On New Year's Day

One of the nicest things about the Assamese New Year  , when I was a little girl, was the new clothes.
My mother and I would  land up at the local tailor's shop run by three sisters and their brother, in Charali Market. Their shop proudly announced Sen Tailoring in hand painted cursive on the board  hanging on to the tiled roof by twisted wires. Mother would thumb her way through a pile of well  used and faded "design" books with  dress designs sported by blonde and brunette women we only saw in the "English movies." The Sen sisters would take the material my mother had bought and make their quiet suggestions.

Finally, after my mother took the call on the designs, the sisters would pull out the measuring tape and wrap and wound and bind it around my body, waist, hands, neck, penning down numbers and tailoring shorthand in a small notebook.

One day before Bihu, the New Year, father would bring home the parcel smelling of newly stitched fabric. My sister and I would rip it open, and try on our new  dresses with squeals. We usually got two- one for each day- and 3 if we were lucky or Mother picked up some extra fabric.

Day break on Bihu day saw us in our new outfits, nibbling on coconut sweets and  homebaked cakes, saying shy hellos to family and friends who visited us, and of course, going to the evening cultural shows with song and dances . My sister and I would refuse to come home until the curtains were down and were finally half carried, half dragged into our Ambassador well past midnight.

The second day of Bihu meant the second new dress, a big family lunch and again cultural shows, songs and the wonderful bihu dance , accompanied with drum beats and  flutes.

Our house would have new bedsheets, fresh flowers and orchids, and new "gamoshas"- a woven cloth   a symbol of welcome and respect. Mother was never into intense cooking, so the dining table would have more of cakes and custards with cherries, sweetened yoghurt  rather than the traditional sweets.

Father would be at home. So would everyone else. Assam is closed for  welcoming the new year.

I was at work today but my mind drifted back to those days.
When I had a family that made sure that Bihu was a special day for me.
That I always had my new clothes.
That coveted front seat in the cultural show even if it meant we all landed up at least two hours before the show began.
The bihu dance rehearsals I would go to.
The stage performances when I grew up.
The beats to which I let go of myself and swirled with the other dancers.
The laughter.
The warmith.
The community.

Today, however, was just another day for me.
Mirroring every other day.

Sometimes, it is memories of those wonderful days that brings alive the same  moments.
Wishing everyone who is reading this a very happy new year.

The Screen

The Screen has really started ruling lives.
We wake up and check for emails on our phones or computers, key in a quick response.
Move on to social media.
Tap in a few Likes, Birthday wishes, comments on updates, even manage a quick status update.
All in bed. Or maybe just out.

Work for those who work is again predominantly with the Screen.
Creativity flows on them, powerpoints bring alive strategies.
Emails clog up pipelines.
Youtube entertains.

Back home.
Children watching TV.
We watch our own shows.
Go back to the phone and /or computer.

And do feel satisfied.

Till I realised yesterday that I, for one, am ignoring quite a few Screens that have always been there and are still there, waiting patiently.

The windows of the living room, overlooking the vast stretch of the township.
The balcony from where I can see the lush green with kids playing.
The car windows through which I see people, nature, landscape, life itself.
The sky overhead in all its magnificence.


Nature is a big  screen, showing us beautiful colours and wonders.
It is entertaining, a reality show and yes, always live.

In our obsession with phone, computer , tablet screens, we often forget to look at what can be a true respite. A great relaxation.
What can open our minds to fresh thoughts.
New potentials.

Can we afford to ignore these.........

It's time to quit...

When...
everything we do is a pain and not a passion
we spend more time posting seemingly happy pictures
workplace becomes an escape from home and relationships
conversations at home are about shopping lists and kids and never about ourselves
we  don't look forward to waking up

When...
frowns are flashed more than smiles
and laughter is a reluctant guest paying a fleeting visit
life runs like clockwork
there are no surprises
or anger or outburst- happy or sad

When...

the very word "love" seems to have lost all meaning
and we start questioning whether "hope" exists
we are afraid of silence, because it is only then we question ourselves

We know it is time to pack that bag
from work
or relationships
or anything we are involved in

And say
It's time to quit.

Coz it's only when we quit, that we see new opportunities.
Or that second chance lurking just round the corner.

A musician, chef and workplace

What is common between a music composer, a chef and a workplace?

Surprisingly, lots.

We often make the mistake of learning within the industry or the category.

Limiting experiences as well as codes that are relevant to team work and motivation and even ways of working, regardless of the industry or job profile.

Music for instance, can help  the workforce go through a mind and body enrichment experience.

Even enhance productivity at work.

Cooking is another way of stress relief, experimentation, playing with colours and flavours.

Both these professions are about uplifting spirits and creating joy and happiness.

About larger social good.

Sessions on music, cooking can tickle our imagination, improve team building and relationship skills.

Also inject innovation in the work place.

Cross Pollination Programmes  are a good way to leverage this.

Can start with workshops across categories. 

Invite musicians, chefs, artists who are known for their human resource management related workshops.

These are entertaining sessions as well and will draw in the team. 

Besides being a great learning, it is big mind opener to new possibilities.

So who knows- the next big idea could have been sparked off from the kitchen shelf.

Life is about living

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.

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

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.

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.

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......

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.

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.....

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....

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.

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.

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...

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.

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....

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.

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....

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.