If someone asked me even three years back about what I do, my prompt reply would be - advertising professional. Today, I like to elaborate or let's say, build on this by saying- I also do this and that.
We've come a long way from strait jacketed professions of engineers, doctors, CAs and so forth.
Where the wall between a passion, if it existed, and work was as strong as one of the cement ads we see on air. Usually, like an unwatered plant, passions died a natural wilted death.Coming up to haunt us once in a while when something or someone triggered off a memory of what really drove us to joy.
Life today is different. We like multi-indulging. Indulging in work as well as in our passions or interest. So a suited booted CEO can also play the lead guitar in a band at night in the most popular pub in town. Or a thriving banker also doubles up as a blogger at night. Some of us write, others indulge in fashion designing, some others in travel and trekking ventures, some others spend time with NGOs.... could be anything that the heart beckons.
This second life or indulgence is one which is followed for sheer passion. Money may come with it and sometimes the money is big enough for people to even give up their mainstream work and take this up full time.
Then there are the ones who of course have made their passion a profession. That's the ideal world. All of us can't do that. Which is where this second life or lives come in. Making our days and lives more balanced.
Even brands have come to acknowledge this. Most brands are moving from being a business ally to a fun buddy. It's no longer either or. For most brands. And for most of us.
These blurred lines are a blessing.
It shows we have confidence in ourselves to do what we always wanted to.
Even if it means pushing ourselves. Or those extra hours every other day.
This is indeed achievement of a different kind.
One to reckon with.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Friday, November 12, 2010
A Mouthful of Jargon
Sometimes I am surprised at myself.
I work in an industry meant to communicate in the simplest way to consumers.
Yet, when it comes to communication internally, my words are all but simple.
Some of my daily jargons and what I mean
Eyeball Traction More people are watching me
Deployed resources Got my team to work
Targetted Profile What my consumer is like
Demographics How old is my consumer, what is his economic status, where does he live etc
Psychographics What is my consumer mindset
Incentivize the TG Reward my consumer
Imperatives Critical to- dos
Standardize guidelines Follow the rules
Strategic Collaboration Plan together
Preferred Choice Preferred means choice right?
Primary response What did she say? How did she react?
Secondary TG Who else takes the calls?
Youthful tonality Be young
Consumer's hat Think like her
No wonder I sound like a walking talking addipidea.
Maybe if , for starters, I started talking like my consumers, I would be more like them, rather than wearing their "shoes" or "hats" or "feeling their pulse"
It's time for a change.
I work in an industry meant to communicate in the simplest way to consumers.
Yet, when it comes to communication internally, my words are all but simple.
Some of my daily jargons and what I mean
Eyeball Traction More people are watching me
Deployed resources Got my team to work
Targetted Profile What my consumer is like
Demographics How old is my consumer, what is his economic status, where does he live etc
Psychographics What is my consumer mindset
Incentivize the TG Reward my consumer
Imperatives Critical to- dos
Standardize guidelines Follow the rules
Strategic Collaboration Plan together
Preferred Choice Preferred means choice right?
Primary response What did she say? How did she react?
Secondary TG Who else takes the calls?
Youthful tonality Be young
Consumer's hat Think like her
No wonder I sound like a walking talking addipidea.
Maybe if , for starters, I started talking like my consumers, I would be more like them, rather than wearing their "shoes" or "hats" or "feeling their pulse"
It's time for a change.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
A Wealth of Waste
This struck me in the shower this morning. I looked at the remnants of the once glorious cake of Dove, now sitting shrunk, out of shape, devoid of fragrance and everything else in the soap case. Quickly unwrapped a fresh new one and was about to bin this. When a flash of memory hit me.
In the days when the "commode" was definitely a luxury but water was still used for the task of washing hands after the "task", my mother would keep the leftover soap cakes as "soap for washing hands". She, like most women of her times, wouldn't dream of throwing a half used soap. Or anything else for that matter.
Like the Dalda ghee which caked and recaked and caked again in the cooking pot.Till the black dregs clouded over the white and it couldn't be used anymore.
Or the newspapers which were used for lining shelves in kitchens, cupboards, spreading on the bed when we had an occasional snack on the bed and even used to wipe hands in picnics.
Or the school skirts which we outgrew faster than the new leaves of spring, which would be carefully unhemmed to make them longer. We would go about class with a darker blue or grey ( winetr uniform) hem than the rest of the washed skirt without an ounce of embarassment. Everyone wore skirts like that.
Not to mention the sweaters which would be unwound and reknitted. Small kids would proudly wear multi coloured woollen caps and cardigans made of remnants of sweaters.
Leftover recipes were published proudly by housewives in the Femina and Illustrated Weekly. The proud housewife would even send her grim passport picture accompanying the recipe. And would get a Sumeet mixie as first prize.
Sarees were bartered for stainless steel utensils, old bottles sold to the kabariwallah.
Weddings meant old jewellery being recycled, redesigned by the family jeweller.
Was it the smart homemaking? Was it forced thrift?
When the word "recycling" meant nothing to nobody, most families lived by this philosophy.
Nothing went waste. Everything was innovatively used and reused till it could be used no more and was juiced out. ( in fact I remember a delicious vegetable made of vegetable skins)
There was a wealth in waste out there. Am sure there still is.
Just that, we don't seem to need it anymore.
In the days when the "commode" was definitely a luxury but water was still used for the task of washing hands after the "task", my mother would keep the leftover soap cakes as "soap for washing hands". She, like most women of her times, wouldn't dream of throwing a half used soap. Or anything else for that matter.
Like the Dalda ghee which caked and recaked and caked again in the cooking pot.Till the black dregs clouded over the white and it couldn't be used anymore.
Or the newspapers which were used for lining shelves in kitchens, cupboards, spreading on the bed when we had an occasional snack on the bed and even used to wipe hands in picnics.
Or the school skirts which we outgrew faster than the new leaves of spring, which would be carefully unhemmed to make them longer. We would go about class with a darker blue or grey ( winetr uniform) hem than the rest of the washed skirt without an ounce of embarassment. Everyone wore skirts like that.
Not to mention the sweaters which would be unwound and reknitted. Small kids would proudly wear multi coloured woollen caps and cardigans made of remnants of sweaters.
Leftover recipes were published proudly by housewives in the Femina and Illustrated Weekly. The proud housewife would even send her grim passport picture accompanying the recipe. And would get a Sumeet mixie as first prize.
Sarees were bartered for stainless steel utensils, old bottles sold to the kabariwallah.
Weddings meant old jewellery being recycled, redesigned by the family jeweller.
Was it the smart homemaking? Was it forced thrift?
When the word "recycling" meant nothing to nobody, most families lived by this philosophy.
Nothing went waste. Everything was innovatively used and reused till it could be used no more and was juiced out. ( in fact I remember a delicious vegetable made of vegetable skins)
There was a wealth in waste out there. Am sure there still is.
Just that, we don't seem to need it anymore.
Monday, November 8, 2010
A Special Gift
I simply love getting gifts. Used to call them "presents"- a legacy of birthday parties in my childhood days. Anything wrapped in coloured paper is enough to get me smiling silly. But over the years, I realise that there are some gifts that really make us feel very special. It is not the gift itself. It is the thought behind the gift.
Fresh from the Diwali shower of dry fruits , chocolates, wines and barfis, sometimes I feel we have massified the art of gifting to the point where it has become a tick on the checklist. I did that too.
And then this morning, I got a gift . A simple book. City of Djinns. With a small note in gilt ink that said- Welcome to your new city and your new life.
What was it about this that made me feel so special?
a) The person realised that the change to a new city and life has not been easy for me. And through the gift, expressed a small welcome to this change.
b) I am a bookworm and there can't be a more apt gift than a book
c) This book is very relevant to Delhi life and its nuances
f) Most importantly, the person took the trouble to get a nice pen and spent 2 minutes scrolling down a sweet note.
This is the art of "personalization". Suddenly the "massification" of gifting I was talking about pales against a touch of "personalization". Personalization is not about money. The only thing we need to invest is some thought. Thought into what the person likes, what will make him or her feel good, how we can add a small touch to make something off the shelf personal.
I think of all the "freebies" we conjure up with our clients on our brands. Sometimes the decision actually boils down to what the most cost effective vendor can turn around in the timelines. Then we create an ad or a jingle to talk about the special offer.
How often do we, myself included, spend sometime thinking what would be relevant when we give a gift or a "freebie"? How can we make it a little special? How can the brand get an emotional hug of thank you from the delighted consumer? Food for Thought this festive season.
And yes. All it takes is some thinking. And a little more work. To turn a "freebie" into a "present".
And then this morning, I got a gift . A simple book. City of Djinns. With a small note in gilt ink that said- Welcome to your new city and your new life.
What was it about this that made me feel so special?
a) The person realised that the change to a new city and life has not been easy for me. And through the gift, expressed a small welcome to this change.
b) I am a bookworm and there can't be a more apt gift than a book
c) This book is very relevant to Delhi life and its nuances
f) Most importantly, the person took the trouble to get a nice pen and spent 2 minutes scrolling down a sweet note.
This is the art of "personalization". Suddenly the "massification" of gifting I was talking about pales against a touch of "personalization". Personalization is not about money. The only thing we need to invest is some thought. Thought into what the person likes, what will make him or her feel good, how we can add a small touch to make something off the shelf personal.
I think of all the "freebies" we conjure up with our clients on our brands. Sometimes the decision actually boils down to what the most cost effective vendor can turn around in the timelines. Then we create an ad or a jingle to talk about the special offer.
How often do we, myself included, spend sometime thinking what would be relevant when we give a gift or a "freebie"? How can we make it a little special? How can the brand get an emotional hug of thank you from the delighted consumer? Food for Thought this festive season.
And yes. All it takes is some thinking. And a little more work. To turn a "freebie" into a "present".
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Time for a Break
After being a 24x7 workoholic, putting work above family, friends and even my own self for over 14 years, I am now older and hopefully, wiser.
Work is obviously important. But it should not creep into things that keep us going.
Like our passions. Or interests. Or maybe even a stint back as a student.
This is where workplace effectiveness terms like "productivity" come into play.
How do we ensure that we are always "productive" at work? How do we ensure that we have teams that are "productive"?
By encouraging our teams and ourselves to indulge in passions and interests outside of work.
By saying "yes" to a much deserved break
By not glancing at the watch everytime someone in the team calls it a day
By having informal unplugged sessions once in a while where all of us talk about things that keep us going, besides work
By having people in the organisation or outside, who have balanced work and interests effectively, to share their experiences
By having a collection of books at an arm's length at the workplace- from inspirations, to recipes to fiction to bike repairing...anything that provides for a good break
I am sure there are lots more.
I can speak for myself when I say that when passions are encouraged, people go out of their way to make sure that work goes on uninterrupted. That's what positive encouragement is all about.
( If it doesn't, then ...well... the person needs a one to one chat. That's what bosses are for!)
Pursuing our interests makes us happy
It rids us of our guilt- of neglecting ourselves
It makes us want to do more
It opens up our minds- we learn more, share more.
And consciously or unconsciously, it all adds back to our work.
We have people thinking out of the box. We have wider perspectives.
But most importantly, we have more smiles than frowns.
Work becomes a part of life and not a compulsion.
And workplace becomes much much more "productive".
After all, everything in life is full circle.
Work is obviously important. But it should not creep into things that keep us going.
Like our passions. Or interests. Or maybe even a stint back as a student.
This is where workplace effectiveness terms like "productivity" come into play.
How do we ensure that we are always "productive" at work? How do we ensure that we have teams that are "productive"?
By encouraging our teams and ourselves to indulge in passions and interests outside of work.
By saying "yes" to a much deserved break
By not glancing at the watch everytime someone in the team calls it a day
By having informal unplugged sessions once in a while where all of us talk about things that keep us going, besides work
By having people in the organisation or outside, who have balanced work and interests effectively, to share their experiences
By having a collection of books at an arm's length at the workplace- from inspirations, to recipes to fiction to bike repairing...anything that provides for a good break
I am sure there are lots more.
I can speak for myself when I say that when passions are encouraged, people go out of their way to make sure that work goes on uninterrupted. That's what positive encouragement is all about.
( If it doesn't, then ...well... the person needs a one to one chat. That's what bosses are for!)
Pursuing our interests makes us happy
It rids us of our guilt- of neglecting ourselves
It makes us want to do more
It opens up our minds- we learn more, share more.
And consciously or unconsciously, it all adds back to our work.
We have people thinking out of the box. We have wider perspectives.
But most importantly, we have more smiles than frowns.
Work becomes a part of life and not a compulsion.
And workplace becomes much much more "productive".
After all, everything in life is full circle.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
It's time to say "thank you"
What started off as a traditional outfit for a Diwali lunch spiralled into a beautiful mesh of compliments, discussion about the gorgeous "mekhela chador" of Assam, leaving me bloated and beautiful.
Amazing what a set of compliments can do.
Makes one feel special
Makes one belong
Makes one feel blessed
And loved
And wanted
And just so good
It takes so little to shower a little praise
A few good words
A sign of appreciation
A mail saying Well Done
Yet sometimes we forget
And miss what may have been a small chance to make someone feel good
On the eve of my birthday, as I turn one more year older and wiser, I thank everyone out there who has made me what I am today
For making me believe that in spite of the tide turning, there is always someone or something good round the corner. We just need to take that turn.
Amazing what a set of compliments can do.
Makes one feel special
Makes one belong
Makes one feel blessed
And loved
And wanted
And just so good
It takes so little to shower a little praise
A few good words
A sign of appreciation
A mail saying Well Done
Yet sometimes we forget
And miss what may have been a small chance to make someone feel good
On the eve of my birthday, as I turn one more year older and wiser, I thank everyone out there who has made me what I am today
For making me believe that in spite of the tide turning, there is always someone or something good round the corner. We just need to take that turn.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
An Ode to the Talcum Powder
It owned a place of pride on dressing tables of yesteryears. Where the long mirror adorned with used bindis reflected its twin image in all its glory.
I am talking about the talcum powder.The old familiar tin or packs that adorned our homes and our selves in our growing years.
It would top the list every month. The all important shopping list. No matter what, this one name would never be struck off.
Come summer, and it would be emptied faster than the ice in the refrigerator. Sprinked liberally after a bath, before work, after work, before going to bed.
It was the fairness enhancer for young women and the not so young. Patted carefully over a foundation by fluffly puffs , it would light up a face many notches with just a touch.
New born babies, little girls going to school, family dressed up to go to a wedding or even a temple visit- nothing could happen without the touch of white.
In freezing winters, a liberal dose of talc would cover up the lack of a bath or a wash, making one feel as fresh.
Barbers and salons would use it ( still do) to dust away the telltale strands of hair after a hair cut.
Not to mention how handy it was to cure some uncomfortable itches in incomfortable places.
And one of the most endearing moments in most homes would be little kids playing with the packs, sprinkling the white dust liberally on themselves while the elders laughed lovingly .
In fact, people liked leaving the traces of fragrant white on their faces and bodies.
It showed freshness
It cued that the person was wellgroomed
It also reflected a sense of beauty
And then the onslaught happened. The plugging of holes. Deos, whiteners, lotions, anti perspirants, face toners, fairness enhancers, matt finished cremes, itchguards.... and many more.
Relegating the classic talc to the bottom shelf and bottom of the list.
Yes there are many who still use it. There will be market figures and charts to prove this.
The truth is, it is a fading category, struggling to hold on to its pride of yesteryears before the final plunge.
But come what may, the talcum powder will always occupy a special place.
For being a part of our homes and hearts.
And for being a big confidence booster and beauty ally in our growing up years.
I am talking about the talcum powder.The old familiar tin or packs that adorned our homes and our selves in our growing years.
It would top the list every month. The all important shopping list. No matter what, this one name would never be struck off.
Come summer, and it would be emptied faster than the ice in the refrigerator. Sprinked liberally after a bath, before work, after work, before going to bed.
It was the fairness enhancer for young women and the not so young. Patted carefully over a foundation by fluffly puffs , it would light up a face many notches with just a touch.
New born babies, little girls going to school, family dressed up to go to a wedding or even a temple visit- nothing could happen without the touch of white.
In freezing winters, a liberal dose of talc would cover up the lack of a bath or a wash, making one feel as fresh.
Barbers and salons would use it ( still do) to dust away the telltale strands of hair after a hair cut.
Not to mention how handy it was to cure some uncomfortable itches in incomfortable places.
And one of the most endearing moments in most homes would be little kids playing with the packs, sprinkling the white dust liberally on themselves while the elders laughed lovingly .
In fact, people liked leaving the traces of fragrant white on their faces and bodies.
It showed freshness
It cued that the person was wellgroomed
It also reflected a sense of beauty
And then the onslaught happened. The plugging of holes. Deos, whiteners, lotions, anti perspirants, face toners, fairness enhancers, matt finished cremes, itchguards.... and many more.
Relegating the classic talc to the bottom shelf and bottom of the list.
Yes there are many who still use it. There will be market figures and charts to prove this.
The truth is, it is a fading category, struggling to hold on to its pride of yesteryears before the final plunge.
But come what may, the talcum powder will always occupy a special place.
For being a part of our homes and hearts.
And for being a big confidence booster and beauty ally in our growing up years.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
The City of Power
"Mother Pious Lady" has a paragraph on Gurgaon. Lapped it up eagerly this morning, being one of the freshest inhabitants of this city. The book says that Gurgaon is the city of power, not wealth. Therefore it does not have the baggage of wealth that its closest metro neighbour, Delhi has.
How true. Having heard of the "old rich" and the palatial bungalows and the wealth that Delhi is, I was very nervous when I came here four months ago. Gurgaon assured me of neighbours who I could socialize with without feeling like a country cousin, a professional life where I have fit in like a glove, a place where I feel charged up being amongst professionals who are from all across the country, with dreams bigger than most of the bank balances.
Set me thinking. How is Power different from Wealth.Power is influence. Power is recognition. Power comes to those who has aspired and achieved. Power is about success. Power is about talent. It is about professions, entreprenership, politics, creativity, fine arts.... anything that can create a sphere of influence. Power is not necesssarily a legacy.It comes to the hungry. And the dreamers.
Wealth may follow closely on the heels of power. But it is the effect and not the cause. And most importantly, power can exist without wealth.
In my short stint so far in Gurgaon, I have seen the play of Power. It gives me the confidence. And the comfort that I can hopefully achieve what I want without the padding of wealth, which I definitely lack at the moment.( I mean monetary wealth).Relatively speaking.
So here I am, keying down these thoughts on Power before the day begins.
And raising a silent toast to the city that has given me what very few people have.
Hope.
How true. Having heard of the "old rich" and the palatial bungalows and the wealth that Delhi is, I was very nervous when I came here four months ago. Gurgaon assured me of neighbours who I could socialize with without feeling like a country cousin, a professional life where I have fit in like a glove, a place where I feel charged up being amongst professionals who are from all across the country, with dreams bigger than most of the bank balances.
Set me thinking. How is Power different from Wealth.Power is influence. Power is recognition. Power comes to those who has aspired and achieved. Power is about success. Power is about talent. It is about professions, entreprenership, politics, creativity, fine arts.... anything that can create a sphere of influence. Power is not necesssarily a legacy.It comes to the hungry. And the dreamers.
Wealth may follow closely on the heels of power. But it is the effect and not the cause. And most importantly, power can exist without wealth.
In my short stint so far in Gurgaon, I have seen the play of Power. It gives me the confidence. And the comfort that I can hopefully achieve what I want without the padding of wealth, which I definitely lack at the moment.( I mean monetary wealth).Relatively speaking.
So here I am, keying down these thoughts on Power before the day begins.
And raising a silent toast to the city that has given me what very few people have.
Hope.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
There's something about a "happy birthday"
"Happy Birthday to you"
Out of all the birthday wishes, I remember our help Kamala's wishes to me early morning when I was still in junior school, in my skirts and ribboned hair. Kamala did not speak or understand a word of English.
There is something about a birthday. And a birthday wish.
Have realised this even more after Facebook .
Last year ( am just two years old on FB) I lapped up all the wishes greedily and was quite smug about the long columns of wishes from friends and friends of friends who we have not met for years.
Why do we feel so special on our birthday?
Noone really goes philosophical about remembering the day we were born and contemplating on whether we have spent worthwhile years and what we shall do with the remaining.
Birthdays are fun because of the celebrations associated with it.
It's a day when we get lots and lots of smiles and gifts and hugs. Even the biggest pranks ( as kids) and mistakes ( as grown up kids) get a benign smile and a nod of "It's ok". We can get away with just about anything.
A day when we are definitely in the spotlight. From the time we wear our "birthday dress" and share a packet of Morton's in class to today where we walk into work with something special.
A day when official flowers and a card make workplace feel extra nice.
The gifts. The excitement of getting the big parcels with teddy bears and flowers printed on the wrapping when we were young to the more demure wrapping now. The thrill of opening a gift makes one feel like a child.
And the cake. How can a birthday be complete without the cake. With the icing. The cursive "Happy Birthday". The candles. The knife sitting consciously on the side. Standing behind a cake makes one more conscious and more happy than any podium in the world.
None of this would have made a birthday special if we were alone.
Birthdays are what they are because of people around us.
It's a day when everyone forgives and forgets and heads pop in and out with genuine smiles and wishes.
A day when a simple birthday song is sung with more harmony than the best practised choirs.
When we leave cast off our grown up cloaks and get to smashing the cake on the hapless victim with a gusto no team work workshop can ever get.
No matter how old we are, birthdays never fail to bring out the child in each of us. It is a day when we truly feel blessed.
Out of all the birthday wishes, I remember our help Kamala's wishes to me early morning when I was still in junior school, in my skirts and ribboned hair. Kamala did not speak or understand a word of English.
There is something about a birthday. And a birthday wish.
Have realised this even more after Facebook .
Last year ( am just two years old on FB) I lapped up all the wishes greedily and was quite smug about the long columns of wishes from friends and friends of friends who we have not met for years.
Why do we feel so special on our birthday?
Noone really goes philosophical about remembering the day we were born and contemplating on whether we have spent worthwhile years and what we shall do with the remaining.
Birthdays are fun because of the celebrations associated with it.
It's a day when we get lots and lots of smiles and gifts and hugs. Even the biggest pranks ( as kids) and mistakes ( as grown up kids) get a benign smile and a nod of "It's ok". We can get away with just about anything.
A day when we are definitely in the spotlight. From the time we wear our "birthday dress" and share a packet of Morton's in class to today where we walk into work with something special.
A day when official flowers and a card make workplace feel extra nice.
The gifts. The excitement of getting the big parcels with teddy bears and flowers printed on the wrapping when we were young to the more demure wrapping now. The thrill of opening a gift makes one feel like a child.
And the cake. How can a birthday be complete without the cake. With the icing. The cursive "Happy Birthday". The candles. The knife sitting consciously on the side. Standing behind a cake makes one more conscious and more happy than any podium in the world.
None of this would have made a birthday special if we were alone.
Birthdays are what they are because of people around us.
It's a day when everyone forgives and forgets and heads pop in and out with genuine smiles and wishes.
A day when a simple birthday song is sung with more harmony than the best practised choirs.
When we leave cast off our grown up cloaks and get to smashing the cake on the hapless victim with a gusto no team work workshop can ever get.
No matter how old we are, birthdays never fail to bring out the child in each of us. It is a day when we truly feel blessed.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
My Papa. My father.( a short fictitious story)
He reached out for the alarm clock on the bedside and turned it off. Still one hour to go .
Sleep evaded him.
He turned back to look at the small form curled up under the blankets, heaving softly in the rhythmic breath which only peaceful sleep can bring.
Almost on cue, her little head emerged from the cave of blankets to give him a Good morning smile.
His heart felt that ache again. She looked so much like Her . Like her mother. It was almost like fate had given him this gift as a keepsake copy while snatching away the original so ruthlessly.
It was an usual day. The toothbrush song he had taught her as her little brush sweaked in the frothy toothpaste. The warm mug of Bournvita . The bread smothered with her favourite plum jam and peanut butter, cut into little pieces she could fork up easily. His hands deftly buttoning up her little denims. The long brush strokes as she sat on his lap, that made her hair glisten like a raven's jet black wings.
She skipped along side to the car and stopped at the sight of the red suitcase, sitting imposingly on the front step.
"Where are we going, Papa?"
He paused, not wanting to hear his voice mouthing the reality that was about to strike in a while.
Her young mind did not grasp the pause as she dragged the suitcase with him to the car.
" I like helping you," she said, looking up at him lovingly.
His mind went back to another day, another time when the same eyes had looked up at him. The same love. The same words. The same emotion.
They drove into the courtyard.
She look surprised at the sea of men and women in black and white, walking about with folders and papers.
"They are dressed like penguins, Papa," she said.
" Baby, go with this nice lady for a while and play with her. Papa has some work to finish. Then we will go for a good burger and fries meal. "
" Pwomise?"
"Promise."
He sat on the bench. Waiting for the Proceedings.
His face was expressionless when the Man walked in, his arrogance already showing his confidence of a win. He liked calling him the Man. That took away the relationship the Man had with Her. Took away the bitterness he felt that all he had of Her were just two beautiful years. While the Man had thirteen. Making the Man nameless took away some of the humanness and made him look at the Man like an emotionless machine. She had always called the Man that. A Robot. A selfish robot.
The final Battle began.
Rights of a "father". By birth? By support?
Can a man who has no relation at all even claim to be a "father"?
Serious faces in black and white cite Articles and Sections and make Points and Counterpoints.
The Man sits back, even more confident.
The little girl waits in the adjoining room, playing with her puzzle, waiting for Papa .
He is oblivious to all this. All he can see and hear is Her. Smiling at him confidently. Asking him to Think Positive. To Believe. He nodded silently. That's what she had been about. Always positive. Always believing in life and love.
The Verdict. He stands respectfully like the rest, still in oblivion. The wild enraged cry from the Man brings him back to the present.
He hears the congratulations. Accepts the pats on the back. Thanks the right people. Ignores the flash bulbs of hungry media waiting to break the story of justice.
All he could see was Her face, smiling gratefully. With a relief her living years had robbed of her.
The little girl was tired of waiting. She walked to the door and peered out.
Her worried face broke into a smile as she saw him walking towards her.
She looked at the lady who was with her, and said,
" There's my Papa. My father. We are going home."
Sleep evaded him.
He turned back to look at the small form curled up under the blankets, heaving softly in the rhythmic breath which only peaceful sleep can bring.
Almost on cue, her little head emerged from the cave of blankets to give him a Good morning smile.
His heart felt that ache again. She looked so much like Her . Like her mother. It was almost like fate had given him this gift as a keepsake copy while snatching away the original so ruthlessly.
It was an usual day. The toothbrush song he had taught her as her little brush sweaked in the frothy toothpaste. The warm mug of Bournvita . The bread smothered with her favourite plum jam and peanut butter, cut into little pieces she could fork up easily. His hands deftly buttoning up her little denims. The long brush strokes as she sat on his lap, that made her hair glisten like a raven's jet black wings.
She skipped along side to the car and stopped at the sight of the red suitcase, sitting imposingly on the front step.
"Where are we going, Papa?"
He paused, not wanting to hear his voice mouthing the reality that was about to strike in a while.
Her young mind did not grasp the pause as she dragged the suitcase with him to the car.
" I like helping you," she said, looking up at him lovingly.
His mind went back to another day, another time when the same eyes had looked up at him. The same love. The same words. The same emotion.
They drove into the courtyard.
She look surprised at the sea of men and women in black and white, walking about with folders and papers.
"They are dressed like penguins, Papa," she said.
" Baby, go with this nice lady for a while and play with her. Papa has some work to finish. Then we will go for a good burger and fries meal. "
" Pwomise?"
"Promise."
He sat on the bench. Waiting for the Proceedings.
His face was expressionless when the Man walked in, his arrogance already showing his confidence of a win. He liked calling him the Man. That took away the relationship the Man had with Her. Took away the bitterness he felt that all he had of Her were just two beautiful years. While the Man had thirteen. Making the Man nameless took away some of the humanness and made him look at the Man like an emotionless machine. She had always called the Man that. A Robot. A selfish robot.
The final Battle began.
Rights of a "father". By birth? By support?
Can a man who has no relation at all even claim to be a "father"?
Serious faces in black and white cite Articles and Sections and make Points and Counterpoints.
The Man sits back, even more confident.
The little girl waits in the adjoining room, playing with her puzzle, waiting for Papa .
He is oblivious to all this. All he can see and hear is Her. Smiling at him confidently. Asking him to Think Positive. To Believe. He nodded silently. That's what she had been about. Always positive. Always believing in life and love.
The Verdict. He stands respectfully like the rest, still in oblivion. The wild enraged cry from the Man brings him back to the present.
He hears the congratulations. Accepts the pats on the back. Thanks the right people. Ignores the flash bulbs of hungry media waiting to break the story of justice.
All he could see was Her face, smiling gratefully. With a relief her living years had robbed of her.
The little girl was tired of waiting. She walked to the door and peered out.
Her worried face broke into a smile as she saw him walking towards her.
She looked at the lady who was with her, and said,
" There's my Papa. My father. We are going home."
What is it about small towns
Started writing about brand management- hangover from the weekend.
Couldn't. This blog is about what I feel and not what I should write.
So am sharing a beautiful experience of the cobbled alleys of a small town that gave me so much joy and brought back a flood of memories.
There is something about smaller places. Some magic that the concretisation, wired up generation , wider roads, mobile operator signages and the ever expanding boundary line have not been able to erode.
Maybe it is the smile on the face of the "locals" when strangers roll down the car windows and ask for directions.
The small stalls lining the roadside peddling sumptious food - steaming omelettes, chinese noodles and manchurian, sandwiches and the ubiqitous rolls. Where noone even dreams of wondering whether it is hygienic. It is. We have been having them for ages.
Where the grocery is still from the neighbourhood grocer store. Laden with toys and spices and biscuits and toiletries and everything that a household could possibly want.
The tiredtaxi driver who turns the wheel readily and agrees to drop us in the dead of the night, even though his family waits for him to get back home. And asking us to pay "whatever we want" as it was not on meter.
The service in the hotels and guesthouses where the waiters are friends and takes the babies and children out to play while the guests can relax. Never asking or waiting for a tip.
Where neighbours are family. And the walls are just a physical separation of properties.
Where passerbys still stand aside and make way for the elderly. And give up a seat in the bus readily. So what if it means an hour of standing on tired feet.
Where every festival is a community celebration. Everyone gets a plate of puja prasad or a slice of cake and a handful of marzipan on Christmas day.
Where there is no mad race to get ahead, whether it is on the roads or in queues or in life.
Where people still have time to walk in the morning or stroll with the kids at dusk.
Small towns have their share of woes. Disgruntlement does set in, like the load shedding that brings in darkness and flies. City returned children shuffle and rant about lack of connectivity, handful of channels and no happening joints at night. Young men get restless wanting to earn more bucks in the promised lands. The skyscrapers and blinking night lights in cities that never sleep attract the inhabitants and the youth like bees to honey.
People like me. Like us.
We earn, we burn, we achieve, we revel, we acquire, we lose, we race, we celebrate, we enjoy. We do.
That's what life is all about.
Yet the magic of the small towns and the simple lives haunt me whenever I go back .For a brief respite.
Couldn't. This blog is about what I feel and not what I should write.
So am sharing a beautiful experience of the cobbled alleys of a small town that gave me so much joy and brought back a flood of memories.
There is something about smaller places. Some magic that the concretisation, wired up generation , wider roads, mobile operator signages and the ever expanding boundary line have not been able to erode.
Maybe it is the smile on the face of the "locals" when strangers roll down the car windows and ask for directions.
The small stalls lining the roadside peddling sumptious food - steaming omelettes, chinese noodles and manchurian, sandwiches and the ubiqitous rolls. Where noone even dreams of wondering whether it is hygienic. It is. We have been having them for ages.
Where the grocery is still from the neighbourhood grocer store. Laden with toys and spices and biscuits and toiletries and everything that a household could possibly want.
The tired
The service in the hotels and guesthouses where the waiters are friends and takes the babies and children out to play while the guests can relax. Never asking or waiting for a tip.
Where neighbours are family. And the walls are just a physical separation of properties.
Where passerbys still stand aside and make way for the elderly. And give up a seat in the bus readily. So what if it means an hour of standing on tired feet.
Where every festival is a community celebration. Everyone gets a plate of puja prasad or a slice of cake and a handful of marzipan on Christmas day.
Where there is no mad race to get ahead, whether it is on the roads or in queues or in life.
Where people still have time to walk in the morning or stroll with the kids at dusk.
Small towns have their share of woes. Disgruntlement does set in, like the load shedding that brings in darkness and flies. City returned children shuffle and rant about lack of connectivity, handful of channels and no happening joints at night. Young men get restless wanting to earn more bucks in the promised lands. The skyscrapers and blinking night lights in cities that never sleep attract the inhabitants and the youth like bees to honey.
People like me. Like us.
We earn, we burn, we achieve, we revel, we acquire, we lose, we race, we celebrate, we enjoy. We do.
That's what life is all about.
Yet the magic of the small towns and the simple lives haunt me whenever I go back .For a brief respite.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
"Lead Kindly Light"
As I prepare to tick one more box off the calender of my life in advertising, I take a pause and wonder.
Can advertising a lighthouse, or a beacon or will it primarily be a mirror?
My paper in the Chevening Scholarship was on Beauty and Women in advertising. That was the year Dove launched its Real Beauty campaign and my paper was brimming with Dove and real women. Finally, advertising had reached its age. Where we could show reality and not airbrushed clones all over again.
Six years later, I am as much part of what we see around us and proud of the work as well. The work has built brands, catapulted market share and sustained brands through the trough.
Yet there are times when I wonder whether there is something more I can do through the work I have done for 14 long years.
Can we be bolder when it comes to showing women and change?
Change is not a discussion about short kurtis and jeans instead of a saree and feeling proud that we have shown a modern women. Change is not enough when we limit the spirit of winning to young men and young boys.
A young modern mother's role more than serving children food, and worrying about her husband's cholestrol level and insurance.
Am wondering whether I can think of a brand that can stand up and say- I am about change. I reflect the dreams and desires of the young modern Indian woman. And showcase this proudly.
There is so much of advertising consumed every minute. Every second. No social media has the reach of a mass media brand spend. No NGO can ever hope to match up.
If some of the work also had an inspiring quotient, served as a call for action for women in smaller towns who are still straining at the leashes, shone the spotlight on the working wife and mother who has done an excellent job of managing home and life, applauded an unsung hero who had stood against society, woven into the brand message, there would definitely be a change. Definitely easier said than done. But then, it is fine to at least wonder and debate.
Read somewhere that the best productivity and impact happens when there is an element of greater good. Whether it is a product, service, institution, brand or industry.
Of course there is reality. Brand need to compete, brands need aspirations, brands have their own personality and need to speak in their voice. Reality also is that we are not in the business of simply inspiring people, we inspire people to relate to, and ultimately drive preference for a brand.Reality is that real life does not make for interesting creative. Am part of the business and know this and all the other realities we operate it. It is indeed very challenging .
Yet , in brief moments like this, when I take a pause, I long to make a small difference. At least to the women I create work for.When the work on the brand can also inspire her to take just one small step against the leash of life.
After all, we are in the business of weaving dreams.
Can advertising a lighthouse, or a beacon or will it primarily be a mirror?
My paper in the Chevening Scholarship was on Beauty and Women in advertising. That was the year Dove launched its Real Beauty campaign and my paper was brimming with Dove and real women. Finally, advertising had reached its age. Where we could show reality and not airbrushed clones all over again.
Six years later, I am as much part of what we see around us and proud of the work as well. The work has built brands, catapulted market share and sustained brands through the trough.
Yet there are times when I wonder whether there is something more I can do through the work I have done for 14 long years.
Can we be bolder when it comes to showing women and change?
Change is not a discussion about short kurtis and jeans instead of a saree and feeling proud that we have shown a modern women. Change is not enough when we limit the spirit of winning to young men and young boys.
A young modern mother's role more than serving children food, and worrying about her husband's cholestrol level and insurance.
Am wondering whether I can think of a brand that can stand up and say- I am about change. I reflect the dreams and desires of the young modern Indian woman. And showcase this proudly.
There is so much of advertising consumed every minute. Every second. No social media has the reach of a mass media brand spend. No NGO can ever hope to match up.
If some of the work also had an inspiring quotient, served as a call for action for women in smaller towns who are still straining at the leashes, shone the spotlight on the working wife and mother who has done an excellent job of managing home and life, applauded an unsung hero who had stood against society, woven into the brand message, there would definitely be a change. Definitely easier said than done. But then, it is fine to at least wonder and debate.
Read somewhere that the best productivity and impact happens when there is an element of greater good. Whether it is a product, service, institution, brand or industry.
Of course there is reality. Brand need to compete, brands need aspirations, brands have their own personality and need to speak in their voice. Reality also is that we are not in the business of simply inspiring people, we inspire people to relate to, and ultimately drive preference for a brand.Reality is that real life does not make for interesting creative. Am part of the business and know this and all the other realities we operate it. It is indeed very challenging .
Yet , in brief moments like this, when I take a pause, I long to make a small difference. At least to the women I create work for.When the work on the brand can also inspire her to take just one small step against the leash of life.
After all, we are in the business of weaving dreams.
It's all about Passion
Waking up earlier than the lark this week.
Burning midnight oil.
Pouring over books whose pages have yellowed with time and neglect
Writing, rewriting.....
And all this without interuppting work and family.
Can't afford to. It's my "freetime" venture.
Because all this effort is going towards my passion.
Teaching. Rather "Guest lecturing".
Realise how important it is to feed our passions.
Brings out the best in us, fuels fire and sparks off ideas we never imagined we could dream of.
Sometimes, people like me let work take up so much time that we kill the passions that drive us.
Making us unhappy, monotonic, mechanical.
We complain about having no time.
We talk about time poor lives in meetings and breaks.
Yet, it takes so little if we really put our mind and heart to it.
Just need a strong dose of determination, a spoonful of planning and a sackful of hard work.
I have learnt so much in the last few days.
New examples, fresh insights, revamped theories... things long forgotten in the lapse of time.
Nothing comes easy.
More so, if we follow a passion that is not part of our regular work and life.
But at the end of the day, it is these passions that make us better individuals, make us complete.
Making us more productive, more enlightened.
And above all, keeping us very happy.
Because, with happiness, comes health, comes success, comes relationships. Everything.
With this short rambling, I go back to my guest lecture prep and midnight oils.
Thanking God for finally making me wise enough to realise that if we kill passion, a part of us die.
Burning midnight oil.
Pouring over books whose pages have yellowed with time and neglect
Writing, rewriting.....
And all this without interuppting work and family.
Can't afford to. It's my "freetime" venture.
Because all this effort is going towards my passion.
Teaching. Rather "Guest lecturing".
Realise how important it is to feed our passions.
Brings out the best in us, fuels fire and sparks off ideas we never imagined we could dream of.
Sometimes, people like me let work take up so much time that we kill the passions that drive us.
Making us unhappy, monotonic, mechanical.
We complain about having no time.
We talk about time poor lives in meetings and breaks.
Yet, it takes so little if we really put our mind and heart to it.
Just need a strong dose of determination, a spoonful of planning and a sackful of hard work.
I have learnt so much in the last few days.
New examples, fresh insights, revamped theories... things long forgotten in the lapse of time.
Nothing comes easy.
More so, if we follow a passion that is not part of our regular work and life.
But at the end of the day, it is these passions that make us better individuals, make us complete.
Making us more productive, more enlightened.
And above all, keeping us very happy.
Because, with happiness, comes health, comes success, comes relationships. Everything.
With this short rambling, I go back to my guest lecture prep and midnight oils.
Thanking God for finally making me wise enough to realise that if we kill passion, a part of us die.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Romancing music
Was listening to "Jab koi baat..." on YouTube on a serene Sunday morning and my ever romantic heart went a fluttering. Short of seeing the red hearts swim before my eyes like a Valentines Day graphic viral, I was completely in a romantic mood.
There was something about those songs. There IS something about them that has transcended time and generations.
There was something about the shy looks , the eyelashes that fluttered up and away, the saree acchal held demurely, the hands held together .
There was an intensity that always manages to revv me out of any mood into a beautiful world of love.
Songs and music have evolved today in Bollywood. There is maybe much more technology and creativity to both song and music, there are inspirations from across the world and a much wider audience to appreciate thanks to the bludgeoning channels and listening devices.
These numbers are chartbusters and top hits and the latest. Downloaded rapidly from a host of free sites, played on FM 24X 7 and are blasted on the music channels. Discs, parties, get togethers, clubs- these popular numbers are everywhere.
Yet somehow I miss the connect.
I miss the beauty and simplicity of the lyrics of yesteryears
I crave for the wave of emotions that flood us whenever we hear a favourite number
Music fuels imagination
It is one of the best forms of escape as well
The world has moved on and things are changing. For the better.
Tastes have evolved and Generation X thrives on the music churned out by the industry.
But nothing I have heard so far comes close to the magic of the music maestros of yesterday.
Through their music they still live on in our hearts, every time our heart goes a fluttering.
Like mine did just now.
There was something about those songs. There IS something about them that has transcended time and generations.
There was something about the shy looks , the eyelashes that fluttered up and away, the saree acchal held demurely, the hands held together .
There was an intensity that always manages to revv me out of any mood into a beautiful world of love.
Songs and music have evolved today in Bollywood. There is maybe much more technology and creativity to both song and music, there are inspirations from across the world and a much wider audience to appreciate thanks to the bludgeoning channels and listening devices.
These numbers are chartbusters and top hits and the latest. Downloaded rapidly from a host of free sites, played on FM 24X 7 and are blasted on the music channels. Discs, parties, get togethers, clubs- these popular numbers are everywhere.
Yet somehow I miss the connect.
I miss the beauty and simplicity of the lyrics of yesteryears
I crave for the wave of emotions that flood us whenever we hear a favourite number
Music fuels imagination
It is one of the best forms of escape as well
The world has moved on and things are changing. For the better.
Tastes have evolved and Generation X thrives on the music churned out by the industry.
But nothing I have heard so far comes close to the magic of the music maestros of yesterday.
Through their music they still live on in our hearts, every time our heart goes a fluttering.
Like mine did just now.
Friday, October 15, 2010
"Mummy, Bhook lagi hai" ( Mum, I'm hungry)
Zoya ran up to me and said she was hungry. I asked her what she wants to have. She replied promptly- Chocheges ( sausages). Opened the refrigerator only to find that the usual packet of frozen meats was over and had not been replaced. Called my help and asked her in a firm tone why she had not told me that the sausages are over, Zoya will now have to stay hungry blah blah.
I sounded pathetic even as I said this. I was annoyed that a packet of sausages were not there. She could have just about anything else. What if, for a moment, I had nothing at home? What if , for a second, I imagined myself as one of the hundreds of mothers in this country, whose little daughters pitterpattered upto them in baby steps saying- Ma, I am hungry- and I had just nothing to give. Sent a shiver down my spine.
I remember my grandparents' house with the joint family back home. The milk would be mixed with water so that there was enough for the fifteen children . It was called "gakhir paani" ( milk with water). My cousins were so used to it that they thought this was the way milk was had. Noone ever felt sad or deprived.
I have done focus groups with mothers across the country who tell me stories of how , with recession, they make vegetables with gravy so that they don't have to make daal, which is expensive to the point of being a luxury. One mother smiled and said her child is very happy- says the vegetables taste so much better with the gravy. Again, no complaint. Just a smile that says- we can manage and we do it very well.
Children talk to me about how they "share" a plate of chaat or golgappa or a Mc donald's aloo tikki ( potato) burger. They do this happily. Sharing while eating out has been a way of life.
There is a reason why most mothers in less affluent families have their meal after the entire family has had their fill. She can then give up her share of the rice or chapati to one of her ever hungry brood. Her body has gotten used to a meagre meal or even a glass of water most nights.
The Global Hunger Index 2010 rates India lower than Rwanda and Sudan in Hunger Quotient.
Children across the country are going to bed hungry, cooing themselves to sleep over their mother's lullabies. Mothers across the country are over worked and under nourished, trying to find indigenious ways of lighting the kitchen fires everyday.
Yet we are also one of the countries with a high Happiness Quotient.
We have religion, we have family, we have hope and belief.
That each day will be better than yesterday. And that tomorrow will bring a new ray of hope.
I applaud these mothers and the sense of positiveness and hope they imbibe in their families everyday.
So what if there is just a handful of rice to be shared at night.
And I humbly realise that instead of berating over a packet of sausages, if I start sharing what I have, in a small way, with families less blessed than me in terms of wealth, I can make at least one child sleep peacefully with no hunger pangs. It can make a difference. A huge difference.
I sounded pathetic even as I said this. I was annoyed that a packet of sausages were not there. She could have just about anything else. What if, for a moment, I had nothing at home? What if , for a second, I imagined myself as one of the hundreds of mothers in this country, whose little daughters pitterpattered upto them in baby steps saying- Ma, I am hungry- and I had just nothing to give. Sent a shiver down my spine.
I remember my grandparents' house with the joint family back home. The milk would be mixed with water so that there was enough for the fifteen children . It was called "gakhir paani" ( milk with water). My cousins were so used to it that they thought this was the way milk was had. Noone ever felt sad or deprived.
I have done focus groups with mothers across the country who tell me stories of how , with recession, they make vegetables with gravy so that they don't have to make daal, which is expensive to the point of being a luxury. One mother smiled and said her child is very happy- says the vegetables taste so much better with the gravy. Again, no complaint. Just a smile that says- we can manage and we do it very well.
Children talk to me about how they "share" a plate of chaat or golgappa or a Mc donald's aloo tikki ( potato) burger. They do this happily. Sharing while eating out has been a way of life.
There is a reason why most mothers in less affluent families have their meal after the entire family has had their fill. She can then give up her share of the rice or chapati to one of her ever hungry brood. Her body has gotten used to a meagre meal or even a glass of water most nights.
The Global Hunger Index 2010 rates India lower than Rwanda and Sudan in Hunger Quotient.
Children across the country are going to bed hungry, cooing themselves to sleep over their mother's lullabies. Mothers across the country are over worked and under nourished, trying to find indigenious ways of lighting the kitchen fires everyday.
Yet we are also one of the countries with a high Happiness Quotient.
We have religion, we have family, we have hope and belief.
That each day will be better than yesterday. And that tomorrow will bring a new ray of hope.
I applaud these mothers and the sense of positiveness and hope they imbibe in their families everyday.
So what if there is just a handful of rice to be shared at night.
And I humbly realise that instead of berating over a packet of sausages, if I start sharing what I have, in a small way, with families less blessed than me in terms of wealth, I can make at least one child sleep peacefully with no hunger pangs. It can make a difference. A huge difference.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Missing the Thrills
The first day of Puja. Pedalling back in time to when we would wake up all excited on Saptami day, eager to wear our new clothes. We always got two sets instead of four or six like our friends, Jhimly and Minku. But Ma would sternly reply that we also got two sets for Bihu ( Assamese new year) and that made it even.
Thinking... why is it that all our new clothes happened only during a celebration or on our birthdays? Never remember randomly strolling into a store and asking Ma to buy us a dress.
That was not just us. It was India. At least middle class India. Wardrobes were refreshed only during a celebration, usually a religious one or a big social one. And I realise why.
First, the relatively low income levels. Usually the father was the sole bread earner. Usually the father worked as a public servant, where salaries were unenviable.
Second, thriftiness was a virtue. Out of the salary every month, a portion had to go towards savings. Bank passbooks were a reverred item in the house. Random expenses were not encouraged.
So purchases were planned in a way that maximised the wallet and also kept the family happy. Celebrations were and still are a time when bonuses are doled out and discounts and sales are the order of the day. Offer cards and flashes appear everywhere.
Festivities are a time when the entire family relaxes the purse strings and goes all out on shopping. Since everything is purchased at that time, there is a sense of bounty and plenty. Noone feels deprived. Everyone has something, even the toothless old bai in the kitchen gets a new saree, blouse and petticoat.
So while it is a very sensible and smart budget management, it actually sends out signals of richness, wealth and happiness. Savings are hidden under the blanket of unwrapped packets, gift papers, the crackle and fragrance of new clothes.
In those days, all the eating out would also happen during Pujas. Snacks, fish curries, khichdis, gol gappas, icecreams. Toys were generously doled out. Pistols with round paper pellet bullets ( golis), plastic dancing girls that nodded their heads, plastic animals that were wheeled around on strings.
Today, thanks to the rising disposable incomes ( recession notwithstanding), younger earning groups, shift from a saving to spending economy, purchases happen all the year. Malls have sales every month, new clothes need no occasion.
I go and buy my daughter toys and games and pretty dresses whenever I have the time. I buy myself new clothes whenever I feel I need something.
Yet today, on the eve of the pujas, I feel like I have missed out on something.
I am missing the surprise on our faces when Ma opened the brown packets , the louds screams of joy when we preened before the mirror in our new clothes, Ma's gorgeous look as she draped her new saree around her, Puspa, our household help's shy smile as she proudly showed her new salwar kameez to her parents.
Makes me think... in our plentitude, have we sacrificed small joys?
Thinking... why is it that all our new clothes happened only during a celebration or on our birthdays? Never remember randomly strolling into a store and asking Ma to buy us a dress.
That was not just us. It was India. At least middle class India. Wardrobes were refreshed only during a celebration, usually a religious one or a big social one. And I realise why.
First, the relatively low income levels. Usually the father was the sole bread earner. Usually the father worked as a public servant, where salaries were unenviable.
Second, thriftiness was a virtue. Out of the salary every month, a portion had to go towards savings. Bank passbooks were a reverred item in the house. Random expenses were not encouraged.
So purchases were planned in a way that maximised the wallet and also kept the family happy. Celebrations were and still are a time when bonuses are doled out and discounts and sales are the order of the day. Offer cards and flashes appear everywhere.
Festivities are a time when the entire family relaxes the purse strings and goes all out on shopping. Since everything is purchased at that time, there is a sense of bounty and plenty. Noone feels deprived. Everyone has something, even the toothless old bai in the kitchen gets a new saree, blouse and petticoat.
So while it is a very sensible and smart budget management, it actually sends out signals of richness, wealth and happiness. Savings are hidden under the blanket of unwrapped packets, gift papers, the crackle and fragrance of new clothes.
In those days, all the eating out would also happen during Pujas. Snacks, fish curries, khichdis, gol gappas, icecreams. Toys were generously doled out. Pistols with round paper pellet bullets ( golis), plastic dancing girls that nodded their heads, plastic animals that were wheeled around on strings.
Today, thanks to the rising disposable incomes ( recession notwithstanding), younger earning groups, shift from a saving to spending economy, purchases happen all the year. Malls have sales every month, new clothes need no occasion.
I go and buy my daughter toys and games and pretty dresses whenever I have the time. I buy myself new clothes whenever I feel I need something.
Yet today, on the eve of the pujas, I feel like I have missed out on something.
I am missing the surprise on our faces when Ma opened the brown packets , the louds screams of joy when we preened before the mirror in our new clothes, Ma's gorgeous look as she draped her new saree around her, Puspa, our household help's shy smile as she proudly showed her new salwar kameez to her parents.
Makes me think... in our plentitude, have we sacrificed small joys?
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)