The Fallen Woman

I am a banana peel thrower’s delight. You know the kind that intentionally throws a banana peel in the middle of the road and hides behind a tree to watch? 'Be careful', I warn others. And then I forget, walk unsuspectingly, head in the clouds, slip and fall; face first. 

Apart from this type of general carelessness, I have two left feet. Acutely aware of this disability, in unknown places I walk gingerly like I am stepping on ice. However, since normal surfaces are not made of ice, my ice-walk doesn't work. I trip and fall disgracefully. On such occasions I casually smile and say 'I'm trippin', but my wit is usually lost on the better half who says I am an embarrassment to go out with. Then I analyze my problem on google. I troll through pages and I don’t know why, but I am given tips about walking on ice. It says I should try walking like a penguin, since they have mastered the walk. With this effort, I fall even more. 

In known places, I am more at ease. I don’t fall really but I keep banging into tables and bed corners, walk into doors or any other furniture lying in its destined place. You would think this loss of motor-control is because I’m an octogenarian or thereabouts; but actually I am a young, dashing, easily excitable woman, in my early thirties for many years now. 

With the above being the state of how I walk, you can imagine my plight when I have had to take jumps of any kind. Of course I don’t mean the – ‘Go, take a jump’ kind of thing that the husband tells me each time I ask him for anything. I mean the sudden jumps that one has to undertake in life, faced with an eventuality. So here is a wild jump, I remember having taken. 

When I was 15, I had to attend an extra class in school. Leading a typically sheltered life of a school-girl, I was used to traveling by the school bus. On the ill-fated day, the arch enemy of my childhood (my elder brother) offered to take me along on public transport. I should have known his intentions. Anyway, we got into a rusty Delhi Transport Corporation bus that contained a few thousand people. The moment, the sibling pushed me on to the bus, we were separated like in the movies by a sea of fat, sweaty people. I was overwhelmed. I had never seen anything like that in my tender years. Being pushed by all sides, I stood right in the middle, squeezed into half of my usual size (which is not very much). Sweaty armpits loomed large on my face. I fell against soft cushiony bums and a few people purposefully stood on my feet. 

As luck would have it, the place where we had to get off came unannounced and suddenly I glimpsed the elder sibling standing on the street gesticulating. As I pushed through the crowd with all my might, resembling a mini bulldozer, the bus started moving. By now, I could hear my mother's first born yelling frantically – 'Jump Jummmp JUUMMPPP.' 

In the cacophony, I froze for a few seconds staring at the stretch of moving tar in front me, glistening in the sun. No one had prepared me for this day. I didn’t even know whether to jump in the direction of the moving bus or the opposite. I chose the opposite, where the betrayer stood, wildly flailing his arms. My life of a few years flashed in front of my eyes. I would see my enemy for the last time, I thought satisfactorily. And then I took the leap into the unknown.

While this event of great significance was taking place, an hour or half prior to my tragedy, a childless couple had decided to appease the gods of reproduction by feeding a cow (Indian cows enjoy demi-God status, hence the expression 'Holy Cow!'). That morning, the couple scouting for a hungry cow couldn’t locate any, to their dismay. All they spotted was this healthy and disinterested cow meandering on the main road. They parked their car in front of it and began force-feeding the reluctant animal. 

'I will ruminate on it later’, said the mammal to itself and gulped halfheartedly whatever they were stuffing into its face. So while I was preparing for the great fall, this very cow decided to take a hearty dump, to lighten itself of this unusual breakfast. Having done its deed, it ambled away slowly. It was this fresh, bright yellow mound of shit that I landed on when the bus full of people ejected me. 

‘BULL SHIT’!  exclaimed the sibling in a volume that the city of over 14 million heard. He deserted me promptly and refused to recognize me in school later. 

Anyway, instinct saved my face from getting smeared. The left arm and school bag were not spared. They landed in the center of the manure. After endless minutes of pondering over my fate, I limped slowly to the school smelling like a Delhi municipal toilet at 6 in the morning, without water supply. 

While at school, I cleaned whatever could be cleaned. The teacher, a secret practitioner of Chinese torture didn't give me the day off despite the enormity of my tragedy. Smelly, abhorred, ostracized and shame faced, the day passed somehow. At home later the mother (another practitioner of the said torture) threw away the school bag. She was making up her mind to throw me away too when a pang or two of motherhood struck her and I was retained. 

Needless to say, I was variously referred to as 'shit-face', 'potty-face' and what not, for years to come. 

Waiting for Godot

Tigers, these days are a much respected and revered lot. They are under threat of extinction and justifiably so, trans-national and state machineries are working overtime to save them. From page-3 tiger parties to international conventions, the theme is singular – Save the Tiger. 

Fat donations are pouring in from the likes of actors Leonardo Di Caprio, Amitabh Bachchan and Russian Prime Minister Putin, who are puttin’ (note: pun) the money where the mouth is. And whenever the world’s interest in the cause starts to waver, they rope in Lindsay Lohan (in the desi context Sherlyn Chopra/ Poonam Pandey) for a nude Tiger series. With a loud growl the coffers start overflowing again.

Sandalwood Veerappan is dead. Naxalites (‘Gandhians with guns’ as activist Arundhati Roy fondly calls them) are passé. Tiger poachers are the new state enemy. These gangstas are out to rob us of our leftover feline beauties by selling their precious parts to international syndicates. However, just like the best laid plans of mice and men, their sophisticated poaching tactics go awry. Brave forest officials ambush them, a dramatic chase ensues, the bastards are nabbed by their collars, and we see their hankie covered faces alongside beaming officials on national television. But the twist in the tale (tail) is that the tigers are almost always killed.  

Which brings me to the Great Tiger Conspiracy by the Indian animal conservation parks. It seems that majority of the tigers in India are already dead due to poaching, apathy and neglect. But to save face and keep the money flowing in, the national parks and their cohorts are keeping the farce of the tiger, alive. Through smart PR, they plant stories of high-on-testosterone tigers making away with unsuspecting babies and pretty village belles, the way men from Haryana do. The resorts around the national parks advertise heavily, tour operators talk about tiger seasons and forest officials speak knowingly about tigers' preferred  brunch, who is spotted sleeping with whom, their favourite tree for the siesta and the times they get up to pee at night. 

Sample this latest visit to the Pench National Park in Madhya Pradesh touted to have at least 30 big cats at the last count:

The tiger-spotting trap got me conned the moment I said 'Tiger' to my travel agent who usually spoke in monosyllables and on special occasions through hand gestures. He nodded excitedly and before I could say T-A-A-E-E-E-G-E-R a second time, he whisked out the confirmed booking of an expensive resort, bunged in a safari for extra, threw in a few taxes, cess and duties. Dutifully emptying my wallet, I asked the crucial question: Will I spot a tiger? It was a special occasion that deserved gestures. He jerked his head in what I guess was his positive response and as I walked out, happily flashed a V for Victory with the wrong fingers. Then he sank back into his chair to rip off other gullible people eager to spot the non-existent tigers.  

The drive to Pench was uneventful and unpicturesque except for the large green signages with majestic tigers about to leap off on our car. At the resort, I was eagerly welcomed with a wet face towel that had a tiger on it. The staff alternating between Hindi, Marathi and experimental English insisted on calling me Sir (saaar) (semi urban folk in India are all for gender equality). I asked the thin, mousy receptionist if tigers were being spotted on those days. He dropped his voice a few notches and whispered mysteriously, 

"What are you saying saar? This IS the season! All tourists are spotting HIM in both morning and afternoon safaris." I wondered if there was a particular HIM that I would spot, but later realized that everyone spoke about the tiger with immense respect and in hushed tones.

After that everything else that followed were tiger related, except for the beast itself. There was tiger paraphernalia all around. Cups and saucers were printed with a striped tail, there were coffee table books on the mighty beast, a gigantic oil on canvas depicting the majestic stride hung on the wall…you get the drift. As I settled for the night I remembered the mousy manager’s warning for the early morning safari – 
"Better not be late than sorry saar." I pondered its meaning for a long time and fell asleep hugging the tiger-print pillow. 

A weak but persistent knock on my door early dawn woke me up. I opened up to a faintly smiling waiter standing in the morning mist saying: 

"Your Potty please. Will help when you go to see HIM."

In hindsight, the waiter was right, the pot-tea was needed as there would be no food or water for what seemed like the end of time, waiting for the big beast to show itself. So, at 5.30am I got into the jeep with fellow tourists who for some reason were dressed like hunters. 

We had to pay more money to get an authorized guide, who walked up to our gypsy and smiled benevolently. "Very good morning," he said. "Myself Waghmare" (a common Maharashtrian lastname that meant Tiger-killer). I said to him in a strict tone: 

"Waghmare, I hope we will spot a tiger." 

"Not to worry," he said with a confident grin, "You will see HIM at least a few times in today’s trip. Happy saar?"

On that positive note, the big search began. The gypsy rattled for 15 minutes through a narrow forest path and reached a water pool. 

Waghmare exclaimed, "HIS favourite hole saar!" 

Within a few minutes, more gypsy cars trooped in at HIS favourite hole. Eager faces and binoculars kept staring at a muddy waterhole for half an hour. Suddenly, the sound of steady breathing was broken by a cacophony of animal cries. The vehicles jerked wildly and raced to the direction the sound came from. Waghmare almost fell off our gypsy and then steadying himself spoke in a panic-struck voice:

“That’s the sound of the Sambar (Indian deer) signalling other animals saar! HE must have reached the other hole. This one is a man-made hole, the other one is natural. Maybe HE likes natural these days,” he said tremulously. 

Five vehicles crash-landed near waterhole no 2 in barely a few seconds. Whatever chance there was of spotting a tiger would have been eliminated by the ruckus of the vehicles. Anyway we resumed with our soundless waiting. This time the anxious silence was broken by a loud fart. The offender kept staring at the bushes determinedly. Potty had done its job, I noted. 

After a few more minutes of silence, a rustling sound came from the woods. A man straight out of Kile Ka Rahasya (the scary TV serial from childhood) walked out of the deep, waving a stick portentously. He was scraggy, oily looking with bloodshot eyes and stained teeth. He said in an ominous tone, 

"Go away. HE is gone. HE was here this morning. Gone. Gone." 

He briskly walked past and disappeared into thin air. Suddenly a guide from one of the other vehicles pointed at something on the ground. Everyone gathered to see what they were. Pug marks. To me they looked like any other animal’s. Like Jhumroo's, our domesticated stray dog back home. 

With the unanimous conclusion that HE had left waterhole no 2, Waghmare said he would take us to a faraway lake where HE can almost always be spotted, playing with cubs. He added that the long drive to the lake, cutting through the forest, will be very enjoyable as we will get to see a lot of wild animals. We were left with no choice. With sullen silence and long faces we embarked on our excursion. 

The next major distraction was when Waghmare squealed,

“Look saar! WHORES!” 

Eager eyes scanned the bushes for the variety indigenous to these parts. All we saw was a tired looking horse tottering on its hooves aimlessly. 'Herbiwhore' I muttered to myself.

Wild dogs were spotted next. Waghmare acquired his tremulous voice yet again, 

“You can spot HIM easily saars, but wild dogs? (longish pause for effect) NO way! They are ferocious, clever and hide well. Why! One rarely gets to see them!” 

As he completed speaking, a pack of not less than half a dozen dogs with fox like faces scampered away. Dogs done. What next now Waghmare? 

“Look, look! Wild Boars” was the next visceral reaction. I half expected him to say wild whores. 

“Pigs in a swamp are a common sight in any Indian city, Waghmare. These are just uglier,” said my neighbor dressed like a hunter.

Undaunted, Waghmare continued to show us other species with palpable excitement. He showed us owls that stared at us warily from the trees. He pointed at the white-haired, black-faced langoors sitting sorrowfully with their babies in their laps. We saw Nilgais standing in a group staring into the horizon. We saw the four-horned antelopes having a good time tickling each other in the waist area with their many horns. 

Finally, we reached our destination and parked ourselves exactly in the middle of an open expanse. There was a lake on one side, another forest in the front and a blue simmering sky over our heads. After a while of waiting under the harsh May morning sun and sweating like the boars we just saw, my neighbor  remarked, 



“Waghmare, by waiting in the center of this field are we spotting the tiger or is HE spotting us?” I felt an immediate bonding with the fellow hunter. 

Waghmare said calmly, 
“We are not allowed into that forest saar. So we have to wait here till HE comes out of the forest to go to the lake.” 

Of course, Godot never came. Simply because HE didn't exist. When we returned to our resort an hour later two shades darker and feeling like we had suffered a heat-stroke, I wanted to shake Waghmare by his collar and yell:

"WAGHMARE!!! You and your bloody ancestors are responsible for all the tigers vanishing." 

A Restless Life

In English, August Agastya Sen’s father tells him at some point - “Most of us live with a vague dissatisfaction if we are lucky. Living as we do, upon us is imposed a particular rhythm – birth, education, job, marriage, birth again. But we all have minds don’t we.”

I don’t know if I can call myself lucky, but I suffer from this wretched disease. Of persistent dissatisfaction. Of an inability to calm down, embrace peace and emotional stability. It may be a bearable affliction compared to many other illnesses, yet it plays havoc with the system. With age and maturing relationships, one needs to bring harmony in daily life, fit into the society (that we are condemned with) and settle down emotionally. Suppress restlessness. Tame the spirit. Buy peace (however expensive or damaging it may be). Angst looks good on you when you are a teenager. Or in your twenties. Anytime after that, it comes across as foolish, fatuous, faked.

But instead of taking inspiration, I look with trepidation at those dispassionate faces who have made their peace with life. Their restful looks and dull smiles of contentment throttle my spirit. Instead of the unbridled joy that turning calm is supposed to bring, it makes me terribly afraid. Afraid of a life akin to one in a mental facility. Sedated, calm, functioning like an assembly line. Your own life turned into a generic component.

Then I seek expert help. Best friend (woman) brushes it aside, .“Silly girl. Why can’t you like dailiness and peace? What else is there? Anyway you have never been the party-type” It’s a passion of the spirit, I argue, nothing to do with wanting to party. Best friend (male) says gravely, “I have always noticed that you have been very confused in life.” I get clarity in strife, I protest. Peace dulls my edges. The better half (male) says, “Of course you do it to harass me. Your sole aim in life.” I resign.

Following this periodic feedback, I try to settle into society’s rhythm yet again. I quiet down. I ease up. I turn down feisty. This mellowing down, being agreeable, settling into the rhythm of life dictated by the society kills my spirit. As I turn peaceful, demons possess me. In the nights my throat is always parched, my bladder is always full, my temples throb, and I toss and turn, head full of misery. The days go by in an envelope of  hopelessness. A dark clammy quiet grows and settles around the heart.

I feel wretched in mellow. I go silent in the soul. I lose the will to live. I start ageing rapidly. Grays on my head grow in geometric progression. Crow’s feet branch out of my eyes. Tired smile lines look back at me from the mirror. Not that I choose to stay in this state for long. I crave for my familiar discontent. I bring it back. I nourish it. Teach it to gnaw at my heart. I get ready to toss out the faux calm for the sake of my sanity.

Then one morning I wake up and say loudly - I am immensely unhappy. I am dissatisfied. I say to myself. I say to whoever cares to listen. I glow. Angst, passion, strife, discontent, restlessness return. They illuminate everything around. Fuel my mind. I burn the fires of discontent within me. I live again.

The Life and Times of Candy Bhatia

When Candy Bhatia was being born to a comfortable West Delhi family, frantic activity was taking place up above. Venus was canoodling with members of the opposite sex, Cupid was queuing up for an orgy and Kamadeva (the Indian god of lust) was riding a parrot to chase his consort Rati (a vision Candy’s admirers often saw). As the young doctor, a resident of West Delhi himself came to check on her after 48 hours, baby Candy checked him out instead. She winked at him charmingly from her basket and kept staring till he blushed. The flustered doctor gently warned the parents about future possibilities, who claimed much later that this creature of boundless lust must have been switched at birth.

Since then there was no looking back. No man, particularly from West and East Delhi felt safe. Mothers and wives warned their boys and men against the charms of this man-eater. From Shahdara to Raja Garden, from Preet Vihar to Vikaspuri, men of all ages found it difficult to hold on to their virtue with Candy around. In her sleeveless salwar-kameezes held at the bosom with flimsy buttons or lacy ribbons, she would be found in the neighbourhood chaat shops, seductively biting into aloo tikkis, gulping down pani puri, blowing sensuously at hot samosas, lust dripping from her.

Candy Bhatia’s unique charm lay in the fact that her predatory manner was offset by her feigned innocence. She fooled the men into thinking that their getting laid had to do primarily with their good-looks, intelligence, affluence etc. In reality, once Candy marked her target, there was little they could do to escape. Like the dog that doggedly pees to mark his territory, the very potent Candy Bhatia sultrily established her territorial superiority across West and East Delhi. As a result, by the time she turned 21, mothers of young Punjabi girls from the said area looking for virgin grooms started actively considering neighbouring states for chaste matches. 

Finally, in an effort to tame her free run of hormones, her family tried to get her married. She married a few times, promptly deserted the men and moved on in life with the sure footedness of a gazelle looking for her foliage to bite. 


At ABC Corporation where she worked, Candy Bhatia rose from a mere receptionist to the Admin In-Charge in a few years. She was a roaring success. She delighted the men by walking around sensuously in office, swaying her hips, flaunting colourful dupattas (that slid more than rested on her chest), gamboling about, as she organized Miss Lohri, Miss Diwali, Miss Holi competitions all of which she proceeded to win, hands down. As time passed and Candy gained a few pounds and grayed, her skill in the art of seduction peaked. Additionally, she became a great counselor too.

Client Relationship Manager, Mr. Sharma: “Arey Candy, I missed the train to my hometown.” 

Candy: “It is sign of sexual frustration. You constantly keep missing impotent things. It is happening in all marriage these days. I know some good divorce lawyer. Take number from me.”

Rekha, the young engineer: “Candyjee, look at me. How will I attend my friend’s marriage with these zits on my face? How will I show off?”

Candy, sympathetically: “My dear, I understand. Tits on your face. Not good. Your tits should be on another’s face na. And what use if you can’t show them around during someone else’s marriage. Here, let me give you card of Tansukh clinic...Hari Nagar, not far. I know the owner.” Winking and whispering conspiratorially “Go today only. Big thing happen in small money.”

Khannajee, the accounts in-charge: “Listen Candy. I couldn’t sleep last night.” 

Candy gives him a you-naughty-boy smile.

Khannajee: “No no. I dreamt of a hanging cobra in my sleep. What on earth could it mean?”

Candy, smiling knowingly, “Cobra is felic* symbol. You know felas*? One that fellow Freewd* invented? You need more action dear. Come to meeting room after lunch. I will give home remidy. After, no more cobra hanging in your sleep. Only beautiful ladis like me.”

*(Phallic, Phallas, Freud)

Finally, when the disciplinary committee gave her the golden handshake, a pall of gloom descended at ABC Corporation. A few men contemplated slitting their wrists as a mark of protest, some wrote her farewell letters in blood and others turned celibate. Overall productivity in the organization fell drastically. 

Because of her good graces, one of her admirers referred Candy for a job at the rival DEF Corporation. At the interview:

Boss: Candy Bhatia. What a unique name!

Candy: Sweet to taste sir. Like the candy.

Boss, clearing his voice: So Candy, your CV has everything else but doesn’t say where we can find you?

Candy, innocently: Why? The Badroom sir

Boss: No, I mean your CV doesn’t have your address, where do you live?

Candy (dupatta slipping from the chest): Ohh. Wast Delhi sir 

Boss blinking: When can you join?

Candy, fluttering eyelashes: I’m totally avlabel sir. When you want, I come…Always

Boss, gulping: See we have a very different work culture from ABC… 

Before he can complete, Candy: I’m totally flaxible sir. When you want, I show flaxible, when you want I show hard to get

Boss’ pencil drops in shock, Candy bends over to pick it up, a button on the chest of her sleevless kurta pops open:

Candy straightening up: You asking for more sir? 

Boss: What?!

Candy: Quschun sir? 

Boss, sweating: Oh yes, Are you a team player?

Candy: Full team will be too big to play at once no, sir. I can play 2-3 people one time 

Boss: No no, you misunderstand, are you friendly? Do you get along with people?

Candy, in all seriousness: Yes sir, vary frandly. Totall frandly. I’m a vary lonely woman. So frandship is always must.

As sweatbeads break out on the Boss' forehead, he is confronted with a vision of a thin, good looking God riding a bright green parrot with a luscious red beak, charging towards him full throttle.

Needless to say, Candy Bhatia landed the job. Today, rival DEF Corporation is scaling heights with its workforce of happy men. And the HR at ABC Corporation is spending obscene amounts of money in motivational initiatives to bring its male employees back to life. 

What do you mean again?

Innovative names/messages from random places: 

AFC 
– Fashioned exactly like KFC, this is an outlet in Port Blair. But of course its called Andaman Fried Chicken. With the motif of a Rhode Island Red smiling benevolently at the world, this outlet gets a lot of curious first timers.

"Ice cream, fruit, fish and chips, drinks must not be consumed in the bus. Passengers can drink water in the bus."

- SOME thought went into drawing this list. Thank God for not letting us die of thirst. This should have been on a bus in Nazi Germany, but turned out to be a poster on a bus in Singapore.

"Dip me in honey and throw me to the lesbians"- Somewhere, on a man’s T shirt. Thought provoking. And boy! VIVID.

"Your mother does not work here. Please clean up after yourself."

- Admonishing the sloppy in a very ‘Tere Maa ki Aankh’ style. Should have been found in India. Found taped at the cafeteria of a Sydney office.

"If you sprinkle, while you tinkle, 

Be a sweetie and wipe the seatie"

- At VOX FM loo in Wollongong, NSW, Australia. The artist behind this work is on his way to participate at a rhyming-poetry-contest

“A to Zee Problems - Come for solution for Lifetime - 

Way you want Will happen.

Solve your typical problems through powerful remedies of Lal Kitab (Red Book)

Suggestive Remedies: Business, Litigation, Childless, Disturbed life, Bad/Late/Wrong Marriage, Career, Depression, All Sex problems...

Also, help in getting Elongated Earlobes (because of wearing long, heavy earrings) back to Normal. Without any stitches, Painless!”

Baba Mayur Ram jee - Its Not Magic!.............But Almost!!!”

- Ad on a Mumbai local train. An almost-magically gifted baba with his 'suggestive' remedies. Just hope he doesn't mix up his potions. Fixing earlobes for those wanting their fertility fixed.

John Steinbeck on two kinds of love

                            John Steinbeck writes to his son who has fallen in love

Source: The Atlantic. http://www.theatlantic.com/entertainment/archive/2012/01/john-steinbeck-on-falling-in-love-a-1958-letter/251375/#.TxCLlEV-NE8.twitter

Thank you - Rishi Shankar for sharing.

A day in the life of a corporate

The day a few junior executives were called to attend and be on standby at a leaders’ meeting:

Guptajee, the pervert IT man sauntered into the conference room lazily at 9:50 am. He had the face and mannerisms of a porn star. Shirt fashioned out of pink spandex, camel coloured trousers with horizontal stripes, tight at the crotch. He smiled lustily at the juniors as he went about pulling wires and dialing some numbers on the Polycam audio conferencing equipment. A few voices sputtered on the conference call and some faceless people introduced themselves and confirmed their attendance.

While setting the stage, Guptajee squatted on the pretext of looking for something and tried to peer between the HR executive’s legs. She kicked him noiselessly. Above the conference table, a guttural sound was heard as Guptajee emerged from under, heel imprints on his fluffy cheek.

She-Man, the manly HR head entered the room and gave everyone a fake smile. She had a bulldog's jowl and biceps of Arnold S. She proceeded to summon her team to a corner to ask what the meeting was about, who was attending, what she had to speak and why it had occurred to no one that they needed to make notes for her slides.

She was followed by Bald-Patch, a bespectacled academician-turned-R&D-head who had lost his mane in his academic pursuits and thus suffered from a low self-esteem. He entered meekly, tripped on the carpet, fell flat on his face, laptop, phone and all. A few ‘be careful’ ‘easy-easy’ went around the room. He lay prostrate for a few minutes waiting for someone to help him. His juniors quickly started talking on their phones and looked busy. He got up dusting himself, apologized to everyone, settled in nervously and started making last minute changes to his presentation.

Young, arrogant Business Analyst (BA) strode in next, talking on a contraption that looked like a cross between a Tata Sky remote control and a matte black shoe, size 10. He took a seat close to where he thought the Big-Boss would sit, hardened his jaw and started giving everyone tough looks.

My Lady-Boss, the head of Corporate Social Responsibility entered panting and asked no one in particular if she was late. No one responded. She then proceeded to try various chairs in order to select the one from where she could see the screen best (she had forgotten her distance reading glasses).

The miserly Financial Advisor (FA) from down-south with a deep hatred for people and places north of Deccan came in sulking. 'Bleddy fools wasting the combeny’s money..they should be made to jemb off the building and die,' he muttered under his breath.

At that moment, all ears perked up at the sound of a pig wading in slush, moving slowly towards the conference room. It turned out to be a stuffed overnighter trolley-bag being dragged coarsely over the carpet. The Big-Boss had arrived, after traveling non-stop for the past fortnight to various countries and cities. He entered looking tired and hungry. He adjusted his glasses and started the meeting by saying – Are we ready to start?

Moobs (male-boobs), the Head of creating unprofitable New Businesses by wiping out old profitable ones entered the conference room the last. With his 42 breast size, he was considered by majority as handsome. Tall, dark and handsome, Moobs eyed a couple of ladies keenly and a couple of ladies looked back keenly at him.

She-Man stood up, smoothed her man-pants, flashed her canines and began:

“Glad everyone’s made it on time. We have a long day today and a lot of stuff to go over.”

Four people yawned, five others had watery eyes. As people secretly wiped their tears, the meeting began.

She-Man continued, “But first the ground rules. Let’s keep our laptops closed. No checking emails and messages on smartphones either. It shows utter disregard for the presenter.” 

Everyone agreed, promptly acted like they were shutting their laptops, only to keep it open at a 20-degree slant. Lady-Boss spent a few precious minutes balancing her Blackberry strategically on her thigh and started chatting.

She-Man started by talking about talent and skill gap in the labour market, employee engagement scores, our rank in the 'Great Places to Work' Survey (which was in the global top 100, from the bottom) all of which was very encouraging she said, but needed lot of working on.

This was followed by a few presentations where BA spoke strongly about everything that we were doing wrong, which turned out to be everything that we were doing. FA spoke angrily on the urgent need for cost control, austerity, travel freeze and cutting down on wasteful expenditure - at which he looked meaningfully at all of us. He shared with us a forecast of business numbers and gave each team their stretch targets. We thought of heroes from Satyajit Ray movies, broken cheeks, sunken eyes, toiling from dawn till dusk without food or water, a mere loin cloth covering our modesty, getting caned periodically on our emaciated asses, yet not reaching anywhere close to the stated stretch targets. FA finally left us with murderous looks and veiled threats of a year without bonus, increments falling south and office lunch of barley water.

At this point, Candy Bhatia, the 40-something, single, Admin Officer walked in wearing a sleeveless kurta and churidar. She was the office-fantasy. Especially, of the over-fifty, married men from West Delhi who delighted in her swaying of hips, swearing at the office boys and telling them fifty-something-men naughty jokes at lunch. She had an enviable reputation of winning 'Miss Diwali' contest each year for the last 23 years, leaving the young MBA types in their trouser-shouser with no chance of winning-shinning.

Before entering the room, Candy pulled up her assets (that had begun their downward climb since her last birthday), applied a generous dab of an oil coloured lip-gloss and smacked her lips. She entered looking like she had eaten chole-bhature for breakfast. She smiled broadly, excused herself for interrupting and led two office boys carrying coffees, teas, chocolate chip cookies and few plates of potato wafers. Before leaving, she said coquettishly, 

“Lunch to be served at 1. If you need me for enthing als, i will give service happily."

As the distraction swayed sensuously out the room, all eyes focused on the placement of the wafer plates. BA snatched the HR executive's plate. Moobs sat confidently, knowing he would get offers from all sides. Lady boss nudged me and said “Pass me the chips na. I’m staaaaarving.” Big-Boss grabbed a plate and told everyone to focus. Bald-Patch finished his presentation in double-time and raced back to his seat only to find the wafers polished off.

Next was Lady-Boss’ presentation where she exhorted everyone with flared nostrils to participate in the company’s save-the-poor-by-donating-your-salary campaign. We were taken back to the S. Ray frame in which a bare roti was snatched out of our hands to donate to the poor. Those that refused were awarded more welts on the backside.

Suddenly, her presentation and our nightmare was disrupted by a loud chuckle. Assorted giggles erupted into the air-waves. It came from the audio conference line as faceless people miles away seemed to be having a good time. As pin drop silence ensued in the room, someone faceless hushed another one and proceeded to mute the line. She-Man rolled her eyes in exasperation, Big Boss woke up from his shut-eye and FA looked like he would pour kerosene and set fire to the conference room and its contents. 

Thankfully lunch was brought in and everyone attacked the food with a vengeance.

Outside Candy Bhatia was going through a crisis of sorts. She was complaining to the receptionist that the new tailor she was trying had made her armhole bigger. Guptajee misheard armhole, took a few steps back to check Candy Bhatia from behind. At the same time, Moobs called Candy to say his 6-inch (subway sandwich) was oozing mayo and mustard while he had asked for mint and ranch. Simultaneously, FA threatened to go on a hunger strike if he didn’t get his dose of curd-rice. Candy Bhatia hurried to fire the hell out of Subway and scour Haryana for authentic curd-rice.

Post lunch, it was the turn of Moobs to present. He waxed eloquent about value innovation and blue ocean strategy to create an uncontested market space. After 45-min of talking strategy, when no one showed any sign of life, Moobs wrapped up passionately:

“Let's dream of going where we haven’t yet! Let’s DO the Blue Ocean!”

I dreamt of doing the Moobs in a blue ocean. My reverie of silvery beaches and frolicking with Moobs in warm frothy water was rudely interrupted by an elbow in my ribs. Lady-Boss hissed in my ear.

“Why aren’t you paying attention? Check the email I have sent. It is urgent.” She went back to drawing flowers in her diary.

I sneaked a look into my email. As I pressed the send/receive button, I received 33 emails, mostly from the bosses in the room who were playing mail-mail. They were zealously flicking emails to each other, keeping us juniors on cc:

“Please have your team look into this.”

“I await your comments.”

“Please give it a shot.”

“We need to discuss this”

“It has been pending for a while now”

Giving Lady-Boss’ email the first priority, I saw she had forwarded an email from the Big-Boss who had in turn forwarded an email with a complex matrix on employee contributions for CSR activities.

Lady-Boss’ email to me said solemnly, “Does this make sense to you? I need to have figured this out in an hour. Do the needful quickly please.”

I tried to catch Lady-Boss’ attention to demonstrate my ignorance on the subject. She ignored me trying to catch her attention and continued with colouring flowers.

Helplessly I looked at the know-it-all BA for help. He was engrossed in playing Angry Birds in silent mode and happened to be losing. I resignedly launched into copying the matter out of Lady-Boss’ email, entering it in google and pasting the results to make an incomprehensible document. I would stop at nothing short of 2000 words, I encouraged myself.   

Meanwhile Big-Boss had woken up and had begun passionately, “These are difficult times for the organization and the industry. But despite the challenges we have done well. So we need to congratulate ourselves.” He smiled. Everyone looked at each other distrustfully and inspected their nails. “Our consumers are undergoing a metamorphosis. We need to constantly reinvent ourselves, through unconventional thinking, customer-driven innovation and retooling. The world is going 'glocal'. Let’s look at locally relevant product and service innovation. Let's develop winning products for emerging markets.” 

It was a war cry. A cry of distress. Everyone relaxed knowingly and went back to peering into their emails. Few endless hours passed. As Lady-Boss was adding finishing touches to the flower pot, She-Man was finishing up with more fake excitement.

"Hold the date!! We will soon be circulating the detailed agenda for the exciting and thrilling leadership offsite to the hills! However, there’s some pre-work to be done as part of the learning lab.” At this, all the bosses signalled their juniors to take notes. 

Finally, as the meeting ended and everyone weighed down with heavy bladders and heavier eyelids tried to wrestle out the door first, Candy Bhatia came up to the Big-Boss and said in a liquid voice:

“Shall I get you some strrrong coffee and muncchhhies, sir?”

As Big-Boss nodded gratefully, Guptajee while putting back the wires had overpowering thoughts of munching Candy Bhatia.

Meanwhile, the pigs in BA’s Tata-Sky phone who killed the angry birds were having the last laugh. 

Note: This account is exaggerated and fictionalized. It shouldn't be used to stymie any chances of any future employment.