On Pit Stop Efficiencies and Winning the Race

There was a time when  pit stop efficiency ruled my life.
Everything done on time, with perfection.
No room for mistakes. No fall back.
The smallest of errors can lead to losing that vital race.

Did I deliver? Yes I did.
Was I happy? Yes I was.

Happiness  can be subjective and relative.

Today, I have realised that some things have changed for the better.
Efficiencies and perfection  are still key. Both at work and at home.

But I have let go of the pit stop prowess.
So what if I spend a couple of minutes more over that coffee in the morning.
So what if I my daughter spills her water colour on my kurta just as I am about to leave for work
So what if a trip is cancelled
So what if a day  hasn't gone off as anticipated

I did not dial up or down the pit stop prowess.
I just changed my race.


Sometimes it is  just the wrong race that steers us off the path of smiles and laughter.

Reclaiming Those Smiles

Seventeen years  are not just dates, minutes and seconds to be struck off a calender.

They are moments to live, friends to make and cherish, work that makes you grow , passion that makes you flourish.

Once gone, they are lost forever in the mist of time.

While we make copious lists of things and possessions to be reclaimed legally, is there a way of claiming back those lost moments.

There is none.

Makes me realise  even more than before how important it is to stop by and smell those roses, take that walk together, write that letter I have promised to write, go for  that holiday with the parents, have babies, entertain. Find time for our passion,  enjoy our work and profession, smile when we enter office everyday.

For no petition can ever restore time. And what's lost with it. We can only hope to make the best of what we have left.

This and many more thoughts cloud my mind as I look out of a foggy window into nothingness.

A Personal Word to your Valentine

Valentine's Day.
Roses. Teddies. Chocolates. Bracelets. Dates.

This is the usual ritual  which   most of us, me included ( once upon a time ) follow.
And enjoy. And feel good.
And why not? It's all available in stores. Or at a drop of a hat. Or a tap of a key.
The world has changed. We all have.

But then again- isn't love all about how we feel?
Isn't it the strongest of all emotions?
Isn't V-Day that oneday when we have the permission to express our innermost deepermost feelings?

Yet we share roses with a tag written "with love" by a half literate florist's shaky hand.
A card written by a commercial writer in one corner of the world.
A teddy packed in China. Or wherever.


Are we compromising on the art of writing?
Or on the  power of words?

When was it when we wrote a long letter to our loved ones?
When was the last time we bought and wrote a personal message on a card.

For those of us in marketing and communications, the one word we keep repeating all the time is "personalization".
We keep pushing for brands to be more personalized, more human.

Isn't it time we brought in some personalization  into our lives as well?

Happy Valentine's Day everyone.

Sarees and Saraswati Puja and more....

Today is Saraswati Puja.
Realised it only afer reading the FB status of my dear friend, Joyi.

Took me  many years back to a beautiful wintry day in Cotton College , Guwahati, Assam.
The day would start with  me fumbling and rumbling around Ma's "Godrej" ( which stood for all steel almirahs incidentally), pulling out saree after saree, mekhela after mekhela.
In those golden days, I was , well, not so "healthy looking", so Ma's blouses had to be quickly had altered around the arms by Ma- she hated anyone wearing loose blouses.

Finally, after a  gruelling hour of decision making and almost driving Ma up the wall, I would take the final call.

Next hour was a flurry of shower, lipsticking, mad scurry for a matching bindi and earrings, slipping on my highest heels so that I looked tall, Ma pinning up the aachal of the saree or mekhela chadar.

And then,  coated with compliments from Ma and the neighbouring aunties, I would walk down the four floors of our flat and catch the bus to Cotton College.

Oh what a  canvas ... a riot of colours.... everyone dressed in their almost  bridal best, the gates lined with pillars of banana plants and woven with auspicious mango leaves,  blarring  music from loudspeakers propped up on makeshift bamboo pillars.

And the beautifully decorated pandals with the Goddess  idol, pujari chanting the mantras.

After all the compliments from friends and the appreciating looks and stares from the "boys", we would go pandal hopping around the campus.

Each hostel would vie with each other for the best puja pandal and celebration - the students would have stayed up all night decorating,  putting up lights, dancing in the small vans while ushering the Goddess into the pandal from the idol makers.

Professors and students mingled as one.

The neighbouring girl's college would be the hive of attention, with gorgeous girls and their gorgeous wear.

Lunch would be "khichri and labra bhaji" in one of the pandals and maybe in more than one of the pandals.

Love and romance dotted the air, with  romantic couples sitting close together, sharing a meal in Feeds or Hotel Prag or Sunflower.....

Droves of girlfriends would go for a stroll down Panbazar and Fancy Bazar.

It would be late evening when I reached home.

Ma would also be back from work around the same time- so usually  our puja at home was a quick lighting of the diya in our regular  puja corner in the kitchen and Ma, my sister and me chanting ," Saraswati Saraswati, Konthe gulapi......"

There would be vegetarian dinner that night- either puri sabzi or khichri and potato fries.

As we retired for the night, I would revisit the day, the pujas, the sarees..... and wished that such days would continue in our lives.
Days that brought all our friends together
Celebrations we all revelled in
Prayers which created an atmosphere so positive that there were no foes or illwill that day

That is what religious celebrations are about.
Nothing could match up  to  the spirit of friendship and camaraderie all of us felt on this auspicious day.

Bob Parson's 16 Rules for Success

Was staring blankly at my softboard when this caught my eye.

One of the random "inspiring"  things I put up  at times...

These are the rules:

1. Get and stay out of your comfort zone
2. Never Give up
3. When you're ready to quit, you're closer than you think
4. With regard to whatever worries you,not only accept the worst thing that could happen, but make it a point to quantify what the worst thing can be
5. Focus on what you want to have happen
6. Take things a day at a time
7. Always be moving forward
8. Be quick to decide
9. Measure everything of significance
10. Anything that is not managed well will deteriorate
11. Pay attention to your comeptition, but pay more attention to what you are doingt
12. Never let anybody push you around
13. Never expect life to be fair
14. Solve your own problems
15. Don't take yourself too seriously
16. There's always a reason to smile

It's good  at times to pin up or frame or just strew around things that inspire.
Or jog good memories.
Or just lighten a day or a moment.
Makes work connect with life.

A thank you... twenty six years later....

1984. Early April. It was Elocution Day at Carmel School.
My mother was up since 5 in the morning. Making me rehearse and rehearse.

The rehearsals had started a month back.
With Ma requesting Sister Concelia to "help me" with my elocution.
Sister Concelia asked me to choose a poem I liked best. I chose "Lord Ullin's Daughter".

Every morning, I would land up in Sister Concelia's room at 645 am , where she would teach me how to modulate my voice, how to pack in emotions, how to look at the judges in the eye, how to pronounce "oowoter" ( water!)- she said it sounded much better if we stressed on the "oo".

Oneday she asked me why I had chosen such a tragic poem. I told her I liked it because Lord Ullin's daughter defied her father and everyone else to do what her heart told her to.

So that was how the month rolled by. Rehearsals at school, rehearsals at home, with Ma adding her inputs on how I should  stand up straight and not get nervous.

Finally the D-Day. Ma was a teacher in Carmel School , so was one of the selected teachers to welcome the judges. Sister Gertrude Rose gave her warm welcome speech and also sang a welcome song on her spanish guitar.

Then, the contest. I stood back stage and heard students recite and was convinced that everyone was better than me.

Heard my name announced. Said a silent prayer, clenched my slightly quaking hands and walked out.

Saw him sitting at the judges table. He was one of the judges. I  saw him only once in a while when he was back from college in Mumbai. He obviously never went beyond a nod or a hello- he was more Ma's friend, so to say. Liked talking to Ma, liked her cooking and her infectious laugh. But everytime he came over to our house, I would stare at him from behind the wooden pillars. Hoping he would say a word , or at least give me a smile.
 I was too shy to venture out from my pillar.

I must have slipped into my usual reverie for a split second. Heard Sister Gertrude Rose saying " Babita, please begin."
"Lord Ullin's Daughter. By Thomas Campbell".

.............``Come back! come back!'' he cried in grief
``Across this stormy water:
And I'll forgive your Highland chief,
My daughter!--O my daughter!........


I was the father, the daughter, the highland chief.... I could feel them as I recited, I could see the raging waters, I  trembled at the fear in her voice, and exulted in her love for the Highland Chief as she chose the stormy waters over her father's rage.....

Thanked the judges... looked at him once more.... and walked back into the wings.

Shared the nervous wait with the other contestants as the judges whispered and debated.

Stood straight on stage as Sister announced the winners.....
The voices around me blurred and dimmed till I was once again in another world, though I could see what was happening... Ma and Sister Concelia jumping up from their seats, clapping and looking at me, my friends cheering....and the voices became loud again, dragging me to the present.

I looked at him again. Why didn't he give me a smile at least? So what if he was so handsome and grown up and I was a shaky, gawky, thin, dark twelve year old? He was almost like a prince in my dreams.....

But only in my dreams.... noone knew... noone ever would....

I walked out of the auditorium, clutching my trophy....
Saw Ma  and him together. They were talking about me!
" She was really very good" I heard him say.

I slipped up to them, my breathing nearly stopping... finally he would be congratulating me....
Once again, I went unnoticed... as Ma and he talked about his college and holidays and visits and the contest..... and once again I slipped behind a pillar, this time the school stoned  pillar....

And realised that sometimes dreams  bring one closer to  people than reality...
Dreams made me happy..... and made me feel like a princess.....

Twenty Six years later, I am a princess. In my mind.
I believed in my dreams and dreams do come true.


It's time to say thank you for that trophy for Lord Ullin's  Daughter.

One Sunday , a long time ago...

The  long wail of the siren blasts across the early morning air , waking up the inhabitants of the oil town. Including me.

It is Sunday today.

The steady creak of the wooden planks , aged with time and footsteps,  announce Ma's footsteps to the kitchen, where she would be making " bed tea" for us.

We never have it in bed, but she insists on calling it bed-tea.

The creaks sound heavier. It is my father, getting ready for work.

Well, it's a holiday but my father always make his regular rounds to the refinery on a Sunday. Much to Ma's irritation at times. Ma would rather go  to the nearby Tingri Sunday Market for vegetables, and the occasional poultry.

I can hear Ma calling out to my father for his tea, my father walking up to my bedside, can feel his lips on my forehead as he kisses me goodbye.

For some strange reason, I still keep my eyes firmly shut. It's Sunday after all.
And I like dreaming anyways. Dreaming about fantasy lands and travel and magic and miracles. I always have magical powers in my dreams.

The domestic sounds increase in intensity. My father  revving up  our old family Amby, the sound of the car backing up and driving off, Kamla the maid making beds, the rustle of the jalpai plant outside my room....


Breakfast is the usual puri and potato curry, with omelettes. Ma  asks Kamla to keep father's portion aside , warming up on  the iron stove.
The iron stove is one of the many remnants and reminicenses of the British watermarked oiltown of Digboi. A dot in the north eastern tip of Assam. My home.

I can see Ma absentmindedly playing with her food on the table and ask her what's up.

"Just thinking of all the question papers I have to set today for the second terms," she replies. Ma is a language teacher in Carmel School. She teaches my class too. Class VIII.

I know when to stay out of Ma's way when she  uses her firm voice. So I take my Enid Blyton , walk down the wooden stairway to the garden and sit under the old deodar tree. It's my favourite spot.
Where I can be unseen but can hear Ma calling out to me. Or hear my father drive up the driveway. Or my sister running around with Bimal, Kamla's son.

Time stands still. And flies at the same time, sometimes. The heat of the afternoon sun overhead tells me it's lunchtime. And Ma would be making her special mutton curry with potatoes.

The thought of it makes me hungry. I peer out towards the house, trying to catch a glimpse of Ma. Or the car. No sign of  either.

Ma must be busy making Kamla clean the house. Sunday is also  a thorough dusting, polishing day for Kamla.


The sudden call from Ma shakes me out of my usual reverie. And something in her voice tells me it's not a call for lunch.

"Your father is very late. And he hasn't called as well.  I have been trying his phone number since the last two hours. Go and try Sharma uncle's number."

I wonder why Ma sounds so worried. Father is late at times. Well never this late, I must admit. Sundays are just a one hour visit.

I spend the next one hour making calls to every number in the refinery, asking for my father. Noone has seen him.


Ma  is trying to concentrate on her papers, but I can see her worry.
Her sharp voice, calling out to Kamla or my sister, is tinged with a shaky nervousness.

Finally she can wait no more. She looks at me, hoping I nod a yes as I  furiously dial another number. All I can manage as  I look at her is a shake of head.

Ma quickly changes her saree, grabs her bag and walks  down the driveway, me in her wake.

"I am going to  the Singh's garage. Your father had mentioned that the car is giving trouble- think he is there. You stay near the phone, in case he calls."

I nod. Dumb. Not knowing what to say. I want to go with her. It's a long walk down the winding road down the hillock and a longer walk to the nearest rickshaw stand near the railway station. Everyone drove their own cars in the oiltown.

As I turn back to go inside, I feel Ma's hand on my shoulder. She gives me a quick kiss and says," Don't worry. Father is fine."

I nod again. I seem to have lost the art of conversation today.

Time crawls now. Every second is an eternity. No phonecall. I can hear the phone in his office cabin ring almost angrily, trying to tell me that there is noone around. I still keep trying. Keep whirring the numbers- 3369.


I hear a rickshaw bell and run outside. Ma pays the rickshaw wallah and looks at me, with hope." Is father back?"

I was about to ask her the same question. We look at each other in silence.

For the first time, Ma dials the numbers she knows she has to. For help. Silent tears flow freely down her face.

I stare at her. Stare at my sister, bawling away in Kamla's lap.


It is late evening. Our house is teeming with people.
Uncles. Aunties. The Police Inspector. The Oiltown Security officer. My maternal uncle from  the neighbouring township, Duliajan.

Phone ringing incessantly.
Ma talking loudly, recounting  how father had left normally for his morning visit. For the  hundredth time.

Small circles being formed on our verandah, as the senior uncles, the senior officers discuss the best ways to  search.

More phonecalls. Kamla serving tea on trays. With biscuits that remain untouched.

I am lost in the sea of people. I don't want anyone to see me.

I slip out into the darkness. To my comfort seat under the deodar tree. My fear of snakes and rats quelled temporarily by a greater fear. One that is biting me, clawing me in a tight grip.
I wish I could  slip into my usual dreams. Where magic and miracles rule and I have magical powers. Today the dreams seem to evade me. And I am a powerless little girl


I look at the last car finally driving out. Hear Ma calling me out. Her voice now laced with fear.


As I walk back into the house, the home where I grew up, surrounded by father's love and ma's care, I know that things would never be the same again.


This was Sunday. September 9th, 1984.
The day we lost our father. He never came back.

And with that day, our lives changed forever.

Of Fear and Hope

God fearing.
This was a good term. A Virtue. A descriptor that stood out and maybe swung many marriage proposals.
God fearing  automatically created perceptions of someone religious, someone who would uphold what was good and denounce what was evil.

In the days when every household began its evening studies and kitchen duties with the lighting of a lamp and incense , every family member would close their eyes for a split second at least .We were all religious. And still are.
The question is- are we God Fearing? Is God Fearing a not so good term?

My dear friend  shared a wonderful hypothesis the other day when I was downloading my fears of the dangers prowling the night streets of my new city. He said- Imagine if the people were not God Fearing. The crime rates would explode. Lot of us hold ourselves back not out of fear of the law but out of fear of God.

Food for thought.


Maybe, in today's world, fear is a negative term.
Maybe it should be God Believing.

But the conversation is the same. That the adult generation of today , most of us at least, had been brought up to believe that God loves us beyond reason but if we do wrong things, God will definitely punish us.

Households would talk about unfortunate mishaps or a not so liked person down in  the dumps of misfortune as something he/she deserved- after all God is there.

We prayed to God before our exams and never cheated.
We respected elders and touched their feet- God was in everyone.
We gave alms to the poor and the needy and   shared old toys and clothes with our household helps' children.


Our schools had Moral Science classes.
Our mothers had prasad as a first  food offering on every birthday.

We prayed before our exams, before our interview, after our interview, before our engagement, after our engagement, fasted on the wedding day, fasted later on certain auspicious days.

Even if we did not fast, some of us abstained. From non vegetarian. From alcohol.

Even if we did not abstain, we did spend an extra five minutes in the prayer room or prayer corner

Somewhere, maybe unconsciously, this religiousness does have an impact of us.

Whether it is about self control.
About not raining fury and venom.
About  not striking out in anger and frustration.
About   not breaking down in mind and body when disaster strikes.

Because, more than Fear, Religion brings Hope. Eternal hope.
That things will get better tomorrow.
That noone can be down without a blessing round the corner.

And it is this hope that propels us to a better life and to take on more challenges, as life goes by.

Shaken and Stirred

The shock waves as the earth groaned and stirred in the wee hours of dawn shook me up.
I sat up in bed, as the building tower swayed gently, as if rocking itself back to sleep.
Small pebbles and cement-lings created a gentle shower as they soft landed on parapets.

Was I afraid? Not really.
But I did stay up for a while. Stirred by thoughts and musings.

Realised that moments like this  when the Hands of Nature sweeps across humanity, may make us lose everything we have. Everything we love.

What do I protect and run down with?

My baby girl, cash and credit cards,  mum's framed picture, my laptop, phones, water and some food for my daughter, the ashtray I bought from Venice , my new coats, what about my shoes, and my bracelet.... and i can't do without my favourite book... passport- how can I forget....

How many things can we carry? Can we even list down possessions we do not want to lose?
Will we have time to bundle and pack if someday we stand at the edge of the precipice?

And then I realised how blessed I was.
To be safe, and happy.

As I looked at my dear ones   gentle breathing in blissful sleep, I realised that the only list we need in life is
our family or dear ones around us.

Rest of the stuff- the bracelets and passports and credit cards can come and go......

Guard Books- The Lost Art

One of my first tasks as an MT in advertising was to update the guard book.

My boss had used the thick big books with khaki pages stuck with proofs and  prints and posters to walk me through my brands. And then told me that it was my sole responsibility to update and upkeep the guardbook.

Senior client and agency member visits to the agency meant the guardbooks would get a thorough spring clean- brand new covers, repaste, dust and stack them neatly. And not just brand. We had competitive guardbooks too and language guardbooks.

Sometimes when there was a lot of work, I would just shove the prints into the book to be pasted later and would sometimes be pulled up  by my seniors- the book had to be updated, no matter what.

One day, we all became digital. Proofs were images on the screen. Artworks were images on floppies and then CDs and now uploaded on a link. Nothing physical and tangible exists anymore.

We were asked to gradually shift to digital guardbooks.

Never happened.
We got smart.
We knew that we could access the files, the jpegs whenever we wanted.

And guardbooks died a natural death.

With it we have lost connect with the history of brands.
With the landmark work our predecessors  had done.
With the way images used to be shot, laid out.
With the way copy was carefully written in an age where people loved reading copy.

I miss the guardbooks.
With their passing, maybe we have lost out on an important thing.
Pride in our past work. And pride in our heritage brands.
Maybe.

Between the Conference and the Coffee Table

Must admit, the idea struck me when I was reading about SRK saying that he wants Ganguly to be part of the team "in any capacity".

It's hard to  make tough choices. Especially when the choices are about people. About relationships.
And when things are not absolutely black and white. Or right or wrong. But blurred with greys and what ifs and why nots.

It's true in the workspace as well.
I may have my favourites as a senior colleague. But when it comes to a headcount choice, or a promotion, or a recognition or even a perk trip, the choice is and has to be professional. And nothing else.

Most of the disappointments come when we say- But how could he/she do this? We had such  a great relationship.
We fail to realise  that we ourselves cross the boundaries between personal and professional lives.

Here are some of my learnings on how to keep this line intact.

1. Explain key decisions and reason whys to concerned or affected people. Make them see the logic.

2. Be fair and just in both good times and bad. Sometimes we make the mistake of being too liberal in good times and ourselves wipe off the boundary line.

3. Share feedback throughout the year so that a key professional decision does not come as a bolt from the blue.

4. Make sure that the team and partners shares the same vision and goals.

5. A casual comment over a drink or a do about work with colleagues may be miscontrued as a professional decision. We need to be careful of the slips between the cup and the lip.

6. Being popular does not mean  saying yes to everyone. It means we are being unfair to those who really deserve.

If we are honest, fair and outspoken about what we believe are our goals and expectations at work, we will always manage to have that thick line between the conference and the coffee table.

Downturns Open New Floodgates of Opportunities

Have seen it all. My life has  seen more downs than ups but every downturn has led to a change which has, on hindsight, been for the better. There is a purpose in everything that strikes our lives out of sync for a while.

Sometimes we get very cosy and comfortable with status quo.
We condition our minds like Pavlovians to like what we have and to not let go.
Because we are scared of what lies around the hairpin turn.
We analyse, criticise,  witch hunt, and start  battles noone is willing to fight.

And then Opportunity reveals itself.
Things change colour. We regain confidence. Shake hands.
Realise that if we just had the confidence in Life being Fair to everyone, we would have saved everyone a whole lot of trouble.

Works for brands too.
When  a brand faces a downturn, there is myopic panic and we  end up trying to fix the wrong things.
We start blame games, roll heads, usher in change.


Sometimes, maybe, if we just pull back, we can see that it was just a signal for a better opportunity, a new innovation, a disruptive strategy, a pathbreaking creative... anything.


At the end of the day, everything happens for the better.

It is the law of life.

New Year Eve across 4 cities and 1 little oiltown

This was my 40th New Year Eve celebrations. Can't say I remember the first 5 , but definitely remember the rest.

Starting with Digboi- the township set up by the British for excavating and refining oil in one of the  oldest refineries in the world. New Year's Eve in Digboi in the late seventies and early eighties saw Mum and Dad dressed up for a night out at the Club. There would be a live  band, and a great supper. Digboi would hit 2-3 degrees at night, but  for the Cluber Goers, it was a night of warmth and cheer as everyone, year after after danced  the night away and wished each other a Happy New Year.

I was not part of this, so what I have painted is a recount of what Mum would  tell us  the day after, as we listened in rapt attention. We were too young to be "allowed" to these parties.

1986. First New Year Eve in Guwahati. Chandmari house. Mum, my sister and me alone. Had an early dinner, tried cheering each other up. But the spirits still sagged. Till one of us switched on Doordarshan. And we sat glued to the New year program, the songs, the acts, the jokes and the final fireworks. Brought a smile to our faces as we wished each other a great year.

This continued every year, but the choices increased. Cable TV had happened and we could switch channels and see what was happening on a  Star  Plus or a Zee TV. We could also see what was happening across the globe when we switched to a news channel.

1997. Calcutta happened. I was working on Wills, in the then HTA and as part of the team, was sent invites by the client for the Made For each Other Nights in the Clubs. Soon Tolly, CCFC, Saturday Club became our New year haunts, as we got to know more people, became more social and got invites. New year Eves in these Clubs were very "English" affairs- great hits belted out by top Indian bands, a full dance floor with couples jiving or swinging to an elegant ballroom dance,   martinis and malts flowing out of the gleaming wooden enclaves housing the bars.

2000. Mumbai. No Clubs- at least  not the ones like Tolly. New Year Eve meant paying a couple ticket for a do at a four or a five star. We would go with friends, get a good deal, sway to the now popular Bollywood numbers, oggle at a Bollywood celeb who made a last ten minute entry and disappeared soon after, rub shoulders with strangers on the packed dance floor. Food was always good- long vegetarian sections  showed the veg- non veg mix in these parts of the country. Since  there  was no entry barrier- whoever shelled out the money could join the party, sometimes it would lead to bar brawls and dance floor  revellry. It was all part of the fun. It would end with stealthy driving across lanes and gullies to avoid the ever vigilant police force arresting drunken drivers.

2010.   My first New Year Eve in the Capital City. Was wondering what it would be like.
Decided on a close family affair. Just a couple of friends and us. Grilling potato wedges and kebabs on a barbecue on the lawns.  Hugging each  other when the fireworks in the sky announced the dawn of 2011, and enjoying a simple but delicious home cooked meal. Was one of my best  New Year Eves.

Realised that  life has indeed come full circle.
And that, with time, celebrations are what we make of every moment.
Not necessarily what we pay for.

Wishes for the Elderly

Circa 1995. Came across the beautiful  walled  world of the Little Sisters  of the Poor & Home for the Aged in Hyderabad.
Walked in. More curious than anything else. Had time  on my side.

I was welcomed by a world of experienced wrinkes and toothless smiles. Where  every face  still had hope and every eye had the twinkle of life. Where the Sisters worked selflessly to clean, care and  help the aged folk live life like they would have led back home.

Curiousity turned into an urge to be a part of it. I  volunteered to help them for the two weeks I was there.
Every morning saw me walk into the flowered lawns and the shaded verandahs. The men and the women lived in separate wings but had common dining areas and lounges. I would spend my time  talking to the ladies and the gentlemen . About themselves, their lives.
Some were too old to  walk around, so I sat next to them  and talked . Actually listened while they spoke. They wanted someone who would listen. Who had time.

Most of them showed me their prized possessions. Pictures. Usually a sepia toned album or framed ones. Of the times gone by. Happy sons  overseas with wives and families, grandchildren, and beloved ones who are no more.


Lunchtimes were fun. The Sisters would serve  hot steaming rice, curry, dal and the people there would hand around their own pickles, jam, preserves etc which their families would have left behind for them or sent them occasionally. We all said a prayer of thanks together before digging in. The Sisters would insist that I eat with them, so I did. Those were the best meals I had ever had.

Finally it was  time to bid adieu.
Some took it well. Some had tears. Some gave me small gifts- a knitted bootie, a  book, a pen... all out of their belongings. Some held my hands - as if asking me to wait for another day....

As I stood in the Secunderabad station waiting to board for Kolkatta, My mind went back to the Little Sisters Home. And then I felt a hand on my shoulder. Looked back- there was a small group of men. My friends from the Home.My eyes swelled with tears.

They handed me a newspaper wrapped parcel, saying it's a little something for my journey.

Once the train chugged its way out of the city, I opened the parcel. It was a packet of hot samosas, with a small note. "Thank you Babita. For your time with us."

With another year passing by , I think of such homes and such lives.And realise that even if we have no family, we just need to reach out . There is enough love and warmth out there for everyone.


Little Sisters of the Poor & Home for the Aged
Address
6-1-33, Beside Gandhi Hospital, Opposite Patel Timber Depot, New Bhoiguda, Musheerabad, Secunderabad - 500048

Contact Information
Telephone: 2750-6194, 2761-6194, 2780-2139

Forward or Backward

Came across these terms in one of the wonderful TED videos.
It was mentioned   in the context of media consumption.
Lean Forward media is the digital media which is active consumption.
Lean Backward media is television, print etc etc which is passive  consumption.
Both are effective in their own ways .

But this struck a chord about life as well.

There are times when we Lean Forward- we are driven, we want to make things happen, we may even be stressed... maybe positively stressed. We are more engaged in what we do.

Then there are times when we Lean Backward- sometimes to take a break, sometimes to revel in recognition, sometimes to enjoy the sweetness of success.

I have been the Lean Forward types for most of my life till now.
Always wanting to take that extra step, that bigger leap, that one more business, that one last assignment. 

But I have realised today that Lean Forward works best only if we can dot it with Lean Backward moments.
Like....
1.  Taking  that small "mini holiday" as Robin Sharma puts it- take 10 minutes off from work, visualise     about a dream holiday spot and see yourself there- that's all it takes.
2.  Going on a real holiday.
3.  Reading a book, going for a walk, watching a movie or a soap or a reality
4.  Reorganising that joblist to strike off things that can be done tomorrow
5.  Injecting some genuine FUN at work and at home
6.  Sending that hand written note of thanks or best wishes to people who made a difference
7.  A few minutes of silent prayer
8.  Jotting down the 3 or 4 most important to- dos rather than a long list  of yet-to-be-done
9.  Listen to music
10.Laugh- with others, at ourselves at times




Finally, it's all about a balance of stress and smiles.

Marriage Status

What does it mean when one's status in life says "Married"?

It means
a commitment
mutual love and respect
saying no  when it's for his/her well being
making small compromises that keep both happy
staying up when he/she is unwell in the dead of the night
sharing passions and interests, even if they are new and novel
giving each other room to breathe and have some time for themselves

It means
celebrating every moment each day
sharing pain
freedom to express... love, anger, joy, sorrow...
never having to cry into the pillow at night

It means
saying a goodnight prayer together
planning for tomorrow but living for today
more smiles than tears
understanding
no suspicion
belief
trust

And having a good laugh at everything, including ourselves

That's what marriage is all about
It's a state of mind that's all.

Merry Christmas

Life's come full circle this Christmas.
As I look back upon a year filled with ups and downs, hope and despair, smiles and tears.


It's time to count my blessings and thank my Secret Santa up there.
For my wonderful family who stood by me.
For my colleagues at work who  made sure I was never stressed out.
For my clients who believed in me
For  my neighbours who opened their doors

For my new home
New colleagues
New friends

Blessings can't be counted.
We just need to realise that they are always there around us.
And need to be appreciated and recognised as blessings.

Wishing everyone a merry christmas.

There's something special about a Secret Santa

There's nothing secret about Santa.
The child in me still jumps with eager anticipation when I see the bearded round jolly Santa in malls and clubs and even movies.
Still love hanging stockings on Christmas eve- so what if they are just decorations now.

Courtsey- the officehd.com

But there is even more magic in Secret Santa at work.

Where we all pick out names of our colleagues  at work from folded chits from a fishbowl or an empty CD box.
Rush out to buy a little gift within a very small prefixed amount.

The nicest part about this is- we do not know whose name we draw.
Could be someone we had  our last fight with.
Could be the ignored person in a corner.
Could be someone who has just joined and hardly knows me.

What can be better than taking the effort to go out and buy a gift for such people?
It is a magical way of building bridges, mending some, and just sharing some love and joy.

And yes- the receiver does not know who has given the gift.
But feels so happy when the  names are called out,  and the paper is carefully unwrapped to reveal the small token.

I have been lucky to be a part of this almost every year.
I have always kept the little gifts - even the cards on the pack.


Shows us how gifts are not just amongst people we know and care for.
They can create magic wherever and whenever.

Merry Christmas to everyone.....

When fashionable meant wearing a saree

1970s. 1980s. Growing up years. The oil township we grew up in had the privilege of a Club which was the socio cultural meeting point of the Oil Officers. From the weekly Sunday movies and the tombola games to the Mid Rains Ball, the Husband's Dinner, Christmas Eve, New Year's Eve and of course the Grand Club Meet.

Each of these occasions meant dressing up.  And in those days, dressing up was either in sarees or in our traditional "mekhela chadars" at times, which is quite similar to a saree.

My mother's  almirah had sarees handing from steel and wooden hangers- crepes, silks, pure silks, benarasis, gorgettes, chiffons amd the daily wear cottons.  When the saree itself was universal, the differentiation and variety came from the fabric and the prints. Plain, printed, painted, embroidered, with "paris" and jaris.

I was unfortunately too young to go to the ball dances at night ( we were allowed only for the jam sessions during the day). But I would stare mesmeraised at my mother as she dressed up for the night. Beautifully made up, bright lipstick, elegant jewellery, yards of silk draped around her, finished off with a fur or woollen stole thrown over one shoulder. She looked so beautiful. Sometimes she would put on an LP record with "english music" and drag my father across the carpet, swaying to the music. Soon they would be synchronising their steps to the notes and looking into each other's eyes.... lost in their own world till my sister or I would jump in between and clamour for a dance with daddy as well:-)

Coming back to sarees, everyone wore one. To a Club which  had sprung out of and continued to be all things western and "british". Swaying to bands that played pop hits, dancing the night away.

Just shows how well our own traditional wear had blended into the environment.

Tosay, a red carpet do means gowns, cocktail dresses or elegant churidars. For most of us.
Some of us  have now relegated these beautiful sarees and "mekhelas" to the wedding season, religious occasions or at least in Assam, to wear at funeral condolences.

My mother left my sister and me a legacy. At least 300 sarees, carefully stored and wore over time. We hardly considered it a legacy. Gave some away. Dumped some in a store room. Packed some in the storage under the bed.

It's time I dusted the cobwebs and took them out.
More than anything else, the memories of the occasions which these sarees have seen will certainly drive some humility into me.

The Warmth of a Brand

They say that campfires first made cavemen social. Made them bond. Brought them together after a hard day's work to talk about their hunt, their lives under the stars, in the warmth of the fire.


Winter always reminds me of  warm foods- soups, steaming rice and curries, hot tea and coffees. It rings back memories of my sister and me cuddling together with my mother under thick blankets, listening to her bedtime tales. It means holding hands, being together, celebrating.


Maybe it's not too wrong to say that there is something about Warmth.
A warm person is always likeable. A warm home always makes us feel welcome.
Warm food makes us hearty. And makes conversation flow.Warm clothes comfort us.

Coming to brands ( around which my life revolves:-))
A warm tonality can touch millions
Being warm means understanding consumers as people with emotions
Someone told me recently- a technology brand cannot be warm.
That's because we ourselves have confined the definition of "warm" to being very mumsy, comfort, and maybe old fashioned.
Can cool, hip people and brands not be warm as well? Why do we have to be cold intentionally to become aspirational?When it comes to people and the  most successful professionals, a warmth quotient can make a difference between someone who the world loves and someone who the world knows about.


Warmth can have different dimensions. It could be tonality ( brand voice), it could be the benefit ( bringing people together), it could be innovations ( products that make people bond and not isolate).

To me, Brand Warmth is an important parameter in determining the brand appeal for a lot of brands around us.

We don't need winter and snow to bring us closer.
We can  do without fires.
Warmth is not about nice words, soft emotions and being uncool .
White can also be warm.
Warmth is about brightness in lives.
Warmth can be humorous.
And yes, we don't lose edginess by being warm.


All it takes for a brand to be warm is to make a consumer feel like she belongs, she is part of a community that shares her passions, her interests, she can converse with people who exude emotions. And she can bond like never before.