My Professor

As I walked in to the Institute where I was invited for a session, time stood still for a moment.
After 15 years, I saw some one who I respected, feared, was awestruck, and was my inspiration during my MBA days.
My professor.

It was as if things had come full circle.
I was excited, delighted and nervous at the same time.
Will he like my work?
What if there are any shortcomings....


He was there on the front row.
I began my session by saying that today I stand at the podium as a student.
Talking about advertising and marketing.
Hoping that I would be able to live up to expectations.

Things went off well.
I came back home, satisfied and happy.


Realised how we pass out and relegate our  teachers to the back bench of our memory.
How we are connected to half the world but hardly find time to drop an email to them
How we talk about our professional icons but let go of the icons that shaped us when we were mere students, with minds that were yet to be shaped with the right knowledge and thinking.


And how, in the true spirit of teaching, our teachers always shower us with the same love and warmth they had for us when we were young.
Proud of our achievements.
But never taking credit.
Not once.
Never once questioning our short memories.

I  was truly a student today.
And came back wiser and happier.

Bermudas and Kurtis

Birthday parties in those days meant wearing a frilly, lacy white or pink dress.
Tailored by my mum herself or the local tailor, who would put on his thick dark rimmed glasses, slip on the snakey worn out measuring tape around his shoulders , and thumb his way through dog earred pages of "foreign" magazines where beautiful blondes posed in chic suits and little cherubic angels posed in frilly white frocks.

That was as close to fashion as we could get.
The uniqueness lay in the dexterity of mums to select the right outfit that Shombu "darzi" could muster up on his Usha sewing machine.

Then there were the "readymades" in plusher stores- if we were lucky, we would get one or two during pujas.

My first pair of jeans was extremely formal party wear.  Teamed with yet another frilly pink blouse.
Till the jeans became a more familiar sight in and around us, got paired with casual t-shirts.

College was churidars and salwars. And of course, the occasional sarees and our traditional mekhela chador.

The more fashion adventurous ones wore jeans with kurtas. Then jeans with short tops. And jeans with t-shirts. Followed by capri jeans with sleeveless t-shirts till the strict Principal   put his foot down and listed out  what is "allowed" as college wear.

Work  started off with more churidars. Common black, red and white salwars or pyjamas, and a choice of cottons and semi cotton, full sleeves, half sleeves as kurtas.

That was the time when the "bermuda" shorts made their cheeky appearance on shelves. Suddenly, young girls were wearing bermudas and tshirts for evening walks or casually at home on Sundays. Bermudas were rarely worn outside of home or locality but gave the young girls their first whiff of fashion freedom.

The short kurta or "kurti" made its shy appearance maybe 5 or 6 years ago.
Giving the Indian fashion  a facelift. And women and girls permission to  dive into "western wear"- namely jeans and kurtis.
This is the height of fashion in small towns, especially for married women and mums who had quietly folded up their "unmarried" wardrobe in the recesses of the spare Godrej almirah.

The movement is still on- it is always a process.
The latest in line of Indo western fashion fusion are "tunics" with "tights".
Belted, laced, layered, halter necked- they come in all shapes and sizes.

Fashion in mass India is truly an indicator of a change in mindset.
A sign of a sense of freedom.
A symbol of equality in relationships.

And shows that as a nation, we do not blindly adopt but redefine what we have been used to.
Like they say "make adjustments"....

Ladies Who Lunch

I have taken the liberty of expanding the net of "ladies" here to net in almost all ladies I have come across in my career, as colleagues, as research respondents , as friends and as Indian women in general.

And no, this isn't about ladies.
It is about the Lunches.

So there are the mothers who wake up at 5.30 in the morning, pack "tiffins" for the kids, make chapati, sabzi for breakfast and pack "boxes" for husband and is a whirlwind of  cooking, chopping, running to drop kid in busstop, back to cooking, packing till the clock strikes ten. Lunch for such mothers are usually alone, or a women only affair in joint families. Which means shortcuts. So a quick serving of chapatis, chawal and sabzi , dahi ( or its eastern or southern equivalent) had while listening to the favourite FM dj belting out songs or the favourite reruns on TV. In fact one of the leading FM stations even had a promo where lucky mums could win a Subway lunch for herself.


Cut to the Working Women. Lunch means picking up the packed lunch or office thali  or dabba and plonking down at the usual ring round the table with other friends at work. Nibbling off each other's food. Food complementing the lively chatter and gossip that makes the lunch hour so relaxing. Appreciating the thepla, the choclate cake slice handed generously around, the rice and bhindi ki sabzi cooked in the morning. Lunch  is a mix of food that's pot pourri, iced with laughter and fun.

Occasionally, these lunches happen out of work in a favourite joint. Food different, same liveliness and masti.

Of course, we have the Kitty Party lunches. Lucky ladies with lucky kitties. In a favourite cool joint. Where four tables have been joined together and a "Reserved" placard sits proudly amidst cut glass vases with single stemmed roses. Mexican, Chinese, Pan Asian, Indian rules the roost.   Or the best in the Fine Dining Menu.

Then we have those other Lunches where the ladies usually meet for a late lunch and discuss serious community welfare issues- maybe the next travel book they are helping edit and co-author, the Teach India sessions in Pahaganj, the blankets to be collected for the Home for the Aged. Food here fuels productive social welfare initiatives.

On certain days of the week, we have the Fast Lunches. Sabudana khichri, fruits, sweets, banana chips. Nothing else. Women who follow this  stick to this religiously. Its great tasting food as well.

And to  end on a high, we have the Great Indian Sunday Lunches. Where the wives and mothers make special dishes and the family waits with eager anticipation. Sanjeev Kapoor,  Sananda and Grihasobha recipes  dominate the table. So does the new Ready To Cook range dishes innovatively dished out- matar paneer, pindi chana, hyderabadi biryani, chicken chettinad, kashmiri rajma and more.
 The Eastern ( also rest of India but writing more from experience) sweat out the ritualistic Sunday Mutton Curry.

Lunches are indeed special- for both Homemakers and Working Women. It is a time to relax, to talk, to connect and reconnect. A time when the woman truly plays herself and not necessarily a wife or a mom.

Car Trinkets Talk!

I have observed something quite interesting.
The trinkets that people use for decorating their car dashboards, rear view mirrors speak a lot about the kind of person or family.

For instance, we have The Believers.
Images of deities.
Sometimes fresh marigold garlands.
Agarbatti smoke trailing out of the windows every morning.

Then there are the Lucky Charmers.
Latest trend is the Greek Eye chain in blue and white dangling  from the mirror.
Feng Shui reigns supreme.
So does an occasional Ganesha ( not a deity but a decoration eg Ganesha playing a guitar)

Followed by the Fragrance Lovers
Poppy Perfume bottles with their lids off are taped to the dashboard
Ivy leaf shaped fragrance sachets swing from the mirror.
AmbiPur is edged somewhere in between.

Not to miss the Flaunters.
Small teddy wearing a I Love NY T-shirt
Car sticker proudly stating  University of Stockholm
Ornate tissue boxes
Hats
Cushions of all shapes and sizes and colours
Rows of nodding puppies ( stuffed)
And more...

Finally, I noticed some Innovators.
The first to buy the latest gizmo or trinket at the traffic lights and slap the double sided tape on the dashboard.
Solar powered flowers.
Yellow chickens that nod and hop.

And yes, we all show our patriotism on Republic and Independence day with the tricolour miniatures.


Really, cars are an extension of our personalities.
( Value equation notwithstanding)
So next time some of us are out on "research", it may be a good idea to peek into the car dashboard.

Who knows what picture it may paint......

Crisis at work? Look at Life for answers

We talk about Work Life  Balance.
We talk about strict lines between office and home.
We erect invisible and inpermeable walls in our thinking as well.


Life however is beyond Compartmentalisation.

It doles out lessons to us everyday.
So that we each have our own archive of case studies.

The best place to look for answers- whether it is a marketing roadblock, a brand insight or a team management crisis- is at ourselves.
And at Life.

So, for instance, why refer to consumers as "they" in our thinking ( and ppts)?
It's us. Even if we do not necessarily actively use a product, we have a perception of the brand.

Why struggle to manage dynamics at work?
Be as natural when it comes to actions and reactions as we are when we are at home or with friends.

Why stare at marketing jargons like "Tyranny of Choice" in today's world?
Imagine ourselves at the fish market every Sunday, doing a mental math of our wallets and a visual postcard of the delectable fish menus for the week vis a vis the budgeted outlay and how much the two can be scaled down ( or up)

You name it. Give me any big roadblock and I can guarantee that there will be an answer hidden in our archives of Life.

After all, work is a part of Life, isn't it?

We just need to be spontaneous, bring down the walls we have erected.
The answers lie within ourselves.

A Small Tribute to Vishal

It seems like just yesterday when Pranav, my creative colleague told me that his friend, Vishal, had just joined our office, from Mumbai.
Actually, it was a month ago.

Maybe I was caught up with work and life.
Maybe I just push some things back.
Basically, I did not really spend any significant time welcoming a new creative colleague.

Vishal Shah. 36 years. Young, bright, extremely talented, cheerful, lived life to the full.
I regret not knowing him better.
I wish I had gone to that last client meeting where he had presented his first piece of work on the business.
And that I had added him on as a Facebook friend.
Maybe just walked across to where he  sat and shared a laugh. Or a coffee.

This is life.
We never know what surprise lies around the corner.
We are just so busy with ourselves and our own lives that we forget to take that pause.
That break where we can look around.
And share- a smile, a word... anything...

I will miss you Vishal.
And will always wish that I had known you better.

RIP.
 

A castle called Eldora

Once upon a time, in a castle called Eldora, there lived a beautiful princess...

This is what flashed in my mind as I walked into Eldora a year and a half back.
My new home. The drive up the winding little hillock in Hiranandani Gardens led me up to the majestic lobby and the massive wooden door.

Every room in Eldora seemed out of a dream for me. Every piece of furniture, tasteful but inexpensive, was like a gift I was eagerly waiting for. Every room was a bonus- coming from a self owned two bedroom flat, Eldora was a luxury.

But Eldora was special to me because I felt it was mine.
For the first time, inspite of being a tenant, I felt I owned every little corner, the view from the round balcony overlooking the lake, the pantry and the kitchen... just everything.

Eldora signalled for me an achievement of sorts and  as I walked in every night, I felt proud. Of myself.

And then it was time to move on. Life signalled the change I always wanted. The change I had always worked towards.

Eldora was one of hardest to leave behind.

Yet suddenly,  I did not feel any remorse. Any negativity. I almost heard Eldora whisper to me at nights- saying- Go on Princess, fly to your new world.

As I sip my coffee , I realise that positive change is a great propeller.
It makes us embrace the new and wave out the old, willingly and smilingly.
It makes us wonder how everything is momentous and what is enduring are relationships we believe in.

And how giving up things just means we are making way for the new.

 Thank you Eldora- for giving me the wings to fly.

One Year Later

It's always great to celebrate an anniversary.

Specially when it signals one of the big changes in life.

But change is not as easy as it seems.

Change for me meant more than just a goodbye email  at work.

It meant  bidding goodbye to my colleagues of ten years.
Who made Mumbai a home for me.
The office lunches, the Koolar breakfasts, the Gajalee thalis, Banyan Tree pastries.
The workstation that I made into a second home, replete with my favourite cushion and framed pictures.
The Christmas carols, the Hard Rock evenings, the occasional Blue Frog do's.
The heated debates, the midnight oils, the floods, the samosas...

Change meant looking back at the office one last time that last evening
Hoping that I would be missed
My team  taken care of....

On the eve of one year in a new office, I also remember the office I left behind
The people I said goodbye to
The office that made me who I am today

Thankyou....

Children Dwell in the House of Tomorrow

I write this as I watch my little girl snuggle next to me watching a movie.
Telling me I am the "bestest mother" in the world.

Remembering my  father and mother.
When my mother would come back from a Club meeting and open her handbag and dole out some tidbits she managed to stuff into her kerchief. Not that we couldn't afford a samosa and a fruit cake. But the fact that she wouldn't dream of having a samosa when she knew my sister and I loved them.

Or when my father would always declare he loved having a not so great piece of chicken.
So that my sister and I had the choicest pieces.

Or when my mother went without new sarees and shoes, so that I could buy the most expensive Economics and Management books.

Or the times when she would  spend that last fifty rupee in her wallet for my sister clamouring for a new pencil box.

I recollect times when I was unwell at night and she would wait up all night for me.
The exam days when she would sit up, half sleepy, making me tea and omelettes, so that I could study.

And then oneday we are all grown up.
Have a mind of our own.
Take pleasure in doing things we want.
Take even greater pleasure in saying things that we know will hurt them most.

As I look at Zoya, I realise that as a parent, it is just about loving.
While being firm when required.
Teaching them what we have learnt in life.
Being a guide and showing them the right direction.
Wishing them well.
And then letting go.
Mostly of expectations.

For, as Kahlil Gibran says, "You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow...."

When Food Comes Full Circle

Life back then was very "English", as my cousins used to say.
Living in an oiltown set up by the British had touches of  the culture everywhere.
Definitely on food.

So we grew up munching "hamburgers" over a sunday evening movie in the Club, saw our mums serve roast chicken and mutton curry with equal aplomb. Our pantry shelves were lined with canned food- baked beans, sausages and sardines. The supper served at parties included soups and croissants.It was a time when puri sabzi and bacon and eggs shook hands on dining tables.

Then Guwahati happened.
Meals were mostly Indian- rice, dal, the mandatory vegetable and the special non vegetarian whenever my mother could make it. College life meant chole bhature in the canteen, aloo paratha at Kalyani, egg rolls at Feeds and oh yes- the butter chicken and naan we would treat ourselves on birthdays  at Prag.


Oh Calcutta ( Kolkata) and our Bengali cook dished up fish curries and aloo posto . Fish happened in my life like never before and at the behest of my good friend Shivaji, I also made the Sunday trip to buy fresh fish.
Gol Gappas, aloor dom, jhaal muri ruled the roost. So did the PeterCat Chelo kebab and the Prince Biryani.
The mishtis became permanent residents inside our fridge.


Mumbai  brought home a Gujrati cook who was really not a cook but managed to dish out basic stuff. Our meals were mostly chapatis and a  veg dish and dal  cooked by her coupled with maybe some sausages or cutlets from Venkys fried before dinner. She would cook in the morning and the same food would be breakfast, lunch and dinner. ( Diaries of a working woman!!!). Sundays saw me cooking Assamese fish curry and chicken.

Eating out was usually fast food or definitely only Indian and Chinese in fine dining.  And how can I forget my orders from our neighbouring Gurukripa- my daughter loved the Chicken 65 ( which I mistook for a Chinese dish)

So Mumbai was again primarily simple Indian and good Chinese and Konkani.

Finally , it's Delhi. Life  has become one euphoria of exotic roasts, pan Asian, Mediterranean, bakes, stir fries- you name it.It's like a TLC show happening live every meal.

But what I love most is the fact that everything I used to remember  from way back then has reappeared. 
Life ( and food) has come full circle.

Family First

I have to send that last email before  I leave.
Oh a brainstorm? Now? Wellll ok..
When do I reach home? Most times after nine at night.
Weekend work... of course... am always available.

That is me.
That was me.

Have made some minor alterations in life.
Like knowing when to shut the laptop and  swipe out of work.
Like  giving my little girl those precious moments every day- reading, watching her favourite show together
Or taking off on the weekend

I watch movies
I read
I walk
Even venture into the kitchen and make daring experiments

Laptop time at home is more about catching up with friends on FB
Or writing
Instead of checking, replying, forwarding, ccing, bccing emails

My family sees more of me
I see more of them
We enjoy each other's company
We have meals together
Say our goodnight prayers together

Realised that family comes first.
No matter what.

And this has made me a better person at work as well.
Coz I am happy. And  happy people are effective. Almost always.

Life's Guinea Pig

At times I used to look at Life and say- why is it that I have been chosen as the guinea pig for all trials and tribulations?
But then I realise that  each trial and every tribulation has made me richer. And stronger.


With every loss of family or friend, I have gained compassion and love from new bonds.
From every move to a new place, I have made new friends , shared passion and interests.
With every change at work, I have had newer experiences, new clients who have believed in me, old clients who have become friends.
Every role- daughter, wife, mother, companion... has taught me lessons of a lifetime.



Every tear has been wiped with a million smiles
Every sulk smeared away with laughter
Challenges have brought out strengths I never knew existed.

From bitterness, I have learnt to believe .
In Hope. Opportunities.


Thank you  Life for chosing me as the guinea pig.....

Work to Live

Just back from a week long break.
A break from work.
A respite from responsibilities.
A rest from the daily race and pace.

I had been on many vacations before. Some for 10 days. Some for 3 weeks and more.
Yet I never really managed to switch off.
Would check my emails all the time.
Make that quick call over a coffee on a sidewalk.
Send that sms while  driving past lush meadows and chalets.
Call my maid  for telephonic  instructions  between trying out shoes in that weekend market sale.

No wonder, vacations just seemed like a longer coffee break at work.

This time was different.
Just a week.
But told myself that this was time I have earned.
And time that was solely mine.
And that the world would move on and manage very well without me.

Was difficult initially- kept checking my phone almost on rote until I boarded the flight at midnight.

But  let go soon after.
Every site and sound took on a new meaning.
Every bite seemed like heaven.
I frolicked, played, danced, swam, ate, read, walked....
Felt rejuvenated

Came back to change.
Change is a way of life today.

But this short break has made me realise that there's so much more to life than just work and ambition.
And, for the first time, I am beginning to work to live.
And not live to work.

Same words. Just a different order.
That makes all the difference.

Fishy Tales

Buying fish has always been a crucial discussion and conversation point in our family.
Well, used to be.
Most of the evening small talk  between my mother and the neighbourhood aunties , as they strolled casually up and down the lanes connecting the houses, was about the rohu which Mr. Ganguly got the other day from Char Ali Bazar, or the small pabho ( pavda) that Mr. Baruah haggled for just  twenty rupees. Went on to the fish sour curry recipe and the steamed mustard secret.

My grandmother's house in Dibrugarh was by the mighty Brahmaputra and we would skip along with my father in the mornings as he went to the fish market and inspected the fresh catch, eventually  returning with a big glassy eyed fish, tomatoes, greens and ginger.

My mother would always call my sister and me when she was frying fish for the curry and give us a piece of the deep fried delicious fish with two onion rings and some ketchup.


The pieces were also carefully served up. My father would get two large and the choicest pieces. My sister and I would get the "peti" ( belly). Mother would have the tail . The guts would be fried with rice and coriander, the head with moong dal.

Kolkata saw me landing up at Gariahat market  on Sunday mornings buying fresh chingri, katla and betki.
 The betki fries served up in some of the finest diners on Park Street was to die for.

Then came Mumbai. My trust with the catch of the sea- pomfrets, surmais, rawas, gassi dishes, rawa coated fires, bombil fry, Gazalee thalis, koliwadas. Fell in love with it all.

INA Market and CR Park Delhi are my new haunts now. With my fluent Bengali , I almost pass off for one and haggle and gaggle till I get a week's stock of hilsa, prawns, rohu and the works. I have even started buying squids. Frozen fish fingers ornate my deep freezer box.

Amazing how life has such varied experience even when it comes to fish.

Sunday Mutton Curry

Sunday  was mutton curry day for us when we were young.
It was a ritual of sorts.
Kamla , the help, would chop onions and grind garlic and ginger in rhytmic motions as she squatted  and sweated over the stone pestle and mortar.
The potatoes were peeled and sitting on the sink ledge, some bits of skin still clinging bravely on.


Mother would call out to my father to hurry up.
Father would amble out of the shower, hair neatly combed back, the plastic shopping bag in hand and car keys in the other.

He would walk past the garden and the chicken coop , shouting out gentle instructions to the gardener , before we heard the familiar start up rumble of the Amby.

Around one in the afternoon, the screaming pressure cooker and the accompanying stream of aroma would announce that afternoon lunch would be shortly ready.

That was a ritual that not only we, but most of the families we knew followed.

It was not the mutton that made it special.
It was the family meal.
Unlike other days, father was there at home for lunch.
There was no rush, we could savour every bite and more importantly, conversation.
Mother would be relaxed and happy.
We would be playing.
The radio would be belting out our favourite songs.

That's the difference between consumption and purchase.
The more ritualistic our consumption is, the more special the occasion becomes.

Brands that have capitalised uopn this  have had a much stronger bonding with consumers.
Like the mutton curry, these brands remain in our hearts  longer.

So little to crib about

I was cribbing about deadlines and work and late hours
I was irritated. Crabbity.
Even sulky.

Until someone asked me whether what I was going through
Was as bad as a man hanging onto the edge of a cliff, counting his last seconds and hoping for help
Or as sad as that little child who had lost both parents and longed for a loving hug
As tiring as the rickshaw puller straining at the wheels for that extra five rupees
As horrible as someone who had just lost his job
Was it even close to what the mother of the brave soldier was going through, as she remembered her little boy playing with his toy guns


I cringed
And saw how lucky I was

To have just a bad day at work to crib about.

A Suitcase full of.....

There are times when I  remember ....
The favourite discoloured old tshirt I would wear at home
The flip camera my team had gifted me
The antique ashtray I had carefully carried back all the way from Bradford
My books
My pots and pans
My favourite  ladle
My daughter's old pram I never threw away
The old suitcase I had got as part of my wedding trousseau


After all, how much can one pack in a suitcase

And then I look at what I did manage to pack
Stacks of happiness
Packets full of hope
Boxes of inspiration
Labels that screamed Freedom

And then I realise that I did manage to pack what mattered most to me.
What matters most for everyone.
Almost everyone.

What Daddy Missed

My father passed away in 1984.

In those days, we had an Ambassador- a second hand one.
You didn't get car loans to buy a new car.
Anyways, even if you did, you could choose between a Fiat and an Amby.


My father was always budgeting and planning monthly expenses.
He never knew what a credit card was.
Everything had to be within what he earned.


He had no opportunity to travel by air.
Never been inside an airport even.
Vacations for us meant AC train and company guest houses.
And we felt quite privileged.

Daddy  was a cricket addict and was glued to his transistor during the test matches.
He never saw a match on a television.
We knew televisions only from Archie comics.
And English movies.

Daddy never had a passport.
Never left the shores of this country.
Never knew what a Pepsi Can was.
Never owned a cellphone.
Had no idea of what the computer was.
The only web he knew was cobwebs.

But we still had a good life.
We were connected to the world through radio and newspapers.
We called our grandparents much more.
Daddy went home every vacation.
We socialised every day.
We played, we swam, we picniced, we baked.

Sometimes I feel sad that Daddy never saw the life we are leading now.
Sometimes I feel, maybe he looks at us and feels sad.....

Attitude. Cool. Buzzy. Masti.

These are some of the words hanging at the tip of most tongues and pens.
Most of us like to describe ourselves or people we talk about as cool and hip.

Makes me wonder. What exactly is cool?

Is it about being 'with it'?
About talking in text lingo?
Or sporting contemporary fashion?

Can a social worker be cool?
For that matter, a successful entrepreneur?

Social Networking sites have also successfully whipped and whetted our appetites to be cool.
Whether it is our updates, or pictures, or links.

Being a smart thinker can also be cool.
Achieving success at work can be very cool as well.

Age old values of love, expect, sharing, caring will always be cool.

We are only restricting ourselves by limiting the definition of cool to music, apparel, accessories, behaviour.

Being cool is about being confident.
Of who we are and what we are about.

Cool is a state of mind. Not just a state of being.
And we are all cool in our own special ways.

Perform, Not Present

Collecting my thoughts for an open house tomorrow.
On  how to be a good presenter.

Maybe worthwhile sharing it on my blog with everyone.
Would welcome your comments.

Being  brought up on a rigorous schedule of classical and folk dance, I often draw parallels between a performance and a presentation.
Both are to an audience.
Both make a point interestingly and  entertainingly.
Both have to justify the time the audience is investing.
Both are on stage, visible or invisible.

Some pointers which have always helped me present.

1. Rehearse. Many times over.
2. It's a Performance.
3. Passion Shows.
4. Energy is Infectious.
5. Connect with the Audience
6. Be a storyteller
7. The Power of Voice
8. Focus on the key point being made but make it come alive in many ways
9. Watch TED  and good orators like President Obama
10. Be  Yourself. It's your  show.

It's an art to  hold the attention of an audience.
It's important to understand who we are facing.
It's  good to take on questions confidently, and not be defensive.

Finally, humour always works.
So does creativity.

Making a presentation come alive with slides or charts can make that vital difference.