As I prepare to tick one more box off the calender of my life in advertising, I take a pause and wonder.
Can advertising a lighthouse, or a beacon or will it primarily be a mirror?
My paper in the Chevening Scholarship was on Beauty and Women in advertising. That was the year Dove launched its Real Beauty campaign and my paper was brimming with Dove and real women. Finally, advertising had reached its age. Where we could show reality and not airbrushed clones all over again.
Six years later, I am as much part of what we see around us and proud of the work as well. The work has built brands, catapulted market share and sustained brands through the trough.
Yet there are times when I wonder whether there is something more I can do through the work I have done for 14 long years.
Can we be bolder when it comes to showing women and change?
Change is not a discussion about short kurtis and jeans instead of a saree and feeling proud that we have shown a modern women. Change is not enough when we limit the spirit of winning to young men and young boys.
A young modern mother's role more than serving children food, and worrying about her husband's cholestrol level and insurance.
Am wondering whether I can think of a brand that can stand up and say- I am about change. I reflect the dreams and desires of the young modern Indian woman. And showcase this proudly.
There is so much of advertising consumed every minute. Every second. No social media has the reach of a mass media brand spend. No NGO can ever hope to match up.
If some of the work also had an inspiring quotient, served as a call for action for women in smaller towns who are still straining at the leashes, shone the spotlight on the working wife and mother who has done an excellent job of managing home and life, applauded an unsung hero who had stood against society, woven into the brand message, there would definitely be a change. Definitely easier said than done. But then, it is fine to at least wonder and debate.
Read somewhere that the best productivity and impact happens when there is an element of greater good. Whether it is a product, service, institution, brand or industry.
Of course there is reality. Brand need to compete, brands need aspirations, brands have their own personality and need to speak in their voice. Reality also is that we are not in the business of simply inspiring people, we inspire people to relate to, and ultimately drive preference for a brand.Reality is that real life does not make for interesting creative. Am part of the business and know this and all the other realities we operate it. It is indeed very challenging .
Yet , in brief moments like this, when I take a pause, I long to make a small difference. At least to the women I create work for.When the work on the brand can also inspire her to take just one small step against the leash of life.
After all, we are in the business of weaving dreams.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
It's all about Passion
Waking up earlier than the lark this week.
Burning midnight oil.
Pouring over books whose pages have yellowed with time and neglect
Writing, rewriting.....
And all this without interuppting work and family.
Can't afford to. It's my "freetime" venture.
Because all this effort is going towards my passion.
Teaching. Rather "Guest lecturing".
Realise how important it is to feed our passions.
Brings out the best in us, fuels fire and sparks off ideas we never imagined we could dream of.
Sometimes, people like me let work take up so much time that we kill the passions that drive us.
Making us unhappy, monotonic, mechanical.
We complain about having no time.
We talk about time poor lives in meetings and breaks.
Yet, it takes so little if we really put our mind and heart to it.
Just need a strong dose of determination, a spoonful of planning and a sackful of hard work.
I have learnt so much in the last few days.
New examples, fresh insights, revamped theories... things long forgotten in the lapse of time.
Nothing comes easy.
More so, if we follow a passion that is not part of our regular work and life.
But at the end of the day, it is these passions that make us better individuals, make us complete.
Making us more productive, more enlightened.
And above all, keeping us very happy.
Because, with happiness, comes health, comes success, comes relationships. Everything.
With this short rambling, I go back to my guest lecture prep and midnight oils.
Thanking God for finally making me wise enough to realise that if we kill passion, a part of us die.
Burning midnight oil.
Pouring over books whose pages have yellowed with time and neglect
Writing, rewriting.....
And all this without interuppting work and family.
Can't afford to. It's my "freetime" venture.
Because all this effort is going towards my passion.
Teaching. Rather "Guest lecturing".
Realise how important it is to feed our passions.
Brings out the best in us, fuels fire and sparks off ideas we never imagined we could dream of.
Sometimes, people like me let work take up so much time that we kill the passions that drive us.
Making us unhappy, monotonic, mechanical.
We complain about having no time.
We talk about time poor lives in meetings and breaks.
Yet, it takes so little if we really put our mind and heart to it.
Just need a strong dose of determination, a spoonful of planning and a sackful of hard work.
I have learnt so much in the last few days.
New examples, fresh insights, revamped theories... things long forgotten in the lapse of time.
Nothing comes easy.
More so, if we follow a passion that is not part of our regular work and life.
But at the end of the day, it is these passions that make us better individuals, make us complete.
Making us more productive, more enlightened.
And above all, keeping us very happy.
Because, with happiness, comes health, comes success, comes relationships. Everything.
With this short rambling, I go back to my guest lecture prep and midnight oils.
Thanking God for finally making me wise enough to realise that if we kill passion, a part of us die.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Romancing music
Was listening to "Jab koi baat..." on YouTube on a serene Sunday morning and my ever romantic heart went a fluttering. Short of seeing the red hearts swim before my eyes like a Valentines Day graphic viral, I was completely in a romantic mood.
There was something about those songs. There IS something about them that has transcended time and generations.
There was something about the shy looks , the eyelashes that fluttered up and away, the saree acchal held demurely, the hands held together .
There was an intensity that always manages to revv me out of any mood into a beautiful world of love.
Songs and music have evolved today in Bollywood. There is maybe much more technology and creativity to both song and music, there are inspirations from across the world and a much wider audience to appreciate thanks to the bludgeoning channels and listening devices.
These numbers are chartbusters and top hits and the latest. Downloaded rapidly from a host of free sites, played on FM 24X 7 and are blasted on the music channels. Discs, parties, get togethers, clubs- these popular numbers are everywhere.
Yet somehow I miss the connect.
I miss the beauty and simplicity of the lyrics of yesteryears
I crave for the wave of emotions that flood us whenever we hear a favourite number
Music fuels imagination
It is one of the best forms of escape as well
The world has moved on and things are changing. For the better.
Tastes have evolved and Generation X thrives on the music churned out by the industry.
But nothing I have heard so far comes close to the magic of the music maestros of yesterday.
Through their music they still live on in our hearts, every time our heart goes a fluttering.
Like mine did just now.
There was something about those songs. There IS something about them that has transcended time and generations.
There was something about the shy looks , the eyelashes that fluttered up and away, the saree acchal held demurely, the hands held together .
There was an intensity that always manages to revv me out of any mood into a beautiful world of love.
Songs and music have evolved today in Bollywood. There is maybe much more technology and creativity to both song and music, there are inspirations from across the world and a much wider audience to appreciate thanks to the bludgeoning channels and listening devices.
These numbers are chartbusters and top hits and the latest. Downloaded rapidly from a host of free sites, played on FM 24X 7 and are blasted on the music channels. Discs, parties, get togethers, clubs- these popular numbers are everywhere.
Yet somehow I miss the connect.
I miss the beauty and simplicity of the lyrics of yesteryears
I crave for the wave of emotions that flood us whenever we hear a favourite number
Music fuels imagination
It is one of the best forms of escape as well
The world has moved on and things are changing. For the better.
Tastes have evolved and Generation X thrives on the music churned out by the industry.
But nothing I have heard so far comes close to the magic of the music maestros of yesterday.
Through their music they still live on in our hearts, every time our heart goes a fluttering.
Like mine did just now.
Friday, October 15, 2010
"Mummy, Bhook lagi hai" ( Mum, I'm hungry)
Zoya ran up to me and said she was hungry. I asked her what she wants to have. She replied promptly- Chocheges ( sausages). Opened the refrigerator only to find that the usual packet of frozen meats was over and had not been replaced. Called my help and asked her in a firm tone why she had not told me that the sausages are over, Zoya will now have to stay hungry blah blah.
I sounded pathetic even as I said this. I was annoyed that a packet of sausages were not there. She could have just about anything else. What if, for a moment, I had nothing at home? What if , for a second, I imagined myself as one of the hundreds of mothers in this country, whose little daughters pitterpattered upto them in baby steps saying- Ma, I am hungry- and I had just nothing to give. Sent a shiver down my spine.
I remember my grandparents' house with the joint family back home. The milk would be mixed with water so that there was enough for the fifteen children . It was called "gakhir paani" ( milk with water). My cousins were so used to it that they thought this was the way milk was had. Noone ever felt sad or deprived.
I have done focus groups with mothers across the country who tell me stories of how , with recession, they make vegetables with gravy so that they don't have to make daal, which is expensive to the point of being a luxury. One mother smiled and said her child is very happy- says the vegetables taste so much better with the gravy. Again, no complaint. Just a smile that says- we can manage and we do it very well.
Children talk to me about how they "share" a plate of chaat or golgappa or a Mc donald's aloo tikki ( potato) burger. They do this happily. Sharing while eating out has been a way of life.
There is a reason why most mothers in less affluent families have their meal after the entire family has had their fill. She can then give up her share of the rice or chapati to one of her ever hungry brood. Her body has gotten used to a meagre meal or even a glass of water most nights.
The Global Hunger Index 2010 rates India lower than Rwanda and Sudan in Hunger Quotient.
Children across the country are going to bed hungry, cooing themselves to sleep over their mother's lullabies. Mothers across the country are over worked and under nourished, trying to find indigenious ways of lighting the kitchen fires everyday.
Yet we are also one of the countries with a high Happiness Quotient.
We have religion, we have family, we have hope and belief.
That each day will be better than yesterday. And that tomorrow will bring a new ray of hope.
I applaud these mothers and the sense of positiveness and hope they imbibe in their families everyday.
So what if there is just a handful of rice to be shared at night.
And I humbly realise that instead of berating over a packet of sausages, if I start sharing what I have, in a small way, with families less blessed than me in terms of wealth, I can make at least one child sleep peacefully with no hunger pangs. It can make a difference. A huge difference.
I sounded pathetic even as I said this. I was annoyed that a packet of sausages were not there. She could have just about anything else. What if, for a moment, I had nothing at home? What if , for a second, I imagined myself as one of the hundreds of mothers in this country, whose little daughters pitterpattered upto them in baby steps saying- Ma, I am hungry- and I had just nothing to give. Sent a shiver down my spine.
I remember my grandparents' house with the joint family back home. The milk would be mixed with water so that there was enough for the fifteen children . It was called "gakhir paani" ( milk with water). My cousins were so used to it that they thought this was the way milk was had. Noone ever felt sad or deprived.
I have done focus groups with mothers across the country who tell me stories of how , with recession, they make vegetables with gravy so that they don't have to make daal, which is expensive to the point of being a luxury. One mother smiled and said her child is very happy- says the vegetables taste so much better with the gravy. Again, no complaint. Just a smile that says- we can manage and we do it very well.
Children talk to me about how they "share" a plate of chaat or golgappa or a Mc donald's aloo tikki ( potato) burger. They do this happily. Sharing while eating out has been a way of life.
There is a reason why most mothers in less affluent families have their meal after the entire family has had their fill. She can then give up her share of the rice or chapati to one of her ever hungry brood. Her body has gotten used to a meagre meal or even a glass of water most nights.
The Global Hunger Index 2010 rates India lower than Rwanda and Sudan in Hunger Quotient.
Children across the country are going to bed hungry, cooing themselves to sleep over their mother's lullabies. Mothers across the country are over worked and under nourished, trying to find indigenious ways of lighting the kitchen fires everyday.
Yet we are also one of the countries with a high Happiness Quotient.
We have religion, we have family, we have hope and belief.
That each day will be better than yesterday. And that tomorrow will bring a new ray of hope.
I applaud these mothers and the sense of positiveness and hope they imbibe in their families everyday.
So what if there is just a handful of rice to be shared at night.
And I humbly realise that instead of berating over a packet of sausages, if I start sharing what I have, in a small way, with families less blessed than me in terms of wealth, I can make at least one child sleep peacefully with no hunger pangs. It can make a difference. A huge difference.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Missing the Thrills
The first day of Puja. Pedalling back in time to when we would wake up all excited on Saptami day, eager to wear our new clothes. We always got two sets instead of four or six like our friends, Jhimly and Minku. But Ma would sternly reply that we also got two sets for Bihu ( Assamese new year) and that made it even.
Thinking... why is it that all our new clothes happened only during a celebration or on our birthdays? Never remember randomly strolling into a store and asking Ma to buy us a dress.
That was not just us. It was India. At least middle class India. Wardrobes were refreshed only during a celebration, usually a religious one or a big social one. And I realise why.
First, the relatively low income levels. Usually the father was the sole bread earner. Usually the father worked as a public servant, where salaries were unenviable.
Second, thriftiness was a virtue. Out of the salary every month, a portion had to go towards savings. Bank passbooks were a reverred item in the house. Random expenses were not encouraged.
So purchases were planned in a way that maximised the wallet and also kept the family happy. Celebrations were and still are a time when bonuses are doled out and discounts and sales are the order of the day. Offer cards and flashes appear everywhere.
Festivities are a time when the entire family relaxes the purse strings and goes all out on shopping. Since everything is purchased at that time, there is a sense of bounty and plenty. Noone feels deprived. Everyone has something, even the toothless old bai in the kitchen gets a new saree, blouse and petticoat.
So while it is a very sensible and smart budget management, it actually sends out signals of richness, wealth and happiness. Savings are hidden under the blanket of unwrapped packets, gift papers, the crackle and fragrance of new clothes.
In those days, all the eating out would also happen during Pujas. Snacks, fish curries, khichdis, gol gappas, icecreams. Toys were generously doled out. Pistols with round paper pellet bullets ( golis), plastic dancing girls that nodded their heads, plastic animals that were wheeled around on strings.
Today, thanks to the rising disposable incomes ( recession notwithstanding), younger earning groups, shift from a saving to spending economy, purchases happen all the year. Malls have sales every month, new clothes need no occasion.
I go and buy my daughter toys and games and pretty dresses whenever I have the time. I buy myself new clothes whenever I feel I need something.
Yet today, on the eve of the pujas, I feel like I have missed out on something.
I am missing the surprise on our faces when Ma opened the brown packets , the louds screams of joy when we preened before the mirror in our new clothes, Ma's gorgeous look as she draped her new saree around her, Puspa, our household help's shy smile as she proudly showed her new salwar kameez to her parents.
Makes me think... in our plentitude, have we sacrificed small joys?
Thinking... why is it that all our new clothes happened only during a celebration or on our birthdays? Never remember randomly strolling into a store and asking Ma to buy us a dress.
That was not just us. It was India. At least middle class India. Wardrobes were refreshed only during a celebration, usually a religious one or a big social one. And I realise why.
First, the relatively low income levels. Usually the father was the sole bread earner. Usually the father worked as a public servant, where salaries were unenviable.
Second, thriftiness was a virtue. Out of the salary every month, a portion had to go towards savings. Bank passbooks were a reverred item in the house. Random expenses were not encouraged.
So purchases were planned in a way that maximised the wallet and also kept the family happy. Celebrations were and still are a time when bonuses are doled out and discounts and sales are the order of the day. Offer cards and flashes appear everywhere.
Festivities are a time when the entire family relaxes the purse strings and goes all out on shopping. Since everything is purchased at that time, there is a sense of bounty and plenty. Noone feels deprived. Everyone has something, even the toothless old bai in the kitchen gets a new saree, blouse and petticoat.
So while it is a very sensible and smart budget management, it actually sends out signals of richness, wealth and happiness. Savings are hidden under the blanket of unwrapped packets, gift papers, the crackle and fragrance of new clothes.
In those days, all the eating out would also happen during Pujas. Snacks, fish curries, khichdis, gol gappas, icecreams. Toys were generously doled out. Pistols with round paper pellet bullets ( golis), plastic dancing girls that nodded their heads, plastic animals that were wheeled around on strings.
Today, thanks to the rising disposable incomes ( recession notwithstanding), younger earning groups, shift from a saving to spending economy, purchases happen all the year. Malls have sales every month, new clothes need no occasion.
I go and buy my daughter toys and games and pretty dresses whenever I have the time. I buy myself new clothes whenever I feel I need something.
Yet today, on the eve of the pujas, I feel like I have missed out on something.
I am missing the surprise on our faces when Ma opened the brown packets , the louds screams of joy when we preened before the mirror in our new clothes, Ma's gorgeous look as she draped her new saree around her, Puspa, our household help's shy smile as she proudly showed her new salwar kameez to her parents.
Makes me think... in our plentitude, have we sacrificed small joys?
Monday, October 11, 2010
Let Passion never be fake
Yesterday was a lesson in humility for me. And I am proud to write this because I myself never like an argument for arguments sake.
The discussion which morphed into a debate was about brand passion. Is passion something that comes from within or can it be forced upon by an organisation? Do brands that have no positive benefit to society even deserve passion? Can someone who is new have the genuine spirit to war paint and mouth the silent slogans of brotherhood?
My initial argument was that passion can be generated - it always does not have to come from within.
Five minutes into the debate and I knew I had lost. What I learnt has nothing to do with the topic itself- like all subjects, this is subjective. My learnings were of a different kind. It was about the art of speaking with conviction . To win a debate or discussion.
1. Genuine passion screams louder than the loudest voice. Genuine passion cannot be fake.
2. Speak with conviction rather than rooting for something just because you belong to an organisation or work on a brand.
3. Listen. Rather than talk. Get what the others are saying. This gives us time to think better.
4. Do not divert and digress . Stay focussed in any discussion. Stick to the point.
5. Be well read. And informed. Informed people can be formidable opponents.
6. Don't get personal.When I realised I was cornered, I started hitting out on matters which were irrelevant.
7. Weave logic around the discussion point- cite examples from other categories, from history, from recent politics. cast a larger net. And drill deeper if you get a sense that the others are not as conversant in that subject.
Coming back to the subject under debate, this was what I concluded in my own mind as I churned the conversation later.
1. Passion has to come from within.
2. Brands can discover passion points and fuel the fire around them
3. Brand communities need more than just a brand purchase to belong. One needs to imbibe the spirit of the brand , understand the codes, respect the community- the same codes we follow when joining a club or a gang. A bunch of suits riding a bike solemnly on a Sunday does not give them the license for HOG. A community is much more than that.
4. Brands that generate passion become icons- we wear them proudly as labels, they become discussion points in living rooms and occupy a place of pride in our lives.
Finally, it is the loyal consumer who takes on the reins of passion and writes the codes that make a brand into a cult. Loyalty that comes out of experience, positive feedback and authenticity. An honest bond that germinates and stays on forever.
Useful lessons- both in the skills of a convincing argument and the understanding of brand passion. Like I always believe, knowledge is all around us. We just need to be receptive and willing.
And yes, passion can never be faked.
The discussion which morphed into a debate was about brand passion. Is passion something that comes from within or can it be forced upon by an organisation? Do brands that have no positive benefit to society even deserve passion? Can someone who is new have the genuine spirit to war paint and mouth the silent slogans of brotherhood?
My initial argument was that passion can be generated - it always does not have to come from within.
Five minutes into the debate and I knew I had lost. What I learnt has nothing to do with the topic itself- like all subjects, this is subjective. My learnings were of a different kind. It was about the art of speaking with conviction . To win a debate or discussion.
1. Genuine passion screams louder than the loudest voice. Genuine passion cannot be fake.
2. Speak with conviction rather than rooting for something just because you belong to an organisation or work on a brand.
3. Listen. Rather than talk. Get what the others are saying. This gives us time to think better.
4. Do not divert and digress . Stay focussed in any discussion. Stick to the point.
5. Be well read. And informed. Informed people can be formidable opponents.
6. Don't get personal.When I realised I was cornered, I started hitting out on matters which were irrelevant.
7. Weave logic around the discussion point- cite examples from other categories, from history, from recent politics. cast a larger net. And drill deeper if you get a sense that the others are not as conversant in that subject.
Coming back to the subject under debate, this was what I concluded in my own mind as I churned the conversation later.
1. Passion has to come from within.
2. Brands can discover passion points and fuel the fire around them
3. Brand communities need more than just a brand purchase to belong. One needs to imbibe the spirit of the brand , understand the codes, respect the community- the same codes we follow when joining a club or a gang. A bunch of suits riding a bike solemnly on a Sunday does not give them the license for HOG. A community is much more than that.
4. Brands that generate passion become icons- we wear them proudly as labels, they become discussion points in living rooms and occupy a place of pride in our lives.
Finally, it is the loyal consumer who takes on the reins of passion and writes the codes that make a brand into a cult. Loyalty that comes out of experience, positive feedback and authenticity. An honest bond that germinates and stays on forever.
Useful lessons- both in the skills of a convincing argument and the understanding of brand passion. Like I always believe, knowledge is all around us. We just need to be receptive and willing.
And yes, passion can never be faked.
Friday, October 8, 2010
Notes from a "Working Mum"
October 19th, 2004. Global client coming down for a meeting. Conference room in order, the presentations sitting smugly in neatly labelled folders on the laptop, back ups in pen drives , food ordered. And we waited. For me it was not just a wait for the men in suits. It was my last working day before my baby would be born.
I had planned everything to a T. Ma and my sister would arrive on 20th. Bags packed for hospital on 21st. Off to hospital on 21st. Baby to be born out of C-section on 22nd. For an obsessive planner like me, there was no room for a normal birth that was unpredictable.
Baby Zoya was born, the flowers arrived from my dear colleagues, Ma dutifully spent two days with me. On Day 2, I decided that enough was enough- pulled myself out of bed, hobbled bent over till the stitches stretched and I could be upright again, waved goodbye to the nurses, gave my credit, debit and all other cards for the loaded hospital bills and I was home.
Guests and well wishers would drop in all day, I would proudly show off Baby Zoya. Pay the driver money to get pastries and patties from Galleria, Hiranandani Gardens, order Pepsi 1 litre bottles for serving the guests.
Baby Zoya , like all other hungry babies, gnawed at me till I was bruised and bleeding. So rush to Hiranandani market again for tiny baby feeding bottles which I religiously boiled and steamed and boiled again for fear of infections. I was guilty - I couldn't feed my baby, I was fat and ugly and I wished I could go back to work again.
Soon a month passed by. Zoya was more awake than asleep, would stare in wonder at me and the world, cry when she was left alone. Ma and my sister left, I was alone. Would love dressing her up in the evening and stroll around our building Harshvardhan, pushing her pram around. Soon she was old enough to go with me to Haiko supermarket, where I would put her car seat in the shopping cart and wheel her around. We would go to Crossword where I would buy her Nursery Rhyme books and carefully write in cursive- "To my Princess. From Mamma"
Zoya and I soon became the best of friends. I would talk to her for hours, and she would gurgle her replies. We were always together. I hated leaving her even for a second. Zoya soon filled the huge void I felt in my life and started looking forward to each day with my lovely baby.
Januray 31st. 2005. New live in maid arrived from home. I showed her around , made her boil Zoya's bottles, make Nan 2, instructed her how to dress her in her little baby clothes. That night I looked at Zoya sucking her thumb and sleeping blissfully next to me and tears flowed uncontrollably.
Because I was starting work the next day. She would be home alone all day with a maid. Would she be well taken care of? Would she miss me? Was I being too career minded? Was I selfish?
And then I walked into office, sat at my desk, accepted the hugs and all the flowers gracefully, and started off work. That's it. Got back into the groove again. Managed work and Zoya and home as best as I could. Work gave me the satisfaction I craved for, Zoya gave me the love I desired. And I never compromised one for the other.
This October 24th, Zoya turns five. I look proudly at my little girl, who has held my hand when I was low and laughed with me when I was on a high. She has learnt her alphabets, swings to Bollywood , hates food, loves chips and chocs and is still my best friend. She thinks I am "beautiful like Kareena" and she "loves me vewy vewy much".
Makes me realise that life is indeed a balance. Between good things and good things. That's the hardest balance. And happiness comes to those who always remember that it is never one at the cost of the other.
I had planned everything to a T. Ma and my sister would arrive on 20th. Bags packed for hospital on 21st. Off to hospital on 21st. Baby to be born out of C-section on 22nd. For an obsessive planner like me, there was no room for a normal birth that was unpredictable.
Baby Zoya was born, the flowers arrived from my dear colleagues, Ma dutifully spent two days with me. On Day 2, I decided that enough was enough- pulled myself out of bed, hobbled bent over till the stitches stretched and I could be upright again, waved goodbye to the nurses, gave my credit, debit and all other cards for the loaded hospital bills and I was home.
Guests and well wishers would drop in all day, I would proudly show off Baby Zoya. Pay the driver money to get pastries and patties from Galleria, Hiranandani Gardens, order Pepsi 1 litre bottles for serving the guests.
Baby Zoya , like all other hungry babies, gnawed at me till I was bruised and bleeding. So rush to Hiranandani market again for tiny baby feeding bottles which I religiously boiled and steamed and boiled again for fear of infections. I was guilty - I couldn't feed my baby, I was fat and ugly and I wished I could go back to work again.
Soon a month passed by. Zoya was more awake than asleep, would stare in wonder at me and the world, cry when she was left alone. Ma and my sister left, I was alone. Would love dressing her up in the evening and stroll around our building Harshvardhan, pushing her pram around. Soon she was old enough to go with me to Haiko supermarket, where I would put her car seat in the shopping cart and wheel her around. We would go to Crossword where I would buy her Nursery Rhyme books and carefully write in cursive- "To my Princess. From Mamma"
Zoya and I soon became the best of friends. I would talk to her for hours, and she would gurgle her replies. We were always together. I hated leaving her even for a second. Zoya soon filled the huge void I felt in my life and started looking forward to each day with my lovely baby.
Januray 31st. 2005. New live in maid arrived from home. I showed her around , made her boil Zoya's bottles, make Nan 2, instructed her how to dress her in her little baby clothes. That night I looked at Zoya sucking her thumb and sleeping blissfully next to me and tears flowed uncontrollably.
Because I was starting work the next day. She would be home alone all day with a maid. Would she be well taken care of? Would she miss me? Was I being too career minded? Was I selfish?
And then I walked into office, sat at my desk, accepted the hugs and all the flowers gracefully, and started off work. That's it. Got back into the groove again. Managed work and Zoya and home as best as I could. Work gave me the satisfaction I craved for, Zoya gave me the love I desired. And I never compromised one for the other.
This October 24th, Zoya turns five. I look proudly at my little girl, who has held my hand when I was low and laughed with me when I was on a high. She has learnt her alphabets, swings to Bollywood , hates food, loves chips and chocs and is still my best friend. She thinks I am "beautiful like Kareena" and she "loves me vewy vewy much".
Makes me realise that life is indeed a balance. Between good things and good things. That's the hardest balance. And happiness comes to those who always remember that it is never one at the cost of the other.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Welcome Home Maa
I woke up with a strange sense of happiness. Of belonging. A misty landscape of Gurgaon smiled at me serenely as I drew back the curtains. Walked around aimlessly, still feeling happy. Saw the laptop beckoning me enticingly. Refreshed FaceBook and saw my dear friend Kasturi's status on Mahalaya.
At once my heart jumped. Mahalaya.... I quickly youtubed the Mahalaya "Yaa Devi...." Ma had switched on every morning at the break of dawn on All India Radio. Ma would be home today!!!!! Even as I said this aloud, I realised I may be sounding weird. Ma has moved on, passed away, and yet every Mahalaya day for the past three years I feel she is back again, descending from the clouds to be with her two daughters. Maybe it is my childish imagination. Maybe it is the remnants of what Ma herself would tell us as we listened in rapt attention to the slokas. That the spirits of the deceased descended down to earth on Mahalaya day and stayed with us till Diwali. Ma would say that the spirits missed us so much that they would wait for this day to dawn.
Mahalaya has so much of significance. It heralds in the much awaited Durga Puja . It is on this day that the artists of Kumartuli in West Bengal paint the eyes of the Goddess- Chakshudanam.
Mahalaya is when people perform Tarpan on the ghats of the Ganges- an offering to the deceased.
Mahalaya is when Sewli flowers carpet the dew dotted grass and meadows. When children shake the sewli trees in glee and get showered with the coral petals. It is when shopping reaches a frenzied peak. When bonuses are doled out, songs played aloud in market places, the last poles erected in the magnificent puja pandals.
Mahalaya is when the Goddess Durga starts her journey home with her offspring.
But for me, Mahalaya will always be when my mother comes back home. To be with us for a while. So what if it is in my imagination.
After all, Mahalaya does mean "Homecoming".
At once my heart jumped. Mahalaya.... I quickly youtubed the Mahalaya "Yaa Devi...." Ma had switched on every morning at the break of dawn on All India Radio. Ma would be home today!!!!! Even as I said this aloud, I realised I may be sounding weird. Ma has moved on, passed away, and yet every Mahalaya day for the past three years I feel she is back again, descending from the clouds to be with her two daughters. Maybe it is my childish imagination. Maybe it is the remnants of what Ma herself would tell us as we listened in rapt attention to the slokas. That the spirits of the deceased descended down to earth on Mahalaya day and stayed with us till Diwali. Ma would say that the spirits missed us so much that they would wait for this day to dawn.
Mahalaya has so much of significance. It heralds in the much awaited Durga Puja . It is on this day that the artists of Kumartuli in West Bengal paint the eyes of the Goddess- Chakshudanam.
Mahalaya is when people perform Tarpan on the ghats of the Ganges- an offering to the deceased.
Mahalaya is when Sewli flowers carpet the dew dotted grass and meadows. When children shake the sewli trees in glee and get showered with the coral petals. It is when shopping reaches a frenzied peak. When bonuses are doled out, songs played aloud in market places, the last poles erected in the magnificent puja pandals.
Mahalaya is when the Goddess Durga starts her journey home with her offspring.
But for me, Mahalaya will always be when my mother comes back home. To be with us for a while. So what if it is in my imagination.
After all, Mahalaya does mean "Homecoming".
There's something about shopping
Retail Therapy is what we call it. Monday blues, hop across to Phoenix Mills, Lower Parel, window shop, toy around with that awesome blingy handbag- what the heck- let me buy it- and voila, I am in a good mood again.
There's something about shopping that makes us happy. That makes us forget our woes and grumpiness. Instantly.
Remember the times I would tag along with my mother to New Market in Digboi and go hopping from Digboi Store to Rakshit's to the regular stop at the Society Store where Ma could buy on credit as well. She certainly seemed happy when she was out shopping.
Same with the Sunday morning ritualistic trip to Tingri haat for the oranges, the cauliflowers, baby potatoes, fish and sometimes chicken in bamboo coops. We would be singing in the car as we drove to the haat and munching roasted peanuts on the way back. Daddy took great pleasure in discussing his bargains with Hazarika uncle next door.
Almost all celebrations in our lives have shopping as an intrinsic part. Bihu, Durga Puja, Diwali, Onam, Christmas and so many more- we all go on a mad spree buying clothes, jewellery, gifts and come back with an empty wallet, depleted bank balance but a heart full of joy.
Sometimes I wonder- is it the act of purchase itself that makes us happy? Or is it the feeling of bounty, of plentifulness? Or maybe it is about material acquisition? Acquiring things has always been the driving force of many things since history originated, where kingdoms were bartered, lives sacrificed... all for making our coffers overflow. It is this primievial urge to acquire that stills drives us to push ourselves at work, in life and even overflows into relationships. Most times we become slaves to this drive.
There are so many things money can't buy. Love, relationships ( I am not too sure about this one), success, health, long term happiness. There is joy in giving as well. But I definitely don't recollect anything called Giving Therapy or Sharing Therapy to overcome our blues.
So shopping continues to be one of the best forms of therapy and impulsive purchases are fuelled by the choices that clamour for attention in the marketplace and the plastics in our wallet. This is what keeps the seesaw of demand supply moving, this is what drives the GDP and all other economic measures.
This makes me feel less guilty, as I look at my bulging Anokhi shopping bag sitting coyly on the table. After all, I have contributed to the economy and yes, I am happy. Super happy.
There's something about shopping that makes us happy. That makes us forget our woes and grumpiness. Instantly.
Remember the times I would tag along with my mother to New Market in Digboi and go hopping from Digboi Store to Rakshit's to the regular stop at the Society Store where Ma could buy on credit as well. She certainly seemed happy when she was out shopping.
Same with the Sunday morning ritualistic trip to Tingri haat for the oranges, the cauliflowers, baby potatoes, fish and sometimes chicken in bamboo coops. We would be singing in the car as we drove to the haat and munching roasted peanuts on the way back. Daddy took great pleasure in discussing his bargains with Hazarika uncle next door.
Almost all celebrations in our lives have shopping as an intrinsic part. Bihu, Durga Puja, Diwali, Onam, Christmas and so many more- we all go on a mad spree buying clothes, jewellery, gifts and come back with an empty wallet, depleted bank balance but a heart full of joy.
Sometimes I wonder- is it the act of purchase itself that makes us happy? Or is it the feeling of bounty, of plentifulness? Or maybe it is about material acquisition? Acquiring things has always been the driving force of many things since history originated, where kingdoms were bartered, lives sacrificed... all for making our coffers overflow. It is this primievial urge to acquire that stills drives us to push ourselves at work, in life and even overflows into relationships. Most times we become slaves to this drive.
There are so many things money can't buy. Love, relationships ( I am not too sure about this one), success, health, long term happiness. There is joy in giving as well. But I definitely don't recollect anything called Giving Therapy or Sharing Therapy to overcome our blues.
So shopping continues to be one of the best forms of therapy and impulsive purchases are fuelled by the choices that clamour for attention in the marketplace and the plastics in our wallet. This is what keeps the seesaw of demand supply moving, this is what drives the GDP and all other economic measures.
This makes me feel less guilty, as I look at my bulging Anokhi shopping bag sitting coyly on the table. After all, I have contributed to the economy and yes, I am happy. Super happy.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
What it takes to be Bold
It's hard to be bold. One of the many web definitions on BOLD is "showing a readiness to take risks or face danger". I am really not one of those risk takers or rebellers who throw caution to the winds, tie a bandana and go driving into the horizon. But life has taught me to cross that thin line we draw within ourselves as our own boundary of taking risks , of taking that one step that's the difference between staying alive and living.
Here are some of the learnings I have had in my run of life till now. That made me overcome some of my own shackles.
1. Ask the "Why Not" question we have so often read about. It fuels us much more than the simple "Why". We end up questioning ourselves, challenging ourselves.
2. There is only one Plan and that's Plan A. Sometimes it's the Plan B's and C's and Z's that make us comfortable. So comfortable that we fallback on these plans even before we give Plan A our best shot.
3. There are no "shortcuts". To be bold needs courage and hard work. Most times we give up halfway or even earlier because it is so easy to look for an easier way, a shortcut that never exists.
4. Put yourself before others at times. The "I" coming before "We" makes us look at life and challenges from a very different lens.
5. Believe in both logic and magic. Life is a mix of both. It's foolhardy to skew towards either. But worthwhile to believe in Life's mysteries while listening to our minds.
6.Believe in our goal. With this comes focus and singlemindedness. "Either" "Or" and similar words do not have room for bold actions.
7. Unplay the Rules. Rules set by families and societies have evolved over time. They remain constant only in our minds. Unplay them . Imagine they are not there. ( Of course do this judiciously. I am assuming we are all matured and capable of knowing what rules to unplay)
8. Ensure that our actions impact us the most and others the least. I have always followed this principle rigorously. Multiply my own success, happiness but reduce the effect on others, if it does have an effect.
9. Be ruthless if required. Starting with ourselves. The first thing that comes in the way of a bold decision are emotions. The "What ifs".
10. Believe in the Power. Whether it is ourselves, the Divinity we worship, the Power we believe in if we don't worship.believe that if we are true to our actions, the Universe listens. ( Paulo Coelho and the Alchemist has been my guiding force)
Some of the above, if not all, apply to the work we do as well. Being in the brand building business, I have seen how difficult it is to be bold and how it is the brands who are bold that have rewritten all the rules. That have created disruption. And a new order.
Ending with this quote I love from Steve Jobs "We’re here to put a dent in the universe".
Shaun Smith: What are 'bold brands' - and why do they win?
Here are some of the learnings I have had in my run of life till now. That made me overcome some of my own shackles.
1. Ask the "Why Not" question we have so often read about. It fuels us much more than the simple "Why". We end up questioning ourselves, challenging ourselves.
2. There is only one Plan and that's Plan A. Sometimes it's the Plan B's and C's and Z's that make us comfortable. So comfortable that we fallback on these plans even before we give Plan A our best shot.
3. There are no "shortcuts". To be bold needs courage and hard work. Most times we give up halfway or even earlier because it is so easy to look for an easier way, a shortcut that never exists.
4. Put yourself before others at times. The "I" coming before "We" makes us look at life and challenges from a very different lens.
5. Believe in both logic and magic. Life is a mix of both. It's foolhardy to skew towards either. But worthwhile to believe in Life's mysteries while listening to our minds.
6.Believe in our goal. With this comes focus and singlemindedness. "Either" "Or" and similar words do not have room for bold actions.
7. Unplay the Rules. Rules set by families and societies have evolved over time. They remain constant only in our minds. Unplay them . Imagine they are not there. ( Of course do this judiciously. I am assuming we are all matured and capable of knowing what rules to unplay)
8. Ensure that our actions impact us the most and others the least. I have always followed this principle rigorously. Multiply my own success, happiness but reduce the effect on others, if it does have an effect.
9. Be ruthless if required. Starting with ourselves. The first thing that comes in the way of a bold decision are emotions. The "What ifs".
10. Believe in the Power. Whether it is ourselves, the Divinity we worship, the Power we believe in if we don't worship.believe that if we are true to our actions, the Universe listens. ( Paulo Coelho and the Alchemist has been my guiding force)
Some of the above, if not all, apply to the work we do as well. Being in the brand building business, I have seen how difficult it is to be bold and how it is the brands who are bold that have rewritten all the rules. That have created disruption. And a new order.
Ending with this quote I love from Steve Jobs "We’re here to put a dent in the universe".
Shaun Smith: What are 'bold brands' - and why do they win?
Monday, October 4, 2010
Art and the Artist
I watched the young lad walk into the royal courtyard with a basketful of flowers. He walked straight, oblivious to the guests sipping morning tea or coffee on wicker chairs placed in squares in the courtyard of Chomu Palace Hotel, where we had gone for the weekend. Perhaps his purposiveness whetted me out of my lethargic morning spirit and I sat up to look at where he was headed.
He knelt beside a stone vat filled with clear water and started arranging the petals in the bowl. I stared mesmerised as his hands deftly, in a matter of seconds, crafted out a beautiful pattern of floating petals. It was almost as if he was arranging it on an invisible pattern that only his eyes could see on the water. One last flourish, and he walked away with his basket to the next water bowl.
He knelt beside a stone vat filled with clear water and started arranging the petals in the bowl. I stared mesmerised as his hands deftly, in a matter of seconds, crafted out a beautiful pattern of floating petals. It was almost as if he was arranging it on an invisible pattern that only his eyes could see on the water. One last flourish, and he walked away with his basket to the next water bowl.My mind drifted to the Lakshmi footprints my mother would draw with rice powder paste from the doorway to the puja room every Lakshmi puja. The garlands of sewli flowers my sister and I would make for the Xorai ( offering) on Uruka morning.
The dreamlike patterns women weave into their looms everyday , for the most gorgeous sarees and fabric. The skill with which aunts adorn the brides with the sandalwood bindi patterns on the wedding day.
The expertise with which the neighbourhood vegetable and fruit vendor arranges his wares every morning, creating a riot of colours that appeal to every taste bud.
The speed and alacrity with which my mother and her friends would knit every winter, making us beautiful patterened shawls and cardigans, sometimes recycling old wool. The embroidery of demure brides as they shyly displayed their pillow cases and napkin and cushion covers.
The calender artists, the firework boxes, the trucks that roll across the heartlands of India in all their painted glory. The lightsmen of ChandanNagar, the craftsmen who make our Pujas so fascinating with the Divine idols, the puppet makers who make our childhood so much fun.....
All this and so much more.
There is an artist in each one of us.
Art resides in us, and around us.
We all live art, we appreciate art and art is what makes everyday memorable in a small way.
I write this piece today in all humility. Reminding myself that art is not just a talent. It is a spirit that lives in each of us. And every piece or work of art, big or small, deserves appreciation.
The smile on the young man's face as my daughter and I complimented him on his patterned floral art reflected that.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
A Tale of 3 Cities
December 1995. As I strolled down Park Street after a kathi roll dinner, marvelling at the rows of restaurants- Flurys, Petercat, Mocambo, the hairdresser A.N John, the frames store, the pavement hawkers, the imposing Park Hotel, little did I realise that this city would be home for the next four years. Fresh out of management schoolin far flung Assam, I was hoping that this city would give me the break I so desperately wanted.
The break happened. Followed quickly by marriage. Colleages became friends, 30 Bondel Road became my second home, Ruby General Hospital my landmark for the tiny flat we lived in.
This was Kolkata- the City of Joy. The city I loved and still yearn for. Kolkata gave me my first taste of advertising, my first New Year Parties in Clubs after I had left Digboi in 1984, my first tram ride, my first kosha mangsho recipe, my first jhaal muri snack in office , my first clients- Bata, Modi Telstra, Emami, Itc. It is here I made my first friends, some of whom are my mentors, some still friends, some family.
Kolkata taught me what it is to make someone feel like being at home away from home, It was here I learnt my first skills of servicing, my first confident presentation, my first project- The legendary Wills YearBook.
Summer of 2000. Move to Mumbai. The city of dreams . It was like the clock turning back in some ways. Like having to settle for train rides to work instead of car- it was unaffordable given the distances.I remember my first train ride- I couldn't step out at Vile Parle and was jostled in till Borivali!!!! The walk from Churchgate to Fort Lakshmi Building, Bombay Store, Sailor restaurant, Sali Botis, the Lever, non Lever seating arrangement at work, my new boss who is now my dear friend, new relationships at work, new teammates. For the first time, I was senior enough to have someone report to me. Mumbai groomed me as a senior professional, taught me how to deal with multinational giants and million dollar brands, brought me close to clients who now head some of the biggest organisations in the country. From them I learnt the lessons of management, of leadership. Mumbai brought me close to the stars of Bollywood, whether it was a quick glimpse in a mall, a walk in Juhu or a shoot in Mehboob Studios.
Mumbai made me grow at a frenetic pace that is so characteristic of the city. Whether it was our first own apartment or car or the work front, Mumbai was like a lever that kept leveraging me.
Mumbai made me a mother, Mumbai made me mature in life. The floods where I was stuck for 8 hours, the blasts at night when we were returning from the Effies- the never say die spirit of Mumbaikars instilled in me the strength to raise my voice and fight my own personal battles.
July 2010. Gurgaon. My tryst with destiny. Gurgaon happened at a time when I had lost hope. Gurgaon rekindled in me the will to say- get on with life. Showed me how much the place I work for cares for me and values me. Gurgaon is where I am rediscovering myself. All over again. Whether it is the morning drive to work, the chapati, lemon rice lunches, the Galleria jaunts, biryani at Karim's. shopping at Ambience, our friends.... Gurgaon is a part of my life now.
This is my journey of the 3 cities I have lived and love. I owe each city for helping me grow up to be what I am. I owe each place for my friends, for all the bonds and relationships, the rich experiences I have filed away forever.
Life may take me places once more. But these three cities will always be there with me, no matter where I go.
The break happened. Followed quickly by marriage. Colleages became friends, 30 Bondel Road became my second home, Ruby General Hospital my landmark for the tiny flat we lived in.
This was Kolkata- the City of Joy. The city I loved and still yearn for. Kolkata gave me my first taste of advertising, my first New Year Parties in Clubs after I had left Digboi in 1984, my first tram ride, my first kosha mangsho recipe, my first jhaal muri snack in office , my first clients- Bata, Modi Telstra, Emami, Itc. It is here I made my first friends, some of whom are my mentors, some still friends, some family.
Kolkata taught me what it is to make someone feel like being at home away from home, It was here I learnt my first skills of servicing, my first confident presentation, my first project- The legendary Wills YearBook.
Summer of 2000. Move to Mumbai. The city of dreams . It was like the clock turning back in some ways. Like having to settle for train rides to work instead of car- it was unaffordable given the distances.I remember my first train ride- I couldn't step out at Vile Parle and was jostled in till Borivali!!!! The walk from Churchgate to Fort Lakshmi Building, Bombay Store, Sailor restaurant, Sali Botis, the Lever, non Lever seating arrangement at work, my new boss who is now my dear friend, new relationships at work, new teammates. For the first time, I was senior enough to have someone report to me. Mumbai groomed me as a senior professional, taught me how to deal with multinational giants and million dollar brands, brought me close to clients who now head some of the biggest organisations in the country. From them I learnt the lessons of management, of leadership. Mumbai brought me close to the stars of Bollywood, whether it was a quick glimpse in a mall, a walk in Juhu or a shoot in Mehboob Studios.
Mumbai made me grow at a frenetic pace that is so characteristic of the city. Whether it was our first own apartment or car or the work front, Mumbai was like a lever that kept leveraging me.
Mumbai made me a mother, Mumbai made me mature in life. The floods where I was stuck for 8 hours, the blasts at night when we were returning from the Effies- the never say die spirit of Mumbaikars instilled in me the strength to raise my voice and fight my own personal battles.
July 2010. Gurgaon. My tryst with destiny. Gurgaon happened at a time when I had lost hope. Gurgaon rekindled in me the will to say- get on with life. Showed me how much the place I work for cares for me and values me. Gurgaon is where I am rediscovering myself. All over again. Whether it is the morning drive to work, the chapati, lemon rice lunches, the Galleria jaunts, biryani at Karim's. shopping at Ambience, our friends.... Gurgaon is a part of my life now.
This is my journey of the 3 cities I have lived and love. I owe each city for helping me grow up to be what I am. I owe each place for my friends, for all the bonds and relationships, the rich experiences I have filed away forever.
Life may take me places once more. But these three cities will always be there with me, no matter where I go.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
There is Something about Rituals
Just back from a Shradhh ceremony ( Funeral). It was the first annual Shradhh of my maternal uncle and a good time to visit home for a weekend.
As I was sitting in the white pandal and looking at my uncle's portrait garlanded with white lotus buds, I started wondering about the ritual I was attending. On one hand, it did seem strange. A person is dead and gone, yet we continue to hold ceremonies, have kirtans, followed by a feast for a few hundred guests.
There are so many rituals I have grown up with. But the ones I remember the most are the ceremonies- the annual Satyanarayana Puja with the "ghol" prasad, the Annaprasanna ( first food offered to babies) ceremony, the elaborate three days weddings with all the accompanied rituals, the Jamai Shosthi ( son- in- laws invited for a feast) in Bengal, Saraswati and Lakshmi puja at home, Vishwakarma puja where Daddy would get us sweet packets and sometimes a tiffin carrier of khichdi and mixed sabzi, the much awaited Durga Puja, the Bihus in Assam, even the first passage into womanhood is celebrated with rituals... the list is endless.
Must admit. There is something about the rituals in our lives. While there is both logic and magic in the origination as well as the process, I tried to think of a few good reasons why I had flown all the way for 1000 miles to attend this.
1.Rituals connect. It is a time where friends and family meet. A time when a meal is shared together, people catch up on old times and new, kids play in the front yard with cousins they haven't met for years. Try organising a family party to get all of this and see how many would attend.
2. Rituals create a bond. With the occasion- in this case my uncle who passed away. For that day, he was in our minds, we spoke about his life, shared favourite stories with my aunt and cousins and ended the day on a very happy note.
3. Rituals are about interactions. The processes itself are so meticulously followed that they make people interact. Everyone was working yesterday- my aunts and I were serving prasad together, some cousins were ushering guests in, few others were organising the kirtan , lamps were lit , flowers were strewn, tea and sweets served by the sisters-in-law .The harmony with which this happens with noone pulling the strings of control is amazing. No rehearsal, no dry runs.
Just realised how relevant rituals are in the life of a brand as well. Whether it is the Corona beer and the lemon wedge. Or the Harley Club (HOG) where every action is a ritual and garners a camaraderie and a bond that few can break. Or the James Bond induced ritual for Martini- Shaken Not Stirred.And even having the morning coffee at Starbucks on the way to work.
Most marketers shy away from rituals. The oft used reason- it takes years to build a ritual. Righto- it does take years. But then, why do we all like to think that our brands will last only as long as we are in the business. Brands will always outlive us, our careers and even our lifetimes. Which brings us to the second most oft used reason. Who will see this through for years? Obviously the brand custodians, whoever they are. The ritual baton can be handed down from one to the other person, from one to the next generation.
And once the ritual is firmly associated with the brand, it is part of the brand gene. Needs no marketing spends and media plans.Because it is consumers who control rituals.
These were some of the thoughts that crossed my mind as I looked around me at the pandal full of guests, who had gathered together from across the map to share their grief together on my uncle's demise a year ago.
As I was sitting in the white pandal and looking at my uncle's portrait garlanded with white lotus buds, I started wondering about the ritual I was attending. On one hand, it did seem strange. A person is dead and gone, yet we continue to hold ceremonies, have kirtans, followed by a feast for a few hundred guests.
There are so many rituals I have grown up with. But the ones I remember the most are the ceremonies- the annual Satyanarayana Puja with the "ghol" prasad, the Annaprasanna ( first food offered to babies) ceremony, the elaborate three days weddings with all the accompanied rituals, the Jamai Shosthi ( son- in- laws invited for a feast) in Bengal, Saraswati and Lakshmi puja at home, Vishwakarma puja where Daddy would get us sweet packets and sometimes a tiffin carrier of khichdi and mixed sabzi, the much awaited Durga Puja, the Bihus in Assam, even the first passage into womanhood is celebrated with rituals... the list is endless.
Must admit. There is something about the rituals in our lives. While there is both logic and magic in the origination as well as the process, I tried to think of a few good reasons why I had flown all the way for 1000 miles to attend this.
1.Rituals connect. It is a time where friends and family meet. A time when a meal is shared together, people catch up on old times and new, kids play in the front yard with cousins they haven't met for years. Try organising a family party to get all of this and see how many would attend.
2. Rituals create a bond. With the occasion- in this case my uncle who passed away. For that day, he was in our minds, we spoke about his life, shared favourite stories with my aunt and cousins and ended the day on a very happy note.
3. Rituals are about interactions. The processes itself are so meticulously followed that they make people interact. Everyone was working yesterday- my aunts and I were serving prasad together, some cousins were ushering guests in, few others were organising the kirtan , lamps were lit , flowers were strewn, tea and sweets served by the sisters-in-law .The harmony with which this happens with noone pulling the strings of control is amazing. No rehearsal, no dry runs.
Just realised how relevant rituals are in the life of a brand as well. Whether it is the Corona beer and the lemon wedge. Or the Harley Club (HOG) where every action is a ritual and garners a camaraderie and a bond that few can break. Or the James Bond induced ritual for Martini- Shaken Not Stirred.And even having the morning coffee at Starbucks on the way to work.
Most marketers shy away from rituals. The oft used reason- it takes years to build a ritual. Righto- it does take years. But then, why do we all like to think that our brands will last only as long as we are in the business. Brands will always outlive us, our careers and even our lifetimes. Which brings us to the second most oft used reason. Who will see this through for years? Obviously the brand custodians, whoever they are. The ritual baton can be handed down from one to the other person, from one to the next generation.
And once the ritual is firmly associated with the brand, it is part of the brand gene. Needs no marketing spends and media plans.Because it is consumers who control rituals.
These were some of the thoughts that crossed my mind as I looked around me at the pandal full of guests, who had gathered together from across the map to share their grief together on my uncle's demise a year ago.
Friday, September 24, 2010
Salvaging my Saree Dreams
My favourite game when I was young was to play Teacher Teacher. The ruler in my hand and the chalk with which I wrote happily on the living room walls did not charm me as much as the saree I wrapped clumsily around myself. It was the high point of my make believe world of teaching.
There was something about the saree when we were young. Everyone wore them. Chiffons for the daytime, crepes and silks for social evenings, Kanjeevarams and Kotkis for parties. And lovely printed cottons for everyday.
My ma studiously wore her sarees after the latest Bollywood fashion, showcased in our regular movie shows in Janata or Jasoda Talkies in Digboi. The tight wrapped around Sadhana and Babita style without pleats, the Mumtaz chiffons, the Jaya Bhaduri demure cottons.
Durga Pujas in Shantipara where we had khichri and labra bhaji was a fashion show of beautiful taats, kanthas, Igatpuris as the aunties, specially the Bengali aunties looked so gorgeous in crisp and crackling new sarees. The Assamese and non Bengali aunties also wore equally beautiful sarees, though not always new, making the entire puja pandal a bevy of colours, almost breaking into a riot.
I loved wearing a saree, so what if I was just eight or nine. I felt grown up. I felt matured and I felt beautiful. I would run my hands across Ma's saree collection in her cupboard and dream of owning those oneday. Once in a while, I would wear a saree for an hour or so on a Sunday and my dad would have tears in his eyes. He thought his little girl was "growing up".
Today I have all of Ma's sarees- a legacy she left for me. I have all the means to buy the best of sarees. Yet I don't end up wearing them as often as I would have liked to. In fact, I hardly wear them. "I can't manage", "I work long hours" " I will look odd in a party"" what's the occasion?" "I will wear it for someone's wedding or diwali"- these are the demons in my mind. They shock me at times.
I realise that somewhere with our growing up, we have also let go of a lot of our simple desires, simple beauty codes. We have moved on to bigger and more fashionable wear and why not? It is about being comfortable in what we wear and what we like wearing.
But somewhere, when I look at Ma's cupboard and the sarees that lie unworn and folded, I wistfully remember my "teacher teacher" days. And hope that I can drop off all my inhibitions and drape the gorgeous folds around me again.
There was something about the saree when we were young. Everyone wore them. Chiffons for the daytime, crepes and silks for social evenings, Kanjeevarams and Kotkis for parties. And lovely printed cottons for everyday.
My ma studiously wore her sarees after the latest Bollywood fashion, showcased in our regular movie shows in Janata or Jasoda Talkies in Digboi. The tight wrapped around Sadhana and Babita style without pleats, the Mumtaz chiffons, the Jaya Bhaduri demure cottons.
Durga Pujas in Shantipara where we had khichri and labra bhaji was a fashion show of beautiful taats, kanthas, Igatpuris as the aunties, specially the Bengali aunties looked so gorgeous in crisp and crackling new sarees. The Assamese and non Bengali aunties also wore equally beautiful sarees, though not always new, making the entire puja pandal a bevy of colours, almost breaking into a riot.
I loved wearing a saree, so what if I was just eight or nine. I felt grown up. I felt matured and I felt beautiful. I would run my hands across Ma's saree collection in her cupboard and dream of owning those oneday. Once in a while, I would wear a saree for an hour or so on a Sunday and my dad would have tears in his eyes. He thought his little girl was "growing up".
Today I have all of Ma's sarees- a legacy she left for me. I have all the means to buy the best of sarees. Yet I don't end up wearing them as often as I would have liked to. In fact, I hardly wear them. "I can't manage", "I work long hours" " I will look odd in a party"" what's the occasion?" "I will wear it for someone's wedding or diwali"- these are the demons in my mind. They shock me at times.
I realise that somewhere with our growing up, we have also let go of a lot of our simple desires, simple beauty codes. We have moved on to bigger and more fashionable wear and why not? It is about being comfortable in what we wear and what we like wearing.
But somewhere, when I look at Ma's cupboard and the sarees that lie unworn and folded, I wistfully remember my "teacher teacher" days. And hope that I can drop off all my inhibitions and drape the gorgeous folds around me again.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Life is Wonderful
It was lunchtime the day before and I was checking Gmail when I saw an offer for blogs to be advertised for a couple of hours on the Net. Thought it would be a good opportunity for a fledgling blogger like me. I saw a small rectangular box where I could design my "ad". Fourteen years of experience and the seniority that comes with it immediately baited me to pull ranks and ask "studio" to make something good. Maybe a copywriter friend could also help. And an art director just needed to spend a couple of minutes.
Then I thought that something was not right. Here I am, writing away merrily about life everyday, without any "agency help". So why ask now?
All I needed was a headline. How could I describe my writings? After a few sips of Pepsi Max and mouthfuls of canteen chole and chawal, I keyed in " Life Is Wonderful". Because whatever I write, I humbly attempt to capture some of life's wonderful moments or learnings. The subheadline was "An honest and real life blog".
This is what was in my email inbox this morning. Hope you like it as much as I do. because without your support, this and the 900+ clicks could have never happened.
Then I thought that something was not right. Here I am, writing away merrily about life everyday, without any "agency help". So why ask now?
All I needed was a headline. How could I describe my writings? After a few sips of Pepsi Max and mouthfuls of canteen chole and chawal, I keyed in " Life Is Wonderful". Because whatever I write, I humbly attempt to capture some of life's wonderful moments or learnings. The subheadline was "An honest and real life blog".
This is what was in my email inbox this morning. Hope you like it as much as I do. because without your support, this and the 900+ clicks could have never happened.
Our Feedjit Rush launch yesterday was incredibly exciting. We've had everyone from major universities to gaming companies sign up and send a surge of visitors to their sites. We've also learned some surprising things about what kinds of ads generate high click-through rates. Rather than focus on PR today, I want to share one of the surprising things we learned.
We had a number of great ads appear today on Rush. Many of them were clearly written by experienced copywriters. We saw a lot of variations in font size, font family, italics and so on. But early in the day someone posted an ad that generated a surprisingly high click-through rate.
The ad used simple Arial size 14 text with a bold headline that simply said: "Life is Wonderful".
The positive message in this ad reminds me of a story Robert Cialdini tells in the book Influence about a car salesman. Every month Joe Girard sends over 13,000 cards to previous customers with a simple message: "I like you". It may sound corny, but Joe Girard holds the Guinness world record for being the most successful car salesman in history.
It goes to show that people still love a positive message.
Regards,
Mark Maunder.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Brands Back Home
Was reading Santosh Desai's Mother Pious Lady- fantastic read that transported me back to the days of pickles, postcards and inland letters hung from wires, my Army classmates from Lekhapani. And in that journey, I also remembered some of the other brands that made life what it was when we were young. Back home in the 70s and the 80s.
1. Dalda - Ma called it Vanaspati. The yellow plastic with the green cap stood in its place of prominence on the kitchen shelf. The karais always had a white residue which Ma carefully covered up after the morning puris on Sunday were fried. The next time she had something to sizzle again, out came the karai and we would watch fascinated as the white orb melted into a golden bubbling oil, ready to brown whatever came into its boiling mass.
2. Dettol- Till I turned fifteen, I always thought Dettol was white. That's because my father, as I learnt years later, would carefully dilute the Dettol in an old Dettol bottle and kept it ready to swab his nicks and cuts during his morning shave. Graze on knee, nick with the kitchen knife, the water used for swabbing the wooden floors- everything had the white liquid with its nice hospital like smell.
3. Bata- The Bata managers were always friends with father and mother. I used to wonder how every new manager spoke with the same familiarity and knew our names, our classes and when school would open after holidays. School days meant black shoes with buckles during the week, white canvas shoes for the games classes and PT. Ma wore Sandak in the rains and later on, even bought an "expensive" Marie Claire. Father always had his black leather shoes- he wore them to work, for shopping, to the Club, to social visits- everywhere. And then of course, were our Hawai chappals- four pairs- one each for father, ma, my sister and me. If the straps gave way, we simply replaced them and wore them till our toe left dark blue imprints that bore deep into the off white rubber.
It was only when I joined advertising and proudly walked into Bata- my first account, that I realised that Bata was an MNC and not a homegrown Indian brand.
4. Lux- Ma always always used Lux soap.She was very particular about her soap, would keep it in a separate case and we were forbidden to ever use it. We had our Pears but I always wanted to use ma's Lux - I thought her beautiful complexion was because of Lux and was very petulant whenever she sensed that I may used it and warned me. Later on she told me that she wanted our skin to be innocent like Pears. I would have preferred beauty anyday.
5. Fryums- Fryums tatums... remember the jingle clearly. Ever since Fryums were invented, the papads found their way into our palate and we demanded Fryums every evening after play.
6. Iodex- reminds me of ma rubbing the dark gel on father's back whenever he had a backache. And of father rubbing ma's shoulders with it once in a while when she was tired. Of me rubbing Iodex on ma's back years later when we were alone and more than a backache, she longed for some comfort. Iodex was all I could manage and was a faithful ally for years to come.
7.Horlicks- how can someone from the east not grow up on Horlicks. Was a must every morning, was there when we were ill, was made for my grandmother when she was too old to eat solids, was there when my sister and I generally felt like having a spoonful. Still love it.
8.Brown and Polson Custard Powder- Ma's dessert. Served up without fail after every dinner invite, when the guests were full of mutton curry, dal, baigan fries and chutneys. Ma would make the thick yellow custard in a glass bowl which was an old British legacy and part of our Digboi Bungalow. That bowl was used only for custard. Ma would then chop red cherries and biscuit crumbs and put it away carefully in the freezer, warning us not to scoop in our fingers. Later on ma experimented with the pink strawberry and the offwhite vanilla, but the classic yellow was my favourite.
9.Mustard Oil- sorry this is not a brand but I can't not write about it. Used for cooking,for dressing in mashed potatoes with green chillies, as conditioner for dry skin in winter, as a nose rub when we had colds. Ma would heat up some mustard oil, with chopped garlic, rub the warm oil on us, and cover us up with a blanket and a kiss on our forehead. Nowadays I use it only for the evening prayer diya and to fry fish at times. Miss its pungent smell and the love that came with it.
10.Ambassador- the old faithful. Father had an old white one- second hand- AS 9321. The car was always having a puncture or a heated engine on our drives to Jorhat and Dibrugarh. But was always with us for 8 years, till father passed away and ma had to sell it off. It was like an old family member being ruthlessly sold off and we all had tears in our eyes.
With time, we are now spoilt for choice. We have the best brands we can ask for , and we have forged new relationships. I have also moved on. To newer bonds. But whenever I slip back into time, these old faithfuls haunt me pleasantly with memories that can never be replaced.
1. Dalda - Ma called it Vanaspati. The yellow plastic with the green cap stood in its place of prominence on the kitchen shelf. The karais always had a white residue which Ma carefully covered up after the morning puris on Sunday were fried. The next time she had something to sizzle again, out came the karai and we would watch fascinated as the white orb melted into a golden bubbling oil, ready to brown whatever came into its boiling mass.
2. Dettol- Till I turned fifteen, I always thought Dettol was white. That's because my father, as I learnt years later, would carefully dilute the Dettol in an old Dettol bottle and kept it ready to swab his nicks and cuts during his morning shave. Graze on knee, nick with the kitchen knife, the water used for swabbing the wooden floors- everything had the white liquid with its nice hospital like smell.
3. Bata- The Bata managers were always friends with father and mother. I used to wonder how every new manager spoke with the same familiarity and knew our names, our classes and when school would open after holidays. School days meant black shoes with buckles during the week, white canvas shoes for the games classes and PT. Ma wore Sandak in the rains and later on, even bought an "expensive" Marie Claire. Father always had his black leather shoes- he wore them to work, for shopping, to the Club, to social visits- everywhere. And then of course, were our Hawai chappals- four pairs- one each for father, ma, my sister and me. If the straps gave way, we simply replaced them and wore them till our toe left dark blue imprints that bore deep into the off white rubber.
It was only when I joined advertising and proudly walked into Bata- my first account, that I realised that Bata was an MNC and not a homegrown Indian brand.
4. Lux- Ma always always used Lux soap.She was very particular about her soap, would keep it in a separate case and we were forbidden to ever use it. We had our Pears but I always wanted to use ma's Lux - I thought her beautiful complexion was because of Lux and was very petulant whenever she sensed that I may used it and warned me. Later on she told me that she wanted our skin to be innocent like Pears. I would have preferred beauty anyday.
5. Fryums- Fryums tatums... remember the jingle clearly. Ever since Fryums were invented, the papads found their way into our palate and we demanded Fryums every evening after play.
6. Iodex- reminds me of ma rubbing the dark gel on father's back whenever he had a backache. And of father rubbing ma's shoulders with it once in a while when she was tired. Of me rubbing Iodex on ma's back years later when we were alone and more than a backache, she longed for some comfort. Iodex was all I could manage and was a faithful ally for years to come.
7.Horlicks- how can someone from the east not grow up on Horlicks. Was a must every morning, was there when we were ill, was made for my grandmother when she was too old to eat solids, was there when my sister and I generally felt like having a spoonful. Still love it.
8.Brown and Polson Custard Powder- Ma's dessert. Served up without fail after every dinner invite, when the guests were full of mutton curry, dal, baigan fries and chutneys. Ma would make the thick yellow custard in a glass bowl which was an old British legacy and part of our Digboi Bungalow. That bowl was used only for custard. Ma would then chop red cherries and biscuit crumbs and put it away carefully in the freezer, warning us not to scoop in our fingers. Later on ma experimented with the pink strawberry and the offwhite vanilla, but the classic yellow was my favourite.
9.Mustard Oil- sorry this is not a brand but I can't not write about it. Used for cooking,for dressing in mashed potatoes with green chillies, as conditioner for dry skin in winter, as a nose rub when we had colds. Ma would heat up some mustard oil, with chopped garlic, rub the warm oil on us, and cover us up with a blanket and a kiss on our forehead. Nowadays I use it only for the evening prayer diya and to fry fish at times. Miss its pungent smell and the love that came with it.
10.Ambassador- the old faithful. Father had an old white one- second hand- AS 9321. The car was always having a puncture or a heated engine on our drives to Jorhat and Dibrugarh. But was always with us for 8 years, till father passed away and ma had to sell it off. It was like an old family member being ruthlessly sold off and we all had tears in our eyes.
With time, we are now spoilt for choice. We have the best brands we can ask for , and we have forged new relationships. I have also moved on. To newer bonds. But whenever I slip back into time, these old faithfuls haunt me pleasantly with memories that can never be replaced.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
A bowlful of love
Was watching the movie Julie and Julia ( hope I got the name right) last evening and the foodie in me was stirred up and how. Racked my brains on what to write when it comes to food, given that I love consuming more than cooking! But more I thought about it, there was one thing that crept in again and again, grew slowly and assumed a gigantic memory pixel size in my mind, till I could avoid it no more and started punching the keyboard.
The first time Maggi came into my life was in 1984. Yes I remember the year for reasons more than one. Pimpim Aunty , mother's friend, gave my mother two packs of Maggi saying that this is a new "chow chow" which needs just 2 minutes of boiling that's all. The first Maggi making was almost a ritual- all of us crowded around mother as she put the saucepan to boil, broke the Maggi into four chunks like they showed on the back of pack, put them into the bubbling water. We watched mesmerised as the hard curls softened into appetizing swirls. Then mother slit open the tastemaker and the aroma that would be part of my life for years to come, wafted into our eager noses.
My next encounter happened a year later in Guwahati. We would be hungry in the evening, and call out to Bappi, our help, to make Maggi. She would make one packet and divide it between my sister and me. For my mother, fresh into her job, Maggi was not very cheap for a snack and we always shared a packet. And sometimes when she would be tired after work, we would all have a Maggi dinner in bed watching Aa bel mujhe maar and the other Doordarshan soaps.
Cotton College happened and my friend Stuti and I would pour over Economic notes over a steaming bowl of Maggi made by her charming mother. Aunty would also chop in carrots and peas just like they showed in the tv ad. Mother never did that.
University , Business Management and Maggi was still my faithful companion. Come home after classes and make a bowlful. By now,I did not have to share a packet but had my own.
First job in Kolkata- we would come home and have a Maggi dinner on the couch. I never felt that it was a shortcut. For me, it was a delicious meal I was never tired of.
Mumbai- 2000, new office, new friends, same old Maggi in the Fort office canteen. Made in a soupy style with scrambled eggs and yes, cheese and green chillies. Loved it and made it part of my regular lunch.
Problems in life, cooking became a chore, Maggi became my solace. Would chop in just about everything for a mood upswing into a bowl of Maggi, including Bikaner bhujjia toppings.
First evening in Bradford on my scholarship, strange kitchen, no idea how to light the gas stove- out comes the Maggi Instant Cup with hot water from the electric kettle. Each forkful brought back memories of home besides calming my raging stomach.
My baby born, three months of hibernation, Maggi lunches were all that I could manage with my baby wailing the minute I got up to make something for myself. I would savour the noodles, watching her cooing in peace next to me on the bed.
Relationships took new turns, more mood swings- downs overtaking ups rapidly and Maggi was my rebel partner. Helped me retreat to my quiet corner with my book and my thoughts.
And then it happened. Another food brand and the reveal. The secret to Maggi is that it is fried. At least the tasty variants. Could have been a malicious rumour. Didn't matter. For I choked . So this was the reason why I was bloated and ugly. I felt let down by a friend for years. On one hand was the strong bonding, and on the other, the fear of those extra kilos that never seemed to go away. The vision of a slim me won.Finally. I looked wistfully at the Atta Maggi which was not fried but airdried ( so I was told) but it was not the same as the Masala.
I started avoiding Maggi like a jilted partner in a relationship. I would race my trolley down the aisle across the yellow and green packs reaching out to me, reminding me of old times, I would skip any ad or jingle remotely connecting me to it. Soon, like all things in life, Maggi became a memory, and I moved on. To new foods, new relationships. Wheat, multigrain, skimmed were magic words that drew me like a magnet.
I see these magic words on my beloved brand as well. I see new brands popping up with more magic words- health, proteins, calcium till I almost expect a pack full of vitamins instead of a bowlful of warmth.
For that was what Maggi was to me. It was love, it was comfort, it was fun and yes it was unbelievable delicious and plain and simple, tasty!
And that's where the strength of every brand lies. Where it transcends beyond rational benefits to becoming a part of our lives. A friend, a playmate, a comfort. A partner in happy and not so happy times.
And creates a bond that is very very hard to break.
The first time Maggi came into my life was in 1984. Yes I remember the year for reasons more than one. Pimpim Aunty , mother's friend, gave my mother two packs of Maggi saying that this is a new "chow chow" which needs just 2 minutes of boiling that's all. The first Maggi making was almost a ritual- all of us crowded around mother as she put the saucepan to boil, broke the Maggi into four chunks like they showed on the back of pack, put them into the bubbling water. We watched mesmerised as the hard curls softened into appetizing swirls. Then mother slit open the tastemaker and the aroma that would be part of my life for years to come, wafted into our eager noses.
My next encounter happened a year later in Guwahati. We would be hungry in the evening, and call out to Bappi, our help, to make Maggi. She would make one packet and divide it between my sister and me. For my mother, fresh into her job, Maggi was not very cheap for a snack and we always shared a packet. And sometimes when she would be tired after work, we would all have a Maggi dinner in bed watching Aa bel mujhe maar and the other Doordarshan soaps.
Cotton College happened and my friend Stuti and I would pour over Economic notes over a steaming bowl of Maggi made by her charming mother. Aunty would also chop in carrots and peas just like they showed in the tv ad. Mother never did that.
University , Business Management and Maggi was still my faithful companion. Come home after classes and make a bowlful. By now,I did not have to share a packet but had my own.
First job in Kolkata- we would come home and have a Maggi dinner on the couch. I never felt that it was a shortcut. For me, it was a delicious meal I was never tired of.
Mumbai- 2000, new office, new friends, same old Maggi in the Fort office canteen. Made in a soupy style with scrambled eggs and yes, cheese and green chillies. Loved it and made it part of my regular lunch.
Problems in life, cooking became a chore, Maggi became my solace. Would chop in just about everything for a mood upswing into a bowl of Maggi, including Bikaner bhujjia toppings.
First evening in Bradford on my scholarship, strange kitchen, no idea how to light the gas stove- out comes the Maggi Instant Cup with hot water from the electric kettle. Each forkful brought back memories of home besides calming my raging stomach.
My baby born, three months of hibernation, Maggi lunches were all that I could manage with my baby wailing the minute I got up to make something for myself. I would savour the noodles, watching her cooing in peace next to me on the bed.
Relationships took new turns, more mood swings- downs overtaking ups rapidly and Maggi was my rebel partner. Helped me retreat to my quiet corner with my book and my thoughts.
And then it happened. Another food brand and the reveal. The secret to Maggi is that it is fried. At least the tasty variants. Could have been a malicious rumour. Didn't matter. For I choked . So this was the reason why I was bloated and ugly. I felt let down by a friend for years. On one hand was the strong bonding, and on the other, the fear of those extra kilos that never seemed to go away. The vision of a slim me won.Finally. I looked wistfully at the Atta Maggi which was not fried but airdried ( so I was told) but it was not the same as the Masala.
I started avoiding Maggi like a jilted partner in a relationship. I would race my trolley down the aisle across the yellow and green packs reaching out to me, reminding me of old times, I would skip any ad or jingle remotely connecting me to it. Soon, like all things in life, Maggi became a memory, and I moved on. To new foods, new relationships. Wheat, multigrain, skimmed were magic words that drew me like a magnet.
I see these magic words on my beloved brand as well. I see new brands popping up with more magic words- health, proteins, calcium till I almost expect a pack full of vitamins instead of a bowlful of warmth.
For that was what Maggi was to me. It was love, it was comfort, it was fun and yes it was unbelievable delicious and plain and simple, tasty!
And that's where the strength of every brand lies. Where it transcends beyond rational benefits to becoming a part of our lives. A friend, a playmate, a comfort. A partner in happy and not so happy times.
And creates a bond that is very very hard to break.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
10 things I miss about Assam
It's been fifteen long years since I have left home.
Yet I am homesick. I try and dive into memory pools but in today's time poor life, barely manage to do that as much as I would have liked to.
Here are 10 things I miss about Assam. ( I always put 10 because it is a number that sets a limit to what I write)
1. The green paddy fields and the undulating tea gardens
2. The masor tenga and the Sunday mangsor jhul with aloo.
3. The weddings where we wore mekhela chadors and had sumptious buffets.( preferred the earlier banana leaf servings though)
4. The doba and bell of the neighbourhood Namghar in the evening
5. The social visits ( abeli phura) to friends and relatives, where we were served tea, mithai and sometimes luchi bhaji.
6. The bihu sanmilans and the husoris , where we would do xewa with tamul paan and gamosa
7. The japi, the xorai, the bota, the baan bati and kahor thaal
8. The sweet language- ahisu dei, tumar bhal ne, deuta podulir mukhot rokhi ase....
9. The xatriya nritya and doxavatar nrityas
10. Paan tamul, saunf, bhoot jolokia, dighol nemu, joha rice, gheela pitha....
The list is endless but these are top of mind.
And as much as I try, it's very hard to replicate home outside home- for how can one capture the smell of rain on the grass, the sight of orchids on trees, the sweet sound of naams in bhado maah in namghars, the frenzied shopping spree during Bihu , Bhupenda performing live in Latasil, family chatter in a familiar tongue...really very hard.
Yet I am homesick. I try and dive into memory pools but in today's time poor life, barely manage to do that as much as I would have liked to.
Here are 10 things I miss about Assam. ( I always put 10 because it is a number that sets a limit to what I write)
1. The green paddy fields and the undulating tea gardens
2. The masor tenga and the Sunday mangsor jhul with aloo.
3. The weddings where we wore mekhela chadors and had sumptious buffets.( preferred the earlier banana leaf servings though)
4. The doba and bell of the neighbourhood Namghar in the evening
5. The social visits ( abeli phura) to friends and relatives, where we were served tea, mithai and sometimes luchi bhaji.
6. The bihu sanmilans and the husoris , where we would do xewa with tamul paan and gamosa
7. The japi, the xorai, the bota, the baan bati and kahor thaal
8. The sweet language- ahisu dei, tumar bhal ne, deuta podulir mukhot rokhi ase....
9. The xatriya nritya and doxavatar nrityas
10. Paan tamul, saunf, bhoot jolokia, dighol nemu, joha rice, gheela pitha....
The list is endless but these are top of mind.
And as much as I try, it's very hard to replicate home outside home- for how can one capture the smell of rain on the grass, the sight of orchids on trees, the sweet sound of naams in bhado maah in namghars, the frenzied shopping spree during Bihu , Bhupenda performing live in Latasil, family chatter in a familiar tongue...really very hard.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Action speaks louder
First niggle that crosses most of our minds when we hear of someone winning an accolade or a recognition. "How did she get this?", " How did he manage?". It is almost as if by asking that question, we justify us not being in that place. It also immediately casts an undeserving cloak on the concerned person in the spotlight.
And without having any feminist biases, I have found such questions voiced even more prominently when it comes to women achievers. Surprisingly, by both men as well as our own sisterhood.
Why do we assume that people with potential have to shout from the rooftops about how good they are or what they have done? Why do we expect to know and judge for ourselves whether someone is deserving or not?
While some of us like to talk about our day to day progress, there are others who believe that action speaks louder than words. These are the silent workers who have toiled while others have slept. They have looked for avenues where they can shine, have gone that extra mile to burn the midnight oil. And have ensured that they have spoken to the right people who would understand and appreciate their potential or work. The rest does not matter.
Identifying who we are focussing on for attention and recognition is one of the keys to racing up the ladder. There is a plan for everything in life. Need not be a plan on paper- could be just some checklists in the mind. Checklists on what we want to do, how we want to do, and who we want to talk to. Clarity on these simple questions will drive us into action.
And most importantly, instead of spending energies discussing why and how someone managed to get that award, it is worthwhile coming up close to the person and understanding what he or she is about. There is bound to be a face that we have missed out or never seen.
For no recognition in this world is ever undeserved.
And without having any feminist biases, I have found such questions voiced even more prominently when it comes to women achievers. Surprisingly, by both men as well as our own sisterhood.
Why do we assume that people with potential have to shout from the rooftops about how good they are or what they have done? Why do we expect to know and judge for ourselves whether someone is deserving or not?
While some of us like to talk about our day to day progress, there are others who believe that action speaks louder than words. These are the silent workers who have toiled while others have slept. They have looked for avenues where they can shine, have gone that extra mile to burn the midnight oil. And have ensured that they have spoken to the right people who would understand and appreciate their potential or work. The rest does not matter.
Identifying who we are focussing on for attention and recognition is one of the keys to racing up the ladder. There is a plan for everything in life. Need not be a plan on paper- could be just some checklists in the mind. Checklists on what we want to do, how we want to do, and who we want to talk to. Clarity on these simple questions will drive us into action.
And most importantly, instead of spending energies discussing why and how someone managed to get that award, it is worthwhile coming up close to the person and understanding what he or she is about. There is bound to be a face that we have missed out or never seen.
For no recognition in this world is ever undeserved.
10 Fears
Ok this is it. After all my talk about facing fears and moving on in life, it's only apt that I come to terms with some of my darkest fears. And what's better than sharing them with the world? That's the best way to bring those demons out in the open.
So, deep breath... and here goes.... in no particular order
1. Becoming so poor that I won't have money for Zoya's food and clothes
2. My sister never getting married
3. Losing my hair
4. Snake bite
5. Dog bite
6. Having to give up my job
7. Never completing my book
8. Being alone
9. Losing Zoya
And the last, but definitely the most terrible fear, is losing the person I love the most.
So that's that. Can now breathe easier. And hopefully face these demons with renewed vigour.
So, deep breath... and here goes.... in no particular order
1. Becoming so poor that I won't have money for Zoya's food and clothes
2. My sister never getting married
3. Losing my hair
4. Snake bite
5. Dog bite
6. Having to give up my job
7. Never completing my book
8. Being alone
9. Losing Zoya
And the last, but definitely the most terrible fear, is losing the person I love the most.
So that's that. Can now breathe easier. And hopefully face these demons with renewed vigour.
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