"What's up?"
The usual.
"What are you upto?"
You know, same old.
"Such as?"
Reading.
"Reading what?"
Yeah, just some crap. You know.
(Title reference; track of the day.)
Everyone has a dark secret, that usually never sees the light of the day. I have my fair share too. But the only one I'm willing to admit publically concerns my work.
I fucking love formal emails.
I absolutely love how cold and brutal you could be with a single, helpless "Hi". Used in isolation, it can be anything- a precursor to "I'm drunk and in the mood to eatwith you." or accompanying introductions that can last a lifelong impression on your mind. You would not imagine but one of my "Hi" once preceded this sentence, "I was like a peacock in college. Really out there, you know?"
Needless to say, I never heard again from the person.
(It's a miracle he didn't file a restraining order against me after that.)
When you take that "Hi" and place it in a formal email, so much can change. Don't get me wrong but a "Hello" simply doesn't cut it. Neither in seniority nor in the tone. A "Hi" is a shapeshifting, classless, gender neutral way of wanting to show yourself to someone. Do you hate someone but want to be nice for like 2 seconds? "Hi". You almost, always read with in a tone that isn't reserved for someone you hate, yet, the content following that could be injurious to health. Please do not use tobacco.
Formal emails turn me on. The more curt and formal they are, the better their purpose is. You know the emails which are all about negotiation for money? They're my absolute favourite. You negotiating with a future employer, a client, an agency, a cuntlet- anyone- you start with a tone curt "Hi" and you know you fucking mean business.
One of my favourite former colleagues gave me this rule of thumb- never address people as "Dear" so and so. She literally peered into my eye and told me, "Hey, we don't do this here? Okay? It's good to learn it at this stage."
I don't usually take no for an answer, especially if that comes from a colleague I've known for less than a week. There I was, a proud motherfucker who made it to that job purely by my talent and here I was, listening to her.
It's a miracle but SrishG and I are friends, despite that conversation. It's simple. Nobody deserves anything more than a "Hi". It's the right measure of fun, formal and fearless and at the same time, just about good for anything- a meal, wedding proposal, hooking up, work, awkward drunk texting which is asexual but oh so fun. You get the drift?
It's not just the "Hi" though, that does it. It's also the power dynamics that play out. If there's one thing, I LOVE about a formal desk job, it's got to be writing emails. I'm as obsessed with them, as I am with playing Ludo at the moment. For a reference, I end up playing online Ludo from 7 pm - 4 am and back from 7 am - 9 am- in essence, all the hours I spend outside of work. The ones spent at work- are all about my second vice- emails.
When I started the current job I'm at, I used to call a senior colleague and she would make me re-write the whole bloody text thing in my emails. I know not what bothered her more, my urge to ask multiple questions and uncomfortable things or just the sheer language. She takes about an hour draft every mail she sends out, annoyingly clicks on the mouse a million times, making sure my patience depletes if I am working with her. Today when I look back, I wonder where's that person who could tolerate that shit for an hour and still be smiling.
I also believe, writing emails is severely underrated work of art. It's something that should be taught as compulsory curriculum in school, as a part of a subject titled "Work Etiquettes". Say what you may, my convent education leads me to believe this shit is critical for people., This one time recently, Meggy told me about someone from our class who asked her for some contacts. "She doesn't have the manners to say "Hi". I'm not sharing anything with her!", something I completely subscribe to. There are too few people in the world who know how this is done and how to respond. My dad obviously isn't a writer but he too had a feedback to share, "You should always write one line emails. Never commit to anything more."
Well, that's the first you'll hear of my father. For one, he's not a writer and for the second, he belongs to the school of "Dear", where if one writes "Hi" or "Hey", his corporate etiquettes tell him the person is being rude.
Later in the course of my work, I was given a simple lesson on the "voice" of the work mails. In one of the smartest things (and probably the only one) my employer taught me during a meeting was how to frame work mails. He suggested I channelizing the voice of the employer itself. While that individual is usually calm, I'm angry. I'm livid. I'm also in shock at the sheer incumbency of people and their attitude to work.
To one of our clients, I'd written an acidic, almost an equivalent of a hate mail. The client in question wanted some changes in the file, which had been done a month ago. Clients being clients were living with the image of the stereotypical tarts- an absolute cunt. My employer laughed (something which I think was so sweet now) at my written responses. He told me to calm my tits and write as a sane, level headed person would (both of which, I think he believes I'm not). If all goes well, we'll close the project soon. I may not have agreed to his idea then, but a fortnight later, I think his strategy really worked. An outtake for life, most definitely.
Whether you're a corporate ho or a college rookie or even just drunk and getting back home on this Friday evening, one thing is for sure. Your shining degrees, your slam poetry, your property papers have got nothing whatsoever on my swagger of sending formal emails.
There's nothing quite like a person who can send you a crisp, curt and formal email to turn you on. Nothing else beats a "Hi" and all that it can possibly lead to.
I fucking love formal emails.
I absolutely love how cold and brutal you could be with a single, helpless "Hi". Used in isolation, it can be anything- a precursor to "I'm drunk and in the mood to eat
Needless to say, I never heard again from the person.
(It's a miracle he didn't file a restraining order against me after that.)
When you take that "Hi" and place it in a formal email, so much can change. Don't get me wrong but a "Hello" simply doesn't cut it. Neither in seniority nor in the tone. A "Hi" is a shapeshifting, classless, gender neutral way of wanting to show yourself to someone. Do you hate someone but want to be nice for like 2 seconds? "Hi". You almost, always read with in a tone that isn't reserved for someone you hate, yet, the content following that could be injurious to health. Please do not use tobacco.
Formal emails turn me on. The more curt and formal they are, the better their purpose is. You know the emails which are all about negotiation for money? They're my absolute favourite. You negotiating with a future employer, a client, an agency, a cuntlet- anyone- you start with a tone curt "Hi" and you know you fucking mean business.
One of my favourite former colleagues gave me this rule of thumb- never address people as "Dear" so and so. She literally peered into my eye and told me, "Hey, we don't do this here? Okay? It's good to learn it at this stage."
I don't usually take no for an answer, especially if that comes from a colleague I've known for less than a week. There I was, a proud motherfucker who made it to that job purely by my talent and here I was, listening to her.
It's a miracle but SrishG and I are friends, despite that conversation. It's simple. Nobody deserves anything more than a "Hi". It's the right measure of fun, formal and fearless and at the same time, just about good for anything- a meal, wedding proposal, hooking up, work, awkward drunk texting which is asexual but oh so fun. You get the drift?
It's not just the "Hi" though, that does it. It's also the power dynamics that play out. If there's one thing, I LOVE about a formal desk job, it's got to be writing emails. I'm as obsessed with them, as I am with playing Ludo at the moment. For a reference, I end up playing online Ludo from 7 pm - 4 am and back from 7 am - 9 am- in essence, all the hours I spend outside of work. The ones spent at work- are all about my second vice- emails.
When I started the current job I'm at, I used to call a senior colleague and she would make me re-write the whole bloody text thing in my emails. I know not what bothered her more, my urge to ask multiple questions and uncomfortable things or just the sheer language. She takes about an hour draft every mail she sends out, annoyingly clicks on the mouse a million times, making sure my patience depletes if I am working with her. Today when I look back, I wonder where's that person who could tolerate that shit for an hour and still be smiling.
I also believe, writing emails is severely underrated work of art. It's something that should be taught as compulsory curriculum in school, as a part of a subject titled "Work Etiquettes". Say what you may, my convent education leads me to believe this shit is critical for people., This one time recently, Meggy told me about someone from our class who asked her for some contacts. "She doesn't have the manners to say "Hi". I'm not sharing anything with her!", something I completely subscribe to. There are too few people in the world who know how this is done and how to respond. My dad obviously isn't a writer but he too had a feedback to share, "You should always write one line emails. Never commit to anything more."
Well, that's the first you'll hear of my father. For one, he's not a writer and for the second, he belongs to the school of "Dear", where if one writes "Hi" or "Hey", his corporate etiquettes tell him the person is being rude.
Later in the course of my work, I was given a simple lesson on the "voice" of the work mails. In one of the smartest things (and probably the only one) my employer taught me during a meeting was how to frame work mails. He suggested I channelizing the voice of the employer itself. While that individual is usually calm, I'm angry. I'm livid. I'm also in shock at the sheer incumbency of people and their attitude to work.
To one of our clients, I'd written an acidic, almost an equivalent of a hate mail. The client in question wanted some changes in the file, which had been done a month ago. Clients being clients were living with the image of the stereotypical tarts- an absolute cunt. My employer laughed (something which I think was so sweet now) at my written responses. He told me to calm my tits and write as a sane, level headed person would (both of which, I think he believes I'm not). If all goes well, we'll close the project soon. I may not have agreed to his idea then, but a fortnight later, I think his strategy really worked. An outtake for life, most definitely.
Whether you're a corporate ho or a college rookie or even just drunk and getting back home on this Friday evening, one thing is for sure. Your shining degrees, your slam poetry, your property papers have got nothing whatsoever on my swagger of sending formal emails.
There's nothing quite like a person who can send you a crisp, curt and formal email to turn you on. Nothing else beats a "Hi" and all that it can possibly lead to.
I was all of 16- when I first found out what they called me behind my back.
"Baby elephant"
A girl filled that as an entry in response to her "Favourite Pet" in my slam book. Looking back, I barf at the idea that I went to her in the first place to have it filled.
Regardless, I was 16. Weighing 49 kilos- an average of over 9 kilos than most girls in my class. Blessed with a round face, filled cheeks and hair tied in a single braid (pretty much all of the school tenure), I was hardly the size of a baby elephant, my arch nemesis at the time.
I don't quite remember what my reaction was (besides shock). Shock, that they were picking on me for my physical appearance. You see, unlike today, there wasn't quite an outlet for "awareness" and making memes such as "best swimsuit size is whatever the fuck you have" and so on.
I didn't have heavy boobage, or legs or waist. Hell, I'd kill to go back at 16 (but with the boobs please) and be the same person. I truly think the 16-year-old me had the kind of spunk that present 25-year-old (thirty kilos fatter and three cup sizes bigger) doesn't have. I digress but this "baby elephant" instance came to me, as I spiralled back into thinking about how trolls are made.
Last evening, I found out that Writer/Comedienne Supriya Joshi apparently put out a thread in response to the trolls who have been fat-shaming her. If this were an academic piece, addressed to people aged 30 and above, I'd explain every fucking term in my previous sentence. However, since it's my blog, clocking in under 50 fucking views, I feel I have the liberty to move on. She wrote a long thread, addressing her issue against those who reduce her body as a currency into shaming her for what she is/she does. Joshi's thread was absolutely compelling read, especially for someone like me, who's been at the receiving end of it.
To begin with, the problem here at point zero isn't trolls alone. The rhizomatic structure from where these trolls emerge always tend to go towards the can of worms, aka conditioning. You grow up to be a person, a reflection of who you were while growing up, by and large. A mirror image of your parents, of the friends who shaped you (aka the asshole from school who started the "baby elephant" label). You've been in a place where you've learnt to point fingers at anyone with a visibly different shape of body than you all your life. A thread on Twitter, educational creatives on Facebook and Instagram can barely help you. They can probably make you sympathize with them for like 20 seconds or more (depending on how thick in the head you are). The discourse moved from pointing and laughing at you after filling your slam book to trolling people online. Bullies acquired a form in Trolls, where faceless identities can do the same to you, what spineless gits attempted in school/college.
For me, the ordeal ended when I left school. During the college admissions, I was convinced of not wanting to go to a girls college because our convent school was a hell hole, nothing short of penance to live through (despite Jesus dying for our sins). Thankfully, people at college, even at 18 were far more mature than cunts from school. To this day, I don't feel judged for occupying space, when I sit, when I eat or when I walk. Basically, I thank all the people I ever brushed shoulder with at college (and believe me, there were quite a few in the three colleges that I attended) for being fucking normal about how I look.
At 25, I no longer am affected by what people say for me, call me or tell me to my face. The only opinion that matters about my body is mine. So, when three months ago, I looked in the mirror and did actually see a stranger look back, I knew I had to take the matter in my hand. After many trials and errors, I'm now attempting to work on my body, mostly because I don't want to subscribe to the same lifestyle I was living in the last eight years of my tenure at different colleges. I want to be able to go back at where I was when I was 16. Look back at the same body and marvel at it.
The most critical thing in looking back, ofcourse, remains facing my demons. I was once told by a dear friend, that kids who grow up fat and are called names for it are forever fat kids in their head. No matter how much weight they lose, or what they turn out to be professionally or personally, or how many packs of abs they visibly sport, the fact remains that a part of their mental health is forever stunted. Somewhere deep down, I knew she was right.
But as someone who wants to look back at being 16, and wanting to change my life, I need to address these bullies and trolls I've encountered in the process.
As Joshi rightly said, when you call someone fat, there's nothing more than a physical description you're explaining. That's an adjective and that's who they are. More often than not, a fat person is pretty self-aware that they're fat. However, when you call someone a terrible terrible person, you should know there's something off about them. Sometime back, a man I went out with (and was actually beginning to enjoy his company) randomly told me that how any Indian family I aspire to get myself married into, will not "traditionally" accept my presence for how I physically look. However, he did add that atleast my skin colour will work in the favour. Was that man a bully? Probably not. Was he a troll? Hardly so. Was he concerned about what the world truly thinks of people like me, ten-twenty-thirty kilos overweight, obese, chubby, "healthy"? Fuck yeah.
If everything came down to looks, Charles Sobraj would make for Nepal's president and not a terrible fucking individual. However, given his sweltering looks and suave attitude, he would surely make an Indian man and his family truly happy. As for that girl from school, I sincerely wish she comes under a speeding car and breaks her triple chin (oh did I point at the obvious now?) that she proudly sports in all her pictures. Umm, is my favourite animal a giraffe? I don't think so. Not that petty, but still, petty (enough to point my vanity and pitch it against hers, convent school women only understand one language).
You know what they say, being bullied can turn the victims into becoming a bully themselves. Aka the plot of Mean Girls. Or, how I'm not sorry about being the venomous, unapologetic asshole that I am. Thank you, moral science classes. You truly helped my personality in its complete development.
"Baby elephant"
 |
| At 16, I definitely had better legs than that adorable thing on the left. |
A girl filled that as an entry in response to her "Favourite Pet" in my slam book. Looking back, I barf at the idea that I went to her in the first place to have it filled.
Regardless, I was 16. Weighing 49 kilos- an average of over 9 kilos than most girls in my class. Blessed with a round face, filled cheeks and hair tied in a single braid (pretty much all of the school tenure), I was hardly the size of a baby elephant, my arch nemesis at the time.
I don't quite remember what my reaction was (besides shock). Shock, that they were picking on me for my physical appearance. You see, unlike today, there wasn't quite an outlet for "awareness" and making memes such as "best swimsuit size is whatever the fuck you have" and so on.
I didn't have heavy boobage, or legs or waist. Hell, I'd kill to go back at 16 (but with the boobs please) and be the same person. I truly think the 16-year-old me had the kind of spunk that present 25-year-old (thirty kilos fatter and three cup sizes bigger) doesn't have. I digress but this "baby elephant" instance came to me, as I spiralled back into thinking about how trolls are made.
Last evening, I found out that Writer/Comedienne Supriya Joshi apparently put out a thread in response to the trolls who have been fat-shaming her. If this were an academic piece, addressed to people aged 30 and above, I'd explain every fucking term in my previous sentence. However, since it's my blog, clocking in under 50 fucking views, I feel I have the liberty to move on. She wrote a long thread, addressing her issue against those who reduce her body as a currency into shaming her for what she is/she does. Joshi's thread was absolutely compelling read, especially for someone like me, who's been at the receiving end of it.
To begin with, the problem here at point zero isn't trolls alone. The rhizomatic structure from where these trolls emerge always tend to go towards the can of worms, aka conditioning. You grow up to be a person, a reflection of who you were while growing up, by and large. A mirror image of your parents, of the friends who shaped you (aka the asshole from school who started the "baby elephant" label). You've been in a place where you've learnt to point fingers at anyone with a visibly different shape of body than you all your life. A thread on Twitter, educational creatives on Facebook and Instagram can barely help you. They can probably make you sympathize with them for like 20 seconds or more (depending on how thick in the head you are). The discourse moved from pointing and laughing at you after filling your slam book to trolling people online. Bullies acquired a form in Trolls, where faceless identities can do the same to you, what spineless gits attempted in school/college.
For me, the ordeal ended when I left school. During the college admissions, I was convinced of not wanting to go to a girls college because our convent school was a hell hole, nothing short of penance to live through (despite Jesus dying for our sins). Thankfully, people at college, even at 18 were far more mature than cunts from school. To this day, I don't feel judged for occupying space, when I sit, when I eat or when I walk. Basically, I thank all the people I ever brushed shoulder with at college (and believe me, there were quite a few in the three colleges that I attended) for being fucking normal about how I look.
At 25, I no longer am affected by what people say for me, call me or tell me to my face. The only opinion that matters about my body is mine. So, when three months ago, I looked in the mirror and did actually see a stranger look back, I knew I had to take the matter in my hand. After many trials and errors, I'm now attempting to work on my body, mostly because I don't want to subscribe to the same lifestyle I was living in the last eight years of my tenure at different colleges. I want to be able to go back at where I was when I was 16. Look back at the same body and marvel at it.
The most critical thing in looking back, ofcourse, remains facing my demons. I was once told by a dear friend, that kids who grow up fat and are called names for it are forever fat kids in their head. No matter how much weight they lose, or what they turn out to be professionally or personally, or how many packs of abs they visibly sport, the fact remains that a part of their mental health is forever stunted. Somewhere deep down, I knew she was right.
But as someone who wants to look back at being 16, and wanting to change my life, I need to address these bullies and trolls I've encountered in the process.
As Joshi rightly said, when you call someone fat, there's nothing more than a physical description you're explaining. That's an adjective and that's who they are. More often than not, a fat person is pretty self-aware that they're fat. However, when you call someone a terrible terrible person, you should know there's something off about them. Sometime back, a man I went out with (and was actually beginning to enjoy his company) randomly told me that how any Indian family I aspire to get myself married into, will not "traditionally" accept my presence for how I physically look. However, he did add that atleast my skin colour will work in the favour. Was that man a bully? Probably not. Was he a troll? Hardly so. Was he concerned about what the world truly thinks of people like me, ten-twenty-thirty kilos overweight, obese, chubby, "healthy"? Fuck yeah.
If everything came down to looks, Charles Sobraj would make for Nepal's president and not a terrible fucking individual. However, given his sweltering looks and suave attitude, he would surely make an Indian man and his family truly happy. As for that girl from school, I sincerely wish she comes under a speeding car and breaks her triple chin (oh did I point at the obvious now?) that she proudly sports in all her pictures. Umm, is my favourite animal a giraffe? I don't think so. Not that petty, but still, petty (enough to point my vanity and pitch it against hers, convent school women only understand one language).
You know what they say, being bullied can turn the victims into becoming a bully themselves. Aka the plot of Mean Girls. Or, how I'm not sorry about being the venomous, unapologetic asshole that I am. Thank you, moral science classes. You truly helped my personality in its complete development.
What do you do when you wake up on the wrong side of luck?
I always believed that Midas was a dumb muthafucka. That man gave away his power for his inability to control it. He was literally daft not actually employing people to do all the 'touching' on his behalf. I mean, the man had the resources to hire two people (with legit four hands) to do all the 'touching' for him. For Pete's sake, he could touch turd and make it into solid gold. I hope it was all 22 carat and that he paid his employees in his gold turd (remains of gold biscuits turn to the gold turd, geddit?).
Yet, he chose to exit that wonderful blessing (or whatever power) he was granted exclusive access to. I've heard many a version of that man cursing his luck for being blessed (hashtag blessed like all Delhi teenagers) to turn everything into gold, yet, he cribbed so much that someone wrote a whole fucking fable about him.
Where was I? My luck.
I'm the opposite of Midas. Whatever I touch, it turns to turd. Throw a gold biscuit my way for sample. Address on request.
You throw a project proposal, complete with everything in order and favourable conditions and I will give you back a mess, which can neither be evaded nor destroyed. I've a great example but I'd like to believe people from work are reading this and I'm on tenterhooks (I've been informed). Right now won't be the best time.
If I believe I've found love, it often always turns out to be a gastritis attack. You know, in my head, which clears as I proceed to tell the second of my three friends about it. The man literally becomes one with the ether, leaving sulphuric after effects of his presence. Or, as the doctors refer to it in science, farts.
If I think, there's no better negotiator than me, an agency will show me my place by ignoring my phone calls, messages, sweet nothings, angry everything, only to respond in the first instance a senior colleague writes to them. So much for me being the loyal client and insisting on going back to the damn agency.
Just when I think, I'm gold with not consuming carbs and processed food and refined sugar, I get pissed drunk and stoned and book a ticket to Pune. I eat crap for three solid meals for over three days and come back to eat at McDonald's because shit it's shutting down. WHATTODO?
First, I don't drop any inches or kilos for two fucking months and just when I feel that starts to happen, I start to binge eat again.
"How's the peanut chocolate? I didn't like the milk coated in rice crispies one. Oh, you don't want yours?" Fuck people distributing food in offices. That shit should have gotten over with celebrating birthdays in school and having pineapple cakes at birthdays. Those two things are legitimately stuff of past.
On a different note, I don't get people who bring back goodies from their vacation, to work. First, you get the privilege to fuck off for a while (lucky cow), then you return to rub it in everyone's face by distributing chocolate or some such to the entire fucking office because you had a gala time, while some of us were stuck in the office with people who believe are finding the cure to cancer.
That's HR's idea of no appraisal, but how about refined sugar and cocoa as vacation leftovers? You get something for being a good girl and sticking around all Summer. Did you see their pictures from Cancun? Oh, how stunning!
There's also not getting beef samosas, beef steak burger and patrani macchi, but I think a Facebook status was more than enough rant about turning my life into turd. I literally booked a return ticket to eat those things and got none of that. Instead, I drank calories in the form of a Thumps Up (which I could have done at home, thank you very much), battled body odour, and cringed at the idea of unclean bedsheets, a pet peeve I never let go since I found this friend's sibling and her boyfriend were having sex on the mattress they had lend me during a trip.
There's also my words here. I write about people and their behaviour towards me turns turd-like.
Instead of people being grateful that I'm immortalising their ridonkulously boring asses on my blog, there are those insufferable, arrogant bastards who look at me like I've infected them with AIDS. Well, if you think you're better, then make yourself better. You are literally a lot more pathetic than my words make you sound like. And, to be honest, writing about you is like doing charity. My right hand does not approve of what my left hand makes you sound like but a girl's gotta live. And write.
It's Friday and it's my writing night tonight. Time to burn bridges and turn gold into turd.
I always believed that Midas was a dumb muthafucka. That man gave away his power for his inability to control it. He was literally daft not actually employing people to do all the 'touching' on his behalf. I mean, the man had the resources to hire two people (with legit four hands) to do all the 'touching' for him. For Pete's sake, he could touch turd and make it into solid gold. I hope it was all 22 carat and that he paid his employees in his gold turd (remains of gold biscuits turn to the gold turd, geddit?).
Yet, he chose to exit that wonderful blessing (or whatever power) he was granted exclusive access to. I've heard many a version of that man cursing his luck for being blessed (hashtag blessed like all Delhi teenagers) to turn everything into gold, yet, he cribbed so much that someone wrote a whole fucking fable about him.
Where was I? My luck.
I'm the opposite of Midas. Whatever I touch, it turns to turd. Throw a gold biscuit my way for sample. Address on request.
You throw a project proposal, complete with everything in order and favourable conditions and I will give you back a mess, which can neither be evaded nor destroyed. I've a great example but I'd like to believe people from work are reading this and I'm on tenterhooks (I've been informed). Right now won't be the best time.
If I believe I've found love, it often always turns out to be a gastritis attack. You know, in my head, which clears as I proceed to tell the second of my three friends about it. The man literally becomes one with the ether, leaving sulphuric after effects of his presence. Or, as the doctors refer to it in science, farts.
If I think, there's no better negotiator than me, an agency will show me my place by ignoring my phone calls, messages, sweet nothings, angry everything, only to respond in the first instance a senior colleague writes to them. So much for me being the loyal client and insisting on going back to the damn agency.
Just when I think, I'm gold with not consuming carbs and processed food and refined sugar, I get pissed drunk and stoned and book a ticket to Pune. I eat crap for three solid meals for over three days and come back to eat at McDonald's because shit it's shutting down. WHATTODO?
First, I don't drop any inches or kilos for two fucking months and just when I feel that starts to happen, I start to binge eat again.
"How's the peanut chocolate? I didn't like the milk coated in rice crispies one. Oh, you don't want yours?" Fuck people distributing food in offices. That shit should have gotten over with celebrating birthdays in school and having pineapple cakes at birthdays. Those two things are legitimately stuff of past.
On a different note, I don't get people who bring back goodies from their vacation, to work. First, you get the privilege to fuck off for a while (lucky cow), then you return to rub it in everyone's face by distributing chocolate or some such to the entire fucking office because you had a gala time, while some of us were stuck in the office with people who believe are finding the cure to cancer.
That's HR's idea of no appraisal, but how about refined sugar and cocoa as vacation leftovers? You get something for being a good girl and sticking around all Summer. Did you see their pictures from Cancun? Oh, how stunning!
There's also not getting beef samosas, beef steak burger and patrani macchi, but I think a Facebook status was more than enough rant about turning my life into turd. I literally booked a return ticket to eat those things and got none of that. Instead, I drank calories in the form of a Thumps Up (which I could have done at home, thank you very much), battled body odour, and cringed at the idea of unclean bedsheets, a pet peeve I never let go since I found this friend's sibling and her boyfriend were having sex on the mattress they had lend me during a trip.
There's also my words here. I write about people and their behaviour towards me turns turd-like.
Instead of people being grateful that I'm immortalising their ridonkulously boring asses on my blog, there are those insufferable, arrogant bastards who look at me like I've infected them with AIDS. Well, if you think you're better, then make yourself better. You are literally a lot more pathetic than my words make you sound like. And, to be honest, writing about you is like doing charity. My right hand does not approve of what my left hand makes you sound like but a girl's gotta live. And write.
It's Friday and it's my writing night tonight. Time to burn bridges and turn gold into turd.
 |
| This has nothing whatsoever to do with my blog entry. I just wanted to brag that one out of my three friends think this qualifies as 'literature'. |
There's an unsaid idea of work culture that is as old as the idea of "work culture" itself. Joining the masses at work is said to be advantageous. If they laugh, you laugh. If your boss cracks a daddy joke and expects you to give a reaction that you reserve for when you see Dhinchak Pooja memes, by all means, give them that. Like a dead fish, you ought to go with the flow.
I can't say I've worked for too long, but the longest I've worked for at any place taught me this one thing. The only time you want to not be with the crowd is when you take a day off. If you're there, you participate. If by any chance, you decide to not want to do that, then god save you.
In an organization full of slackers, if you work, that's going against the tide. If you make your own rules, that's going against the tide.
If you ruffle feathers, when there's pin drop silence, you have made your own rules. There's going to be a tidal attack now. You know the drift.
The thing about silence is, besides it being gold, it's also heavy. If you follow the news, you'll know our silence has cost the opposition. It's costing liberals our peace of mind. It's costing all of us our independence. Stripping us of choice of food, our freedom of speech and whether or not we'd like to show our nationalism on our arm- it's all a matter of exercising that right. Stripped away from you, you're left with silence. Loud, deafening and awful silence.
Similarly, the thing with most of our populous is, we don't talk anymore. We've always just heard people tell us things.
We've heard it from our grandparents, "Don't answer back."
Then our parents, "Don't you dare look me in the eye and tell me I'm wrong."
Then our parents, "Don't you dare look me in the eye and tell me I'm wrong."
Followed by the regime at school, "NO TALKING. WHAT IS THIS? A FISHMARKET? AM I SPEAKING IN LATIN?"
Mildly referred to in college as well, "Girls, can you please behave yourselves. Some of us are trying to study here."
In Metro or shared transport, anyone who talks loudly is looked at, with disapproving eyes. How dare you spoil my zen?
It comes to me as no surprise, this regime gets carried on in our organizations as well. Just when you think people are mature enough to carry out their tasks without being petty, they will name drop you and tell you, or anyone who will hear consciously, "I can't get any work done because you're talking".
Now, I'd heard of "devastatingly beautiful" in context to things but using another person as your reason to not work is shameless. It's probably the lamest thing I've heard in my life. First of all, if you can't work when someone's talking then maybe you need noise cancelling earphones and a life. Second of all, what kind of monster slacks work and uses another person to blame? Answer: the kind who doesn't want to do work.
If there's a rule of thumb I know about work, it's this- if you put your mind to something achievable, there's nothing or nobody stopping you.
I know I did my MPhil in a house which was packed in cartons when I didn't have a bed to sleep on for over six months. I didn't have room to work out of. I didn't know where my books were kept.
Yet. I did it. I pulled out 60k original words and made sense out of them.
Last December, I had chicken pox. The project I was working on required 5o women's participation, another 10 women photographers and some more annoyingly talented women. I coordinated the whole damn thing, without any experience of having done that, sitting at home with 102 fever and rash sprouting out of all parts of my body. How's vaginal rash filled with pus for an excuse to not do work?
Don't tell me about not being able to do things. Tell me about what you can achieve in adversity.
And frankly, if two individuals talking to each other is your adversity, you're no better than the person who quit her job due to anxiety problem. How's that for privilege?
That's the thing about human behaviour which baffles me. It'll bow down just when you threaten it with a needle, which can threaten to pierce their inflated ego. Never mind the 10 ml syringe filled with the hypocrisy that they will shove in your face during lunch break.
Mental health is an important thing. I expect educated people to understand it. However, most don't. I am not denying that there aren't enough people who don't take shelter under the excuses.
But the next time someone tells you that they quit job because their anxiety was out of control, look inwards and say, "Who am I to judge? I complained about these people "talking" at work."
