How does one show proof of long painful days and longer sleepless nights...
Insults
Humilation
Abuse
Ugly fights
Uglier bouts of silence and vengeance
Break of trust
Vows
How does one explain that we tend to hide more than we show
That behind many a door may lie unhappy souls waiting to break free
Trying to protect young innocent minds
Smiling
Laughing
So that the world doesn't know
That a relationship that exists no more is still being protected
Noone wants to be vulnerable
Noone wants to be exposed
We all hope for change
Hope for a day when things will be better
But there is ample proof of such lives
I can see them everyday
The empty smiles
The hidden questions
The muted respect for those who had the courage
To all those out there,
Just take that step.
That holds you back .
Live Life.
We have only one.
We owe ourselves and our children that.
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
Saturday, February 11, 2012
The Signs
When....
the dining table sees more arguments than conversations
anniversary days are remembered more by parents and siblings
work hours slip into weekends
individual passions and interests take precedence over togetherness
every purchase becomes a debate point
holidays are more a ritual for the kids
pillow talk is a distant memory
there is intolerance for behaviour which seemed cute before
you wish for a study of your own
and long for a vacation only with friends
chatting and facebook is the best pasttime
sex becomes a compliance rather than desire
... it is best to accept that
the relationship is at breaking point
it is time to talk
and take a call
to make those changes
or move on
for all those who chose the third way of compromise...
it is just that.... a compromise
the dining table sees more arguments than conversations
anniversary days are remembered more by parents and siblings
work hours slip into weekends
individual passions and interests take precedence over togetherness
every purchase becomes a debate point
holidays are more a ritual for the kids
pillow talk is a distant memory
there is intolerance for behaviour which seemed cute before
you wish for a study of your own
and long for a vacation only with friends
chatting and facebook is the best pasttime
sex becomes a compliance rather than desire
... it is best to accept that
the relationship is at breaking point
it is time to talk
and take a call
to make those changes
or move on
for all those who chose the third way of compromise...
it is just that.... a compromise
What I learned at Surajkund today
As I looked out of the Innova window at the swanking new cavity less Faridabad Highway, I wondered how crowded the Surajkund mela would be. Since it was a Saturday and the last weekend for the Annual Fair.
For those who are not familiar, Surajkund, in Haryana, hosts an annual fair where more than 400 national and state awarded craftsmen display and sell their handicrafts. This year, India, SAARC and othere neighbouring countries had their stalls on display.
The grounds are undulating and nicely made into winding paths with artisians in their stalls lining both sides. The paths would circle around open air stages where folk dances and music would be on, captured on cameras by the audience.
The host state was Assam and I was proud to see displaysof an Assamese Namghar( house of worship),a village house with its granary, fishing baskets called jakois, weaving looms.
I admired the brass, the mirror work, the wooden hand made toys and decor pieces.
But also found myself wondering whether they were overpriced. Where would I use them at home?
And after admiring the work, I walked to the next stall, pretending not to see the slight disappointment on faces lined with hard work, breaking into a smile at the next person at the stall.
And then I was embarassed.
At myself.
Do I even think twice about walking into a mall and watch plastic smiles swiping my cards as I splash out on things I certainly can do without.
Do I look at a branded piece and ask... is it worth it?
Do I stop my daughteer from walking into fast food joints that can only add to empty calories?
Then what does it take for me to encourage such skilled and talented craftsmen and artisans who were using this occasion to find new customers ?
What they have is as valuable as anything else out there.
Maybe much more because they do not have the economies of scale brought by massive production units and masked factory workers.
Their families and future depend on their trade.
Or else , their children will be disillusioned and join the rat race most of us have fallen prey to.
And cut the umbilical cord of the skillset of a nation we should all be proud of.
So yes, we all have choices.
And we have a right to live the way we want.
Sermonisations have no place.
This piece is just a reflection.
And a realisation.
I returned home, a wiser person.
Surajkund taught me much more than I expected.
For those who are not familiar, Surajkund, in Haryana, hosts an annual fair where more than 400 national and state awarded craftsmen display and sell their handicrafts. This year, India, SAARC and othere neighbouring countries had their stalls on display.
The grounds are undulating and nicely made into winding paths with artisians in their stalls lining both sides. The paths would circle around open air stages where folk dances and music would be on, captured on cameras by the audience.
The host state was Assam and I was proud to see displaysof an Assamese Namghar( house of worship),a village house with its granary, fishing baskets called jakois, weaving looms.
I admired the brass, the mirror work, the wooden hand made toys and decor pieces.
But also found myself wondering whether they were overpriced. Where would I use them at home?
And after admiring the work, I walked to the next stall, pretending not to see the slight disappointment on faces lined with hard work, breaking into a smile at the next person at the stall.
And then I was embarassed.
At myself.
Do I even think twice about walking into a mall and watch plastic smiles swiping my cards as I splash out on things I certainly can do without.
Do I look at a branded piece and ask... is it worth it?
Do I stop my daughteer from walking into fast food joints that can only add to empty calories?
Then what does it take for me to encourage such skilled and talented craftsmen and artisans who were using this occasion to find new customers ?
What they have is as valuable as anything else out there.
Maybe much more because they do not have the economies of scale brought by massive production units and masked factory workers.
Their families and future depend on their trade.
Or else , their children will be disillusioned and join the rat race most of us have fallen prey to.
And cut the umbilical cord of the skillset of a nation we should all be proud of.
So yes, we all have choices.
And we have a right to live the way we want.
Sermonisations have no place.
This piece is just a reflection.
And a realisation.
I returned home, a wiser person.
Surajkund taught me much more than I expected.
Thursday, February 9, 2012
The Non Smoking Break
My dear friend and colleague called me .
I was in the middle of the usual manage fires at work mode.
I started off by mumbling , " So sorry but I am very caught up...." assuming that the call was about work.
It was not.
It was about the loss of her father.
And my friend wanted to share this sad news with me.
I was humbled.
Of course I rushed down.
Of course I replied back on email.
We sometimes get so occupied with ourselves that we forget that life is also about people, friends, relationships.
It is about caring, sharing, celebrating.
About holding that hand when in need.
It is important to punctuate our work hours with little breaks.
While I do not encourage smoking, smokers do this very well.
They step out, they bond, they talk. And get back to work.
Can be done anyways.
Maybe have that coffee on the terrace instead of the desk.
Maybe walk down to a collague and share the lunch box.
Or have that debate over a sandwich.
If not anything, it will make us more human.
And help us not to lose what makes us human.
I was in the middle of the usual manage fires at work mode.
I started off by mumbling , " So sorry but I am very caught up...." assuming that the call was about work.
It was not.
It was about the loss of her father.
And my friend wanted to share this sad news with me.
I was humbled.
Of course I rushed down.
Of course I replied back on email.
We sometimes get so occupied with ourselves that we forget that life is also about people, friends, relationships.
It is about caring, sharing, celebrating.
About holding that hand when in need.
It is important to punctuate our work hours with little breaks.
While I do not encourage smoking, smokers do this very well.
They step out, they bond, they talk. And get back to work.
Can be done anyways.
Maybe have that coffee on the terrace instead of the desk.
Maybe walk down to a collague and share the lunch box.
Or have that debate over a sandwich.
If not anything, it will make us more human.
And help us not to lose what makes us human.
Thursday, January 12, 2012
The Bonfires of "Magh Bihu"
Woke up this morning in a haze of nostalgia.
It is the eve of Magh Bihu.
The two day celebration of a good harvest in Assam.
My home.
I still remember our house on the day of the feast.
We call it Uruka.
When father was there, he would have someone chop off a big log he had bought, into thick, short stalks which would be left to dry in the sun, for at least a week before Bihu. We would play around the dew kissed pile every morning.
My grandmother would send us Assamese rice based snacks called pithas in old Lactogen tins.
The Bihu feast is usually enjoyed with friends and family, so we would go to our uncle's house in Digboi, where there was a community feast. It would be biting cold and Mother would dress us up in layers of woolens, including brightly coloured woolen caps my grandmother had knitted.
There would be a tent put up and the men would be in a corner, drinking rum and whisky with water, and calling out to the cook's helper for a plate of fish fry or mutton. Fish fry would be accompanied by green chillies and onions rings. And of course , Kissan tomato sauce. The drink glasses would be carefully placed on the floor next to the tin folding chairs where the men would sit. Once in a while, one of the men there- we called them all uncles- would pretend he did not have a glass, when he felt the eyes of his shawl covered wife boring into him. Drinking was not so good in those days.
The women would be helping the cook in chopping, slicing, dicing. Children would be playing around. There would be a fire lit near the tent, but this one was more for warmth and not the "real" bihu fire.
Some of the women- we called them aunties- would hand around steel plates laden with pithas made of sesame seeds, jaggery, rice powder, coconut. The women would have these with steaming tea served in paper cups.
Around midnight, we would all sit together on the carpeted floor, with banana leaves in front of us, which had some salt, a chilli and a lemon slice on one corner. Then some of the uncles would ladle out steaming rice, brinjal battered in chick pea flour fries, dal with coconut, mutton curry brimming with oil , a mixed vegetable, fish curry with yoghurt- all from serving steel buckets.
There would be lot of leg pulling and camaraderie between the men and the women. The last batch would be the cook and his helpers, the drivers and they would also be served by one of the uncles or aunties. The used banana leaves would be piled into a huge wicker basket outside the tent.
Next morning was Bihu. Mother would wake us up at 5 in the morning- still dark and very cold. She would have heated water in a huge kettle- those days, we did not have geysers. All of us would bathe , wear our warm clothes and rush out.
I would stop and stare at the crisscrossed pile of logs that father would have formed into what we call a "meji". Mother would cover her head with a shawl, light an earthern diya, agarbatti and offer paan, betelnut and a gamosa . Then father would ceremoniously light the meji.
We would all sit around the fire, our faces lit by the orange flames, listening to the crackling and spitting of the mango logs. Kalpana, our help, would appear with a tray full of pithas and tea. All of us, including Kalpana and her family, would also chuck in potatoes and yams into the fire. Father would poke into the flames and dig them out with a stick and we would peel and have them. The taste was enhanced with the excitement we all felt.
Soon , the light from the fire would mingle with the first rays of the north eastern sun. The pile of spare logs would decrease, till finally there would be the last few. At my sister's insistence, Kalpana and I would scramble around for dry leaves and twigs, to keep the fire on longer.
Lunch on this day is vegetarian ( unusual in Assam). It would be puris, a mixed vegetable called labra, potato curry, brinjal battered fries followed by sweet curd and rasgullas. There would be visitors pouring in all day. Everyone who knocked at our gates would be offered some food.
I look at my daughter snuggled under the covers as I write this now.
She leads a good life.
But will she ever get the chance to light a meji... to munch on pithas in the early dawn, to laugh with glee with mother was served four ladles of mutton by Sharma Uncle, to call in the newspaper boy for a cup of tea and pithas on Bihu day.....
We try to recreate this every year at home, but how can one recreate the warmth and the happiness of the simple lives we lead in those days......
It is the eve of Magh Bihu.
The two day celebration of a good harvest in Assam.
My home.
I still remember our house on the day of the feast.
We call it Uruka.
When father was there, he would have someone chop off a big log he had bought, into thick, short stalks which would be left to dry in the sun, for at least a week before Bihu. We would play around the dew kissed pile every morning.
My grandmother would send us Assamese rice based snacks called pithas in old Lactogen tins.
The Bihu feast is usually enjoyed with friends and family, so we would go to our uncle's house in Digboi, where there was a community feast. It would be biting cold and Mother would dress us up in layers of woolens, including brightly coloured woolen caps my grandmother had knitted.
There would be a tent put up and the men would be in a corner, drinking rum and whisky with water, and calling out to the cook's helper for a plate of fish fry or mutton. Fish fry would be accompanied by green chillies and onions rings. And of course , Kissan tomato sauce. The drink glasses would be carefully placed on the floor next to the tin folding chairs where the men would sit. Once in a while, one of the men there- we called them all uncles- would pretend he did not have a glass, when he felt the eyes of his shawl covered wife boring into him. Drinking was not so good in those days.
The women would be helping the cook in chopping, slicing, dicing. Children would be playing around. There would be a fire lit near the tent, but this one was more for warmth and not the "real" bihu fire.
Some of the women- we called them aunties- would hand around steel plates laden with pithas made of sesame seeds, jaggery, rice powder, coconut. The women would have these with steaming tea served in paper cups.
Around midnight, we would all sit together on the carpeted floor, with banana leaves in front of us, which had some salt, a chilli and a lemon slice on one corner. Then some of the uncles would ladle out steaming rice, brinjal battered in chick pea flour fries, dal with coconut, mutton curry brimming with oil , a mixed vegetable, fish curry with yoghurt- all from serving steel buckets.
There would be lot of leg pulling and camaraderie between the men and the women. The last batch would be the cook and his helpers, the drivers and they would also be served by one of the uncles or aunties. The used banana leaves would be piled into a huge wicker basket outside the tent.
Next morning was Bihu. Mother would wake us up at 5 in the morning- still dark and very cold. She would have heated water in a huge kettle- those days, we did not have geysers. All of us would bathe , wear our warm clothes and rush out.
I would stop and stare at the crisscrossed pile of logs that father would have formed into what we call a "meji". Mother would cover her head with a shawl, light an earthern diya, agarbatti and offer paan, betelnut and a gamosa . Then father would ceremoniously light the meji.
We would all sit around the fire, our faces lit by the orange flames, listening to the crackling and spitting of the mango logs. Kalpana, our help, would appear with a tray full of pithas and tea. All of us, including Kalpana and her family, would also chuck in potatoes and yams into the fire. Father would poke into the flames and dig them out with a stick and we would peel and have them. The taste was enhanced with the excitement we all felt.
Soon , the light from the fire would mingle with the first rays of the north eastern sun. The pile of spare logs would decrease, till finally there would be the last few. At my sister's insistence, Kalpana and I would scramble around for dry leaves and twigs, to keep the fire on longer.
Lunch on this day is vegetarian ( unusual in Assam). It would be puris, a mixed vegetable called labra, potato curry, brinjal battered fries followed by sweet curd and rasgullas. There would be visitors pouring in all day. Everyone who knocked at our gates would be offered some food.
I look at my daughter snuggled under the covers as I write this now.
She leads a good life.
But will she ever get the chance to light a meji... to munch on pithas in the early dawn, to laugh with glee with mother was served four ladles of mutton by Sharma Uncle, to call in the newspaper boy for a cup of tea and pithas on Bihu day.....
We try to recreate this every year at home, but how can one recreate the warmth and the happiness of the simple lives we lead in those days......
Of Views and Villas
There is a fine art hidden in naming buildings in India.
with no street numbers or house numbers in most places, building names become critical as both landmarks as well as self identity. In fact, household help often refers to their employers as " Ashiana wale Mehta" or " Green View Madamji" !!!
So what is in a name? Lots apparently.
For instance, the rental leaps up if the building has a VIEW attached to it.
Views can be anything.
From truly great views like Lake View, Sea View, Bay View to more local views like Park View, Temple View to some really strange ones like Bird View.. so what if the only birds we can view are the crows on the phonelines, Sky View... excuse me, aren't we all supposed to get a view of the sky from some corner of our apartment anyways.....
Then there are the INTERNATIONAL sounding names.
Gurgaon has perfected this naming game.
Hamilton, Windsor, Regency, Belvedere, Garden Estate... you name it.
Lots of Villes and villas dot the roadscape as well.
Works for a millenium city where people come in with aspirations which are sky high, and cannot be watered down by living in say, Vipul Apartments.
Indian names are usually FEMININE
Seen a lot in the Mumbai burbs.
Lakshmi Palace, Sudha Apartments, Subhangi, Sridevi, Madhu, Rekha......
Some male names are breaking into this female bastion... Harshvardhan, Aditya Vardhan etc.
Not to forget the GOD names or mythology related ones.
Feel blessed in such buildings.
Sun Shristi, Sai Shristi, Sai Ram, Govinda, Govindam, Arjun, Shiv Shakti and more.
A lot does go into a name.
with no street numbers or house numbers in most places, building names become critical as both landmarks as well as self identity. In fact, household help often refers to their employers as " Ashiana wale Mehta" or " Green View Madamji" !!!
So what is in a name? Lots apparently.
For instance, the rental leaps up if the building has a VIEW attached to it.
Views can be anything.
From truly great views like Lake View, Sea View, Bay View to more local views like Park View, Temple View to some really strange ones like Bird View.. so what if the only birds we can view are the crows on the phonelines, Sky View... excuse me, aren't we all supposed to get a view of the sky from some corner of our apartment anyways.....
Then there are the INTERNATIONAL sounding names.
Gurgaon has perfected this naming game.
Hamilton, Windsor, Regency, Belvedere, Garden Estate... you name it.
Lots of Villes and villas dot the roadscape as well.
Works for a millenium city where people come in with aspirations which are sky high, and cannot be watered down by living in say, Vipul Apartments.
Indian names are usually FEMININE
Seen a lot in the Mumbai burbs.
Lakshmi Palace, Sudha Apartments, Subhangi, Sridevi, Madhu, Rekha......
Some male names are breaking into this female bastion... Harshvardhan, Aditya Vardhan etc.
Not to forget the GOD names or mythology related ones.
Feel blessed in such buildings.
Sun Shristi, Sai Shristi, Sai Ram, Govinda, Govindam, Arjun, Shiv Shakti and more.
A lot does go into a name.
Monday, January 2, 2012
Touch N Feel
Lost my contact numbers twice last year.
Once, when my old phone went missing. Thankfully, it was my Mumbai phone and I managed to retrieve the numbers that were still relevant.
The second time was just two weeks ago. Thanks to my pressing Yes instead of a No to a digital query that blipped on my screen.
As I am frantically trying to restore and recover, I have realised how much I miss the old telephone books, with names carefully written from A-Z.
Actually, I miss quite a few things.
The family albums, yellowed with age and memories.Lovingly thumbed through by generations.
The "I love my Mum" drawings by the little ones.
The postcards my cousins and friends would send from their travels.
The Christmas cards and New Years cards my mum would string up and display proudly on the mantle piece.
The letters.
The telegrams.
The thank you notes.
The books lining the shelves and table tops.
Where recipes rubbed shoulders with mystery.
The Class reunions.
The music player and the albums.
The proud collections.
Yes, they are all available to us.
Digitally.
At the press of a button.
Sadly, they can also be erased.
At the press of a button.
( It's not about taking this literally- I can hear some of us shouting- Back ups)
It's about touch and feel in our lives being gradually replaced.........
Or can that ever happen.....
Once, when my old phone went missing. Thankfully, it was my Mumbai phone and I managed to retrieve the numbers that were still relevant.
The second time was just two weeks ago. Thanks to my pressing Yes instead of a No to a digital query that blipped on my screen.
As I am frantically trying to restore and recover, I have realised how much I miss the old telephone books, with names carefully written from A-Z.
Actually, I miss quite a few things.
The family albums, yellowed with age and memories.Lovingly thumbed through by generations.
The "I love my Mum" drawings by the little ones.
The postcards my cousins and friends would send from their travels.
The Christmas cards and New Years cards my mum would string up and display proudly on the mantle piece.
The letters.
The telegrams.
The thank you notes.
The books lining the shelves and table tops.
Where recipes rubbed shoulders with mystery.
The Class reunions.
The music player and the albums.
The proud collections.
Yes, they are all available to us.
Digitally.
At the press of a button.
Sadly, they can also be erased.
At the press of a button.
( It's not about taking this literally- I can hear some of us shouting- Back ups)
It's about touch and feel in our lives being gradually replaced.........
Or can that ever happen.....
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Please Don't Go...
There are some of us who are lucky ... who have not lost very near and dear ones to Life.
And there are some of us who are not as lucky.
I have had the misfortune of having to hold back my tears as the elder child and bid brave goodbyes , in spite of the chilled feeling of being left alone.
But I was not brave the day before yesterday.
When I heard the shocking news that my colleague had just succumbed to what is the singlemost certainity of life.
No. I was not brave.
I lost my composure. My nerve.
So many thoughts juggling in my mind.
Did we talk enough?
Did we smile enough?
Did we get into petty day to day issues or did we laugh about our kids?
How many times did we share a coffee?
Exchange a book?
Share some homemade rajma rice?
Did we celebrate success together?
Maybe we did.
Yet, as I sat down near his still sleeping form, I wished I had done more.
The same way I wished when I sat next to my still parents.
What a strange teacher Life is
Drives the point home so ruthlessly yet so clearly.
That Life is about gratitude, not regrets
That we cannot turn back the hands of time
That the more we smile, the more we receive
That work is just one part of our lives
That family needs us
That we need them
That everything we see is just momentary
That money can't buy us time
Or even a few seconds more
To hold on to people we love most
I wish I could say,"Please don't go..."
I wish....
And there are some of us who are not as lucky.
I have had the misfortune of having to hold back my tears as the elder child and bid brave goodbyes , in spite of the chilled feeling of being left alone.
But I was not brave the day before yesterday.
When I heard the shocking news that my colleague had just succumbed to what is the singlemost certainity of life.
No. I was not brave.
I lost my composure. My nerve.
So many thoughts juggling in my mind.
Did we talk enough?
Did we smile enough?
Did we get into petty day to day issues or did we laugh about our kids?
How many times did we share a coffee?
Exchange a book?
Share some homemade rajma rice?
Did we celebrate success together?
Maybe we did.
Yet, as I sat down near his still sleeping form, I wished I had done more.
The same way I wished when I sat next to my still parents.
What a strange teacher Life is
Drives the point home so ruthlessly yet so clearly.
That Life is about gratitude, not regrets
That we cannot turn back the hands of time
That the more we smile, the more we receive
That work is just one part of our lives
That family needs us
That we need them
That everything we see is just momentary
That money can't buy us time
Or even a few seconds more
To hold on to people we love most
I wish I could say,"Please don't go..."
I wish....
Monday, December 26, 2011
A Bunch of Keys
I grew up, like many little girls, seeing my mother with a bunch of keys adorning her waist.
This bunch of big, small, medium, wide and narrow toothed keys would be tied to a hanky or, on occasions, to a nice silver adornment and tucked in carefully into the saree waist.
In a country where women are still on a journey of empowerment and freedom, this bunch of keys always gave and gives her a sense of control and power within the four walls of her home.
The matriach of the house in joint families are the proud owners of these keys.
She has to unlock all the safes and food larders or "grant permission" to a younger member of the household. In older days, the keys were tied to the end of the saree pallu.They were truly hers.
It is a good feeling.
And shows that, with all the purdah and the men being men outside of home, the women of the house were given the controls.
She may not have been to school, but managed the cash and the flows.
Her sons knew how to cajole her into opening that safe and handing out the money for their dream toy.
The household help never dared to touch that bunch.
The younger women in the joint families waited patiently ( and sometimes impatiently) for their turn to own that exalted bunch.
The handing over of the keys from generations was a ritual- almost.
Tears, fears, words of wisdom accompanied the transfer of the bunch from one waist to another.
Truly, in a way, the hand that held the keys, had the power.
That made life and still makes life for every homemaker a challenging and thrilling one.
This bunch of big, small, medium, wide and narrow toothed keys would be tied to a hanky or, on occasions, to a nice silver adornment and tucked in carefully into the saree waist.
In a country where women are still on a journey of empowerment and freedom, this bunch of keys always gave and gives her a sense of control and power within the four walls of her home.
The matriach of the house in joint families are the proud owners of these keys.
She has to unlock all the safes and food larders or "grant permission" to a younger member of the household. In older days, the keys were tied to the end of the saree pallu.They were truly hers.
It is a good feeling.
And shows that, with all the purdah and the men being men outside of home, the women of the house were given the controls.
She may not have been to school, but managed the cash and the flows.
Her sons knew how to cajole her into opening that safe and handing out the money for their dream toy.
The household help never dared to touch that bunch.
The younger women in the joint families waited patiently ( and sometimes impatiently) for their turn to own that exalted bunch.
The handing over of the keys from generations was a ritual- almost.
Tears, fears, words of wisdom accompanied the transfer of the bunch from one waist to another.
Truly, in a way, the hand that held the keys, had the power.
That made life and still makes life for every homemaker a challenging and thrilling one.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Bottoms Up
No this is not about that quick shot over rum cake for Christmas.
Though it is a season of cheer
I has a very pleasant experience last night.
Was back in my room, tired, rang for a light dinner in room service.
Got busy with emails etc and only when hunger pangs got the bettwr of me, I realised it was around forty minutes since I called.
What happened after that was wonderful.
A very genuine apology, a glass of wine and the meal absolutely complimentary.
And all offered on the spot by the person concerned in room service.
No consultation with bosses.
No lame excuses or empty apologies.
I came back with a smile and a great thumbs up.
This is what empowerment is.
Right from the bottom of the food chain, pun unintended.
Empower the front line staff to put that smile back.
Its immediate, spontaneous and works far better than any "we care for you" campaigns.
We cannot have the One Sale attitude anymore... today it is about loyalty, service, care..
And making every customer a happy one.
Merry Christmas to all my readers and a big thank you.
Though it is a season of cheer
I has a very pleasant experience last night.
Was back in my room, tired, rang for a light dinner in room service.
Got busy with emails etc and only when hunger pangs got the bettwr of me, I realised it was around forty minutes since I called.
What happened after that was wonderful.
A very genuine apology, a glass of wine and the meal absolutely complimentary.
And all offered on the spot by the person concerned in room service.
No consultation with bosses.
No lame excuses or empty apologies.
I came back with a smile and a great thumbs up.
This is what empowerment is.
Right from the bottom of the food chain, pun unintended.
Empower the front line staff to put that smile back.
Its immediate, spontaneous and works far better than any "we care for you" campaigns.
We cannot have the One Sale attitude anymore... today it is about loyalty, service, care..
And making every customer a happy one.
Merry Christmas to all my readers and a big thank you.
Monday, November 21, 2011
Of Gods and Calenders
If we look at the way calenders have evolved in India, it gives us a good indication of the way we as a nation are evolving.
There was a time when a calender adorned every living room wall proudly hanging from a naked nail jutting out of a cracked wall.
Most calenders had twelve pages, mostly around two or three themes.
Gods. Calenders with Shiva, Lakshmi, Durga and other deities hung not only in the living room but even in the kitchen and the puja room. These calenders outlived the year they were designed for. The pages were carefully cut and pasted on the puja room walls to replace the earlier agarbatti smoke smeared aging ones.
Babies. Smiling, gurgling, chubby cheeked babies in diapers- actually looked more like loincloths.
These calenders were lovingly hung on bedroom walls and also outlived the years.
Nature. Flowers, waterfalls, rivers formed the third popular theme for calenders.
The fourth kind was just dates printed in bold black in chequered squares on white pages with holidays marked in red.
All of these calenders bore the name of the sponsor in big and bold at the bottom, printed in a way that it was seamless with the image and could not be torn off.
So Kasturilal Family Jewellers found place in most homes and hearths. Key dates were circled with ball point pens, casual notes were scribbled on the page ends at times.
Sometimes, calenders also doubled up as dhobi khattas- with the clothes count marked against the pick up and delivery date!
Today, we hardly see calenders on walls.
Unless it is the coveted Kingfisher one.
Boards on desks have smartly designed planners at times.
Diaries and Yearbooks provide us flashy pages, glossy pictures and the dates.
Outlook Express and Lotus Notes pop up calenders and dates everyday.
Watches show us digital date and month.
Mobile phones do the same.
So, except for some ace photographers in India who still mail out calenders with their images to agencies and clients, are calenders, as we knew them, becoming extinct?
Should we preserve a few of the old ones, just to show our kids what calenders looked like?
Or maybe we should just move on and embrace the new, like all things in life...
There was a time when a calender adorned every living room wall proudly hanging from a naked nail jutting out of a cracked wall.
Most calenders had twelve pages, mostly around two or three themes.
Gods. Calenders with Shiva, Lakshmi, Durga and other deities hung not only in the living room but even in the kitchen and the puja room. These calenders outlived the year they were designed for. The pages were carefully cut and pasted on the puja room walls to replace the earlier agarbatti smoke smeared aging ones.
Babies. Smiling, gurgling, chubby cheeked babies in diapers- actually looked more like loincloths.
These calenders were lovingly hung on bedroom walls and also outlived the years.
Nature. Flowers, waterfalls, rivers formed the third popular theme for calenders.
The fourth kind was just dates printed in bold black in chequered squares on white pages with holidays marked in red.
All of these calenders bore the name of the sponsor in big and bold at the bottom, printed in a way that it was seamless with the image and could not be torn off.
So Kasturilal Family Jewellers found place in most homes and hearths. Key dates were circled with ball point pens, casual notes were scribbled on the page ends at times.
Sometimes, calenders also doubled up as dhobi khattas- with the clothes count marked against the pick up and delivery date!
Today, we hardly see calenders on walls.
Unless it is the coveted Kingfisher one.
Boards on desks have smartly designed planners at times.
Diaries and Yearbooks provide us flashy pages, glossy pictures and the dates.
Outlook Express and Lotus Notes pop up calenders and dates everyday.
Watches show us digital date and month.
Mobile phones do the same.
So, except for some ace photographers in India who still mail out calenders with their images to agencies and clients, are calenders, as we knew them, becoming extinct?
Should we preserve a few of the old ones, just to show our kids what calenders looked like?
Or maybe we should just move on and embrace the new, like all things in life...
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Give More, Get More
Sometimes, I wonder, are we stingy as a nation?
As a culture?
Do we give readily or do we hold back?
Is "stinginess" actually a positive for us? The quality that made us survive the worst of invasions, including the most recent economic recession?
Remember the times our dads would wear shoes till they were adorned with the rough artwork of the neighbourhood cobbler? Of course they could afford another Bata pair- but it was a philosophy they lived by. Times weren't so easy. Spending on themselves and not the family was not right.
Or the way mutton lunches were reserved for Sundays and special occasions.
The skirts in our uniforms tailored with thick hems that unfurled in their bright colours every year.
The toys that were recycled between siblings, cousins.
Why toys alone? Even clothes.
Hemming, repairing, stitching up, recycling, reusing were the order of the day.
Same was the case with business.
Whether hospitality, or service- the companies gave what they had to give as a bare minimum to consumers.
Frills and freebies were few and far between.
Portions in restaurants were just about enough.
No wastage was the motto.
Times have changed now.
Recession notwithstanding, we also have plenty.
Incomes are rising, the breadearner is not just the man anymore.
We eat out more often, buy clothes more than just during Pujas and Diwali, and give our children chocolates and toys much more liberally.
We want to save for tomorrow, but live today kingsize as well.
So holidays dot our calenders, weekends are fun times, even though a drain on the wallet.
Are brands reflecting this opulence... or are they still "stingy"?
Do we have great quality products that justify the price we pay?
Do we have food on the table and our shelves that reflect the value they promise?
Do airlines promise all the comfort but get away with the bare minimum they have to offer to save themselves from irate consumers filing complaints?
Are corporate lawyers working towards how much to give or how much to get away with?
At the end of the day, it's all a philosophy we choose.
As individuals, as brands, as a nation.
But it's good to remember the old adage- When we give more, we get more.
As a culture?
Do we give readily or do we hold back?
Is "stinginess" actually a positive for us? The quality that made us survive the worst of invasions, including the most recent economic recession?
Remember the times our dads would wear shoes till they were adorned with the rough artwork of the neighbourhood cobbler? Of course they could afford another Bata pair- but it was a philosophy they lived by. Times weren't so easy. Spending on themselves and not the family was not right.
Or the way mutton lunches were reserved for Sundays and special occasions.
The skirts in our uniforms tailored with thick hems that unfurled in their bright colours every year.
The toys that were recycled between siblings, cousins.
Why toys alone? Even clothes.
Hemming, repairing, stitching up, recycling, reusing were the order of the day.
Same was the case with business.
Whether hospitality, or service- the companies gave what they had to give as a bare minimum to consumers.
Frills and freebies were few and far between.
Portions in restaurants were just about enough.
No wastage was the motto.
Times have changed now.
Recession notwithstanding, we also have plenty.
Incomes are rising, the breadearner is not just the man anymore.
We eat out more often, buy clothes more than just during Pujas and Diwali, and give our children chocolates and toys much more liberally.
We want to save for tomorrow, but live today kingsize as well.
So holidays dot our calenders, weekends are fun times, even though a drain on the wallet.
Are brands reflecting this opulence... or are they still "stingy"?
Do we have great quality products that justify the price we pay?
Do we have food on the table and our shelves that reflect the value they promise?
Do airlines promise all the comfort but get away with the bare minimum they have to offer to save themselves from irate consumers filing complaints?
Are corporate lawyers working towards how much to give or how much to get away with?
At the end of the day, it's all a philosophy we choose.
As individuals, as brands, as a nation.
But it's good to remember the old adage- When we give more, we get more.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Friend Rich, Time Poor
Facebook has changed my life in more ways than one.
I have connected and reconnected with people who I shared my sandwich with in school.
Or poured over Economics assignments in college.
Colleagues who helped me settle down in JWT when I first joined, 16 years ago.
Networking, chatting, talking.... I get everything.
But I have also given up on quite a few things, thanks to the time I spend on Facebook.
I hardly call my friends. An FB wall message is enough.
I have forgotten the last time I read a good book.
Whenever I have some time to spare, my fingers itch to check on the latest newsfeeds.
I hardly watch my favourite TV programmes. I am busy with one eye on the small screen, answering messages.
I choose status updates over morning walks.
Prefer Facebooking to sharing my lunch with colleagues at work.
I am furiously keying in instead of looking out of the window, as I am driven to work everyday.
I have no time to introspect.I don't even have time to try out the new muffin recipe.
Facebook is like the butcher's knife. You either carve or kill.
It's upto us to choose wisely....
I have connected and reconnected with people who I shared my sandwich with in school.
Or poured over Economics assignments in college.
Colleagues who helped me settle down in JWT when I first joined, 16 years ago.
Networking, chatting, talking.... I get everything.
But I have also given up on quite a few things, thanks to the time I spend on Facebook.
I hardly call my friends. An FB wall message is enough.
I have forgotten the last time I read a good book.
Whenever I have some time to spare, my fingers itch to check on the latest newsfeeds.
I hardly watch my favourite TV programmes. I am busy with one eye on the small screen, answering messages.
I choose status updates over morning walks.
Prefer Facebooking to sharing my lunch with colleagues at work.
I am furiously keying in instead of looking out of the window, as I am driven to work everyday.
I have no time to introspect.I don't even have time to try out the new muffin recipe.
Facebook is like the butcher's knife. You either carve or kill.
It's upto us to choose wisely....
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Love means knowing the way you want to go
Zoya was just four and a half when we moved cities.
I was worried.
It is not easy to explain to a four year old the whys and ifs of Life.
But Zoya understood.
She always does.
With her little hand clasped in mine, we walked out of the airport and into our new life here.
All she had for me were smiles.
And eyes that looked at me with complete and total trust.
Never once did she question.
Or look back.
Zoya showed me that when you love someone deeply, you do not choose.
You just know the way you want to follow.
I owe my little girl my happiness.
And pray that she grows up to be a beautiful, honest, straightforward and happy person.
Like she is today.
Happy sixth birthday Zoya.
I love you.
Monday, October 3, 2011
For those who care for us
Pujas remind me of happy families, khichdi and labra bhaji, plays in the evening, ram lilas and more.
Pujas also remind me of the young girls in their new dresses and ribbons, going pandal hopping with their families.
These girls come from different regions, speak different languages, but seem to be tied by a common thread.
The first common thread is their outfit.
If it's a dress, it is usually slightly loose, especially around the bust and waist. And has a low waist.
The shoes are a bright coloured pair.
If it's a churidar, it is usually a poorly mixed mix and match.
While of course, new.
The eyes are darkly kohled. Usually bindis adorn the forehead.
Nowadays we do see a pair of loose jeans and kurtis or long skirts.
Do these girls have a poor fashion sense?
We will never know.
Because the outfits have been picked up by their families.
Who they work for.
These are the "household help" in India.
Young girls who look after our kids, clean and cook.
We take good care of them. And they are like family.
Yet we go to great pains to ensure that what they are wearing draws the line very clearly.
The skirts and the jeans should not be mistaken for the mistress of the house.
So the poorly matched colours or the slightly ill fitting outfits.
There are more ways in which lines are drawn.
They sit in the middle of the rear seat in the car- usually no window viewing- if there are three people behind.
They get a stool in the kitchen or children's room when we go visiting friends .
They usually have their own plates and cups and mugs at home.
Their meals are usually in the kitchen.
They feel awkward when we go dining- where do they sit, stand...
But we love them.
We pay good money.
We look after their families.
And their lot would have been worse if not for us.
And they seem happy.
They are happy.
Or are they....
Pujas also remind me of the young girls in their new dresses and ribbons, going pandal hopping with their families.
These girls come from different regions, speak different languages, but seem to be tied by a common thread.
The first common thread is their outfit.
If it's a dress, it is usually slightly loose, especially around the bust and waist. And has a low waist.
The shoes are a bright coloured pair.
If it's a churidar, it is usually a poorly mixed mix and match.
While of course, new.
The eyes are darkly kohled. Usually bindis adorn the forehead.
Nowadays we do see a pair of loose jeans and kurtis or long skirts.
Do these girls have a poor fashion sense?
We will never know.
Because the outfits have been picked up by their families.
Who they work for.
These are the "household help" in India.
Young girls who look after our kids, clean and cook.
We take good care of them. And they are like family.
Yet we go to great pains to ensure that what they are wearing draws the line very clearly.
The skirts and the jeans should not be mistaken for the mistress of the house.
So the poorly matched colours or the slightly ill fitting outfits.
There are more ways in which lines are drawn.
They sit in the middle of the rear seat in the car- usually no window viewing- if there are three people behind.
They get a stool in the kitchen or children's room when we go visiting friends .
They usually have their own plates and cups and mugs at home.
Their meals are usually in the kitchen.
They feel awkward when we go dining- where do they sit, stand...
But we love them.
We pay good money.
We look after their families.
And their lot would have been worse if not for us.
And they seem happy.
They are happy.
Or are they....
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Salt and Cherries
The Namak Dabba in our kitchen when we were young, would always be either an old Dalda container, sometimes hunched on one side because of the heat from the kitchen fire.The spoon inside used for measuring or sprinkling was always a plastic Lactogen milk spoon.
The salt tin was used, abused, from all fronts.
Sometimes, callous cooks would used the haldi spoon and turn the white into a dull yellow.
Instead of being annoyed with them, my mum would say- it's ok- it's salt after all.
With today's packaging innovations, we see beautiful packets of butter, ghee, biscuits, cakes, pickles... and more. Even bottled water has attitude. The Salt packaging is still the most basic.
Makes no difference to noone.
How many of us live a salt life- always adding taste and flavour - always indispensable- but never appreciated.
Noone writes eulogies about us. Noone even says a thank you.
There is no premium, no mark up.
And oneday we will slip away like a ship in the night.
Unless we learn a lesson or two from the cherries.
The fruit with the least amount of goodness compared to most others.
That wins hearts and minds by its sheer red colour, shape and brightness.
It is used as toppings on the best of desserts and is applauded for enhancing the very appetising factor.
Cherries have wormed their way into minds and refrigerator shelves .
And have a place of pride.
Moral of the story.
Don't be superflous like the cherry.
But bring out the salt worthiness in you by showing the world that you matter.
For if we treat ourselves like salt, the world will do the same.
The salt tin was used, abused, from all fronts.
Sometimes, callous cooks would used the haldi spoon and turn the white into a dull yellow.
Instead of being annoyed with them, my mum would say- it's ok- it's salt after all.
With today's packaging innovations, we see beautiful packets of butter, ghee, biscuits, cakes, pickles... and more. Even bottled water has attitude. The Salt packaging is still the most basic.
Makes no difference to noone.
How many of us live a salt life- always adding taste and flavour - always indispensable- but never appreciated.
Noone writes eulogies about us. Noone even says a thank you.
There is no premium, no mark up.
And oneday we will slip away like a ship in the night.
Unless we learn a lesson or two from the cherries.
The fruit with the least amount of goodness compared to most others.
That wins hearts and minds by its sheer red colour, shape and brightness.
It is used as toppings on the best of desserts and is applauded for enhancing the very appetising factor.
Cherries have wormed their way into minds and refrigerator shelves .
And have a place of pride.
Moral of the story.
Don't be superflous like the cherry.
But bring out the salt worthiness in you by showing the world that you matter.
For if we treat ourselves like salt, the world will do the same.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Escapes and Escapades
What is ESCAPE?
We talk about it at home, in research groups, at work. Everywhere.
And whether, given the chance, we truly escape or cling on to things we have tried escaping from.
Tried looking at some common escapes in our lives.
Like the vacation we have planned for ages and have sworn we won't get into work mode.
And then sign off with an automatic email reply- available on personal gmail " for urgent matters".
What can be so urgent when we are on a break?
Or the men who compulsively hangout with the boys on a weekend to escape from wives and girlfriends.
They do need that break after a long week of work.
But all the bonding, jokes and camaraderie, even highs, are mostly over conversations on- you guessed it- womankind!! Uh Um... isn't that what the escape was all about?
( applies vice versa as well)
Or the women who rant and rave and weep about a non existent loveless marriage.
And look for "alternate means" of happiness. We all have the right to be happy.
But then continue with the same bonds as well. Best of both worlds is always comfy.
( again applies vice versa)
And there are the little Escapes.
The books we buy. And leave unread.
The masalas in the kitchen cupboard for that new recipe. Yet untried.
The half written book.
The mildewed bag of Japanese crackers.
The unused passes to the new show in town.
The impulse purchase trinkets yet to be worn.
The neighbourhood spa that we have never stepped into.
All of these and more, bought or got as escapes from a boring world , but yet to be indulged in.
Maybe we are like the elephant in chains.
When the chains are removed, he doesn't run away.
He doesn't know he is free.
He likes being cared for by his mahout.
We often use "Escape" as an excuse to do things we want to.
While maintaining status quo.
Status Quo is unreal.
It is the Ultimate Balance, but before that, every escape or action has an impact.
More far reaching than we ever imagine.
Maybe we should take a leaf out of Coelho's Alchemist.
Maybe our happiness and escape lies at our doorstep.In our own lives.
We simply haven't discovered it!!!
Happy weekend everyone and happy escapes and escapades:-)
We talk about it at home, in research groups, at work. Everywhere.
And whether, given the chance, we truly escape or cling on to things we have tried escaping from.
Tried looking at some common escapes in our lives.
Like the vacation we have planned for ages and have sworn we won't get into work mode.
And then sign off with an automatic email reply- available on personal gmail " for urgent matters".
What can be so urgent when we are on a break?
Or the men who compulsively hangout with the boys on a weekend to escape from wives and girlfriends.
They do need that break after a long week of work.
But all the bonding, jokes and camaraderie, even highs, are mostly over conversations on- you guessed it- womankind!! Uh Um... isn't that what the escape was all about?
( applies vice versa as well)
Or the women who rant and rave and weep about a non existent loveless marriage.
And look for "alternate means" of happiness. We all have the right to be happy.
But then continue with the same bonds as well. Best of both worlds is always comfy.
( again applies vice versa)
And there are the little Escapes.
The books we buy. And leave unread.
The masalas in the kitchen cupboard for that new recipe. Yet untried.
The half written book.
The mildewed bag of Japanese crackers.
The unused passes to the new show in town.
The impulse purchase trinkets yet to be worn.
The neighbourhood spa that we have never stepped into.
All of these and more, bought or got as escapes from a boring world , but yet to be indulged in.
Maybe we are like the elephant in chains.
When the chains are removed, he doesn't run away.
He doesn't know he is free.
He likes being cared for by his mahout.
We often use "Escape" as an excuse to do things we want to.
While maintaining status quo.
Status Quo is unreal.
It is the Ultimate Balance, but before that, every escape or action has an impact.
More far reaching than we ever imagine.
Maybe we should take a leaf out of Coelho's Alchemist.
Maybe our happiness and escape lies at our doorstep.In our own lives.
We simply haven't discovered it!!!
Happy weekend everyone and happy escapes and escapades:-)
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
When STD calls meant High decibels
Remember STD calls in the days of yore.
Not calls really. Bookings.
My aunt would "book a trunk call" to Guwahati- all of 10 hours drive from where we were in Dibrugarh.
But it was an event.
Because trunk calls were booked mostly for breaking news.
Usually bad. Sometimes good.
There was a sense of emergency when such calls were booked.
One of us youngsters were designated to guard the phone and holler if it rang.
Once the call was connected, the designated speaker would start off with a shout if not a yell.
HELLLLOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
Immediately breaking into the news delivery , almost akin to the way brands deliver the statutory warning message on audio.
The high decibel voice is maintained- repeating meant more time and more money.
An audible sigh of relief would be heard around the room once the call was over.
No question of calling to just say a hi.
Or wonder what's for breakfast.
Or whether mum has visited the jeweller's place before the wedding season
Or simply a call to say "I am missing you"
We have the power to do that today.
To express what we feel in just a dial.
To say what we want to in a split second.
Do we do that enough?
Or do we still call our parents only on Sunday evenings....
Not calls really. Bookings.
My aunt would "book a trunk call" to Guwahati- all of 10 hours drive from where we were in Dibrugarh.
But it was an event.
Because trunk calls were booked mostly for breaking news.
Usually bad. Sometimes good.
There was a sense of emergency when such calls were booked.
One of us youngsters were designated to guard the phone and holler if it rang.
Once the call was connected, the designated speaker would start off with a shout if not a yell.
HELLLLOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
Immediately breaking into the news delivery , almost akin to the way brands deliver the statutory warning message on audio.
The high decibel voice is maintained- repeating meant more time and more money.
An audible sigh of relief would be heard around the room once the call was over.
No question of calling to just say a hi.
Or wonder what's for breakfast.
Or whether mum has visited the jeweller's place before the wedding season
Or simply a call to say "I am missing you"
We have the power to do that today.
To express what we feel in just a dial.
To say what we want to in a split second.
Do we do that enough?
Or do we still call our parents only on Sunday evenings....
Friday, September 16, 2011
Letting Go
The day started off earlier than usual.
Meetings at work.
Teaching session in the evening.
Late night lawyer session.
Back to the warmth of home to see Zoya snuggled up in bed.
The soft snore of peace and comfort.
That children are blessed with.
Because, unlike us, they can let go.
It is hard to let go.
Why should we see ourselves as losers while others win the war?
Why should our enemies even dream of a victory
When we are right, we have the power, we can hold on.
Not give in.
We have been conditioned to be winners.
We applaud those who make it big.
We look up to the ones who emerge survivors.
We want to be heroes.
We are heroes.
So what if it is at the cost of our own freedom
Our own happiness
So what if, in our not giving in, we are giving up many things?
Maybe it takes greater courage to let go.
To settle for less. Scale down our negativity.
May leave us poorer on many counts.
But will give us what we want most.
To do what we want.
To indulge in what we like.
To move on the road of happiness.
Or maybe, to simply snore a peaceful sleep at night.
Meetings at work.
Teaching session in the evening.
Late night lawyer session.
Back to the warmth of home to see Zoya snuggled up in bed.
The soft snore of peace and comfort.
That children are blessed with.
Because, unlike us, they can let go.
It is hard to let go.
Why should we see ourselves as losers while others win the war?
Why should our enemies even dream of a victory
When we are right, we have the power, we can hold on.
Not give in.
We have been conditioned to be winners.
We applaud those who make it big.
We look up to the ones who emerge survivors.
We want to be heroes.
We are heroes.
So what if it is at the cost of our own freedom
Our own happiness
So what if, in our not giving in, we are giving up many things?
Maybe it takes greater courage to let go.
To settle for less. Scale down our negativity.
May leave us poorer on many counts.
But will give us what we want most.
To do what we want.
To indulge in what we like.
To move on the road of happiness.
Or maybe, to simply snore a peaceful sleep at night.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
The Special Eyes
A dark skinned little girl toddles along with her mother.
Her mother is more than beautiful. She is gorgeous... fair gold polished skin, rose blushed cheeks that would put any blusher to shame, dark almond eyes... and a laughter so infectious that men and women would swarm around her just by the sheer sound.
The little girl is always shy because people look at her with surprise and wonder how she is so dark.
But her mother always jumps to her rescue. Saying she is the most beautiful child in the world.
The little girl then sits on her beautiful mother's lap and her mother tells her how real beauty lies inside us and only people with special eyes can see that beauty.
Many years later, when my mother, sister and I would be lost in thought, I would dream about someone with special eyes who would see my inner beauty. And carry me away to the clouds. Where there would be only laughter and love and happiness.
With my father "missing" for so many years, my mother bore the brunt of a society that always questioned her status. Was she to be relegated to white, or was she a wife in waiting? She loved dressing up and was always looking her best. Dressing up created a mood of optimism, with me staring mesmerised at her every day and wondering how lucky I was to have such a beautiful mother.
The single and wife in waiting also made my mother prey to every conversation, every social visit where there was a man- so what if that person was a colleague at work, a friend or even a relative.
She never let anything get in her way.
We grew up- three women in a new city- with the strength that mother instilled in us everyday.
We liked seeing her happy, and she always laughed for us- even if her laugh sometimes shook with the pain of carefully hidden tears.
I wanted to make my mother happy.
I wanted to give her everything she lost with my father.
I studied and studied and worked and worked.
So that oneday I could give her back what she gave us.
But then life engulfed me with family, relationships, career and unknowingly, my plans for my mother got postponed.
Maybe another day.
Could be next year.
What's the hurry? She is always around- my work can't wait.
Till four years ago, in the early hours of dawn, I woke up to the ominous ring of the phone.
And I realised that everything that I thought couldn't wait is still around.
Except my mother.
My life changed after that.
I put myself and my happiness before everything else.
Took calls that I could have never dreamt of before.
Moved cities, offices, clients, colleagues.
Carried my life and menories in a suitcase.
I am happy with what I have today.
My work, my family, my friends... with everything.
I realised that when I am happy, I can make everyone around me much happier.
And in this journey, I have found many who have special eyes.
Just like my mother said, so many years ago.
Her mother is more than beautiful. She is gorgeous... fair gold polished skin, rose blushed cheeks that would put any blusher to shame, dark almond eyes... and a laughter so infectious that men and women would swarm around her just by the sheer sound.
The little girl is always shy because people look at her with surprise and wonder how she is so dark.
But her mother always jumps to her rescue. Saying she is the most beautiful child in the world.
The little girl then sits on her beautiful mother's lap and her mother tells her how real beauty lies inside us and only people with special eyes can see that beauty.
Many years later, when my mother, sister and I would be lost in thought, I would dream about someone with special eyes who would see my inner beauty. And carry me away to the clouds. Where there would be only laughter and love and happiness.
With my father "missing" for so many years, my mother bore the brunt of a society that always questioned her status. Was she to be relegated to white, or was she a wife in waiting? She loved dressing up and was always looking her best. Dressing up created a mood of optimism, with me staring mesmerised at her every day and wondering how lucky I was to have such a beautiful mother.
The single and wife in waiting also made my mother prey to every conversation, every social visit where there was a man- so what if that person was a colleague at work, a friend or even a relative.
She never let anything get in her way.
We grew up- three women in a new city- with the strength that mother instilled in us everyday.
We liked seeing her happy, and she always laughed for us- even if her laugh sometimes shook with the pain of carefully hidden tears.
I wanted to make my mother happy.
I wanted to give her everything she lost with my father.
I studied and studied and worked and worked.
So that oneday I could give her back what she gave us.
But then life engulfed me with family, relationships, career and unknowingly, my plans for my mother got postponed.
Maybe another day.
Could be next year.
What's the hurry? She is always around- my work can't wait.
Till four years ago, in the early hours of dawn, I woke up to the ominous ring of the phone.
And I realised that everything that I thought couldn't wait is still around.
Except my mother.
My life changed after that.
I put myself and my happiness before everything else.
Took calls that I could have never dreamt of before.
Moved cities, offices, clients, colleagues.
Carried my life and menories in a suitcase.
I am happy with what I have today.
My work, my family, my friends... with everything.
I realised that when I am happy, I can make everyone around me much happier.
And in this journey, I have found many who have special eyes.
Just like my mother said, so many years ago.
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