Leaving my first job

I was never career minded to begin with. I used to be one of those Indian girls (and trust me there are many) who keep 'career' as an option. The plan was to finish my studies and get married to some rich bloke and spend my life attending kitty parties, exhibitions, weddings and ofcourse be a hands-on mother. Yes, I know what that sounds like. So much for calling myself a 'feminist' all through college. Cliched as it may sound, oftentimes life has a different plan for you than you have for yourself.
 
Once I finished studying I decided I wanted to continue living in Delhi. My reasons were many - banishment to Assam, spending too much time in the middle of the tea gardens, my friends and most importantly the boyfriend. Considering I was living on a steady pocket-money-income from my parents, I had to figure out (and fast) what I would be doing in Delhi to stay on. So my cousin hooked me with an internship with O&M. Ofcourse I didn't realise that I was entering the organisation that was considered the mecca of advertising. That lakhs applied and select few ever made it into those hallowed offices. I took for granted almost immediately what people have later told me have been their 'dream' place to work in.
 
How 3.5 years passed since that first day, I cannot begin to fathom. It sure doesnt feel like that long a time. And in that time I have made friends that made me WANT to go to office everyday, that made me WANT to be there till 2AM chatting and chilling. It almost never felt like going to work. Ofcourse a large part of that was a team that let me get away with days of languid web browsing, too many cigarette breaks, gossip sessions that lasted longer than work meetings and regular movie screenings. I miss them as I write this and I certainly miss all the noise and fun. Its funny how that happens. I didn't realise till I put in my papers that I even considered these people 'friends' and I don't know when they became that. Not only was everyone friendly but they spent genuine time getting to know each other. There was always time for a smoke or egg maggi or ginger tea at the tea stall downstairs. Little things tend to pile up.
 
The largest part of my affection to that office though is tied up in one individual. I'm not going to spend more than a paragraph on him. That deserves an entire post of its own but no story about my time at O&M is complete without atleast a para. It started as one of those workplace crushes. He was on my floor, not on my team and if I had only let it be our paths would never have crossed. I'm not subtle though and he got to know and we texted and went for coffees and stole smiles and glances for the better part of a year. The girlfriend of 3 years always loomed in the background but this was an office dalliance. The kind that stays at the workplace and never converts to anything tangible and is lost in the whirlwind of anticipation. It makes office interesting and fun but rarely does anything more, except it did.
 
He's one of my reasons for leaving. One among many more. In my romanticized mind, the MOST important but if i'm honest not really. By default I was put in BTL advertising, a large part of which was rural, and while 80% of India's population is 'rural' and there's endless scope in terms of advertising it wasnt a field I had much interest in. Digital was what I wanted to do. I was half-heartedly applying to jobs, when one day a up and coming digital agency that I hadn't applied to called and I interviewed and I got the job. Who would've thought? I think it was a sign. The kind that comes rarely and if you take the chance it opens doors you always meant to open but were too comfartable where you were to ever actually do it. The indecision and stress that followed were unimaginable. I knew the move would be good career wise but I wanted to stay with my team and I had never worked anywhere else so needless to say I was nervous about whether I'd like my boss and what if I didn't get along with anyone. A lot of 'if's' and 'but's'.
 
Most of all though, I knew my pseudo office romance wouldn't sustain and I was already rife with expectations from a man who had a girlfriend, who no matter what he or I said was yanking my chain and may or may not be doing this with a dozen other women. If I didn't get out now while I was just in knee-deep muddy water, I would then be in quicksand. If I stayed though I would probably 'get' him (whatever that means). So for the first time in my life, I made the right decision. The ones that you make with your head and not your heart. The ones that seem like they're awful and impulsive and made too quickly but you know deep down you'd be regretful if you let them go. So I put in my papers, spent my last month spending enough time with friends, cried my heart out all of my last day and (physically atleast) moved on.

I'm here now. In my new office. In the 2nd week of my 2nd job. Its quiet and different and even though I've spent all this time complaining to everyone I meet, i'm sort of settling in. It'll never be Ogilvy but then nothing will ever compare. I'm making friends and staying quiet and after 3.5 years making a first impression. I've gone back to visit and I feel renewed potent nostalgia but maybe what Marilyn Monroe said about good things falling apart so better things can fall together is after all the truth.

I will just have to wait and see.

Do you see me?

It’s why I text. To remind you to not forget I exist. Yes, you do need reminding. That in itself makes me sad. How inconsequential am I to you, that you need reminding of my existence, inspite of seeing me everyday?

Which leads me to the important question. Do you see me?
 

It’s a dramatic question, I know. Of course, you see me, physically speaking. I’m a person who exists in your life, if only on the periphery, and I’m not going to magically disappear because you don’t take the time to notice who I am. But I have this feeling that you have a sort of selective vision, that you’re happy to come in and out of things. When you speak to me for a few precious days, a few (so few) moments, acknowledging my existence, I can almost convince myself that you really do see me, that you know I’m here. But then you retreat back into your comfortable silence, your precious distance, and I am reminded that you don’t.

You are simply able to forget about me, to render me invisible, a dot on the horizon that you can take a pleasant stroll to visit when it is convenient. Something that amuses you. Like a love lorn dog in need of constant attention, that you choose to ignore when you don't have the time or bent of mind. I am not in your inner circle, nowhere near enough to cause you actual harm. So I sit here, yelling at the top of my lungs to get you to turn around, waving flares against the night sky and shouting your name. You might turn around, but you’ll never really look at me.

With you, it often feels like those dreams where you want to say something — want to scream, want to get a point across, want to be heard — and your open mouth refuses to make a sound. There is some incredibly small, seemingly simple task you want to accomplish and you just can’t do it for whatever reason. I mean sending a text to you is like praying. One does it fervently, sending it out into the world on pure faith. Hoping everytime that that you’ve read it, heard the message i’m trying to convey, wishing that there’ll be a reply. But like all things based on faith, you know a reply may never come, nor may absolution. 

I know that it’s not easy to look someone in the eye and tell them how you feel (or reject them, even, if that’s what needs to be done) but it is the kind thing to do. It is the honest, human thing to do. Because letting someone linger in a purgatory where they are never quite seen or heard — where they are constantly left questioning whether a perceived subtext was all in their heads or based in reality — is cruel and unusual punishment. I want to know that you see me, that you know what I look like, even if you don’t like it. I want to know that you’ve remembered our interactions, that they hold a significance in your mind, even if it’s not the kind of significance I want them to have. Because I have gone hoarse screaming into the wind in your general direction.

It’s easy to forget me. It’s easy to pretend that I’m not here when you don’t want to see me. And I can see how it must be tempting, how it must stroke your ego and remind you that you have power over people whose existence you barely consider. Just remember, on those days that you forget me, I am rejected, embarrassed and insulted all at the same time.

I know. I tell myself everyday "Silly girl, what makes you think he cares?"

You can lift me up in an instant, and yet you destroy me without even trying.

Adopted and adapted from http://thoughtcatalog.com

First Glimpse

Chapter 3

Rick and Marissa walked out with meagre goods. They had immediately liked the quiet town and wanted an excuse to make trips there. Rick had started to put things back as soon as she filled the cart with enough stores to last a war. She understood. She was already glad they had come. Even though they had come in miffed, she was already beginning to re-discover the things she had loved about him. The things she had forgotten in a whirl of champagne, fairy lights, loud music and well meaning friends.

Mr. Pierce saw her smile lovingly at her husband and frowned. He was a quiet old man who had never been fond of new arrivals. He firmly believed that they spoilt the serenity of the town and stirred excitement amongst its people. Especially young, adventerous couples. Always poking their noses into everything and wanting to make friends. No, Mr. Pierce was not fond of exciting things. And Marissa and Rick seemed to be the type of people who couldn't survive without a little bit of excitement. Mr. Pierce was not wrong. But still he took to Marissa's childlike banter and Rick's quiet, polite ways. He would tell the townspeople later that he knew then that they were good people.

Mr. Pierce was almost beaming by the time the roadster made its way out of town. He had seen the looks on the faces of the cobbler, the innkeeper, the woodsman, the butcher and the mechanic. His closest friend's could not believe that he had befriended strangers. He chuckled to himself as he thought of the free rounds he would get at the inn tonight.

Soon they reached a winding, narrow, treacherous, overgrown path. If Mr. Pierce had not pointed out the turn, Rick would never have known a road existed. On one side was a steep cliff and on the other a steep rise. A slight mistep and they would hurtle down to their deaths. Marissa held her tongue and breath as Rick manouvered the roadster, its silver rims teetering too close to the edge. He made a silent note to get them bicycles tomorrow. The roadster was way too dangerous to use on this path. Sleepstone Manor was still not in sight and it was fast getting dark. A quiet chill had fallen and the fog was descending rapidly. RIck fought his urge to go faster. Obviously by this time they would've liked to turn around but that was not an option. Marissa gripped the handle on the side of the door till her knuckles were white. Out of the corner of her eyes she could see Ricks knuckles on the steering wheel were just as bloodless.

She slowly turned to Mr. Pierce and asked him about Sleepstone Manor. Mr. Pierce looked pale but it did not seem to be because of the road, rather his eyes were fixed at something beyound the pine trees, something he knew was there but was not yet in sight. He almost stage whispered his reply. "The tales, Mrs. Applecombe, they say are fables. To keep vandals and teenagers from troubling the groundskeeper, but....". Marissa froze. "But what, Mr. Pierce?". Mr. Pierce shook his head as if forcefully waking himself up. "But, noone has ever seen anything hereabouts, so you needn't worry Mrs. Applecombe. It's a beautiful house. Mr & Mrs. Radickson, the tenants before you? No, you havn't heard of them i'm sure. Well, they loved to entertain. We all miss them. We are glad that you have come for the summer. Now look ahead. Sleepstone Manor should be coming up right round this bend."

Marissa looked forward but she could sense the forced upbeat note in Mr. Pierce's voice.  She had not heard any tales. Infact all their parents had told them when they were shuttling them off was that the manor had belonged to a friend of Rick's grandfather. The man had died without any issue and left his grandfather the property to do with it as he wanted. It had been given out to various tenants over the years but noone stayed long. Noone had said anything about 'tales'.

She saw Rick's worried expression but she didn't push the topic. Later she wondered why not. Perhaps she didn't want to know or perhaps as Sleepstone Manor loomed ahead she caught her breath once again.

Tony Stark v/s Bruce Wayne

Iron Man and Batman are at this moment my two favourite super heroes. I watched The Dark Knight Rises yesterday and as epic as Christopher Nolan's interpretation of the comic is, the last installation was a bit of a let down. Boring in parts, too much happening in others and in general a little scattered. But all in all his Batman is a reflection of our times. His dark, thrilling interpretation is more realistic than that of any other superhero.

My favourite thing about both these superheroes is that they are grounded, 'human' so to speak supported and purported by technology. They do not have god given powers like Spiderman or Superman but rise on the basis of the technology they use, their 'suits' and ofcourse staggering wealth. It makes us believe that we could be them if we had all of the above - in short if we were extremely nice looking, fit, tech savvy billionaires.

But as superheroes and their film interpretations go they could not be more different. Their difference lies not in the suits they put on, though they are a reflection of who they are but in the character difference between Bruce Wayne and Tony Stark. They have their similarities - the money, the toys, saving-the-world-phenomena, the parents that they lost when they were young, the companies they run. It plays out like modern man's ruinous dream. But where Wayne is dark and brooding, Stark is known for his quick wit and one-liners. Where Wayne takes himself too seriously, is modest and careful to keep his identity hidden, Stark is almost irritatingly flippant and for lack of a better word, a show-off. And this reflects in the superheroes we love so much.

Batman has the most iconic villians in comic book history while Iron Man is the new kid on the block. One can argue that his villians make him. Batman on his own is not all that we perceive him to be, while Iron Man is very much his own man - he "owns' his suit so to speak. His shiny iron suit reflects his flamboyance while Batman's caped black number reflects his burden to wear the mask. Ironman is a playboy by nature, its never an act, while Wayne makes a conscious decision to project himself as a playboy billionaire. Iron Man makes his own suit, has his secretary as a love interest while Batman relies on Fox and Alfred plays the secretary though thankfully not the love interest.  Both are constant, grounded, voices of reason to these powerful or more correctly power hungry men.

Iron Man leads us to LA but doesn't explore it. His villians are international terrorists and his desire to don the Ironman suit stems from that. Batman leads us into an obviously New York City-based underbelly of Gotham, unveiling and playing with the concept of fear, anarchy and chaos as real ideas and alter egos of ones self. He broods us into boredom but rises to epic proportions. Unlike Iron Man where you can write a text message, eat some popcorn and come back to the movie, Nolan's Batman draws you in, he engages you. Iron Man is a feel good movie, that you go out discussing happily with friends while Batman makes you introspective and serious.

As similar as they are, their differences stand in stark contrast. If you make me choose, i'd be torn. They play out like almost two separate genres. Just maybe Iron Man in Nolan's hands can be what Batman is or vice-versa but where's the fun in that. Each feeds separate parts of our intellect and both are highly enjoyable.

British Royalty - So messed up!

If you know me, actually know me, you know that I have a weird, almost fanatical obsession with the British royal family. This is not just present day royals (as past posts may allude to) but all of British royal history. I havn't yet figured out if this unhealthy preoccupation stems from the romantic notion of 'royalty', 'palaces', 'crowns' etc or from their lives that play out like soap operas but most likely can have begun with Princess Diana. I watch period movies constantly, infact some of them are in my list of go-to comfort movies. I follow numerous blogs on the monarchy, even the newer ones that only follow the present Duchess of Cambridge's fashion (I generally love what she wears, but I cringe when I see just how 'commonly' she's dressed as compared to her husband's ancestors. Definitely unlike a Duchess). I've watched most of the BBC series, read the books, even the fictional crass ones by Catherine Coultier and not so crass ones by Victoria Holt. And as a rule I google stuff when i'm watching/reading period anything to see how much is fictionalized.

Today, I spent the day feeding my obsession. I watched 5 films (Young Victoria, King's Speech, Her Majesty, Mrs. Brown, The Countess and The Duchess), then googled/wiki-ed them all and now I sit down to write this. Not the perfect way for a 24 year old to spend a Saturday! I now know most of what went down since before Victoria became Queen down to  Prince Harry. Infact, I know everything about the cousin's, the Duke's and Duchesses and Lady's and Earl's and Countesses. I can rattle off who married whom and why someone like Louise (all of 7) is not fashioned HRH Princess Louise but just as Lady Louise Windsor. Hell, i might even be able to tell you who her godparents are! 

Obviously I need a new hobby!

But while i'm still on this - Almost everything the royal family owns still and did before Cromwell decided the monarchy is redundant, is stolen from someone. I mean even the 'coronation chair' on which almost every king/queen we can think of ascended the throne was made by King Edward with the stolen Stone of Scone. The Kohinoor they took from us, a million other stones from Africa as well as the crown jewels of the Scottish, Irish and the Welsh! 

What irks me the most however is the British Queen is actually German! Google it! It comes in the drop down suggestions (how german is the queen). Victoria's mother was German (House of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha), incidentally the same house as her husband Prince Albert which makes her entire line of descendants German. Even her father's ancestors were from a mixed ancestry from Denmark, Prussia and God alone knows where else. King George V changed the name to Windsor during the war because it was too Germanic! The reigning Queen has an ancestry of madness, hemophilia, pedophilia, unnatural longevity, beheading, looting, raiding and a number of other horrific things. (I'm beginning to wonder if Kate made a wise albeit suitably informed decision to marry into this family!)

So her husband, His Royal Highness Prince William Arthur Philip Louis, Duke of Cambridge, Earl of Strathearn, Baron Carrickfergus, Royal Knight Companion of the Most Noble Order of the Garter, Knight of the Most Ancient and Most Noble Order of the Thistle, the balding Prince we know simply as Wills is basically German and Greek from his father's side (Prince Philip is Greek and Danish I think). Incidentally, the most amount of British blood this future King of England has is from his mother Diana, Princess of Wales nee The Lady Diana Frances Spencer whose father's and now brother's title, Earl Spencer, was created in 1765, along with the title Viscount Althorp, by King George III. 

It is believed that when Prince Philip told Diana that if she did not behave herself her title would be taken away. She retorted saying her title was older than his. You have to give it to Diana to have the last word.

The Middletons

I am seriously beginning to envy this family. How did they get so lucky?

Kate was lucky enough to go to St. Andrews where the future King of England happened to also be studying. Without any effort she managed to capture his heart albeit via a see-through dress. (I doubt the Queen finds that a funny story!) And now she is Duchess of Cambridge, future Queen and style icon. I'm not complaining. Personally, I think she's affable and adorable and most of the time I love what she wears (especially the Zara, Jenny Packham & Alexander McQueen ensembles). I am well under the spell of what is now called the "Kate Effect".

Pippa may have got into the limelight because of her sister. But she may just be doing it better than Kate. Among her many link ups, (and I fervently pray Harry isn't one of them because he deserves better) is the Earl Percy, future Duke of Northumberland who will get the Duchy of Northumberland valued at £300 mllion, Alnwick Castle (The Harry Potter one, also my favourite, and the 2nd largest lived-in castle after Windsor), Syon Park and land in Scotland & Surrey. Plus he's a catch, not the party types but more adventurous and down-to-earth (again I don't think Pippa deserves him but then I'm biased. I always did like Kate and not Pippa). How and where did she meet him? They both studied in Edinburgh University and even shared the same flat. Earl Percy is apparently besotted with Pippa. And she has it better because she'll have all the trappings of a Royal without any of the troublesome duties that her sister has to perform.

How? How is it possible that the daughters of two flight attendants managed to bag Britains most eligible bachelors? The parents must be sitting at home all smug. I mean for heaven's sake their mother came from a family of miners and now is lady of a chalet in which Viscount Bolingbroke lived, has a royal Coat of Arms and is regularly invited to Windsor Castle for tete-a-tete with the Queen herself.

Talk about fairytales coming true. It seems everyone in this family is suddenly the talk of the town. The only blimp at the moment is brother James, but how bad could it really be for his cake business that his big sister will be Queen someday.

Death March

Waiting on crowded platforms, fighting to get into a train to go to the one place I'd rather not go to.

Clambering, half dead, already waiting for the day to get over.

Packed into tiny compartments like canned meat. More people get on than get out. Each trudging to a different slaughter house, to dictators on power trips that create for us our personal hells.

Lines that lead to trains to take you to "work". Modern day corporate concentration camps. Ultimately marching to our untimely demise. A death march of sorts.