I Have Moved

An Ode to HMT

“It says willing or not. What do I opt for?” asked my mother, a mere 18 year old girl, to her brother who had accompanied her to the employment exchange. “Not means no. Negative. So say yes. Choose Willing” was his advice to her and perhaps the most valuable one that he has ever doled out to his elder sister. ‘Willing’ took her to HMT.

My mother grew up in a village close to Bangalore. Second of the seven children that my grand-parents bore, she was the first in her village to write a class ten examination and clear it too. College looked bleak as staying put for three to four years with relatives who lived in the city was not an option that appealed to my grand-father. At the behest of my grand-mother whom I consider to be one of the finest examples of a feminist, grandpa registered my mother at the employment exchange. The forethought of seeing a financially independent daughter made my grand-mother wage a battle for the same in what was predominantly a patriarchal family. She is certainly the family’s revolutionary.

The good old days saw a lot of organizations run by the government and I shall not be honest if I said that I am not envious of the jobs that my parents held.  Days after my mom and my uncle returned from the city after having said ‘Willing’, a letter reached them and welcomed my mother to HMT. Worried about the alien influences ofs the city which would mar the innocence of his daughter, grandpa’s denial of sending her to work was also nipped in the bud by my grand-mother. The deal was simple. She would live with her aunt in Bangalore for a year and then they would see how things would unfurl. Thus began her journey as an independent working woman.

She still recounts the first day of joining Hindustan Machine Tools. She was nervous and was accompanied by my grand-father. Things went smooth and she was inducted into the system. My mother officially became a working woman and stayed that way for four decades. Six months of living with her uncle and aunt made her crave for her own space and that’s when she decided to move out and timed it with my uncle’s arrival to Bangalore when he was recruited by ITI. I am talking about the late sixties here.

From then on, my mother never looked back. From being a trainee to a permanent employee, mom and many other women and men made HMT their second home. They worked from Monday to Saturday, had breakfast, lunch and tea served fresh and hot, made friends, made best friends, met ends, ran lives and homes and of course carved their own identities thanks to one employer who became synonymous for quality. People back at the village would marvel at the golden dial HMT watch that my mother wore on her wrist when she went visiting every weekend. A few years later, she married dad, who worked for BEL and had us i.e. my brother and I and it is me who has more memories of HMT second only to my mother.

As a toddler, I was enrolled into the HMT crèche and around me were children whose mothers worked with my mom. At seven in the morning, mom and I would be ready at the bus stop waiting for the blue HMT bus to arrive and once it came, off we went towards the enormous space whose belly housed us all for eight hours. I still remember the steaming idlies available at the campus; with sumptuous chutney that mom would feed me once we would get down from the bus. A kiss, a hug and I would sulk for an hour after having watched my mom walk away from the crèche. I wasn’t alone. Some were too little and cried a lot. The day went in sleeping, waiting for mom, day dreaming, walking to a play home (we would stop by a koi pond guarded by an iron gate waiting for a fish to fly out of water but the ‘aaya’ never allowed us to view that phenomenal event), waiting for the crèche helps to fetch our lunch from the factory canteen (I miss that food), waiting for mom to arrive and finally getting dressed to go home. Like fish to water, I would cling to my mom and would be rewarded with a juicy honey cake for my day’s toil on our way back home. I am yet to taste a better honey cake still.

We grew, all of us. HMT, my mother, me and all the others who were a part of it; but what grew by leaps and bounds was the confidence that the organization restored every single morning in each of its employees. A pride that I have a working mom engulfed me even at school and every single day I dreamt of being fiercely independent like her and so had many other little girls whose moms worked with my mother.

There were ups and down, highs and lows but we bounced back and every time we did, we prayed to God that he kept our pillar strong.  Other brands made an entry into the market and slowly, as is the law of nature, the old was being replaced by the new. Innovation sometimes becomes the mother of survival but where did we go wrong? That’s a story for another day. Mother voluntarily retired from the organization and threw a huge party for all her colleagues who had joined her in the same journey many years ago. Today, I dare say that by the end of our tenure in one organization, we end up making more acquaintances and fewer friends.

It broke our hearts a few weeks ago when we read in the news paper that the last functional fragment of HMT was being closed down forever. No one would wind the clocks again. Never.

Whenever I look at those marvelous three letters – HMT- my treasure trove of memories hypnotize me with the aroma of those juicy honey cakes and the cackles of my little friends at the crèche. Sometimes I wonder if they were surreal but I know that they weren’t. These memories are a part of my past that makes up the most of my present and future, making me the princess that I am, raised by a queen who taught me that I am a woman and I am born to rule.

Thank you HMT for without you, we wouldn’t be us.

The Mandi called Marriage

Before you married couples -new or not - shoot daggers at me over the title, hear me out. I have nothing against this institution and am a firm believer that one shouldn’t enter it if one is not sure or ‘sorted’ about the path one has to take in life. Having said that I shall also reiterate that the entire gamut of ‘Arranged Marriage’ has turned into a Mandi (no reference to the Shyam Benegal classic though sometimes I can’t but see a similarity) turning some into traders of the best goods.

At 32, I find myself surrounded by three kinds of people. The first type that consistently reminds me that my biological clock is ticking and that I shouldn’t delay the matter any further.  The bunch almost sounds like teleshopping network which first tries to attract you towards the product and then scares you by saying that the ‘stocks are limited’

The second type consists of people who talk sense, for instance a Hindi professor who taught me at school said “Careful when you are choosing a partner for you have to spend an entire life with him” when I bumped into him on my way back from work. This type is armed with good market knowledge; hence advice can be banked upon.

The third type is of course the gang who has not an iota of concern about my future yet is curious about every move of mine so that I can deliver fodder for thoughts and gossip sessions.

Though the ‘deliverables’ from my end according to type 1 are at stake, I must remind this particular gang that the clock ticking away is mine, and the predisposition of winding it or not lies with me and nobody else. So back off if you like your molars.

I like the second type. Nobody is nosy in that gang and they know where to draw a line. As far as the third type is concerned, have you ever seen an independent parasite? Distance yourself and they shall go away from you if not from the world. But do keep your eyes and ears open for the ‘goods’ when they come in as not every trader in the ‘souk’ sells you legit ones.

I may sound harsh with this deliberate comparison but I have every reason to do so. Having come across a few prospective grooms myself, I find my enthusiasm shrink after every encounter. Call it my misfortune (I’d like to call it otherwise) but the few men I have spoken to have exhibited (pseudo) liberal values and then turned cold turkey.  One of them gingerly added me on Facebook to fake keenness but his passion disappeared when he figured out that I wasn’t a grey market customer. In short he was putting up an act to please his masters, much against his own will.  

Male bashing isn’t what I have resorted to here in this post and I must insist that perhaps people on the other side of the fence may have similar diatribes against my ilk but I don’t intend to speak for them. This is my story and for once I refuse to shadow write.

I haven’t given up either. I am an Indian woman and I know how to shop. I look for the perfect fit, durability, warranty and unabashedly ask if the material shrinks when washed or if the service center of the brand will help me troubleshoot errors through a phone call. I believe in strong investments.

What I am yet to learn are bargaining skills.