is just not good enough. Stop buying fairness creams, stop bleaching your face, stop applying social pressure on your children or peers to look fairer. I beg of you.
Brown is bright. Brown is beautiful. Embrace it.

Sach is the game.

I was there. Right there, in flesh and blood to see my team chase down the fourth largest total for victory against a spirited English side.

The belief set in last evening, right after a session on Day 4 where inane messages on the big screen seemed a tad more interesting than watching England struggle to switch gears and set us a target. Little after tea, Chepauk, India, the world at large, was given a glimpse of the greatness that is Virender Sehwag. Several comparisons have been made between the man and other ‘slog hitters’ but with this innings and a few other notable ones, he has proven once again that in his league he remains the sole occupant. It really was not about keeping a tally of the number of times the ball was ‘against the fence’, quote unquote David Lloyd (Incidentally, I happen to think he’s amongst the funniest on air and I’m nursing a small crush on him.) It was about comprehending the simplicity of his approach, to set aside the ifs-buts-maybes and focus, quite simply, on just the positives. It’s something I have never managed to achieve so I continue to let my jaw hang in awe.

He did get out, but, not before setting India within sights of a famous, famous victory that would put to rest the ghosts of ’99.

Day 5 did dawn, bright and sunny (so much for the MET guys getting it right) and I being a loyal fan of Rahul Dravid, took heart from the fact that he looked less tentative the day before and fancied my chances of seeing my idol-ideal get back into form. That was not to be and I did nurse a broken heart and resorted to stuffing my face with more grease to rid myself of the depression. M, who’s my cricket buddy and it’s only fitting that he and I watched this game together, sat through moments of uncertainty as Gautam Gambhir frittered away a great opportunity, VVS Laxman flattered to deceive and Yuvraj Singh came to grips with the surface and the few demons it possessed. M insisted on calling him everything from Kanna, Raasa and Chellam in his effort to cajole him into playing sensible cricket while I frequently smacked him in annoyance. M, that is, not Yuvraj.

At the other end stood arguably the world’s best bastmen. A man who had a few ghosts to exorcise of his own. I was not there in person to witness his century against Pakistan and the subsequent 12-run loss, but, television repeats were quite enough so I can only imagine. It isn't the only record he has to set straight, says M, the absence of a match-winning fourth innings century amongst his numerous records has drawn much flak.
Much has also been written about how this game was one filled with emotion for both sides given the tragic occurences in Mumbai from less than a fortnight ago, more so for Sachin Tendulkar, the born and bred Mumbaikar. The emotion was felt all the way down in Chennai and as the numbers in the stadium grew, so did our confidence. It was a terrific feeling for each time your neck craned to a stand it seemed fuller than the last time. Test cricket is far from dead in my parts and I take such heart in saying that.

At tea, we had made it to 304 for the loss of 4 wickets. We’d take that, said M and I. We’d also consumed several bottles of water so our noise-making arsenal for the final session was in place. Did I mention that we took pictures of each session to capture our “mood” as such? Fun, fun times, these. As England took the new ball, Yuvraj stroked it with enough ease to assure his place in the side. Often, one forgets the supporting role. I hope that isn’t the case with today’s game as Yuvraj’s measured aggression and ability to rotate strike allowed Sachin to showcase his genius.

This was an innings unlike that of the other master blaster. Less about style and grace and all things Sachin, more about grit, composure and a control that was meant to take Indian cricket home. I, for one, have been a bigger fan of Dravid than Tendulkar, but, I cheered my loudest for every dot-ball that Yuvraj played, for if ever Sachin simply deserved a century for being Sachin, it was today. I missed the paddle-sweep and the cover drive that got him into the nineties but was back well ahead of the winning runs that also brought Sachin his 41st. Of course, even as the celebrations began, he stood to shake hands with the ground staff and the opposition before being smothered by his team's affections. You don't expect him to deny anybody their 'it' moment.

It isn’t like an account of today is unavailable elsewhere, but, this piece is for me to keep telling myself that I was there and this is how it happened.

When all else fails...

There's Shakin' Stevens! When you're jiving to 'You drive me crayayazy', you'll ALWAYS have a smile on your lips.

Heaven must have sent you down, down for you to give me a thrill. And we can all do with a thrill just now. :)

The same six honourable women. :(

How can I be a journalist by profession when at the worst of times, I fail to be articulate? Is it amongst my greatest failures (the others being math, statistics, so on and so forth) that I am unable to look past the tricks of my trade? Or atleast, find a way to be accepting of them?
Some of you might view this as OTT-dramatic but truth be told, I have been mulling a change for a while now. I started off being a journalist with the view that I was "good" at this sort of thing. That I was capable of telling a good story through my own words. Today, a "good" story isn't nearly good enough. It's about who told it first and who told it best, truth can very well be sacrificed. And with its newsanchor-eat-newsanchor style of operation, my fraternity has nearly lost all credibility.
Should I reconcile to the notion that I do not have it in me, I'm not "good" enough or do I persist with a thin line of defense? Murky, murky times ahead. Somebody show me a goddamn sign already.

It could have been any of us.

So, much has been said and written about the unfathomable terror unleashed upon unsuspecting individuals across the city of Mumbai by terrorists who are as old as I am, who are perhaps as educated as I am, who certainly knew enough to adhere to fashion trends. I have tried to reason with myself and those who are glued to their television sets around me, the rationale that these young boys possess but have come up with nothing comprehensible.

The armed forces and police personnel have performed their duties remarkably in the face of adversity with the limited resources available to them. When news broke that he took three wounds in the chest despite wearing a bullet-proof vest, I was not surprised given him flimsy jacket. While our countries politicians are ensured 'Z' category security, we DO NOT have the required resources to safeguard our forces. It's no surprise that there are fewer men and women wanting to join the forces that protect when there is such disrespect for who they are and what they do.

While they have been trained for combat of this nature, the staff at the Taj Mahal Hotel and the Trident-Oberoi weren't. Yet, they managed to outdo themselves and be hospitable in an hour when they could have just been human. I read in a first person account that they spent the hours between fearing for their lives making sandwiches, providing bottled water and warm blankets. That's not the sort of service one expects would stem from training, it comes from an ingrained need to remain true to the cause of humanity even when faced with people with an abject disregard for life.

It's been nearly two days and I hope the mayhem ends soon. The places that have been attacked have been changed, the sort of change that rebuilding and refurbishing will not reverse. A couple of months ago and I was right there, at Leopolods, Oberoi, walking aimless-taking in all that Colaba has to offer.

As my heart goes out to those who survived the ordeal and those who didn't, I'm left with the empty feeling that at another time, another place, it could be me. It could be you. And, that just isn't right.

Like old wine.

My body's creaking. From my knees to my ankles, every square inch is protesting the increase in physical acitivity over the last six months. :) Despite the slight pain and occasional fatigue, I've never felt as good about my physical form and that's the reason I'm choosing to make it the subject of a post after forever.

Also, the Americans aren't the only ones who gave in to change. I did too and I don't know what the future will hold. Will keep the enigma going for a while till I know what to say further. :)

p.s.: Sorry blog, I shall tend to you with more care.

Realigning the energy field.

I've let go, of all the negativity and started anew. For the second time in close to nine months. :)
At this point in time, I must say birthdays bring the much needed affirmation that all of us seek but few acknowledge. For three years now, my birthday has been spent with a mixture of old and 'new' friends, this year being no different. 'Cept for a change in attitudes, perhaps.
This year, I started to believe in my own ability to achieve and not compromise on my happiness. A big big change from the last.
This year, I got my dancing shoes on as a result of a New Year resolution. Little miss twinkle toes, I will never be, but I'm lovin' it and hope to keep at it till the lights shine on.
This year, I've paid more attention to the weighing scales and I cannot believe how good I feel about the numbers tipping, slowly but surely.
This year, I have learnt to trust my gut and say no. Little word, big implications.
So, here's the start of another tomorrow, one that is brighter, wiser, dancier and lighter! :)

Two tumblers anyone?

It’s nearly six in the evening, our pages haven’t passed and I’m starving. Only, there’s no room for us at the 'privileged' canteen of an institution that’s always classic, always contemporary.

We, the stepchildren of their somewhat new and less shiny tabloid for the I.T. corridor, were canteen demoted. After six months of eating at the canteen meant for those who were truly privileged, we were issued an order by the canteen supervisor, no less, to trudge an extra floor and eat with the other mere mortals.

We could swallow our pride (After all, it isn’t like the swanky canteen offered us exciting company and an incredible ambience) and eat at the 'other' canteen, if only everything they serve there wasn’t so lumpy / watered down.

It’s an issue of basic principle. I’ve heard of 'executive canteens' before but a firsthand experience of the difference between things preached and practiced has left me wondering why anybody would put up with this hypocrisy. There are several respectable folks here, who, I’m sure, have suffered from this variant of the ‘two-tumbler’ system but haven’t breathed a word. I choose to not be one of them. I quit.

The new 90.

So, I've quit. Resigned. Put in my papers. I did so a month ago, I ought to have left behind a tidy desk by now, you think? Non. Thanks to the organization's "new" three-month notice period policy, I'm bound to the chair.

I haven't the slightest clue (or I might actually) as to why they introduced this ridiculous policy, but, if anything it makes you want to leave faster, much faster. People at positions of authority fail to understand that once a person has made up their mind to move on, it is difficult for them to stay motivated. A mere transition of knowledge or mundane chores is a requirement, I do understand, but, this remains not the time to ideate.

I was ranting to a friend who works in H.R. and he had the best thoughts on the subject - his policy, if you're going, leave a.s.a.p- everyone stays happy in the bargain.

Rant-note:
I have a personal computer at home, thank you. I can browse and blog with ease. You don't have to pay me to do so.

Poetic license.

But sire, 'tis not wrong
to ask a puppet to lead?
Smug and cold,
of all replies told,
a puppet is all we need.

The unsung hero(ine).

An editor makes a writer, or a journalist atleast. Over the year and a little more that I have been writing for a living, I've always admired the myriad strengths that a good sub-editor possesses - the skill to re-write, the intelligence to know which construct is indeed clever, the tact to deal with personalities, the sharpness to know by instinct the difference a letter can make and much much else.

Today, I had a verbal scuffle with a good friend over a written piece and as I attempted damage control, I gained some insight into my own strengths. While I played sub-editor, I saw certain shortcomings in me with alarming clarity. It wasn't as much about who was at fault but the way I handled the entire situation. Needless to say it was a messy performance, one that has reinstilled respect for all the men and women whose names the outside world does not see, but without whom the byline would weild less power.

p.s.: P, I forgot that you aren't a journalist and you perhaps don't hold the immunity that this job instills. I'm sorry. :)

Fatigue.

I'm tired. Of most things around me.
I'm tired. Of trying to find order where people don't see the need for it.
I'm tired. Of trying to regain that spark when most avenues seem shut. Firmly.
I'm tired. Of asking questions, only because people don't WANT to answer.
I'm tired. Of fighting this constant vacuum.
I'm tired. Of making a beginning where people don't want to let go of the past.
I'm tired. Of just bloody trying.

People should be honest. To themselves and to those around them. Then we'd all need less Gatorade.

What must 83 have felt like?

I've watched it over and over. And yet, the hair at the back of my neck never stood up. Today, my generation lived our 83 moment. The men in blue have won and HOW! As the crackers lit up the sky, I did my little jig in the hallway. SMS's came in a frenzy, calls were made to friends across the nation and rasmalai was devoured gleefully. Poetic justice, to have been written off and to show the world that we took ourselves a lot more seriously than they expected us to.

Through this tournament, several players have grown in stature. Rudra Pratap Singh has bowled with controlled aggression, Sreesanth has struck gold on occasion but could do with some discipline, Bhajji and Pathan made fantastic comebacks, Yuvraj (need I say more), Ghambir has chipped away at the runs, Robin has shown fine temperament (in addition to being super yummy, that is) but one man stands out as a daring, new-age Indian- Mahendra Singh Dhoni. The Ranchi lad has come a FAR mile from the days of horrendous hair colour to show that captain's feather will sit pretty. It took some nerve to toss the ball to Joginder and some more to claim that he gave it to him because Bhajji wasn't confident enough to get the yorkers in. He'll do us proud with his cricketing ability and straight talk, provided he can stop doing terrible endorsements for hair products.

Spare a thought for Misbah. One shot away from being a hero. Twice over. Even at 33, he's Pakistan's find for the tournament.

This T-20 Championship has brought us to the crux of 2 questions : What will happen of India's big 3? And what will happen of One-Day cricket? Till such time as there come some answers, we shall savour this win.

On being big boned.

Most people would say watching 'We, the People' is perhaps not an ideal way to spend a Sunday evening, but, when the debate was on Fat vs Fit, I was all ears. And eyes.

There were all sorts that comprised the panel, the ones who loved the fat they were in, the ones who were skinny and still wanted to lose an inch, the ones who followed every diet in the book and the rest. Many questions were put forth that elicited answers that were close to my heart. While it really takes no science to figure that we live in a hypocritical, judgmental society, certain things said on the show I will not forget.

I for one have never been happy with my body. I cribbed. I still do. I still wish my largish arse away. I've also stopped making excuses and started making an effort. It takes time, but, I will do this the right way.

Random thoughts that follow:

People always use how much weight you have gained or lost as a measure of how much control you have over your life.

The way you look counts. Say it again.

There never existed a happy skinny woman.

Men don't 'need' to care as much. The fat pay check helps on Shaadi.com.

Fat defense. Never works. People see right through the insecurity.

Not all fat people are gregarious / intelligent and not all skinny people are self-obsessed.

Worry about Fitness. Forget about Fatness.

Your genes WILL tell the final story.

Every once in a while...

... there comes an event that makes you change the way you look at yourself.

You realize that you’re perhaps not as independent as you thought you were, not as guarded as you imagined yourself to be and definitely not as cold as you made yourself out to be.

In that instant, you also know that your views on life have been shaped differently, yet again, for better or for worse.

It’s the best out-of-body experience, every once in a while.

The Four Letter Word.

I've signed up for a GMAT prep class and I have to take their Math classes, every Sunday morning. For three hours. I went to my second class today and the instructor was a lot faster than I'd have liked. Then again, if I began to ask him doubts the class wouldn't go anywhere and that's unfair to the rest of the bunch. All of this is mundane but it serves as background for what's to follow.

When I tell the world I was born with no grasp of mathematics, I can't count, I can't make sense of little triangles sharing planes with other shapes, please believe me. We were discussing Mensuration and Coordinate Geometry this week. Though certain concepts of Mensuration did seem like French, Coordinate Geometry was well and truly beyond me. Given that I was functioning on little sleep, here are my 'staying awake and alive' tips for the day:

1. If everything seems to be a blur and sleep's calling, try giving each eye a rest. I shut one for 20 seconds and then the other. At some point in time, the guy teaching must have thought I was hitting on him.

2. Fiddle with the mobile phone. Pretend to read messages. There are very few people on my list who are awake at that hour who will find humour in this given situation.

3. Write the lyrics to all the songs you're singing in your head in the 'rough' space. There was 'Hands Clean', 'Losing my Religion', 'Change the World' and a few more.

4. Practice weird signatures.

5. Doodle. Draw. Sketch.

6. When the class ends, say Thank You the loudest.

The weekend that was.

The weekend off at Bangalore has helped me unwind, considerably. That’s good news for everybody who’s had to put up with the crib machine! :)

For the first time in a long time, I managed to stay awake for most parts of my train journeys. Indication enough that the biological clock is tick-tocking in the right direction. The Chennai to B’lore route had me sitting next to a family of four who were visiting India from America. The dad was extremely friendly as he patiently entertained the kids whose curiosity was a little hard to contain. Mixed accents, Spelling Bee version Lal Bagh 1.0, numerous trips to the loo – one kid at a time… I wonder if I will be the mum ten years hence. For a person like me, it seems a really scary thought but I’m learning to leave the doubts behind and view things positively.

Also, I saw several abandoned station buildings along the way and I wonder what ghosts inhabit them. There’s a charm about old abandoned buildings that sends a tingle down my spine. I took a trip down nostalgia lane to a time when my friends and I made up stories about the old building we lived next to. There was the ghost of the old lady (poor woman, our imaginations killed her long before her time), the mysterious helicopter used by the hooded stranger and the several surreptitious activities we thought the house might be used for.

B’lore brought me back to the present. This trip was a first of sorts. I didn’t find the city unpleasantly cold. It was cool and breezy, though; by the end of it all I was / am saddled with a sore throat. There’s always something wonderful about reconnecting with good friends. Over yummy lunches, dinners, interesting shopping experiences, fantastic tennis matches and stay overs, I had one of the better weekends in a while.

Laallalalala. I’m living down the last few days of being 22. Till the 23rd. :)

The countdown to nowhere.

I’m feeling a sense of despair that I’ve never felt before. Each morning, I wake up feeling empty and I just can’t place why. I don’t know when I ever placed my life in the hands of many others quite like this, but, it is proving to be extremely difficult to win it back.

This new move isn’t helping as much though I do realize I’m being a brat at times. I’m enjoying a lot of luxury at home that I will miss dearly if I move out again. Then again, I miss the independence so much that I’m starting to wonder if I’m just one of those people who’s meant to be at their best when left alone? Or are independence and loneliness two entirely different entities?

Fewer things keep me sane through the day and I’m counting each one down. Only I don’t know when this countdown will ever end. I’m the only one who can stop it and I just don’t know how.

Your kind.

A friend at work said this to me, "You know, we all find our kind."
This was said over dinner and it has to do with a person who almost always eats alone.
Made me think of the number of times I've eaten alone. It's always been for the want of a little quality time with the self. We all need that to keep our sanity, my two.
For most parts, I'm a people's person. I'm not all smiles and polite chatter all the time, but, I do make friends wherever I go. And then I say something from within and lose some too, but that merits a different post. :)
I can't imagine myself being alone for more than a certain self-imposed period. I need to laugh at someone, cry with someone, talk to someone, plant kisses on someone and do so much more.
Having said that, I have found a fair few of 'my kind' and I hold them close to my heart.
You know, it would be nice to see someone walk upto her table and eat dinner with her.

Trying my best to turn that brand new leaf.

My world of colour, where do I begin?

The last few months that I've been away from this page, my life has done the yo-yo. Almost like never before. Sure, there have been those moments where you lose a footing, where the right words seem a thousand miles away, but a few life changing decisions are sitting before me, waiting for one of the two buttons to be pushed.

If you've read Jonathan Stroud, I feel like I'm a being from the Other World. No form, no shapes and sizes, just fluidity. I flow from one day and spill onto the next. Let me try to bring some order to this:

First up, in about a month I will put this one year at my current organization behind me. Not entirely, mind you. I take with me the knowledge that when the going gets 'potholes-in-the-road' rough, I chose not to go, not to run away. I will leave on my own terms and the few extra rupees don't make me flinch.

Then the biggie. My parents want me to get married. Serious married. Have your pictures taken, married. I haven't rebelled, as for once, I'm thinking beyond myself. Many jaws have dropped, eyes have rolled, nothing I didn't expect. I go back in time, think of my interview at college, on how I never EVER wanted to be married. *Insert: I want to be 17 again.* What puzzles me is how do you answer questions like, 'Do you think this is the right thing to do? Isn't it easier to fall in love? Do you want to be subjected to this sort of judgment? How will you connect with a boy sitting in NY, for crying out loud?' I don't have any of the answers. I make some of them up, but find myself getting annoyed for attempting to justify. I don't know if there's a Mr. Right who will waltz in when the clock strikes 12, holding the shiniest shoe or rock on a ring or any such thing. I'm only trying to see how far I can go, how far I can accept that every knight will have a couple odd kinks in that armour. And why don't people get that?

Just before this comes to a grand close, I want to hug and thank all my friends who've stood by me, lent their ears and a whole lot more, let themselves be subjected to my all consuming rants, who've either been indifferent till I run out of words or who have something nice to say at that moment or who've tried to crack the lousiest joke just to see if I have any humour left in me. I love you all. :)