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.
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!
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.
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.
I often wonder what this blog is about. It’s been three years, and I still can’t seem to figure out which category my blog falls into.
Sometimes it’s frustrating.
“What do you write about?”
“Ah — just, stuff.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“You know — stuff.”
That’s my problem. I don’t have one definitive topic. I just write. Stuff.I’ve been thinking about it, and about what I can do about it.
And I’ve found an answer. This is not a parenting blog, this isn’t a DIY blog, not a lifestyle blog, certainly not a fashion blog — it’s a coping blog.
The more I think about it, the more it feels right. Mine is a coping blog. It tells you everything you need to know about someone who’s coping up with life. There are stories, poems and musings, but there’s also photos, quotes and books I enjoy.
I don’t write on one topic, I write on my life. And my life is a bit of everything, it’s a bit of everything mashed up. It’s the chaos within me.
The Chaos Within 