The Boy Who Waited for His Poop, And Other Small Miracles

On the 10th of May, a routine walk through Cubbon Dog Park changed the shape of our house - and, four months later, the shape of a puppy's legs.

His name was Archie. Four months old, golden-eyed, with front legs that bowed outward in a way that made him look like he was permanently bracing for a fall. A bout of parvovirus a couple of months earlier had left more than a memory - it had left his bones bent, still soft enough from puppyhood to have curved under the weight of illness. Below: picture of Siddhu with Archie the day he sauntered into our lives.

We didn't plan to foster him. We just couldn't leave.

The Ordinary Miracles First

Fostering, in the beginning, looks a lot like parenting a small, furry, extremely opinionated toddler. Archie learned to wait for his food. He learned the furniture was off-limits, mostly. He learned the invisible boundary lines of the house. And our two five-year-olds, Ollie and Maggie, who had never had to share their humans with a wobbly-legged interloper, learned patience in a way that quietly rearranged the pack.

Then came the unglamorous part of fostering that nobody photographs for Instagram: the vet visits. Dr. Harshitha at Charlie's Pet Clinic and Dr. Lohith at Bangalore Pet Hospital became fixtures in our week. X-rays. Blood panels. A Vitamin D deficiency, corrected over three weeks of injections that Archie forgave us for almost immediately, because that's the thing about puppies: they forgive fast.

And then, the harder question: could his legs be fixed?

Dr. Lohith thought so. Archie was still growing, which meant his bones still had room to be told a new shape. Surgery, done now, could correct 75 to 80 percent of the curve. Done later, it might not be possible at all.

The Part Where Strangers Show Up

We didn't have the money sitting around for orthopedic surgery. So we did what foster parents increasingly do - we asked the internet for help.

I did not expect to cry over a crowdfunding page. But within a couple of days, strangers - people who would never meet Archie, never feel his ridiculous ears, never watch him fail spectacularly at sitting - had funded his pre-surgery tests, the surgery itself, medicines, and the therapy that would follow. Both clinics quietly reduced their fees where they could. My friend Aparna and her family took him in for a weekend so we could travel, folding him into her own life without hesitation. Below: picture of Archie chilling at Aparna's, with her cat.

It stopped feeling like my project. It felt like Archie belonged, in some small way, to everyone who had chipped in.

Three Hours, and Then the Real Work

The surgery took three hours. They were the longest three hours I've had in recent memory - the kind where you check your phone every four minutes and reread the same sentence in a book without absorbing a word of it. When Dr. Lohith called to say it was successful, I remember the exhale more than the words.

What I hadn't braced for was what came after.

Archie couldn't walk. He had to be carried for everything - outside, back in, every single time. For the first couple of days, he didn't poop, and I will say without embarrassment that when he finally did, we celebrated like it was Diwali. That is what recovery from surgery on a small, healing body looks like: not a triumphant montage, but a household reorganizing itself around one tiny, immobile creature's bathroom schedule and cautiously waiting.

Two weeks in, the staples came off. The bandages came off. And slowly, almost cell by cell, the puppy came back - running, tumbling, being generally ridiculous, legs straighter than they'd ever been. Below: picture of Archie post surgery with much straighter legs.

The Bittersweet Part Nobody Warns You About

Here is the part of fostering that people don't talk about enough: you do all of this - the injections, the 3 a.m. worry, the crowdfunded surgery, the poop celebrations - knowing that if you do it right, he leaves.

A lovely lady named Padma reached out, she wants to foster Archie with the possibility of adopting him. We visited her home, met her family, and watched Archie and her senior dog Pedro take to each other cautiously at first and then settled down and even napped, the way dogs sometimes just know. If all goes well, Archie will walk out of our house on his newly straight legs and into hers. Below: picture from Archie and Pedro's first meeting

It will feel like losing something. It will also mean we did our job.

That is fostering, in full: you love a creature back to health with the express intention of handing that health to someone else. It is not a smaller kind of love because it has an ending built in - if anything, it asks more of you, because you show up fully for a story you know isn't yours to keep.

Somewhere out there is a puppy or kitten who needs exactly this - a temporary home willing to become, for a little while, an unconditional one. If you have room, even for a season, foster one. You will not regret the poop parties. I promise.

The secret is...

All my life I have been like the elder brother of Ishaan Awasthi from Taare Zameen Par – disciplined, hardworking, smart, focussed. I have been very duty-conscious and attached to my studies, and later work, at an emotional level. By that I mean, I would get drunk on success and feel a high that’s out of the world when I delivered something complicated or if my work was appreciated by someone. Equally I’d be gutted for days at a mere tsk tsk of disapproval from someone, rethinking every choice I made along the way, kicking myself for slipping up, reconsidering my right to continue living. I am not exaggerating. This has been my life since the time I could read and write, since the time I was appreciated by my mum (who I had put on such a high pedestal) for being appreciated by someone else that mattered – my teachers, the principal of my school, my boss (I used to copy and paste appreciation emails on chat to her!), my performance ratings, etc. I had put my self-worth in the hands of other people and their validation of my efforts and outcomes, and even before I had realised, I was a slave to others and their opinions of me.

To the people-pleaser in me (which was my whole being), it was not about whether something I did or delivered gave me happiness, it was about whether it made my boss or my colleagues happy. It was not about feeling proud of what I had done, because how does it matter if nobody else took note of or appreciated it? And the horror that one negative feedback or one “I expected better of you” would bring! I’d curl up in bed, crying myself to sleep not because I didn’t do something right but because I let someone else down. I wish I were lying. The ONLY thing that I did because it gave me happiness and I had zero interest in the opinions of others was the work I was doing with my street dogs. I did it for myself and nobody else.

I was in therapy to work through my issues with stress and anxiety due to my core need to please people around me. While I was making (very) slow progress with it I realised something really big had to happen to shake me out of this. And boy, it did! I found myself with more than the normal amount of time on my hands for the better part of last year – work was slowing down, and the organization was preparing for a big reshuffle/downsizing of the workforce. I had more time to reflect, I journaled like crazy, more time to go on long walks, spend more time helping dogs, hitting more yoga classes – and I had something of a breakthrough. Somehow, I started giving less importance to what others thought of me over a period of time (that I started that with my mother-in-law might have made it easier 😉)

Things that I’d usually freak out about stopped having such an effect on me. To everything bad that was happening, my only response was, “I see that, and I am ok”. God, what have I become! I still have a long way to go in fully empathizing with everyone all the time with an open heart, but if I progress like this I just might! What happened to the little girl who sang because she needed to hear others clap for her? The one who wrote fast because her teachers were impressed with her writing speed? The one who loved going up on the stage because she felt she had to prove to everyone in the audience just how good she was? The one who stopped singing because that one time she completely blew her performance?

Sometimes life feels hard because we make it so hard for ourselves, by being so hard on ourselves. We think people remember us by our mistakes and we must be right ALL THE TIME! That is a lot of pressure. There is no magnifying glass that people are using to look at us. Even if there was, they are probably too busy looking at themselves with it. What’s most important is that we take the time to do things that bring happiness to us. And that in my case…. 

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Remarkably Bright Creatures

Last week Sabal bought me a gift, this time something he’s never bought for me earlier - a book. Given he is not a reader himself, he said he never knew whether I’d like a book he’d buy, but this one he said “gave him a feeling that I’d like reading it”. It was titled “Remarkably Bright Creatures” by Shelby van Pelt. I loved the blurb. But it had to wait for a couple more days until I finished the book I was reading then. (I cannot read two books simultaneously, can you?)

The book starts off in the small town of Sowell Bay in around 2019-2020. Has fascinating characters including but not limited to Marcellus, an extremely intelligent, observant and thoughtful giant Pacific Octopus who is the hero of the story. Tova, over seventy years of age with no kin, forms a beautiful relationship with Marcellus. It is not just the two of them though - through them we meet most of the other residents of Sowell Bay, each unique and kind in their own way. There were times when tears would roll down my cheeks as I tipped my hat to the incredible strength of Tova, the love and kindness of Ethan, the ever supportive Terry, the friendship of the Knit-wits, the naïveté of Cameron and of course the remarkable insights of Marcellus. 

There was a comment from Prasath to my earlier post (A decade later) about how living is what we do in the small, everyday moments of life and I can’t agree more with that thought. This book taught me another valuable lesson, we never forget the ones who leave us (they do continue to stay with us in our memories of the small moments) but we move on. We must move on, no matter how big the tragedy that brought us down was. It touched a nerve for me and gave me a quiet strength which I feel in my heart but can’t seem to put into words. 

I highly recommend reading this, for it felt like a warm cup of hot chocolate on a cold morning, when you want to wrap a blanket around your shoulders only to find your cat tucked in nicely and you just don’t want to disturb him. You know this happened.

A decade later

It has taken me over 15 years to begin writing after a self-imposed hiatus. During this time, I thought I was strategically planning and managing my career while also navigating my marriage and launching a family (human and non-human), while in reality all I was doing was letting life take over the reins. And like most middle-aged women, there came a point in life that showed me the dreaded mirror, imploring me to reflect and reassess the priorities of my life. Do I have my head on straight? Where do I go from here? Something as simple as considering my family’s health and happiness as priority #1 took a lot of time to adjust to. 

But I am getting ahead of myself. For, nothing I think or do has any impact on the world - it became so obvious during the pandemic in an in-your-face kind of way that it got me down a rabbit hole on exploring the effect I have on this world, or even my own life. Clearly, what my priorities are, how I go about executing them and how I can manage my life effectively and efficiently, have nothing to do with what will actually (and eventually) happen. There is just too many “I”s there and frankly, gives the illusion of control over the happenings in one’s life.

Let me explain, imagine a leaf floating in the air. This leaf thinks it can control where it will land, or whether it will land dark side up or light side up (and any other parameter the leaf thinks is important in its flight and subsequent life). So it uses all its energy and focus on “navigating” the wind. What it doesn’t realise is that it is utterly at the mercy of the wind - so it can try as hard as it wants, but the wind will have the final say. But surely, as human beings we aren’t as helpless as the leaf is against the wind? We do have choices that we make - consciously and unconsciously - and it is these choices that become the path our lives take. 

But what happens if we just let fate make these choices for us? 

Well, I don’t know all the answers but I am not sure the outcomes would be vastly different whether we put our hearts and souls into our jobs versus if we just winged it. For now, I have to rush to my Yoga class. My health, for one, happens to be something I can actually do something about. 

Thoughts

It was raining real hard outside; the husband was just sitting there doing nothing (as always) and I thought to myself, “Damn, there’d be too much traffic tomorrow morning. I should leave earlier to office than usual. Maybe I should make Aalu bajji or something. Vengaaya bajji would be awesome too. Or use both aalu and onion and make bonda. Yum! Thinking about which, a cup of hot chocolate or coffee would be a perfect match.”

The thought about hot chocolate led to the memories of weekend afternoons when my husband and I would walk over to the nearest Café Coffee Day and spend our time talking away about technology or business ventures that never took off.

The thought about weekend afternoons led to memories of umpteen bike rides to the airport just to have a cup of coffee from Maiyas and enjoy the view. Those were the times when Sidhu was not there and we could just decide and head out in a matter of minutes without having to worry about carrying diapers and bottles and rubber sheets and what not.

The thought about Sidhu reminded me to check on him – had he woken up? Perhaps he had crawled over to the edge of the bed? Damn, the bed is too high. I should probably order a play pen or a wooden crib for him right away. Thinking of wooden furniture, I should ask Sabal to take the car and drive us to Channapatna and get for Sidhu a walker.

Thinking about Channapatna, I should also buy some wooden toys for Navaratri next year. Even though it is a whole year away, I don’t know if I would be able to go all the way to Channapatna before that.

Thinking about Navaratri, how nice it would be if Sidhu were a girl baby! I would have dressed her up in pattu pavada chattai and decorated her hair with flowers and took her to see Golu to all my relatives’ and neighbours’ houses and after a few years, maybe teach her to sing songs and all.

Sigh… I looked at my husband. I asked him what he was thinking. He said, “Nothing.” NOTHING? How can anyone not think of anything? Somebody answer me before my next train of thoughts begin. 

The Villi

With the mothership living with us to help us take care of Sidhu, lot of time in the evening is spent with the idiot box switched on and equally idiotic serials. The astonishing thing is that within 5 minutes of any episode of serial, you can identify who the good party is and who the villain (in most cases, it is what we call in Tamil “villi”).

Now how exactly is this identification of the megaserial villi done?

Good Party	THE VILLI
If there is a renowned yesteryear Kollywood heroine in the serial, she belongs to the good party. She is mostly seen smiling (ONLY) during the title credits.	N/A
You see any women crying? Yes? They belong to the good party.	You see a woman going all ‘Hahahahaha’ and challenging to destroy someone? She is the one. THE VILLI.
You see women who wear little or no make-up? Good people, yo!	You see the one wearing the heaviest of make-up and the heaviest of jewellery? THE VILLI.
You see one man who looks like he sells Paan Parag? He is Yudishtir. Meendum Mahabharatam.	The one who doesn’t have salt in his toothpaste is Shakuni.

Takes less than 5 minutes to adjudge who is who. And these serials run for years together. 

There is an exception to this though – men are difficult to categorize mainly due to lack of make-up mostly. Also both good and bad men are allowed to have more than one wife. It makes it even more difficult to identify who is what. 

Amma is a lot better compared to Paati who watches “Sasural Simar Ka” in Tamil. After about a couple of hours I noticed she was watching the same shit in Hindi. And she can’t even hear properly. She generally makes out what we are speaking by reading our lips. Then how the hell she understands Hindi/Dubbed form Hindi serials is beyond logic.

Anyway, I have to go. “Vamsam” is about to start. Have to go and see what happens to Sankari and the other kids. 

We have feelings too :-|

I was born on a day when there was thunder and lightning; the wind was blowing hard and the windows were rattling their butts off. It was a large room with plenty of lights, there were many people in the room – they took turns handling me. I straight away understood that they all knew the purpose of my birth for they had a sad, disgusted look when they held me in their hands.

I was soon wrapped even though I was not feeling cold. I was put in a room with many others just like me. So many others just like me. So many that it was starting to feel suffocating and sweaty and claustrophobic and smelly. But we all knew our lives were going to get much worse than this. There was gloom filling what little air we had inside the awful room.

Then one day, the room was opened. Light. There was so much light and so much air to breathe. There was laughter. There was pink. There were cartoons. We had never known happiness and now we knew how it felt. All of a sudden I was pulled out of the room and laid down beside a baby. The baby was pretty rude as it started attacking me.

Before I knew it, I was stuck to the bottom of the baby. There is no need to say that it was smelly. It became worse when the baby pooped. When I say worse, it is in the vicinity of watching a Sajid Khan movie while getting your legs waxed and listening to the baby scream because it had gas. Oh that reminds of the smell of its gas, of which I know so much more than you ever will.

I am a diaper. We have feelings too, you know.

Disclaimer: The author of this post was in an emotionally vulnerable state after changing a particularly stinking diaper while writing this. 

P.S: Sorry for not putting the disclaimer at the beginning of the post. :-D

Friends!

The most underrated relationship in the world is the one between two girl friends. While male bonding has always been worshiped, the friendship between girls has always been made to sound too contrived and negative, or worse, silly. Really, boys are NOT all we talk about! Our media and pop culture too, hype up the relationship between two male friends about the longevity and depth of their friendship (yeh dosti hum nahi thodenge types) while it is always shown that friendship between girls get destroyed by their ego/jealousy/greed/boyfriends, etc. Our movies too, re-emphasize how brittle our friendship is, while the truth cannot be any farther. I really cannot think about a movie where the friendship between two girls has been the plot, around which the story revolves, can you?

Girl friends are the best because:

We can discuss anything with our friends that our male partners or even mothers won’t be able to understand. This includes work issues, problems with colleagues, health issues, relationship issues, or anything really.

We can still crack insensitive inside jokes about silly things that might or might not have any importance in the real world whatsoever. Try going on a long drive with your bestie and you will know what I mean!

Girlfriends make amazing babysitters. They are the best ones to trust your baby with if you and your better half want to escape away for a romantic dinner. Imagine how it would be if you were to leave your baby with a friend of your husband’s!

There is never a dull moment when you are with your girlfriend. There are always other people to gossip about. *wink wink*

Trouble in your paradise with your spouse/boyfriend? A good talk with your bestie is the best medicine. You could talk about it with her, get her ideas/solutions, or simply just vent it out of your system with a good long boo-hoo session and lots of wine.

I will save the best for the last. Girls are the best to shop with. Sorry guys, you don’t even stand a chance; you just cannot compete with girls in this one.

Social Issues Much?

There are certain social issues that I feel very strongly about – no, not the big-ass ones like women empowerment or LGBT rights or caste-ism. There are much better qualified people to do that. 

I am the small one – I worry about social issues like, “What happened to the vada-bonda shop akka? Why hasn’t she set shop for the last 10 days? The bhel puri anna who has his shop next to hers didn’t know either.” Or like, “The neighbourhood stray dog with the mean looking scar on his face hasn’t been eating the leftover bread. Hope he is alright. Maybe his stomach is upset?” You get the drift.

That said, social issues that have been protested against / the ones that have attracted the media’s eyes have not altogether been abolished. Transgenders are still being looked down upon, marital rape still hasn’t been declared a crime, Bellandur lake is still frothing (hey, detergent companies, here is a good idea for your next ad – “Secret to Bellandur lake’s extraordinary frothing - ”).

We live in a country where people are fighting for basic rights – right to good food, right to clean drinking water, right to practice any religion, right to be accepted with alternate sexuality, right to education, etc. I have problems too, da! I am also fighting, ok? – “Oh my God, the wi-fi is so frikkin’ slow!”, or “My Candy Crush lives are over!”, or “My sedan is too big in most parking spaces!” 

Most of Westerners think of India as a third-world country. But there are three different countries within India – the filthy rich, the good old middle class and the poorest of the poor. I really feel bad about our country, man. I wish I could do something to improve… hey, Ice Age is playing on TV. Let me go watch!

Le Pondy

The place is dreamy. It has become a phenomenon that keeps me sane through extremely frustrating times.  Pondicherry feels less of a place and more of a state of mind. Wake up at 5:30am and look eastwards at the Bay of Bengal as the Sun thinks about rising and you will know what I am talking about.

We arrived at the resort and jumped right into the swimming pool to beat the heat - the Sun seems to love this place so much so that he just doesn't give up on roasting us. Add to this the humidity that comes with the breathtakingly beautiful seashore. Then we had a sumptuous lunch at the resort's pool-side restaurant followed by a blissful siesta.

Later that evening it was time to explore the town - we rented a motorbike and went into the charmingly French, yet messed up in out very own Indian way, city. The city is the perfect mix of cross-culturalism and conservatism I yearn for. It was so peaceful and relaxed and clear-cut when compared to a confused, west-aping Bangalore. A walk along the beach followed by an epic filter coffee at the Bombay Ananda Bhavan and back to the resort on time for a mild dinner followed by a session of what the French are famous for - no, not the kissing - a good bottle of red wine.

The next morning we were up at 5am and went to Chennai and came back to the resort by 5pm - on a motorbike (that was in admit-to-the-ICU condition) - along the ECR - with pitstops at the place that was considered to be the Paradise on Earth created by the mighty Pallavas - Mamallapuram.

The next day as I was swimming at the resort's pool, I saw this couple - a European man, his Indian wife and their two little kids. The man was playing with his younger son while I was resting there and we began small talking.

"Where are you from?", he asked.

"Bangalore. And you?"

"France. Paris." He continued, "Vacation?"

"Yes, just for a couple more days."

"Oh, I get one month every year." He boasted - or that's how it sounded to the holiday-deprived, overworked, Indian me.

He continued, "My wife's parents are from Pondy. So we come here for a month every year."

We went on to chat about what I did for a living among other things for about half an hour.

There I was, sitting by the pool, watching people from various countries and cultures - the way they talk, their boy language and everything - while sipping on a mug of chilled beer. Life is good indeed - specially when it is slow, like it is in Pondy. 

Nandhini - The Mysterious

Spoliers Ahead - If you have not already read Ponniyin Selvan and you intend to read it, this post gives away key story points. If you have not read Ponniyin Selvan already and don't intend to, please go ahead and read the post - maybe it will motivate you to read the epic!

The country was mourning. Mourning the death of their bravest son. Men, women and children were beyond consolation; the houses in the cities and villages bore a lifeless look; the animals wore a look of despair; even the birds seemed to be singing a sorrowful tune.

The eldest son of their king - Aditya - the prince who recognized no fear, the warrior who was capable of guiding his army to victory against the mightiest of enemies, the handsome prince who, by now, should have married a beautiful princess and ruled the country - is gone forever from the wicked world, under the most mysterious circumstances in living memory.

She stood there, as one among at least another thousand people watching Aditya being cremated. She couldn't help but think of the irony, as she remembered begging for another man's life from Aditya, even falling at his feet - a wish that was not granted by Aditya. And now, the mighty Aditya was gone.

Even as she grew up as the daughter of a priest, in a religious household, she always knew from within that she was a princess. She knew that she was the daughter of a brave king, supposed to be brought up in a palace but somehow was growing up in the wrong family. She felt more like a Kshatriya than like a Brahmin. When was 12 years old, she was taken to a big palace to play along with the kids of the Chola king. 

Shatabdi vs Air Asia

Recently I got to travel from Chennai to Bangalore by the Shatabdi express and as the train moved north-westwards, I was able to see the sun set behind the sunflower fields from the large, clean window. They gave us a nice meal and the seats were plush and comfortable. The TV showed episodes from ‘Just for Laughs’ and a Charlie Chaplin movie – things that don’t need one to listen or understand the local language. Why this was very clever was highlighted on that day especially because everyone else on the coach was from South Korea. The guy sitting next to me was quite expressive about his holiday in Bangalore and Chennai. And I mentioned Gangnam style to him when he said he was from South Korea, much to his annoyance.

And then I travelled from Bangalore to Bali via Kuala Lumpur by Air Asia. I couldn’t help but compare the experience of the Shatabdi vs Air Asia. The frustration started even before we could collect our boarding passes. We had to pay extra for checking in our baggage. And that was the first time I was hearing that shit in an International flight. In the Shatabdi, there was no limit on how much baggage you could carry. You could even do the entire shifting of your house from Chennai to Bangalore J

The biggest issue of all was when we were flying – we were given the last row in the plane and as if being forced to hear the airhostess’ gossip wasn’t enough, we had to pay exorbitant amounts of money to get meals, the only positive thing about which was the fact that it was hot. It was then I started understanding how difficult the rest of my trip was going to be because there was only one vegetarian meal available. Dammit… The Shatabdi was so much better in terms of food. At least they didn’t charge me as much as Air Asia and didn’t brag about their “flight merchandise” in books and journals.

I mean, seriously, why the fuck would I shell out my hard-earned money to buy t-shirts and watches with “Air Asia” printed on it and advertise for this shitty shitty airline? If anything, they should give the shirts to me and pay me (quite a huge amount) to wear it. Bah :-\

It was the worst four and a half hours I had spent on a flight and I just wanted to pull my hair out and scream like a mad woman or at least yell the choicest of swear words (I could do that in 4 languages) at the flight attendants to let off the pent up frustrations. I want to ask questions like why don’t you play something on the TV? Why don’t you include the cost of food in the ticket price itself? After making us pay so much money, why do you charge us extra for check-in baggage handling?

If you are a major airline in South East Asia, how does it feel having your facilities being compared to that of a premium train in India?

Am I A Rebel?

Happy New Year!!! :-)

It has been so long since I wrote something here. The last year has seen me go from the happiest person on earth to a sad and pathetic little soul that’s trapped in a job that seems keen on sucking the life energy out of me. The only writing I have done in the past year are long emails to my friend about me and my surroundings. I wish I could publish them some day.

Anyway, all that aside, I was thinking yesterday about how there is a rebel inside each one of us. Some accept it; but most live in denial.

For example, I love cooking. I enjoy cooking. I find it therapeutic; I think it is a great stress-buster to listen to and sing along with music while cooking. I like making food that looks colourful with fresh ingredients that are great to look at and taste even better. I like the way the aroma of tempered spices spread and fill the house. I forget all my problems and tensions in the sound of music and the pressure cooker’s whistles and the motor sound of the mixie. It satisfies all my senses. You get it, right?

So everyone by now thinks my husband is a lucky man, right? Wrong. I don’t cook very often these days. I restrict my cooking to making dosa/idly and simple chutney or easy-to-make mixed vegetable rice. I don’t spend a long time in the kitchen; I don’t put on music. I don’t enjoy the process. I do it more out of duty than out of love.

And that is simply because I am EXPECTED to do it. I don’t know if it makes any sense to any of you, but I want to cook because I enjoy it, not because I MUST. It is expected out of me, as a wife, to cook for my husband. But then the rebel wakes up and says, “Hey, you must not do it because they expect you to. You are not anybody’s slave.” And out goes all the goodness that I had housed inside me all these years. The “nee enna solradhu, naan enna kekkaradhu” (Who are you to say and why the hell should I listen?) attitude is something I have not been able to shake off since I was 5 years old. And I don’t seem to regret it that much either.

Cooking is a simple example. There are other things that I have stopped doing (or stopped enjoying the activity) just because somebody wants me to. That my job certainly belongs to that category is no secret. And I am not the only one feeling that way about one’s job. But we still do it because we have put on the dog costume and so we bark.

I want to be able to give in to others’ expectations and not feel rebellious at every opportunity. I want to live a normal life without having the urge to put up a fight at every slight possibility. Because frankly, I am tired of it. I am tired of having to fight back against every single thing expected out of me even though I’d have done it by myself anyway.

What do you think? Is it just me or is it normal to be rebellious? Or is it just that the degree of rebelliousness varies with each person? What are you like?

Mr.Stinking

Not all of us are the same. And thank God for that! Thank God, not all of us are creepy idiots who have the IQ of a cabbage.

I will abort the child if I come to know it is a girl.

Imagine that from a well-educated (a professional degree holder from a decent college), IT professional who I happened to work with. The nerve he had to tell me that, without the slightest inkling of sensitivity or respect for the life of a child! All I wanted to do at that moment was to just punch him in the face and break a tooth or two in that mouth of his that uttered those stinking words.

But fortunately for him, it was within the office premises and I was in no mood to get fired for physically assaulting a colleague. Believe me, I am physically and mentally capable of killing that mosquito (oh, have I given out too much about the identity of the person already?)

I mustered up all my patience and asked him, “What if your father had thought the same way? You wouldn’t have had a sister who you love so much today.”

You’d think that would have reached the non-existent brain of his or at least strike an emotional chord with him. He coolly turned to me and told, “Sandhya, I am talking about getting my wife to get it aborted; not you.”

I don’t use expletives (at least not in public forums), but that fucking asshole actually said those words to me!

He continued, “Where I come from it happens all the time. Hospitals there help the would-be parents determine the sex of the unborn baby and they get the “problem fixed” too.”

What the hell is wrong with this country? If it happens as often as he says it does, what are the police doing there? Is our law just something to laugh about after breaking it? Well, I know most people break the law, but I thought we had grown out of hatred towards the female child, at least in our so-called educated urban youth.

That the guy is not even married yet is another problem. But God help the poor girl that agrees to marry him. Oh wait, maybe where he comes from, the girl’s opinion is not sought while “fixing” her marriage with Mr.Creepy Creeperson with a mind narrower than a strand of his hair.

I personally know so many couples yearning for a baby in their lives; and then there are people like this one that makes me wonder why God created these infinitely stupid beings.

Should I just go and report this to the police? Will there be any action? You know, like checking if there are hospitals that do this?

The story of a...

My name is Ton. That’s right. Even I have always thought, “What did I do to deserve a dumb-ass name like that?” But I could do nothing about it, really. That was my name and I had to live my life with it. I was born into a big family with a lot of siblings. Our house was always full of people. Happy people. Whoever saw us, their faces lit up, much like our own.

I don’t remember the day I was born; but I distinctly remember the day my brothers and I were shoved by unknown men into a dark room that was surrounded by strange noises. It was suffocating in there. All of us were young and adventurous, and fear was not something we were familiar with. But we couldn’t wait to get outside and play.

In the dark, we couldn’t see each other’s faces. But we could all feel each other’s strength. That kept us alive and sane. We held each other when we felt low. No matter what happened, we all had each other for company, after all.

Then one day, as if by magic, a small ray of light entered the room and a few of my brothers were freed from the darkness. We were hoping that they would return to free us and describe to us what the outside world looked like, if it was really as brilliant as we had heard in stories that our parents used to tell us. But they never returned. Although most of us were worried sick about what the world would have done to them, I was plain furious.

How could our brothers leave us in distress and enjoy outside? Bloody traitors. They ought to have come back to free the rest of us.

My mood was as dark as the room itself.

Suddenly, there was some noise from outside the room. We heard men talking.

“I spoke to her all night, machi”, one was saying.

“You only spoke all night, no? Let me guess; you called her, right? If she had called the call would have been over in a matter of minutes”, said the other.

Bangalore Traffic

Almost a month after I went to Mumbai, it is now time for me to tell you what the hell has been going on since that fateful day. So I reached Mumbai, found my way to the hotel at midnight, made it to office the next morning on time. Everything was going great until two days I got a call from the husband back home at Bangalore telling me he wasn’t feeling well. Now whether he was sick because he was missing me or he partied too much and ended up falling sick, I can never be sure of.

So I got back to Bangalore to take care of him and have been here since then. So my Mumbai dreams came to an end in a week’s time.

Never to be the one bogged down my unexpected turn of events (I can almost see my mom’s lips curling up in a smirk and saying, “Yeah, right!”) – I have embraced my Bangalore office with a never before glee. Trying to cheer myself up by doing a things that I love doing – reading and writing. Not that I am making much progress in the latter as is evident from the (lack of) updates on this blog.

Another major event that has happened is that, much to the horror of my mom, I went ahead and bought for myself a Scooty to commute to office. It happened after a bad day in BMTC buses when I had at least 4 X 100 kg aunties falling on me. It is just ridiculous. Either there should be more buses in that route (wait, that’s not possible. Because there is just NO ROOM in the road for any more buses) or all companies should give 100% work from home option to their employees. Save some fuel for the next generation too.

That Tin Factory – K R Puram stretch is the one that is the most amazing bottleneck. It takes a full 20mins to cross that 1-1.5km stretch. That said, simple things done by BBMP can make the situation a lot better. The road right outside the railway station is a mess – which leads to the vehicles slowing down to make the impact of the bad road lesser – this at an already ridiculous bottleneck of a place! There are open sewage drains along the road (on the right hand side of the road). Can’t they be closed with cement planks so that they seem like an extension of the road providing the much needed space for at least the motorists? Also people should not be allowed to alight/board buses/cars right on the main road outside the railway station. And how difficult would it be to have an overhead bridge built for pedestrians to cross the road?

And the BBMP is not the only party that can change. There should be co-operation from the people as well. Most of the cars I see are occupied by one person only. In some rare cases, two. Why can’t people do car pooling? That way you save on fuel AND you get to travel in lighter traffic and reach your destination earlier.

Companies could have flexible timings to accommodate people arriving office early/late to avoid peak hour rush. Company shuttles and cabs could be provided at different timings to reduce time “wasted” in travel.

Simple solutions to complex problems; problems that take at least 20-30mins of about 2000 people’s mornings; time that could be used for more productive work. Will the solutions work? Hell, yes. Will they be implemented? Hehe, we all know our city corporations and ourseleves better.

Firsts

They say there is a first time to everything - anything great or trivial has to start from somewhere. And when I was chosen for an assignment that required me to travel quite often, I thought I have to start traveling without complaining, start packing by myself (else it has always been Amma/Sabal packing my bags for me - and I had to admit, I had a minor "Up In The Air" George Clooney feeling), start meeting new people with new cultures and different languages - it all gave me a whiff of excitement. But the negative thing was that is what it was - a whiff. If you have to survive in a different place for 12 or 14 weeks, a whiff is generally not enough.

But this assignment filled my life up with a lot of firsts - my first traveling job, my first assignment with a French team lead, my first month-long visit to Mumbai, my first long stay in an hotel - with so many exciting firsts, I also had a first that virtually my butt kicked by my mom.

I missed my flight – a first. It was the first time I had missed a bus or train or flight and it came at the most critical time ever. I am supposed to report at work at 8:30am tomorrow and my flight is rescheduled for 9:35pm from here – I would probably reach my hotel by midnight, if I am lucky. Phew!

Bad timing. But I have to hand it to myself – I have been most calm and positive through the whole thing. A far cry from my usual “analytical mind” that worries about everything and gets all worked up when things don’t go the way as planned. That was a first too (but it was probably because I wanted to show to my mom and others that I was in control of the situation to escape the aforementioned butt-kicking). Or maybe, just maybe, I am growing up and becoming more mature person, or something!

So, off to some awesome vada-pav at the awesome Mumbai!

PS: This post was written while waiting for the gates to open for boarding @ Bangalore airport and posted later.

Hangover

Disclaimer: This post is written in a state of heavy hangover caused due to my release from Philips. Although I had decided quite a while ago that I have to leave, now that it has happened I am unable to cope up with it. But like everything else, this too shall pass.

Things change and how quickly. It feels like yesterday that I stepped into Bangalore, knowing nothing about the city (not that I know anything substantial now), got into a new job, in a new office, with a new team. Two years have just run by. Two beautiful years – the years that saw me grow up (not physically, no), get married and all…

I have learnt a lot of things, had a whale of a time with a great team of colleagues, and now all that is part of my past. I have moved back to Atos, away from my team, away from Philips, all set to move to Mumbai on an assignment (although it is only for a few months).

A wise man once told me that when many years pass by and you wake up one morning and think about your past, you remember only the small things that gave you momentary happiness. Those are the memories you cherish, the memories that are part of your sub-conscious,the memories that will be with you always.

I am sure my stint at Philips is one of that sort – when I think about the last two years, I can see my team sitting at the cafeteria, laughing out loud amidst a lot of glares from the people in the other tables. I can see all of us pulling Krishna’s legs, asking about his (non-existent) girlfriend to his would-be wife. I can see all of us having coffee in the break-out area, laughing at what someone said. I can see all of us huddling at one of our desks trying to resolve an issue; I can see us walking around the campus with not a thing to worry about. Sigh, HOW things change!!!

It is very difficult now to sit and think about a new team, new people, new city, and new project. I wish I were with Philips still. Below is my rather philosophical good-bye email that I wrote on my last day.

"Permanency makes me uncomfortable. Change keeps me excited. Time has come for a change in my work.

So, today is my last day here in Philips. The last two years here have taught me a lot of things – in the technical area and in not-so-technical area.

It has been a fun experience being here in Philips – my sincere thanks to my team which has been very supportive and co-operative. Thanks to Krishna, Naveen, Vishnu, Lokesh, Raktim and Amit for making my time here easy and enjoyable.

My sincere thanks to Jack van Nistelrooij, Niek Schelhaas, Adrie Aertse, Ganesh Joshi & Rajkumar Jain – the senior managers I worked with – I have learnt a lot from each one of you.

Special thanks to Richard Ijzenbrandt, Maarten van der Poll, Ruben Zwetsloot, John Bastiaansen & the rest of the technical team – for being very patient with us when we asked them a million (dumb) questions.

Thanks to Sabareesh Kurup, Narayanan Sundaresan, Devendra Prasad Bolusani, Deepak Gidwani, Reetha & Srinivas Ganesan for providing all the support for the Atos team here.
I have made a large group of friends in PIC, I will miss them – Vijay Yogimath, Yogesh Babu, Deepti Rokde, Sapna Jain, Farah Shaikh, Balachandar, the list seems endless.

I am moving back to my parent organization (Atos) to start a new career with Lean Management – something far from the technical work I have done so far in my career.

It has been a tough decision because Philips was such a cozy nest. But if I stay on enjoying the warmth, I might never learn to fly."

That was what Philips was – a cozy nest. But I have decided to fly and I am out in the open – it is cold and my wings ache. But I will fly. Ok, this has become too philosophical now.If I talk any more philosophy, I run the risk of being considered drunk.

An excellent post this

A very touching post by Vidyut. It takes an amazing amount of courage to write about one's own experiences this way - *respect*

Domestic violence is not just about a drunk husband hitting his wife. Mental and verbal abuse is just as awful.

To all those women out there putting up with abusive husbands, YOU DON'T HAVE TO. You deserve to be happy.

http://aamjanata.com/my-experience-with-domestic-violence/