If memory serves me right (and we know how dubious a claim that can be), it was Abu Ben Adam who had a book of Gold in which he put down the names of those who were going to get into heaven. And before you call the fire brigade, it's not that I'm not ruminating over ways to get into Abu Ben's good books, but I am paying a little more attention to karmic philosophy. I've lost track of the circular debates Ma and I have had over the subject. She believes, I don't. It's ludicrous to think we're living the consequences of previous karmic actions, and our deeds in this life will dictate our next. Like I don't have enough to keep me busy in a single life!!
Yet, I am now contemplating this whole saat janam phenomena.... why? An email, graciously bestowing upon one, the great honour of being one of the chosen elite. I've been 'selected' to represent C&W in their wholesale mega pan European most co-ordinated marketing campaign as a singular firm. The exercise certainly has been a political triumph as well as a boost to business generation. But an email suggested you've been selected, can bode only ill; in fact, I feel very, very ill. My mission, whether I choose to accept it or not, is to confirm which training session I would like to attend. Training on how to take phone calls. I beg your pardon? My eyes trawl the email with more than a soupçon of attention this time. Nope. It's still there. I've been selected to undergo training on the phone. While admittedly, my dislike of the instrument is not exactly a state secret, for the new head of marketing to get wind of it???? I blithely ignore it, and move on to more pressing matters of my day job.
9 am and I'm herded into the war room. This was definitely NOT in my diary. A beaming Mr. Stone (I've never seen him unbeaming...but then he calls me Apura....) assures us it won't take more than 20 minutes. 35 minutes later, it's only the thought of her gloating that stalls my fingers from punching the number for Iris as I contemplate calling Ma for some karmic wisdom. As it turns out, not only am I expected to pick a training session, I'm also expected to sit through a couple of hours of simulation while I'm tested, recorded and forced to listen to myself.. (the answering machine never had me on it because I sound so completely alien to how I hear myself in my own head!! and I didn't quite mean that they way it sounded, but I'm really stressed now), and this is just a prelude to then having to speak to complete strangers from almost random companies turning them into happy C&W followers.
Voilà! An alternate to the perpetually smiling Hare Rama dudes that mess with my mojo; I can now convert grumpily!! What the fuck?! How did this happen?? Karma?? What else can this be except excruciating retribution for the sins of my past life? I certainly haven't sinned enough in this life to be so roundly punished, have I? Maybe if I do go rooting around for how get into that book of Gold? Would it assure me of a phone free next life? Gah! I'll deal with that when I show up again! Uh oh - is this why I have find myself agreeing to an am training session? Because I so facetiously laughed off the whole karmic cycle? I'm willing to indulge in the mindfuck of pure theology if it will get me out of making these damned phone calls. Hell, I'm willing to believe.... Abu? Help.... Please.....?
15 minutes of fame
Which is really not a lot when you think about it. I have about that same number of minutes to kill before heading out for dinner to flaunt another 40 year old. Thankfully, cultural and gender sensibilities combined with the cheap thrill of being 39 to Velu's 40 for 24 days, render this one amicable about the event. Sadly, I can think of nothing to do in these 15 minutes that would catapult me to the levels of obscenity that fame entails. I could ponder responses to some client emails, but then that would just be efficient. I could change into something more glamorous, but that would make all dressed with nowhere to go and another 14 minutes to kill. Or I could try and focus on the blog, ignoring the pitiful sounds of my stomach begging for mercy. Hmmm. Could my insatiable appetite be the chokehold on an otherwise glittering road to celebritydom?? It is difficult to focus on strenuous ambition when one is so easily distracted by one's conditioning. Explains why Bengalis aren't known for front page grasping vulgarity. Shorshey Ilish runs in our veins and is notoriously unbecoming on the red carpet :p
The sixth sheiks sixth sheep is sick!
It's colder now than it was this morning, and my mind veers towards toast as I walk to my physio. I love toast. But it's visions of sheep that make me think of toast. I meant to write about Aashish's sheep, but the scent of warm toast ready to be slathered by butter, bits of it soaked up by the warmth as the rest of it glistens in anticipation, irretrievably distracts me. It is crucial for the ongoing conservation of our planet, that toast, or indeed all bread be meticulously covered by butter, jam, paté, cheese, marmalade, nutella....every square inch without pause. I learnt from the Master (along with making the perfect bed, but that bores me), and despite 40 years together, my mother's callous dab-on-a-bit-unevenly attitude, keeps Ba occupied during retirement. The thought did cross my mind at the sheep stage that my memory is a bit like toast. Absolutely splendid just off the toaster, all warm and fragrant, begging to bitten into, before degenerating into a soggy mess unfortunately reminiscent of a domestic ungulate's cud. LOL! Would you believe I lost my train of thought by the end of that sentence?? Short lived toast!
The point is, the cold sent images of languid sheep (a duvet desire association?) across my mind, reminding me why Dr. D-uh was on this side of paroxysmal convulsions when he called... an email from the learned Martin Daunton (a super nerd among nerds in the industrious world of academia), informing Aashish, that the attachment allegedly designed as a reference letter, was in fact, nothing more than a cunningly disguised sheep. Yep. Dr. D-uh is sending virtual livestock to his soon to be ex-future mentor, and I quote, 'Dear Aashish, The attachment seems to give me a clip of a sheep! Am I missing something?'. Errr, an older Mary perhaps? It's a miracle. A mundane PDF file given wings to soar... well, to foolishly bleat in any case. The next attempt yielded an oddly technological effort to open the PDF in media player (I personally believe that the sheep was doing rude things, but the dear man was much too polite to share the imagery). My suggestion of responding with the sixth sheikh's sheeps medical woes, had the professor clinging to the rails of an unsuspecting domestic establishment for the next 4 minutes in a fair imitation of a mad cow, before a cut and paste solution put an end to the agricultural bent of what was meant to be an economic debate.
Dear Dr. Velkar, do try and refrain from sending any more farm animals to those who might shape your career. Although, having said that, if he's from Wales....... I think you might have just got your funding! ;-)
The point is, the cold sent images of languid sheep (a duvet desire association?) across my mind, reminding me why Dr. D-uh was on this side of paroxysmal convulsions when he called... an email from the learned Martin Daunton (a super nerd among nerds in the industrious world of academia), informing Aashish, that the attachment allegedly designed as a reference letter, was in fact, nothing more than a cunningly disguised sheep. Yep. Dr. D-uh is sending virtual livestock to his soon to be ex-future mentor, and I quote, 'Dear Aashish, The attachment seems to give me a clip of a sheep! Am I missing something?'. Errr, an older Mary perhaps? It's a miracle. A mundane PDF file given wings to soar... well, to foolishly bleat in any case. The next attempt yielded an oddly technological effort to open the PDF in media player (I personally believe that the sheep was doing rude things, but the dear man was much too polite to share the imagery). My suggestion of responding with the sixth sheikh's sheeps medical woes, had the professor clinging to the rails of an unsuspecting domestic establishment for the next 4 minutes in a fair imitation of a mad cow, before a cut and paste solution put an end to the agricultural bent of what was meant to be an economic debate.
Dear Dr. Velkar, do try and refrain from sending any more farm animals to those who might shape your career. Although, having said that, if he's from Wales....... I think you might have just got your funding! ;-)
Conference calls
For a woman who hates talking on the phone, I seem to have participated in more than any one's fair share of receiver holding the past day. Surely seven con calls is a bit ludicrous for anyone but a call centre operator??? Seven!!! Internal, external, existential..... like a zombie, punching in dial in numbers, pass codes, jabbing the mute button just in time to let loose with some libelous expletives about clients that resemble cretins, vain attempts to interpret voices garbled in agitation, each shouting over the other, crying babies and honking taxi's in the background, patiently coiling fingers around the phone cord instead of a colleagues neck as they falter their way through a simple question, too many 'sorry, but what was that?' as cross cultural accents clash....
Still, as con calls go (and many have went!), 71.4% actually had a clear outcome, and glory be, only 2 more in the diary for the rest of the week..! There is a God.
Still, as con calls go (and many have went!), 71.4% actually had a clear outcome, and glory be, only 2 more in the diary for the rest of the week..! There is a God.
Turning 40?
Barely into 2009, and I'm plagued by potential 40 year olds, some more precariously perched on the edge of trauma than others. Middle age is obviously contagious, if that hot flashes experienced this morning are any indication.... what else could possibly explain the desire to shed an outer layer in sub 10 degree weather? Either that or I have been in this country waaaay too long!
What is it about hitting a new decade that makes people silly? It's just a number. Yet, Emma's being stoically brave, conjuring up myriad ways in which to soften the blow, and Shruti was deeply depressed every time someone acknowledged the fact she was 30!! Don't remember it as being any different from 29.....I rather liked being 30. It allowed my unbridled satisfaction to be able to turn to my roots and proclaim that I was now THARTY! THARTY THREE was even better :p. My mother however, is not amused by my penchant towards rather vocally embracing my THARTIES. Messes with her fairy tale chronological assertions about her age.
As I will now only have a year and a bit to gloat over the triumph of Bengal, indulge me while I bandy about my THARTY nine years with great pleasure. Forty isn't going to be nearly such fun....
What is it about hitting a new decade that makes people silly? It's just a number. Yet, Emma's being stoically brave, conjuring up myriad ways in which to soften the blow, and Shruti was deeply depressed every time someone acknowledged the fact she was 30!! Don't remember it as being any different from 29.....I rather liked being 30. It allowed my unbridled satisfaction to be able to turn to my roots and proclaim that I was now THARTY! THARTY THREE was even better :p. My mother however, is not amused by my penchant towards rather vocally embracing my THARTIES. Messes with her fairy tale chronological assertions about her age.
As I will now only have a year and a bit to gloat over the triumph of Bengal, indulge me while I bandy about my THARTY nine years with great pleasure. Forty isn't going to be nearly such fun....
Mayday! Mayday!
I have just had my mellow ABBA induced mood destroyed by the off chance sighting of some grossly maudlin words.... "just wanted to wish you a good night. i enjoyed making love to you such a lot, your kisses, the way you bite me, your breath in my ear, it was wonderful to be naked with you, to touch your skin, to be inside you.... Sleep well and sweet dreams...."
Perhaps I've just seen too many moons to feel anything other than a Calvinesque abhorrence to the banality proffered by a romantic hero. If I was in love, would I be less contemptuously scathing? Would it thrill me to be on the receiving end? What is it about being gushingly 'in love' that makes this drivel not just acceptable, but practically bordering genius to a woman?? Do pheromones tweak the xx chromosomes so that they veer towards stupidity? Unless you were bored, lonely and wanting to be in love, or actually in the middle of sweating, screaming sex - actually scratch that, unless you were wallowing in a romantic post coital afterglow, or just woefully in love, would you as a woman, be enamoured of the sentiment?
Or maybe, you just need to be twenty again.... or stop reading the hamster cage lining..... or weep over highly melodramatic films like Bazaar..... too much shairi in the air. Hmmm, now if that had been in Urdu, this post might have been entitled, Subhanallah! instead...
Perhaps I've just seen too many moons to feel anything other than a Calvinesque abhorrence to the banality proffered by a romantic hero. If I was in love, would I be less contemptuously scathing? Would it thrill me to be on the receiving end? What is it about being gushingly 'in love' that makes this drivel not just acceptable, but practically bordering genius to a woman?? Do pheromones tweak the xx chromosomes so that they veer towards stupidity? Unless you were bored, lonely and wanting to be in love, or actually in the middle of sweating, screaming sex - actually scratch that, unless you were wallowing in a romantic post coital afterglow, or just woefully in love, would you as a woman, be enamoured of the sentiment?
Or maybe, you just need to be twenty again.... or stop reading the hamster cage lining..... or weep over highly melodramatic films like Bazaar..... too much shairi in the air. Hmmm, now if that had been in Urdu, this post might have been entitled, Subhanallah! instead...
Mama Mia!
Money, money, money, must be funny.. in a rich man's world. Not exactly awe inspiring lyrics, but that's not why we love ABBA (so much as to even sit through the excruciating sight of Brosnon's celluloid agony, only midly alleviated by the magnificent Ms. Walters). Yet, as I skip through the Best of Ace of Base (don't even ask!! just chalk it down to 2 years holed up in the moutains with 43 Swedes), 98 degrees (huh??!) and belt it with Aretha on my annual alphabetic CD churn, I find myself singing long after the end of the CD. A melody, largerly ignored in the decade I actively listened to ABBA, now swishing its way around my head, an unintentional hum coalescing into a relatively restrained vocal airing before escaping to a full throttle rendition....
you and i can share the silence... finding comfort together, the way old friends do.... oho i don't care what comes tomorrow.... we can face it together, the way old friends do... times of joy, and times of sorrow, we will always see it through ... whoaaa hoooo i don't care what lies tomorrow, we can face it together, the way old friends do....
I didn't even get to the second CD. Extraordinary, the things that sometimes just snag in your mind and heart for a few moments in time.
you and i can share the silence... finding comfort together, the way old friends do.... oho i don't care what comes tomorrow.... we can face it together, the way old friends do... times of joy, and times of sorrow, we will always see it through ... whoaaa hoooo i don't care what lies tomorrow, we can face it together, the way old friends do....
I didn't even get to the second CD. Extraordinary, the things that sometimes just snag in your mind and heart for a few moments in time.
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