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.  

The Ideal

“The girl looks alright, is a classical dancer preparing for her first stage performance,  works as a teacher, earns a decent salary. When she met us she said she would continue performing on stage if the extended family permits else would give up dancing. She also said that after marriage she would continue to work if only her husband and his parents would allow her to. When we first met her she had draped a lovely saree, had jasmine flowers fixed to her mane and was well behaved” waxed my uncle eloquently about his nephew’s fiancee to be. The pride in his face shone brightly as my mother sat in rapt attention soaking in every information about the bride to be while I drowned myself into questions that perhaps the girl herself many not have any answers for. Why was an educated urban girl so submissive?

We are modified creatures. All of us. Taught to behave, respond, think, react and percieve in a way which the familiy we belong to, families we associate with and of course the society we are a part of deem acceptable. As children, we are taught to fold our palms and bow our heads in front of dieties in deep obeiscance, we are taught not to question the elders who laid the foundation for the lives that we now live, we are told that a man is a man and woman is a woman, the former a stronger sex and the latter the weakest which does not adhere to the goddesses we worship who without consulting their better halves held a scepter in their hands and slaid their antagonists. We are made to believe that life consists of milestones. We are told that the destination is what matters the most and not the journey. We are judged if we harbour thoughts against what is instilled. As children we go through character building routines and as adults preachy sermons which are never tailor made.

What gets ingrained importantly in us is a trait that forbids us from being an entity. Submission.  

The more submissive we are the more it adds to our repertoire of being well brought up children, culturally rich and socially acceptable. Compromise is the synonym for submission. Or so they say to deprive us of our liberty.

Why do we allow ourselves to be defined by others? Why is a submissive being worshipped and why is a rebel an outcast? Why is a rebel called a rebel when all she wants is to put herself ahead of people in a few situations?  To be more specific, why should the girl give up on her passion for a boy whom she has met and known only for a few hours? Why should she allow the reins of her life to be handled by somebody else who would perhaps not have the forethought of steering it in a course which she would prefer? Does she respect her preferences at all or has she been taught not to?

Marriage sounds more like a chore today than an institution. People claim that there’s a gaping hole in the roof and a deep crevice in the foundation of this institution. I differ. It remains intact but less occupied. Reasons vary from one marriage to another but some marriages are abandoned because the act of submission became a mundane parlour trick which loses it’s gleam and shine. The mask falls, the voice from within cries and the submissives rise to their feet.

But some remain there.

While I sat feeling sad for the girl, the same chavinistic voice shook me from my reverie and said “I think it’s time you agreed on SOMEONE and got married yourself. Let’s not waste any time here shall we?”

We Bought a Zoo

  We bought a zoo. A zoo filled with men women and yes a few animals. We are not too sure if the men need more cages or the women. Animals? No, they aren't harmful. They just need some love, loads of food and some potty training. The women, ah they need leashes to keep them tied to the corner of their cages so that they don't claw each other apart. They will growl, throw tantrums, scowl, scream and fuss about the plainness of the leash but we are giving them no choice. They need to learn how to adapt. Some women will adapt but are going to try and change the zoo but such women won't be encouraged. We like the zoo the way it is.

The men you ask? Now, they can't be leashed as they are too strong so we have to tranquillize them all the time. We can't risk broken cages, manipulations, coups, agitations and a mutiny against the zoo. How do we tranquillize you ask? Booze! Plenty of it! We add some fake ego too. Just to keep them subdued and nobody seems to complain. They are enjoying it.

The children you ask? Well they're outside the zoo in the world. Breathing without fear, living with hope, laughing aloud and being children. Careless and free. That’s how they ought to be you know. 

The Sabbatical

“Quit your job, sit at home and hunt for another one. Every part of your soul which seemed lost will come back to you. No need to hunt for it” was my brother’s response when I brought up ‘Soul Searching’.

He’s true, so true to an extent that it can be used as a ‘quotable quote’ in one of those self-healing or motivation workshops. And if these workshops need a live example, Je suis la.

So far I have searched for my soul thrice - not that my life or my visage bears any close resemblance to Voldemort who cut his soul into seven pieces and hid them in historical artefacts to remain immortal – and it was the third time that I was reassured that my soul was where it is supposed to be, right within me and not anywhere else but the three sabbaticals that I took opened my eyes wider to the world. Let me give you a very brief insight into these ‘self-imposed breaks’.

I finished b-school and I started working for a leading radio station. I had a great job, a great boss, a great pay and a great life. Two and a half years of this greatness had made me secure and confident and that’s when I decided to venture into the wild. I quit my job without having another one in hand. I desired a break and I got one much against the opinions that my family and my boss housed. I made lots of plans, executed some, failed at some yet what kept me sane was the financial planning that I was adept with. I was the ant from the ‘ant and the grasshopper’. I had stored for the rainy day and I was warm. But like any ant I was running short of my stock and I had to get back to the field. That’s when my second job happened.

I lasted there for six months. Not my fault. I went in during a time when the organisation was a little confused about the domain they had hired some of us to work for. Six months and I figured that drastic changes might shut that department forever hence I quit. There again, I had saved. I had become a robust ant.

The third job happened and I stuck around for longer i.e. 2 and a half years. My 20’s were soon depleting and the job did not help me feel secure. I had made new friends, I had evolved in tastes, I had finished a few ‘phases’, going through a few and this time around I quit as I felt I was more secure at home. I had dwelled for too long inside ‘Bane’s Pit’ and if I wouldn’t have made a jump –with or without a rope- I would have festered someday or the other. I made a jump, without a rope.

It felt great. I had come out of a muggy tunnel and the fresh air that I breathed was a harbinger or fresh hopes. I had wind beneath my wings (I still do) and I can pranced better than a deer. But prancing and flying would not help me make my ends meet. I needed a job and a secure one at that. While at the helm of making my choices to frame my future what has intrigued me is the reinforced faith in me by people I love and the absence of those who were once upon a time inseparable.

My family has always been supportive of every decision that I have taken. They know that I will find a way out of this sabbatical and I am only waiting for the right opportunity.

My friends have stood by me, encouraging me whenever I felt low, recommending companies, jobs and people. Some have gone to the extent of putting a kind word on my behalf to people who might matter the most in my job hunt.

Relatives hemmed hawed and left. I couldn’t explain what I was looking for nor did I want them to understand anything but it’s the inseparable ones that left a lasting impression on my soul.

I am no longer a part of their weekend plans nor am I on their speed dials. ‘I have been busy’ is a lame excuse I receive despite the visible display of pseudo weekend shenanigans on social networking sites. Being frugal with my expenses has earned me a ban from the pseudo (I dare to mention it twice in this paragraph) high-flying ‘yo’ kind of people who once called themselves my friends.

Peer pressure has never affected me nor have I lived my life to please anybody else. I don’t feel the necessity to harp about my weekday or weekend activities on a ‘Wall’ to make myself visible to people. This was a sabbatical which wasn’t planned for and till I find another source of income, I may not visit the usual restaurants that I frequented nor would I be seen in places where I might have to turn into the ‘Grasshopper’. But if I am being judged by these acts of mine then I must say, you’re judging too soon.

Pain beyond a point makes one immune to pain itself and I have reached a point where lightning by a passing cloud barely gives me a scratch leave alone a wound.

It is me today; it could be you tomorrow in a sabbatical. What helps is to know who your friends are and who aren’t, spring clean the phone list, check if you have compromised on your values and if you have been successful in keeping your sanity intact despite adversities and disloyalty then sit back and relax for you don’t have to search for your soul. It is there where it has to be, within.

Oh and you’ll get a job too.

Married

“Her new way of ignoring people and important issues is by burying her nose in a book”. The jibe was directed to me while I had actually buried my nose in a book. “I would have married a book if I could help it and would have been happier than your wife” was the repartee that shot out of my brain cells which eventually stayed there as I was keen upon keeping the peace and tranquillity around me intact.

True. I bury myself a lot in books these days. I quit my job a few days back and decided that I would take a week’s data break which meant no mails, no twitter, no instagram and no mindless surfing. I wanted to read. More than what I am used to. So what’s new in it you may ask but let me tell you something; when you are surrounded by people who take it upon themselves to criticize every atom of another person’s being and do not even once hesitate to harp about things which might not affect them at all and might not happen at all to begin with, you grow tired of their oration of the day to day mindless events.

I am happy with my tech break. Honestly, nothing comes out of being there on the ‘net’ all the time. It only results in battery drain of your phone and increase in data tariff. And nothing has come out of listening to mindless matters.

It is not the same with books though. Every book has a story to tell and every book lets you converse with it about the subject it is well versed at and if it is not equipped with the same within its covers (hardbound or paperback) it will stop talking to you unlike human beings who pretend to know everything and make a fool out of themselves. For instance I would prefer reading a book than talk to a cousin of mine who in sheer desperation of keeping up with the conversation announced that she loved Sharon Stone and ‘his’ acting. She meant it. Sorry Ms Stone.

Books keep you company better than some men and most women. What would you prefer, a best friend harp about her true life ‘saans bahu story’ or Candace Bushnell talking about Sex and the City with a dash of Cosmopolitan? I can walk into a coffee shop with a book for a date, sip a cuppa of cappuccino, read my heart out and walk out feeling wonderful. Now I want a man to do that to me without turning up late. Then I can consider keeping the book inside my bag.

As much as I hate to say this but books are easy to dump. I have had blind dates with books. What I mean is that I have walked into a book store, read the summary and picked it up only to discover that it hasn’t lived up to its cover. That is when I dump them, meaning I stop reading them or read them entirely for the sake of having bought it and never go back again. Like a one night stand. I reread a lot of the ones I love by the way.

I have something to talk about and it goes beyond bollywood, Hollywood, current affairs, clothes and accessories. I don’t intend to sound like a man but my conversations have gone a level above the usual. Most often dad and I talk about people, their adventures, their deeds and misdeeds and credit them for who they are or were. It definitely is better than talking only about breast implants on a leading lady and liposuction on another.

I don’t lend books. Nobody gets to take them home. To me it is as sacrilegious as sharing a loved one or a spouse. So don’t come home and ask to borrow. You will see my blunt side if you do.

I retreat to my quiet corner. I am at peace with a book. I drift to another world away from the chaotic one I live in and I successfully have the ‘my time’ everyday which most people complain of. Look, for the rest of you it need not be books. It could even be music. So spend half an hour before bed listening to a CD or radio all by yourself and you will realise you sleep a better person.

I wish I was married to a book. It would last more than the ones that happen with humans. I love them more than kindles or any other book reading device with due respect. Ten years from now if you find me dusting books in my own book store don’t be surprised. Instead, stop by, say hello, buy a book and I might give you a discount too. For you know I would not be selling books but companions who go a long way with you than many.