tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-243779742024-03-14T12:31:57.429+04:00Long Copy and Filter CoffeeAkshatha Hegdehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04966943522324168703noreply@blogger.comBlogger33125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24377974.post-23652705118990069372017-08-03T16:45:00.001+04:002020-05-19T17:16:32.945+04:00Hyderabad 101<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span lang="EN-IN">I could have
typed ‘flavour’ 500 times and ended this but it would’ve been the harder way
out, for writing about Hyderabad is like effortless gliding, fluid and
comfortable as the city makes you feel. I have been fortunate to have had two
first impressions of the city – one around the turn of the millennium as a
tourist and another more recently as a long-term resident in a sparkling new
metropolis beyond the Jubilee Hills checkpost. As they normally go, impressions
are biased and mine emerged from endless comparisons with Bangalore justified
by similar names of localities, the regional script, a brand new Metro line in
the making and an economic boom sustaining immigration in thousands by the day
with construction surging to keep up. There ended the similarity and the bias.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-IN">Hyderabad
masquerades as a nonchalantly ordinary city under a blanket of normal, but on
second glance you will notice that nearly everything it offers is larger than life.
The erstwhile Deccan capital boasts of regal splendour and cutting edge technology
on either side with a well-planned near-Utopia in between - gardens I still
suspect are forests, a lake the size of a small bay, stores with display signs
larger than a Bandra eatery, a fort probably in driving distance of your
workplace and drive you will want to on its large tree-covered avenues
wondering if the huge boulders that line them make for rock climbing (some do).
Between rocks and water, you may discover the pleasure of sailing or even find
a nice watering hole to enjoy the sunset with a menu that was priced in the
last decade. The people start late and end early, probably because they have
little reason to leave the comfort of home, for homes here also fit into the
larger-than-life theme of the city. Hyderabadis are a happy, non-interfering
lot, accepting and eager to share a slice of their life – mostly tales on how
fast the city grew, their last brush with a Telugu movie star, places that
serve the best biryani but all concluding that it pales in comparison to the
version made at home.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-IN">To talk
about flavour here is to talk about biryani, and to talk about biryani is to
address strong roots in culture, home and value systems. Such is the love for
this dish that if news reports are to be believed, weddings have been called
off and family ties have been severed over it. For a layperson on a project
(and several consequent arguments) to find the ‘best’ biryani, the takeaway at
the end of a year was that they are all exceptional, preference-based
delicacies that just don’t taste the same outside the city. Thus dawned the
realization that I have to journey all the way back to truly relish biryani
again. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-IN">Another
angle to exploring flavour in Hyderabad is the spice, and boy do they like their
chilli here. Households, restaurants and the now ubiquitous food trucks all
left me teary eyed with the little devil from Guntur that I picked out of all
food with a vengeance, only to give up eventually and embrace its omnipresence in the local cuisine. The idli has it concealed in the chutney, <i>pesarattu</i> in
its filling, seemingly innocent momos have them too, and then there’s the urban
legend of chilli beer I did not dare pursue. Until recently, food culture
dominated night life with lines of excellent trucks well open till the wee
hours of morning, now turning into ‘food places’ after a night of
brewery-hopping, clubbing or a late-night movie in the part of the country that
has always had a certain fondness for cinema.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-IN">Hyderabad
is one of the few cities that spoil you for choice, particularly choice of pace. Given a choice, I’d have never left.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Akshatha Hegdehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04966943522324168703noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24377974.post-41094505213680753412016-08-21T05:00:00.000+04:002016-08-22T21:31:49.232+04:00Mumbai 101<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">“But Bombay 101 sounds
better”, was the collective reply of this piece’s first audience, who with a
generous garnish of irony call themselves Mumbaikars. As I watched them read
the following few paragraphs, I mentally consolidated some of their common
behavioral traits possibly inherent from their roots in the city – general
appreciation of spaciousness, spotting well-concealed patches of greenery, subconscious
disregard for moving slow, automated swiftness, promptness, and the adorable
nature of accommodating in a ‘chalta hai’ fashion. Because in Bombay, anything
goes.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Over the last four years,
I have lived and loved five cities – Mumbai has been the finest teacher. Anyone
who needs a crash course in adulting must consider living alone in Mumbai for a
while. It is the big (not so bad) city that your mother warned you about, an expensive appendix to your wallet, a large labyrinth of space that takes
tremendous energy to navigate with climate that will take getting used to and
speed that will need some serious keeping up with. What Mumbai also is, is many
little wonderful worlds enclosed in a marvel of engineering. Cutting edge
technology and modest fishing villages coexist side-by-side. Navigating across
its expanse is structured like a guide to dummies with over-efficient local
transport. Infrastructure band-aids to serious cracks are fixed overnight and
the next morning, all is forgotten. Hipsters and the mainstream get along.
Elsewhere, colonial opulence and local splendor merge seamlessly. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Having lived most of my
years in a city that is being accused of losing its identity, the balance
Mumbai has found for itself almost induces envy. The place simply changes you
no matter how hard you resist. For instance, rent is so steep that you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">will </i>include a financial accelerator in
your career aspirations. Lazing around is not an option because the local <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">will </i>leave at 9:02, and how else will
your employer know that your train being late that morning is a work of
fiction? The rain <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">will </i>flood the
roads every June - it’s geography - but watch the Mumbaikar’s walk of
nonchalance against the storm, armed with barely an umbrella. Pretty much
nothing is a big deal for the people of this city – what the rest of urban India
would call third world problems are Mumbai’s first world problems. Its citizens
are Zen, respectful, show visible attachment to the city and stay invested in
its fixes, constantly defending it to innumerable skeptics and doubters. Had
Mumbai been a company, its citizens would set the bar for HR case studies.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">While most cities let you
choose your pace, Mumbai does not. The ways and quirks of people, businesses
and corporates are contrastingly different from the rest of India. The city’s
primary quality is that of an equalizer: irrespective of the percentile income
bracket one belongs to, the average daily life here requires effort. </span><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> </span><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Yet there is an indescribable charm – glamour,
even – associated with life here that needs to be experienced beyond a round of
the (highly recommended) Bombay Darshan. A few weeks into living here will
begin to throw light on why a Mumbaikar will not feel at home elsewhere. And
old friends that we are, I can barely wait to do it all over again.</span></div>
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<br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Also read:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><a href="http://inertiaofrest.blogspot.in/2015/02/gurgaon-101.html" target="_blank">Gurgaon 101</a></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><a href="http://inertiaofrest.blogspot.in/2012/04/chennai-101.html" target="_blank">Chennai 101</a></span></div>
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Akshatha Hegdehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04966943522324168703noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24377974.post-11370706612944400162016-03-20T19:52:00.003+04:002020-05-19T17:19:16.882+04:00Ten Years<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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This blog was started because a teenager ran out of paper one March afternoon. Over a decade, not only did it translate mood swings into phrased strings but influenced the aforementioned teenager’s transition into adulthood. And what better way to do a celebratory post than usher in some nostalgia.</div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Nostalgia, the deceptive force that compels one to resist change by cunningly bringing forth happy memories from the past. That, coupled with apathy is the reason this blog still uses a static template, has primitive social media integration tools and chooses to stay away from the modern-day icon-loaded landing pages with Helvetica slashes. You see, this blog is my sole reminder of what the internet used to look like when we were younger – everything was plain, simple and text-heavy. There were fewer people, lesser sites, and sparser media. The internet was anonymous and we reveled in it. One could say things, be people, get away with it or simply not care at all. And as irony would have it, ten years later, I ended up working for a company whose very foundation (and a significant revenue driver, may I add) is in attaching a single identity to every click, anywhere on the internet.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">From text and music, it became image and video. From Yahoo chatrooms, it became Tinder. From being an escape, the internet became the focus. From being restricted to half an hour on a dial-up modem after school, it became fifteen hours a day, only a minimum-hour restriction this time. But let’s go back to the modem thing, because apparently restricting access to the internet may be a human rights violation in the years to come. Back in the late 90s, getting online was both slow (we’re talking 56 kbps) and expensive (as in choosing between making a phone call or loading a web page). Yet my family’s prime concern about their darling daughter embracing novelty was what it is today – moderation. That ‘online’ was new made it induce skepticism; we didn’t trust novelty back then – new cultures, traditions or even food. It took pizza chains half a decade to even consider scaling up in India. 'New' was never entirely trustworthy, 'new' could waylay children. </span><br />
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<span lang="EN-GB">But that was then. Now, we are more flirtatious,</span> make informed choices - and faster- because of something that was once a novelty. In a country of adopters driven by word-of-mouth assurances and the fear of missing out, going online is a matter of four out of one’s five friends being online and recommending it. I personally look forward to the day restricting internet access will account to criminal violation and the juicy media output said violation will result in. That may also be the day we realize we are on the other side of a massive pro-liberal culture shift, but that’s for another blog post.</div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">From pen and paper poetry being typed out and uploaded for the world to see to not sparing time to write at all, the internet has ironically affected the sustenance of this blog in ways more than one. But here’s to ten more years.</span></div>
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Akshatha Hegdehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04966943522324168703noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24377974.post-41393901097893144002015-02-04T21:55:00.000+04:002015-02-05T11:10:08.732+04:00Gurgaon 101<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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The city’s reputation precedes its name,
one that induces double takes among families of Indian women. Perhaps the media
got carried away in branding a city, maybe it didn’t but from where I come, the
mere mention of even a short-term relocation to the NCR’s concrete residence of
dreams can induce panic attacks. And a short-term relocation it was. Having
spent an entire summer in Haryana’s employment hub, I choose to pen down a
thing or two for those dreading it.</div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">The Rajdhani from Ahmedabad only stops for
two minutes at Gurgaon. That’s 120 seconds for nearly a third of a train to alight,
luggage et al in tow. For a city with a portfolio of striking corporate offices
and a floating populace amounting to thousands a day, it is too short a stop in
too unimpressive a station. But when you do enter the city, the effort that has
gone into making a modern metropolis out of a town with thousands of years of
history is evident. Gurgaon comes straight out of a city simulation game:
someone deliberated a vast expanse of land into neat little sectors, earmarked main
roads for extravagant offices and commercial centres, the lanes in their shadow
for unorganized retail, and the remainder to house the labour that forms the
backbone of the city. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">There are clusters of offices all over the
city and it is advisable to find yourself a place to reside not further than a
metro ride away from your cluster. If unadapted to the extreme weather
conditions of the region, you will thank any reduction in your commute once a heat
wave or two drift along in June. Housing in the city centre—around DLF Cyber
City—is comfortable and available across a spectrum of budgets. For short-mid
term stays, consider making your abode in a studio apartment easily available
near Metro stations. Do some research on the landlord – go in for
recommendations from previous tenants/friends over online reviews and be warned
that any kind of real estate deal in the city comes with shady undertones. And
yes, a good number of women live alone in Gurgaon perfectly safe and happy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">The food. When you talk of food in Gurgaon,
you talk of food in Delhi. Golgappas are instalments of delight. Chaat is
extraordinary. Fresh juice is available in every street corner and milkshakes
come with a complimentary dollop of ice cream. Saag tastes like saag, paneer
like paneer and the meat dishes are midway between Punjabi and Lucknowi
culinary styles. The locals prefer rich, butter-loaded meals with a spicy
aftertaste and thus the chemistry was quite perfect with their idea of healthy
food echoing mine. But when you eat out everyday, your options are mostly limited
to <i>aloo</i>, <i>gobi</i>, <i>paneer</i>, <i>rajma</i> and <i>chhole</i>. Barring minor vegetable deprivation,
the city made me feel like a well-fed happy panda. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Entertainment in Gudgawa is centred around
eating out, clubbing, movies and shopping. Delhi is merely 20 minutes away and
is an assorted box of interests. Endless options for day trips, weekend
getaways and miscellaneous journeys are probably the best that came out of the
GGN stint for me. Trips to Agra and Dharamsala happened and they were utterly
delightful, the latter a dream realized for my plateau-tuned eyes. Plenty of
scope for epic food journeys too. A drive to Murthal, the dhaba capital, must
be on your agenda. Food and entertainment venues in the city also double up to
beat the heat with extravagant malls offering unending air-conditioned walk
spaces. Or you can just perch in your balcony and get things delivered:
everything in the city is home delivered without a ‘minimum order’ stipulation.
Once, an order of Maggi amounting to 20 INR was delivered to my doorstep on the
fourth floor of a building without an elevator. I continue to marvel at this
first world lifestyle, having resorted to ordering Cornitos on Amazon for
similar kicks. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">And now, I touch that sensitive topic of
women safety. Gurgaon has places that are bustling at midnight—the area around
Cyber City for instance. It also has places that are “crime traps” at 4 pm. There
are people who welcome you into their lives with a smile and go out of their
way to help you. Then there are the rude, the deceptive and the repulsive. In
short, it is a microcosm of the country we live in. Objectifying women is certainly
not a cultural norm in the region, despite what you may have heard. The
distribution of dark forces around us is uniform and independent of geography...or
so I would like to believe. And I end that sensitive topic of women safety. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">If statistics of cases reported,
experiences shared in your social circle or your mother’s kitty party grapevine
deter you from a career move that passes through the city, maybe it is time for
introspection of the biases you hold. We all define our comfort zones to be
much narrower than what we are actually comfortable with. Gurgaon was my comfort-zone
widening, endurance strengthening experience and there’s no reason it shouldn’t
be yours. At this point, the essence of the write up has to be disclosed:
Gurgaon is another city. You will learn to tick its way like you would
elsewhere.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b>Also read:</b></div>
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<a href="http://inertiaofrest.blogspot.in/2012/04/chennai-101.html" target="_blank">Chennai 101</a></div>
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Akshatha Hegdehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04966943522324168703noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24377974.post-13267241128075902932014-05-26T12:31:00.000+04:002020-05-19T17:13:12.449+04:00Marketing Wisdom from My Mother<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
My mother fits nicely into society’s template of a strong,
independent woman. At 50-something, she is an engineer with the country’s
oldest telecommunication services provider. A heavily left-brained and rational person, she can transform almost instantly into the overly-caring Indian mother
with her ‘traditional’ values all intact. Over the last year of my marketing
education, I have observed her purchase behaviour in the brief and scattered
semester vacations and picked up her buying preferences over phone
conversations when she tells me about her day. Here is a short summary of the
things she does which when adopted on a larger scale might upset business
models and render many a marketing team jobless.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Stay away from
purchasing products that use celebrity brand ambassadors.</b><br />
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Reasoning:</b> “If
they invested the celebrity’s paycheck into improving the product, we’d either
have a better product or more quantity. They pay these one-hit-wonders a bomb, complain
about bad economy and pack only 70 ml shampoo in the bottle these days.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Always buy fresh
produce from the street-side carts at the supermarket’s steps.<o:p></o:p></b><br />
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Reasoning:</b> “Fresh
produce is never fresh in an air-conditioned environment. Moreover, these
vendors need to make a living too.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>What shower gel?<o:p></o:p></b><br />
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Reasoning:</b> “Contains
Sodium Laureth Sulphate – a detergent used in various strengths of cleaners
from floor to the face. Is there a Johnson’s Baby shower gel? Surely they know
a fair deal about soap.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Even well-marketed “health
foods” don’t test her resolve.<o:p></o:p></b><br />
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Reaction:</b> Picks
up a pack of no-name green tea leaves from the shelf below branded green tea bags.
I could not tell the difference from the brewed tea.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>On trying to lure her
with the newest Lay’s flavour-<o:p></o:p></b><br />
<b><br /></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Reply:</b> “Come home
for Diwali, I’ll make you sun-dried chips with garam masala which will keep you warm in that Gujarat winter. I’ll make enough for your
friends as well..there will be no air in the pack.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At the end of a shopping session, my mother’s necessity-driven shopping cart almost
always looks like she is close enough to giving most advertising campaigns a run for their
money. True, her choices are not necessarily convenient (the chips take
three days to bake in the sun) but she has mastered the knack of choosing
products that fit perfectly with her lifestyle, almost eliminating the concept
of marketing-induced aspirational lifestyle. Some call it being close-minded, I
call it power over marketing. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s not like my mum doesn’t experiment: between Dove and Himalaya’s new SLS-free
shampoo, the switch was a no-brainer. She exhibits undying brand loyalty to
Lakmé that goes over her anti-celebrity endorsement stand. Just yesterday,
three Lakmé products were picked up after a disapproving look at Kareena Kapoor’s
orange lipstick in the store display. Somewhere, somehow, this woman has found
balance between being a marketing victim and not dismissing novelty altogether.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
One of my goals this year is to bring back some of the
aforementioned aspirational value into my mother’s lifestyle. Let’s see how
that works out. <o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Akshatha Hegdehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04966943522324168703noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24377974.post-58192868033859770102014-02-17T03:00:00.002+04:002020-11-24T22:48:28.597+04:00The Writer <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
That writer I love sits in that bar<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Penning that story I’ll read tomorrow;<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His words are like butter: salted, untempered<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And glide ever so easy.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That writer I love spins tales magnetic<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As his eyes when he pens them;<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of flavour and warmth they are full<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of the sun and skies they talk<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of the world and across they take me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That writer I love tells me of lives<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of times I know not<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of landscapes of colour<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That I cannot paint.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That writer I love leaves me hanging<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At every line, I fall in love again;<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Close your eyes, I’ll tell you a story”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He says and keeps me waiting<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To wake up to him glide away<br />
His black cape trailing.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
Akshatha Hegdehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04966943522324168703noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24377974.post-64401116739992533112013-10-13T15:50:00.003+04:002013-10-13T15:58:16.313+04:00Indian IT 101: Survival Guide<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>This
guide is for you if..</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">..you’re
stuck in a job you don’t like for reasons you cannot comprehend. Morning after
morning, the shuttle is taken to work, breakfast had, coffee gulped down,
desktop switched on and chair adjusted. Some emails to look forward to, tickets
to be resolved, a meeting, perhaps a status call. You constantly dream of
spending a day outside your work place..just one day, and fondly remember the
last time you called in sick to pursue activities more meaningful than
fire-fighting over emails. This yearning slowly translates to a desire to
pursue something else for a living. You’re not ready to quit your job
yet—clarity takes time you see—and there’s that service contract as well.
Things need to be sorted and priorities need to be assigned without
compromising on current career prospects and this guide has been developed to
help you maintain a comfortable status quo. Hence the name ‘Survival Guide’ as
opposed to ‘Learn to Love Your Work Guide’ or ‘Get You On-Site Guide’, which
must also drop a hint or two on what to expect as takeaway.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Steps
for Survival</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Arrive at
work as usual, earlier if you can. But make no mistake of physically turning up
at your workplace earlier than your boss: befriend technology. If your
team starts coming in at 11 am, the first mail you send out better be at 10:20
am, just before you go to brush. Arrive at your desk a little after 11 am, sans
bag, pretending to be fresh from a coffee break. It helps a great deal if you
start going to work empty handed. In fact, a friend of mine used to place a
dummy bag on his desk and quietly sneak in and out of tech park premises at
will. But then he also lived within 90 seconds walking distance of said tech
park premises so you may choose to weigh various options before taking a call.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Now, the
tricky part: work. You do not like it, do not want to do it but see no way out
of it. The challenge here is to do minimal work yet make your team (more
importantly, manager) not notice the lack of balance in the universe. If you’ve
been around long enough, you may use the services of an enthusiastic protégé
and get some work done on pretext of ‘mentoring’. When such enthusiasm is
unavailable in resources around (tch tch), careful delegation and seeking help
is the way forward. However, stay around to observe and contribute to important
developments that involve your work. Be alert in sending mails (never delegate
this activity), scheduling calls and meetings, conveniently keeping your
presence virtual. Volunteer to take up chhota-mota initiatives that may ‘add value
to deliverables’: this is a fairly certain way of acquiring those brownie
points during appraisal. Note that all of the above must be performed in a
clever manner else you’ll end up doing more work than usual which is out of the
scope of this guide.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">General
workplace behaviour must also be altered while you take your time to measure
priorities. Adopt the ways of an <a href="http://samosapedia.com/e/enthu%20cutlet" target="_blank">enthu cutlet</a>. Contribute to team
building activities and general work atmosphere..basically anything that can
‘make your presence felt’. About once a week, stay back late, even if you’re
doing nothing in particular because face-time is desirable. Use this time to
talk to people around you and place building relationships over the highly-abused,
flinch-inducing term ‘networking’. Hear their stories, share yours, try and
collaborate and for all you know, your work may just start generating appeal.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>And
finally</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">How you
spend your time during this status quo maintenance is up to you. Most people
seek alternate employment, prepare for competitive exams or browse matrimonial
sites (notice the avoidance of mentioning gender here). I used it to figure out
the general direction in which my career could head, gathered information,
worked towards some short and mid-term goals and finally ended up in a happier
place. And if this post has got you thinking even a little, things are probably
not going well for you and I do hope you take a leap in the direction you
desire and sort things soon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Disclaimer</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">This
guide is based more on observation than experience. Potential employers may
kindly not use it to judge my professional ways or brand me as trouble.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><u1:p></u1:p>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<u1:p></u1:p>
<u1:p></u1:p>
</span><br />
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<br /></div>
</div>
</div>
Akshatha Hegdehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04966943522324168703noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24377974.post-69509028264035143072013-02-16T12:24:00.000+04:002013-02-16T18:42:00.522+04:00My Experience with India Post<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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When your parents are
in government service, you are raised to respect the government. You are
provided justification upon justification on the state of affairs in the
country, a matter of endless rants in most other households. Parents in
government service come with perks, not limited to waiver of phone bills,
vacations in guest houses, and rides in a stately chauffeured Ambassador. Many
years later, you will look back at these days with a sigh of nostalgia while
standing in line at the passport office or the RTO.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Recently, a popular
entrance exam required its applicants to dispatch their applications using
either ‘ordinary’ post or registered post. “Better send it a week before the
deadline. You know how the postal department is”, a friend warned. How is it,
I wondered and went to the post office that weekend. It was a heavily
partitioned one-room space bustling with activity, much to my
surprise. Hadn't we heard enough times that nobody uses physical mail
or stamps these days? Well it appears as if India Post has found other ways to
keep its staff employed and occupied. This is commendable when you read about
several other legacy government organizations and PSUs deliberating on
downsizing and hiring freezes every day. IP probably learnt a thing
or two about calculated hiring after telegraph spiralled downward.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The crowd around me
was a mix of people from all walks of life—an elderly gentleman accessing his
savings account, a few people buying envelopes, a lady sending multiple speed
posts, and—to my delight—a young philatelist asking if there were new stamps
released recently. My speed post was bar-coded and a tracking number
was generated before one could say the name of a popular courier company. It
would reach in two days, said the lady at the counter, to a destination halfway
across the country. This with online tracking facility cost me about 60% less
than the average private courier service.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
A new relationship
was forged that day. When I went there this morning to collect the entrance
exam’s score card, I left with an inland letter (remember those?), envelopes
and stamps to surprise my grandmother who loves receiving letters.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Akshatha Hegdehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04966943522324168703noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24377974.post-1049457563613140592012-12-08T13:07:00.001+04:002020-05-19T17:20:11.869+04:00Exacting Smartness<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I texted you,<br />
You Whatsapped back.<br />
I posted on your Wall,<br />
You pinged me on GTalk.<br />
I pinged back on GTalk,<br />
You Vibered me.<br />
I buzzed you on Lync,<br />
You mailed me on Yahoo.<br />
I messaged you on FB,<br />
You shared a post on G+.<br />
I messaged you on LinkedIn,<br />
You sent a talking parrot on Farmville.<br />
Seriously?<br />
<br />
I invited you to an Outlook meeting,<br />
You invited me to your Picasa album.<br />
I pinned an interest,<br />
You YouTubed yours.<br />
I wrote this blog post<br />
while you Tweeted.<br />
<br />
It's time to throw away<br />
this smartphone<br />
and call home.<br />
If you don't answer,<br />
I'll see your light on,<br />
walk across the street <br />
and knock on your door.</div>
Akshatha Hegdehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04966943522324168703noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24377974.post-28899380016229326862012-04-22T21:32:00.001+04:002015-02-04T22:06:58.132+04:00Chennai 101<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
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There must be a god, after all. A god who grants wishes
selectively, who programs this selection so meticulously that the timing of
your wish being granted coincides rather perfectly with that of your nightmare
coming to life. Every fumbling fresher to the Indian IT/equivalent industry dreads
one thing: a posting email to Chennai, Tamil Nadu, India. Mine was a New Year
2012 gift.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Now, Chennai is a city that has acquired a questionable
reputation in recent years, with the aforementioned question not restricted to
its sultry climate alone. Techies and other mortals alike paint a picture of an
uninhabitable sauna room of a city with apparently no food, water or miscellaneous
essentials. There are also some survivors who paint a picture of a cultural
haven which happens to be a foodie’s delight. Having spent a few months in the
city, I choose to stand between the two pictures, noticeably leaning to the
latter.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I stepped into the city in early February which is winter in
most parts of the country. Chennai, however, has two seasons: summer and deadly
summer. The days were hot and humid while nights were pleasantly humid, making air-conditioned
accommodation about as necessary as say..food. You’d think such accommodation is easy to find in the heartland of Madras Presidency but
wait..chances are your workplace will be on Old Mahabalipuram Road, the IT
expressway on the outskirts of the city. Real estate brokers who operate here
double as economics gurus, controlling the supply and price of furnished
accommodation to bring it just within the reach of the average corporate slave.
In short, I found a half-decent place to crash.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Even potential sociopaths require company. The fact that
about twenty fraands lived within hopping distance of my residence reduced the
agony of relocating to Madras. Observing cultural diversity, studying the
thought process of people around and continuing my notes on group dynamics made
the average day entertaining. There was little scope for silence as
entertainment prevailed and bonding happened. But I tend to diverge. The food..yes.
Chennai offers predominantly South Indian, particularly Chettinad food. Some
restaurants in the city offer staple dishes that are simple yet extraordinarily delicious while
others go out of their way to nurse one’s culinary curiosity. But the best food
I had incidentally came from the kitchen of a Gurudwara.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Entertainment in Chennai is plentiful, with proximity to
the coastline accounting for a greater part of it. Unlike Bangalore (where I
have lived all my life and where entertainment these days seems to restrict itself
to shopping, eating or drinking), Chennai tends to amuse one with its beaches,
adventure sports destinations and several convenient weekend getaways. So
Pondicherry happened and it was amazing. The IIT-campus is a world by
itself, with more wildlife sighted on the campus than its junta. Another noteworthy mention is the cinema hall scene in Chennai: ticket prices in multiplexes can go as low as 10 INR and nay, this is no typo. Auto-rickshaws aside, living in this
city is probably far less expensive than other metros.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The localites I met in Chennai (including strangers on the
road) were largely helpful and genuinely nice, sometimes going out of their way
to help. One particularly memorable incident was when an elderly couple escorted
us to our destination when they could have merely gestured directions. “It
will be difficult for you girls to search at night”, the gentleman said at
7 pm. Language was never a problem as most people seemed to speak fluent
English and I managed to churn up broken Tamizh frequently. Yes, the
surroundings were very different from what I was used to. Retail, food and
hospitality sectors need to spread their wings (especially in the IT area!),
water management must be made better and the city could definitely do with
multiple commercial centres but the fact remains that it ticks better than most
metros. Be it the ten-person-shared-autos, windowless buses, claustrophobia-inducing
electric trains or the ‘Anna Cool Bar’s that outnumber Bangalore’s ‘Cake
Paradise’s, Chennai has a heart and soul which deserve perpetual ovation. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Three months in Rajniland, if nothing else, will strengthen your
endurance and build character like few other ways of living can. I wished to ‘have
a blast’ living away from home, my New Year resolution was to make life more entertaining
and both have been fulfilled in the most superlative of ways. <br />
<br />
<b>Also read:</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b><a href="http://inertiaofrest.blogspot.in/2015/02/gurgaon-101.html" target="_blank">Gurgaon 101</a></b></div>
</div>
Akshatha Hegdehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04966943522324168703noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24377974.post-87405219897782452902011-07-26T12:30:00.009+04:002020-11-16T09:10:47.836+04:00Oooh I saw God<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Last weekend, I had the pleasure of visiting the abode of a deity at one of the richest temples in the world. For a self-confessed religious apathetic, this was the first visit to a temple in four years and was more a product of compulsion than free will. However, a minor factor that materialized the journey was indeed free will, although restricted to savouring a certain sweet delicacy the temple gives away, possibly as consolation for having to navigate a mile long maze to catch a glimpse of the deity.
<br />
<br />
<br />
My contingent reached the temple at the crack of dawn. ‘Heh, we’ll beat the queue before it even forms’ was the motive. Sadly, as if to certify India’s upholding of ‘unity in diversity’, several thousand people with the exact motive as my parents’ had already taken their places and there we were, sorry faced, at the far end of the queue. As we inched towards the gold building, I realized the unimaginable: Indians are the most motivated people in the world. The aforementioned citizenry that had thronged a square kilometre space had only one goal that day – get a glimpse of ‘god’. Nothing else mattered. Nobody even bothered to look at the five-hundred year old inscriptions engraved on the temple’s walls, built by an emperor considered among the greatest in Indian history. That the stone temple stood on an entirely stone-based foundation plastered with clay over centuries did not matter to them as did the fact that the food they would later be served is still made from the same recipes the emperor’s cooks used half a millennium ago.
<br />
<br />
<br />
This theory of no-gaze-avert was put to test when the crowd reached the gold-plated architectural marvel. Yours truly overheard discussions revolving around bullion trade and jewellery with miscellaneous entertainment about how many necklaces and bangles could be made with the building’s gold exterior. Again, nobody took a second look at the figurines etched in gold: souvenirs from Hindu mythology that boasts of magical birds, animals and events, all beautifully depicted. But my version of culture shock happened when we were in front of the holy idol. It was a world I had seen only in Discovery’s coverage of the Kumbh Mela – chants, prayers, closed eyes, palms gathered, all with genuine, unshakeable faith. I don’t know if they were repenting for sins, praying in gratitude or seeking the almighty’s help but the faith that was obvious in their intensity of salutation, their desperation to get more than a glimpse of their god, their determination in trying to manage a few more prostrations before being pushed away to make room for more people..was almost like passion, passion I had never felt before, faith that I have never seen nor had in time, people or even in myself. For someone alien to the concept of belief, looking at an idol could never be as meaningfully comprehensible as seeing what it meant for the millions who travelled for days..for that single glimpse of god.
<br />
<br />
<br />
And then surprisingly, it all ended. The tension, the adrenalin they had in front of the deity almost instantly subsided. Theoretically, almost an equal number of people were expected at the Prasadam Counter but I seemed to be among the few lone, obviously exhausted warriors seeking an oasis. With more than sufficient sugary spheres to last the return journey, I exited the oasis in glee.
<br />
<br />
<br />
Back home, nothing had changed. The same people who could grind mountains to dust before the almighty had come back to level zero and went on with their business as usual..daily prayers still being offered, prostrations still made, chants still pursued, finer details of their day still overlooked.
<br />
<br />
<br />
And D.K Bose, still running.</div>
Akshatha Hegdehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04966943522324168703noreply@blogger.com31tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24377974.post-59509795695149279282010-07-25T19:17:00.005+04:002013-01-31T22:43:49.784+04:00Bullet Rani<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
She looked nothing like the conventional pretty girl - pleasantly plump, pierced brow and lip, bandana, tattoo adorned arm and leather boots. Yet, Rani happens to be the most beautiful person I have seen.<br />
<br />
Every morning, I watched her zoom into campus on a motorcycle, an oddity in the parking lot of an all-girl college. She showed the helmet its place and walked swiftly to Nescafe each morning..every morning. That she was nearly bald under the bandana didn't make her less radiant for she always had a kind 'good morning' ready. I used to watch her till she was out of sight, oblivious to several 'What's the deal with her hair?' and 'Did she actually shave her head?!' remarks.<br />
<br />
Lovely as she was, even the dogs on campus loved Bullet Rani- that was what I heard people call her. She somehow managed to be in the canteen, library and the chapel at the same time! Rani seemed to be everywhere, sometimes spread out in the sun alone while academic sessions were in progress, perpetually with food, iPod carelessly plugged, book in hand with her typical stare-on-I-don't-care look. That she had only one state -happy- seemed to grab my attention always and slowly, I began to seek inspiration in her. Rani's answer to life helped build an attitude impervious to judgement that shaped a person who valued kindness while not letting any turmoil affect the tone of her 'good morning'. A mother soon noticed her eternally pseudo-depressed teen happier than she had been in the recent past and was heard raving about how the 'II PUC stress' had failed to affect her daughter. <br />
<br />
After a few months, there was no sign of her in college and the general assumption was that she had graduated. I did eventually find out that Rani didn't really run a razor along her scalp every Sunday; she was on chemotherapy for leukemia. That didn't seem to deter her from effortlessly bringing the Enfield to life with a single kick. <br />
<br />
I do not know where or how Rani is today..it is depressing to even think about the success rate of chemotherapy. Every morning as I start the Scooty, there is that one moment of regret for not getting to know Bullet Rani in person, for all the conversations that could have happened over the numerous donuts she downed and for the difference we could have made in each others' lives. All those endless hours idled in the basketball court - an amazing person was just a syllable away.<br />
<br />
</div>
Akshatha Hegdehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04966943522324168703noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24377974.post-47930462806915567042009-07-17T15:49:00.000+04:002009-07-17T18:02:12.523+04:00Penultimate dreamTwo days straight<br />I stayed quiet<br />Lost in thought<br />All yours.<br />On the third,<br />I thought not of you<br />And since then<br />I have not thought.<br /><br />Of those days we laughed<br />Shared and cared<br />And loved.<br />Of the time we spent<br />On grass, in water<br />In the moonlight together<br />I have not thought.<br /><br />I shall not dwell<br />On when you'll be here<br />For you will be here<br />Tomorrow.<br />And then we shall live<br />All those days<br />Again, those evenings<br />Together.Akshatha Hegdehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04966943522324168703noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24377974.post-33299574461196213392009-07-12T18:27:00.004+04:002013-03-11T22:00:23.865+04:00F.I.E.N.D.S - 3 : Burglar alarm!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
So some rascals thought it would be funny to break into my residence when my parents were out of town.<br />
<br />
It happened on the 9th of July, 2009. After a memorable day out, this blogger returned home to find the front door of her residence left open, door locks duly broken. Although panic stricken, I managed to grab the handle of the door with a leaf of tissue (the fingerprints, yo!) , latch it externally and run to the dwelling next door, dialing dad on speed dial 3. Jayashree Aunty and her hubby proved instrumental in subsiding my adrenalin with a generous dose of caffeine while dad worked in the background to alert the local police.<br />
<br />
Guilt overpowered as random thoughts of letting folks down crept my mind until the caffeine suggested that a bunch of vagabonds on a door-breaking rampage was beyond my control. With a curious urge to examine indoor damage, I followed the neighbors to explore the plunderers' path, armed with a broken curtain rod and Baygon spray. The weapons must have scared away those criminals who had thought of hiding indoors. Heh. B-)<br />
<br />
It was quite evident that the entire house had been searched for gold and cash: cabinets and lockers were broken, their contents scattered pell-mell; mattresses shifted, pillow cases torn and grocery containers in the kitchen open (yahaha :D). Surprisingly, electronic gadgets were left to themselves as were artifacts even remotely related to god and religion, only to instill an image of a god-fearing burglar in the observer. A quick conversation with parents later, the cops arrived: a Hoysala van, a police jeep and two leopard printed bikes--totalling ten policemen--as if to investigate murder.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Exhibit A: Indoors</span><br />
<br />
As the cops examined each room, an officer applauded mom's security measure of storing even minor valuables in bank lockers due to which the estimated amount stolen was not far from 0 INR. While detectives drew sketch upon sketch, the forensic team reported that the burglars had performed their course of action with gloved hands, making them hard to trace. They did take a record of my fingerprints though, probably aware of my previous and potential bank-robbing sketches.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Exhibit B: The kitchen</span><br />
<br />
About ten people had to be fed dinner from a burgled house. Neighbour aunties volunteered to cook in their own kitchens during BESCOM's load shedding and the resultant was surprisingly tasty. They even volunteered to stay over with me overnight and they did! This is when I began to appreciate India's know-thy-neighbour way of life. :)<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Exhibit C: The street</span><br />
<br />
The arrival of cops created a stir in the eternally peaceful neighbourhood with no history of crime. Most citizens even suspected an arrest and emerged from respective residences to watch me being bombarded with questions at the gate. Soon, I was narrating the incident to strangers for the sixth time, including one Narmada Aunty who stays about eight miles away. The sympathy received was heartwarming and I received adequate material to compose a seven-series saga about instances of crime in Bangalore.<br />
<br />
Mom arrived at 03:45 the next morning and burst into laughter. The Hindu tradition apparently frowns upon empty jewelry cases stored at home which prompted her to place 1 and 2 INR coins in each box..a factor that incensed the thieves who had thrown boxes about in angst. One of them must have hit the mirror and shattered it. To top it off, the forty-two pairs of earrings I own were scattered on the floor, with a snide hint to invest an entire vacation rearranging them in pairs. Passport, bank documents, CDs, books and everything else untouched. :)<br />
<br />
<br />
What you must learn from the above narration:<br />
<ul>
<li> When you leave home for a couple of days, tell few or none about it if you are new to a locality and trust nobody.</li>
<li>Alternately, inform trustworthy neighbors of your excursion and plead them to keep a watch/respond to abnormal happenings in your absence. Bribe them with a box of sweets..it's that simple.</li>
<li>Invest in an iron grill door. More importantly, keep it locked.</li>
<li>Stuff all your valuables in a bank locker near your residence. Place expensive gadgets and art in it when you will be away from home. Indian thieves are 'high-class' now. The ones that attacked my dwelling, sadly, weren't but may that not lead to lax security. </li>
</ul>
Elementary instructions given, I shall now consume medication against possible swine flu/other harmful virus attack and continue rearranging stuff.<br />
<br />
And pursue chanting curses against the schmucks who ruined half a week of vacation.<br />
<br />
Alright it was a little exciting.</div>
Akshatha Hegdehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04966943522324168703noreply@blogger.com30tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24377974.post-5061021824149572332009-04-03T17:12:00.005+04:002020-12-21T00:46:48.552+04:00F.I.E.N.D.S - 2Hopped I, off another eatery clutching edibles of the sweet kind. Before you judge me a merciless binger, I'd like to hear what you know about three day long sugarless survival with four hours' sleep a day (night?). Not that sleeping longer would aid the XX chromosome's sugarless existence.
<br /><br />Yeah. So. The aroma of baked and frozen edibles from the 50 micron polythene bag was quite overpowering. With deliberate, quick footsteps of constant measure, I was estimated to reach residence in about 500 seconds. A sense of strange calmness possessed my being, as against the general anxiety observed in the last few months while manually transporting food under human surveillance. The polythene bag could sense it too; its contents moved about in an inharmonious fashion and I was forced to invest several seconds in relocating them during which my shoes chose to tread on something that wasn't tar or stone.
<br /><br /><div>*crunch*
<br /><br /> "Ey! Stop! You can't see on what you are walking? It is not even dark."
<br /><br />I inclined pi/2 radians towards the ground to observe the trodden object: a visual aid with one of the elongated levers that rest on one's ears nearly separated from the rest of the frame. The object was picked up, handed over to its owner with a hurried apology: the frozen edibles came with a 'meltable' warning!<br /><br />"What sorry? You know how much these spectacles cost?"
<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />I see you in a spectacle! But then I'm half blind..</span>
<br /><br />Another apology. And an offer to manually re-fit the frame. It only required a few screw driver twirls anyway.
<br /><br />"I am getting only 2 paisa from every tablet I sell. With that I should buy everything for family. You youngsters think everything is easy.."
<br /><br />Elementary analysis placed subject as a chemist. I have been programmed to fear humans clutching syringes and/or ingestible medication. But then irony had ordered the incident to occur in visible vicinity of 'Sharp Eye Care and Contant Lens Clinic'. Ignoring an adjective to a popular syringe attachment in the very title of the establishment's nomenclature, I darted in, invested limited finance in repair of the visual aid while its owner stood breathing on my neck.
<br /><br />The frozen edibles had formed an emulsion with the baked edibles at 21 minutes past their time of expiration. The concoction, however, was consumed with glee. I hence urge you to not watch what you step on, particularly if you like consuming dessert that also provides food for business-idea related fantasy.</div>Akshatha Hegdehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04966943522324168703noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24377974.post-126204662894534122008-11-21T18:21:00.004+04:002009-01-28T19:05:05.459+04:00The testFlustered, irate, confused.<br />Love it isn't, too obtuse.<br />Heartstopping? Not.<br />More of an excuse..<br />Confounded, I stand<br />Try and seek you in stars<br />Then turn back<br />To desolate, ignored yards.<br /><br />Winding roads before me<br />Too big a quest.<br />Praying as I walk<br />I will not<br />Should not<br />Pass this test..Akshatha Hegdehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04966943522324168703noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24377974.post-756926593841144532008-08-18T16:18:00.008+04:002008-08-18T16:44:25.741+04:00F.I.E.N.D.SThey are everywhere. They roam in light as majestically they strut around after dusk, ears on constant alert, sly eyes gauging profit 365/24 and hands..those hands seasoned with a raven’s clasp, prepared to snatch, to rob! Nay, I speak not of professional muggers or miscellaneous con-men but of those silent assassins, those amateur plunderers in sheep’s guise.<br /><br />Yeah. So. I was on one of those blah-you-men-I-date-myself frenzies and chose to treat self at a popular fast food joint in the city. A slight drizzle through clear Saint Gobains and Bryan Adams tuned to perfection only placed life at perfect peace with the world, perturbed not even by pesky little siblings (twins, by the looks of it) engaged in belligerent tugging of a toy the joint gives away with certain edibles.<br /><br />My burger and fries were soon gone, like most other good things in life that quietly make their way out of the cat flap when you’re out buying cat food and..never mind. So yeah..I’d eaten all of the burger and fries when mine eyes noticed another joint in the vicinity that sold great donuts, which when clubbed with the choco shake I clasped could conclude lunch on a very merry note. Off I skipped towards the donut store, choco shake in one hand, baggage in the other...when I was *gasps* ROBBED!<br /><br />Pesky kid from the set of two described earlier sat at the entrance of the joint, looking all gloomy. The XX chromosome that governs most of mine thought, word and action quickly (and involuntarily) triggered its maternity gene, which happens to bear the trait of being nice to biotic offsprings. Gave the little creature a /*warm*/ smile and said, “Grab the toy next time, OK?”.<br />Species showed no visible reaction.<br /><br />“Where is the other individual of your kind? And the biotic system governed by XX chromosome that parents you?”<br /><br />“He spilled ketchup on his shirt. She’s getting him cleaned.”<br /><br />The creature’s eyes slowly moved and fixed on the beverage in my hand. They brightened, almost as instantaneously as my reflexes triggered to grip the container firmer.<br /><br />“Can I have that?”<br /><br />“Umm..my lunch..”<br /><br />“Its chocolate no?”<br /><br />“Yeah well..”<br /><br />I didn’t affirm the request, OK? I didn’t!<br />Off the choco shake went zooming towards the restrooms, to cause more stain (pain?) or to be gloated on, I know not..<br /><br /><angst>*angst* Why me?<br /> Again, why me? */angst*</angst><br /><br />You might want to take a note or two off this narration though, specially the implication of not displaying in public edibles crucial for existence and a mental note to not resort to unsolicited conversation with pestilential human offsprings.<br /><br />*sniff*Akshatha Hegdehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04966943522324168703noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24377974.post-47601091694584998182008-06-13T12:51:00.006+04:002020-11-24T22:10:12.831+04:00Tangled Waves<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Finally, frustration levels have reached high enough to blog again. Without citing an excuse for temporary absence from this vent-box, I choose to start off with the root of frustration - A 10 station FM tuner I painstakingly constructed is in coma, as is the family radio and a similar functioning unit on my cellular device. They were poisoned with sub-standard FM waves.<br />
<br />
The advent of FM radio in India, particularly in erstwhile Bangalore was to bring back the charm of 70's and 80's radio - serve humanity with knowledge and quality entertainment, mainly good music. For a while, it did look promising to sapiens from both Vividh Bharati and Playstation eras until extortionate cloning of radio stations took charge (what competition at that!), initiating a large percentage of junta to divert their finance, attention as well as gifting trend towards a new investment - the humble mp3 player. This gizmo was such a hit that even radio set and cellular phone manufacturers included its modular version in their merchandise, fearing its possible dominance would otherwise make their products obsolete. I do not complain.<br />
<br />
A few days ago though, out of sheer joblessness, I decided to re-examine the previously defined <span style="font-style: italic;">detritus</span> cruising the city over FM waves and risked turning on the radio. However, just when I thought the world was forever rid of <span style="font-style: italic;">Dard-e-disco</span> and miscellaneous Himesh Reshammiya chants, a simple channel surf revealed thus:<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">...Zara zara hold me hold me hold me, zara zara..</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">...Haaaaaaaai, neev kelta idira Radio XYZ. Sakkat hot maga!</span> (Ah, wishful thinking.. :D)<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">...Oh vary happy in mai haart dil dance maare..</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">..the relief stop for banking and investments. Call..</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">...Whitu whitu whitu whitu..whitu Rajnikanthu neenu.. </span>(Blatant racism! Ennada rascal! :X)<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">...Idu Bengaloorina hottest radio station.. </span>(by far the most popular claim, placed by a minimum of 3 stations at once)<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">...and eef you want that goody bag, message meeee. The highest number aaf 'messager'</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span><span style="font-style: italic;">wins!</span> (God save the queen)<span style="font-style: italic;"> </span><br />
<br />
<br />
How did music on Radio dearest perish? And those fluent, charming RJs who once made radio great human company..did they give up jockeying to turn motivational speakers for the Royally Challenged? More importantly, what happened to the purpose of allotting a plethora of stations - VARIETY!? A chorus of <span style="font-style: italic;">'Chaliya Chaliya'</span> on alternate stations 4 times an hour surely demands a better definition of the aforementioned purpose. If anything is certain, it is the fact that the spirit of radio has drifted away to grace a funeral.<br />
<br />
Not that all is lost, for inches of the sail are still visible. There seem to have emerged innovations which are quite endearing, albeit only a few such. The breakfast show on Radio City, a hilarious feature called Ghanta Singh that plays randomly on Radio One, nearly everything on Indigo, and the Western Music Hour on good old Akashvani seem lifting. But that alone won't do, will it? We want 'Radio' back!<br />
<br />
Post abandoning the attempt to re-examine FM waves, I choose to get busy with a C programming manual, only to hear a station feebly calling out a last resort, <span style="font-style: italic;">'Kolle nannanne'</span> (Kill me, girl).<br />
<br />
Second door to your left. Be my guest.</div>
Akshatha Hegdehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04966943522324168703noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24377974.post-33461339122307493092008-01-19T14:00:00.003+04:002020-12-21T01:19:10.671+04:00Viva Woes<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
There is a lot we do not understand. Most of what we do not understand at one point of time gets clear at some other point of time but there still would remain sediments of disbelief or vague hints of the past lack of understanding post the (un)specified time of understanding. If you were wondering whether I started busying myself with Ludlum's philosophy, you probably have never stepped into an engineering workshop lab.<br />
<br />
For newbies: Workshop (06WSL18) is a compulsory subject in the first year of any engineering course in Karnataka (and in IITs too, I think) with the exception of a certain autonomous college in Bangalore. The syllabus includes designing fitting models which extract physical labour in alarming quantities and welding models which demand a fumbling freshie risk his looks. The worst that could happen was probably this particular subject carrying 75 marks for the semester exams which includes a 10 mark viva voce (rapid fire question-answer session with the examiner). Why workshop was made compulsory for all branches despite it having least application in our chosen career stream has bounced over every taker's head from time immemorial.<br />
<br />
Circa 2008, January the 18th. We yawn our way to the college workshop at 8:15 am in half tucked hideous khaki uniforms and leather shoes, carrying a 4 Rupee hacksaw blade which serves the purpose of cutting steel (yes, solid steel!). The instructor stands smirking like he has been nominated the next Ivan the horrible (or is it Hagar the terrible?) with the sneaky HOD and the wispy Vice Principal (VP) whom I last remember seeing on the first day of college. After a cordial welcome of instruction shouting, we are made to take down the model supposed to be made - a quadrant of a circle which fits neatly into its hollow counterpart, both made from two steel pieces, for 30 marks; a welding joint for 10 marks and viva for 10 marks, all to be added to our internal assessment marks to total it to 75.<br />
<br />
VP adds as an afterthought, 'Time limit is 2 hours, that is exactly 120 minutes.'<br />
<br />
Hue and cry greets this announcement.<br />
<br />
Assuming his words could make things better, he states with a grin, 'See 2 hours more than enough if you have a good breakfast and come. You will get full 120 minutes for your work and nobody can take these 120 minutes from you'. His version of a certain 'Sattar Minute' speech that made waves last year.<br />
<br />
<br />
Thus, we get to work; marking, punching, cutting (the thin blade wobbling dangerously, extracting a work of 317.55 joule/second from yours truly), filing and then welding. I choose to do away with the details because after all the effort, it looked like my strategy paid off and I got soopar looking models. ;) Just when I thought those marks were in the bag, I hear Hagar call, ' Roll numbar threeeeee. Viva'. I walk nervously to the external examiner, a man in mid-thirties in a crisp white shirt and sit down when asked.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Ex:</span> Hmm. So roll number three. So what is your name?<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Isn't that on the register next to the roll number, you near-sighted warp?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Me: </span>Akshatha, Sir.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Ex</span>: Hmm. So which branch?<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> Electronics.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Ex:</span> Hmm. Aap kidhar se aaya hai?<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Was prepared for this, considering five out of three people take me for a North Indian. Took a second to debate between continued amusement in inducing more broken Hindi or get down to business and finish early for my regular dose of caffeine in the canteen.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> From Bangalore sir<span style="font-style: italic;">.</span></div><div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><i><br /></i>
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Ex:</span> Oh. Originally from where?<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> Coastal Karnataka <br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Ex:</span> Ees eet? So Akshatha, can you introduce yourself?<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">Here's an alternative: Why don't you just scroll above and apply simple summation of finite series?</span><br />
I am Akshatha, branch electronics, from Bangalore.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Ex:</span> Goooood. So, can you identify this device? (points to a lethal looking tonged instrument)<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">Loading..27%..89%. Image of Dad using it to unseal a cough syrup bottle.</span><br />
Cutting plyers, sir.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Ex:</span> *grins* <span style="font-style: italic;">Six yellowish white teeth on each jaw visible</span>.<br />
See ma, in engineering level, we expect certain amount of technicality from you. Of course, you are right but even a 3rd standard child can tell me that no?<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> Sir, it is a snipe. Used in sheet metal work. It has two movable jaws attached to the handle and the jaws are shaped for pinpoint precision cutting. Usually made of hardened steel, grade 4. Specification given by size of jaws in mm. No operator skill is required. Even a third standard child can handle it. <span style="font-style: italic;">(Without pause. Mujhse panga lega?)</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Ex:</span> *looks impressed* Good good. But I just asked you name no?<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">Grrr.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Ex:</span> So, can you identify and explain this device? (points to a divider from a school kid's geometry set)<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">What technicality do you expect from this, human?</span> Sir, that is a screw-turn marker. Precision measuring instrument which can be used to measure distance between two separated planes, draw parallel lines or locate the center of a circle. It is made of mild steel, has sharp edges and movable legs. Specified by maximum separation measurable in mm.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Ex:</span> Hajara Choudhary workshop manual on the tip of your tongue I see? *laughs* See ma, in engineering level, simplification is the key. Why so much technicality for such a simple device? It is a simple divider which children use.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">Fuming.</span> Yes sir. But you said explain so.. <span style="font-style: italic;">(yes, with the sarcasm and my best smile)</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Ex:</span> Ok ok. *looks at VP* This is the interest we expect in the subject, sir. So Akshatha, what is your ambition?<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> <i>Psychology</i><span style="font-style: italic;"> will sound out of track and might lead to more questions, making me late for coffee. Think..something big and complicated. </span><br />
Research in satellite ranging and nano technology, sir.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Ex:</span> Oho. What is that?<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> Erm..adopting electronics for research in satellite ranging and nano technology. <br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Ex:</span> Is it? All the best. *takes register* Roll number three..three..three. *scribbles what looks like a nine* You may go.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Yay!</span> Thanked him and fled. And it was only after I reached the canteen that I received this SMS forward:<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">'Trying to convince your examiner in viva is like fighting with a pig in mud. After a while, you realize that you are getting dirty and the pig is enjoying it'.</span></div>
Akshatha Hegdehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04966943522324168703noreply@blogger.com27tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24377974.post-46795624165872448622008-01-04T14:53:00.001+04:002020-11-24T22:48:49.892+04:00Bystander<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
And He made me a river, a tempest, a tide,<br />
Coerced to run, night and day,<br />
I lash'd at rock, flooded thicket,<br />
Ached for sedation, yearn'd parole.<br />
<br />
Bystander at the lychgate, I see you sob<br />
Beloved departed, crypted, cremated.<br />
I reach out to you, take my arm,<br />
Alas but I only am a swift tide of water.<br />
<br />
I bargain with Him, 'Let me stop<br />
For a moment of solace, a word, a pat;<br />
To comfort him with an 'all will be well',<br />
And then I shall resume my vault to the sea'.<br />
<br />
Yet He said, 'Slow down, not halt,<br />
And haul his tear to the sea.<br />
I steer fate; you run, he weeps<br />
For you are a river, he a lover'.</div>
Akshatha Hegdehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04966943522324168703noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24377974.post-57719750317342979272007-10-09T17:14:00.000+04:002013-03-08T23:05:41.933+04:00The silver line<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Bang on 8, she knocks at the door. For a reason unfigurable, she has never used the doorbell. And for a different reason altogether, she has never been late. Introducing Jaya, our domestic help, role model for multitasking and an icon in time management.<br />
<br />
<br />
Jayamma's day starts ticking at 4 am (ouch) when she rises to offer prayers, cook for a family of four and attend to a household whose keepers leave for work by 7am. She then hurries back home, gets her kids ready for school and does not turn her back on them till they are well inside the school gate. When ridiculed of being overprotective of a 10 year old and a 12 year old, she replies, 'If they skip school, they will also be washing and sweeping like me, Amma.'<br />
<br />
<br />
Past noon, Jaya goes home for a frugal lunch, having attended to not less than four households, followed by a siesta. Confirming her children return home on time, she insists on them completing school work before play and watches over them not wandering away in bad company. But her true woes begin after dusk when her slob of a husband returns home to beat her up and grab a greater part of the couple of thousands she makes a month. The meager remainder post thrashing manages family expenses and should also be saved to realize Jaya's dream of sending her kids to college. Owing to the inavailability of cheap liquor due to the Government-imposed ban, poor Jaya is fleeced more than ever for money which her husband places on gamble, only to afford branded liquor. Talk about investments.<br />
<br />
<br />
However, despite being a victim of multi-dimensional harassment (all of which is too long to describe, even for an epic of woe), Jaya goes about her business as usual, pretending all is well with the world, humming a catchy Tamil number as she mops the floor clean. When asked why she has been looking peaky for a while now, she replies, 'I have stopped resting in the afternoon, Amma. The Malayali lady from the next road is teaching us to read and write. I am going there.'<br />
</div>
Akshatha Hegdehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04966943522324168703noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24377974.post-9637448963765506662007-09-10T19:00:00.001+04:002013-03-08T23:08:05.536+04:00Captive<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Past noon and I am awaken to hunger by a construction truck thundering outside. With a momentary shake to senses, I cast a sharp look around, just in case you know. Ensuring I'm the only living being for yards around (not counting pests, plants, insects and ol' spidy), I take wing to the lunch table.<br />
<br />
I am formally served food on a white plastic table in the family's dining room. The people here take care to supply me with atleast three variants of food a mealtime, something I call good thinking because I'm quite picky, see. On landing, I have half a second to look at what's on offer before I hear a snatch of conversation through the living room window. Three voices chinwagging, flying past my dwelling, I suppose. Three voices of my kind!<br />
<br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Voice 1: Excellent. I see a mango tree. That should do for lunch.</span><br />
<span style="font-style: italic;">Voice 2: But we've had it just yesterday. And they're off season!</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />Voice 3: Notch down, sonnova dawg. We've flown nine miles breakfastless.</span><br />
<br />
I struggle to hold back the natural impulse to call out that I'm at lunch, that I have sufficient food for four of us (with dessert too!) before being slapped to the reality of living in a closed space the others cannot enter. As the voices fade, I begin to reflect-- on the freedom I never had, my bargain for confinement with the breeze that never ruffled my feathers..<br />
<br />
<br />
However, <span style="font-style: italic;">'confinement'</span> is a strong word to call my existence, as I'm at reasonable comfort for a domestic pet. I am allowed to rise and retire at will, fed with the choicest of food (an extensive list derived from little mistress's prolonged research, which happens to consist more of her fancies than mine.. never mind) and left to my own for most of the day, much to everybody's good. My temper tantrums are humoured upon; I am fondled more than a newborn, grab more attention from guests than mistress's prized wall piece and have never been starved or abused. Instances of me hopping on the computer keyboard, perching on assignment files and snuggling into the black helmet on a cold day are treated perfectly normal, as are my attempts to sing (although I do get an occasional reprimand when they disrupt phone calls).<br />
<br />
Not that I have no escape. I can flee at sunrise when the good lady opens the door to collect milk, or later when the good man leaves to work or even when the good (!) girl leaves the window open while draining cups of some brown liquid. But to what would I flee, pray, when I already have a life of comfort in hand with no threat to existence, when I'm not caged or trim-winged like my counterparts and when procuring food is a mere two second flight? The only thing I have not is the company of my kind for which I'm surely not fool enough to risk the world outside, mortgaging <span style="font-style: italic;">this</span> freedom.<br />
<br />
I may not soar high among tree tops or have tales of adventure to brag. I may have not gone places or dated and mated but I never, too, have flown nine miles in search of an unassured meal or lived and moved in stealth dodging predating eyes. My life may be predictable, listless, yes, but it is atleast definite.<br />
<br />
Four plunges at the rice bowl, a bite of groundnut before I grab the sweet brown chunk and fly to the window..for a solitary gaze on the mango tree.<br />
<br />
Captive, am I?</div>
Akshatha Hegdehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04966943522324168703noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24377974.post-61144840394878424042007-08-18T17:00:00.004+04:002020-11-24T22:29:38.341+04:00Branded blunder<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-style: italic;">A guide on how NOT to spend a mighty two grand INR, written when flared jeans made women go weak in the knee.</span><br />
<br />
For most of us non-earning students who need to to survive on a monthly allowance for 'material comfort', two thousand INR is a reasonably big amount. We alone know the labour it consumes to save up the dough by thrift expenditure, cutting back on junk food, entertainment and other bare necessities to acquire a grand possession which our guardians refuse to sponsor. Hear then, my tale of woe with a warm heart and be sure to learn what I did. *sniff*<br />
<br />
It all started off with my cousin telling me how happy she was in her 10 year old jeans which she had been wearing atleast twice a week from her college days and are still in perfect condition. Cutting short her chatter on plans of making it family heirloom, I inquired the brand. Levi's, she answered. Levi Strauss. I was politely disappointed, as I rarely do find right-fitting jeans and Lee was the sole brand my loyalty lay in, having invested on a lovely new pair the previous week. I was however tempted to possess (by her description) a snug, never wearing pair of denim clothing and decided on Levi's.<br />
<br />
Then began the grueling, for Amma flatly refused to sponsor the novelty, her argument being most of my clothes never came out of their closet hiding and that I already owned too much denim anyway. Without losing heart, I began saving up moolah, saying no to unsponsored junk and being my best at home for extra bucks. At the end of several weeks, I had a slightly smaller waistline and more importantly, two grand!<br />
<br />
The prospect of shopping for a dream pair of jeans lifted my post exam-results gloom and Amma was glad to accompany me to the store, provided I stayed shut while she invested two hours on selecting a saree. Vokay then, off we went to Brigade's Levi Square. While Amma amused herself seeing the well arranged mannequins, I told the cheeky store girl what I wanted. 'Grey, light-flare and no elephant eared kinds please', I smiled. She was obviously too dumb for the joke, I guessed, as she rummaged around, suggesting me to go for skinny jeans (or whatever it sounded like, sickly clothing that clings to your legs) which were apparently the next fashion trend. 'Try straight fit ma'am, more formal look'. <span style="font-style: italic;">Are jeans even supposed to be formal? </span>Finally she pulled it out, a possible ugly duckling, grey (thankfully not faded) but much to my displeasure, highly flared, elephant ear sorts I dreaded. Amma was pleased though as it stirred memories of 'bell bottoms' in her college days and asked me to try it on while she recollected what colours she had owned.<br />
<br />
Trial woes. The 'regular waist' didn't even come up to my waist and forced dieting had put me between two sizes. It was nearly revolting, sliding down at the waist and flapping at the bottom. <span style="font-style: italic;">Ammaaaaa. I look like a flower pot!</span> Minutes later however, I was trying to hide my displeasure and buying it with grit teeth because I didn't want the trouble I took to earn it go waste, plus it carried some offer and with my dextrous skills at the sewing machine, I could be able to make it beyond passable. Well, a week later I finally decided it could <span style="font-style: italic;">not</span> be put to perfection. Gave up and agreed to wear it the way it was.<br />
<br />
That day I learnt that something should never be settled for if it's simply not right. That day I learnt that decisions should not be pressured upon but reasoned with. That day I learnt to give an ear to what Amma says, think on it for seconds atleast instead of flat rejection and then act because grownups get it right most of the time.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Finally, a few things I want to sort out with Levi Strauss & co</span>.<br />
<br />
Not every denim loving woman is a fashionista. Most of us are sensible mortals and still take jeans as comfort wear which we can leisure in. What do you have for us? Nothing! If key comfort is replaced by overpriced, hip revealing, clingy, flappy stuff, the brand will soon cease to exist because we pay you for quality. Keep a section with proper waisted, well-fitting trousers and with sensible store people around else I may be forced to change my career path to teach you a thing or two.<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">PS:</span> Dearest cousin, the next time you think something is good, please get it for me. :)</div>
Akshatha Hegdehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04966943522324168703noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24377974.post-65478198396103912542007-08-10T14:37:00.000+04:002007-08-10T13:14:38.908+04:00Who we are and what we do.Tears (quite literally) in Bangalore following the sad demise of the historical MG Road boluevard and an 80-something year old building which housed the equally ancient photoshop GK Vale and Lakeview ice cream parlour. Another instance of a fragment of history, of time itself being amputated to welcome its modern counterpart. This time, the underground Metro.<br /><br /> Why tears, you ask? Alas, any heart would stir at an ambush, more so because it involves a century old green showcase dismantled. Because it is a quiet rendezvous invaded. Because it brings back memories, happy ones. Tear would then be little tribute to something as revered as a cherished memory, that lost love, the sole ambient light, dying melody. A farewell note.<br />Desperation. Frustration.<br /><br /> Who are we and what are we doing? Why are we treating inanimate-yet-truly-alive structures worse than parents being thrown in old age homes? Is it because some faceless visionary thought loss makes the heart grow fonder, that loss teaches us values? That, I gather, is the philosophical pretext debating with the anthropological pretext of modernization to obtain a reason to destroy; a debate which will not find a judge for eternity, both being lost causes. Philosophy does not teach mankind. It only makes visionaries. And destroys.<br /><br /> Why do we even create captions like 'live and let live' if adopting them was out of question before their creation? We are blinded hypocrites and happily so. This is probably the only conclusion drawn from the want of a subway station precisely under century old green boulevards (no, replanting trees elsewhere <span style="font-style: italic;">cannot</span> replace the original), antique buildings and not a few walkable yards away. If non-livings are shown such 'mercy', one can only imagine the value life carries and what it would fetch in times to come..<br /><br /> The old man is dead. He will not return. Others are dying. We cannot save them. Many more will die. We will not take trouble saving them but indulge with grandeur on their graves.<br /><br />May our dreams of evolving into another US or UK rest in peace.<br /><br />(note the sarcasm)Akshatha Hegdehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04966943522324168703noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24377974.post-7764825802693165912007-05-16T14:55:00.002+04:002009-01-09T18:27:11.058+04:00Appointment with love -- The conclusion<em>Kindly read the following plot first:</em><br /><br /><a href="http://cursed-soul.blogspot.com/2006/06/appointment-with-love.html">http://cursed-soul.blogspot.com/2006/06/appointment-with-love.html</a><br /><br />My version of its end:<br /><br />Blandford stood stunned for a moment before reality came rushing to him. He felt he was being made to live someone else's life. Without waiting to register the happiest moment he had yet lived, Blandford dashed out of the Central, forgetting to thank the smiling woman and parting his way roughly through the crowd on the platform. Swifter than any aircraft he had worked with, Blandford ran in the direction he had seen Hollis go, temples pounding in excitement, adrenalin rushing to paralyze his senses. No, he could not hear, feel or see.. All he wanted was to get to Hollis.. fast.. faster and then he would decide what to do next. In a few seconds, he was out of the Grand Central.<br /><br />Four minutes past six. The smiling waiter seated Hollis on the two seater table facing the huge glass window through which Hollis could see nearly the entire main crossing. Cars following each other, probably carrying people heading home after a day's work. The outside was slowly being bathed in gold as the sun bid adieu.. Had the woman told him yet? Had Blandford backed out like any other man would do, when he believed the old woman was Hollis? Every part of her wanted him to get through the test, seek her, come to her and the rest of the evening would be magical. If things went right, so would the rest of their lives..<br /><br />He could see the restaurant outside the gate. Darting on the pavement, Blandford reached the main crossing. Cars were plying by.. the usual evening traffic. Now, fifty yards separated Hollis and him, fifty longest yards he had walked. 'God make this fast', he prayed.<br /><br />And then he saw Hollis. Seated behind a glass window facing the crossing, she was looking directly at him. Blandford felt blood prick as it flowed along his temples and his throat went dry. Almost constantly, they smiled. He could feel Hollis' eyes gripping him, pleading him to climax the seeming endless wait. Finally, the signal on the crossing changed and Blandford took three steps across the road, the eye contact unbroken. He had barely managed to see the big black blur from nowhere speeding his way, when he felt his insides freeze. The smile had not quite left his lips... his eyes still open, Lieutenant Blanford fell.<br /><br /><br />Forty nine seconds later, Hollis saw Blandford's eyes close. In the few moments they had together, he had managed to mutter, 'I love you'.Akshatha Hegdehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04966943522324168703noreply@blogger.com16