An elderly who wants to work on holidays too

When you love what you do, then it's no more a job; you are on perpetual vacation. If this uplifting statement is true then I haven't seen - in the real or virtual world - anyone in the recent past who loves his/her job.

People were eagerly waiting for a couple of public holidays for Eid Al Fitr and lo! it fell on July 17 - a Friday, that's the default weekly day off in the Middle East.

On July 16, we had guests over for dinner. The young professionals in their denims and shorts was restless as the sun set. They sat iPhones in hand, nursing nervous energy. Hoping. Not wanting to see the breaking news of the Crescent spotted. "I wanted to catch up on my sleep…," said the girl gulping down her drink. "This is so unfair," echoed another lighting his stick.

I wished at least five friends 'Eid Mubarak!' and this is how most conversation began..."Ah. Same to you. So one holiday gone...; It just doesn't feel like a holiday..." Sigh!

Invariably all of them also cribbed about returning to the normal 8-hour work days. But for an acquaintance, who woke us up on Eid morning, to check if we are available.

The short-built man walked-in, shirt clinging to his perspiring chest as did the baggy trousers to his wiry legs. The 55-year-old plonked on the sofa, straightened his back and pulled a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and wiped his face, neck, patted his bald head. He drank a glass of warm water ["I have throat irritation..."] and began. Whining. "How unfortunate...this is such a loss… I get double-over-time on Fridays… the calculation will go wrong...supervisor had told that he'll mark me for duty today...but the entire company is closed...tomorrow only one shift...work is plenty, why can't they let us work?!"

Does he love his job so much or are adages not applicable for the semi-skilled and unskilled class?

"When you go home, can you fetch my medicine…It's paining a lot now...I can't stand for more than an hour... because supervisor is my roommate...I sit down every two hours... it's difficult.. my specs power is changing... can't do now...September only..." thus he continued his monologue.

He's a fabricator. Was a fabricator. Has always been one for the last 30+years. And will continue being one until the company decides otherwise for him.

In the name of earning a living, providing for the family, meeting liabilities one ages and falls ill and not learn anything new or sharpen their acquired skill or take risks to see new lawns.

"At this age..." another acquaintance trailed off, when I asked as to why he hadn’t thought of looking for a better job earlier. A shop-assistant for the last 25 years, he's now under tremendous pressure as the shop's closing and in his words "I've got a family to feed".

Is it only food that children need? I held myself from asking. 

Adages for the un/semi-skilled are, indeed, different 

Who's to blame? Situations, family, time, fate, destiny. Why are some people so complacent in their prime and crib into their old age?

Change, for your own sake. Make an attempt to do something that'll make your life a little better. If you fail, at least you've put your best efforts. The best you would accomplish is some respect for yourself. Until you respect yourself how on earth can you expect any one else to respect you! And if you fail in your trials, there are only two possibilities: Either you start valuing your current position and give it all your best and thus invariably progress. Or you'll never stop trying for newer pastures until you find your feet on newer lawns.

But NO! Trying something fresh, learning something new is wasting money. Wasting time. "At least now, I'm sure I'm getting this much, What if...?" It's only when the water drowns their nose that they act. And act they will. Burrow deep into their own shit and blame long-dead parents, family, situations, even economy and government - but not themselves.

Have you noticed these are the types that give sermons on social correctness? In reality they are wriggling to hide their lack - their lack of faith in themselves, their lack of courage to dream of a better life. They work clock-like...at a certain age no matter how dependent or independent they are, they will seek a partner. And bring forth more life on earth.

Those who cannot live a 'decent' life - as in live a life without complaining - have no moral right to produce kids. If you do not have the nerve and spine to provide for your family, please for Pete's sake do not commit. And if you do, you bloody well provide for your kids and not just "feed them" and turn them into your prototype. Amoebas do that.

This goes for women, too. If you do not have the nerve and spine to stand on your own two feet do not pile yourself on a man and expect him to take care of you.

I hate people, especially those with grown-up kids, who complain about their long-serving jobs. The height and weight your kids have put on are the number of years you've wasted heating your asses. 

Don't pity those who complain about long-serving jobs

Yes, there are exceptions and situations beyond one's control. But those who choose to be stuck in a job for decades without progress and continue complaining without ever once making an effort to change their condition, deserve no pity or sympathy.

As for loving one's job... I believe everyone needs a break. No matter how much they love their job.

I do not subscribe to life coaches who say breathe in and breathe out your passion; eat, drink and snore your dream. If you are a family person - if you have a spouse and kids - then you ought to take breaks. Breaks from your passion, too. Else, you should have chosen to be married to your passion. If you skipped making that choice earlier in life, then you are being irresponsible to the souls you brought forth to this earth.

Well, I'm looking forward to the next holiday. But definitely not living for it.

To all frustrated dream chasers... here's my experience!

Believe in your dreams

I’ve been blogging for the last about 4 years. But nothing prepared me for the reach I am now enjoying. 

There have been times when I stopped frustrated at having no readers. I switched topics and tried everything from satire and comments to politics, education, gossip and advices.

Through my experiments, I discovered that it’s when I write/speak about myself that I receive more audience. The more honest I am with myself, the more readers I attract. 

And so almost a year back I changed the name of my blog to ‘Uncensored’ and have been baring my soul out here since. This is shamelessly me. Absolutely no hypocrisy in here.

So much so acquaintances are now guarded in my presence. “Be careful, you’ll be blogged!” is the common refrain I hear now. I intent no harm. It’s only my impressionable heart, which soaks in the human-ness of those around, the lack of it and often the flakiness of it all that reacts with the aim of inspiring eager minds.

But how do I define the reach of this post? 

A coincidence or Universe at its best? Because as a teenager, I wanted my parents known through my words – that was my dream for them. It took four long years for one of my posts to break boundaries and fetch me worldwide readers. And that happens to be one in which I also talk about my parents.

I now say with ever more conviction folks - Dream and believe in your dreams; have faith in the Divine, and just continue doing what you love to do, fruits will bloom when the time is ripe.

I love you all for the time and effort you take to stop by my space.

Ever in gratitude to each one of you!

Lots of love,

Am I a good mom?

The husband wasn’t in his elements since a week. As the day drew close, he switched off, his diet parted ways, and as the clock started ticking he used the washroom more, too.

Our baby was going to travel alone. Her first international travel solo @13!

I attempted to be busy so as not to affect her and maintain some semblance at home. But my girl was as chirpy and lively as only she can be. Busy packing, repacking, modelling and making mock videos like her current favourite YouTuber Zoella.

The better part on the day of travel I spent reminding her to keep the passport safe, the keys, phone… which she dismissed with the same air as she does my finish-your-cornflakes-make-your-bed-put-your-stuff-back… instructions.

Finally at the airport… I had to ask for a hug. “Oh mama! You want a huggie,” she said and wrapped her long arms around me saying, “be a good girl, mama!” And she walked off excitedly, while I stood silently praying to the Divine to keep her safe.

 

At the airport...before I could ask for a hug

I returned home and sat wide awake into the wee hours until the take-off time. Later, my friend laughed, asking: “Crazy you. Didn’t you have an early morning the next day…”

But crazy and more I am. I was. And I will be.

Over a decade back, in 2002, on a chilly December night I stood weeping at the Dubai airport watching my one-year-old being carried away from me. Those were the years when the system had failed me. And people, too. Women especially. But none saw my tears. That I was determined about. Not even my family.

With no visa to sponsor our baby, we decided to let my mom take her while I stayed back to switch job. The toughest decision I have taken to date. I was called a hard-hearted person; accused of being too selfish… “Career can be made later. Not kids,” said a friend. A woman colleague even exclaimed, “Are you a mother!”

The taunts haven’t stopped. Even now old-timers find me a classic example for anything related to motherhood. One of them said at a recent gathering, “Nisha! she’s a different make. Imagine staying away from your newborn…” the laughter and expert comments at the lunch table continued, while I switched off as I’ve mastered that art effectively over the years.

But my mastery makes all know-it-all-women believe I deserve their advice. When my girl was asking her dad a doubt in Math, a friend who was at home, said: “Why are you wasting her time with subjects like algebra… children need to do what they love to do…” I can’t remember if I laughed.

On another occasion, on hearing my girl talk about her classmates, she spat, “Take her away from that damn school! Why don’t you put her in…”

Every time, I am privy to such accusatory comments, I wait for the night to fall, when my girl comes over to give me her good-night kiss. Those nights I hug my baby tight and thank the Divine for giving me such a wonderful child. I turn over, pretending sleep, so she walks off to her bedroom quickly. And then I let it flow under the covers….silently… I’ll let the world spew on me. I’ll soak it all in…silently... praying my baby blooms into a beautiful lady with a heart to understand people, women, especially!

50 shades of Toastmasters

None can shake me like a rug to shed my real self. It's intrinsically woven like the finest silk threads that make a distinguished carpet.

Why am I speaking thus? Was I treated like one? That unique Persian carpet! Or a mat - a doormat? Several people, I have lost count now, have labelled, classified and spoken to me (read: talked me down) - only because I was being ME.

Is it necessary to give tit for tat? Or even rave about one's knowledge at the drop of the other's breath? Being a listener - giving a patient ear to another human - Or being accommodative - understanding another's need - is considered a weakness in today's so-called kickass world.

Mentioning every single incident would call for at least a novella, and covering all spheres of my life would require a wider canvas, so let me mention just a couple of instances from a very small part of my life - Toastmasters (TM). Why Toastmasters? Simply because this is the season of TMs. 

Give first before you grab! Learn first before you take!

Three years back when I joined Toastmasters club one senior TM, whom I considered one of my mentors until I decided to scrap the title I bestowed upon him - would give me his feedback after every single performance of mine. He dissected my speech, gave me tips, advices and a year later, tired of asking me to smile when speaking, threatened that he would get me debarred if I didn't smile when delivering speeches. He taught me the importance of appearing 'pleasant' in front of an audience - no matter what the speech topic and my state of mind.

Well, recently I happened to evaluate his advanced speech. Truth be told, I was dry nervous. My insides shaking like a leaf in wild monsoon. Called the Divine to see me through and set on the podium. Lo! I won the best evaluator award. He didn't make eye contact. He stopped giving me feedback. Worse, he did not smile when we met during subsequent meetings. 

Toastmasters will help you discover your real self!

In another instance... A senior lady TM caught me in the lift one evening after a meeting and spoke at length of the partiality at the club. She lectured on how the President should be setting an example and how he should follow Toastmaster International rules. [The President had over-ruled and allowed a newcomer who overshot his time to contest for the 'best speaker' award]

A couple of weeks later, a similar situation replayed. But this time, the lady TM herself had overshot her allotted time. Once again the President overruled, and pronounced her eligible to contest. She was all smiles when collecting the best evaluator award!

My tryst with Newsletter

 

In the most recent incident... playing the Editor of the Newsletter was an eye-opening experience. But one, which I enjoyed to the helm. Being an adhoc event, the 40-page magazine was literally put together in one week. Three weeks before the deadline, I began saying, informing, alerting, messaging, emailing the Chair about the consequences of the committee’s continued indecision and constant revisions. "But changes are inevitable," he maintained and assured, "Oye, we are one team." Every other day, he called. He shared with me his hectic schedules, the pressure, the immense responsibility on his shoulders... I heard him out, sympathized and assured to do all I could.

Two days before the event, he called with more revisions. This time, I requested not to make any more changes. It was our last chance of making it to the press. Please don't! I pleaded. He gave me a lengthy explanation as to the importance of incorporating them. 

Did I have a choice? May be, I could have put my foot down and walked out of the project. My conscience nudged at playing a spoilsport at the nth hour. I accommodated.

Well, the following morning -  one day before the event - when the copies were still at the printer, he sounded different. He demanded delivery. I reminded him of the number of times I had told him of having to face this day over the last month, and he shot back: "but you were not strong enough".

Excuse me! 

"This is me. I don't bully people, nor do I sweet-talk them into doing things for me."

I doubt if he understood, because he replied: "How can you even complain...you did the least work."
 
It doesn't matter. Because for a few unpleasant ones there are hordes of selfless virtuous souls in the world of Toastmasters. I've once again lost count of the number people who wrote to me, called me and personally shared their opinion on the work I did. 

I've been blessed to have mentors and am fortunate to have made wonderful friends in my three years as a Toastmaster, who see me through even in my personal dilemmas.


Oh, yes, to some Toastmasters is only a networking web. I dislike the breed that join the forum only with the intention of selling themselves. 

Give first before you grab! Or least, learn first before you take!!

For me, Toastmasters is also a forum that will test your morale and morals, a place that will chisel your conscience, and help you discover your real self and give you a choice to colour your life in shades varied. 

IIFA showcases another great Indian divide on global stage

Column grab...

 

Indians cry hoarse when Hollywood directors show our slums. They are damaging India's image; it's in bad taste; this is not the real India...Headlines scream out, channels pan out and film critics mince no words.

Then what do we do about it? Watch those movies, shout for some time and move on until someone else comes along. But, of late, as our actors are crossing over more frequently than before, we take heart and say, 'yes, we have arrived'! IIFA also seems to announce the same and further sooth the Indian ego.

Set up in 2000, it has been globe-trotting with an entire galaxy of glitterati  - from mega stars and super stars to the just-arrived starlets and the outdated and near-expiry ones to showcase what it claims 'Indian' films to world audience. Kudos to the academy for naming the awards aptly - The International Indian Film Academy Awards!

The IIFA act raises two pertinent questions - do we feel hurt or insulted when foreign directors show the poor shades of India or is it an inferiority complex in us, trying to compare ourselves to Hollywood? Else why should only the Bollywood glitz be presented to the world.

Bollywood may be the face of Indian cinema but it definitely does not represent Indian cinema at large. There are hordes of excellent films being made across the country each year, not to forget the versatile actors in other languages.

When India has no dearth of talent, why showcase only Hindi movies and Bollywood actors? It's time IIFA presents the real mosaic of country's film fraternity if the academy needs to be true to its name.

But that will take a lot of courage because old habits die hard. If the Bollywood bandwagon aka IIFA brainstormers care to change themselves they can begin by taking the most obvious cue out from their dream land. There are no mega stars and super stars in Hollywood. Only actors or artists. Think of what India would be sans stars!

Aping can be done either clumsily or with élan. If the 'Bollywood Oscar Academy' believes only Bollywood glitterati can be compared to Hollywood sheen, so be it. Let the Kapoors and Bachchans and Khans endorse a few regional picks and let the world see the true dimensions and reach of the true Indian cinema. And to begin with stop referring to regional films as the 'poorer cousins of Bollywood'.

Sadly, IIFA is putting yet another great Indian divide on the global stage - 'The glitz divide'! As if we didn't have enough already. Beginning with the Aryan-Dravidian divide; the urban-rural divide; the north-south divide, the rich-poor divide...the list only seems to get longer as the nation progresses. Little wonder foreigners film our country and describe it to their whim and fly out with impunity.

 

Shades of adult morality

Yesterday as we sat for our customary tea break (exclusive mom-daughter time that both of us hate missing out on) my girl briefed me about her day at school. And at one point refused to tell me how much her best friend scored in her test paper, because she promised her not to disclose the numbers to anyone. Nobody! 

“I’m your mom,” I tried.

“So?”

“How can you hide anything at all from me?”

“I promised her, I’ll not tell anyone. Nobody.” She stood her ground.

She had told me last week that her best friend wept after giving one of her papers. So it was a casual query to know if the girl managed okay numbers. But my child was not only adamant in not sharing her marks, but, upon insisting, asked me what I would gain by knowing her friend’s numbers.

A slap to my consciousness that was. I pondered why I insisted. No gain. Just vain. I withdrew with an ‘I love you kiss!

Later I got a call from one of the members of a NPO I’m associated with – a partnership that has been proving to be an eye-opener off late. Being a non-profit set-up, each penny is accounted for. Rightly so. And each half-a penny is haggled for, too, with communication skills unpeeling startling euphemisms for my untrained mind. Is it required to cut corners with lies? Aren’t there people around who would help you if you say it as it is? Is it that difficult to be morally conscious when working in a group?

There’s no right and wrong...that's the irony of morality! 

Now, that gets me to the mute game of passing the baton that happens every single day in the name of keeping the wolf off the doors. Each one at the workplace is over-loaded [that they sigh eight hours a day] with tasks, but none with responsibility! Each one is ever-ready for the war, up on their feet at all times to buck the baton, lest it rests on them. If only they utilized that energy to concentrate in executing their duties, the place would turn heaven on earth.

In fact, my heavenly haven has been intruded by well-meaning immoral characters, too, at times. Friends who’ve proclaimed they had my best interests in mind and fell apart when I didn’t heed to their suggestions on projects I took up. And would later learn they had haggled for the same work. A couple of them who invaded my life, sang my credentials and made me feel special only to distance themselves when they eventually realised I’m not ‘well-connected’. And yet others who closely monitor my social media accounts and call up only to check whenever a ‘who’s who’ comments and then I’m their best buddy… until, of course… 

Morality is colourless, odourless, tasteless... taking the shades, shape and smell of the bearer!

None of them are wrong. And that’s the irony of morality. There’s no right and wrong. No definitions, either. It’s only perceptions at best. A perception that becomes invincibly adulterated in adult lives that it becomes a mystery. Shaded in hues varied to define smartness and efficiency as deem the needs, morality is abused as naivety, foolishness and ineptness. Adults who stay loyal to it are either considered too simple to understand ways of the world or are considered too dangerous to be acquainted with. 

Morality is a responsibility that defines a character!

Yet, the same morality sits so beautifully within children keeping them buoyant. Morality is a responsibility that defines a character! It is colourless, odourless and tasteless taking the shades, shape and smell of the bearer. 

If only I knew where enroute in one’s way to adulthood, at which exact point, morality morphs into an insensitive, shameless sword of Damocles that thwarts relationships, I would then lay my life at the spot and protect my child and safeguard the treasure in her from being usurped.

Life must go on!

Courtesy: Hitavada

Recently when I changed my Whatsapp profile picture, one of my friends messaged: ‘U luk like Indian housewife.’

My mom’s damn sure of my dad and am crazily proud of my lineage and yes I'm a wife at home, I screamed into the mobile, when she pinged ‘let ur hair down, y clip it, u luk old…’ So I let her chuckle and replaced the picture with one where I sported sindhoor on my forehead.

Marriage has this uncanny nature of inadvertent compulsiveness. So for years I wore only pleated pants and skirts because I was made to believe that not all body parts of mine were matured in feminine proportion to hold form-fitting jeans. Until supermodels awakened me when they walked the ramp in my living room and I wondered aloud where their legs ended and hips began. For long I never wore leggings, too, for similar reasons after being made conscious of my disproportionate scrawny legs. Until our family friend, with well-rounded derriere in coloured capris, enrolled for Pilates classes for lean legs.

However, I’m yet to hold a mirror to women. I was diagnosed as having a weak core by a self-obsessed friend, who never tired advising me the importance of gym, pranayams in the balcony and eating greens. “Salads are my meals… I hardly cook…,” she drawled at my dining table helping herself to butter chicken and dal makhani, saying, ‘this is why I loouve coming to your place…slurp’!

Just this morning a self-obsessed cousin took me by my hair. “Gosh this is so not done what the hell was she thinking and you just let her do this even the grocery sachets give better shades omy I need to take you to my stylist ohno this is so dirty red…” when she paused to breathe, I replied, “I'm happy with my new hairdo.” With a shrug, she said, “Whatever, I was on my way to Mrs Kapur. Our new villa interiors I want it Feng Shui proof…”

We continue on our ride thus, even when the tectonic plates choose to pull the plugs from under our feet at its whim. Millions in Nepal and India today couldn’t be bothered of calories on their plates or if their nails are painted. They would only be grateful to be alive, to be breathing, to be holding their kids, yearning to be able to sleep without nightmares.

Feigning ignorance of the fragility of our existence, we forget to let live and all the same profess ‘life must go on'. Whoever coined the quote should have been chronically self-obsessed a person. Time to Google its origin!