The one-year itch

We've all heard of the seven-year itch. Some of you may have experienced it. Some of us, who aren't married yet, live in fear of it.

I think I, and many of my generation, suffer from the one-year itch. You know, that phenomena where, after a year in a job, you feel the urge to jump to another one. Where you start to feel restless after a few months. You feel it's not gratifying, you're getting stagnant, even the coffee starts to taste like dishwater, and the hot receptionist (in the case of guys) starts to resemble your 50-year old aunt.

My dad's getting retired in May this year, after serving 37 years in BSNL. Thirty-fucking-seven years.

I don't think I can ever stay in one job for three years, let alone 37 years. And I take relief in the fact that it's not the problem with just me. My friends are pretty much the same. My roommate quit her first job after 11 months, and is thinking of quitting her next one soon as she completes one year there too. Another friend worked in four different places in the span of one year (he recently completed six months at his current job. It was like a celebration akin to a golden jubilee for him), yet another friend couldn't get along with her bosses, so she quit each job after a couple of months. There are more from my batch, who quit jobs after a few months. I think compared to them, I'm marginally better off, coz I held my first job for one year and four months, and don't plan to leave this second one anytime soon (But then, you never know. Once the itch comes, you gotta scratch it baby. I know. Grossville).

The other day, I was talking to dad, and he asked me "So when are you going to start looking for another job? You'll complete a year in September, right?" I didn't know what to say. Was our reputation for job-hopping so notorious? And I surprised myself with my answer. "I don't know dad, let me complete a year, then we'll see. If I still find it interesting even by september, then I'll stay on. I don't see any reason why I should quit." He was quite surprised too. So were my friends, when I told them about it.

What makes us change jobs so often? I don't even change my wardrobe so frequently. And I just can't seem to think of any reason other than 'generation problem'. Ya, to an extent, I guess that's what it is. But then, I also see other friends of mine, who did engineering, holding on to their jobs for 3-4 years. Yes, they complain, they gripe, they bitch, but they stay. Then is it just the problem with being a communications graduate? Maybe...

We need interesting jobs, something that'll be creatively gratifying as well as well-paying. We can't just work, we need to love our jobs, otherwise we won't do it well. And the best way to do it is to change jobs often, so that your interest never wanes. Soon as you get bored with one place, look for another job. It's all about building a good resume, so that there will be takers for your skill and talent. We want to follow our passion. We all want a 'career', but can't stay put in one place for long...But if that's the case, was my father bad at his work just because he was in it for 37 years? Quite contrary.. He was, and always will be, one of the most respected employees in his office. I wondered, what made him stay on in a 'boring, government job' for so long?

The answer, as it turns out, was quite simple. For him, the job was more a means of earning a living, than a vent for his passion. True, he loved his work and is a self-confessed workaholic, but he also had a family to take care of. He had responsibilities. An aging mother, wife and kids, kids' education, a house, middle-class aspirations. And let me tell you, he has done a brilliant job so far. His government job gave him security, it earned him respect in the society. He is proud of the fact that in spite of studying in a Malayalam medium school, he rose up to the level of a DGM. He could put his daughters in a central school, educate them till PG level, get his elder daughter married off lavishly, buy a flat,a car- all on his 'boring, government job' salary...

We're single, free from responsibilities, have the option to explore, and thankfully, have families that support us. But is it really going to help us in the long run? Will we ever find our passion? Will we ever be happy with any job? Sooner or later, either creativity or the money will play the bitch. I would know. I loved my first job, I thought I had found my calling. I used to slog. But gradually, I wasn't happy with the salary, And once you start to feel that you're not being paid for what you're worth (whatever that means), then you'll start to lose interest in what you do. So I quit. My current work, well, I don''t love it, but it's comfortable. The pay is better, the timings are flexible, and the best part is, I get a two-day weekend!(Yup, sometimes happiness can be as simple as a two-day weekend). I get home early, I get time to read, I get time to write. As for my passion, well, screw passion. I like my saturdays and sundays better. Ha!!

So has this rambling changed my view about the job-hopping? Will I hold on to a job even after one year, or will I succumb to the one-year itch?

I guess we'll know by september...

"My name is someone and anyone" *

Sometime during the end of 2009, my mom had come visiting me in Hyderabad. I was living alone at that time, and was going through a particularly crappy time in my life. A time where I was happy living alone and didn’t require anybody’s company.

So one night, mom and I were talking, and she asked me when I’m planning to move back to TVM. I told her that I wasn’t planning that anytime in the near future, and she didn’t quite like it. She could not digest the fact that I was happy living away from home, alone, with a handful of friends to keep me company, and a job that I loved. And I could not understand why she could not digest it. I mean, was there anything wrong in liking a city other than the one you have lived most of your life in? If I want to live alone and be by myself, is that akin to having a psychological condition(Now is not the time for "But aren't you crazy anyways?")?

“But how can you live alone like this? Don’t you get bored?” She asked.

“ Actually, I love it. I like being by myself. I’m happy that you are here, but in a month, I know I would want even you to go back home and leave me to my space.”

She was stunned, to say the least. She could not believe that her daughter wouldn’t want even her own people around her.

Well, it was true. I realize that it was a very mean thing to say, but like I said, I was in a rebellious frame of mind. I even told her that I want to go away to some hill station, far away from everyone, where I don’t know a single soul, and I want to teach kindergarten children and write. After a while, it was scary even to me.

It’s not exactly the same scenario anymore, but the idea of anonymity still fascinates me. You don’t know anyone, no one knows you, you’re not answerable to anyone but yourself. I can do whatever I want, and nobody will care a hoot. And even if they do care, how does it matter to me, because they don’t know me after all, right? Nobody to judge you based on your past, nobody to question your present.

Initially, it was my new-found freedom that I enjoyed. I’ve written about it earlier on too, how I like the fact that I’m not answerable to anyone here. I described it as a strange feeling. It’s not like my parents were very strict even while I was living with them. Not at all. In fact, my dad is the kind who always encouraged me and my sister to go out alone, do things by ourselves, so that we’re never dependent on anyone. Yes, I miss home, I miss my parents, I miss my friends back home, I miss the familiarity of the city I grew up in, but I know I don’t want to go back to it permanently now. I don’t think I will be able to handle it. Who knows, I might reach a point in life where I don’t want be alone at all, ever. Where I might need constant company. And when I reach that stage, I won’t resist it. Because after all, man is a social animal.

A dear friend of mine happened to tell me yesterday, that he wants to go away from Hyderabad for a while, go away to some place where no one knows him, he doesn’t know anybody, "to break the monotony, the stagnation of one place". And I realized that it’s not just me. I think, at some point, every person wants to live in anonymity. To cut away from familiar grounds and create a new familiarity. To stand apart from everyone and just watch. To discover new places, new people, a new you.

People could never understand how I could go alone for shopping, roam around the city all alone, spend weekends all by myself holed up inside my house, my books and music for company. They called me a loner.

I’m not a loner.. I just… like my space.

Now I don’t live alone anymore. I have a roommate. She works in the evening shift. When I leave in the morning, she’s asleep, when she comes back at night, I’m asleep. We see each other on weekends. So now it’s like, I have a roommate, but I still have my space. We don’t get on each other’s nerves, not get in the other’s way. We both like that.

Free. Anonymous. Loner.. The lines got blurred somewhere along the way.

As did the point of this post.

*Title of this post is taken from Jorge Luis Borge's poem "The boast of quietness".
Photo courtesy Rohan, friend and photographer.

It's all a matter of faith...

I was travelling to TVM a few months back, chugging along in Sabari Express, a book in hand, mind wandering. It was raining, and since I was travelling in sleeper class, I was having a hard time trying to shut the windows to keep the water out. I had got the side berth, and the one opposite mine was empty so far.

When the train reached Coimbatore station, a man got in and occupied the seat in front of mine. A middle-aged man, tall, moustached, wearing a safari suit. When I travel alone, I don’t chat up with any of my co-passengers. I bury myself in a book, or look outside the window (Point #8 under the first heading of this post totally makes sense, you know). I don’t talk to anyone, and if anyone tries to make conversation, I utter a few non-committal words and send clear signals that I’m not interested in talking (which brings me to the question, why oh why have I never had any good-looking, charming guy as a co-passenger? Never happened. Not once.) Unlike my mother. Oh she’s a talker, when she gets onto a train. By the time the train journey is over, not only will she know their names, she will also know their horoscopes, what time they were born, what time their children were born, what course their children are studying, which bench they sit at in class, what colour sari they wore for the wedding, and will suggest names for a child to be born. And the cutest thing is, she’ll come and share all this with the rest of us, very animatedly. :)..
So anyway, back to the person who got in from Coimbatore. He asked me whether the seat was taken, I nodded a no, and looked back quickly down to my book, afraid that a second longer might lead to an unnecessary conversation. After a few minutes, he asked me what I was reading. I showed him the book (I don’t remember what it was). He then asked me what I do.

“I work for GE”. Back to my book.

“Oh really? As what?”

“As a Communication Consultant.” Admire the rain.

“That’s interesting! What do you have to do in your job?”

Ok. Let me take a second here to mention another thing. Being the self-obsessed person that I am, the moment someone starts taking an interest in me and what I do, I will lose all interest in the book.

“ Well, I basically have to deal with all the internal communication happening there. Mailers, posters, presentations, etc.” Standard line that I dish out to everybody.

“Ok. So what did you study?”

I did a monologue for about ten minutes (Ya, turns out, I didn’t have all that much to talk about myself. Sigh…), during which I told him that I studied in HCU, worked in radio , what my hobbies are, and that eventually, I would like to write book.

Then I asked what he does. He told me he’s a DySP with the Tamil Nadu Police, stationed in Salem. Ah, that explains the scary moustache, I thought to myself. We then got to talking. The spotlight shifted from me to him. (Ok, maybe not a spotlight. A tubelight. Fair enough?) I was very interested in knowing about his line of work. We’ve only seen police officers on TV and movies, travelling around in those jeeps with the red light on top, jumping out of it even before it comes to a halt. I almost asked him whether he was carrying a gun as well, then decided not to. So he told me his cases, about the times he has put his life at risk, etc..
He then asked me, whether I’m a Hindu or Christian. I told him that I’m a Hindu. And just to be polite, I asked “What about you?”

“I’m a Hindu too. But I’m a devotee of Jesus. Jesus was there when I needed him the most. There was a point in my life where I feared I had lost everything. My father’s business had failed. My mother was ill. I was not able to get a job. Every avenue was closing its doors on me. Then one day, I decided to end my misery by ending my life. I got into my room one afternoon, closed the door, and tied a rope to the fan. But just as I was about to put the rope around my neck, I fainted. I then had a dream. In my dream, Jesus came to me and told me that he will always be with me, and not to end my life because my family needed me. I had never experienced anything like that before, but I remember waking up a totally different person. I was suddenly filled with hope and optimism. From then on, gradually things started to smooth out. I applied for a police job, i got through, my dad’s business recovered, I was able to support my family. I went to church, and still go, unfailingly every Sunday."

“But didn’t your family not have any problem with it?”

“I met with a lot of opposition from my family because of this. My dad threatened to throw me out of the house. I had to secretively go, and thankfully for me, I got married to somebody who is also a believer in Jesus. Now me, my wife and our two daughters together go to church every Sunday.”

We were silent for a while. I didn’t know what to say. I’ve not been the kind to go to the temple religiously and pray. I used to go during exams and festivals, but now I don’t go on those days too, because I feel it’s like bribing god. I believe in God, I don’t believe in bribing him to get my way. I light the lamp at home everyday, and pray at the wayside temples everyday. Does that make me any less of a believer? Does that put me on God’s black-list? If it did, then I’m afraid, God is no different from humans. Me and Him, we have a different kinda connection.

The train had almost reached Salem. The man got up to leave, and then he said something that really touched me. “God bless you, my child. I have never spoken to anyone about all this. I generally don’t talk to anyone in trains. But somehow, I felt like sharing this with you. It was as though God himself told me to share it with you. May you have a good life, and may you achieve whatever you want to in life.”

I believe that it’s not which god or religion you believe in that matters. You just have to have faith. The college that I studied in was run by Christians, and I often used to go to the chapel. Because it was very peaceful. I used to hear some of my Hindu friends who stayed in the hostel complain, though, about how the nuns used to force them to go to church. Is that how you can get a person to believe in God? By forcing them? I would turn resentful rather than religious, if I was forced to pray. My mother used to chide me for not going to the temple more often, and would drag me along when she went. But now, she basically leaves it to me to decide whether I wish to go or not. And she never had a problem with me going to a church either.

That person was not trying to convert me into Christianity or anything. He was just telling a tale of faith. I could either believe in it, or not believe in it.

I chose to write about it.

Dear Diary...

Back home from office, I had made up my mind to read and not waste time watching movies or FRIENDS yet again on my laptop. While browsing through my bookshelf, I came across it, hidden beneath the pile of books, as though it was a secret I wished to fiercely guard. My old diaries. Ah, I’ve spent so many Dear Diary moments with them.

I didn’t maintain a diary for many years. Just two- three, I think, that too sporadically. I was inspired by Betty from Archie Comics and started every entry with “Dear Diary…” And reading through them, I realised why I decided to stop writing them. They were much too dangerous. A personal diary attracts other people to it like a flame does a moth, especially if you tell them “Don’t read that. That’s my personal diary.”

When I was in school, and my teenage romance had come out in the open creating a furore, my (then) boyfriend and I decided to stop talking in school and used to communicate via a diary, with the help of a friend. It was fun, now that I think of it. The relationship may have ended long back, but I can never forget writing in the diary :). The excitement when our mutual friend came to me and handed me my little book of love, going home and waiting for mom to have her afternoon siesta just so that I could sit and read it in peace. And then elaborately writing a reply. Our hopes, our dreams, our angst, that little book was witness to all that. Then we broke up, but for some reason, I didn’t discard that diary. I forgot about it, tucked away inside an old backpack where I’d saved a lot of other stuff like greeting cards (whatever happened to that grand old tradition, I wonder), Dairy Milk wrappers, gifts, etc. Then one fine day, when I was in college, my mom happened to find it. And there it came, the tears. “What is that?? Why? When?” I explained to her that it was a long, long time ago, and that the book, along with its co-author, was a closed chapter in my life. Thankfully, she believed me. I didn’t waste much time in destroying the diary.

After that, I was a bit more careful with my diaries, even though I was the sole author of the following ones. My crushes. My relationships, my ‘It’s Complicated’s- they’re all there. My entire last year in college, the person I had briefly become (When I read the diary for that year, I’m amazed at that Divya. Who was she? Do I know her anymore? I think not. She was a much more sensitive person than I am now). And then my endearing words about my last guy. That break-up would’ve been impossible to journal or write about, which is why I never tried. If I feel much too strongly about something, I cannot write about it. And putting it into words would mean reliving it, which I don’t want to do. That chapter also is closed, sealed shut.

I’ve never been one to express myself vocally. I fail miserably when it comes to that. I will probably end up cracking a joke(a lame one, while I’m at it) and hurting the other person. Be it with my friends, or my family, I can never tell them how much they mean to me. What I can do, is write. That’s the only thing I’ve been good at. So whenever possible, I write it and try to convey it to them. In the form of little notes, mails, forwards on books (I make it a habit to write a few lines on a book before I gift it to somebody, and my friends do the same for me. I love that.), or dedications on blogs. Even now, I may have stopped the practise of maintaining a daily journal, but I carry a notebook and a little diary with me all the time. And in them I scribble down, lyrics that I like, poems that I find good, proverbs I like, thoughts that I have. Because, no matter how much of an e-citizen I may be, I still find pleasure in putting pen (or pencil) to paper. The beginning of short stories, a random line that came to my mind but doesn’t really fit in anywhere, they all go into my diary and notebook. I had been out with a couple of my friends, and when I opened my bag, they saw my little diary. They asked why I carry it around, and I frankly told them “To write down something if I feel like it, no matter where I be.” They found it a little amusing, but having known me for so long, they weren’t surprised.

I continue to collect diaries and interesting notebooks. I have a friend who makes it a point to buy me interesting notebooks whenever he finds one. I do not write daily stuff in them. Just quotes and lyrics and all. And some very personal stuff. There is joy in writing that. And even greater joy in taking it up later and re-reading it.

I continue to collect diaries, in the hope that someday, I will open it and write, “Dear Diary, Guess what…”

Ain't no matter if you're black 'o' white

I grew up in the Fair & Lovely era, like many of you. I was part of the generation that was obsessed with being fair, least of all in spirit.

You know what I’m talking about. We’ve all been through it. Wanting to look fair and lovely. There was a time when I’ve experimented with every damn face cream in the market, or anything that would make my skin lighter. I was obsessed, to say the least. Because in my eyes, being fair was equivalent to being beautiful. And can you blame me? My sister was fair, my mom was fair, her entire family was fair. I took up on my dad’s genes, in every sense. I inherited his looks (lucky him, right? I know), his skin-colour, his adamancy. Sadly (or not, now that I look back) I didn’t inherit his genius for science. I tried my hand at it, but we all know how that went.

I can’t exactly put my finger on what triggered off this obsession with being light-skinned, or when it started. All I remember is tubes of fairness creams, tins of talcum powder and hours spent in front of the mirror. It’s not like my parents ever treated me lesser because I was darker than my sister was. Neither did I get picked on at school by my fairer friends or get excluded at games. No teacher left me out of cultural activities just because I probably needed an extra layer of make-up on me. Yes, mild jibes would come once in a while, but nothing that was life-scarring or anything.

I guess it was the typical Indian psyche that I acted on. There were so many ads on TV that showed the dark-skinned girl left behind in the race of life and love, and the fair-skinned beauty rising up to the occasion and claiming her spot at the top of the world, that I also wanted to be that confident fair girl. The girl who will always be confident about her looks, the girl who will have a line of boys behind her, the one who realizes all her dreams, the one who gets recognized. And then three were the popular girls in school who were fair and popular and had the maximum number of guys vying for their attention. I didn’t want to be left behind. I used to do everything possible in my ability (and my dad’s pocket) to be that girl. If anyone suggested a face pack that would be good for my skin, I’ll use it. If there’s a new cream that’s being shown on ads, I’ll have it soon as it is out in the market. I would read obsessively about beauty tips and how to make your skin look better. I would not eat vegetable or fruits, but would rather put them on my face. If my mom had trouble making me eat any, she would say, “It’s good for your skin”, and it would go in instantly. (She still tries that old trick with me. What can I say. Your daughter's grown up, Mommy!)

Then as I grew older, I realized that the colour of your skin is of least importance. (And no, I will not go into clichés and say that it is the colour of your heart, not the colour of your skin that matters. Because, well, I’m no authority on that.) To all those people who said “ She’s so pretty, even though she’s dark” with the tone of surprise, I used to bear my fangs and defend my colour sisters. I would say, and still continue to say, “What do you mean, even though she’s dark?? Can’t dark women be beautiful??!’ And then I would go on to take the examples of Nandita Das, Cleopatra, and now, of yours truly :) . I had even considered filing a case against all these fairness cream companies for portraying the whole thing in such a bad light, for making the country a difficult place to live in for the dark ones. For being the main reason why people give matrimonial ads that go “Wanted Bride: Fair and good looking, education doesn’t matter”, “Wanted Bride for Tall, white, handsome boy. Studied till 10th standard. Did we mention white and handsome?”, for being the cause of so many dowry deaths in the country, where the father had to pay a few lakhs extra because his daughter was a tad darker than her husband, and when the money still failed to make her any fairer, they killed her, or worse, for the girl not getting a groom at all.

I’ve learnt to accept my colour, and better still, learnt to love it. The day someone called me dusky, my own skin started to seem exotic to me. I realized I need not worry about having marks on my face, because how much can really be visible on a brown skin. I do not obsess about tanning, nobody’s anyway going to come up to me and say ‘Oh my god, you’ve become so dark!”, because quite frankly, how fair was I in the first place?! I don’t care a damn that my matrimonial ad might not have the words “fair and beautiful” on it, nor do my parents worry about finding a guy for me for the lack of those qualifiers. I used to think that only certain colours would suit me, sticking to mainly greys and blacks and dark colours. But now I go first for the purples and greens and oranges. I do not worry about not getting male attention, because if a guy has to judge me based on my colour, he’s not worth it anyway. Fair may or may not be beautiful, but dark needn’t always be ugly.

And hey, no offense to any of my fair-skinned friends and family. I still think you all are good-looking :). You’re fair, in colour and in spirit.

If Rajnikanth can be a superstar, so can I, eh? ;)

Does anyone remember the song 'Karappu thaan yenakku pudiccha colouru..' ?