I am soon going to be adding to one of the key problems that is facing our nation today. Many years ago (I forget. It was THAT long ago) after having successfully caught the 8:11 am Local Fast from Andheri and getting into office by 9:15 am, I cursed the blasted city, the commute and my room-mate for flicking my umbrella. I felt morose as I had to pore over reams of sheets that were filled with all kind of random sound bites from consumers that had to magically converge and make a story.
Working totally sucked.
There were two things that kept me sane during this phase. The oily poori-aloo that was doled out by our canteen boy - which was guaranteed to up your cholesterol level to dangerous highs, but tasted positively divine. The other being, the wonderful world of free Internet access. After two years of fighting with batch-mates and Computer Committee (?!!) members to check emails that nobody sent you, this was bliss. No, our college didn’t give us free laptops. Heh.
Social Networking at those times didn’t exist. I love the way, I can say those times. May be, it was against Indian Culture or something. Orkut was snooty enough to be invitation only and Facebook didn’t exist. Blogging I didn’t know about- too much of a late bloomer that way. A friend of mine recently told me that, if you weren’t Blogging in 2003-2004, you missed out on all the action and opportunities of socialization. Dang. But quite frankly, I had something better than all of that – Ryze. It gave me opportunity to meet new people (never mind that I didn’t have the energy or the inclination to meet the old people I knew), it helped me kill time at work and most importantly, it was meant to be Business Networking. How cool, I thought? And dude, everyone was so interesting on Ryze - so witty and so clever. Also, none of them had their pictures, which meant that, I could be interesting too.
I totally enjoyed accumulating friends. Ooh, today I added ten more and tomorrow I will add five more. There was never any question of rejecting friend requests. It was egalitarian and all business-like. Mildly horny boys would most excitedly tell me, WOW!!! You are a Quali Researcher!!!!!! How interesting!!!!!!!!
I felt happy about my choice of career after all.
May be it was them, but I suddenly began to fall deeply in love with my job. I liked everything about it. The travel to mundane and exotic places. The meeting with, at times boring, at times interesting, but always quirky consumers. The getting lost in all that data. The bit about trying to fit things into triangles, rectangles and other geometrical shapes. The sheer thrill of a 2 am insight that comes into your head, after conversation with another fellow sufferer in your almost deserted office. The fights with the Quantitative guys and how they thought that Qualitative was all nebulous, gooey and not valid. Why my eight idiots are better than your hundred fools, is my favourite debate. The high you get out of arguing with a particularly daft client who will question everything for the sake of it. And the intense joy of presenting to a client, who understands consumers and is able to take his/her brand forward.
Oh and then, while watching TV with mom and random neighbour aunty, I point excitedly at an ad saying, I researched that.
Mom: You wrote that?
Me: Umm.
Aunty: You shot that?
Me: Ummm.
Aunty: Did you act in that?
Me: Umm. I RESEARCHED the ad.
Mom: It is so silly, anyway.
Sigh
But, none of that can take away any of the gladness that fills my heart.
I like my work-place. I like the people. And I like to think, the feeling is mutual. I don’t know if it is very good to have work-place friends, but somehow, I find it to be a blessing. Over shared dabbas of food and eerily similar life problems, work relationships have only thrived. All of this means that, I was one of the handful of people from my group of friends, who actually became eligible for Gratuity sometime back.
But now, I have decided to quit. Not because I have anything clever to do or have a concrete plan. And definitely not because I have suddenly managed to inherit a large sum from some random aunt (I wish). And most certainly not because I plan to get married to some random boy and immigrate to a far away country (are you listening, N??) It isn’t even because I am feeling very overworked and under-paid, though that does make the letting go easier.
But I have decided to quit because somewhere I have stopped looking out for myself. It isn’t about work-life balance (and no, I am not sure I want to hear any wisecracks about how I don’t have a life to aspire for any balance) either. But, in my being so caught up with insights and such like, I have ceased to respect some of the things that were important to me in a previous life.
Before this convinces some people that I am on the way towards becoming the newest best-seller authoress of some random self-help-discovery-blah book, I would like to nip that right here. I would like to do more mundane and trivial things like travel, sort out random health issues, sort book-shelf, tag music, figure out how some of the members of my extended clan are related to me and so forth. I am done with trying to be the best qualitative researcher. For someone who has been a reasonably planned sort of person through most of my life, this uncertainty is a bit new and scary too.
There are many things that I shall miss about working. The good clients. The bad clients. The eccentric colleagues. The food. The conversations about food. The conversations in general. The movie plans. The making of lists and ticking them. The laughter. The gossip. The inside story on which fairness creams is selling the most in which part of the country and such.
And I will also be eternally grateful for the grown-up wings I have spouted, morphing from the wet-behind-my-ears chica to a mildly improved version of that.
Pardon my gushing sentimentality, first loves, first jobs and that sort of thing, you know?
Yet like that kid in the Sound of Music, I am glad to go, I cannot tell a lie.
And I can feel it in my bones - The future, looks bullish.
Wednesday, July 09, 2008
Monday, June 02, 2008
Food at Work
I love the months of February and March. The year-end closing ensures that most of our clients are busy making plans for the next year and not spending too much time and money on research. Don’t get me wrong, I love my work, I just like it in small doses.
The months of February and March are therefore dedicated to stalking clients and asking them to pay up money for past work done and in going through learning and self development type of things. Given that, this entire learning bit is a voluntary thing, nothing gets done.
At work, I spend time doing several non GDP contributing activities and ping a colleague on the internal messenger. Not that I really have anything to tell him, but on the messenger, there seems to be a lot to talk. After we are done bitching about client and whining about our life, we end up talking about food. Suddenly at 10:30 in the morning, we type away fast and furiously discussing something to do with food – about food devoured or that we wish to devour. Soon, the typing about food doesn’t seem as fun and you walk to the colleague’s desk (which is some twenty metres away) and get into a loud discussion about the food. As always, everyone eavesdrops and you gather a bunch of people who obsessively join this food chatter.
By the time, the conversation is beginning to taper, it is 11:30 am and we have a very hungry office. There is no food at hand and we begin to go around office begging, pleading and demanding for food. Someone then will come up with the idea of a theme lunch and the next half an hour would involve coming up with a suitable date.
Once that is done, we get back to our work-stations and spend the rest of the day sending mass emails to everyone to decide on theme and the food that people will get. For once, people don’t forget to click on the “reply all”. Everyone has an opinion on the theme, and they range from the absolutely unimaginative – Greens Day to the slightly creative – Filmi Food Day. Some people become strongly associated with a certain food and in spite of their repeated protests, they are not allowed to change that.
I can make other things besides Mishti Doi, Bong colleague will insist. But nobody is interested. Mishti Doi garnished with Pistas, would do just fine on Green Day and we will spend half the day thinking of a Bollywood association with Mishti Doi for Filmi Food Day.
We survived the months of February and March, going from one pot-luck to another. Suddenly, work seemed fun. And one would ignore mom when she would say something snarky like, when do you people work?
Pot-lucks are fun. They always were. It was even more fun when we grew up in colonies. Mrs So-and-So, you must get your Aloo Subzi. And Mrs So-and-So, you must get custard. Well, those days, custard was a big deal I suppose. Most of the Aunties like my Bong colleague were not allowed to experiment.
Being the only Tamilian (and often the only South Indian), my mom represented the cuisine of South India. My mom decided that the Thayir Saadam might be too common-place and doled out kilos of Semiya Bagala Bath (Vermicelli Curd Rice), one dinner after another. At home, we got tired of it, but the colony aunties never let my mom change it. Some of the children in the colony, who found it difficult to pronounce our complicated South Indian name, christened my mom as – Bagala Bath Aunty.
But thanks to these pot-luck lunches and the fact that we got transferred every other year, it made me discover several kind of dishes and foods. My mom had always been a very versatile and adaptive cook, but the pot-luck helped even more. For instance, Karela Subzi with Wadi that a Punjabi Aunty made made me discover that bitter-gourd needn’t be like chewing into a mass of bitter pills. Or a Posh Aunty, who was known as the Baker Aunty and even baked breads at home, introduced us to baked vegetables. Then there was Bong Aunty who showed us that even the most mundane of vegetables could be made exciting by using the Panch Phoran tempering. Or the Oriya Aunty who introduced us to a distant cousin of the kozhakatai (modak) called Ma(o)nda. Not to mention that, many an ingenious aunty taught us that, if one really put one’s mind to it, every vegetable in this world was possible to have something stuffed into it.
Perhaps in the light of disintegrating colonies, the pot-luck lunches in office helped us re-live some of that growing up fun. Food related nostalgia, is the best kind of nostalgia anyway. Read this lovely piece on how food can sometimes even overcome our desire for world-peace.
However, one thing has notably changed from the colony days. The fun of food has ceased to be guilt-less.
So after March is done and clients resurface and begin to give us grief, when food is actually needed to comfort us, we begin to hate food. A colleague after having a pointless argument with a client pings me saying, I want to quit.
Me too, I moan.
Me three, someone else volunteers.
We all go to her desk and whine. Soon enough, all the members of Eavesdroppers Anonymous conference at the colleague’s desk.
How about a pot-luck, someone suggests.
No, we all say most vehemently.
I want to lose weight, someone says.
I HAVE to lose weight, someone else does.
Our life sucks, we all agree.
After a while, we get back to our desks. And then, someone sends a diet that says that if you ate only white coloured food for a week, we would lose some X lbs.
Someone promptly replies to the mail asking, but how many kilos is that?
When the mathematicians oblige and we all agree that it is significant enough for us to give it a shot, we decided that a Pot Luck Diet is needed.
And so, in the months of May and June, we try and undo the happiness of February and March. With limited success.
The months of February and March are therefore dedicated to stalking clients and asking them to pay up money for past work done and in going through learning and self development type of things. Given that, this entire learning bit is a voluntary thing, nothing gets done.
At work, I spend time doing several non GDP contributing activities and ping a colleague on the internal messenger. Not that I really have anything to tell him, but on the messenger, there seems to be a lot to talk. After we are done bitching about client and whining about our life, we end up talking about food. Suddenly at 10:30 in the morning, we type away fast and furiously discussing something to do with food – about food devoured or that we wish to devour. Soon, the typing about food doesn’t seem as fun and you walk to the colleague’s desk (which is some twenty metres away) and get into a loud discussion about the food. As always, everyone eavesdrops and you gather a bunch of people who obsessively join this food chatter.
By the time, the conversation is beginning to taper, it is 11:30 am and we have a very hungry office. There is no food at hand and we begin to go around office begging, pleading and demanding for food. Someone then will come up with the idea of a theme lunch and the next half an hour would involve coming up with a suitable date.
Once that is done, we get back to our work-stations and spend the rest of the day sending mass emails to everyone to decide on theme and the food that people will get. For once, people don’t forget to click on the “reply all”. Everyone has an opinion on the theme, and they range from the absolutely unimaginative – Greens Day to the slightly creative – Filmi Food Day. Some people become strongly associated with a certain food and in spite of their repeated protests, they are not allowed to change that.
I can make other things besides Mishti Doi, Bong colleague will insist. But nobody is interested. Mishti Doi garnished with Pistas, would do just fine on Green Day and we will spend half the day thinking of a Bollywood association with Mishti Doi for Filmi Food Day.
We survived the months of February and March, going from one pot-luck to another. Suddenly, work seemed fun. And one would ignore mom when she would say something snarky like, when do you people work?
Pot-lucks are fun. They always were. It was even more fun when we grew up in colonies. Mrs So-and-So, you must get your Aloo Subzi. And Mrs So-and-So, you must get custard. Well, those days, custard was a big deal I suppose. Most of the Aunties like my Bong colleague were not allowed to experiment.
Being the only Tamilian (and often the only South Indian), my mom represented the cuisine of South India. My mom decided that the Thayir Saadam might be too common-place and doled out kilos of Semiya Bagala Bath (Vermicelli Curd Rice), one dinner after another. At home, we got tired of it, but the colony aunties never let my mom change it. Some of the children in the colony, who found it difficult to pronounce our complicated South Indian name, christened my mom as – Bagala Bath Aunty.
But thanks to these pot-luck lunches and the fact that we got transferred every other year, it made me discover several kind of dishes and foods. My mom had always been a very versatile and adaptive cook, but the pot-luck helped even more. For instance, Karela Subzi with Wadi that a Punjabi Aunty made made me discover that bitter-gourd needn’t be like chewing into a mass of bitter pills. Or a Posh Aunty, who was known as the Baker Aunty and even baked breads at home, introduced us to baked vegetables. Then there was Bong Aunty who showed us that even the most mundane of vegetables could be made exciting by using the Panch Phoran tempering. Or the Oriya Aunty who introduced us to a distant cousin of the kozhakatai (modak) called Ma(o)nda. Not to mention that, many an ingenious aunty taught us that, if one really put one’s mind to it, every vegetable in this world was possible to have something stuffed into it.
Perhaps in the light of disintegrating colonies, the pot-luck lunches in office helped us re-live some of that growing up fun. Food related nostalgia, is the best kind of nostalgia anyway. Read this lovely piece on how food can sometimes even overcome our desire for world-peace.
However, one thing has notably changed from the colony days. The fun of food has ceased to be guilt-less.
So after March is done and clients resurface and begin to give us grief, when food is actually needed to comfort us, we begin to hate food. A colleague after having a pointless argument with a client pings me saying, I want to quit.
Me too, I moan.
Me three, someone else volunteers.
We all go to her desk and whine. Soon enough, all the members of Eavesdroppers Anonymous conference at the colleague’s desk.
How about a pot-luck, someone suggests.
No, we all say most vehemently.
I want to lose weight, someone says.
I HAVE to lose weight, someone else does.
Our life sucks, we all agree.
After a while, we get back to our desks. And then, someone sends a diet that says that if you ate only white coloured food for a week, we would lose some X lbs.
Someone promptly replies to the mail asking, but how many kilos is that?
When the mathematicians oblige and we all agree that it is significant enough for us to give it a shot, we decided that a Pot Luck Diet is needed.
And so, in the months of May and June, we try and undo the happiness of February and March. With limited success.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Very happy in my heart
One of the skills, that is at a premium among Qualitative researchers, is the multi-lingual ability of the person. When people apply to my company, seeking for jobs, we demand to know what languages they can speak. Knowledge of a South Indian language is especially appreciated, given that bulk of our research work happens in this region. Knowledge of multiple South Indian languages means that, you are a goddess. Yes, we as a company actually acknowledge that all of South India doesn’t speak one language. When people quit the company, we lament at the loss of a language skill more than anything else. We might also lament at the loss of a tiffin dabba. Depends.
Though, the core of our work happens in the local language, marketing folks can only think in English. This means that, all our clients ideate in English. Brand promises are solemnized in English. Insights happen in English.
This creates a bit of a problem, because our consumers think in the vernacular language, and yet, they are altogether too clever to let you on to that. So, we insist on translations. Often, because of a lack of time, we ourselves attempt to translate these new and improved promises into a language that the consumer can understand. On such occasions, our multi-lingual and specialist language skills are put under immense stress. As also, the closet copy-writer, who exists within each one of us and is waiting for an opportunity to surface. I have often run after a Gult colleague of mine asking him to come up with the appropriate Telugu word for – shining skin. When I get something out of him, I ask him suspiciously, are you sure this means shining? And not glowing or sparkling or shimmering or twinkling?
Why don’t you just say -- Shining, he would offer weakly?
I will send messages to friends and non friends. I will test the linguistic capabilities of random people. Do we have some Telugu speaking neighbours, I will ask my mom? My mom will offer some weird speculation even. So-and-So must be Telugu because their daughter looks like a bit like Jayaprada. Basically, such like.
Of course, there are appointed experts for all languages, who remain the authority on what the translation should be. Given that, words are likely to have multiple meanings, someone needs to decide.
Given that I lived in Allahabad for a few years, I am the authority as far as Hindi goes (obviously among a group of South Indians and Bengalis). I get anxious when I can’t think of the right Hindi word. I ask my friend D, with the Lucknow connection, to help me out when I feel the need for help.
Over the years, with age and because of being out of touch with Hindi, the words have ceased to roll out as easily from my tongue. Googling doesn’t always help. And friends either don’t respond to my panic SMSs or are scarred because of too much of Hinglish Radio Jockeying on FM or flying Kingfisher Airlines. Have you heard Yana Gupta announce before we land – Abhi Hum Landddddd Karne Wallhe Hain.
So I am left with no choice, but to argue with colleagues that, certain words don’t have a Hindi equivalent. Like yesterday, someone asked me, what is the Hindi word for – Guarantee?
There isn’t any, I insisted.
Are you sure, I was asked?
I don’t think that there is a simple Hindi word, I conceded.
Who uses Hindi extensively, I wondered. It suddenly stuck me that, government offices still must have a lot of Hindi. I looked up a website that I have been spending a lot of time reading up the last few months (yes, that is how exciting my life has been). C’mon now, if the government calls it – Rashtriya Gramin Rozagar Guarantee Abhiyaan, that must be it.
I heaved a sigh of relief that I get to retain my Hindi Expert tag for a bit longer. And that I didn’t let down my beloved Allahabad.
Speaking of Hindi, what happened to those - Hindi Day type of thing? Did anyone need to go through those special days, when the prayer, pledge and assorted activities had to happen in Hindi? Or was that just me and my government aided schools in small-towns phenomena?
The other day, a friend accused me of being too gushingly loving towards Hindi and Hindi speaking people. I can’t help that. It is one of those forever type of love-story. Though, I am most happy that the Southern Brotherhood has stood up for itself and ensured that the Chennai Super Kings shall take on large parts of North India. That the Chennai Super Kings is led by a Hindi speaking cow belt boy, makes it even more delicious.
Though, the core of our work happens in the local language, marketing folks can only think in English. This means that, all our clients ideate in English. Brand promises are solemnized in English. Insights happen in English.
This creates a bit of a problem, because our consumers think in the vernacular language, and yet, they are altogether too clever to let you on to that. So, we insist on translations. Often, because of a lack of time, we ourselves attempt to translate these new and improved promises into a language that the consumer can understand. On such occasions, our multi-lingual and specialist language skills are put under immense stress. As also, the closet copy-writer, who exists within each one of us and is waiting for an opportunity to surface. I have often run after a Gult colleague of mine asking him to come up with the appropriate Telugu word for – shining skin. When I get something out of him, I ask him suspiciously, are you sure this means shining? And not glowing or sparkling or shimmering or twinkling?
Why don’t you just say -- Shining, he would offer weakly?
I will send messages to friends and non friends. I will test the linguistic capabilities of random people. Do we have some Telugu speaking neighbours, I will ask my mom? My mom will offer some weird speculation even. So-and-So must be Telugu because their daughter looks like a bit like Jayaprada. Basically, such like.
Of course, there are appointed experts for all languages, who remain the authority on what the translation should be. Given that, words are likely to have multiple meanings, someone needs to decide.
Given that I lived in Allahabad for a few years, I am the authority as far as Hindi goes (obviously among a group of South Indians and Bengalis). I get anxious when I can’t think of the right Hindi word. I ask my friend D, with the Lucknow connection, to help me out when I feel the need for help.
Over the years, with age and because of being out of touch with Hindi, the words have ceased to roll out as easily from my tongue. Googling doesn’t always help. And friends either don’t respond to my panic SMSs or are scarred because of too much of Hinglish Radio Jockeying on FM or flying Kingfisher Airlines. Have you heard Yana Gupta announce before we land – Abhi Hum Landddddd Karne Wallhe Hain.
So I am left with no choice, but to argue with colleagues that, certain words don’t have a Hindi equivalent. Like yesterday, someone asked me, what is the Hindi word for – Guarantee?
There isn’t any, I insisted.
Are you sure, I was asked?
I don’t think that there is a simple Hindi word, I conceded.
Who uses Hindi extensively, I wondered. It suddenly stuck me that, government offices still must have a lot of Hindi. I looked up a website that I have been spending a lot of time reading up the last few months (yes, that is how exciting my life has been). C’mon now, if the government calls it – Rashtriya Gramin Rozagar Guarantee Abhiyaan, that must be it.
I heaved a sigh of relief that I get to retain my Hindi Expert tag for a bit longer. And that I didn’t let down my beloved Allahabad.
Speaking of Hindi, what happened to those - Hindi Day type of thing? Did anyone need to go through those special days, when the prayer, pledge and assorted activities had to happen in Hindi? Or was that just me and my government aided schools in small-towns phenomena?
The other day, a friend accused me of being too gushingly loving towards Hindi and Hindi speaking people. I can’t help that. It is one of those forever type of love-story. Though, I am most happy that the Southern Brotherhood has stood up for itself and ensured that the Chennai Super Kings shall take on large parts of North India. That the Chennai Super Kings is led by a Hindi speaking cow belt boy, makes it even more delicious.
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
Fool Khile Hai Gulshan Gulshan
April Fool Banaya,
To Unko Gussa Aaya.
To Mera kya Kasoor,
Hai Zamane Ka Kasoor
Jisne Dastoor Banaya.
I miss all those 1st of Aprils when this song was shown on Doordarshan. As the family crowded around the TV set before the Chitrahaar/Chayageet/Rangoli, the siblings would try and predict the songs that they would show.
For example, around the time of Christmas there had to be, Oh Maria Oh Maria from Saagar. Right! That totally captures the birth of god doesn’t it? Johny proposes, god disposes?
Rakshabandhan meant, among several others – Phoolon Ka Taaron Ka from Hare Rama Hare Krishna. Much to the brother’s embarrassment I and my sister would sing that most lovingly to him. Of course, that is a slight role reversal. But it is stupid to think that life will be as perfect as Bollywood. The brother would glower and inform that, we (the good Tamil people) didn’t celebrate this sibling love festival. After a bit, when we would not shut up, he would give us the money.
If it was New Year’s Eve or the week before New Year, it meant that several songs that celebrated New Year in 1972 and so on would be played.
Independence Day, Republic Day and Gandhi Jayanati saw an overdose of patriotic song, including the inspirational – Nanha Munha Rahi Hoon.
Karwa Chauth before the times of the sophistication of K Jo only meant a Nutan doing a Dandiya and happily singing, Main to Bhool Chali Babul Ka Des… Piya Ka Ghar Pyaara Lage. You could bet the last rupee or the flower shaped ten paise coin, that she was supremely miserable with Piya and his Maiya.
Then there were specials, celebrating the cycle of life -- Rafi’s death anniversary and Manna Da’s birthday. And when we sat around the TV and predicted the songs, we felt mildly smug when our song got featured.
One played dumb pranks on mom, siblings and friends to celebrate Fools Day. One cracked idiotic and lame jokes about friends who celebrated birthdays on this special day.
Did the doctor tell your mom, it’s a girl? And did your mom say, don’t fool me doc, I know it is a bear. Only person laughing at these jokes were the ones who came up with them.
So lame, and so much fun.
The last real good April fool joke I pulled off was in 1992 and told my mom that, the neighbour uncle had superseded my dad and been made his boss. It broke my dad’s heart and I felt hugely guilty.
That put an end to my “clever” pranks and a year later we also got Cable TV.
Question: Why don’t marketers capitalize on this day too?
After all, didn’t Ace of Base say - Life is a Flower and ergo there must be enough number of fools around?
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Last man standing
It is happening all around us - big, small, garish, classy but always noisy weddings.
Traffic snarls are common place. Celebrating your 60th birthday by solemnising the wedding of sixty people is common place too.
Everyone is cashing in on it – from over-crowded beauty parlours (where I had to wait for two hours to get my eye-brows done, because the world and their aunties like to wear their hair straight) to every major sari retailer in the city promising wedding saris that shall enhance togetherness and to politicians on their own attempts to woo voters.
We researchers make some use of this too. After all the wedding industry with an estimated size of Rs 70,000 crores and growing at a rate of 30% annually, is THE most exciting place to be in.
Several of these researches, seeing too many shaadi.com banner ads on web-sites and two of my close friends cum colleagues getting married in the next two weeks later, I am wondering at some of the issues that women who are getting married go through.
Let’s take the case of these two women who are getting married – B & M, both of them lovely girls, albeit in completely different ways.
B is an old friend, with whom I went to college with and have been close with for the last few years. Getting into random nostalgia trip over shared acquaintances at the work-place is fun. M is a work-place friend, someone who I respect as a co-worker and who is easy company. I am thankful in many ways, to the number of great work-place friends I have managed to make.
Both B and M announced that they were getting married within a space of a week’s time. It came as a bit of a shock. M, one thought was too young and B, well. Wasn’t it just the other day when B and several other women friends were lamenting on our terminally single status?
Besides this co-incidence, B and M were as different as two people can possibly be.
At age twenty-four, M was at the stage when her family was beginning to wonder if she should get married. At age twenty-eight, B was at the stage when her family was at the end of the wondering on why she was not getting married.
B is the self-appointed workaholic in office. M is the self –appointed goof-ball cum child-woman.
When M announced her wedding at the office, she did it with much fanfare. She gave us all the gory details, so that the rest of could vicariously live her romance. She told us about the boy, his family, his niece and the Labrador dog in his house. When we ragged her and demanded that she buy us lunch and expensive dessert at a new and fancy restaurant, she obliged in her good-natured way.
With B, things were a little different. She first told me. Then she told her boss. Then she announced it in the office. She was embarrassed talking about it. Offered very sketchy details. And didn’t buy us any food.
But, we were happy for both of them and were also plagued with serious angst over how many wedding-type clothes we would need (given that their weddings were going to be two weeks apart and we were going to meet the same people)
Interestingly, just after B and M announced their engagement, I noticed that one began to attribute everything that they did (or not) to the fact that they were not single any more.
So, when M made a mistake at work, people around poohed and attributed this lack of attention to detail to her status change. If B sulked, it was no longer PMS, but lovearia. I know.
In our one level and no partitions office, every call that B and M got had to be from the significant other. I know, I know.
May be because of the age difference or the inherent personality difference, both B and M reacted very differently to the prospect of marriage. M was excited about the trousseau shopping, about trying out new recipes, about things to do up her home with, about checking for courses that she could do when she moved after marriage and so on. B on the other hand, was none of these things. She had a fairly matter of fact approach to the same.
M decided to quit the job. For a wedding in March, she quit her job in November. B came to work even yesterday, her wedding ceremonies start today.
Yet, both of them are judged. Both are wrong. M has lost her sense of self. B is too self absorbed. M is so lucky, isn’t it? B has an exaggerated sense of self, doesn’t she? M will regret this. B will regret this.
It is all black or white, there seems to be no in between path.
But then, today is B’s mehendi and everyone sets aside their prejudice. For now at least. And the greater pre-occupation is on the overdose of bling in the office today. My bling nicer than yours, people want to know.
Of course, around the same time that these two girls announced their engagement was another one – R, a male colleague of ours. None of us ask him about how he plans to manage marriage preparations and work. Nor do we make sweeping judgments if he speaks to the fiancé woman. We don’t attribute his mistakes to his engagement.
Eh.
Though, to be honest, he is hot enough for us to be in complete denial of the fact that he shall soon be married.
Like the banner in front of our office rest-room screams – it is not over, until it is over. Cheesy? Yes. Comforting? Definitely.
Traffic snarls are common place. Celebrating your 60th birthday by solemnising the wedding of sixty people is common place too.
Everyone is cashing in on it – from over-crowded beauty parlours (where I had to wait for two hours to get my eye-brows done, because the world and their aunties like to wear their hair straight) to every major sari retailer in the city promising wedding saris that shall enhance togetherness and to politicians on their own attempts to woo voters.
We researchers make some use of this too. After all the wedding industry with an estimated size of Rs 70,000 crores and growing at a rate of 30% annually, is THE most exciting place to be in.
Several of these researches, seeing too many shaadi.com banner ads on web-sites and two of my close friends cum colleagues getting married in the next two weeks later, I am wondering at some of the issues that women who are getting married go through.
Let’s take the case of these two women who are getting married – B & M, both of them lovely girls, albeit in completely different ways.
B is an old friend, with whom I went to college with and have been close with for the last few years. Getting into random nostalgia trip over shared acquaintances at the work-place is fun. M is a work-place friend, someone who I respect as a co-worker and who is easy company. I am thankful in many ways, to the number of great work-place friends I have managed to make.
Both B and M announced that they were getting married within a space of a week’s time. It came as a bit of a shock. M, one thought was too young and B, well. Wasn’t it just the other day when B and several other women friends were lamenting on our terminally single status?
Besides this co-incidence, B and M were as different as two people can possibly be.
At age twenty-four, M was at the stage when her family was beginning to wonder if she should get married. At age twenty-eight, B was at the stage when her family was at the end of the wondering on why she was not getting married.
B is the self-appointed workaholic in office. M is the self –appointed goof-ball cum child-woman.
When M announced her wedding at the office, she did it with much fanfare. She gave us all the gory details, so that the rest of could vicariously live her romance. She told us about the boy, his family, his niece and the Labrador dog in his house. When we ragged her and demanded that she buy us lunch and expensive dessert at a new and fancy restaurant, she obliged in her good-natured way.
With B, things were a little different. She first told me. Then she told her boss. Then she announced it in the office. She was embarrassed talking about it. Offered very sketchy details. And didn’t buy us any food.
But, we were happy for both of them and were also plagued with serious angst over how many wedding-type clothes we would need (given that their weddings were going to be two weeks apart and we were going to meet the same people)
Interestingly, just after B and M announced their engagement, I noticed that one began to attribute everything that they did (or not) to the fact that they were not single any more.
So, when M made a mistake at work, people around poohed and attributed this lack of attention to detail to her status change. If B sulked, it was no longer PMS, but lovearia. I know.
In our one level and no partitions office, every call that B and M got had to be from the significant other. I know, I know.
May be because of the age difference or the inherent personality difference, both B and M reacted very differently to the prospect of marriage. M was excited about the trousseau shopping, about trying out new recipes, about things to do up her home with, about checking for courses that she could do when she moved after marriage and so on. B on the other hand, was none of these things. She had a fairly matter of fact approach to the same.
M decided to quit the job. For a wedding in March, she quit her job in November. B came to work even yesterday, her wedding ceremonies start today.
Yet, both of them are judged. Both are wrong. M has lost her sense of self. B is too self absorbed. M is so lucky, isn’t it? B has an exaggerated sense of self, doesn’t she? M will regret this. B will regret this.
It is all black or white, there seems to be no in between path.
But then, today is B’s mehendi and everyone sets aside their prejudice. For now at least. And the greater pre-occupation is on the overdose of bling in the office today. My bling nicer than yours, people want to know.
Of course, around the same time that these two girls announced their engagement was another one – R, a male colleague of ours. None of us ask him about how he plans to manage marriage preparations and work. Nor do we make sweeping judgments if he speaks to the fiancé woman. We don’t attribute his mistakes to his engagement.
Eh.
Though, to be honest, he is hot enough for us to be in complete denial of the fact that he shall soon be married.
Like the banner in front of our office rest-room screams – it is not over, until it is over. Cheesy? Yes. Comforting? Definitely.
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