Are you happy?

Are you happy?

I don’t know…

Okay, let’s get down to the details. Are you happy with your work life? The money you make and so on?

Yeah…I may not be the best out there but I am not the worst. I know I can do better but…Yeah, alright.

Are you happy with your family life?

Yes. I get along well with my wife; my son does well in school and is well adjusted. My parents or in-laws are generally the non-interfering kind. Yeah, I am happy. We have just come back from a vacation, you know!

Are you happy with your social life?

Yes. I have a good bunch of friends, even outside facebook. I get company for drinking every weekend.

Are you happy with yourself? How do people see you, how well you are doing overall and other such stuff…

Hmmm…I guess so. I am not a bad person or at least, no one told me so yet. I do reasonably well with family, friends, work and strangers.

Are you happy with how you have done till now?

I should be. I have done fairly decently considering where we started. I have done much better than my peer group.

Are you happy with your future prospects? How does it look?

Not bad…at least as far as I see…

Are you happy with the places you live in, work in or travel to?

Yeah, yeah. I am generally okay with such things.

So, are you happy?

Hmmm…it’s so difficult, man…I don’t know. May be I should be.

Meaning of Life

IIMBaba was reading a book review online and came across a quote at the beginning of this  review: Tweets Alain de Botton, philosopher, author, and now online aphorist: “The logical conclusion of our relationship to computers: expectantly to type “what is the meaning ofmy life” into Google”

And sent it on the mailing list of his Bhaktas, to provoke thought.

Senior Bhakta replies to all  – “just now typed it in Google. There are 48,400,000 results, offered up in 0.11 seconds. What to pick and read?”

The very recently joined junior Bhakta, nervously checking mail on his blackberry does not want to be outdone. He writes – “I typed ‘what is the meaning of my life’ in my Google window and got 118,000,000 results in 0.24 seconds. Does that mean my life is longer and more meaningful than yours?”

He then went on to publish on his blog that night: “according to Google, people with 2 years of post-MBA experience have nearly double the meaning in their lives compared to those that have more than 5 years of post-MBA experience”.

Last heard, he was turning it in to a peer reviewed paper for the international webinar on “Meaningful Work and Life”.

Babaspeak: On Work

I have been working hard in the last two weeks – at least I feel that way, may be as I have come back to consulting after a year of happily teaching English classes. So, the idea of work has been on my mind and here is a collection of “work quotes” from IIMBaba’s teachings and discourses over the years. You know where that preachy tone comes from.

Work is like a python – when you are in its clutches, if you continue to stare at it mesmerized, it will slowly crush you. The trick is to get out of its grip, a little at a time

(Same approach works for depression, too)

“Why do you want work life balance? They should not be weighed in the same scales at all”

“If you think the feeling you get when there is a lot of work waiting for you is bad, wait till the time when all that is waiting for you is non-work*”

“Are you one of those who say they will be happy if only they can make a living out of doing whatever they think they like doing? Nothing can be far from the truth. By making your pleasure your work, instead of making work more palatable, you are going to make the pleasure much less pleasurable. It’s the label “work” that makes it painful, not what it is”

“Why do you want your work to be ‘meaningful’ and ‘fulfilling’? It’s your life which is supposed to have these attributes. Stop expecting salvation through work. Treat it as the small part of life that it is. At 30, work does look like a large part of life, just like sex looked like a large part of marriage when you were 25 (or 20 or 18 depending on when you started contemplating marriage).  Out grow this work dependence, start living life”

There. Now that you have been suitably enlightened, please get back to work.

*Non-work: work like things done in offices around the world when there is no work.

Hangover

A bewitching sea beckons

Red, white, maroon, gold

Sweet, sour, pungent and bitter

 

A short plunge and a large gulp

Seeking, searching

Diving in, coming up

A breath of air, a sip of water

Heading back, hitting the bottom

 

Lost and spent, I float up with the dawn

A couple of rough gems

One or two rounded pearls

Slithering stones and stinking mud

 

And a million glittering pieces

Of fact, fiction and fantasy

Sticking to my skin, drying in the sun

Some I brush away

Like sand from the beach

Some are etched deeper

Shining tattoos to talk about

For a couple of weeks

 

Then there are those…

Larger and sharper

Digging deep, in to skin and psyche

Bleeding and healing

As I head down again

 

Seeking, searching, probing…

The oak tree and the blades of grass

Once there was an oak tree. It grew big and strong, as oak trees generally do. It did not know any other way of growing. When wind blew, it moved happily but as it grew older, firmness set into its limbs.

One monsoon, there grew a clump of grass under the oak tree. The blades of grass grew thin and straight, as blades of grass grow anywhere. They really danced with joy in the wind. The oak tree looked on, sighing.

One day there was a storm. The blades of grass survived. The oak tree was uprooted. Same as happened countless times to countless other oak trees and blades of grass in countless other storms. But this time, a wise man was passing by. The wise man got immortalized by asking “which is stronger, a mighty Oak tree or a blade of grass?” and quickly answering “in a monsoon, the tree broke like a twig but the blades of grass that yielded remained standing.”

As this observation took the form of a moral tale depicting the “fall of the proud oak tree”, the fallen but not yet dead oak tree also had to endure the taunts and boasts of the surviving grass blades. Till the time summer came and baked both the grass and the oak tree a dull, dead brown.

Not eating eggs

I was once sharing rooms with a friend who did not eat eggs.

Right. That’s what I remember him for – not eating eggs.

I can hear you wondering – “What is so great about it? A lot of people do not eat eggs”.  His not eating eggs was different since he ate everything else – chicken, mutton and fish; possibly even beef and pork. May be not dog. But never ate eggs.

It came out fairly early in my acquaintance with him. One evening we were out searching for food. We were not hungry enough to eat anything seriously non-vegetarian but wanted something spicy. I suggested egg biriyani.  And pat came the reply – “I don’t eat eggs. Don’t ask me why.” I let it pass since I did not know him well enough. But the seed of the question that would haunt me later was planted in my head.

I eat eggs every day, at least with one meal. Every time, I offered to make him some eggs and every time he refused. He would simply say “No”. He continued saying no to eggs even after he realized I was (I still am) a good cook.  I was intrigued.

I initially wondered about how different he was in other respects – you know, skeletons in the closet kind of thing. And he kept his room door locked all the time. But as I slowly got to know him, I realized he was more or less a normal human being in all other aspects, except for not eating eggs.

It became a constant thought with me. We would be sitting, watching TV together and I would suddenly look at him and wonder – “why doesn’t he eat eggs”? Or we would be taking a walk, there would be a lull in the conversation and eggs would pop in to my head.

I started thinking more and more about it. I still did not know him well enough to press him for an answer. Maybe he thought of an egg in terms of the life it contains and possibly did not want to end a life not yet began. So, with my usual astuteness, I once led him to a discussion on “what came first – chicken or egg”. He did not show any pro-egg sentiment throughout the one hour discussion. On another day, while cleaning the house, I noticed a nest of lizard eggs and covertly watched to see what he would do, half-expecting him to start coochi-cooing to them. He just gathered them up and put them in the dustbin. No – it was just not a pro-life approach. But still he would not eat eggs.

 May be his family was in to chicken farming and he had grown sick of eating eggs everyday for the first 15 years of his life. A careful background check revealed that his father was a banker. No way.

Another day, I fell asleep while watching a Hindi movie and had a dream. In that dream, my friend was a child of ten. His parents shut him up in a cellar by mistake and left for a long holiday. For fifteen days, he was stuck in the cellar with a large carton of eggs. Raw egg for breakfast, lunch and dinner. That would turn any one permanently off eggs. When I probed around his childhood, I discovered that he grew up in the middle of Delhi, in an apartment complex. That theory went out of the window.

In another scenario I thought of, my friend had a chicken as a pet and was very close to it. He might have seen, up close, how hard it was to actually lay an egg. Think of one good friend you care about. Now imagine a fully inflated football coming out of his behind, one every day. And then imagine that is the only way of producing footballs – would you do anything that increases the demand for footballs? You wouldn’t. On careful thought, I let this go since you wouldn’t eat your friend either. My friend has no problems eating a full chicken for lunch.

I was once rifling through his bookshelf and realized that there was a definite socialist, possibly even communist, slant to his reading. Then I recalled that there are two types of chicken – broilers and layers. Broilers are eaten and layers lay eggs. Was there a class struggle angle? Did he think of layers as the bourgeois middle class and did not want to have anything to do with them? Or did he see them as the worker class and does not want to participate in the ‘cruel exploitation’? Did he harbor the dream of bringing freedom and power to the exploited classes of chicken world? Again, obliquely approaching it through a high sounding intellectual discussion, I was disappointed to discover that he did not even know there are different classes of chicken. I also discovered, by some tactful questioning, that he had never been to a chicken farm in life.

One Sunday morning, we had a ‘pure vegetarian’ friend visiting. While I was preparing bread and eggs for my breakfast, he looked at the eggs distastefully and had the gall to say that eggs stink. I had never thought of it that way – eggs smell delicious! Then it struck me. Maybe that is the reason my friend did not eat eggs. The next day I bought some dried fish and fried them while he was around. They stank so much I had to hold my nose while he was not looking. He was happily standing around offering random suggestions and ate a large share when it was done. So, it was not smell.

By this time my stay in the city was coming to an end. We never grew any closer – maybe he was generally the reserved sort. Or maybe I put him off with my persistent probing, though I swear I was quite discreet and tactful.  Anyway, I could never ask him directly and I never found out why he didn’t eat eggs.

Once in a while I still visit him when I travel to the city. He still does not eat eggs. May be he simply does not like the taste of them. Maybe he has an allergic reaction to something in eggs. Or maybe he was once bombed by alien chicken with their exploding eggs and has a permanent fear of eggs. I wouldn’t know.

Sublime Sentiments/ Postmodernist Prattle/ Nonsense Notes

(choose a title after you are done reading or feel free to substitute with one of your own)

I know most of you do not know most things about me. I am generally okay with it. But still, I was pained to discover the other day that a lot of you have never heard or even heard of my non-prose literary efforts. While I was thinking of fishing out some of them from old notebooks and putting them here, a golden opportunity/random happenstance came my way.

Krishnamoorthy, a classmate from B-school and a good friend, sent me a poem (I use the term quite loosely, as you will figure out shortly). Since I was completely jobless, I wrote back. Thus started a long chain of emails that went on for about 5 hours during which we created the monumental (ahem!) work that I am now going to present here.  The ones on the right are mine.

The longest response time (between emails – the time taken to ‘compose’) was about 25 minutes and the shortest was 10. Stream-of-consciousness for you!!

Disclaimers: No explanatory notes shall be provided. Use the postmodernist, preferably non-structuralist approaches to make any sense. Feel free to write what you think. We reserve the right to make ‘poems’ out of comments and throw them back at you.

A scoop of vanilla ice cream

Sitting pretty on a cone

Melts and drips and drips

With no one around to taste

On a bright Saturday afternoon

I cycle eight beautiful kilometers

Only to discover that

The ice candy man was long dead

a dollop of dull yellow poop

floating leisurely under the dome

twists, turns,rots and stinks

with no one around to flush it down

On a boring Sunday morning

I scrub the entire house

only to discover that

the stink comes from elsewhere

Standing on a depressingly clean balcony

I remembered with a strange fondness

The pigeon droppings in various degrees of decay

A bit worried, I wondered

If I was in the right house

Only to discover that

It was just another way of

Seeing the same old shit

 In the face of cleanlinesssee

the shit underneath

under the familiar shit

lies an unknown ugly world

when not working becomes

a way of working harder

when the pain is self-inflicted

why even think about pleasure?

To have come thus far

To have climbed many a ladder

And reach a point

Where

Not working becomes a way of working harder.

If this is not progress then what is?

Time for a pay hike!

progress regress digress

climb up down run away

begin end busy idle

work leisure pleasure pain

think do oppress impress

enlighten kill humiliate

love like hate ignore

destroy create color mold

anger jealousy pity piety

god dog devil woman

high flat low dim

bright dark stupid trim

chop the ladders

break the steps

bomb the world

kill yourself

When you can bomb the world

And kill yourself

Why wait for the lights to go down

And angels to come and wish you bye?

Now is the time

Now is the time.

But wait..

What about that report submission?

Ain’t there a deadline for Monday

Go ahead

Complete that one last one

And die in peace

After all dying can wait!

what does peace matter

when life does not;

or should it?

if dying can wait

and life is waiting

what matters time?

Piecemeal dying

Seems to be in fashion these days

Bit by bit

Bit by bit

Live life to the maximum they say!

Over the giant wheel

On the very top

Sits a young girl

Gripping the safety bar tight

And when the giant wheel spins

The poor girl screams in fright

Or may be fun

Who knows?

if she knew it was fun or fright

in precise detail

and analysed and understood,

will she ever get on the wheel again?

creeping inch by inch to death -

that is politely called life

push on for now

the time to try claw your way back

will come soon enough.

Creeping inch by inch to death

Politely called life?

Is this frustration or

A plain oversupply of a certain currency called time?

looking beyond the facade?

how lovely!

do you wish to dig and tunnel

in to no man’s land?

in to sinew, heart and mind?

how noble!

any truth in there?

one or many, right or wrong

am I gay or straight?

sound, picture or the thought

build it up or break it apart?

is it my over anxious mother?

or is it simply about power?

Got no doubts now whatsoever;

It is time, time and loads of more free time

That manifests itself into these lines

May the jobless be blessed and their tribe grow!

It might be  of interest to know that

The overanxious mother is waiting outside

With a jar of pickles

One to tease each of your tease buds

butler botler derrida

eagleton eco fish

you had your pick!

there was conrad

forster pound and proust

if old was your gold

in a different vintage

we offered keats peacock

emerson pater and wilde

alas! you choose camus

esslin beckett and pinter

or is it simply all pitter patter?

In the three hours that I stood in the bus stand

Several buses came and left

I got in one that caught my fancy

Not a clue where the bus goes

But I am told

The driver is a  sane person

there is a train

i want to get on

I know where its headed

where it starts

and how long it takes

the number of coaches

I counted

and the width of seats, measured

I need to hurry

to talk to the driver

bye bye for the day.

En-counters of the Super-market kind

A visit to a library, any library, typically makes me very happy. The notion of standing surrounded by so many books on so many topics by so many authors is in itself very exciting. A super market also makes me happy for a similar reason.The mere knowledge of the existence of certain products fills me with a strange kind of satisfaction. The tuna fish packed in brine is a special favorite of mine though I have never been able to convince myself into buying it. Less forbidding things that I have tried include methi bread, a lollipop priced at 25 rupees, Saint grape juice (it tastes faintly like wine) and so on.

The other reason I like supermarkets is the awesome quality of the human interactions: between shoppers (my favorite is when someone comes and asks me – “where do you guys keep detergent powders hidden?” with a touch of annoyance), between the shoppers and the shop assistants, between various assistants, the jumble of languages…after all, it’s a market! The indifference of some of the assistants, the poor English they speak, the righteous indignation of some of the shoppers…all these can get quite amusing. A Saturday morning visit to a supermarket near home in Bangalore has become a kind of pastime for me.

One such Saturday morning, the supermarket was almost empty. I admired the fifteen varieties of breakfast breads for sometime and spent some more time gazing at all the ‘phorein’ vegetables like zuchini, multi-colored capsicum, various grasses like rosemary, chinese cabbage and so on. And finally, as the point of time when missus would call from home asking ‘why the *@#$ is it taking you so long to buy a packet of milk’ was approaching, I reached the cash counter.

There was a lady standing at the counter ready to pay the bill. Well dressed, well made up but slightly over the hill. Suddenly she started speaking very unkindly to the girl in the counter. The register was showing a bill for 10,000 rupees and the lady was getting angry. The girl in the counter, to her credit, pointed out the problem immediately: there was a banana stem priced at 9,000 rupees. She immediately called her supervisor over. The supervisor noticed that the banana stem was weighed (by the lady) at 1000 grams. It should have been sold at 9 rupees per piece but when you get it weighed, the scanner looks at the 1000 and multiplies it by the piece rate of 9 rupees. It was a series of small mistakes (the lady deciding to getting it weighed when it was to be bought per piece, the weighing counter girl not correcting the mistake and the girl at the cash register going with the weight instead of billing by piece) and was easy to spot and rectify.

All this discussion took about 5 minutes and while it was going on, suddenly, the lady decided to up the ante. She started shouting that the girls in the counter do not know how to read numbers and that they do not even know how to read English letters. It was generally unfair but, okay, she was upset. Then she outdid herself by asking for the manager – she does not want that particular girl in the counter. And she started justifying her stand saying ‘people are busy, look how many people are having to wait because of such stupid mistakes’ and stuff. This was when she looked back at me and tried to include me in the ‘busy people’ waiting: I promptly stepped out of the sweep of her hand and looked away. Busy? you mean, ME??

I felt like asking some questions: Assume the manager comes and she tells him not to put that girl in the counter. How is she going to ensure this happens? Is she going to come back at odd hours on sudden inspection visits? And if all the girls get ‘Fluent English’ training, will they continue to work as shop assistants? Especially if they start understanding all the things that we say about them? And some more questions: Why do we assume that people who are not smartly dressed are not sensitive to words like ‘stupid’? Would you call a fully grown adult ‘stupid’ in your mother tongue, however big the mistake s/he made? Okay, would you do the same in a regular vegetable market? They will hound you out, no matter how impeccable your English.

All this drama was being enacted at one counter and everyone was engaged, having fun like I was. Including a smart looking young lady at the next counter. A middle aged, lower middle class looking guy just steps across in front of her and gets his one packet of bread billed. The lady suddenly wakes up. She has a ton of things to get billed. She gets upset. The guy does not even look at her. She gets more upset and starts mumbling. That guy looks at her, smiles and shows his single packet of bread. She gets outraged and starts talking about ‘common courtesies’ like asking her leave before jumping queue and all. In rather rude sounding English. She does not expect him to talk back. He does not look like the kind that can give it back in English. Unfortunately for her, he does give it back, and does it rather well. Both of them are upset now.

I felt like asking more questions: what would she have done if he had asked her – said NO NO NO? Not likely. Then why is she bothered now? Reminds me of the “take the smaller piece of the cake when you get the first chance” kind of thought.

Did I ask any of these questions? Did I even politely express my opinion, at least to show off my ‘balanced outlook’? Did I try to bring peace back to the universe? No way. Either of the women would have easily summoned enough energy to thrash me black and blue if I had. No chance.

But, I have a plan. I am waiting another fifteen years. By that time, when I indulge in such perilious undertakings, the ladies will look at my awesome physique and thinning hair and will hopefully think – “okay, eccentric old man…let him live” and move on. Till then, mum’s the word.

Dean: On The Road

Just about finished reading On The Road. I dig Dean Moriatry and his quest for IT. I dig his digging the kind of things he digs. I dig Sal digging the same things, a little less deep. I might simply sniff at or, at the best, scratch at those. To each, his depth and shallowness. To each, his own seeking and fleeing. To each, his freedom and bondage to love or hate.

I see Dean going on quest after quest. Each longer than the last one. Each with a new set of acolytes. Each ending, not in heaven or hell or IT or beyond, but in the middle of nowhere. And the next one beginning and ending. Will any one of them ever end before it begins? Unlikely with Dean. He will then become one of us. No, we can’t have that.

Let me get to the point. It’s this absolutely wonderful quote:

“Now you just dig them in front. They have worries, they’re thinking about where to sleep tonight, how much money for gas, the weather, how they’ll get there – and all the time they’ll get there anyway. You see. But they need to worry and betray time with urgencies false and otherwise, purely anxious and whiny, their souls really won’t be at peace unless they can latch on to an established and proven worry and having once found it they assume facial expressions to fit and go with it, which is, you see, unhappiness, and all the time it all flies by them and they know it and that too worries them no end. Listen! Listen!……Man, you dig all this.”

I worry that these days I might have started worrying a little – wee – bit less about a lot of things. You have a nice day!

The Michael Bailey Dildo Scandal

EXPLICIT CONTENT WARNING, if you haven’t figured it out already! :-)

On February 21, 2011, Michael Bailey, a tenured professor at the Northwestern University, who teaches an undergraduate course in “Human Sexuality” arranged an after-class activity for his class of 600 students. esquire reports “Bailey had invited two rather enthusiastic local couples to talk at an after-class discussion about “networking for kinky people.” When they came into Ryan Auditorium, the students were finishing an educational video that questioned the existence of the female G-spot, which is, somehow, a scientifically controversial subject these days. The guests wanted to assure everyone otherwise and asked Bailey if they could perform a little demonstration. He hesitated only briefly — maybe too briefly — before saying yes. But putting a condom on a banana this was not: After some warnings about the graphic nature of what they were going to see, the students watched a man pull out a motorized dildo — otherwise known as a “fucksaw” — and bring a woman to orgasm on stage.” Another account reports – “The professor alerted his students about this extraordinary show-and-tell session, and made clear that attendance was voluntary. The standard account has it that 120 or so of the 622 students enrolled in the course showed up.”

A complete waste of time for everyone is what I think it is. Here is a rather ritualistic commentary on the issue (yeah, finding such things and then writing righteous blog posts is a ritual of sorts).

Now, the point of this post: Joseph Epstein, Professor Emeritus at Northwestern, wrote this fantastic piece in the weekly Standard (got it via Briggs). Idiocy of Bailey and his ilk is, sometimes, pardonable for the quality of the comments it generates. That reminds me of this letter written by Rohinton Mistry in the “book banning” controversy spearheaded by the scion of Shiv Sena. Unfortunately, in this case, there is no excuse for the young Thackeray.

 

 

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