Happy Thanksgiving

On this beautiful thanksgiving morning I stand by the kitchen sink cutting, slicing, dicing, stirring the pot on the stove and all the while speaking to a friend on the telephone about diaper rashes, ear thermometers and breast pumps. In the living room office communicator blinks. I finish my telephone conversation abruptly in order to chat with a colleague in India who has a question to ask. In the kitchen the pot hisses warnings and then boils over in a jealous rage. I dart back urgently to attend to it, scald my fingers, curse and then curse some more as the phone rings again. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a few lines swim into my head from a poem I’d read a long time ago and memorized. I ignore the telephone, the colleague, the belligerent stock pot and turn to google to look up the rest of the poem.

I'm Kamla

or Vimla

or Kanta or Shanta.

I cook

I wash

I bear, I rear,

I nag, I wag,

I sulk, I sag. I see worthless movies at reduced rates

and feel happy at reduced rates...

- Kamala Das


In those few lines, I read my life. And then I put on my winter coat and gloves and step out in the sun to seek the day.

Ganja in Wonderland

I have long suspected that some serious Ganja was involved in the writing of ‘Alice in Wonderland’ and this link just confirms it (not ganja really, but close). Explains why ‘Alice in Wonderland’ feels like a trip whereas ‘Haroun and the sea of stories’, a book that I usually think about in the same thought signal i think about ‘Alice in Wonderland’, feels like a serious endeavor at writing fantasy.

How come the once I tried this weed I fell promptly asleep while some others are obviously able to write beautiful fiction?

Passion...blah, blah...

I’ve been listening to ‘Good to Great: Why Some Companies Make the Leap... and Others Don't’ on my way to work this week. The book looks at a dozen or so successful companies that have consistently surpassed other companies in the same market segment over an extended period of time and tries to discern how these companies made the cut. For a period of five years the author and a team of researches pored over hundreds of companies analyzing their stock performance, reading their balance sheets and following their recruitment/layoff policies and selected only companies that showed remarkable growth. The growth of such companies was found to be consistent regardless of who was at the helm. One of the conclusions the author and his team came to was that such companies (Kroger, Walgreens, Fannie Mae to name a few) were led by what they called level 5 leader and by their definition, level 5 leaders are people who are passionate about the company and put the company’s interest ahead of everything else, including their own personal interest. Such leaders apparently set their successors up for success, choosing only people who can take the company forward. Such leaders are strongly motivated and passionate about their vision and only choose to play in fields where they know they can be the best.

Despite the kind of research that seems to have gone into the book I must say the conclusions are remarkably clichéd. Regardless, listening to this book has had the most depressing effect on me and here is why – for the life of me I cannot figure out what ignites my passion.

What makes me heart leap and my nerves race?

Answer: That brief moment before sleep when I know the day is done with and I don’t have to remain half-alert, half-asleep anymore.

What gives me pleasure?

Answer: Waking up in the morning and realizing that it isn’t really that late, that I need not force wakefulness on myself just yet.

Where would I rather be right now?

Answer: Under the covers thinking it really isn’t that late, that I really need not force wakefulness on myself just yet.

What am I currently doing that I would rather not be?

Answer: I would rather not be awake at this precise moment.

What do I love to do?

Answer: Lie in bed with a good novel and a packet of chips waiting for sleep to descend.

What's the single most important thing I've learned about myself as a result of answering these questions?

Answer: I am not a level 5 leader from the sound of it. I am, in fact, doomed.

Leaders or the led?

Picture of the conference that formed the subject of the previous posting. That's me circled in neon, looking askance as always.

Leaders who happen to be women

I was asked by my office to attend a conference on ‘How women lead’ hosted at the Seaport Hotel in Boston. I went with much trepidation fully expecting it to be a run-of-the-mill, self-helpish kind of gathering with some good food thrown in. I went for the gourmet breakfast and lunch and the chance to make some interesting contacts but, on the contrary, it turned out to be quite a day. Two of the speakers – Christiane Amanpour and Queen Latifah - made the conference worth its while. I left the conference thinking that true women leaders are almost sexless, or rather they are not women who are leaders but leaders who just happen to be women.

Christiane, a CNN war correspondent and the winner of several awards, spoke about the women in the Bankan and other war torn areas who have leadership thrust upon them. These women have to speak up to survive; they have to run with leadership because the alternative is death. She spoke passionately but without sentiment. She was quite magnetic. Answering a question from the audience about how she juggles parenthood and globe-trotting to war torn areas Christiane was quite candid – “I live with constant fear but I’ve learnt to manage it…And the fear factor has multiplied in the last seven years after my son was born…Being a parent comes with certain responsibilities the most basic of them being trying to stay alive…these days I try not to be away from home for long durations if I can help it.” Here is a woman of the world who has risen above her gender. It is women like Christiane who make gender insignificant, and it is increasingly women like her that I’m inspired by and drawn towards.

Queen Latifah came on stage to the strings of “When you’re good to mama, mama’s good to you”. Unlike Christiane she spoke not about the world but about herself. She talked about her childhood in a poor neighborhood in Maryland, her parents, her brother and how she got to where she is today. She was funny, self-effacing and quite honest. There were no rhetoric, no Hollywood-style gimmicks and absolutely no self-propaganda. She let the audience meet the poor black girl who made it big because she never really tried to do anything she was not good at. The audience gave her a standing ovation and no one deserves it more than her.

When life decides to put me in my place it does not do so by half-measures. Not only was I proved wrong by the speakers of the day but, contrary to my expectations, the fare served for lunch was also below par!

On sense, sensibility and sentimentality

Anyone who has watched that somewhat tawdry, sentimental kitsch of a Tamil movie called Kandukonden Kandukonden can be said to be acquainted with the broad storyline of Sense and Sensibility. The story is about two sisters, refined and accomplished, who are temperamentally polarized between an impulsive, passionate disposition of one and the moderate, sober, deliberate nature of the other. The former – Marianne Dashwood – represents Sense and the latter – Elinor Dashwood – represents Sensibility. The story, while tracing the romantic pursuits and consequent heartaches of the sisters, indirectly poses a question on the superiority between the two traits. Does Sense triumph or does Sensibility? It might be said that since Marianne loved deeply, was hurt deeply by the inconstancies of the object of her affections and eventually reconciled to marry an older man (Mammooty!) whom she had to learn to love but who had loved her through all her excesses, she had, in fact, lost. Elinor, on the other hand, is the only person in the book who ends up marrying her first choice, albeit after much confusion and heartaches that were borne with a dignity far beyond her age. Therefore it might be argued that Sensibility triumphed. But the author does not pronounce any such black-and-white judgments but instead leaves the reader to form their own ideas.

What I liked best about Sense and Sensibility was, of course, the sheer beauty of the prose. Jane Austen is ruthless when it comes to exposing characters she is not fond of and she does this with such mockery and with such clever use of language that it delights the reader in its wickedness. I was astounded to find out that the book was written when Austen was nineteen. How did someone so young come to know so much, to understand so much about the society in which she lived and learn to articulate it so perfectly? At nineteen I was still trading Mills & Boons with my girlfriends!

For instance, consider the following description of the sisters’ half-brother John Dashwood and his wife Fanny, who throw the sisters and their mother out of the family home (roles played by Raguvaran and Anita Ratman in the tamil version. Ugh).

“ He was not an ill-disposed young man, unless to be rather cold hearted, and rather selfish, is to be ill-disposed: but he was, in general, well respected; for he conducted himself with propriety in the discharge of his ordinary duties. Had he married a more amiable woman, he might have been made still more respectable than he was; he might even have been made amiable himself; for he was very young when he married, and very fond of his wife. But Mrs. John Dashwood was a strong caricature of himself; more narrow-minded and selfish. ”

Coming from a conservative tam-bram family, I could draw many parallels to life as it used to be when I was growing up in Mylapore. The emphasis on refinement in women as being the most ‘marriageable’ trait, the fact that social intercourse was the chosen vehicle for forming marriage alliances, the sentimentality of women and men alike, the overriding unabashed place of monetary affairs in the center of marriage negotiations - these were as much a reality in the Mylapore Mami’s life as they were in the fictional Marianne’s. As I read (or heard) Sense and Sensiblity I could connect to it from deep down. In the lives of Marianne and Elinor I saw the lives of my grandmothers and aunts. As pre-globalization women, they were but a cog in the Mylapore social wheel - “cultivating” themselves by learning to sing and dance and trying very hard to uphold modesty.

This book made my long drive to work well worth it and is second only to The Paycheck!

Trite

Sometimes I wince when i re-read some of the blog entries I've logged. The previous one is a case in point. Why, I can even hear the self-righteous voice of the moral science teacher from more than a decade ago when I read it.

Sometimes, what I have to say is so hackneyed and commonplace that I might as well save the effort of saying it.

Sometimes I think that most things worth saying have already been said, and said very well, by people better acquainted with the tools of language than I.

Yet, this is not their blog but mine.

This above all: to thine own self be true

These lines have been ringing in my ears all week.

I’ve been listening to ‘The age of innocence’ (by Edith Wharton) on my way to work and driving has never been so much fun, with my finishing a book a week! I’ve particularly taken to listening to the classics, as these are books I take the longest to read in paperback. ‘The age of innocence’ follows ‘A room with a view’ which follows ‘Stumbling upon happiness’ (not a classic, not even that good come to think about it). Given the subjects I’ve been listening to all month – the human brain's capacity for self-deception; enforcing conformity being society’s primary purpose; prudishness; perception and its loopholes and so on – its little wonder that Shakespeare’s ‘To thine own self be true’ keeps popping up in my conscious mind ever so often. In the midst of busy workday I pluck out this line, examine it, and although I am two hours behind schedule in finishing a particular task, here I am writing this blog.

It’s funny, really, but given that we spend so much time with ourselves it seems to me a fundamental flaw in design that one can lie to the one person one cannot escape from. If the man above was a software engineer he would have made the reality object immutable because, as it stands now, nothing is as easy, nothing is as self-serving as pretending that one is what one isn’t.

I knew this woman once who told elaborate stories about how she could not do the one thing she wanted to do – paint. She had it rehearsed so well that it was near-impossible to find a chink in her armor, to make her see that the fabrications were a mechanism to avoid reality because reality is bitter; reality means struggling with oneself and facing up to what a slacker, what an escapist, what a lying, deceptive piece-of-goods one really is. That kind of admission hurts. It is said that meditation, when done near-continuously, reveals to one the disastrous traps of ones mind, and many a strong-willed person have been reduced to tears at the harsh, unsolicited clarity that they have had to look in the face. As for this woman, she eventually honed her stories into a moral-superiority thing, labeling her inaction as ‘sacrifice, in the name of family’ – which is good and virtuous, especially in a woman.

It happened that one day we were lunching together when a mutual acquaintance walked in on us. We had not met her in a long time and invited her to join us. Over coffee, we found that she was a cartoonist now, freelancing with several newspapers and the recipient of many awards. At the very moment this fact was revealed, I saw a look of red-hot jealousy pass through the eyes of the erstwhile painter. It was shrouded and stifled instantly but at that moment it was like looking into her soul. And I did not like what I saw there. Minutes after the cartoonist had left the only thing my friend could bring herself to say was “Now that she is divorced I suppose she has all the time in the world to spend on herself.” I could see it so clearly. Her mind was hunting for an escape clause, some salve with which to soothe her aching ego, some proof that the cartoonist had paid a heavier price for her success than was warranted and that she was better off for not rising to the bait.

My friend, the painter, is as normal, or abnormal, as any one of us. She could be me. Or you. We are all mostly like this, authors of our own failures, passing it off as virtue or bad luck or destiny. No one is fooled but us; No one stands to lose but us, or even cares about our loss. They are all busy lying down on the bed of lies they have made for themselves.

These are the things that occupy my mind as I drive to work everyday, invariably late for my meetings and telling myself - lying to myself - that chronic unpunctuality does not matter in the bigger scheme of things.

I desperately need to listen to some whodunits.