Tag: postaday

Let’s Talk Money

Some say money is irrelevant, and there are things more important in life. Like human relationships, for instance. Or trust or humility.

Which is all fine, but how often do we find ourselves starving and rummaging amidst pennies, while staring through the window of Subway or Starbucks?

At that moment, nothing matters more than a few currency notes. Never would we appreciate paper more than we would then. It’s just paper, but it’s also the world. No one’s got time for humility when they’ve got a rumbling tummy.

It’s not as if Subway would handover a sandwich to an under-nourished kid living on the streets. Or as if Santa would bring us lifetime supply of basic necessities for Christmas if we’re good this year.

Life’s not school where the teacher would give you a gold star for attending class every day. Nor does life give you a tree of golden leaves you could pick any time you want some.

Life is harsh. While for some it’s painful to live without familiar faces around them, for some others living is painful in itself. No single mother who scrubs pans to feed two sons and a daughter would declare money is irrelevant. When you’ve been alone, penniless, and helpless for far too long, family and human relationships mean less than rain water puddles.

Life is ruthless. Every 20 something graduating with a degree he didn’t want in the first place, buckles under the weight of an education loan that’d tie him to a desk job for the next ten years.

Life is mischievous. It gives you countless options and yet stumps you with a catch. You could be a doctor, a teacher, an artist, even. But before you become anyone, you need to turn out your pockets to our great education system. And then frees you up to do that creative writing course you yearned for.

Catch, though: The Humanities are dead. You go down that path, and you’re future’s lost for ever. The Dead Poets Society makes it worse.

No one struggling to keep their head above water would say money is secondary. Sure, we all know the importance of being a good citizen, and that our values matter more than our lives. But when it comes to reality, nothing is louder than the voice of money.

Besides, if you notice, almost all those who care naught for money have too much of it already. We hear only their voices. Because when you’ve never struggled to make ends meet, when you’ve grown up oblivious of a Pay Day loan, money isn’t the most important thing in life.

Mission Momo

I have a thing for momos. It’s a traditional Tibetan steamed or fried dumpling made with flour and stuffing.

And it stuffs my heart with so much joy, it’s comfort food on a whole new level. A friend introduced me to the momos and ever since I’ve been scouring restaurants nearby looking for the perfect plate of momos.

And last weekend, I hit the jackpot. I found a place called the Tibet Memorial Restaurant. Well, it had Tibet in the name, so it had to be good. Sure enough, their’s was by far the best momos I’ve had in my area.

endless-quest

I’ve had tasted better momos in Darjeeling, though. But it could be because a colder climate complements the puff of steam that streams out when you bite into a momo.

It’s That Day Again

Last day of the month. And we all know what that means.

A month-long they spend toiling. Shuffling into the office each morning, hatred oozing from a not-so-cheery hello and the compulsion to work.

Every dying ember of a Friday afternoon would feel like the beginning of a carnival. And Sunday evenings, a dousing of spirits.

They bear it all because there comes a day — the last day of the month — when they would make up for all they’ve lost. A day to give money away to an unknown face behind computer screens and cash counters. A face, though smiles, relies on secret one-time passwords to check they aren’t cheats.

All that to acquire material stuff.

“A hat with a lion on it! I so need it to show off to my friends.”

“That grey converse looks good. I could alternate it with my blue and black ones.”

“Wow, I have a shirt that’d go so well with that scarf.”

“It’s almost December, shouldn’t I get a new pair of gloves? My old ones are…old.”

“He got a phone and I need to get at least a new cover for mine.”

For the next two days, shopping malls and online sites will flood with young people. They’d spend hard-earned remuneration on flip flops designed like Mickey Mouse.

red-carpet

And as they surf stall after stall, retailers stalk them with delightful deals. Buy one and get something free. Ah, yes! I’ll take a pair of designer shoes, please. And a cake of soap to go with that. It’s good it’s free. I need that soap because I can’t get it elsewhere.

And since they bought something and got something free with that, they get another offer: Shop for more than 5 percent of your income and get 2 percent off!

Well, why the hell not?

At the end of the day, spending all that money makes them feel so much secure and good about themselves. If that’s what it takes to take on Monday at the work, then so be it.

The Lesser of the Two (D)evils

siblings

I don’t understand the American political scenario. Sure, I know Donald, and I know Hilary. As I typed their names, however, I realised that though Autocorrect knows Clinton it doesn’t recognize Trump.

Solace, at least I’m not the only one.

I don’t follow the debates on stage, and I don’t follow the debates behind the media scenes. From all I’ve heard and seen, both of them bicker at each other like siblings who can’t stand each other. And having an elder brother myself, I know that’s not pretty.

And to imagine they are representatives of the United States of America! From being a once-great country — looking at you Abraham — it’s funny how cheap US standards have become. Nevertheless, that’s how this pair is. You’d see sibling rivalry oozing between the two as they face each other, clinging on to their podiums.

I’ve tried and failed numerous times to fake interest in the matter, but I’ve failed every time. I just don’t care. Besides, the two of them only remind me of spoilt brats snarling at each other.

Donald Trump
He’s the younger sibling. Shouting is his way of handling an argument in which he doesn’t have a strong opinion (or a clue) about. He’s immature to engage in a conversation and has a lot of growing up to do.

If he takes his shouting it a little further, it becomes high-pitched wailing. He looks as if he’s ever-ready to start whining and moping. And when he’s not doing any of those things, he interrupts everyone else. He tries to override the other person by talking louder, harsher, and by repeating his weak statements.

And his idea of a healthy debate is to force people to hear him out.

Sounds to me like a schoolboy dying to get the world’s attention. And oh, he has incredible stamina. Hilary doesn’t have it, by the way.

Hilary Clinton
Going with the sibling theory, Hilary’s the older one. Compared to a six-year-old Trump, she’s a thirteen-year-old who’s just realised the power she exudes at home. Her parents trust her because she’s older than her brother, and therefore has more experience in society.

She just has to look them in the eye and remind them of previous occasions where Donald had been mean to her. And the best part — her arguments get stronger when she throws in real life examples of Donald’s bad mouth. It’s not that difficult.

All the girlfriends of the sister would help pick on her annoying, conniving, and thieving little brother. Remember, every woman Trump has insulted will vote this November.

And unlike little bro Trump, she doesn’t throw tantrums. She realises that by staying mute in the face of his outbursts, she’d come out looking good.

She never has to pull herself together to retort because when there’s a child such as Trump in the scene, no one expects the big sister to argue like a child, too.

Hilary is the mature one. She’s the bigger person. Trump makes a fool of himself even without her help. And she’s counting on him to ruin his candidacy.

—

Of all the people you could’ve chosen, America, you went for a pair of squabbling kids. Well done, and all the best with life after November.

Dear Colleague,

I just met you a while ago.

We stepped into the same lift. I was getting back to my place having escaped from an impromptu gossip gathering at the food court. It was 11.30 in the morning, and I had a memo to send out before lunch. That’s when I ran into you. And if I remember right, you were just signing into work.

I smiled. Not because I was happy to see you, but because I believed in keeping up with social niceties. I never thought for a second that you’d take it assume it was an invitation to make small talk. Alas, my bad.

Sure, I’d be thrilled to hear about your trip to the western coast of Australia. Oh, so they’re 6 hours ahead of us? Wow! Those bastards could’ve warned us about the twin towers, huh? I feigned laughter, forcing myself to look stupider than your narration.

And then I realised that the lift had stayed stuck on the 9th floor, and me with you.
As you moved on to the story of the lasagna you made last night, I chanced a glance at my watch. What had started as an innocent break had transitioned into forty-five minutes of wasted time. You didn’t notice, however, and I locked arms across my chest praying for the lift to move. I’d have only been happier if the lift had broken a chord and hurled us both to the ground. At least then you’d stop talking.

From the greasy dinner, you went on about your love life. Oh, why wouldn’t I love to hear how the hot guy on the block asked you out? And I’d be happy for you if the two of you hit it off well. No no, I care about your date night. And no, it wouldn’t be inappropriate at all for you to ask about his previous relationship.

I’m not sure if you had noticed my tortured smile, but I had one plastered on my mouth ever since my first smile. How I regretted getting into the same lift as you. But you go ahead. I’d love to hear you talk about… something.

And a while later, the lift started moving, taking me — a dragging inch at a time — to a place far away from you. We stopped on your floor, and you were oblivious as usual.

Isn’t this your stop? Oh, shoot! Shame I couldn’t hear more about your new boyfriend. He seems like a nice guy. Oh yes, we should catch up sometime. Coffee? Sure. This afternoon? Er, well, I can’t think of anything else I’m doing, so–ok. Ciao.

As the lift closed again, I breathed a sigh of relief. Before I knew it, the lift had reached the topmost floor — mine. I walked back to my place, too drained to finish that memo, but lunch was around the corner, and I had to get it done soon.

For the next fifteen minutes, my fingers flew over the keyboard. I hit send and leaned back on my chair when I heard my stomach rumbling.

Dragging myself to the lifts, I pressed the button for the ground floor. I had skipped breakfast and wish I hadn’t. As I walked into the dining hall, who should I run into but you!

Oh hello, how nice to see you again!

But I just met you a while ago.

Also published on Medium.