Creativity becomes me...

Sunday, September 26, 2010

Twits and their #AwesomeHandles

It was just another day at work. But as history holds witness, the best ideas in the world come in the most mundane, regular environments.

A regular Sunday it was. Wait, maybe it was Monday. No, it couldn’t have been a Monday, I have too many meeting lined up on Mondays. Tuesday. That’s it – it was the Middle Eastern ‘hump day’. The hardest day of the week to get by, they say. Although...hmmm…personally, I always think Wednesdays are the hardest. One day before the last day of the week and you’re not quite sure how to feel. Yeah, you’re kinda getting excited about the weekend, but then, you don’t really wanna over-do it and kill the Thursday-buzz, but then you don’t wanna sulk cuz you’re almost done with the week. Yeah, Wednesday. It had to be a Wednesday. Or…was is a slow Thursday…?

*facepalm*

Moving on (finally!) – on a particular day of the working week a couple of months ago, I parked at 7.30, sat at my desk at 7.45, switched on my laptop and waited for it to load. Ten minute later I had Lotus Notes, Facebook, Gmail and Gtalk open on my laptop. Not to mention my lifeline – Tweetdeck.

In case you’re wondering, yes, I’m one of those social-media-enthusiast-thingamajig-people.

As the day progressed with GM’s and #earlyriser tweets, traffic updates, news, random tweets and retweets, I couldn’t help but notice that a few RT’s stood out. Not so much for the tweets themselves but for the handles that were tweeting the tweets. Walkin’ the walk. Talkin’ the talk. LIvin’ the life. Runnin’ the lap.

Sorry, I get carried away sometimes. :S

Anywho…as I was saying, there were a few handles that stood out and made me take notice. Not to say that I hadn’t noticed some insanely creative handles before, but sometimes things just hit you like a bold of lightening. This was one of those moments.

I forget if it was @bitchwanti, @ChamatkariBaba, @BollywoodGandu or @gabbbarsingh that triggered this ‘concept’ for a blog post. It could’ve been any one of them, or any one of the other 150 handles. Can’t really be sure. Point is, I got thinking about these crazy handles that I was coming across on a daily basis.

How many more of these are out there? What levels of creativity have people gone to?

And that’s when the hashtag was created – #AwesomeHandles. I’m not saying it got too popular, but I’m not saying it didn’t. Some extremely awesome and fantabulous tweeps fed me with numerous suggestions for #AwesomeHandles and that’s how the list went from 15 to 150 in a matter of a few days!

Big shout out going out to @ParulBh, @md610 and @prempiyush for their crazy help and constant suggestions for #AwesomeHandles!

Parul, for having sent over 50 of them in one day alone, and Prem and MD for constantly feeding me with their recommendations (even when I was on vacation!). Prem offered to be my 'assistant' at one point of time to help me get this blog out there. It's finally done, mate! :o)

And a special shout out to @musingsman who actually changed his old handle to this one just so he could be featured on the list. You made it, man! :o)

I’m hoping this blog post will be followed up with another one (or multiple blog posts) as and when my list grows. And I have a strong feeling that it will. :o)

Now, initially I’d written down meanings against as many of these handles as I could, but then I realized that most of them are far beyond explanations. You have to enjoy these for the sheer brilliance and creativity behind them.

And just FYI, I’m @silv3rglee - :o)

Ladies and gentlemen, without further ado, I present to you the first set of #AwesomeHandles:

Saturday, August 7, 2010

Where am I from?

[This blog entry has been submitted for BlogAdda's 'Mera Bharat Mahaan' contest, sponsored by Pringoo.]

As I sit at my desk to give you a humble account of the last 26.99 years of my life, I am amazed to note that I cannot.

Cannot give you a 'humble' account, that is. I am oh-so-extraordinary that there is nothing humble about how I have lived or what I have done in my life thus far!

Did I mention humility is one of my most privileged assets?

I was born in Mumbai (thankfully!) and brought up around the world. My father, now a retired diplomat (from the Ministry of External Affairs, New Delhi) has been on several postings across the globe, and I as a privileged child have gone along with my family everywhere.

I’ve studied in countries like Germany, Kuwait and Thailand and have worked in various fields in Hungary and UAE. Oh, what a life! What a life I’ve had!

Global nomads. That’s what we call us ‘young members of diplomatic families’. That and DiploBrats. But hey, who’s judging? I’m often asked – “How does it feel to have moved around the world so much, to have never lived in one place for longer than 3 years of your life? Must be odd?”

My answer to these people is always in the form of another question: “How does it feel to have lived in one place all your life? Never moved around in your life? Having had the same set of friends, having grown up in the same environment for 18 / 20 / 25 / 50 years of your life?” When I get a confused look as an answer, I answer for them: You don’t know, do you? When you’ve lived life a certain way, you know of no other way to live. I cannot tell you how I feel about having moved around all my life as opposed to lived in one place since I’ve never done the latter. I do not have a basis for comparison. I do, however, have immense gratitude for the life I have been exposed to. Immense joy and gratitude.

Gratitude towards whom? Towards my family? Of course! If it weren’t for my father’s job and my mother’s dedication, my brother and I wouldn’t have been brought up the way we were. But more than that, I hold my head high and salute my country. For if it wasn’t for them, we would’ve never got the kind of education we did, we would’ve never travelled to these exotic locations and we would’ve never known of life the way we do now. The best schools in the world, the best education one can have, the highest form of respect (being young members of the diplomatic community) and immense amount of pride. That is how I have grown up. That is what my country has done for me.

What have I done for the country? Nothing. I’ve done so little for my country, that I have done nothing. My head hangs in shame when I think of what I can do and what I am doing. I see a path in front of me – a path that I will soon take. A path that I have been working towards, a change that I have dreamt of ever since I was a child. I dream to serve my country.

My dream was to do so as a combat soldier in the Indian National Army, but this dream was shattered the day I found out that as a woman, I cannot be a combat soldier for my nation. I took that with a pinch of salt, but pledged that day forward to do my bit every single day towards the change that I want to see.

I have been given many nicknames over the years because of this passion of mine – desh-premi, paagal and patriot are mere examples. The list goes on and on. But there are two nicknames that are extremely close to my heart: kooradaan (dustbin) and don (goon).

Of course there’s a catch behind me liking these names. And you’re shaking your head, smiling and saying to yourself: I’m going to have to read the stories behind these two nicknames – might as well light that cigarette. Go right ahead. This might take a little while.

Kooradaan. Trashcan. Dustbin. Yep, one of my favorite nicknames for me. There have been a number of occasions where my friends have dug into my bag to find a certain something and come up with a million items that, had it been them, would’ve found their way on the streets. Toffee wrappers, chocolate boxes, scrap paper, used tissues, broken pens and many other things have always found home in my bag / purse because I refuse to trash the streets. Now, if there were dustbins / trashcans on the roads in India, I wouldn’t need to do so. But that’s an entirely different discussion. Moving on with kooradaan: I have pledged not to litter the streets of my nation and I stand by that pledge. If that means that my handbag / purse is overflowing with garbage, so be it!

“Swati, you are in Bangalore, not Boston” followed by uncontrollable laughter – one of the reactions I have received when I’ve outright refused to let those around me litter and volunteered to stuff my bag with their trash too. My response is always the same: If you want Bangalore to turn into Boston, then start behaving as you would in Boston. Else, stop criticizing the government for everything.

Of course, this is followed by further fits of laughter. At this stage when I join in the laughter these people don’t seem to get that I am not laughing with them, but at them.

Alas! Such as the ways of the wise. Them thinking they’re wise, that is. I am no more than a fool. A privileged one, but a fool, by their standards. Such is life, and shall always be.

I want to say “that leads us to my second favorite nickname”, but unfortunately I can’t find a decent way to link the two together. So let’s pretend that I’ve made some ridiculously intelligent connection between the two nicknames. Here goes…

And that, my friend, leads us to my second favorite nickname: Don. Yes, this five and a half foot tall, 47 kg heavy girl has had this name associated with her for a while now. (Daymn, how’d I get into this third person mode?)

Known for picking fights with anyone and everyone, I have always stood for what I believe in. Be it the fact that chocolates should become tax free, or that corruption needs to be eradicated at the grass root level, I practice my beliefs and hold tight to the stand(s) I take in life.

As a fresher in college I have stood by my juniors, refusing to allow any kind of ragging; as a citizen I have refused to pay 10 rupees to the peon who wanted to get my papers signed by the Principal – I’m quite capable of standing in line for 2 hours, thank you very much.

I have also flagged – or tried to – those individuals who have approached me with leaked papers. Needless to say, I got nothing but apathy from the authorities. I did not stop talking about it, nor did I stop openly declaring who these people were. From frail threats to open arguments to potential fist fights – I’ve been a part of it all. And proudly so.

When I walk the streets of my country, I walk with my head held high, for I know that I am making a difference. Out of a hundred people who have seen me fight for a cause or who have seen me smile while putting away a wrapper in my bag, at least one will think before handing that money to a peon ‘under the table’ or before chucking that scrap piece of paper on the road.

That’s what I am doing for my country. That’s how I am trying to make a difference. Is that enough, you ask? It may not be enough, but is one thing: a beginning.

I was recently asked to send my details for a city-wide contest that was happening in India. Whilst I do not reside back home, home will always be home. The self-nomination resulted in this lengthy monologue and I ended up extracting bits and pieces from it for this blog entry. However, I never did get to hear back from the guys about the nomination. I suppose this last bit of my write up / letter is the reason – they probably never figured out where to place me:

I will not be able to tell you which city I am from. Originally a Punjabi from Amritsar with ancestors hailing from Lahore (now Pakistan) and Sialkot; born in Bombay (now Mumbai); lived briefly in New Delhi in between postings; moved to NOIDA and lived there between postings; and finally lived in Bangalore (the only city I can call home) for 5 years, while currently living in the UAE.

Where am I from, you ask?

India.

Tuesday, July 6, 2010

My very own brand-timeline!

I wrote this blog a while ago. In May 2009, to be exact. Since I'm planning on getting rid of one of the three blogs I have, I'm stealing the old posts and putting them on here. *halo over head*

At some point during this blog I mention about an upate to this... *sigh*. I'll get to that sometime. I want to say 'soon'.

The original blog no longer exists...I believe it has been deleted by Jane, but I'm leaving the link in.

Aite...here's the old blog. :)

*****

So here I am going through my Facebook like I do once every few hours. Ok, ok, so it’s every half an hour – bite me! :) Anyhow, so on my Facebook landing page I see that a friend of mine’s posted a webpage. Me being the cat that curiosity killed, had to look up the link. So I did. :)

At first it seemed merely interesting. Someone setting out a timeline and enlisting logos of brands (of products) they use on a daily basis. My first thought was: gee, someone’s got a lot of time at hand! And as went through the blog and the timeline itself, I realized that I was making a mental list of all the brands that I use in a day!

It’s addictive, I tell you. And more than merely a brilliant idea, I might add.

I’m not gonna steal Jane’s thunder here. I suggest you take a look at her blog and see what a cult following it’s got now. :) And it’s picked up more readers in a few days than it has in the past year, from what I read on someone else’s blog!

Now, me being the tech-idiot, will not have a fancy looking timeline like she does, or like the millions of other guys who’ve posted links on her blog have, but it’s an honest attempt.

And of course, you can read Jane’s blog at:

http://dearjanesample.wordpress.com/2008/05/19/fun-with-brands/

The actual time for the use of each brand usually varies from a weekday to a weekend, but essentially, the brands remain the same. :) Toh without further ado, I present to you my very own brand-timeline!Morning alarm, thanks to me phone and off to the loo in slippers!

Morning alarm, thanks to me phone and off to the loo in slippers!

Then in the loo, which isn't quite that pleasant, so I'll keep the details to myself.

I tend to get quite annoying with details, but ah well! Once outta the loo , I tend to use these brands quite often.

Now that the transformation from the ugly-duckling to a homo-sapien look-alike has happened, me peers into the closet and gets ready to walk outta the house (if on a weekday), to run out lest I miss my cab, grabbing my glass of milk on my way out. In this flash, these are the logos I come in contact with...

Next I'm at work (on a weekday, of course)...and this is gonna a biggie! Since I spend most of my time at work, I come across most brands here. Here are some of the brands that I could think of. I'm sure I'll slap myself later for forgetting dozens of others!

The next set of logos is a bit of a mix of work-place and home.

And last, but not the least (till the time I remember the others, that is!), is this set, when I go to the gym *wince*.

So, there you have it! My personal brand-timeline!

Thanks again, Jane, for this ingenious idea!

I have a strong feeling that this post will need further updates... :)

Sunday, July 4, 2010

Mirages and Illusions

Stepping out of the confined walls of the house after a period of 48 whole hours, I realized how much I’d missed life. Not only had I missed the smiling faces of kids, playing, spitting at each other, but I had also missed the cows being milked smack in the middle of a busy junction.

I do so love my India.

As I hopped onto a cycle rickshaw and made my way to my destination, I couldn't help but keep an eye out for hooligans. What can I say – force of habit.

And that's when I saw him.

Looking ridiculously gorgeous, there he went on his mean machine...my knight in shining armour. I knew now that he had come to rescue me from this third-rate, old school rickshaw and take me away with him on his shiny devil of a bike. Oh, if only I could see myself right now, I’d see my pupils replaced with tiny hearts!

He was merely a few feet in front from my rickshaw, waiting for the light to turn green. Ah, noble citizen, I thought. He stops at a traffic signal! I could hear my heart thump so loud I thought he’d hear it. And just when I thought I was calm enough to learn to breathe, he turned ever so slightly in my direction. He was going to be the death of me! My Tom-Cruise-from-Top-Gun looking dream-boy grabbed the chin of his helmet and proceeded to slowly take it off in that utterly seductive, bad boy way, while he balanced the bike with his other hand.

I could hear the background music then: a medley of Eye of the Tiger, Hells Bells and Jo haal dil ka (from Ghulaam). I all but saw him shake his head to ruffle out his helmet-hair. As my heart fluttered in fast-forward, I saw him bend his head slightly. I knew he was going to slowly angle his head and raise his eyes to meet mine. I just knew it Knew It KNEW IT!

With a silly grin plastered on my face, and eyes the size of golf balls, I waited to bat my eyes at him.

And just then he angled his head, pulled it back just a tiny little notch, grunted…and BAM – he spat out a giant blob of three-day old phlegm on the side of the road, missing me and my rickshaw wale bhaiya by mere inches.

Tom Cruise had just taken on his desi avatar: Taam babu.

“Chalo yaar, bhaiya. Kahin phirse thook diya toh bus, is baar ya aap gaye ya phir main”, I complained to rickshaw wale bhaiya. The background score had now changed to the sound of my heart breaking into a million pieces.

Taam babu, you bad boy, you!

Monday, June 28, 2010

Ah, these men!

In my love for him, I'd regained everything that I'd lost. Yet, I somehow feel like I have nothing left anymore. What had been is priceless, what is now is worthless.

I was asked, "Did you think it'd go on forever?" It took me no time to reply, "Of course not!"

Sometimes I wonder what a skilful liar I am! And a convincing one at that. I hadn't, in fact, thought of that question or an answer to it but at that moment it was as though my answer would end all the doubts and queries that people had. For all I know, it did! I didn't hear anyone speak on the topic again.

Yet, as I relaxed and thought about the entire affair, I realized that, frankly speaking, I really didn't know if I'd expected it to carry on forever or not. If I had, then I was plain stupid. But I hadn't really, so I wasn't. However, if I hadn't, then why this enormous pain…?

I'm reminded of another peculiar incident. This is when I was still at ISB. More like, when Fatima was still at ISB. I'd gone to her place with Ashima after school and Fatima was to drop the two of us back home later. I don't remember how exactly the conversation had started or why it had begun in the first place, but from where I remember it, we were talking about joint families. And I'd adored mine. However, the family had split by then and had given birth to three nuclear families. Since the time the family had broken up, I'd somehow felt incomplete, more so after my grandpa passed away. He had been the one holding our fragile family together. Lord, how I loved him. And how I miss him. I regret not having spent enough time with him.

As I told Fatima and Ashima all this and more about him, I don’t know why or from where the sudden storm of emotions took over me and I started weeping. Both of them were as perplexed as I at my outburst of emotions. When it actually dawned upon them what was happening, they started to console me.

"It's okay," Ashima consoled.

Fatima was dragging me into the bathroom to wash my face. "Often people we love tend to leave us forever and go. But they leave behind pleasant memories for us to recall and remember them by. You have to accept some truths in life, and death is the most important one," she explained.

That night when I was back home lying in my bed, I wondered where those tears had come from. Ever since grandpa's demise, I hadn't cried. I'd thought of him but never of the good times we'd had. Maybe I'd purposely done so, so that I wouldn’t feel vulnerable and weak inside. I missed him, yes, but there had never been tears. Yet, today there had.

It was that night that I realized how much I still loved him. And I wondered: if I didn't really feel the emptiness around me, if those memories that we'd shared were mere instances, then why the tears? Why this enormous pain…?

Wednesday, October 21, 2009

Feeding your hatred?

Every once in a while – when I’ve had a particularly bad day, or something’s been bothering me – I tend to think of the last most hurtful thing that happened to me.

Why?

I’m not quite sure.

Not only do I think of what’s hurt me, I tend to follow a trail that led to it. Incidents leading up to it, how I missed the most obvious signs…how the build up was, or was supposed to be at least.

Needless to say, the wrath that I feel brings me to new heights of self-loathing and self-disgust. And that teeeeeeenie weeeeeeeeeenie bit of ‘ok’ that I was feeling is dissolved and it gives an all new angle to my horrible day.

Why do I tend to feed this hatred?

Because it reminds me every single time of how naïve I’ve been. It tells me to be cautious. It makes me take a step back and reconsider. And reconsider I do. I start to think about things that I’d unintentionally taken for granted and being to contemplate the flipside of the situation.

It numbs me further to feed this hatred. It makes me wanna slap myself – and sometimes I do. Yes, physically slap myself. Just to remind myself. Of everything.

Some days are easier to get by than others. But a bad day is a bad day. A month, a week, a day or even an hour is enough to bring the worst of the lot back and it’s just as well.

As the day or week or month goes by, the wrath begins to take a back seat. It begins to slowly be overpowered by utter numbness.

As it turns out, it’s better not to feel than to feel and bear the consequences.

Detachment.

They don’t call me a saint for nothing.

Wednesday, May 13, 2009

How much do we owe to mythology?

Quite a bloody lot, you’d be surprised!

Sitting across from an acquaintance over a quick post-lunch cigarette, we couldn’t help but focus on the sole bird that walked the outskirts of the smoking area of a high rise in nemma-Dubai.

Out of sheer lack of anything else to talk about, my acquaintance commented, “Isn’t bird the one that has beautiful feet?” After a moment’s thought, he added, “Good lord, have you seen a peacock’s legs? Ugly!”

I sat there, thinking of the time when my mythology-Hindi-Bollywood-घाटी language-desi slang-trivia teacher (a.k.a my closest friend in the ‘whole-wide-world’) had once commented on a mutual friend’s ultra pink toe-nail polish. “मोरनी के से पैर लग रहे हैं! (her feet look like peacock-legs)”, she’d said. I’d sat there with a blank look on my face, which was my typical expression when she came up with these long-lost much-forgotten terms that one either hardly heard or hadn’t ever heard. I belonged to the latter category.

Not needing to voice the unspoken question, I’d merely given her the head-tilted-out-of-sheer-confusion look that dogs often give to anyone or anything that goes beyond their comprehension (usually obnoxious sounds that kids like me used to make just to point and laugh at our pet dogs). Suddenly changing into her guru-mode, she looked me in the eye and preached so: “You see, peacocks are gorgeous creatures. Oh, that is something everyone knows. But if you ever pay close attention, you’ll see that they have obnoxiously hideous feet! For a creature that gorgeous, it’s quite an amazing anti-climax.”

Clearly, I wasn’t as observant as I’d always prided myself to be! How on earth had I missed that? I’d made a mental note to Google up ‘peacock’ and scrutinize a close up picture. When I did, the feet were all I could see…! Not that I wanna sound weird, but they are quite grotesque compared to the over-all look of the gorgeous peacock.

Why, is what hit me the most. The answer was quick and obvious: nature’s balance. What else could explain this absurd phenomenon, if I can even call it that? The beauty that a peacock exhibits needs to be balanced out with a speck of ugliness, even if in this case it isn’t in the form of a mere काला टीका (kaala teeka = black mark).

It was this memory which made me turn to my present company and say philosophically, “It is nothing but a mere case of natural balance…for every good, there is bad; for every tear, there is joy; and for every beauty, there is ugliness। It is this balance that makes sure that one aspect of life isn’t overpowered by another. Gotta strike a balance, man.”

“Nope,” was his instantaneously harsh response to my beautifully philosophical justification। He went on, “They say, the peacock was extremely proud of his beauty. He perpetually had his nose up in the air and would think no end to himself. It was when his pride got to the others and they saw how he ill-treated the other animals, that he was cursed for all of eternity. Yes, with ugly feet! He had to be humbled, they say.”

I’ve always wondered…who exactly are ‘they’, again? Ah well, that’s quite beside the point.

It made me wonder, though: wasn’t this ‘their way’ of striking a balance between ‘giving’ too much power, in this case in the form of beauty, and then humbling the peacock by then disgracing him (I constantly say ‘him’ because it’s the male that’s more beautiful than the female!) with such legs/feet to live with for “all of eternity”, as my acquaintance so aptly put it?

How much reason do we block out just to give way to mythology? To stories passed down from one generation to another? Made up, probably, by a grandmother to instil values in her grandchildren? How much of what we hear during our childhood do we carry with us for ‘all of eternity’, and swear by for the rest of time?

How many of us brake while driving when a cat crosses our path, not to ensure we don’t run it over (which probably was the origin of the superstition) but to ensure that no harm comes in our path?

How many of us stop, even if it is for a brief second, when we sneeze just as we’re about to walk out to for something auspicious? Could it not be that back in the day one was stopped to ensure one didn’t have a cold…and rest, lest one falls sick on route our auspicious journey?

But then again, what is life if there isn’t a bit of mystery involved? After all, don’t words of that legendary poem (albeit taught at an age when the meaning was lost to us) talk about the joy of magic? The joy of believing? The little girl with innocent, gleaming eyes asking her daddy to look at the spider that was hanging in mid air – sheer magic! Logic is logic…but the little girl reminds me today to let go of reason and logic every now and then…and for a minute forget that the spider is weaving a web…she urges me to believe that it is, indeed, hanging in mid air. Believe.

For what is life without a bit of magic? Without a bit of faith…? What is life without a little spice of a story or a legend or a superstition or a mythological connection behind everything…?

Turning to my acquaintance, cigarette burnt to ashes, not having so much as reached my lips, I smiled. I looked at him, the belief in his eyes, and said, “You’re right…that’s it. That’s exactly what I’ve heard as well.”

Tuesday, May 5, 2009

The Rainbow Of Life

They all blend in. And then sometimes they don't. One would wonder how that happens. There aren't answers to all questions. Some questions demand no answers. Rhetoric.

Yet, some things remain to be so absurd, abstract. Our perspectives in life are so blunt and monotonous. There aren't just two sides to a coin. It has faces, curves, vertices. In life we presume that things are either black or white. We forget that there exist shades of grey, blue, yellow, red.... Vibrance. Versitality. Individuality. Radiance. They depict so much character, one would almost expect a pulse. Almost. They don't.

Yet, somehow, they do. They energize, depress, anger, infuriate, calm, soothe.... They do all this and more. Yet, we can't give them life. They do that to us. Personification, you say. Suit yourself.

The irony, however, remains in one minute detail. When they choose to get together, stick together, join hands and support a common goal, they fuse and transform into a lovely, peacefully soothing white. When they revolt, argue, contradict, rebell and repell, they bounce away, reflect off, dissipate and diffuse to leave behind a dark, gloomy, almost toxic black.

One would wonder why that happens, what happens to the shades and colours. And then sometimes on won't. You'd think they wouldn't blend in. And then again, sometimes, they do...

Happens

I love you. Gosh, isn't that the most beautiful phrase you've ever heard? And more so if the words come from the depths of your soul. For the person you can call your soulmate. Isn't that what we are? You and me. Me and you. Us. Me, you. What difference does it make? You make me whole. You complete me. Two pieces of a paper. Brutally torn apart. Brought together by the forces of nature, only to be brutally torn apart again. But this time...by a blasted ring.

Friday, September 21, 2007

The Educational Wait

There I was in the most uncomfotable pair of high-heeled shoes, wearing formals (did I ever tell you how much I hate formals?) and walking along the streets of Phiadelphia.

No, not really. That just sounded really neat. So, anyway, I was walking in the scorching heat to get to the office where I had to be interviewed. Now, since it's the first time I'm running around for work and giving interviews, I'm just never sure if I'm appropriately dressed for the part. Ever felt that way? Well, yeah, so, I never really know if I'm under-dressed, over-dressed or perfectly-dressed for an interview.

And needless to say, this day was no exception. I was wearing a lavender colored shirt and a pair of cream trousers. And of course, the oh-so-uncomfotable black high-heeled shoes. Now, that according to me is formal and apt for an interview. And I'm sure a lot of people would agree with that. And even if they don't, I really, really think they're not picturing it right.

So...I got to the building and took the elevator up to the office. When I walked upto the receptionist to ask for the gentleman with whom I was to meet, I realized I might've been a little over-dressed. Sitting behind the desk was a plump-going-on-fat lady (only my initial impression of her), dressed in a black top that could only be called 'formal' if off shoulder has somehow entered this genre. She asked me to take a seat in the waiting area. The waiting area was to her left and, as luck would have it, every other seat was occupied, except of course the one which gave me a perfect view of...well, her.

For an incredibly long time I kept staring at my feet (which hurt like hell), at everyone else's feet (it's atually quite a lot of fun to check out other people's footwear), at the wall which had a board holding a few clippings of news paper articles about the company. After a while (they made me wait for close to 2 hours) I really had no where else to look except at the receptionist. And that, lemme tell you, was no joy! After my initial scrutiny of her, I realized that she wasn't plump-going-on-fa but more like fat-going-on-fattER.

I thought seeing her front profile was bad, but then I saw her side profile. And almost gagged. Her hair was, actually, quite nice compared to the rest of the package. Of course, there was the over-done face that we just cannot leave unmentioned. The color on them eyelids...wow! That's the only word that pops up, I swear. The earings were much too bold for my taste, but then, I understand that that's a personal opinion.

I realized a little later that there was a lot more to the off shoulder black top than what met the eye initially. As she sat there at her desk, I saw the full extremes of her outfit. The black top merrily rode itself up her waist, leaving an ugly, disgusting tyre in public view. And if that wasn't enough, she decided to reach for her something in her purse which was kept underneath her desk. Now, i'm sure you can imagine the kind of effect that must've had on her already short top. The wrinkles!!! Oh GOD, them darn wrinkled tyres!!! They should sue her for public damange. I couldn't sleep that entire night.

I sat there scandalized, wondering if I'd have to go through this ordeal everyday were I to be recruited. And the worst of it all was that she was diabetically sweet. I mean, reeeeeeeeeeally sweet. She was talking to me like I was the last person on earth and that she'd die alone if I refused to talk to her! I was having a tough time trying to hate her. And she wasn't like this with me alone. This was her general way of talking. I mean, she talked this way with everyone who was waiting with me.

When I finally walked out of the office after my interview was over and done with, I waved her goodbye, went down the elevator, straight onto the street and called for a cab. Once inside, I took of my utterly painful sandals and swore to myself never to put my feet through so much trouble when an office hosts people like 'her'. Amen.

Pages