This time, let’s not talk about movies, or lipsticks, branded watches, or about how ‘Reid & Taylor’ suit lengths are better than, say, ‘Raymond’s’.
Let’s get into the real business. The business called life. We work for money. The money earns us a place that we can call our own, our home. It earns us clothes to hide our frames and it earns us food. The energy, generated from the food, gets us back to work. And the cycle continues. But what happens when one of these meets with an accident? The job is gone, your home tumbles down, your clothes get worn out, your food gets burnt and you faint.
You must be thinking where I’m driving you to? But wait. It’s not that easy, is it? Getting a decent job, looking for a ‘home-sweet-home’, buying the best clothes, cooking the right meal, or being called the star worker at your office is easier said than done.
Year after year, you think it’s going to be easy, but it isn’t. Your job still pays you the same, house rents are skyrocketing, clothes are getting costlier, prices of food items are inflating, and the basic medicines to treat you back to your good health are turning into precious commodities that may someday find place on the BSE and NSE.
Which one of those essentials had an accident, you think? But it’s too late now. You try to lower your living standards, move into a smaller home, you start loving that fat-free ‘roti’, you would have bought some medicines, but you decide to stay put and wait for a miracle recovery from a disease and get back to work the next day only to hear: “Your work is not improving. You don’t have that zest in you anymore.”
You are still wondering which one of those met with an accident? You say: “Sorry, sir. It won’t happen again.” But at the back of your mind you are still thinking why you are not what you were and walk out of your boss’ room, only to be found in the same cubicle a few days later with the ‘problem’ intact. Whoa, what life!
Monday, August 30, 2010
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Mark of respect
It was Independence Day, but not for me. I went to work. I wore my tri-coloured dupatta – which only gets out of my almirah on two occasions in a year — to go with my white kurta. I did not do it for the happiness I felt for going to work on the day. It was more of a safe bet. It was because I feel people generally don’t give funny comments on wearing a tri-coloured piece on Independence and Republic days. So what fuels this wave of patriotism on just these two days and that too during the better half of the day? Is it the freedom from the British Raj or the freedom from office and the boss? Is it just another day out with parents for children or do they really mean what they perform on those stages? Feeling proud about being an Indian has been ingrained in us right from our childhood, but what has not reached most people is how to respect the flag. People wake up on these days filled with zest, reach the nearby flag hoisting grounds well in time, participate in plays and celebrations, sing a patriotic song or two, sit together, chat, eat and return home.
But what follows is a very sorry sight. People, especially children, who enthusiastically wave flags at the ceremony, get tired after a while and throw them away on the streets. Flags are then left only to get trampled and driven upon. Freedom from waving, is it? On second thoughts, why blame the children – how many of us know what to do with the flag after we’re over with our patriotism? There is no doubt that the percentage of the 'unaware' far exceeds the percentage of the people who 'know' how a flag should be disposed of. According to Prevention of Insults to National Honour Act, 1971, when the flag is in a damaged condition it should be destroyed as a whole in private, preferably by burning or by burying it with due respect. This information may or may not reach everyone who threw a flag somewhere this time. However, the sad part is, this time I still got a weird remark for wearing a tri-coloured dupatta. Sigh!
But what follows is a very sorry sight. People, especially children, who enthusiastically wave flags at the ceremony, get tired after a while and throw them away on the streets. Flags are then left only to get trampled and driven upon. Freedom from waving, is it? On second thoughts, why blame the children – how many of us know what to do with the flag after we’re over with our patriotism? There is no doubt that the percentage of the 'unaware' far exceeds the percentage of the people who 'know' how a flag should be disposed of. According to Prevention of Insults to National Honour Act, 1971, when the flag is in a damaged condition it should be destroyed as a whole in private, preferably by burning or by burying it with due respect. This information may or may not reach everyone who threw a flag somewhere this time. However, the sad part is, this time I still got a weird remark for wearing a tri-coloured dupatta. Sigh!
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
An artist survives
There is art behind everything that we do, be it filling up a canvas with brush strokes, choosing clothes during sale season, talking to your boss or making food. I remember as a child I used to love colours and my teachers knew it. So even when other kids in my kindergarten class used to write with pencils, I got the privilege to write with coloured pencils and crayons. I remember how I used to write 1, 2 and 3 with red, blue and green and used to crayon the tree red. But now, times are different. Even though I pursued a short-lived a career of a part-time art teacher for little kids before my 12th board exams, I haven’t painted in a long time. But when I say there is art behind everything, I’m right. Like yesterday, when I decided that I would make rotis, as I was beginning to forget what they tasted like with my mother away for a long holiday. I took out all of my mother’s weapons and started on my mission. The flour, the water, my palms and then again the flour and then again the water… I felt like, “Damn! I’m never gonna make the right dough.” From two cups of flour I reached four and yet it was not looking like it should.
And then I made that frantic call. “Maa, how do you do it everyday, non-stop?” I shrieked. She smiled and said, “Since I never taught you how to cook, I thought just like the curries you might have inherited how to make rotis, too, from me.” “Maa, there is art behind making fingerlicking curries and I know that… But how do I deal with this mess?” She said, “There is art behind this too, you only need to practice.” That’s it? That was the valuable piece of advice? I was doomed. I began again and managed to make wild shapes and when that was baked, it turned into papads. I failed. But the fighter in me urged me to give it a try one more time this morning, and the mission was accomplished. My mother was right after all. The advice was indeed valuable and I’m happy the artist inside me is still alive.
And then I made that frantic call. “Maa, how do you do it everyday, non-stop?” I shrieked. She smiled and said, “Since I never taught you how to cook, I thought just like the curries you might have inherited how to make rotis, too, from me.” “Maa, there is art behind making fingerlicking curries and I know that… But how do I deal with this mess?” She said, “There is art behind this too, you only need to practice.” That’s it? That was the valuable piece of advice? I was doomed. I began again and managed to make wild shapes and when that was baked, it turned into papads. I failed. But the fighter in me urged me to give it a try one more time this morning, and the mission was accomplished. My mother was right after all. The advice was indeed valuable and I’m happy the artist inside me is still alive.
An artist survives
There is art behind everything that we do, be it filling up a canvas with brush strokes, choosing clothes during sale season, talking to your boss or making food. I remember as a child I used to love colours and my teachers knew it. So even when other kids in my kindergarten class used to write with pencils, I got the privilege to write with coloured pencils and crayons. I remember how I used to write 1, 2 and 3 with red, blue and green and used to crayon the tree red. But now, times are different. Even though I pursued a short-lived a career of a part-time art teacher for little kids before my 12th board exams, I haven’t painted in a long time. But when I say there is art behind everything, I’m right. Like yesterday, when I decided that I would make rotis, as I was beginning to forget what they tasted like with my mother away for a long holiday. I took out all of my mother’s weapons and started on my mission. The flour, the water, my palms and then again the flour and then again the water… I felt like, “Damn! I’m never gonna make the right dough.” From two cups of flour I reached four and yet it was not looking like it should.
And then I made that frantic call. “Maa, how do you do it everyday, non-stop?” I shrieked. She smiled and said, “Since I never taught you how to cook, I thought just like the curries you might have inherited how to make rotis, too, from me.” “Maa, there is art behind making fingerlicking curries and I know that… But how do I deal with this mess?” She said, “There is art behind this too, you only need to practice.” That’s it? That was the valuable piece of advice? I was doomed. I began again and managed to make wild shapes and when that was baked, it turned into papads. I failed. But the fighter in me urged me to give it a try one more time this morning, and the mission was accomplished. My mother was right after all. The advice was indeed valuable and I’m happy the artist inside me is still alive.
And then I made that frantic call. “Maa, how do you do it everyday, non-stop?” I shrieked. She smiled and said, “Since I never taught you how to cook, I thought just like the curries you might have inherited how to make rotis, too, from me.” “Maa, there is art behind making fingerlicking curries and I know that… But how do I deal with this mess?” She said, “There is art behind this too, you only need to practice.” That’s it? That was the valuable piece of advice? I was doomed. I began again and managed to make wild shapes and when that was baked, it turned into papads. I failed. But the fighter in me urged me to give it a try one more time this morning, and the mission was accomplished. My mother was right after all. The advice was indeed valuable and I’m happy the artist inside me is still alive.
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