In which alternate careers are explored

So yesterday, someone on my timeline (why, yes! I am on Twitter now!) asked one of those questions that are guaranteed to mess up your head.

“Are you what you’ve always wanted to be?”

The reason this kind of question throws me into a tizzy is because I’ve never been one of those people, who, since the age of five, have known, with dazzling certainty, what they wanted to grow up and be. Hell, I don’t think that thought (or any thought really; I was not a very bright child) crossed my mind until I hit eighteen and was forced to, y’know decide on a career.

Like most daydream-prone, reality-divorced people, my professional (for want of a better word) ambitions were usually based on something I’d recently read about / seen / heard. This, for someone who grew up in a household full of genre-defying cultural stimuli, proved to be, as you can imagine, a bit of an issue.

At some point or the other, some of the professions (and I use the term loosely) on my list were: Maria von Trapp (or Julie Andrews), astronaut, fairy, singer (I haven’t given up on this one yet), doctor, vet, theatre actress (more on this later), rich heiress, item dancer (someday, when my body catches up with my mind) and, umm, hooker.

It was some time after our third-year exams, when the prospect of another whole year* of doing the same bloody things loomed large and depressing, that N and I decided we would become hookers. There was, it seemed, such a thing as too much painting. And too much drawing. And too many goddamn girls wearing black nail-polish and too many boys wearing their hair long and too much of being surrounded by people who were so much like you that you want to throw up at the very sameness of it all. And of course, this being Delhi in the late 90s, the concept of part-time jobs to supplement your meagre pocket money did not come into the picture and GOD were you sick of asking your parents for money.

And because a not-quite-graduate from art school is a gloriously, magnificently unemployable creature, 'hooker' was the only career option we had the er, assets for. But we weren't just going to be ANY hookers, mind you, we we’re going to be hookers from BROOKLYN, bay-bee! Because that’s where all the awesome-est hookers went (or came from). I don’t know where we got the idea that Brooklyn was the pinnacle of hookerdom - probably from the same place we got the idea that getting paid for sex was like, the coolest job *ever* – but there you have it. (Considering that we had never been to the States, nor had any previous hookering (hooking?) experience, I’d say the place was called Really Stupid Central.)

Ah, youth and all its accompanying idiocy!

So according to our plan, were going to quit college, somehow reach the states, proceed to sleep with different guys every night and get paid for it. Except, and therein lay the rub, neither of us had lost the curse yet** and sex was a little like Kandivali, i.e. unexplored and possibly hostile territory. And because the market for Brooklyn hookers was kinda difficult to break into – being the seat of higher hookerdom and all – we decided that we needed some sort of specialisation that didn’t involve any actual, well...sex.

The plan was shelved back then because it seemed no-one wanted to pay to have baffling conversation – which is the best we could offer at that point – with cute-but-clueless girls (oh cruel world!). But as the noughties rolled around, the internet’s orgy with language and capacity for instant gratification led to the birth of instant messaging, which has unearthed in me a surprising talent.

I might be socially inept and magnificently awkward in real life, but I give great IM.

Kind of like a 21^st-century whore of mensa.

*I don’t know if this is a case with a lot of other undergrad courses – with the exception of engineering and medicine – but ours, the Bachelor of Fine Arts from the Delhi College of Art was four years long. And in this I was informed, we were lucky because earlier it was a five-year course and before that a SEVEN-year course. Though what on earth you could possibly do in art school for SEVEN YEARS is a bit of a mystery to me. What you can do after seven years of a liberal arts education, is an even bigger mystery.

**Yes, yes, we were slow starters okay? Although it *was* more a matter of venue than virtue. Did YOU guys ever get any that wasn’t a furtive grope in the back of somebody’s car? I mean, where, if you were in college and yes, still living with your parents DID you make out?

10 ways...

...to drive your friendly neighbourhood editor mad as a loon.

1. When you send in your first ever enquiry mail, make sure your mail features a large variety of fonts in different point sizes, in every colour of the rainbow and then some. No really, nothing warms the cockles of our little editorial hearts than enquiry emails that sear our retinas. Eyesight? Pah! Who needs it?!

2. Pitch your editor story ideas on the lines of, ‘I went to this fabulous place that every single travel magazine has covered about fifty thousand times before! I have no new insights on it at all but hey! This is me! The fabulous-est writer in all of writerdom! Surely you would not deny yourself the privilege of publishing something *I* have authored? I may even let you pay me for it! At higher-than-standard market rates, of course! And yes, you may now weep with gratefulness.’

3. Pepper your pitch with misspellings, atrocious grammar and cryptic acronyms. A generous sprinkling of ellipses is always appreciated. And don’t forget children, commas are the new confetti!

4. Before submitting your story, send your editor angsty pieces about your troubled relationship with your father. (You should preferably be of the male persuasion for this to have maximum worry effect). Then, pointedly ask the bewildered, flustered soul what she thinks of them. You may also accost her on chat and show her pictures of your houseplant / dog / ex. Ask for her honest opinions on these as well.

5. Miss your deadline, preferably by three to five days and make sure you are absolutely unreachable in that time. The window should be just enough so that your editor starts tearing her hair out with worry, but is not quite sure whether it’s worth commissioning another writer because it would mean briefing them, and then begging them to give you the piece by the now-even-tighter deadline.

6. Plagiarise, plagiarise, plagiarise. To do this with style, leave in the hyperlinks to the websites you’ve brazenly lifted from. When confronted by said editor, be absolutely unapologetic. Say things like, “But an Onam Sadya is the same wherever you eat it! I can’t write THAT differently.” When informed by the editor that she will not be carrying your story because it is not, in effect, YOUR story, get all huffy. Send her an angry, indignant mail telling her that she should have TOLD you about the Wiki links so that you could rework it! And that if she’s NOT carrying the story, the loss is HERS. So there!

(This will probably cause your editor to cry big splashy tears into her keyboards, but really, she is stupid and had it coming. What can you do?)

7. Once you have sent in the story, ask her repeatedly what she thinks of it, expecting of course, nothing less than effusive praise. If she has the temerity to suggest changes, get all huffy. Hey, YOU’RE the writer. If she was one, would she be editing??

8. Once your story has been printed and you have received your payment and your magazine copy, mail your editor accusing her of being unprofessional and unethical for editing your story TO HER MAGAZINE’S STANDARDS. The nerve of her!

9. Coldly inform her that you are no longer interested in writing for her magazine ever again. Then, after a month or so, send her an alleged email exchange between you and a friend, which has absolutely nothing to do anything on god’s earth as she knows it. And now that you’ve broken the ice with the aforementioned email, tell her that you’d like to get to know her better. And that you’d like to continue writing for her. Because lame attempts to flirt, especially with a person who is thoroughly spooked out by you, will get you EVERYWHERE.

Ah! And it turns out there are only nine. So far*.

*Oh great proofreader in the sky! I am not trying to tempt fate or anything. I have witnessed thy wrath! Please do not send me any more of the crazies!

2008 - The Year of the Nerd

So, the Boss-crush. Like most workplace crushes, it was awkward, embarrassing and very, very inconvenient. There was perfect coherence as long as we were discussing work but anything else - anything at all, the weather, travel plans, hell, a simple 'hello' - and I was back to being thirteen, tongue-tied and incapable of constructing complete sentences. He just had to pass by me in a corridor and I'd be reduced to a fiercely blushing mass of utter stupidity.

And I don't get it, I just don't get it! The man was (is, actually, but I don't work there anymore) a complete and utter nerd. He had the standard issue nerd-glasses, the weird, high-pitched voice, the lanky, disjointed Pinocchio-walk, but all he had to do was smile and I'd be marvelling at the way his eyes went all twinkly and how his teeth were *just* like 'thirty-two hand-picked chiclets' (Summer of '42 anyone?). And OH when he rolled up his shirtsleeves* and got to work...*dreamy sigh*

And he had the most efficient mental-rolodex I've ever come across. You could walk up to him with any sort of question - tech, content, graphics, code - and you could almost see the cards flipping in fast-forward (and totally making that 'vrrrroooossh!' sound) as he came up with the exact, perfect, without-a-single-superfluous-detail answer to your question. Not the kind of guy you want to look like an idiot in front of, but that's what I did. Inevitably. Every single time he walked past.

THEN there were the highly inappropriate dreams. (No. Not 'fun' inappropriate, just...weird). In one of them, S (colleague, female, motherly), Boss and I are sitting in a hotel lobby. I’m wearing some sort of a halter-neck-y top, which has officially put imagination out of a job. Somehow, all three of us realise just HOW skimpy it is at exactly the same time, and while S subtly whispers in my ears about how maybe I should try and fix the fabric shortage, Boss, absolutely unfazed, actually *points* and said, "Yeah, you know you need to cover up a little. I can see real spillage happening THERE."

So in addition to the crush-induced-embarrassment, every time he walked past my cubicle I'd relive the stupid dream and get even more flustered. The poor chap must've wondered whether beet-red-and-stammering was default-CS**.

It’s all making me wonder if this drastic shift in type is a result of my err…advancing years. See, my teens were spent in the pursuit of surly, sulky boys, my twenties, the artists — singers, guitarists and the odd poet (Not, not odd as in ‘one-off’. Really odd). The thirties are showing worrying signs of being declared as the decade of the nerds.

That, or as Billy Joel said, ‘I've reached the age where competence is a turn-on.’

(Also, apparently, the age at which you start quoting Billy Joel.)


*Yes, I have a thing for rolled up shirtsleeves. No, I can't explain it.
** If he ever noticed my existence, that is…damn him.

In loving* memory of

Chronicus Skepticus, Instruction Designer
Died 11th April 2008 aged 5 months and 20 days.

Developed an appalling crush on her boss (more on that soon). Had her first (in all five years of professional life) in-office meltdown. Learnt the difference between an em-dash and an en-dash, and the similarities between project managers and pond-scum (and OH SO MUCH MORE ON THIS).

R.I.P.

If my life were a cheesy seventies bollywood movie, this is the part where I’d be in the hospital, shedding remorseful tears over my comatose blog, which is lying on a hospital bed, a white bandage (with a big bloody blotch) around its head.

I’d lean over and sob:
”Mujhe maaf kardo blog! Mujhse galati ho gayi!”

(Nothing. Not even a goddamn curtain-flutter)

"Main fir kabhi kisi job ko tumhari jagah nahin lene doongi!"

(Bastard blog resolutely stays in coma)

”Aanken kholo http (private nickname and all)! Aankhen kholo! Tum mujhe yun chhor ke nahin jaa sakte-e-e-e-!”

(And as a tear falls from my eyes onto blog's peaceful face, there is a slow, delicate flutter of eyelids, and he opens his eyes and says weakly, “Arre CS? Tumhaari aankhon mein aansoo?")

Cut to blog and me, dancing around trees in the mughal gardens. Me in a bright yellow chiffon saree, blog in tight white pants and matching shoes (think Mithun, not Jeetendra. I have *some* standards. So what if they're not very high?).**

Umm...so, yes. This is me, being back.


*Hey, I liked her okay? So she was prone to walking around with bloodshot, mad eyes and muttering to herself, but once you got past that, not a bad sort.

** I did say 'cheesy bollywood movie'. You were warned.

Jab bhagwaan deta hai...

...chhappar phaad ke deta hai.

I was, I think, about 7 years old when I first heard this phrase. The mental images which came with it were fascinating because I hadn't a clue what a chhappar was and had promptly mentally substituted it with the similar sounding chappal. The picture in my head therefore, was that of a benevolent (if slightly batty) god, who stored a goonie-esque stash of loot in the soles of his giant Kolhapuris (they were thick-ish soles). On days when he was pleased, he'd rip the insole (upsole? what do you call the upper half of a Kolhapuri chappal?) in two and tip a cascade of treasure into your house from his giant slipper in the sky.

I remember finding this system a little odd, but who was I to argue? He was god, he moved in mysterious ways.

And that phrase (with the chappaR as opposed to the chappaL) pretty much sums up what all of October has been about.

So first, there was the Series of Mysterious Ailments in which a bunch of dastardly viruses decided to make my body their own personal island of fun. My temperature would zip from one end of the thermometer to another, leaving me struggling to either pull on three blankets, or weakly kick them off. Most annoying it was (although for a couple of delirious minutes, just before the shivering set in I'd think, "Ooh...winter! In Delhi!" and get all happy).

Then the fever came down and the deafness happened, only it wasn't real deafness* - just a sort of internal deafness which blanketed all outside sounds but magnified the inside-your-head noises ONE HUNDREDFOLD. To get an idea what I'm talking about, plug your ears with your fingers and chew on a piece of toast. I swear to you, you will never see toast in the same light again. I spent a good three days listening in wide-eyed wonder, to the sounds of my mastication (which, I know, sounds terribly dirty but isn't).

THEN there is employment. Full time, five days a week, with a pretty paycheck at the end of the month thank you very much. It is with a division of the Big Bawa Company (henceforth referred to as the BBC) and so far, after eight days of being an employee, I can say that it's been good. Day 1 went by mostly figuring out the most essential things: where the loos were, what kinda food the canteen served and how many cups of coffee I could drink before people would start looking worried and back away slowly when I started to talk to them (for the record, it's four), and the subsequent days have just been packed.

Employment has come with it's own bunch of insights which have, more or less, nothing to do with the job itself.

Insight 1: Andheri = Hell. Allow me to recount a conversation I had with an auto-walla, one rainy day in August. The autowalla, his auto and I were stuck in knee-deep water (this is 2007, mind you. NOT 2005), traffic hadn’t budged an inch in the last half an hour and horns were blaring all over the place.

Autowallah: (In a voice dripping with weariness) Madam, aapko maalum hai yeh jagah kya hai?
Me: Er...Andheri? Aapko nahin maalum kya??
Autowallah: Madam...yeh jagah...jahannum hai, JAHANNUM!!

(Fierce blowing of auto horn)

Insight 2: Your mother (by which I actually mean mine) was right when she told you to be picky about the boys you chose to play tonsil-hockey with. Because many years down the line, when you find yourself working with one such boy, while on the surface you may be discussing things like lesson plans and scripting and enterprise application training, the one thought running around in your head will be OH MY GOD THIS MAN'S TONGUE WAS ONCE IN MY MOUTH. Disconcerting, girls and boys, is the word we're looking for.

Insight 3: I have turned into my father. After making a career of being a directionless drifter, I have turned into one of those people who *thrive* under pressure and boy, is THAT a shock for MY system. In the last week and a half, I've had deadlines that would normally have me curled up on the floor crying, but the newly-employed me? She is calm and collected. She is going in to work early, making lists (the ailments have obviously affected a chromosomal mutation) and positively burning with a quiet efficiency.

You know you fight it. You're rebellious, you drink, you (try to) smoke, you get tattoos, piercings, and a collection of exes that make you cringe and still, one fine day you will wake up and find that you have turned into your parents. That life, she's got a sick sense of humour.

Oh and by the way god / giant slipper in the sky? Since this is officially the end of October (AKA the Month in which It All Happened at Once), you can go easy now. No, really, I wouldn't mind. NO. SERIOUSLY, STOP IT!

* And smartypants family shall refrain from commenting about how ‘You can’t lose what you ain’t got’. You're all deaf anyway. And maybe I'm not deaf, maybe you just all need to be more interesting? Y’ever think of that?