The Post from Departures, IGI - T3 (there had to be one)

On my first evening here, I was walking around CP with a friend, and I remember looking around the Inner Circle and telling him I really, really liked this place. Later, as we walked to get some dinner, I voiced what I have known all this time. 

I love this city an irrational amount. It doesn't make sense to me how passionately I feel about it - and honestly, I have stopped trying to look for reasons. I love it - what else is there to say?

I came back to Delhi after three years. Less than three years, actually, but my last two visits didn't really qualify as visits - I barely got to spend any time with the city. The last time I was here, I broke my heart in more ways than one. There was even a phase, somewhere between then and now, when I had given up on being able to return. Not stopped loving Delhi - never stopped loving Delhi - but begun to despair about the chance to come back.

In the last three years, I have spent a lot of time in several other cities, mostly Mumbai and Kolkata. They're beautiful places. Kolkata is steeped in culture and old-world charm, and Mumbai is historically beautiful - if you get what I mean - and breathtakingly modern at the same time. Kolkata is like a tattered, dog-eared book of verses, with notes in the margins of its pages. Mumbai is all bright lights, curving flyovers and expressways and feisty sea. It's a lot like the bhelpuri served on its streets and its beaches - a little bit of everything, bright, colourful, tangy and full of surprises. And between 11 p.m. and 6 a.m., it is nothing short of seductive.

But Delhi...oh, Delhi.

Oh, Delhi.

I slip into its warm, teasing embrace without knowing it. I don't know what to make of its sights and sounds and colours and moods - I know them with the intimacy that only incontrovertible love can bring, and they still awe and inspire me. Delhi makes me happy. Yes, Delhi is poetry and madness and passion and love and identity and challenge to me - but it makes me happy the way nothing else ever has. Happy, plain and simple.   I realise now that when  I left Delhi in 2010, I left a little bit of myself behind - and it wasn't intentional. When is it ever? Delhi is where I found myself. They say falling in love makes you learn as much about yourself as about the other person. True, I think. I learned about Delhi and myself in equal measure. I unconsciously imbibed some of its traits. It made me a stronger person, it taught me never to be afraid to express myself. Above all, Delhi taught me to dream, to have bright, absurd ideas, and to believe that anything, anything is possible. It taught me to love uninhibitedly and passionately, it taught me to love without fearing rejection and pain - because it taught me that you can move past those things in time. It taught me to be honest, fearless and impulsive. I turned into me, here. And Delhi loved me back. So when I moved out, I found some part of me missing, and I knew that Delhi had claimed some of me for good. I didn't bother claiming it back. I didn't want to. I wanted some of me to stay here.

And that is why I keep returning here. All the time, emotionally. As often as I can manage it, physically. I'm complete here. Delhi also taught me to go with the flow - and I have no clue where the flow is headed with me. It doesn't matter, though. There's some of me here, and even if the rest of me becomes untraceable, I'll know where to come back and graft myself a new soul.

March

March. The season of change. Time for spring, time for taxes, time for exams.

I've always loved this month. It's my month. Till a few years ago, I thought it felt mine because my birthday came at the end of it, and I had something to look forward to all month. But it feels the same now, just in a different way. I think birthdays are good, but I've moved past being especially excited about mine. March is still a favourite, though.

I've written about March before. I love this time of year too much to keep from talking about it every chance I get.

I realised it was March last week, when a sliver of sunlight awoke me at the same time that I inhaled morning air with a tinge of woodsmoke in it. I opened my eyes to a lot of green, some sky blue and a little gold at my window...and suddenly, panic gripped me with cold fingers. I know this feeling - bliss mixed hopelessly with panic. This is the feeling I awoke to every March morning between 2004 and 2007. University exams always began in the first week of April. It sounds terrible, maybe, but the sheer extremeness of the feeling is delicious, and if I were given a chance to do it all again, I would in a heartbeat.

March is beautiful, whether in Delhi or here in Calcutta. It is the same - cool mornings that brighten into intense afternoons and blend into relaxed, comfortable evenings. Something about this month spells new beginnings like nothing else can. I can't think of another month that I always wake up in such a good mood in - it is near-impossible not to love a March morning, no matter how early or late you make it.

I've been thinking about returning to my blog for months. Yet, it happened only last week. It wasn't planned that way. It's just March.

The Answer

She couldn't sleep.

It was a relatively new occurrence, she noticed. And it wasn't like she was not tired enough, or that she was depressed, or worried. She just couldn't sleep. She would stumble back home after twelve-hour workdays, scrape a meal out of whatever she could find in a refrigerator she was always too exhausted to stock, and collapse in front of the TV, bowl of cereal in one hand and the day's newspaper in the other. If she could muster the willpower and sheer physical energy, she would empty half her laundry hamper into a bucket of soapy water while she ate her dinner. By the time she was ready for bed, therefore, she was always bone-tired and more than ready to tune the world out.

Yet, she couldn't sleep.

She'd toss and turn, thinking thoughts she never allowed near herself all day, mapping the layout of her apartment, the city and the world, and locating herself on it. Sometimes, her thoughts turned to unfinished presentations and unanswered emails...but these worries usually faded out as seamlessly as they blended in. Mostly, her thoughts would take on an existential hue - just serious enough to escape being tagged ridiculous, never substantial enough to be labelled sublime. She'd remind herself that she had another long day coming up, that her body needed the rest. All she'd succeed in doing was forcing sleep farther away.

Somewhere between that point and the insistent, unnecessarily musical tone of her alarm, she would fall into deep, restful sleep. That was the only saving grace - sleep was hard to come by, but it was restful when it came.

She wondered when this had happened. When, exactly, had she gone from being the sort who slept soundly through rock concerts in the vicinity, to a near-insomniac?

She suspected she knew why. She just didn't want to think about it, that was all.

And that was why she couldn't sleep.

Coming Up Next...

This is a 46-second video shot at Bada Pani (literally, Big Water) in Shillong, Meghalaya, at 6:04 a.m. on October 10. There's nothing here that you won't see - in versions multiple times better -  on the website of a travel magazine or even a professional photographer, but it is 46 seconds out of the most beautiful, peaceful five minutes I have ever known.

I was in Shillong recently for work. I went via Guwahati. I couldn't have been happier, or more thrilled. The trip itself was wonderful, but coming, as it did, on the heels of some extensive travelling, and preceding an unexpected trip to Mumbai, it was extra-special. :)

I am missing Delhi and I have so much to tell you about all the travel and life in general...but first, I have an overflowing laundry hamper and a generally untidy apartment demanding my attention rather categorically. Ciao!

Pet Peeves - I

Hey, don't judge me already...I know it isn't good to whinge, but didn't someone say it's healthy to vent? Here goes.

1. Ok, this is a sidewalk. You are walking ahead of me. You are not elderly, not limping, not carrying a sack of flour...and because you're laughing and making fun conversation on the phone or with your equally happy, healthy, burden-free friend, I can see that nothing's got you down either. How about walking a little faster, or at least moving to one side so that you can make way for those of us who need to get someplace in under four hours?

2. I am on the phone. You, at present, are not. Also, you know I am on the phone, because you are seated two feet from me, and can see me as clearly as figs are figs. If it isn't an issue relating to personal, organizational, societal, national or global security, or a moral conundrum that needs immediate resolution, could you please postpone the conversation you insist on having with me, there and then, to after I'm done on the phone? Especially if it's a conversation you chose to start even though you saw me on the phone...and after you shook your head when I put the caller on hold and politely asked you if I could get back to you in five minutes if it wasn't too urgent? And if there's something you have to tell the person I'm speaking to, I'll be more than happy to pass the phone to you, you know. You only need ask, or even gesture. You don't necessarily have to ask me to "tell him this...and that...and the other as well, please...and what did he have to say about that?" The only conversation I can conduct parallel to the one I am already having with the person in front of me (or on the phone), is the one with myself in my head. I have many skills, but having simultaneous conversations with two human beings on two different issues isn't one of them.

I'm tired. I'm going to bed. More later. I'll add a 'Part-I' to the heading.

The Calcutta Diaries - II: Living Alone, and Loving It

Leaving home for college at eighteen was...well, let's call it a mixed experience. I'd led a happy, sheltered life up to then, and while I was absolutely thrilled at the prospect of exploring life and learning to survive, I was still a little scared, deep down.

Eight years later, I'm confident I can start calling any place home within three hours of arriving there. By the time I've had my first breakfast, I'm fairly settled in - and once I discover the closest place toothpaste is available, and locate the nearest post office, I am officially set. 

But this place I live in here at Cal is, by far, the place I love the most, and will miss the most terribly when I move out. Actually, scratch that. I know Rez is irreplaceable in my memories and my personality. Gurgaon was indispensable, and 32 U.B. brought in something no other place can. But this apartment, here in Ballygunge, is the first place that is entirely my own. It is all mine to do up, the walls and spaces are mine to clutter and declutter as I see fit...and once I shut the door after stepping in from work, it's my safe little cocoon that no one can enter without my express permission; a happy little bubble to float around in till it is time to go back to work. It's bright, happy, kitschy where I want it to be, with lots of space and sunshine and fresh air. There's greenery right outside my window, and I am actually awoken by a shaft of sunlight falling on my face every morning. If I slide the windows open, my curtains billow in the breeze...sometimes, when I've pulled an all-nighter and dawn breaks in, pink and golden, through the cracks in my curtains - or when I can see rain in the golden light of a streetlamp, and feel warm and cosy in my little house - I feel so physically full of contentment and happiness, my heart could explode.

I do the sweeping and mopping, I cook my own meals, fetch my own groceries and do my own laundry. I patiently lodge multiple complaints when the AC or the water purifier goes bust, I replace my own bulbs, I defrost my own refrigerator, and I negotiate with the plumber or the electrician because replacing a faulty plastic tube cannot possibly, reasonably, cost 700 bucks. I've learnt to keep candles and matches where they can be reached easily in the dark; and, even if I say so myself, I've elevated inventorying the contents of the fridge to minimize wastage, to a fine art. I'm crazy house-proud and have been known to politely ask friends to reschedule their visit because the flat is untidy. I can look at a shirt or dupatta and tell you whether to use Surf or Ezee, or baby shampoo; I can also starch clothes to perfection. I can multitask three ways to Sunday - cutting up craftpaper and fooling around with glitter while watching TV and keeping an eye on the saucepan as well as the two new shirts I am soaking together for the first time. These are things that I take as much pride in as I do in my achievements as a student and a professional...more pride, sometimes, because these are things that make me happy. Frequently, they act as stressbusters after a day doing something I am not always excited about. Always, but always, they make everything else I do, worthwhile. You've got to experience it yourself to know what I'm saying. Nothing chases work-induced exhaustion away like coming home to a laundry hamper that's empty because you took care of it yesterday, or a meal sitting in your refrigerator, just waiting to be microwaved, with an additional stir-fry on the side if you're up to it. Independent as I felt during college, and even when I received my first paycheck, nothing beats the high and the sense of self-sufficiency actually - physically - being able to look after yourself gives you.

Does this mean I am a domestic goddess? Far from it. I screw up more often than anyone I know. I guess it's a domestic occupational hazard.

So these are the things I have learnt, mostly the hard way. For those of us who live alone and manage our own houses, these should point you in the right direction.

 - Never step into your white-tiled bathroom in your sneakers, just to retrieve the scrunchie you left on the shelf. It is far easier to remove your shoes and put them back on, than to scrub grime and mud off the tiles later. Been there, done that. Believe me.

- Always keep a tube of quick-fix glue handy. You have no idea what a gigantic sense of security it gives you.

 - Keep Post-Its within easy reach, unless you do not mind running down to the store fourteen times a day.

 - Put your house keys wherever they're supposed to be as soon as you enter. I cannot say this enough. When you live alone, there's no one else to go ballistic over for misplaced keys.

My books! Well, at least the ones that I have not sent back home in three instalments because I had very little room here. I have a huge pile of these just waiting to be read.

I Cook!

As a stressbuster, cooking ranks right up there with clearing and sorting desks and drawers for me. Sure, there I days when I come back so late, so irritated with the world, and so exhausted, that the idea of standing by the hot plate or the microwave is practically loathsome. And sure, more often than not, I make errors of judgment in ingredients and measurements and cooking time, and the end result is just about edible, if that. But I also know that if I can only drag myself away from the comfort of my futon and into the kitchen, I will invariably come out a lot calmer and happier than I went in, even if the original idea for dinner landed in the trash (quite literally), and I've had to resort to milk and toast and apples. It's just that it is incredibly liberating to be able to turn raw material (again, literally), into a meal, and to call it your own. It feels so, so good. And when a cake is in the oven, or vegetables are cooking in a saucepan, the aroma is heavenly, homely, and therapeutic.

I try new recipes off the 'net, from cookbooks that came with ovens and stoves...even some outlandish combination that I've thought up at work. I seldom, if ever, follow measurements to the T - and that has often proved my - and my dish's - undoing. But like in everything else, my gut likes to take over, so I let it. 

I'm good with a knife and chopping board - and not too bad at kneading and whipping. What I am a basket case in, is knowing when something is done. More often than not, I overcook my food. My pasta dissolves into a mushy mess because I boil the bejesus out of it. My oats melt into an unrecognisable mass because I cook the living daylights out of them. And when I simply mean to saute my greens and carrots, I end up boiling them (no, don't even ask). I cut cauliflower into neat little florets and dice my potatoes just so...but then I poke them so enthusiastically with my spatula when they're cooking, my curry looks very sorry for itself by the end of it all. I roll perfectly round rotis, but they're not always perfectly even, which means they cook unevenly...which means little patches of dough show up in the final product. And, heaven knows how, I always burn the bottom of the pan I boil milk in - and then spend the better part of an hour scrubbing the pan in the sink.

So, yeah, it isn't always perfect, or even easy. Sometimes, it gets lonely, this living all alone, doing everything on your own. Sometimes, at the end of a bad day, when your upma is a watery mess, your clothes won't fit into your laundry hamper because it is already overflowing, and the cable is kaput because you forgot the DTH recharge, all you want to do is yell into the walls. But then, when you love your house, it loves you back, and being loved is an amazing feeling. It may not chase away the blues, but it makes them easier to deal with. And that is a wonderful thing.

tHinkeR aloud

Back in the day, I'd usually take everything at face value. It saves time. I still believe that...but it has also become second nature to me to re-evaluate everything I hear for "deeper" intent or implication. Sometimes, I read between lines that are not even there, to begin with.

That's just one of the changes that being an HR professional has brought in me. I'm hoping it is particular only to the field, and that I will grow out of it when I move on, because I sure as hell do not like it.

I wouldn't call myself naive, or even optimally street-smart. I'm just someone with too many things on her bucket list. Ergo, there isn't ever enough time to delve into hidden meanings in what people say, or to make murtabak of my own intent. If you're someone I care about, and have chosen, for some reason, not to be direct, I'll back off and wait till you're comfortable talking. And you'll know where to find me when you are, because you're that important. But if we're simply getting business done in as cordial a manner as possible, don't you think we'll all save time if we say what we have to, and get going?

But as I was saying, taking things to mean what they sound like is a luxury you're denied in Human Resources. Whether it is an investigation, an interview or the usual 9-in-the-morning meeting, you're conditioned - without knowing it - into evaluating everything at three levels, at least, before responding to it. And the funniest thing is, all this processing happens in real time, in the blink of an eye, and you tailor your response to give it the suitable degree of ambiguity.

The other change HR has brought in me is pretend-patience. I wish I could say being an HR manager has made me a more patient human being, but that would be a lie. I'm still, essentially, as (im)patient as I was the first 20-odd years of my life. Professionalism demands that you exercise a fair degree of forbearance, however, and in Human Resources it is a cardinal rule. I'm happy to comply, because if I'm going to work in a professional set-up, it is only fair that I play by the rules. But this thinking aloud isn't about mandatory patience - it is about how I follow the mandate. And much as I tried to use this as an opportunity to do away with the short fuse, all I've succeeded in doing is not flying off the handle at the drop of a hat.

Lest this post sound like a cribfest about HR, let me bring in what may qualify as compensation. I wouldn't go so far as to call it the upside - because it isn't - but it could try for that label, and I wouldn't discourage it right away. Being in Human Resources introduces you to a whole variety of people - each of whom brings in a whole variety of quirks - you wouldn't have met ordinarily. A lot of it has to do with the fact that, as an HR manager, you meet anywhere between thirty to three thousand colleagues a day, and as many as 20 new faces in a standard day of recruitment interviews. Some of it also has to do with how people generally perceive the HR department, and how that perception affects behaviour that is already unique by virtue of being human.

Not complete, this post, so I'll come back later and write more. Till then, wish me luck. I have behavioural event interviews coming up, and I'm really not looking forward to them.

Image courtesy Google Images