Being fireman
Doin 'big boy' things
Colouring furiously
And on days when mamma is in a good mood and doesn't mind the mess, even playing with mud or to put it properly 'gardening' :)
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Days with the monkey...
Are largely spent
Being fireman
Doin 'big boy' things
Colouring furiously
And on days when mamma is in a good mood and doesn't mind the mess, even playing with mud or to put it properly 'gardening' :)
Being fireman
Doin 'big boy' things
Colouring furiously
And on days when mamma is in a good mood and doesn't mind the mess, even playing with mud or to put it properly 'gardening' :)
Sunday, October 25, 2009
You still have the Zen?
The question threw me off balance. It was after all loaded with surprise, unsaid hints and expectation. The hint was to provide them with an explanation as to why, like most of our friends, acquaintances and social circle, we han't traded our old car for something better and obviously, bigger. The expectation was that we should have. After all, if we could dine at the Blue Ginger* and visit Umrika on holiday, the least we could do was to get ourselves a big car, couldn't we?
Nothing probably highlights aspiration levels in our society as the transition from the small to the big car. It's seen as a step towards being upper class, from small fry to higher-mid if not top management. And it's a great thing, really. Just that it may not be the top agenda on everyone's list of the moment, simply because other people feel it can catapult you into a social higher-up.
But because most people believe they need to cast you into some social slot, the car question is mandatory to ask. During a school run, I ask one of the mums living nearby if I could offer her a lift as her car has broken down. "Thanks," she says, sliding into the seat, "How does your husband commute to work? Does he take the other car?"
"This is our only car," I tell her. "Oh," she says before telling me a sweet story about her dad's Maruti she learnt to drive around in and culminating in "sent it to his dad in Delhi after we bought the (Honda) City."
Subtlety is the name of the game here. "Could you drop R home after they finish playing please? My husband's taken the other car and the Corolla has gone for servicing," says the voice on the phone. Perhaps I'm reading more than what's required into it, but I love the way the 'Corolla' is mentioned and not the other car, which being an Alto, probably doesn't cut the size limit.
Of course, as my dear husband, who's oblivious to all these innuendos (and thinks only I can hear them) believes, I could be horribly, horribly wrong and people may just be mentioning matter of fact things. But some things are a given nowadays if you need to maintain status in the society. A big car is one. And a blackberry that you need to keep checking assiduously throughout dinner with friends, whether you have emails or not is the other. And, as Parmanu mentions in his wonderful post, an apartment complex with a swimming pool is another.
* Only once in a blue moon by the way :)
The question threw me off balance. It was after all loaded with surprise, unsaid hints and expectation. The hint was to provide them with an explanation as to why, like most of our friends, acquaintances and social circle, we han't traded our old car for something better and obviously, bigger. The expectation was that we should have. After all, if we could dine at the Blue Ginger* and visit Umrika on holiday, the least we could do was to get ourselves a big car, couldn't we?
Nothing probably highlights aspiration levels in our society as the transition from the small to the big car. It's seen as a step towards being upper class, from small fry to higher-mid if not top management. And it's a great thing, really. Just that it may not be the top agenda on everyone's list of the moment, simply because other people feel it can catapult you into a social higher-up.
But because most people believe they need to cast you into some social slot, the car question is mandatory to ask. During a school run, I ask one of the mums living nearby if I could offer her a lift as her car has broken down. "Thanks," she says, sliding into the seat, "How does your husband commute to work? Does he take the other car?"
"This is our only car," I tell her. "Oh," she says before telling me a sweet story about her dad's Maruti she learnt to drive around in and culminating in "sent it to his dad in Delhi after we bought the (Honda) City."
Subtlety is the name of the game here. "Could you drop R home after they finish playing please? My husband's taken the other car and the Corolla has gone for servicing," says the voice on the phone. Perhaps I'm reading more than what's required into it, but I love the way the 'Corolla' is mentioned and not the other car, which being an Alto, probably doesn't cut the size limit.
Of course, as my dear husband, who's oblivious to all these innuendos (and thinks only I can hear them) believes, I could be horribly, horribly wrong and people may just be mentioning matter of fact things. But some things are a given nowadays if you need to maintain status in the society. A big car is one. And a blackberry that you need to keep checking assiduously throughout dinner with friends, whether you have emails or not is the other. And, as Parmanu mentions in his wonderful post, an apartment complex with a swimming pool is another.
* Only once in a blue moon by the way :)
Monday, October 19, 2009
Random thoughts pre and post Diwali
Being the organized woman that I am, went to Spar just the day before Diwali to shop for festival related overpriced stuff. The entire North Indian population of South Bangalore was there. Thankfully the husband was at work and the bachcha was at the playschool's Diwali party so I only had silent arguments going on in my brain and was free to watch other families as they had theirs out loud.
Number one argument was about sweets and chocolates, displayed enticingly right at the entrance. The husband would pick up the glossiest looking choco box and the wife would immediately take it out and plonk it back where it was. 'You also na...this is just overpriced bad chocolate. Thoda classy type kuch dena chahiye,' she would say, before walking briskly to the fridge where they displayed a few forlon looking boxes of Lindt.
Found myself mentally agreeing with her. There's nothing worse that glitter paper golden ribbon wrapped flimsy chox in a box. Though I find even Cadburys classy, not just Lindt.
There was also a mother daughter (or saas bahu?) duo who were buying expensive cookie packets and the older woman was saying things like, yeh mehenga wala packet le lo. At which the daughter (DIL?) pointed to her trolley and replied, Mamma, these are also equally expensive, don't worry.
Nice, no?
At the diya counter a family of mother, father and daughter were having their own argument though this being in Kannada there was no point in me pretending to browse and listen. But gestures say a lot and the father was clearly being asked to keep out of the selection process. Felt really bad for men at that point. The poor things really can't tell good from the bad and have to still suffer being carted around shopping malls just for the sake of their wallets. Tch tch.
----------------------***************************-----------------------------
Read Chetan Bhagat's latest book, 2 States. Have to say that despite the editing bloopers (I think Rupa editors sleepwalk through Chetan Bhagat edits now. They know it will sell) and the somewhat amateurish writing at times, I enjoyed it and finished it in a day flat. This was my second CB book after One Night At The Call Centre (I think the only person who liked it was Salman Khan) which the husband bought after he ahem, liked Five Point Someone. You get the gist.
So I basically bought this one for the husband who has ignored it for the last two days and concentrated on a bunch of printouts called Eastern European power line or something like that. There's much to like (or rather laugh) in the book (2 states not powerline). For one it is Rs. 95 only. Secondly, it is full of stereotypes but as we all know, stereotypes are ALWAYS true. My favourite was the Punjabi one about mentioning the amount of wealth and money in casual conversations. It's a trait fully followed by any self respecting Delhiite (Punju, Baniya, Jain) and conversations between some relatives I know often go like, 'Guddo itni ziddi hai behenji. Uske liye hum assi lakh ki shaadi karane ko tayar hai par use ladka pasand aye tab na.'
Nobody feels the slightest embarassment in asking others how much they earn or how much their kothis and cars cost. And of course I too don't think anybody has ever read the edit page of any newspaper.
The Bongs by constrast read every possible edit page (starting with the sports page) and buy every fat pujobarshiki they can lay their hands on and definitely cannot think of aath, forget assi lakh but would be most offended if you gifted their child an envelope with Rs. 251 instead of a book on their happy budday. And the monkey cap maybe a perennial Bong stereotype but it's also the universal truth. Last year my cousin who lives in Brussels sent some winter pictures. In between all the fireplace, frosted window and whiteness was her son, sporting the eternal monkey cap. So you see, stereotypes are not just fun. They are true.
Ok I digressed but this ain't a review so I guess I can. 2 States a Bollywood movie in waiting and it's fun (and as Inky says somewhere, cheaper than a movie ticket) and I think there are bits in it that stand true for any marriage that involves two very disparate states and cultures. Good going, except for the editing and the India lecture.
Number one argument was about sweets and chocolates, displayed enticingly right at the entrance. The husband would pick up the glossiest looking choco box and the wife would immediately take it out and plonk it back where it was. 'You also na...this is just overpriced bad chocolate. Thoda classy type kuch dena chahiye,' she would say, before walking briskly to the fridge where they displayed a few forlon looking boxes of Lindt.
Found myself mentally agreeing with her. There's nothing worse that glitter paper golden ribbon wrapped flimsy chox in a box. Though I find even Cadburys classy, not just Lindt.
There was also a mother daughter (or saas bahu?) duo who were buying expensive cookie packets and the older woman was saying things like, yeh mehenga wala packet le lo. At which the daughter (DIL?) pointed to her trolley and replied, Mamma, these are also equally expensive, don't worry.
Nice, no?
At the diya counter a family of mother, father and daughter were having their own argument though this being in Kannada there was no point in me pretending to browse and listen. But gestures say a lot and the father was clearly being asked to keep out of the selection process. Felt really bad for men at that point. The poor things really can't tell good from the bad and have to still suffer being carted around shopping malls just for the sake of their wallets. Tch tch.
----------------------***************************-----------------------------
Read Chetan Bhagat's latest book, 2 States. Have to say that despite the editing bloopers (I think Rupa editors sleepwalk through Chetan Bhagat edits now. They know it will sell) and the somewhat amateurish writing at times, I enjoyed it and finished it in a day flat. This was my second CB book after One Night At The Call Centre (I think the only person who liked it was Salman Khan) which the husband bought after he ahem, liked Five Point Someone. You get the gist.
So I basically bought this one for the husband who has ignored it for the last two days and concentrated on a bunch of printouts called Eastern European power line or something like that. There's much to like (or rather laugh) in the book (2 states not powerline). For one it is Rs. 95 only. Secondly, it is full of stereotypes but as we all know, stereotypes are ALWAYS true. My favourite was the Punjabi one about mentioning the amount of wealth and money in casual conversations. It's a trait fully followed by any self respecting Delhiite (Punju, Baniya, Jain) and conversations between some relatives I know often go like, 'Guddo itni ziddi hai behenji. Uske liye hum assi lakh ki shaadi karane ko tayar hai par use ladka pasand aye tab na.'
Nobody feels the slightest embarassment in asking others how much they earn or how much their kothis and cars cost. And of course I too don't think anybody has ever read the edit page of any newspaper.
The Bongs by constrast read every possible edit page (starting with the sports page) and buy every fat pujobarshiki they can lay their hands on and definitely cannot think of aath, forget assi lakh but would be most offended if you gifted their child an envelope with Rs. 251 instead of a book on their happy budday. And the monkey cap maybe a perennial Bong stereotype but it's also the universal truth. Last year my cousin who lives in Brussels sent some winter pictures. In between all the fireplace, frosted window and whiteness was her son, sporting the eternal monkey cap. So you see, stereotypes are not just fun. They are true.
Ok I digressed but this ain't a review so I guess I can. 2 States a Bollywood movie in waiting and it's fun (and as Inky says somewhere, cheaper than a movie ticket) and I think there are bits in it that stand true for any marriage that involves two very disparate states and cultures. Good going, except for the editing and the India lecture.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
My friend M was over few days back and after we had chatted for the better part of the day and exhausted every mutually agreeable topic at our disposal, she walked over to my bookshelves and started examining. It's a time honoured ritual. I do it every time I go to her place and years ago when we shared a PG in Bombay we enjoyed making people play Guess the Books by asking them to guess who owned which book on our Bright and Hand painted flimsy cane book rack. They always got it wrong.
Anyway, this time she walked over to the books at home and instead of clucking negatively like she usually does or making sarcastic comments like I do to hers (she's deep into healing and meditation and most of her books reflect that), actually lifted off books and started looking at some of them with interest.
Hmm, Smoke and Mirrors...Indian journo in China...seems interesting!
Istanbul...Pamuk...I got that one too but need to sit down and read
The Duchess...don't know why you'd want to read gossipy history that doesn't concern you
And then just as I thought tradition was being turned on its head came the downer:
You know for someone who reads fairly varied stuff I really don't know what you're doing with so much chick lit!
So I decided to do a bit of soul searching and asked myself why and here, purely for the sake of self-indulgence are the reasons:
*Good chick-lit is like comfort food at your favourite restaurant. You always know what you are going to get and don't have to break your head trying to figure out whether the flavours were just right or the masala completely masked the natural taste and make intelligent comments. In fact, you don't need to comment at all.
* It's the best thing to read when you are surrounded by a child who's zipping around the house pretending he's a fighter plane and a husband who's practising the same guitar chords for the last one month. You know that even if you zone out Pages 125-130, you will still know what happened and don't have to waste time by going back.
* It's deliciously predictable. In Brit chick lit the girl is a middle class type from distant suburbs with an utterly embarrassing mom. But she (not the mom) has good enough looks, clothes, posh friends and a barely affordable life in London. And the perfect man in the garb of a superbly wealthy lawyer or entrepreneur lurking around. The Manhattan types are easy to describe. Sex and the City turned into book, with different characters, shoes, clubs and clothes. And of course, failed writer turned average drummer turned the world's only humble celebrity chef type man waiting in the wings. The Indian chick lit in accordance with our diversity varies a bit. If it's written by an author living outside India for a while, the girl is invariably from a sheltered, over protective conservative background making her way up the competitive and sometimes scandalous world of modelling, fashion journalism, ad films, etc. If the author's been living in India and therefore aware of how the urban girl actually behaves and thinks, her protagonist is more interesting with witty one liners and a great sense of humour. As with everything, there's always the mandatory He's-too-good-to-be-true-for-me man waiting in the wing. Usually a CEO type or an investment banker. Though there have been very enjoyable guitar strumming dads and star cricketers.
The best of all? They are cheap. C'mon, in the world of books starting at Rs 800 plus, Rs 295-395 counts as cheap. So that if you can bear to part with it or are too embarrassed to place it next to the Gurcharan Das book you know you will never read, you can always go to Blossom Book House on Church Street and sell it or better still, donate it to the building library. The teenage girls coming there to borrow M&Bs will love you and probably develop a taste for reading something that's a shade (and sometimes, many a shade) better.
It's practically social work.
Anyway, this time she walked over to the books at home and instead of clucking negatively like she usually does or making sarcastic comments like I do to hers (she's deep into healing and meditation and most of her books reflect that), actually lifted off books and started looking at some of them with interest.
Hmm, Smoke and Mirrors...Indian journo in China...seems interesting!
Istanbul...Pamuk...I got that one too but need to sit down and read
The Duchess...don't know why you'd want to read gossipy history that doesn't concern you
And then just as I thought tradition was being turned on its head came the downer:
You know for someone who reads fairly varied stuff I really don't know what you're doing with so much chick lit!
So I decided to do a bit of soul searching and asked myself why and here, purely for the sake of self-indulgence are the reasons:
*Good chick-lit is like comfort food at your favourite restaurant. You always know what you are going to get and don't have to break your head trying to figure out whether the flavours were just right or the masala completely masked the natural taste and make intelligent comments. In fact, you don't need to comment at all.
* It's the best thing to read when you are surrounded by a child who's zipping around the house pretending he's a fighter plane and a husband who's practising the same guitar chords for the last one month. You know that even if you zone out Pages 125-130, you will still know what happened and don't have to waste time by going back.
* It's deliciously predictable. In Brit chick lit the girl is a middle class type from distant suburbs with an utterly embarrassing mom. But she (not the mom) has good enough looks, clothes, posh friends and a barely affordable life in London. And the perfect man in the garb of a superbly wealthy lawyer or entrepreneur lurking around. The Manhattan types are easy to describe. Sex and the City turned into book, with different characters, shoes, clubs and clothes. And of course, failed writer turned average drummer turned the world's only humble celebrity chef type man waiting in the wings. The Indian chick lit in accordance with our diversity varies a bit. If it's written by an author living outside India for a while, the girl is invariably from a sheltered, over protective conservative background making her way up the competitive and sometimes scandalous world of modelling, fashion journalism, ad films, etc. If the author's been living in India and therefore aware of how the urban girl actually behaves and thinks, her protagonist is more interesting with witty one liners and a great sense of humour. As with everything, there's always the mandatory He's-too-good-to-be-true-for-me man waiting in the wing. Usually a CEO type or an investment banker. Though there have been very enjoyable guitar strumming dads and star cricketers.
The best of all? They are cheap. C'mon, in the world of books starting at Rs 800 plus, Rs 295-395 counts as cheap. So that if you can bear to part with it or are too embarrassed to place it next to the Gurcharan Das book you know you will never read, you can always go to Blossom Book House on Church Street and sell it or better still, donate it to the building library. The teenage girls coming there to borrow M&Bs will love you and probably develop a taste for reading something that's a shade (and sometimes, many a shade) better.
It's practically social work.
Tuesday, October 06, 2009
Called up very famous school near home to find out about admissions. This is what the admin lady wanted to know.
Child's name
Date of birth
Father's name
Father's email number (har har)
Father's contact number
Where father works
Where you live
At this point I was expecting her to ask which floor qwe live in or what car we drive when she asked for our residence number.
And don't you want the mother's name, email, contact etc, etc, I asked since you took the father's details. Not necessary madam, admin lady replied, we will send email or contact the father if we have seats.
And not bother informing the mother who does the research on school, most of the school rounds and can recognize every single squiggle the child draws.
The process was repeated at yet anoter very famous school.
Am going to have thanda thanda water. Hmmph!!!
Child's name
Date of birth
Father's name
Father's email number (har har)
Father's contact number
Where father works
Where you live
At this point I was expecting her to ask which floor qwe live in or what car we drive when she asked for our residence number.
And don't you want the mother's name, email, contact etc, etc, I asked since you took the father's details. Not necessary madam, admin lady replied, we will send email or contact the father if we have seats.
And not bother informing the mother who does the research on school, most of the school rounds and can recognize every single squiggle the child draws.
The process was repeated at yet anoter very famous school.
Am going to have thanda thanda water. Hmmph!!!
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Why I love my work
Because I sometimes meet people who look me straight in the eye and say 'Oh yes I talk to animals and plants. For that matter, even spirits if you want to mention that.'
Because on the same day as the 'spirited' lady I meet a couple in a mud home that looks straight out of Architectural Digest (ok, with a rural edge) who do not waste a single drop of rainwater.
And because when the house is asleep and I turn to God Google to provide me with life's answers (read search results/story ideas), I come across amaziung stuff on all purpose grinding machines called Veetamma Yantram and egg boilers designed by 15 year old kids. Or a Boiled Tea Making Machine for Customised Taste by a Haryana lad who spends his meagre income on innovations and a Kerala girl you may have read about, who built a washing machine that also works as an exercise bike.
Because on the same day as the 'spirited' lady I meet a couple in a mud home that looks straight out of Architectural Digest (ok, with a rural edge) who do not waste a single drop of rainwater.
And because when the house is asleep and I turn to God Google to provide me with life's answers (read search results/story ideas), I come across amaziung stuff on all purpose grinding machines called Veetamma Yantram and egg boilers designed by 15 year old kids. Or a Boiled Tea Making Machine for Customised Taste by a Haryana lad who spends his meagre income on innovations and a Kerala girl you may have read about, who built a washing machine that also works as an exercise bike.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Lost...
...and also confused. As to why on earth did I spend 699 rupees (on Dan Brown's latest. Knew I shouldn't have. In fact, as I approached it in Crossword, it gave out strong vibes that clearly said DON'T BUY ME I'M A MARKETING TRICK but being a non-believer in powers of the mind like Langdon I did anyway. Nateeja? Sardard aur badhajmi.
From labouring through Langdon's never ending lectures and remembered conversations and examples and illustrations of all those symbols and magic squares which you must mentally try to solve but cannot. Also from googling Noetic Science and hidden chambers and tunnels of Washignton DC and of course from reading the book late into the night(s) and desperately thinking okay, just three more pages, maybe something earth shattering really will happen this time. It does. In page number 509. The book comes to an end.
Sleep now. And if you can't, read http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/booksblog/2009/sep/15/lost-symbol-live-reading-dan-brown
From labouring through Langdon's never ending lectures and remembered conversations and examples and illustrations of all those symbols and magic squares which you must mentally try to solve but cannot. Also from googling Noetic Science and hidden chambers and tunnels of Washignton DC and of course from reading the book late into the night(s) and desperately thinking okay, just three more pages, maybe something earth shattering really will happen this time. It does. In page number 509. The book comes to an end.
Sleep now. And if you can't, read http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/booksblog/2009/sep/15/lost-symbol-live-reading-dan-brown
Tuesday, September 01, 2009
Images from holiday...
Spotting 'Nemo' at the Museum of Natural History in DC
Vintage models at the Air and Space Museum, DC
How my son usually finished most of his food
Niagra ya Naya Agra. I shall forever wonder why Indians do transatlantic travelling to eat Paneer Makhni and Butter Chicken
The lights over the falls at night were quite neat though...
Moment of calm at Central Park
Boats opposite MIT campus
Playing Bob The Builder at Boston Children's Museum
The tyke goes wild at the waterpark
Pumpkin spotting...
...and blueberry picking with the kids at a farm near Marlboro
The right way to sleep after a few beers...spotted outside a pub in Boston
An old marketplace, now turned into a food court
Dregs of an evening in DC...
Gotham City
Vintage models at the Air and Space Museum, DC
How my son usually finished most of his food
Niagra ya Naya Agra. I shall forever wonder why Indians do transatlantic travelling to eat Paneer Makhni and Butter Chicken
The lights over the falls at night were quite neat though...
Moment of calm at Central Park
Boats opposite MIT campus
Playing Bob The Builder at Boston Children's Museum
The tyke goes wild at the waterpark
Pumpkin spotting...
...and blueberry picking with the kids at a farm near Marlboro
The right way to sleep after a few beers...spotted outside a pub in Boston
An old marketplace, now turned into a food court
Dregs of an evening in DC...
Gotham City
Monday, August 31, 2009
One of the best parts of any holiday...
...is meeting old friends. Mine had a most unexpected evening thrown in at Busboys and Poets, a great cafe and pub in Washington. I was meeting three friends, one had last spent time with me when I was expecting the tyke and puking my guts out in the car, another had driven three hours just to come and catch up and yet another and moi had been out of touch for almost 10 years. We started sedately with coffee and ended by gulping down many mugs of beer and packing pizzas that I don't think we ever ate.
Why am I mentioning this? Because it was the most wonderful impromptu evening ever and those things don't happen much these days :)
Monday, July 27, 2009
If we were honest on Facebook/Orkut...
Here's how it really should be but how it really is.
You get friendship request from Sandhya M, the girl you are struggling to remember from your KV in the Orissa hinterlands. Of course you do not remember her even a little bit and do not have any problems in telling her so. Of course you cannot admit this to Sandhya and hurt her enthusiastic 'Remember me?' So here's how it goes.
Sandhya: Remember me? We were in school together, Kendriya Vidyalay, Xyz, class of 89, etc, etc.
Me: No. I'm sorry I don't remember you. (End of story. Wow) Of course I remember! Great to see you J (Secretly hope Sandhya leaves it at that).
Sandhya: That's great. I thought you may not remember. How's your brother? Is he still as naughty?
Mortified me: You remember I have a brother? How well did you know me really and how come I do not remember you then? He's er...rather grown up. Lives in Bombay. How are your brothers and sisters parents? (safer to write parents, everyone has them at some point after all).
Added to mollify inner guilty self: Your kids look adorable. (It's the truth. They do. Phew!)
Sandhya the Persistant: Oh the kids keep me busy blah blah blah...job in finance blah blah...gave up working after the kids blah blah...managing home and kids alone blah blah...hubby busy...Vice president blah blah...last holiday in Kenya...12 years of marriage blah blah...you remember him don't you? He used to be one class senior to us. Check out the album titled My World, you can see whether he still looks the same.
Mortified me retorts gives up: Oh God! Why should I? As if we are going to become great pals from this instant. Remember him? Maybe. Ok...let me check your pictures.
And what happens when you get back in touch with the guy who got your heart leaping into your mouth for eight whole months in school? Me and good friend Sangs get a request from Gautam the heartbreaker. Not his real name. But gives you the gist. We accept immediately of course, bitches that we are.
Gautam: Hey it's great seeing you girls again. And Rash I can't believe you are a mommy.
Me: Ditto Gautam. Can't believe you are a daddy either. And that you have a paunch and are stupid enough to post a picture of your pot belly jutting out of a swimming pool for public viewing.
Gautam: Saw your pictures. Cool. So where did you and your husband meet?
Me: You looked up my pictures, you sneaky $^%^%&. Wait till I look up all your pictures and call Sangs. Hmmm...I wonder why you wanted to know about my husband. Did you by any chance have a thing for me in school...nah...wouldn't have done. Look at what you've turned out to be. Gautam, we met in Bombay through common friends. Your pictures look like you are having fun with those two girls who could redefine the term cheapo. Won't be surprised if you turn out to be some shady automobile dealer from Ghaziabad at the time-of-your-life-conference in Goa. What do you do btw?
Gautam: I manage Ásia Pacific for xyz. In Delhi at the moment but will be shifting to Hong Kong later this year. Wife will stay back for the kids' school.
Me: Asia pacific head and all that huh? Well, there was something in you in school after all then considering you aren't the shady auto dealer I thought you were. Kids? Boys? Girls? Hey put some pictures of your family too.
Gautam: Hey my wife's picture is already there. She's on the left in that picture of all of us in the pool. The other one is a friend of ours. Will upload the kids' soon. Still figuring out this FB thing.
Me: That cheapo with the red lipstick overdose is your wife? She sure needs a tummy tuck. Serves you right. Oh is that her? She looks lovely. Great being in touch with you. Say hello to your wife. Have fun. Bye.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Hits of Aamir Khan
When's the last time you heard that wonderously tacky but fun Poocho Zara poocho from Raja Hindustani? Or Ghoonghat ki aad se from Hum Hai Rahi Pyar Ke? Brings back memories of those Jhankar beatswale days when Kumar Shanu/Alka Yagnik/Nadeem Shravan/Anuradha Paudwal and Mahesh Bhatt combo reigned doesn't it? In case you are wondering, I picked up CDs from those 'glory days' as gifts for the sister in law who said she wanted to hear music from old times. And what fun I've been having. Listening to stuff like Koi na koi chahiye from Deewana and remembering the gang of 12 girls from Jog Hostel who trooped to the theatre to watch the first Shah Rukh Khan movie. Hearing Sanson ki zaroorat from Ashiqui and laughing at the fact that some of us actually liked that hair gelled mistake called Rahul Roy! It isn't often great music but definitely great memories!
Friday, July 17, 2009
Couldn't resist ;-p
Breaking News
Bangalore/Delhi and Bureaus, July 17: Mothers of unmarried men across India held special gatherings to celebrate the arrival of a saviour for their sons in the form of Rakhi Sawant. In Bangalore, the event was held at Palace Grounds, the venue for many happy marriages and attended by a hundred strong gathering of misty-eyed moms.
“I no longer need to persuade Manjunath to register himself on Kannadamatrimony.com,” said an elated Gangamma, adding that “as Manjunath had always wanted to be a model, he would require no persuasion to appear on television, making the process easier for us.” As for her son getting through the process, Gangamma was quite confident. “He’s already been watching the program repeatedly on YouTube at office. He already knows what is expected of him.”
Sowbhagya Rajagopalan who came from Chennai to attend the event also applauded the fact that there is an older brother (Ravi Kishen to the uninitiated) to veto any untoward incidents. “You know the process is going to be fair and uphold all traditions under such watchful eyes.” She however added that Rakhi should adjust her style of dressing to also include clothes from the Southern states. “At present, her dressing style is very North Indian.” she said with a slight wrinkling of her nose. Kavitha Muthanna who’d braved the heavy Kodagu rains to attend the event added that Rakhi should also improve her English skills as their sons would want their wife to be proficient in the language.
Mothers at the Kolkata gathering in Maidan seemed to be satisfied with Rakhi’s sartorial splendour, being used to the heavily embellished Marwari style of dressing all around them anyway. However, some of them expressed concern about her academic background. “My son has degrees from IIT, IIM, MIT and a few other places I cannot remember. Although he is looking for a smart, fair and beautiful girl and Rakhi fits the bill perfectly, he would like to know whether she is convented and has done her MA from a well known college, preferably under the Delhi University,” said Debashree Dattachowdhury from Lake Town. Amrita Meghani, mother of Bakul, who owns an electronics repair shop in Barabazar expressed her concern that the organizers of the swayamvar should also allow boys who were not proficient in poetry, painting or Taekwondo. “Bas dil sachcha hona chahiye (the heart has to be pure),” she said.
Echoing her sentiments was the almost 200-strong gathering of mothers at Pragati Maidan, Delhi. “It is a social service this girl is doing and I bless her with all my soul,” said Kanta Gupta, mother of Mohit, who’s doing his MBA before joining the family business. “It is so difficult to persuade today’s youth into an arranged marriage but this is different from everything,” she added.
As for their fears that Rakhi may well be on her way to choose a life partner, mothers across India remained optimistic. “It is a reality show and everybody knows they never finish in one season. And choosing a life partner is a time consuming task, therefore our sons can apply for the next round,” Ashlesha Patil added from Pune.
Finally, if any mother was harbouring a slight qualm about Rakhi’s past as an item girl, they have no reason to worry any more. As Daljit Kaur of Delhi explained, “She has started observing the Karwa Chauth fast already and that too for five men. If that is not the sign of a traditional and pure minded bahu who wants the best for her husband and his family, what is?”
Monday, July 13, 2009
Social Studies
If you are a socially upscale creature in Delhi, or are aspiring to become one, you are instantly recognizable by some of the following traits:
* You have a connection to a farmhouse. You either own one or are on first name/first drink basis with people who own one. If you are yet to achieve these dizzying heights, you probably got married in one and if you are an absolute bottom of the dregs aspirant, you spent your New Year farties...oops...parties getting drunk in one.
* You wear more sequins than clothes.
* You cannot, just cannot even begin to imagine buying a small car. Even if your parking space is matchbox sized.
* You are somebody/know somebody/ know somebody who knows somebody. Bas!
If you are a socially upscale creature in Bangalore or aspiring for the position, you:
* Have a nice red brick house with tiles flown in from Kerala, antique doors and windows and a lotus pond in the courtyard. All these designed in the most contemporary manner possible and with the same hi-tech comfort as your former pad in LA. Inside a gated community of course.
* You are a Cause Champion. You divide your time between gay rights/rainwater harvesting/saving Bangalore’s trees/stopping the Metro/keeping the race course. You also ensure everyone notices your good deed, namely the gullible media.
* You believe in carpooling. Especially when others are doing it.
* You address THE Nilekani as Nandan and casually mention having a personally autographed copy of his book. Bas!
* You have a connection to a farmhouse. You either own one or are on first name/first drink basis with people who own one. If you are yet to achieve these dizzying heights, you probably got married in one and if you are an absolute bottom of the dregs aspirant, you spent your New Year farties...oops...parties getting drunk in one.
* You wear more sequins than clothes.
* You cannot, just cannot even begin to imagine buying a small car. Even if your parking space is matchbox sized.
* You are somebody/know somebody/ know somebody who knows somebody. Bas!
If you are a socially upscale creature in Bangalore or aspiring for the position, you:
* Have a nice red brick house with tiles flown in from Kerala, antique doors and windows and a lotus pond in the courtyard. All these designed in the most contemporary manner possible and with the same hi-tech comfort as your former pad in LA. Inside a gated community of course.
* You are a Cause Champion. You divide your time between gay rights/rainwater harvesting/saving Bangalore’s trees/stopping the Metro/keeping the race course. You also ensure everyone notices your good deed, namely the gullible media.
* You believe in carpooling. Especially when others are doing it.
* You address THE Nilekani as Nandan and casually mention having a personally autographed copy of his book. Bas!
Monday, June 29, 2009
Was quite thrilled to see Zoya Factor author Anuja Chauhan say her current read is Georgette Heyer's Frederica in TOI's supplement last Sunday. And this is not just because my current read is The Talisman Ring by the same author. Thrilled because the moment any celeb type is asked what they read, their answer is never ever Georgette Heyer or John Grisham or even Marian Keyes for that matter. Everyone is either reading Thomas Friedman or Paulo Coelho or even Ayn Rand. Centuries ago in my youth, the newspaper I worked for had a section called Who's Reading What that meant calling up random celeb types and asking them which book they were reading. The starlet types (and their male equivalents, now what should they be called, star lads?) usually mentioned Ayn Rand or Chicken Soup for the Soul. Not having read any of these (yes not even Ayn Rand, will lose all readership now), always wondered if these were regulation reads in Kishore Namit's and all those other acting classes. These days Paulo Coelho seems de rigeur, at least in the starlet/lad/ad model-turned-movie model world. Which is why, I was so happy to see Anuja Chauhan's instant 'Frederica' admission. Because nobody admits to reading anything frivolous, much less romantic, in public these days. Unless it's stuff like Adrian Mole, already stamped and sealed with . Now will all those people who have snuck in a Mary Higgins Clark or even a Mills & Boons as a brainfree late night read please get up and say so when they are asked? Which reminds me, what incidentally is your current read?
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Good Bahu Strikes Back
An old college pal has shifted cities and since I'm an old Bangalore hand compared to her, I'm helping her settle in by pointing out all the right malls and rivergrass chatai shops. Old pal has an another old pal who is soon to be shifting permanently from US in what they call R2I in NRI and ex-NRI lingo, and as a consequence, all of us have been on Skype and Google Talk a lot. To my utter (inital) dismay and constant amusement, I have discovered the label that these lovely souls have had me stuck with for the last nine years: The Good Bahu.
The reasons behind the label are as follows, however strange.
I had lived alone in Bad Bad Bombay for five long years, worked in offices where we thought nothing about holding edit meets in pubs, mostly came back home around the same time as the milkman on weekends and despite that opted to stay in a joint family in Delhi after I got married. And horror of horrors, it was a vegetarian Jain joint family.
Aur sabse badi baat yeh hai ki, R2I and Old Pal stayed with their parents, never drank anything stronger than Coke (no jokes here, okay?) and had arranged marriages and despite that they couldn't adjust to their joint families or MILs . So I had to be either the yes mummyji type good bahu variety apparently only seen in Ekta Kapoor serials or a complete doormat.
During the illuminating chat where I found out this excellent side to myself, R2I was appalled by my in-laws' ostrich like attitude to non-veg . "But it compromises your freedom," she wrote in bold.
"Well not if you managed to eat everything from Prawn Koliwada to Tangdi Kabab everytime you dined out," I said.
"What if someone spotted you?" asked Old Pal, always the careful planning type.
"We'd decided to deal Ostrich with Ostrich and would've crossed the bridge only when we came to it, thankfully we never did,"I countered.
"Kam se kam you could have asked them to keep anda at home,"they said.
"But why? It was their home. I started keeping enough anda to feed an army the moment I shifted into mine," I replied.
That wasn't enough to control the curiosity of course. "So what do you do now when your in laws come over?"
"Simple. I just eat up all the salami in the fridge and go on a detox diet of ghia and toori for a month."
"And you still get along fairly well with your mother-in-law..." R2I answered her own question in utter wonder, before adding, "You must be doing whatever they tell you to do, yaar."
Frankly, that's the part I never get. That it surprises many people who have known me for a while that I get along with MIL. Well not in a 'let's go shopping together and have lunch afterwards,' manner, that's with my mum. Let's just say if my in-laws, who've been here for the last one and half month, were to extend their stay by another month, I wouldn't exactly be hitting the roof in hysteria. I may just suddenly increase going out for a fish heavy lunch.
When it comes to my relationship with the in-laws, food is the only area that is surrounded in a haze of white lies and unposken assumptions. They're pure vegetarians and I am purely non vegetarian. When I got married, they (or rather MIL) assumed I'd given up non-veg. Why don't ask me, considering her son wasn't exactly a vegetarian out of home. Since in the initial years, we chose to live with them, I went along with the charade because outside the house, I lived exactly the way I had in Bombay. I ate burger-shurger and tikka-shikka, I partied, I worked late and no eyebrows were ever raised if I said I was working late and wouldn't be home before 10. There was the standard Delhi parent concern, yes, but no scorn. Oh, I did feel stifled sometime and I did hate everything sometimes but never enough to rebel because frankly, there was nothing to rebel against, except an overdose of paranthas, ghee and affection.
MIL and mine is a relationship founded successfully on a desire to be nice to each other and those white lies. Nine years down the line, I'm sure everyone can see through the lies but it still remains an unspoken area. Everything else about the relationship is truly the stuff that Hindi film dialogue writers can make a happy family drama out of.
Some of my friends like R2I, Old Pal and few others see it as compromising on my individuality, freedom and abracadabra but sadly, since I do not seem to have a single feminist bone in my deplorable body I fail to see it like that. The way I see it is simple. I'm not missing out on anything in my life. So why jump the gun? Why try and complicate happiness, care and love when you are getting a lot of it in return?
Some of my friends like R2I, Old Pal and few others see it as compromising on my individuality, freedom and abracadabra but sadly, since I do not seem to have a single feminist bone in my deplorable body I fail to see it like that. The way I see it is simple. I'm not missing out on anything in my life. So why jump the gun? Why try and complicate happiness, care and love when you are getting a lot of it in return?
You're fooling them, especially your very trusting MIL, a friend said to me long ago. Really? She knows I'm short tempered, I hate ostentatious Jain weddings, that I would rather wear silver than diamond jewellary and never develop a taste for thande thande jamun with salt. They both know I hate drying clothes out of the machine, can be lost in a book for hours and stay up nights staring into the computer. They also know I can shout at maids and autowalas, that I rarely visit temples and would rather read a magazine than watch Baaghban on TV with them. I wonder if it would still be called fooling.
Like I finally said to a very persistant R2I, who I'm afraid is considering me her pet project in India, what works for someone may not work for another. Somehow, this has worked out for me. And there are other elements at work here than just the fact that I do not eat non veg when they are around. Why is that so hard for someone to fathom?
Friday, June 19, 2009
In Steve Martin's book Shopgirl, Mirabelle has to keep fighting 'the immobilizing depression that would otherwise surround her and seep into her body like a poisonous fog.' I loved the book just for that one sentence. Though there's certainly more to like in it. There are days when depression really is like a fog, whether it reaches a level where you need medication or not. Nothing you can think or make yourself believe can lift it. It starts by clouding your morning with gloom and self doubt and goes on to blank out every other positive flicker throughout the day. Mostly without any reason. Most days we are lucky to call it PMS. But today, it's not even that.
Tuesday, June 09, 2009
Two thoughts for the day
Thought No. 1
When Mr Murphy was making his law he certainly wasn't thinking moms. The thing is, when you are at home with a bored 3 year old, chances are you'll spend the rest of the day trying to keep him occupied, reasonably entertained and trying to dodge Murphy's law. Because if anything can go wrong it will. For instance the glass of milk kept unescorted (by me, who else) on the table will spill. The TV, sometimes a much needed babysitter, will go blank. Frantic calls to cable guy will yield nothing but a busy ringtone. Child will reject every DVD in his possession and want to watch Oswald and only Oswald. Who for those not living in cartoonland is an Octopus that looks like a big blue balloon and speaks and sings in the voice of Fred Savage of The Wonder Years.
The mother, who could have easily abandoned everything else and played the nth round of bowling or jenga with the monkey, will have her nicest editor asking (on a Sunday that too) if she could help with just one input for a story and fast.
Poor freelancer mommy who must keep good editors happy in these times of need will say yes and try to multitask. This will involve switching on computer in the other room (the hand-me-down laptop has expired) and rushing back to continue with bowling in the hall then rushing back to comp to look up required numbers and making required phone calls and then rushing to kitchen as usually non-demanding child will suddenly have pasta craving. Mother will scan shelves and even look under the kitchen sink but fail to find new pasta packet. Will call the home delivery who will cheerfully inform her that it's Sunday, they are short staffed and therefore cannot deliver. Child will insist on pasta and nothing else. Mother will morph from wannabe freelance writer to wannabe marketing girl and try to sell child other edible stuff like french toast, parantha, idli etc etc. The doorbell will ring during all this commotion and it will be the maid's daughter, come to inform that her mother will not be coming today. It is a Sunday after all.
Thought Number 2
When you have one flash card too many thanks to the happy birthdays, this is a good way to keep the child occupied. There can be another point of view of course, as my friend who visited with her child when the project was in progress added.
Friend said she wouldn't do this as three year olds are too young to figure out when it's okay to safely keep toys/books or gifts and when it's ok to do something else with them. Phew. I'd never given it so much thought, though it is a point worth pondering over.
Me? I think it's okay if you drill into the child's head that not everything is meant to be torn or toyed around. I keep doing this 50,000 times a day with the simple use of that all in one expression NO*, although I'm not sure if Dr Spock or Dr Anand and those nice ladies who wrote the What to Expect series advised this. Tricky, this Mataji business. Or is my overly well read generation making it trickier?
* Nowadays NO comes automatically out of my mouth, due to sheer habit, just as words like Look! Aeroplane! and Look!Camel! tend to do. Even if child isn't around.
When Mr Murphy was making his law he certainly wasn't thinking moms. The thing is, when you are at home with a bored 3 year old, chances are you'll spend the rest of the day trying to keep him occupied, reasonably entertained and trying to dodge Murphy's law. Because if anything can go wrong it will. For instance the glass of milk kept unescorted (by me, who else) on the table will spill. The TV, sometimes a much needed babysitter, will go blank. Frantic calls to cable guy will yield nothing but a busy ringtone. Child will reject every DVD in his possession and want to watch Oswald and only Oswald. Who for those not living in cartoonland is an Octopus that looks like a big blue balloon and speaks and sings in the voice of Fred Savage of The Wonder Years.
The mother, who could have easily abandoned everything else and played the nth round of bowling or jenga with the monkey, will have her nicest editor asking (on a Sunday that too) if she could help with just one input for a story and fast.
Poor freelancer mommy who must keep good editors happy in these times of need will say yes and try to multitask. This will involve switching on computer in the other room (the hand-me-down laptop has expired) and rushing back to continue with bowling in the hall then rushing back to comp to look up required numbers and making required phone calls and then rushing to kitchen as usually non-demanding child will suddenly have pasta craving. Mother will scan shelves and even look under the kitchen sink but fail to find new pasta packet. Will call the home delivery who will cheerfully inform her that it's Sunday, they are short staffed and therefore cannot deliver. Child will insist on pasta and nothing else. Mother will morph from wannabe freelance writer to wannabe marketing girl and try to sell child other edible stuff like french toast, parantha, idli etc etc. The doorbell will ring during all this commotion and it will be the maid's daughter, come to inform that her mother will not be coming today. It is a Sunday after all.
Thought Number 2
When you have one flash card too many thanks to the happy birthdays, this is a good way to keep the child occupied. There can be another point of view of course, as my friend who visited with her child when the project was in progress added.
Friend said she wouldn't do this as three year olds are too young to figure out when it's okay to safely keep toys/books or gifts and when it's ok to do something else with them. Phew. I'd never given it so much thought, though it is a point worth pondering over.
Me? I think it's okay if you drill into the child's head that not everything is meant to be torn or toyed around. I keep doing this 50,000 times a day with the simple use of that all in one expression NO*, although I'm not sure if Dr Spock or Dr Anand and those nice ladies who wrote the What to Expect series advised this. Tricky, this Mataji business. Or is my overly well read generation making it trickier?
* Nowadays NO comes automatically out of my mouth, due to sheer habit, just as words like Look! Aeroplane! and Look!Camel! tend to do. Even if child isn't around.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
What are you doing?
Twitter is asking me.
Facebook is even more concerned. What's on your mind?
"Trying to edit really boring copy," mind replies instantly. But hey, do I write that? Of course not. It's so everyday and insipid. Instead I think a bit and and ask myself what I am really doing. "Nothing!" replies my most uncooperative mind with glee. Disgusted, I log out of FB/Twitter. What's the point of being on it when I can't even bring myself up to say something witty and observant?
The eighties had incongruities like Mithun Chakraborty and Michael Jackson. We have the status message. Do you ever see a status message on Facebook that goes, X has just got up and switched on the computer and hasn't brushed his teeth? Nope. You're more likely to see something on the lines of X has justed landed in Goa and is on route to his first lobster. If it's Twitter, X will probably be having a bite of that lobster instead of being on his way to it.
Then of course there are the er...status pictures. In fact, given the lack of activity in my life, I'm slowly convincing myself that people probably travel frequently because they need to post pictures on FB and update their cool status messages. I'm probably getting the signals all wrong but you can't blame me. They may not have been anywhere but Manali in the thousand years that I've known them but give them three months on FB and suddenly there will be albums crawling with pictures from Andalusia to Andamans.
Ditto with gTalk. I'm always here and there on it because I feel compelled to tell the world that I am not always around the computer. And not always fully there mentally either. Whether the world wants to know or not.
Long ago, in the sad days of Orkut where everyone could see anyone, I spotted (ok spied/sneaked/couldn't resist) one of those ex-crushes from school who posted pictures of himself in front of prominent monuments across the world. Needless to add, my century old crush vanished in seconds. Makes me envious about how lucky today's girls are. All they need to do is spy upon their object of desire on FB/Twitter or even Orkut to see if the guy is a smarmy showoff or a subtle sikandar. Sigh.
Going now. Need to update FB, Twitter and maybe even gTalk.
Facebook is even more concerned. What's on your mind?
"Trying to edit really boring copy," mind replies instantly. But hey, do I write that? Of course not. It's so everyday and insipid. Instead I think a bit and and ask myself what I am really doing. "Nothing!" replies my most uncooperative mind with glee. Disgusted, I log out of FB/Twitter. What's the point of being on it when I can't even bring myself up to say something witty and observant?
The eighties had incongruities like Mithun Chakraborty and Michael Jackson. We have the status message. Do you ever see a status message on Facebook that goes, X has just got up and switched on the computer and hasn't brushed his teeth? Nope. You're more likely to see something on the lines of X has justed landed in Goa and is on route to his first lobster. If it's Twitter, X will probably be having a bite of that lobster instead of being on his way to it.
Then of course there are the er...status pictures. In fact, given the lack of activity in my life, I'm slowly convincing myself that people probably travel frequently because they need to post pictures on FB and update their cool status messages. I'm probably getting the signals all wrong but you can't blame me. They may not have been anywhere but Manali in the thousand years that I've known them but give them three months on FB and suddenly there will be albums crawling with pictures from Andalusia to Andamans.
Ditto with gTalk. I'm always here and there on it because I feel compelled to tell the world that I am not always around the computer. And not always fully there mentally either. Whether the world wants to know or not.
Long ago, in the sad days of Orkut where everyone could see anyone, I spotted (ok spied/sneaked/couldn't resist) one of those ex-crushes from school who posted pictures of himself in front of prominent monuments across the world. Needless to add, my century old crush vanished in seconds. Makes me envious about how lucky today's girls are. All they need to do is spy upon their object of desire on FB/Twitter or even Orkut to see if the guy is a smarmy showoff or a subtle sikandar. Sigh.
Going now. Need to update FB, Twitter and maybe even gTalk.
Friday, May 29, 2009
And so, just like that it is over. With a thumb impression and a hastily jotted signature on court paper. No goodbyes. A clean break is perhaps the best of all. I watch their marriage dissolve and think how different the end is from the beginning.
The beginning is handmade paper cards and an afternoon spent dotting them with haldi and sindoor. It's metres of brocade making their way to the must-have tailor and fat gold bangles balanced by delicate platinum rings. Benarasis at Gariahat market and Central Avenue for kundan work gergettes and crepes. It's train tickets booked in bulk to a different city and a red suitcase packed to the gill with zardozi, satin and cosmetics. The beginning is excitement, expectations and trepidation.
The end is simple and governmental. Stamp paper, photocopies, and attestations. Dry and monotonous. The contrast struck me the most. Ironical (or perhaps fitting?)that something which starts with so much abundance should end with so little of it.
The beginning is handmade paper cards and an afternoon spent dotting them with haldi and sindoor. It's metres of brocade making their way to the must-have tailor and fat gold bangles balanced by delicate platinum rings. Benarasis at Gariahat market and Central Avenue for kundan work gergettes and crepes. It's train tickets booked in bulk to a different city and a red suitcase packed to the gill with zardozi, satin and cosmetics. The beginning is excitement, expectations and trepidation.
The end is simple and governmental. Stamp paper, photocopies, and attestations. Dry and monotonous. The contrast struck me the most. Ironical (or perhaps fitting?)that something which starts with so much abundance should end with so little of it.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
The FREE in freelancer
In the two and half years that I have been working on my own, on and off, I've realized that being a freelancer is a good way to make many people show their asli side to you. For instance, if I'm working on a story for a well known publication, there are people who'll fall all over themselves to be available at the oddest of hours, get themselves shot at their own expense (with a camera of course) and even proclaim anytime lunch and undying friendship. Call them back the next time with the name of an obscure journal and suddenly they'll develop every imaginable block from network problems to nerve disorders.
There's also the Impatient Editor. She'll ask you to send in ideas at the speed of light and then disappear from your inbox forever. At some point, she will magically surface to demand the story that she had apparently forgotten about. In a few hour's time. Do remember however NEVER EVER to ask where the cheque is, if you do not wish to be vilified by her forever. So what if you spent 500 bucks one way on the cab to Yelahanka?
The editor is only beatable by the Sweet Talker, though both share a common trait. The aversion to all things monetary. You'll end up scrutinizing boring copy for sweet talker late into the night because he wants it "just looked into" as a favour. Sucker that you are, you'll also fine tune his press relase and in the end rewrite whatever is there in it because you cannot bear to edit every word written by the pre-teens he calls his PR girls. After you've got circles dark enough to qualify for the smoky eyes look, talker will thank you profusely, put his tail between his legs and run. What if you turn into a cheapskate and ask him to pay you whatever it was all worth? Money talk is so non classy, isn't it sweetheart? And you are a FREElancer remember? The free part is ingrained in your ahem...designation.
There's also the Impatient Editor. She'll ask you to send in ideas at the speed of light and then disappear from your inbox forever. At some point, she will magically surface to demand the story that she had apparently forgotten about. In a few hour's time. Do remember however NEVER EVER to ask where the cheque is, if you do not wish to be vilified by her forever. So what if you spent 500 bucks one way on the cab to Yelahanka?
The editor is only beatable by the Sweet Talker, though both share a common trait. The aversion to all things monetary. You'll end up scrutinizing boring copy for sweet talker late into the night because he wants it "just looked into" as a favour. Sucker that you are, you'll also fine tune his press relase and in the end rewrite whatever is there in it because you cannot bear to edit every word written by the pre-teens he calls his PR girls. After you've got circles dark enough to qualify for the smoky eyes look, talker will thank you profusely, put his tail between his legs and run. What if you turn into a cheapskate and ask him to pay you whatever it was all worth? Money talk is so non classy, isn't it sweetheart? And you are a FREElancer remember? The free part is ingrained in your ahem...designation.
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