Have you ever tried talking when you are with a group of women? It’s like waiting for a customer care executive to attend to your call. They’ll keep telling you how important your call is but make you wait till you’ve achieved the impossible, like grown a beard.

So I did the obvious—I started scribbling my thoughts, safe in the knowledge that the middle of my sentence will not be interrupting the beginning of someone else’s. I was convinced of my mediocrity and took refuge in self-deprecating humour, the best defence tactic. It’s a lot like predictive input—before someone else can even start making fun of you, you jump in and do it on their behalf.

These days I have graduated to making fun of others and often get made fun of instead. Like when I write about our childlike love for cows or the government’s passion for bans, I get suggestions for alternative employment like soliciting for customers on streets of disrepute or I am asked to relocate to Pakistan.

Why they think I am a moron

I write because it gives me a sense of purpose. But, in India, when you try to tell your friends and relatives that you’d rather pursue your passion than engage yourself in the futile pursuit of earning money in a nine-to-five job, you’re treated like a moron.

What do you do for a living?

Oh, I blog.

Scenario 1—If, by some stroke of luck, they do happen to know what a blog is

They: Hehehe… Isn’t blogging just graffiti with punctuation?

Me: [Trying to smile with clenched teeth]

They: Does it pay? How much?

Me: [Oh god; are they now going to ask how many bedrooms my apartment has!]

They: You must be recently unemployed. If I had so much time I’d be blogging too.

Me: [Still trying to smile with clenched teeth.]

Scenario 2—They have no idea what a blog is, which is almost always the case

They: [deafening silence], [brows furrowed in confusion], [an awkward laugh], [shuffling of feet], [tentative “wow!”]

Me: I think I’ll go and die.

Then there are those who read your blog.

Thankfully, there exists a populace that reads your blog. You readily believe them when they say you are the best thing to have happened since butter chicken. Sadly, they will also insist that you’re wasting your talent on a blog and ask you to waste it on a magazine or a newspaper instead! [Now you know why I am writing for Complete Wellbeing]

Writing a book is considered a natural extension to a blogger’s life. Three popular posts later, you get tired of saying “no” to all your well-wishers eagerly waiting for you to write a best-seller. It’s a lot like what a Mom to a single child faces. She wastes all her fertile life telling the world and its aunt that she has no interest in siring another child!

Fan “males” and fan base

Once your blog gains some readership and a reasonable amount of popularity, you see a sudden spurt of newly formed blogs on your Facebook newsfeed. You realise your writing has managed to inspire your friends and relatives in a “if she can write, I can write too” way. You start getting fan mails, a few of them from love struck males. They usually gather momentum after you’ve written about busts and butts and the Bengali woman’s love for sleeveless blouses. Men are such simple creatures. When a woman writes about the female anatomy, they promptly imagine hers.

Peculiarly, your friends start claiming that they have met your fans who swear by your writing. For some strange reason, you’ve yet to meet any such fan. A few years later, you’ve won a couple of awards. You have thousands of followers on Twitter. You’ve become so famous that your opinions, your style of writing, your feminist leanings get trashed regularly. You start fancying yourself as a celebrity, eagerly waiting to be mobbed by your fans every time you visit a mall or a popular restaurant. You even think of buying a pair of binoculars so you don’t miss the frantic waving of hands that your myopic eyes are missing out. Once I even did the impossible—went up the escalator going down, because I thought I had spotted a flicker of recollection in a lady’s eyes. Alas, you just keep waiting!

I finally did get my fan moment, though, and that too in the distant land of Brisbane. While I was crossing the road, an Indian man stopped me to ask if I was Purba Ray. I looked at him with gratitude-filled eyes and shook his hands furiously in relief, unmindful of honking cars. When I posted about this great achievement on Facebook, my heartless friends insisted he was a stalker.

We want to know that we matter too

The thing is, we all have an overwhelming desire to be relevant. We seek it through our jobs, relationships or interests we pursue. We hope that in some insignificant way we are making a difference in someone’s life—whether it’s a Mom who slaves for hours to fix that perfect meal for her family, a photographer who traverses miles and risks her life to click that perfect shot or a novice completing a cross-country marathon. Just an acknowledgement that my passion for what I do, in some way, may have ignited somebody else’s desire to do something significant, eggs me on to work harder. I guess this is the reason we have Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, Valentine’s Day or even Boss’ Day—when we finally get to hear how much we are cherished and appreciated [conspiracy theorists dissing it as commercialisation of love be damned!]

So, the next time you spot an eager looking woman moving her head clockwise and anti-clockwise desperate to be recognised, go up to her and exclaim: Are you Purba? I love reading your articles in Complete Wellbeing! Trust me, she’ll hug you so hard, your tonsils might get ejected to outer space!

The post Things people say when you tell them you are a blogger appeared first on Complete Wellbeing.

Once you go to a government office or a public sector bank and see employees working hard whenever they get time from having endless tea, cigarette, lunch and snack breaks, you realise why so many of our brethren are dying to be labelled backward. If Amroha Nagar Palika received 19,000 applications and that too mostly from BA, BSc, MA, BTech and MBA candidates for 114 posts of safai karamchari [sweepers], you can imagine how scary it is out there.

Conquering the final frontier

It is a huge achievement when you finally get an interview call. So what if it’s after 5,874 rejections, heartbreaks, and ‘how-dare-they-think-I-am not good-enough’ rants! Now that you have reached the final frontier, you transform into a marketeer about to sell a ghastly tasting tea as a weight reducing miracle beverage. Not everyone is your Mom who thinks you are the best thing to have happened to mankind after Darjeeling tea.

I’m not suggesting everyone lies to get a job. But then even Yudhishthira ‘misspoke’ the truth to put an end to a bloody war that lasted 18 days. Thankfully, a typical interview lasts anything between 20 and 30 minutes within which you have to convince a bunch of grim looking strangers that you are the harbinger of their achhe din! This is the time when you get to unleash the power-hungry politician in you and make promises you have no intention of keeping. It does help if you package yourself well and try to look and sound intelligent. After all, not many take Rahul Gandhi seriously despite his impressive lineage.

What you really mean

Remember the time you wooed that hottie online? You told her you were a six feet something who loved surfing and stays up all night reading Plato and Plath with the book placed on his six pack abs. How quickly she fell for you! It helped that she lived
in Nicaragua and would never find that you’d never been near the ocean or the gym and you spend all night watching porn.

Likewise, an interview is an opportunity to be as creative as possible with the truth. If you’ve ever doubted your talents, here’s a concise list of your misspoken truths and what they actually mean.

When you say – I pride myself as a team player and have never had disagreements with my colleagues. I’m patient, understanding and kind to every single person at the office. Even those I don’t get along with.

What you really mean – I work well only with those who agree with me. The ones who have problems with my style of working are either jealous of me or too stupid to recognise my genius.

When you say – I just love what you’re wearing!

What you’re thinking – I hope my desperation to get this job is not showing!

When you say – I have always wanted to work for an organisation with mission, vision and values. It would be a dream-come-true to work here.

What you really mean – I don’t even know what these words mean! But they sound pompous and idealistic; besides, they make me sound good.

When you say – I resigned from my previous job because it did not help me reach my true potential. Of course, the management refused to accept my resignation but I was adamant. Everyone cried at my farewell party.

What you really mean – I just need a new job to hate. When I finally put in my papers, everyone at my office cried with relief. I just hope they all die and to make sure they do, I shall fast for 56 consecutive Mondays.

When you say – I always give my 100 per cent to the organisation.

What you really mean – The decimal that comes right after 1 is only visible to me. Hehehehe!

When you say – If there’s anything I do not like about me is my quest for perfectionism. I don’t mind the extra hours I have to put in to deliver the perfect package.

What you really mean – I have never met a deadline in my entire lifetime and my last boss had a nervous breakdown waiting for me to complete the job assigned to me. Last heard he had relocated to an ashram in Rishikesh where he scours utensils in the kitchen.

When you say – I have never shied from taking a tough call. If you don’t drive accountability, you’d have happy employees but a bankrupt company.

What you really mean – I once caught one of the team members spitting in my tea. Last Diwali someone put a live ‘phataka’ [firecracker] under my seat. It’s a miracle I did not die of heart failure.

When you say – I am an avid reader, traveller, wildlife photographer

What you really mean – Lol, are you kidding me? The only wildlife I have photographed is my wife! I am an avid reader of Facebook posts. And commuting two hours each way to reach my workplace is travel, right?

When you say – Five years from now I see myself as a valuable employee of your esteemed organisation mentoring juniors and helping them realise their true potential.

What you really mean – Five years from now I’ll have your job. When I sit on your side of the table, I’ll make sure nobody gets the job the way I did. By faking it.

Such glib talking will ensure that these fools will fall for you hook, line and sinker. You can now look forward to a match made in heaven. Of course, most relationships are made in China [they rarely last forever], especially the ones based on lies. But while you’re still a couple, you can keep pretending your boss dearest is the best thing to have happened to you in public, and bitch about her in private. Thankfully you won’t have to wait seven years to get the ‘seven year itch’.  At the first signs of restlessness, you can start sailing the ocean in search of a juicier new catch and prepare a new set of lies to net that big fish.

The post The lies we speak in a job interview [and what we actually mean] appeared first on Complete Wellbeing.

Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against fat people… as long as I don’t have to share a seat with them. They are usually a jolly good species and can devour buckets full of fried chicken minus the guilt pangs. An extra inch or two blends in harmoniously with their wide girth. The truth is, I secretly envy them. It’s me I have a problem with. You see, I was born with a manufacturing defect. I have wrists so thin that bangles slide down my arms like an avalanche in a hurry. Europe doesn’t make shoes my size. My dainty frame allows me no concession for extra kilos. And, to make it worse, that stupid gulab jamun I sometimes succumb to makes its way to my cheeks!

Imagine your embarrassment when a more than well-endowed aunt of yours sizes you up and says, “Aahh, P has become fat!” Secretly you are sputtering with rage and dying to bellow, “How dare you call me fat! When was the last time you checked yourself in the mirror, you stupid Cow!” With your appetite buried deep underground, you barely touch anything at the party, while your dear aunt’s face is strategically hidden behind the mountain of Biryani she’s gobbling.

I wrote these lines to justify my passionate love affair with fitness: Why my life seems incomplete if I don’t get to run on the treadmill; why everything seems pointless if I don’t raise my toes to the ceiling; why I think I might die if I miss even one day of my fitness regime. I have tumbled down the stairs and still gone for my morning walk. A bleeding knee, an aching back, a neck that scarcely moves—nothing discourages me from huffing and puffing.

My family insists that even if our house is on fire I will rush to the gym murmuring, “Darlings I will be back in 45, I’m sure you can manage till then!”

A bleeding knee, an aching back, a neck that scarcely moves—nothing discourages me from huffing and puffing

I wasn’t always a fitness fiend

Twenty years back, had someone gazed at the crystal ball and predicted that I will be a fitness fiend, I would have laughed at her face. Physical exercise and I could never see eye to eye. In school I made sure I bunked all my physical education classes. I played badminton just to shut my sports freak dad up. I was more into activities that did not disturb the rhythm of my assorted body parts—reading, music, yakking with friends. My brother would take care of my cardio. All I had to do was crack a joke at his expense and he would make me run all around the house. My mum’s eardrums would reverberate with my loud shrieks.

That girl who could demolish a box of chocolates in one sitting, the woman who had to have ice cream everyday during her pregnancy, is a stranger to me now.

Do I curse myself for favouring a healthier lifestyle? Not really, in fact I am quite proud of it. And it’s not as if I munch on carrots and seeds all through day and barf at the sight of ice creams. I still can’t live without my daily dark chocolate fix and binge on weekends.

Twenty years back, had someone gazed at the crystal ball and predicted that I will be a fitness fiend, I would have laughed at her face

I’m OK, you’re OK

What irks me is, when your close ones, who are well aware of your aversion to oil drenched delicacies, will still insist on plying you with it. Myths are woven around your so-called diet and you are projected as a fat-hating ninja. Dear God, now that you’ve had a pastry, will you be running for an hour on the treadmill! You smile even as you are trying to shove that sickeningly sweet cream in your mouth. Be damned if you do, be damned if you don’t.

And what I don’t understand is why certain people project their cholesterol loving and exercise shirking ways as an act of bravado. I am glad you can devour half a dozen bhature with chole for breakfast and still be alive and kicking. It’s great that exercise bores you and your idea of cardio is walking to the fridge to get yourself a beer. But don’t tch tch when I tell you I prefer yoghurt with fruits for breakfast and sigh in sympathy at my yoga-loving ways. I am old enough to decide what’s right for me and don’t need your unsolicited advice.

I fail to understand why most of us are so eager to project ourselves as the coolest and insist our way is the right way. Should your self-esteem always be at the cost of someone else’s sense of self-worth?

Yes, I suffer from guilt pangs when I reach out for another slice of brownie. I can’t remember the last time I had a samosa but I don’t miss it. But at least I don’t crib about my extra kilos as I tuck in yet another helping of aloo kachori. And don’t you worry, I will be the last one to call you fat. I don’t have the need to make you look bad to feel good about myself.

The post Yes, I’m a fitness freak and I’m not ashamed to say it appeared first on Complete Wellbeing.

Pre-vacation

Most of our vacations follow a predictable pattern and style, from the planning to the actual vacationing. The preparation phase of a vacation is exciting. It takes considerable creativity to imagine everything that might go wrong while travelling [snowfall in summer, food poisoning, sudden craving for theplas in Heidelberg] before deciding what to stuff in your suitcases. The day of departure is the most hectic: emptying the fridge, stuffing door-gaps with newspapers to keep the dust out of the house, making frantic calls to newspaper and milk delivery guys, triple checking if all the doors and windows are locked before rushing off to the airport or train station. When you are roughly halfway to your destination, you are suddenly seized with the nagging feeling that you might have forgotten to turn the gas cylinder off. You spend the remaining journey imagining a charred house that will greet you when you are back and a life thereafter spent in penury.

Nonetheless, in my experience, a vacation has four stages: when, where, I can’t believe I’m finally here, and phew! It’s good to be home.

Most of our vacations follow a predictable pattern and style, from the planning to the actual vacationing

When

Deciding when to take a break is governed by a lot of factors. If you have school and college-going kids who are still not embarrassed to be seen with their parents, you plan your getaway to coincide with their holidays. Nowadays, however, most children spend their vacations in coaching classes and other activities that are supposed to turn them into super-achieving clones. Regardless, family vacations do happen, and planning them can be a nightmarish experience.

Contrarily, if you are unattached, so to speak, planning when to take a trip is a relatively personal decision. You simply wait for the symptoms to show up. These include restlessness, driving your colleagues insane with ‘I-could-so-do-with-a-break’ whining, and extreme envy at your just-returned-from-Leh friend’s travel photos on Facebook.

Where

This is usually dictated by three things: ‘must-visit places’ listicles that you browse while pretending to work, vacation pictures shared on Facebook or Instagram by “friends” you’ve never met, and a long, hard look at your bank balance and all your outstanding bills. Gone are those days when people could throw darts on the world atlas to decide their next holiday destination. The passionately patriotic Indian these days keenly follows prime ministerial itineraries to draw inspiration for new destinations.

A vacation has four stages: when, where, I can’t believe I’m finally here, and phew! It’s good to be home.

I can’t believe I’m finally here

So you’ve finally arrived at your dream destination. You congratulate yourself on booking the ‘romantique suite’ at the so-called heritage hotel after weeks of sifting through listings on travel websites and burning midnight oil extracting the essence from conflicting reviews. And it turns out to be a matchbox in a rundown building with a sewer-side view [your room with a view]. Not the type to waste time on heartbreaks, a DSLR camera slung around your neck, you set out immediately clutching maps and lists of must-dos [usually in multiples of 10] that you downloaded from someone’s blog.

You risk being disowned by the Worldwide Association of Hyper Tourists till you record the most ‘out-of-the-world’ experiences in a day and get herded around like cattle in tour buses. When you get time from watching the sunrise from the top of a volcano and the sunset from behind shrubs filled with rare snakes, you pose and preen in front of monuments, fountains and the Armani store, hoping one of them turns out to be a superb profile picture that fetches you hundreds of likes on Facebook.

It’s not a vacation well-spent till you exclaim “Oh god! I’ve put on so much weight” every few hours. It’s not fun till you feel guilty of having too much fun. Within a few days of hectic vacationing and plying yourself with meals so exotic that you can’t even pronounce their names, you start craving ghar ka khaana and the comfort of your own bed.

It’s not a vacation well-spent till you exclaim “Oh god! I’ve put on so much weight” every few hours

Phew! It’s good to be home

Vacations may be cruel reminders of how boring our regular life is. But when you finally walk into your living room—nursing bunions, lower back pain and a tan that makes you look like a roasted aubergine—you inhale the stale air and exclaim, “It’s so good to be home!” That’s the cruel irony of our lives: we long to escape our mundane lives and when we finally do, we start missing our boring yet comforting routine.

Then you commit the biggest mistake of weighing yourself. After you’ve managed to scream the daylights out of your neighbours and the pigeons on your balcony, you Google “how to lose weight in 10 days” and put yourself on a punishing diet. Within days of washing kilos of unwashed laundry, restoring the house back to its shining glory, eating 20 grams of carrots and 6 raisins for all your meals, going through zillions of unread spam and emails, and putting extra hours at the office to finish all your pending work, your vacation euphoria becomes a distant memory.

You are completely drained. You flop on your chair and exclaim, “Damn, I am so tired, I could certainly do with a vacation!” And the cycle begins all over again.

A version of this was first published in the December 2015 issue of Complete Wellbeing.

The post The four stages of a “perfect” vacation appeared first on Complete Wellbeing.