Monthly Archives: Nov 2013

Sighing from the sidelines…

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Hello lovely ladies,

I am a TV professional. When I say “I work in media” it usually elicits a desired response not just in the financial city of Hong Kong but in most parts of the world. At the risk of sounding lame, my work is a huge part of my identity and my self-esteem. I’m not proud of this admission but I can expand on it. I was average in studies, below average in sports and pretty much average all around. But all that changed when I entered the corporate world. This is where I excelled. I thrived on challenges. Finally there was something I was good at. There was no turning back.

I don’t have grandiose plans of success and if I were to be perfectly honest I’m still unsure about what I want to be at 50. A CEO? Maybe? Self-doubt rears his ugly head as I type this. It’s a tantalizing but distant possibility.

For my current role, I was one of the youngest candidates who was approached for this position. Others had been around the block but what I lacked in experience I made up with enthusiasm. But instead of patting myself on the back, I thanked God and my luck. Luck NOT talent.

Therein lies one of our biggest problems. While men can seem boastful about their success, most women suffer from an imposter syndrome. We’re reluctant to give ourselves credit where its due. We shyly brush aside compliments. We’re embarrassed when the accolades come our way. Why? I fail to understand. Isn’t it possible to feel proud and not arrogant?

Being a woman is hard work. The responsibilities of raising a child and running a household . The grooming despite the gruelling schedules. The balance sheets and balancing in heels, the monthly pains whilst politely ignoring the snide remarks about PMS’ing. We master the art of multi-tasking while attempting to look like a million bucks. Yet, the fairer sex is treated unfairly?

So, if no one else congratulates us can we, at the very least, celebrate us? Are we all in agreement that we shouldn’t be apologetic or seem undeserving of our success? Hurray!

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Dear alpha-male,

I like you. In fact, I’m a lot like you. I’m not a feminist and this isn’t meant to be a male bashing opportunity. Please don’t take it the wrong way because what I’m about to say is said with the nicest intention. I’ve been noticing a disturbing trend over the years. Something that I’ve been silently observing until now.

I’m concerned about your attitude. Things said in jest. The inappropriateness of the water-cooler conversation. The beer-banter and the irresponsible use of information.

Our jobs involve working and networking in equal measure and sometimes small talk turns to slander. Whispered conversations in conference rooms and long chats over cocktails, when you’ll drop your guards and your voices, touch my arm as if I was a confidante or co-conspirator. That’s when I am informed imprudently and almost unnecessarily about how a particular woman has risen to the top in questionable ways.

“ABC was promoted because she was close to the boss” or ” XYZ doesn’t have to worry about being made redundant because she’s a (the choicest sexual act)”. Comments made in churlish contempt.

From your reports it would seem the only way a woman could climb the ladder of success was, lad by lad.

The rumour mills are always churning. Producing idle gossip. Presented unsolicited.

Irrespective of age groups, countries and demographics, gossip is a universal problem. You’ll are well-educated , well-read, well-travelled and well-meaning guys in general and yet can’t comprehend that it’s not very macho to be so malicious. To belittle someone’s success on account of sexuality?!

NEWS FLASH: Men flirt with their bosses too!!! Over sports and single malt. On golf courses and in gentlemen clubs. I’ve been privy to many such wooing attempts when a guy sidled up to a more successful man who happens to be conversing with me and wanted to hog the attention. Said schmoozer then suggests stepping out for a cigarette. There is a perfunctory inquiry of whether I smoke and I decline as if it’s a personal failing.

Also, even if there is an element of truth and if two people did get involved in a sordid affair and broke the protocol, it doesn’t absolve the man either!

Men are neither innocent, gullible or victimized. They’re sexist, stupid with their locker-room humour and sometimes, quite simply, jealous.

Behind every successful man is a patient woman but behind every successful woman is a begrudging man.

Gentlemen, play fair. Be nice.

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The girl who needs a grocery buying guide

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Something strange happened one weekend.
I woke up at 8am!
On weekends that’s considered as dawn.
Feeling bright and energetic I jumped out of bed without so much as a yawn.

The joy of a weekend is to have bit of a lie-in without the shrill of an alarm.
I made myself a cup of tea and enjoyed the morning calm.
Deciding to use this time productively I left to run a few errands.
Having ignored my house I decided to make amends.

I’m blessed to have a helper and a cook who are indispensable.
They’re my lifeline and like family. They’re loyal and competent.
By design or by habit the task of buying groceries is left in their trusted hands.
But seeing the supermarket I,spontaneously, thought of doing it myself, so in I went.

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My senses groggy. My voice disembodied. I walked down the aisles, slightly lost.
The fresh colours and smells of fruits is what I love the most.
Other shoppers included either very old people shuffling along,
Or early-risers, swimmers, hipsters tying up their dogs or parking their bike.
And of course super sporty Amazonian women returning from their run or hike.

I started adding tomatoes, blueberries etc in my trolley.
Whilst admiring their bodies fit for haute couture.
Making lists of what I’d like eat during the week and feeling jolly.
Buying vegetables is a bit like buying furniture, it’s very mature.

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I came home and dropped my bags on the floor.
The rumbling in my stomach was turning into a roar.
Tired but happy about the chores being completed.
Even if the money in my wallet had rapidly depleted.

The aforementioned cook and helper arrive.
What follows is a humiliating, dressing down that lasts half an hour.
My effort ignored, my morning turned sour.
The critical cook shreds me to pieces and exposes my inexperience.
So much so for my lets-do-this-grocery-shopping-more -often drive.

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She starts with ” if you buy vegetables, your bank balance will come down by half”.
Why I asked with trepidation masked by a loud laugh.
She bemoans the pitfalls of career women and lifestyles she deems wild.
Expecting a rebuke I braced myself like an erroneous child.

She said: Tomatoes from the fresh market are 14$. You paid 26$.
Oh is all I said and smiled sheepishly.
She said: Why did you buy an eggplant. We already had one.
I professed a false love for eggplant and contemplated an escape. Perhaps head to the gym for a run.

She said: Why did you buy three packets of Okra? Two are enough for you.
I shifted my weight from one foot to another. Feeling small and stupid. I still do.
What are these? She points to the small packets of green stuff I’d thrown in randomly.
Finally! I have an answer for this one. I glibly assured her it’s Coriander for chutney .
It’s Pudina (mint leaves) she says in a half mocking half disapproving tone.
My confidence quickly dissipating as she continued to drone.

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She then coaches me on cooking and domesticity and how it would make a man happy.
Here it comes, the ultimate blow.
Because of course not having a man is the all-time low.
At this point my helper, who’s always been in my corner, comes to my defense.
She pipes in saying my purchases are organic and therefore more healthy.

They’re imported from Australia or New Zealand she shouts over the hoovering.
Feeling bad for me as I’ve been put through the ringer.
So? I’m going to be boiling and cooking them anyway, dismisses my cook.
Unless you want to use these imported tomatoes for salads or sandwiches? She asks.
Part question, part threat. Not exactly the menu I had in mind. No, is all I could whimper.

Some might question my wisdom for tolerating a feisty cook bordering on insolence.
In a world full of robotic, indifferent people, she’s right and she cares.
I hang my head in shame. In silence.
My helper, gives me a reassuring smile, indicating what “I can say to save ya”.
How quickly success turns to failure.

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Role reversal

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This September I was informed that I would be making my annual trip to Cannes via London. To meet the higher echelons in the head office. Seizing this opportunity I asked my parents if they would like to join me in London. My parents, and father in particular, has always had a deep-seated desire to visit London. The history and the availability of curry being the top two reasons. Vegetarians are very pragmatic about their holiday destinations.

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I warned them about the infamous English weather. But that was insignificant, as long as I was going to be in London it would be the best time to visit. Although I’ve visited London quite a few times, I’m by no means a local. But at 70 it’s more of an emotional support they seek rather than a physical or financial one. Sorry MasterCard.
Weather warnings forgotten, plans were made rapidly.

I trawled through my cupboards for winter wear for my mother. I bought age-appropriate sweaters and T-shirts for my father. After his retirement, his wardrobe is restricted to exercise clothes, traditional kurtas and a few (but not forgotten) safari suits. Adding to this neatly pressed, starched, and crisp pile of clothes were the T-shirts I’ve passed on to him. Gifts from business partners. So, he naively adversities Comedy Central or Radio One with clever by-lines and zany collegiate appeal!

We had swung into action. Shopping-check. Tickets-check. Hotel booking check. Visas-check. Forex- check. My family undeterred even as the rupee plummeted 1 GBP= 100 INR.

Packing-There were various facets to this packing, starting with food packing. Vegetarians are also a tad paranoid.
Surprisingly, they also packed tea bags! I pointed to them that we’re going to the land of tea lovers but they weren’t going to settle for Bergamot Earl Grey or a mild English Breakfast. They need a stronger brew, a proper builders tea.

Being a seasoned traveller, I shared my tips and checklist before they boarded their flight. Cross-body handbags, adapters, international roaming on their phones, to tag their luggage for easy identification etc. The trip hadn’t even started but I could feel the beginnings of anxiety.

So here we were, smiling and hugging at London Heathrow. We made our way to the waiting car as they relaxed and silently approved the perks of my business travel. The hotel apartment had proficiently kept a welcome message addressed to my father and he took out his little Nokia phone to capture the screen. He’s not on any social media so clearly this was for his own private memory.

After a power nap we made our way to Liberty and thus began a holiday full of discoveries. I saw a side to my father I didn’t know existed. After shopping we had almost joined the throngs of people on Oxford street but he wanted to retrace his steps so we could get a picture outside Liberty. I now know who to thank for my limitless capacity to pose for pictures.

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Over dinner, I realized that my mostly teetotaller father quite enjoys a glass of wine (or three). I was thrilled. I was having a larky dinner with my parents. I could show them new things whilst they happily embraced each experience. I felt a new emotion, a sense of wonder. You can spend your life with people, with the tinnitus of familiarity and then one day in a strange land, you see them in a new light.

As I gathered our coats and searched for our keys, I overheard my father tell my mom that they should go to a traditional British pub next door. Wow, will wonders ever cease?

The rest of the trip saw us trundling together. I was their map and their go-to App. All pre-holiday worries gone as they expertly hopped off and hopped on.

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One night, I had a severe stomach ache and had to wake my parents because I had stupidly forgotten my medicines.Except that incident the trip was a roaring success. Right through the seven days I had three overriding thoughts:

1) When your family is with you in a foreign land, it ceases to be one.

2) Your parents are perhaps cooler than you think or imagine.

3) The roles were reversed. When I visit them in India, I automatically lapse into the I’m-your-daughter-and-therefore-in-your-care mode.
Now, I was the parent. The one in control. The one in charge. Protecting them in the tube stations and from the marching pedestrians. Guarding them against pickpockets and the world at large.

The end of the holiday arrived all too quickly. I put them in a cab and off they went to Paris. Even though I’m not a mother, I felt a longing. As if I was seeing them off for a summer camp. Pushing these thoughts aside, I got into back- to- business avatar and returned to the apartment to finish my packing for Cannes.

There it lay , innocently, a small bag in my suitcase with some medicines and a handwritten note from my father describing the different uses and doses.

With tears stinging my eyes I realised, I was wrong. They’d been parents all along.

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The religious rookie

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Yet another year of celebrating Diwali alone.
Hearing about the festivities back home I can’t help but feel forlorn.
Remembering the softly glowing lamps and fireworks dotting the night sky.
Feeling very feminine in our traditional clothes, I wonder why.
Boxes of calorie-laden sweets laid along with my favourite savouries.
Rooting for friends trying their luck at card parties.

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At dusk we used to gather for the Laxmi Puja as silence fell.
The money on the plate was for us, we could tell.
I’d help my father arrange the offerings of fruits and holy water.
The nip in the air heralding winter as the days got shorter.

Now in my apartment in Hong Kong feeling absurd and solitary.
Banishing all thoughts of being a little phoney.
I decided to venture into this uncharted territory.
Starting with an abridged version of praying to the goddess of wealth.
Not because I don’t need to pray for wealth, god-knows it’s quite the contrary.

I don’t go to temples. I don’t fast.
If there was a competition for devout, pious girls, I’d come last.
Keen on trying, yet, embarrassed of failing.
I told myself it would be smooth sailing.
The only one judging would be the lord himself,
So even if others accuse me of not being very traditional.
His love is thankfully unconditional.

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Dressed in my new Salwar Kameez I stood in front of my temple.
Nothing grand but a simple shelf of an IKEA cupboard.
I stood there in silence wondering what’s next?
No chants, verses that can roll off my lips.
I wondered if I should ring my mother for tips.

The self-recrimination! Stop worrying I wanted to shout.
Seeming inadequate and shallow, I urged myself to just pray.
The way I usually do. Have a conversation.
Pour your heart out. All the fears and the doubts.

But then this was no ordinary day, it was Diwali.
I was advised to search Youtube for artis.
That seems fake. It’s not a performance but a prayer.Don’t you agree?
So I lit some incense sticks which filled my apartment with their assuring scents.
Jasmine and Cinnamon, these were money well spent.
Sadly I can’t read Sanskrit and can’t carry a tune if my life depended on it.
I closed my eyes for the task and urged my mind to commit.

Om Jai Jagdish I started feebly, but at least I was trying.
The words flowing, like muscle memory, somewhat shakily I started to sing.
Maybe not in the correct order.
But miraculously one word followed the other.

My hands circling the small idols and some gold jewelry, my only treasure.
I could feel the Gods smiling. I had made the effort even if it was half-measure.
When I finished I could feel a presence and a sense of wonder.
I opened my eyes with a sense of disbelief to what had just transpired.
I felt calm, at peace and inspired.

We don’t need faith that binds us but blinds us.
To an extent that we forget to love, help and heal.
We lay too much importance on traditions and customs.
Instead let’s try to make someone smile and provide a meal.

Majority or minority. Sectarian conflicts. The constant strife.
Rioting over land to build a mosque or a temple.
Don’t all religions teach us to respect and be gentle?
God, in my expatriate experience, can have a space-saving shelf life.

Let’s keep it simple. To right the wrong.
End the evil in us and try something new.
Believe. Be good. Be true .

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