Perfumes of Gurugram!

I don’t know which is better - too much perfume or none at all. 

The other day I was stuck inside a lift with both varieties – the fragrant and the fetid – and I came out smelling like an animal that had died inside an exotic flower garden.
 
I wish people would bathe regularly (read: daily) instead of using perfume to disguise body odour. It doesn’t work people. You are still smelly. 
 
I can understand folks dealing with mental health issues that make it difficult to get up and have a shower every day. But the others, what’s your excuse?
 
Water is inexpensive and while not available in plenty, one shower a day is manageable. It would cut down your perfume bills by half. And our elevators could be rid of ghastly smells.
 
In fact, most days I am huffing and puffing my way down from the fourth floor of my condo just to avoid being in a lift with the perfumed elites (as I’d like to call them). And no, the masks do not keep out the stink.
 
Folks in the Medieval Ages didn’t bathe regularly. The Mayflower Pilgrims had an aversion to bathing. Even French King Louis XIV was scared of baths. Legend has it that he had three baths in his entire life. Water was rumoured to spread disease so the rich bathed less. But it’s been centuries since the Middle Ages and the French Revolution. I wonder what keeps the Gurgaon elites from bathing daily? Are the fancy washrooms featured on the décor mags just for show? 
 
On a recent visit to the mall, I noticed a swish new store with glitzy black-and-gold décor and smartly attired salesmen. My neighbour whispered that Oudh Arabia was a premium Dubai-based perfume brand and that we were spoilt for choice with Sephora next door. I felt faint and there was a ringing in my ears. On hindsight, I think it was Lady Macbeth’s voice.
 
“All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten my little elevator. Oh, oh, oh!”
 

Leftovers

 

Photograph: my own

The eight-year-old stood outside the shop, clutching her mother’s hand. A few of their neighbours waited alongside them. Shakti mashi from down the hall, Amina khala from next door, Rani who had recently delivered a baby girl but was no more than a girl herself. 
 
The women weren’t smiling at her today or ruffling the curls on her head indulgently. Instead - their eyes were trained on the entrance to the shop – keenly watching the arrivals and exits. Each time, the door was pushed open, the smell of fresh fish wafted across to the girl’s nostrils accompanied by a blast of cold air.
 
At the end of each week, the girl’s mother along with a few others gathered in front of the fish shop at noon. After wealthy patrons had left with the good cuts, the women took their pick from the remains – mostly innards and guts, bloody bits of head and tail. For a few rupees, they were able to get enough for a spicy fish stew.
 
The little girl licked her lips at the thought of her mother frying bits and pieces in scalding hot oil and immersing them in a rich gravy made with onions, ginger and garlic. Her belly rumbled with hunger. She hadn’t eaten anything since dawn when the two of them had left the house. She accompanied Amma, like most days, as her mother went from house to house doing domestic chores in exchange for money. Wiping the sweat trickling down the sides of her face with her dress, the little girl tugged at her mother’s saree. Shhh, Amma whispered, her body rigid, eyes focused on the store. Be patient, our turn will come soon.
 
The customers filtered out one by one. A lady wearing sunglasses and a shiny red dress passed by leaving behind clouds of sweet-smelling fragrance. Another woman, wearing fine clothes and a chauffeur in tow carrying several polythene bags. A man, thin as a reed, walked away quickly, muttering angrily under his breath as he spotted the dishevelled lot by the side of the shop. The little girl frowned as she caught the look in his eyes. She hadn’t seen anyone look at her with such distaste before. She suddenly felt ashamed of her printed dress and slippers, donated by one of her mother’s employers.
 
Her mother tugged her hand. One by one the women were walking into the shop. Pulses racing, the little girl followed her mother into an airconditioned room. A sour-faced-man on his haunches stared down at them from the marble counter. There’s nothing left today, he shrugged, gesturing towards the plastic bucket next to him, containing pinkish-red water.
 
The mother let out a resigned sigh, her bony shoulders hunched in defeat. She dragged her daughter out of the shop into the sunlight. The little girl turned around for one last look before the doors swung shut. The man was rinsing his knife with water from the bucket. She closed her eyes and breathed in the smell before committing it to memory.

 

 

Age is but a number. Not!

The internet is full of helpful articles on how to combat ageism during the job search. Rejig your resume, the experts say. Remove all references to your age. Focus on your skills instead and how you can provide value to the company.

Fair enough. I decided to follow their advice. After all, an expert is an expert, right? So I rewrote my resume focusing on my skills and removed all references to my age. Not that I’m Jurassic by any stretch. But I merely wanted to give it my best shot so I played along.

Unfortunately what the internet won’t tell you is that the rot lies deep. No matter what companies will mouth at conferences or releases, ageism is an unpleasant reality at most workplaces. For women at least.
At a recent interview with a young, international EdTech startup, the interviewer – a bright young thing - gushed about my resume and said the talent team were very impressed with my credentials. That made my eyes sparkle. More so, since I’d just caught Covid and determined not to let the virus slow me down in any way, I had logged in bright and early for the online interview. I had decided to ignore my raging fever and nagging headache and go for it. And the initial validation from her made me feel that perhaps it would be worth it.

But in the next couple of minutes, the interview went rapidly downhill. The woman kept trying to find out when I had worked at X company or at Y agency. I don’t see any dates here, she said squinting at her laptop where presumably my resume was displayed. Can you give me an idea of the time period?

I realized at once what she was getting at and I told her the dates without dilly dallying. As soon as she heard that I had worked at X company in the late nineties, her eyebrows all but disappeared into her hair. She ended the interview rather abruptly after that promising to get back soon.

She got back the next day saying I hadn’t made the cut. But I already knew that. Working in the nineties had already disqualified me. The next couple of interviews would be uncannily similar. The same open-mouthed surprise. “Oh, we were expecting someone much younger” or “You are far too senior for this role.”

I am wondering whether I should put an end to the job hunt. If this is the way it is going to be, I’d rather not be discriminated against. But I’m not going to stop talking about it. And if necessary, call out companies for their ageist attitudes.

What do you think? Have you faced something similar? 

***

The original post appeared on LinkedIn. Read it here.

Brands and the Millennium City!

I can’t understand why folks are getting their knickers in a twist over a certain politician’s Louis Vuitton bag. Where I live, designer accessories are part and parcel of everyday life. From the little mouse in my apartment, the kids who land up at my doorstep on Halloween to my cleaning woman. Then, there are my friends and foes. 

Everyone has a thing about brands in Gurgaon.

 

The mouse will only nibble at branded cheese and turn up its little nose at anything else I place inside the trap. The trick-or-treaters insist on expensive candy and my cleaning woman has a shiny red designer clutch. Okay, it’s a Chanel knockoff but you get the drift.

 

If you can’t afford the real thing, you make do with a fake. Like my latest purchase. A pair of Adrcombie and Fetch sandals from the friendly neighbourhood shopping mall. There is absolutely no way you can tell that it’s not the real thing. My big fat feet hiding the logo probably has something to do with it. But seriously folks, I am not kidding. Even our local cows will only shop for Washington apples at the fruit mart.

 

Personally I don’t think it’s a big deal. If you have a thing for brands and can afford them, why ever not? Though I do think some designer wares look quite obnoxious and while I wouldn’t spend my hard-earned money on them, I wouldn’t grudge someone who does. 

 

Growing up in Calcutta, shopping for brands meant trips to Fancy (Phency) Market in Khidderpore. My first Yamaha synthesizer was purchased from a dingy shop inside the market. The best part about going to Fancy Market those days was the thrill factor. There would be frequent police raids and one never knew whether or not the raid would happen in the middle of one’s shopping expedition. So you had to be really quick and watch your back all the time!

 

Then, there was the stretch along Chowringhee – from New Market to Dharamtolla where vendors would sell phoren goods traded by cash-strapped foreigners to pay for their expenses on holiday. A selection of watches, unwashed clothes, handbags, belts, sunglasses would be hung on the racks for sale. My friend even discovered a few dollars inside the bag she bought with her birthday money. 

 

A far cry from shopping for branded stuff in Gurgaon. Here it’s completely legit and above board. No chance of a police raid unless the shop keeper hasn’t paid his taxes or has murdered someone in cold blood. But my friends swear that shopping expeditions to swanky malls are just as adrenaline-inducing. Since I’ve never been one to get my kicks that way - give me a trip to Fancy Market in the eighties any day. Throw in a time machine too.

10 Types Of Parties That Will Destroy Your Day

Courtesy: Anja  Rabenstein

Gone are the days when an invitation to a party filled the heart with much joy. But then, life is so very different when you are six and have an evening of birthday cake, games and take-home goodies to look forward to. Sigh. At the wrong side of 40, I find my heart sinking at the thought of another party. Joy has been replaced by dread and the only piñata I look forward to smashing has an uncanny resemblance to the host's head!

There's no way you can escape. The doors are locked. You might consider jumping out of the balcony in extreme cases. Death seems preferable to this ordeal.

 

If all of this sounds rather extreme to you, perhaps you haven't had the good fortune to be invited to the wrong kind of parties. Thank your lucky stars! If you had, you might have seen the woman sulking in the corner, glowering at all and sundry, blaming the world for her misfortune. Yes, I'm the one who couldn't get away.

 

Do you feel my pain? Read on to find out whether you have been to any of these dos:

 

1. Musical soiree

 

This one is strangely reminiscent of a hostage crisis. You and a motley group of individuals are taken captive by the host or hostess and tortured by an unending medley of songs (original or covers)/instrument recitals/recitation/impromptu dance performances. One after another. Then another. And another. If that wasn't enough, there are a few people recording your agony on their smartphones, though I don't think any television channel would be interested in airing this show. There's no way you can escape. The doors are locked. You might consider jumping out of the balcony in extreme cases. Death seems preferable to this ordeal.

 

2. Potluck party

 

This one makes Breaking Bad look like Candy Land. This isn't the kind of potluck party where you show up with Tupperware filled with your signature curry. Potluck means pot-luck. Everyone around you is puffing away to glory, squinting their eyes and laughing a great deal. They are on top of the world while you stumble from one corner to the next trying to find some clean air to breathe. Gasp!

 

3. Selfie party

 

You better have your best clothes on for this one. Picture perfect makeup and not a hair out of place. Oh, did I forget the pout? The hostess will corner you at every step, whip out her smartphone and click selfies. One near the stairs, another next to the dining table, another one on the balcony. Oh dear, the light is too dim on the balcony, my double chin looks exaggerated. Let's get one with the dog and the goldfish in the bowl instead. If you are lucky, you can throw her smartphone out the window when she's not looking. Dogs don't just eat homework these days. That's your excuse.

 

4. Spiritual party

 

This one is a real nuisance if you are a non-believer like me. You can't hurt the host's feeling or religious sentiments so you fall in line without overt protest. If you think the ordeal ends with the prayers, you're wrong. There's song and dance too. Much swaying, clapping and waving of hands. Perhaps you can stretch your arms out a wee bit and strangle the host. That might end the agony.

 

5. Housewarming party

 

This one should be called "Buy Me A Present Party" because that is what you are expected to do. Buy a ridiculously expensive gift in exchange for a conducted tour around someone's new home. Marvel at the godawful décor, bizarre colour scheme and the rather strange curios and paintings the host brought back from his latest trip (read Chatuchak Market) abroad. I'd rather courier the gift and skip the tour. Thanks but no thanks!

 

6. Office party

 

You see them every single day of the year. Why on earth would you want to socialize with them over some flat Coca Cola, chips and stale pizza while Daler Mehndi belts out ancient balle balle numbers over a music system? Oh wait, there's Antakshari too. You are herded into a circle and you have to start singing Bollywood songs. A for Aaja AajaMein Hoon Pyar Tera! Arrrrrrrgh, come and kill me now!

 

7. Kiddie birthday party

 

Three words for this one. Are you nuts? Wailing children, maids in tow and yummy mummies do not a good party make. There's one person in the crowd who's looks sorrier than you do. The magician that the host hired to do magic tricks for the little brats. Wait a minute, isn't he getting paid for the magic tricks? If you pay me, I might show you a trick. I will do the disappearing act for you!

 

8. Wellness party

 

If you think discussing nutrition, dietary supplements and fitness was my idea of fun, you might want to take a hike. Literally and figuratively. It would do you a world of good. Keep me far away from the nuts and seeds. Those are for birds and I'm not one. In fact, I don't particularly like birds or bird food. The lecture on transfats will be wasted on me so spare me the invite. I'm going to Wendy's instead. I have a date with their Baconator!

 

9. Diwali party

 

I'm quite sure Agatha Christie was invited to a Diwali party once and her angst at the ordeal drove her to write Cards on the Table where the host Mr Shaitana was murdered after a bridge get-together! Get the drift? I'm a writer too and I might end up murdering you in my next book. So save me the invite and keep your cards close to your chest for this one!

 

10. Theme party

 

Dressing up as Morticia Addams for an entire evening is not my thing. Don't get me wrong. I love ghosts and ghouls but only in books and movies. I don't want to mingle with them in a party over chicken tikka kabab and Breezers. I'm not too fond of movie stars either so don't expect me to turn up with my bouffant hairstyle, flared pants and over-sized goggles if you are planning a Bollywood retro party. I tried to make myself look like Whitney Houston for a party once when I was a teen but an allergic reaction to the lacquer from the perm made my face swell up like a puffer fish. Need I say more?

 

First published in Huffington Post

Tea and snakes!

I’m thrilled that wildlife is reclaiming its territories from human beings. But I refuse to give my kitchen up to a snake. Or my sofa for that matter. 

Gurgaon’s snakes are now making their way into condominiums and penthouses for a taste of urban living. Not content with slithering around gardens and car parks, these reptiles are climbing up drainage pipes and stairwells into apartments.

 

I can’t blame them really. I’d trade the Aravallis for the Aralias any day. But the residents aren’t exactly ecstatic with the new company. 

 

A few years back, a woman went to make herself a cup of tea in the morning and found a snake curled up on her gas stove. By the time she had brought the place down with her screams, wildlife officials arrived to take the snake away. And they had the audacity to call it a “distressed” reptile. I’m not sure who was more distressed. The woman or the snake.

 

Another chap found a snake cozying up on the sofa with him one night. Thankfully, he leapt out and called the wildlife department before the snake got too close. The snake was kept under observation and released into the wild. No news about the poor chap.

 

Stories like these in the newspapers are giving me the heebie jeebies. I give the kitchen a thorough inspection in the morning before I make myself a cup of tea these days. And I don’t venture into the bathroom without my spectacles on. The internet is rife with stories of snakes hiding inside commodes you see. And when the doorbell rings, I make sure that a snake hasn’t slithered its way to my doorstep along with the Amazon parcel I ordered. 

 

I am taking no chances.

 

I’ve read that around 20 species of snakes are native to the Aravallis and four of them, the monocled cobra, spectacled cobra, black cobra and the common krait, are really poisonous. These four snakes are given the highest level of protection by law under the Scheduled II species of the Indian Wildlife Protection Act, 1972. That’s well and good but what about extending some of that protection to humans as well? All lives matter -- as far as I’m concerned. 

 

Did you know that even Salman Khan was not spared? The actor was bitten thrice at his Panvel farmhouse! As if once was not enough. One hell of a vindictive snake I'd say. Though I’m glad that he’s doing well now. Salman that is. Not the snake.

 

I’ve read snakes can’t stand the smell of garlic so I made a garlic repellent the other day and sprayed it liberally around the flat. The only problem is that it is so damn strong, I can’t stand the smell of it either. So I might have to move homes soon.

 

Snake – 1. Human – 0.

 

Mapping Misadventures!

pic courtesy: pixabay

When we moved to Gurgaon decades back, the first thing we did was to buy ourself a map of Delhi/NCR. Best decision ever. We spent the first decade navigating in and out of Gurgaon and Delhi holding on to the Eicher city map for dear life. And it never let us down. I would provide the directions, the husband would drive and we would find our way to places we wanted to find.

Technology changed all that. With the arrival of smartphones and Google Maps, navigation became a nuisance. Now I’m not a luddite - my wariness is well-founded. Google Maps has landed us in many sticky situations over the years. There were times when it promised us a smooth road but delivered a cow-dung-plastered brick wall instead. At other times, what was meant to be a highway turned out to be a unnavigable dirt track and we had to retrace our steps throwing angry expletives at whoever happened to be in our way. The worst was when we turned a corner while racing down a village road and found ourselves in someone’s courtyard. Now I don’t know who was more shocked – me and the husband or the group of Haryanvi elders on their charpoy peacefully smoking a hookah on a lazy Sunday afternoon. Thankfully, they did not make us sweep their courtyard. They just blinked at us in confusion while we reversed in haste and made a dash for it with indignant street dogs on the chase.

 

Just the memory of that day makes me flush.

 

I feel sorry for the man who was misled by Google Maps and made to sweep the road. But then again, I feel sorry for the guard who probably has a thing about muddy tyre tracks on clean roads. I would have hated it too. Let’s hope they sort their differences amicably. After all, keeping a road clean is a civic duty. Hardly a harsh punishment.

As for me, I will keep the Eicher guide handy on my next long drive. Just in case.