Prose before hos

A thing that no break-up or an equivalent parting teaches you is how to get past a job that ends. As a recruiter friend points out, nobody cares about your sob story and you need to be clear af about what you need from a half an hour chat, let me jump straight to the point.

What happens after a job ends?

Nothing is an incorrect entry.

Well, you'd imagine nothing because it's ended, right? Can't start new things when an old is wrapping operations.

Quite the opposite, if you're unlucky or me.
Lucky is the person who still has a place to go to on Monday morning other than turning sides in their bed. More on that at the end of the post.

Generally, there are numerous handovers, countless places to sign out of (god save you if you're running digital campaigns and have created pages for organizations) and just about half a dozen reports to wrap because life's short and the job shorter (said no hooker ever). If you are me, chances are you'll have to wrap six months' worth of work in three days.

I'll cut to the chase and share some of the finest parting words that loved ones have shared in times of things falling apart (and by that mean the gorgeous jumpsuit I saw at the Chinatown equivalent of New Delhi which was coming off at seams and at 80% off).

You want to come to Goa with me? I'm going next month. 

This is the universe telling you to take a break. Take a break!

What plans now? Are you taking a break?

Send me your CV. 

You need a break. Take a break. 

What are you planning to do?

Take a trip to Thailand and get a massage or two. You'll feel great!

Go back to grad school and do your Ph.D. What's a job giving you anyway? 

Why don't you come to Nainital with me? 

What next?

Apply here! (job opening attached; nobody has ever heard of the organization)

I told you, should have taken a break year ago. 

Do you want to transcribe medical bills? There's an opening I can hook you up with. 

Your grandfather is still alive and you don't need to worry about your expenses. 

Why don't you apply to that *insert a new startup that nobody's heard of* and write for them? 

Finish your Ph.D. now that this is over. You'll be a doctor. 

Just take some time and reflect on what is it that you want to do next. 

Send me your updated CV. I've sent you a referral. 

Why don't you go to Thailand? 

Omg, you should totally write a book!

Did you apply to the job opening I sent to you? 

Don't go to Thailand. It's infected with Corona Virus. 

What are you planning to do now? Are you applying to jobs?

You should go to Thailand but don't spend all your money shopping. 

Why don't you write for *insert a publication that I absolutely detest*? You'll be great!

Oh noo. What will you do now? 

You should move to Canada and find a job there!

Why don't you write your Netflix Original that you've been talking about? 

I'm so excited that I've added an exclamation in the subject title.

No, not drunk. Stone cold sober, been since this Thursday.

To be honest, two drinks don't count. Especially if you intersperse them with the conversation of 3 years long employment and leaving that without a degree. Whoever said I'm a commitment-phobe has not met me in three years. (to all the Tinder boys I've stood up after the second date)

Okay fine, two years and a dissertation didn't give me a degree (yet) and I still did it. A job atleast pays.

No better day than today and no better time than now to compile this wishlist cause baby, I have a writing deadline. I should be planning a vacation, eating clean ("I will STOP all carbs the day my notice period ends" has become only, and only carbs).

I'll stop. Long story short, my last day at work is round the corner. I'm nervous, for good measure. I want to squeeze in a lazy beach vacation but somehow everyone around me has suddenly become oh so busy and I'll probably shoot myself in the head if I travel alone.
Okay fine, I won't. But I can't come back with 30 kilos baggage limit especially when a beach vacation has to have a complete wardrobe overhaul innit.



Here's a concise wishlist for my upcoming birthday, that I was dreading all year long, especially since the last one was ahem, so eventful.

1) Chocolate fucking cake. Chocolate fucking cake slice from Big Chill. The kind with buttercream icing and the one that's kept on the front fucking counter. I can't remember what it's called but it's right up front (along with another that looks deceptively similar). Ask the server and get the one with the B-U-T-T-E-R-C-R-E-A-M and buttercream alone. Not the ganache one. You'll have to go to the store at Khan Market, it's on rack starting 12 noon. You can call them up for details but they don't take advance orders. Yep, I researched ALL this for my own fucking birthday cake cause that's what people who like cake do.
Alternatively, if that's unavailable then the Red Velvet with Cream Cheese that I love. Contact my family for details.
If you can't get these two right then try Red Moon's Double Chocolate Cake. It's the laziest option from this entire list and I won't hate you completely. Please don't forget sparkler candles.

Don't @ me. It was a shit year for cake and I won't take a repeat of that. Not on my watch.

2) Water brush pen for watercolour since I'm not going to invest any more in my hobbies. Some paper to paint and general watercolour supplies would be good. Hit me up if you're taking this up. I'll share my list of what all I need. Bear in mind this is a fairly expensive endeavour, which is why I'm not particularly keen on buying this on my own. Expensive for art supplies, not like that 3.5k lipstick expensive. We're looking at the paper, glass paper mount (don't eye roll, please), maybe an easel, a beret, the works.

3) Birthday card. Each of you please send a personalized birthday card/postcard regardless of what you bring or not bring along with it. Handwritten, please. No e-card business. Post/courier preferably. Don't bring it with you.

4) Any 2000 piece and plus puzzle set. I think these are quite steep, please pool in with someone to get this. None of my gift-giving friends are earning in dollars yet.

5) Bookshelf for my room. Been asking for over a year. Either that or a sofa set. This is for those earning in dollars if you felt left out.

6) A pair of new fucking sneakers. I pitched in all my freelance money this Feb to buy a pair of Adidas Continentals only to find they're giant for me and ended up wearing them for two months. As a result, nobody's buying them off me and I don't want to spend more money on that. My shoe size is women's 6 (I think?) or men's 6 (are these different?). I bought a 7 and it was too big, which makes me wonder cause my 7-year-old sneakers from Adidas are size 7 and they fit well. Help. No, seriously. Urgently needed. Again, this shit is expensive. Maybe 5 people can pool in money together. Have you started Snobster's birthday crowdfunding project yet?

7) Doc Martens. No way in hell am I spending my money buying those but man, they look so fucking good.

8) Shasn. Mia K thinks it's a terrible idea to put money into something that I won't get before 2020 but then I put 2 years of my life into MPhil and got no degree so I'm that person just about any-fucking-way.

9) A new swimsuit. Ooh, this is interesting. I've image references for what I'd like (text me) and I can't seem to find a place to buy online. I'm thinking black, understated, sexy or fuschia fitted or gold with just a hint of sexy. This can't be mass-produced or bought from a crap e-commerce website that all of Delhi Metro women compartment buys from. Please spare me that stuff. Come empty-handed to wish me if that's your instinct to buy. This is more research-intensive than expensive.

10) Uber gift card? I don't know why are you reading this if you want to get this?

11) Crockery. I'm that person now, yeah. I could do with chic whiskey glasses (please, please text me for image reference) or giant wine glass set. Maybe even blue pottery plates and serving bowls.,

12) Single bed black cotton bed sheets. Double bed would do too. Remember cotton and black. Plain fucking black. No embroidery or design or texture or anything. Plain black.

13) Gel fucking eyeliner. Check if my sister has bought this. I don't have an eyeliner. Can you fucking believe how the mighty have fallen? I think Maybelline's is okay unless someone has a better recommendation. I was told Mac does it well but they test on animals and ever since I found out I make it a point to avoid any new Mac purchase.

14) Victoria's Secret Body Mist. If someone's coming down from the US, catch hold of them. These are the cheapest there. Don't bring me Bath and Body Works Body Mist or buy VS' from anywhere but the US. They all suck except the ones listed here.

15) This calendar.

16) A backpack that looks exactly like this or better still this. The brief really is a classic black backpack. Don't make me cringe with your choice.

17) Body shower gel from Marks and Spencer. International outlets have the best ones. Even handwash gels are great.

18) Clothes are a great idea but only if you'd like to take me shopping. Socks aren't a great idea, I've too many of them. We could go to my favourite boutique in Humayunpur and you could get me more clothes that I have no place to wear except dates which I've stopped going on completely. On a serious note, basic 3/4 sleeve t-shirts are a welcome idea but in person, please. I like to feel the material and know what I'm signing up for.

19) A Bobbi Brown Lipstick. Ask AJ the shade she has that I've been trying to steal from her. It's steep as fuck, please don't buy it yourself unless you earn in dollars and definitely don't buy a replacement from another brand. Unless it's Nars. Nars has really cool stuff. Actually, a nice milk chocolate matte would be good. Don't get Lakmé, please.

20) Bunny.  a kitten would be good.

Consolatory ideas: skipping rope, The Office (US) merchandise (no round neck t-shirts), a new cellphone, cinnamon toothpaste, a paid vacation to Sri Lanka, my friend Lucas Moraes from Brazil, film tickets coupon, a tall man to cuddle this Fall, fix my laptop, gym membership, yoga lessons, rainbow cream cheese cake from my erstwhile intern's mom's kitchen, bedside lamp (check image references with me). 

On my birthday eve last year, I found myself going through a rather moving experience. I have been thinking about it, if not every day, at least once a week since the episode. I had a revelation about it recently.

During my brief time in London, I decided to schedule a visit to St. Paul's Cathedral. Friends, convent school hangover and sightseeing porn together, I was on a high to include as much as possible. However, if I'd planned better between sleeping and wasting my hours drinking, I'd have managed to attend the Sunday mass. Clearly, planning my life isn't a priority in my case.

After changing two buses and walking a fair bit, I managed to reach the place and stood in the queue to get the ticket. It was the only ticketed space beside the musical I paid for and didn't quite mind paying to get in. Again, call it the convent school hangover but I'd have probably not done the same for another religious institute doing the same. My first impression of St. Paul's was extremely underwhelming. This is what these two friends were raving about? Sure, it's beautiful with all the art and the architectural design but man, it was underwhelming.

Somehow, after checking about the entire space, I found myself kneeling and crying loudly. It was surreal. I'd not done this, insofar as going inside a religious space to "pray" and I did not plan to do this. It just happened.

As soon as I kneeled down to offer a prayer, I burst out crying. All of the past year, my family, people I love and everyone else came to my mind and how everyone conspired to make the trip happen. What seems so trivial to people when they say they "travel" took years to happen and for me to experience that. I found myself in the church a few hours before my birthday and it seemed like an occasion just as good as any to be thankful to that imaginary man or woman we apparently pray to, to hear us and apparently answer for our wishes.

It was heavy and moving and all-consuming. It took me a long time to get out of the place in a state where I wasn't embarrassed to walk out with a face all puffy. When I got sloshed out of my mind that night, I recall mentioning this to a friend in a pub's washroom. My guess is that she doesn't remember and I'd have it that way.

I think about that day a lot. The last three months when I was bummed, I would often go back to that day and think that if things had to be a certain way, it would be. Causation is the guiding force here. We can't make things happen out of thin air, every little thing has a solid reason behind it - for its existence, for its purpose to be fulfilled.

It made total sense to me then, when I realized, I burst out crying in the church because I was pms-ing unknowingly. My cycle had fucked completely and I got my period in exactly three weeks. In this case, three days after that incident when I was 35000 feet up in the air, crying and drinking about this whole journey coming to an end.

Sometimes, I wait for an episode in entirety to end, just so I can have the last laugh. So what if I didn't get the Commonwealth Scholarship to study Anthropology of Media. I went to a film school and learned puppetry and did theatre and met some great people who I know call friends. I don't have a loan to repay and I certainly don't have a care in the world, if it means for me to quit my job and sit my ass at home because it's not worth my time.

I guess I gave Jesus a lot more credit than he deserves when it was all about my unfertilized eggs. Years ago, when we were in school and working on "Easter" themed Bulletin Board design competition between classes, I recall Sr Joyce walking past and telling me, "Your eggs are flying" while signalling to the paper eggs I'd drawn. Never has anything made more sense than her premonition about this entire episode.

About three months ago, I'd have chided at anyone who would have asked me my take on PhD.

But also, three months ago I was a totally different person.
Dead on the inside, if you must.

Heraclitus was right, you change just as soon as your thought does. Probably faster than the time it takes for the rays of the Sun to reach Earth. 8 minutes is a decent time to be one version of yourself.

If you've been following this page then you'd know that I also nearly died. PhD would be useless in the event of a death.

I mean, what sort of doctor can't save their life from Malaria? (question)
The kind that does a PhD in Cinema. (answer)

A step away from being vixen Doctor and about 10k odds words away from sealing the deal, but did I want to step in that boat twice? (the answer is no, in case you're looking for it).

Then, something happened.

Three odd days ago, I woke up to a deadline reminder for pitching my proposal to the faculty at large. "8 May is the final date. Call me and we'll discuss."

Owing largely to the ill health of me and mine, I was going to take the semester break and give myself a buffer period to bounce back.

However, here's the thing with me. If you're me, you don't do downtime. You don't put your life on buffer and stare at the screen to let the events unfold as they desire.

You grab life by the balls. You go down on it, you own it and tighten the grip because you're taught just as much. Never give up, don't bow down to the circumstances. You're a fighter, give that dirty cock a good squeeze and take the life out of it.

"I was thinking, instead of you know, the Kardashians, how about I work on Netflix as a new medium of television...like post TV but on the internet?"

"That's a great idea."

72 hours, a few emails and a packed weekend later, we're getting down and dirty.

Bring that roof down, son. I'm coming for the last hurrah.

Writing, like most notable arts, comes from the darkest corners of despair.

Also at this point, I would like to confess, I know not what other corners actually offer despair besides darkness. Bear with me, in all these years, this is by far the worst post I have written at the end of the year. My year end posts are legendary, so hilarious and thus, coming from a spot which is so dark that it could put coal matcha ice cream to shame.

It's kinda not the same this year. Well, just not as much as I would like.

I recall the last year's New Year's eve and my state of mind. I was fighting against all odds to keep a straight face, determined to make it through to the next, knowing that it would be a battle to weed out my insecurities.

My insecurities, you ask. What can be possibly wrong when you're young and virile and have a job and friends who like you and a house to live in with a stable WiFi connection.

My braces were in tact, I was covered in chicken pox marks and life was at an all time low. I was at least ten kilos fatter than what I used to weigh and look. This page was dead. I wasn't writing. I wasn't reading just as much as I would have liked myself to. I had no semblance of a life besides spending money on food takeaways tri-weekly. That was my source of entertainment.

I knew, this was the point when I had to stop feeling sorry for myself and get my shit together.

It took me year but I was able to tick a whole bunch of things off my Summer bucket list, by which time I had just started my "eating clean" regime. I was struggling to keep it all together. The only thing that truly helped was that my jaw looked fantastic. The braces had come off and I was writing twice a week.

In the last six months, I have done things that I never imagined I was capable of doing. Physically, mentally and emotionally- on all counts I have really stretched my patience thin and realized I am made of steel. I can give so much more and change just so much if I put determination to it.

Of course, there's that thing about luck as well. But things just as simple as putting a work out together requires little luck. This year was all about cutting luck out of life and working smartly, and puttin in hard work.

It sounds like a lot of gassing but if you're me, you're only going to have this sense of satisfaction.



I made out of 2017 alive, kicking and being even more sassy than ever. I have done a whole bunch of books which adorn the shelves at bookstores in India. I am working on making a better version of my body every single day, I write with an unabashed sense of freedom, one that I never experienced before this. I have people who take me seriously, who value my opinion and read my painful bi-weekly deadline reminder emails from me. I have been told I give real good head and I have managed to make myself look good in cropped sweaters. I have managed to stop eating chips and stop pegging my happiness on food.

This is as good as it gets. With one too many hiccups in this year,  I was able to pull off a whole lot.

Bring it on, 2018. I'm going to nail you down just as hard as Jaysus was nailed.

Ah-men.

"Now that you've had a trim, I can't wait for your life to change."

I had hoped my mother would stumble upon Tom Hiddleston who would take her first born as his lawfully, soon-to-be bedded wife. That's quite a life changing deal in exchange of a hair cut, alright. However, her life did change. Six hours after the wretched hair cut, she landed up in the ER.

I, in my bed, stared at the ceiling all night long. In my head, one question. "Is this the life changing moment I was awaiting?"

Everyone has a bag of ridiculous supestitions. There's a varying degree to pick from, from people who wouldn't cross the road after a black cat walks over, to people who consider, hair cuts are life changing. There's a measure for superstitions. Mine, ofcourse, is all in my head. Garbage pile.

Thus, everything connects to hair on the head. The pile of garbage to life changing luck.

I was 13 years old when I had a life changing haircut. Wanting to be one of the cool kids, I decided against the advice of my mother and late grandmother and opted for what's strangely named, "Razor Cut".

That was everything except the fucking haircut I wanted. It's also another reason I don't trust barbers one bit.

The next haircut that I visibly remember is at 21. I was struggling to get admitted into a post graduate course here, in India. Despite having made it in the UK, I didn't want to take a loan and spend the better part of my 20s paying that.

I had hit the point of frustrating dead end, after having appeared in eight odd entrances and had cleared one, which I had no intention of going through with. Raging poverty with a Masters in Philosophy was not an alternative to paying the loan.

Back in the day, I had obnoxious Orangutan red hair colour that was left with a residue of ugly golden tail. Sitting with utter frustration, one morning before heading out of the house, I handed my mother a pair of scissors and asked her to chop it off.

Four hours later, the college I was not nearly eyeing but had my last shot at gave my mother a call. "Please deposit the fee. She's made it past the wait list."

By the time this could sink in, I got another news. I had topped my college in the final year examinations. Undergraduate in Philosophy, shining with the best of grades.

Man, I remember being thrilled. Followed by passing out in the washroom. A story for another day.

The next hair cut happened at 24. I was struggling with the Grad School. To be precise, struggling to exit. The tails needed to come undone and breathe life into my hair, a tactic I believed could ressurect my life.

Four inches short, I felt light in the head, not to forget how much of a change it added to my face. In under a month of that almost too dramatic a change for me, I was seeing someone and had snagged a job in publishing. I was elated.

Naturally, last week when I went for the coveted tail cutting, I knew life would bypass a certain change. An entry of sorts and exit for another. A job change? Two sizes for clothes? I don't know.

However, what I didn't anticipate at all was sleeping on the bench in the hospital within 24 hours of that wretched hair trim.

I joked to my mother on the second day, "See, I told you life would change."

Her expression translated to "Fuck you."

Sixth day in, she was home. I was convinced that's all for a change and surprise this time. And by my standard, I had done okay at all the change. I had flipped out only twice in those five days and managed to keep a nearly straight face at most people, situations and things at work- something I was doing for the first time since a family member landed at the hospital.

This was ofcourse until I got a Whatsapp text from my academic advisor.

"...you have to defend your proposal by the end of this winter semester. That is around May. Please let us start work on it if you are interested in your PhD."

Fuck. My. Life.

Un-used ISBN number. 

Meghna Talwar edition

"What day is Christmas?"

"Monday."

"No, no. I mean like the date?"

"It's Jesus' birthday. WHY DO YOU NOT KNOW THAT?"

"Haan, I don't know. When is it? Shame on my Catholic School Upbringing."


Mr Malik edition

"You know, Justice League was basically Sallu and friends."

"(laughs) What?"

"Yeah, Superman is Sallu and the rest are his friends."

"Ohh (laughs)."

"Yeah, and Batman is Punjabi."

"(laughs) WHAT?"

"Yeah haven't you seen Batman Begins?"

"Ofcourse I have. When does it say..."

"Yeah so like Bruce Wayne's dad gives him lots of money, he has lots of money and then he gets slapped by that girl, arey that journalist slaps him, and he drives that expensive car at night and beats up all the  men. He's so totally Punjabi rich kid from Punjabi Bagh, or even Paschim Vihar."


Mia K edition

"OMG I didn't recognize you. You've lost so much weight and that ass, I was looking at it like shit is that Baby Banana's ass? It looks so small."

"Dude my ass was always small. Like there was nothing."

"Please, your ass was a nice shape. Hourglass round and all."

"And now you don't recognize it one bit. That's what your boyfriend has done. All his fault."

"My boyfriend is an ass man, you know. It's really sad... (NSFW)."

"Shove some basil up your ass and serve him a nice, hot plate of Pesto Pasta for Christmas. I'm sure both of you will enjoy that Italian meal you've been calling me for since eternity."



Anid edition

"Your view to the sizing up of each other was the crushed dreams and hopes of all these young people who went to IIT. Very nice. How do you ever plan to take your shameless face there again? You've been there while growing up, with us, with your dates and now this. Very nice."

Which ever one of you is digging posts from 2011, please go kill yourself.

I looked the stats up today-because what better plans than a reality check- only to be surprised by some motherfucker who's digging stuff from all the way back when I was in undergrad.

I tried reading some of the stuff I had written back then. Pretty sure I'm down with cancer. What's funny is that I had more readers then, than I have now, despite not putting a face to this page for a little over eight years. Sucks to be me, eh?

Earlier today when I was stuffing my face with protein enough to cure malnutrition in the remote districts of Telangana- a problem one "CTB" is trying to address in a mind numbing way to earn monies (partly encouraged by the work place and partly by me), when I got down to watching Bareilly Ki Barfi (2017, dir Ashwiny Iyer Tiwari).

I remember trying very hard to manage to catch a screening at a theatre but somehow doing books on a deadline was more of a priority in life. The only solace, however, was that my mother dissed the film left, right and center and that kind of helped me get over the fomo I had while trying to survive the work.

The film, by the by, is utter nonsense. Waste of time and digital bits, this film made me question (and answer the same questions) as to why publishing is doomed and how we all completely deserve a new plague.

The premise centers around this printing press owner/closet writer who self publishes a sob story on the life and times of his erstwhile love, who's now married to some dude who got no screentime to begin with.

To be honest, if you're that dude and your competition is a writer with a dimple, you deserve no screentime and no girl in the end. Guys with the dimples do it better.
However, this is a film and the screenplay writer decided to be fair so they offered the dimple-less dude that chick in the plot.

Where was I? The sob story writer yes.

Our tragic hero publishes his magnum opus and continues to drink himself to death.

Now, as a publisher, I can safely say the bigger tragedy was his book not doing well, in the absence of a well devised marketing plan but the softie in me disagrees. It's because the dude was in love, that's probably why his book was shit.

When you're in love, anything you do is shit. You write shit. You eat shit. You read shit. You create shit.

Everything is shit when you're in love.

I haven't seen a person with favourable kind of love, the one that works out well for them and they proceed to make good art.

Either you can make good art or love. In this case, the dude chose to be in love and wrote shit. What happened next, will blow your mind.
(no, I swear. It's incredibly dumb)

The girl, a spitting personality of the girl our tragic hero has written about, stumbles upon this book in an amazing set up of when she's attempting to run away from her house. She bargains with the bookseller and buys the paperback for under 100 bucks- perhaps the only real moment in the film.

She reads and discovers that the tragic hero has literally described her- because when I'm self-absorbed and I claim a dude has written a whole poem for me I'm being laughed at but when a film character says a failed pulp fiction is based on her then she's right, woohoo, let's do a whole film on that plot.

I digress, but coming back to the most amazing part of this film. The girl tries her level best to find the author. How she does it is the highlight of my day.

She goes to the bookseller, the guy on the railway platform and asks where she can find the author.

Unskilled couth, if only she had read some more books in her life she'd know the publisher's details are in the copyright page and on the cover and that she should have just contacted them without hesitation.

Then again, what happens next is just mind blowing.

Because this is a film, the seller happens to be publisher/author's friend and decides to tell the dude. The dude aka the tragic hero in turn stalks the girl slyly to find out that she's pretty young thing and he should have some fun for the lack of hobbies.



He decides to engage this girl in letter writing by pretending to know the author.

Now here's what. All this shit was okay, but it's not normal to engage with someone and not know it's them, if you claim to like/love their work.

If a dude helps me out of the way, for no fucking reason, reaching out to the man I'm crushing on and he ends up sounding just as similar as the author, the researcher in me would be alarmed.

Why is the dude helping me?

Why is the man so invested in my business?

Why does he sound awfully similar to a dude whose writing I'm fussing over on Saturday night?

I guess when they say I need pot to calm down, they're not wrong. I should get some because this fucking film has really pissed me off.

HOW DUMB IS EVERYONE TO NOT KNOW HOW TO REACH OUT TO AN AUTHOR? THAT IS LITERALLY THE DUMBEST THING EVER.

I guess some people get a dimpled, published author with a book dedicated to them in entirity while the others continue to be skeptical losers in their bedroom, writing about unbelievable fiction.

Three words that put the fear of god in me aren't "I Love You." They're something even scarier, a question full of hope.

If you can't feign a guess let me give that one right up (because it's 12:50 am on a Friday and I am feeling sick after all the Pork Bulgogi I'm not used to eating anymore).

Let's schedule meeting?





No. Never. 

Incase you didn't get that, I hate meetings. More than I hate Coldplay and F.R.I.E.N.D.S or Butter Chicken. I still think a band like Coldplay offers something. A meeting, on the other hand, doesn't offer crap. It is a construct to eat into your time and make you feel real silly by the end of it. A meeting is as useless as eating bad momos, or using toilet paper over health faucet. Nobody cares about toilet paper. It hurts, okay?

Attendance in meetings is just as painful as living with a butthole after exposing it to the coarse texture of the toilet paper. Meetings that go on anything more than twenty minutes hurt more than toilet paper on arse, after three days, if you have used water all your life.

Toilet papers are the worst. I digress but I hate the idea of meetings just as much as I hate using toilet paper.

Meetings are the curse of mankind. In a hierarchy pyramid of the worst kind of urban torture imposed on healthy, sane adults, meetings are parallel to the idea of self actualization. The parties involved in the success of a meeting know everything, the case, its symptoms and the diagnosis but yet are reticent. They will insist upon wasting your time and their time on company's time and take you through some real banal shit while you dream on about the cruise vacation you could afford if you picked up a shit, mindless writing job in some obnoxious corner of Delhi NCR. Sure, you'd lose your clients and your residence's proximity to work, but you'd gain in money and money can buy you a trip to Lake Como.

Wait, we are still at the meeting.

Successful meetings have a thing in common. The parties involved never digress. They come together, find solutions and keep the negative away (haha, suck it Maya Angelou). However, most meetings like real people have flaws and they always fucking digress. Nice dress, where's it from to Haha can you please not use images of kids, maybe it will prevent a known sexual predator from Croatia to not show up in India to find that kid to sexually molest, everything comes in together, in betwene work and camaraderie.

All in good spirit. Just as how meetings are.

Off late, I realized I considered the attendance of meeting as highly successful adults brainstorming to change the world and make it a better place.

However, as someone who gets regular emails from people to have a meeting, let me break your bubble and say no. Meetings are the biggest professional lie that HR initiated for people to feel welcome and loved in the organizational setup. Nobody cares for you and certainly wants you, especially the youngest employee forced to be sitting there, who could really be online shopping feverishly, just as much as her neighbour on probation does.

Where was I? Meetings, yes.

Meetings are also painful when they're set without your consent and you're just expected to be there.

You can't be kidding me Srishti? You'd like me to meet your clients and your hotel and your boyfriend all on the same day which happens to be the weekend? Who are you and why should I even do this for you? 

In my limited tenure of professional bullshit, there's not been a single meeting where we discussed stuff which came in handy. Sure, I have initiated meetings and yes, hypocrite of me to request to be a part of some of them. However, they made up since there was emotional compensation such as food involved or there's some person whose presence made up for it- a boss who was supportive, a colleague who scribbled on my notebook, "you've lost weight. You look skinnier than ever" or even facts that made me say, "HA! IN YOUR FACE ASSHOLE".

Largely, it's been the last point.

Meetings are vindictive in nature. Since there's no font for Sarcasm yet, we have meetings to make up for being snarky.

I think that's more than enough rant and a mental preparation for me prepare myself for a Meh-ting Monday which involves two back to back meetings. No amount of good/bad weather walk or Tequila shots can help ease the pain. Talking about the problem, however, does a lot of good.

Me-ting me soon, are you?