Category: Thoughts uncut

Of Greatness

People talk so much about mothers and the sacrifices they make. For ages, people ignored their mothers and the sacrifices they made for their family.

But that’s changed now. Every mother’s day, people thank their mothers, speak so highly of their greatness and share photos on Facebook to show their gratitude to the rest of the world.

What about the other mothers?

She’s the one who starts work before you’re awake, sweeps your floors, cleans your bathrooms, refills your tissue rolls, clears away your empty cups, dusts your desk, rearranges your dishevelled papers, eats after you, and works on Sundays.

And yet, she’s not your mother.

She’s a maintenance staff. The people who make an office of a piece of construction.

So many of these maintenance staffs are mothers too. And it’s painful to see them working so hard for the people who don’t even spare a second look at them.

Most of them are my mother’s age. Every time I see one of them mopping the floor for the third time in a day, I wonder if I’d want my mother in the same situation.

I wouldn’t. Because it’s a sad job. Because people don’t see you for who you are; people don’t see you at all. And yet, not one of them walks past your place without taking away the cup you were too lazy to throw away. And if you happen to catch their eye, they smile at you — not the false smile you give your boss, but the one your mother gives you. What makes them do that?

I don’t think it’s passion for their work. A sense of conscience? Are they just loyal to their salary?

It’s not about the money. It was never about the money. Yes, it’s their job to clean, but it’s their choice to clean satisfactorily. Because they care. They care about you, they care for me.

It’s the human vulnerability. They look at me and they see their own daughter. The mother within drives them to do more, to do better.

I sat staring at the laptop one morning. It was the festival holidays and the office was almost empty. A maintenance staff came up and asked me why I didn’t go home for the festival holidays. We spoke for a while and she wondered aloud how hard it must be, living in a foreign city, away from family, not being able to go home for the holidays without getting crushed under poor roads and the terrible traffic of monsoon rains.

She works a 12-hour shift and her every break is valuable. She didn’t have to spend her time talking to me. But she did. She spent her free time consoling me. She didn’t know why I didn’t go home, she didn’t know I was too lazy to trudge through traffic.

She just assumed I couldn’t go, never once suspecting that I didn’t want to go. Because she’s a mother. And mothers don’t judge.

If that’s not great, what is?

Written for a contest run by Tata Motors to promote their campaign, #madeofgreat.

Loyalty

Sunday

I’m loyal.

To brands. And it’s not at all weird.

The best example is the truest example. Like so many others, I’ve subscribed to Brain Pickings. I get my weekly emails on Sundays. But— Sunday is when I take the day off from everything. From people, from work, from going out, from dressing up, from even being civil. Except eating. Sunday, I devour.

Sunday is the one day I sleep all day. I don’t care what happens in the world, or outside my room, I will neither wake up nor care.

So when I get my weekly email on Sunday, I don’t often feel like reading it. Sundays are the days I’m too bored and lazy to lift even a limb, let alone prop up my laptop and read.

So I just convince myself I’d read it on Monday. And I now have 22 unread emails from Brain Pickings. That’s 22 weeks of procrastination. That’s almost half a year.

I’m a little dull when it comes to numbers, but even I know that was a long time. But the thing is, I don’t know what to do about it. Brain Pickings newsletters are interesting and long. And if I just manage to get started, I know I wouldn’t be able to stop. It’s the starting that’s problematic.

Sometimes, I look at all the subjects of the emails in bold and feel so helpless. As if there’s nothing I can do to read them without reading them.

And it doesn’t help that I don’t like having unread emails in my inbox. I like my inbox clean. It’s something to do with closure, I hear.

Of course there’s one thing: I can just unsubscribe. But I won’t. It’s the one thing I will not do. I’ve unsubscribed from loads of other online magazines and blogs that became too strenuous to follow — but I won’t unsubscribe from Brain Pickings.

Because I’m loyal.

Yes, it freaks me out too. I’m so in love with what they do that I want to know everything they publish. But it’s also overwhelming, I accept. And though I accept it, I will never unsubscribe. Because I’m loyal that way.

Every time I think of unsubscribing, I feel a hot rush of guilt running through me. As if it’s a wrong thing to do. Wrong as in, morally wrong. I feel so guilty even thinking about unsubscribing from the magazine. Because I love their work.

But guilt changes nothing. I still have 22 unread emails from Brain Pickings. Talk about obsession, huh?

Confessions of a non-shopaholic.

I hate shopping.

shopping

Not surprised?

I’m twenty-something. I live alone, and have a decent income.

I still hate shopping. And I don’t mean navigating crowded streets and striding through stacks of flashy clothes. That I kind of enjoy. But what I hate is “shopping”. Online, on mobile, offline — I hate ’em all.

Because shopping is over rated and has way too many choices. You might have heard of the paradox of choice: the more choices you have, the more problems you have.

And that’s my problem. I can’t bear to think that there are hundreds of different types of — everything.

It happens all the time. I walk into a store thinking about jeans. And what do I see?

Denim jeans, pencil jeans (is that a real thing, or am I just being Indian?), straight fit, slim fit, stretch jeans, torn jeans, faded jeans, cotton pants, maxis, knee-length pants, bell-bottomed pants, and more on a list of never-ending pants.

All that, in one store. After seeing that, I walk out thinking I can manage for at least another couple of months with the pairs of jeans I already own.

Sometimes, when I feel brave, I go through every type of jeans and pants in the store — for about an hour or so — only to realize, nothing fits my style or my size. And I’d leave hating myself. That’s enough to keep me away from shopping malls for a few months, before someone starts commenting on my dressing. Again.

It’s a vicious circle. But it’s only vicious when you’re looking to spend.

Sometimes, towards the end of the month, I go out shopping. Just for the fun of it. I carry just the amount I’d need for essential getting-around, and go shopping.

I look through windows. But I also walk into some stores and lace through the smooth fabric, take in the glow of new clothes, enjoy a silent joke at the woman who sneaked in more than three outfits into the dressing room, and roll my eyes at the price tags.

And then I get out for an ice cream. I prefer dark chocolate. But that’s a rare find, and I’d find all these other flavours I might like. Like chocolate, chocolate & vanilla, chocolate with chocolate chips, double chocolate, death by chocolate, chocolate & coffee, white chocolate, and a more chocolaty goodness.

By the time I finish reading the options, I’d have made my decision. I’d go straight home, switch on Friends and never leave my bed.

Sometimes it takes ketchup to bring us together.

It was 2 pm at the office, and everyone was busy staring into their computer screens. On one corner were a few Windows users sitting by the window, sneaking glances down at the barren streets; anything is distraction. On another corner were the few Mac users, caressing their fingers over delicate keys. They all knew the value of metal, the value of technology.

Time crept away. From 2 pm, to 2.30, and 3.30 and then at last, 4.00 pm.

Like a bunch of young girls hypnotized by a famous boy band, they rose from their places. It was time to take a break from the monitors. They grabbed their smartphones instead and headed towards the pantry for a cup of coffee and something to munch on. Some of them queued up, while some others hung around in the pantry, all of them checking their phones for updates from friends, colleagues and loved ones.

Ah ha. There’s a funny video a colleague had shared — they hit Like and moved a step closer to the vending machine.

In walked a maintenance staff, her arms laden with a tray of steamy samosas. As soon as the scent spread across the pantry, everyone darted their eyes from their mobiles just in time to crowd around the snack tray. They all grabbed a samosa — or two — and stepped back, with a questioning glance at the staff. She stared back, nonplussed, and in complete wonder.

As more and more people turned a glaring eye at her, she grew visibly uncomfortable. One young man decided to ask, “Sauce?”

Oh, right! She hit herself on the head and rushed out of the pantry. The young man and many others shook their heads in exasperation. With the few minutes’ break they had, the delays!

Seconds went by, but the maintenance staff didn’t return. People began shuffling their feet in restless abandon. Some even snorted and left the pantry staring into their handphones. They only just managed to go through the door frame without colliding into it.

Of the few who remained however, was a girl who, remembering something, rushed out the pantry in a hurry. The others stared at the new girl who had just run off. These kids nowadays, had no sense at all. They waited around, their patience ebbing away.

As more of them decided to leave, the new girl strode back into the pantry, head held high and a bottle of ketchup in her hand. She poured herself a generous splash and handed the bottle around.

Not sure how to react, some of the seniors stared at her, while more and more people decided to take the ketchup. Bit by bit, the bottle emptied and everyone had had their share. The tension within the clutter had reduced as the bottle went around, and they began talking.

“So, what’s your name?”

“Where are you from?”

“Really? That’s where I live. You know Mr. Weatherby?”

“Who’s your team leader?”

“Oh, pity you. I heard he is a tough boss.”

“Hey, where did you learn design?”

Soon, they all knew each other. Someone cracked a joke, and the rest of the party threw their heads back laughing, when the maintenance staff returned with a fresh bottle of ketchup. Out of breath, she apologized and said something about running short of stock.

Curious, they all turned to the new girl. A little red in the cheeks, she explained that she had bought that bottle of ketchup to bring home with her.

They all turned to look at the almost-empty bottle. Everyone felt the gratitude, but no one knew how to convey it.

And then the young man saw it. A little label on the bottle. Something about buying seeds online. He pulled out his smartphone from his pocket, and did a quick search.

After a few moments of confused silence, he handed his smartphone to the rest of the group. As they all peered into the screen, they saw that the ketchup brand had a new campaign that let them buy tomato seeds online. As one, they all knew what to do. The young man placed an order at once.

When they all met again at the pantry, the young man had a tiny box-ful of seeds. He handed them to the new girl. He said it was on behalf of everyone.

Flushing a little, she accepted the gift. On one condition, she said. She told them about her plan. Together, they moved towards the window and peered down at the brown soil around their building.

The HR in the group promised to get clearance and permission. Something good was about to happen.

—

Life went on. Day in and day out, they all clocked in, and clocked out. Like machines, staring into machines, serving machines.

But exactly at 4.00 pm everyday, they bloomed into a group of friends. Over a cup of coffee, and oily samosas coated with fresh tomato ketchup.

And the tomato seedlings grew on. Into trees that would last the test of time.

This post is for a campaign by Kissan India about #RealTogetherness.

Every day at work, I see people with their heads together over a cup of tea and a snack. I wasn’t sure how to connect nature and ketchup, until this scene popped into my head. If joining hands for the greater good isn’t real togetherness, I don’t know what is!

History is Mere Gossip

Oh yes!

I revere History as a subject. That’s also why I hate that it’s become so subjective. No one knows what the truth is anymore, we’re all so engrossed in stories that interest us so much that we often forget that​ the words “story” and “history” don’t even belong in the same sentence.

​It hurt so bad when I came across in my text book that Queen Elizabeth the second took the throne in 1963 when the very next page claimed that it was in 1953. Though that is more of a valuation of our education system than History, it still put a thorn on my head.

tiara

That’s when it all came crashing down. We don’t care what happened all those years ago, we only care for what’s more sensational. The more interesting story goes into school books — to become history. The more interesting a story, the more it’s spoken about. And we all know the more we talk of something — especially in schools — the more the chances are of it becoming a fact.

It’s quite sad that people are so used to telling and retelling facts as stories. Besides, how much of a difference would it make if the Queen wore a tiara instead of a crown; ​the tiara is the fancier word isn’t it?

What starts with a tiara grows on to elephant rides becoming horse rides, corn becoming cotton, and eventually ​Pakistan becoming India. It’s just a matter of time.

Is it the human craving for adrenaline that makes us morph the truth — or what’s commonly accepted as the truth — into something a bit more… racy?

What’s wrong with calling an execution an execution? Must we make it a chase and kill?

It’s all subjective; we’re are so used to talking about heroics and racing cars that we like to incorporate them in our narratives. The sad part of it all: we do it instinctively, we do it without care, we are so offhanded that in a way, we kill the essence of our History.

Sometimes, we just have to accept our forefathers for what they were — cowards. Sometimes we have to live with knowing they lived bad lives, and that they had priorities we deem unworthy. Because only when we accept history for what it is, can we learn and not duplicate the very lifestyles we mask with gossip.