The Curious Case of My Career(s)

Disclaimer: This blog reads like a cross between a Linkedin profile and an autobiographical account

Once in 6th grade on being asked what it is that I want to be when I grew up, I replied "Journalist". I always liked writing, and at that point in time was a manic reader. (It's another matter that I also had/have a penchant for drama and an obsession with Hindi movies and thought I should be an actress!)

As the years passed, writing was/is a passion/skill which kinda stuck with me, almost as if a conjoined twin. But in terms of careers, my mind wavered off and on. There was a time when I used to read only Grisham, and decided that law is my calling in life.

By a twist of fate (I end up having a lot of these!), psychology entered my life in 11th grade. Psychology and me, its like we were meant to be. My penchant for drama, my love for stories and human complexities, and my writing - all found a wonderful place in the world of psychology. I did my bachelors and my masters in psychology, and was convinced that my future career will revolve around psychology. In the middle of it, I did a brief stint with an HR consultancy, and also worked as a counsellor for a suicide helpline (the latter is ironic for so many reasons now).

On completing my masters, I literally stumbled into JNU, the hub of academia, research, communism and all things serious. Suddenly, my choice of career veered into research, education and academics. This was the time that I had cleared the 'prestigious' NET exam. It was also the time that I went for quite a number of interviews for teaching jobs in colleges and ended up clearing none. I was a freelance consultant with a publishing house also, and contrary to what I had always believed in, I didn't enjoy it as much as I would have thought.

In the midst of all this chaos, I got engaged. In the gap of 7/8 months between my engagement and my wedding, I interned with CSR, little knowing how it would have such an impact of my life, years later. That internship was just like an internship should be - breezy, stress free, enlightening, happy, and used my favourite skills of writing and research. 

After I got married and moved to Bombay, owing to the JNU stamp, and some recommendations from the sister, I managed to get a job in the educational wing of a renowned global NGO. It was a job very suited for my academic background, but lasted just two months, since I moved back to Delhi.

Once that happened, and amidst all the confusion surrounding my Ph.D plans, I landed up (to much of my shock and horror) as a school teacher, something which was nowhere in my life plans, like EVER. When I completed one year of being a school teacher (my longest job ever up until that point in life), and thought that this was going to be THE career, fate waved its magic wand. I got pregnant! I still remember, one of the first thoughts that came to my mind when I got to know of this life altering news, was "There goes my job" (Yes, like I said, I am very cool like that!). 

I worked through a significant part of my pregnancy, and finally decided to call it quits, simply because I was so blank. I was so blank about how I will feel about working after the baby, or whether I would even want to work, or how I would manage- that I just put in my papers.To be honest, I was fairly convinced in my head that I won't work once I become a mother, because I will have no time or energy left.

The first three months of being a mother are just a big blur in my memory. I remember endless sleepless nights, messed up eating schedules, this absolute state of nothingness, where all days, and parts of the day, were the same. I wondered sometimes if I would ever be 'normal' me again, if I would ever read, or watch TV or go out and shop, let alone hold a job.

Three months passed, and life sort of became normal. There was a more structured routine to my day, and I felt more mentally stable. And that was around the time, that life assumed a certain meaninglessness. I mean, yes I was raising an infant (a VERY high maintenance one at that ), but surely life had something else in store for me?  

It was around that time that CSR, quite magically, re-entered my life. And there I was, leaving behind a 5 month old baby, to go to work twice a week, for a few hours. Looking back at that person, I remember her being so nervous, so jittery, so unsure, more than I had ever been in my life. As a new mother, I suddenly felt that 'mothering' was all I knew - could I really fulfill job responsibilities? To be very honest, I didn't think I would last long in this job, but decided to test my own limits. I had nothing to lose.

Cut to 2017. I have completed two whole years of work at CSR, the longest job I have ever managed to stick to, or perhaps, the job which stuck to me the longest. On the lunch table with my team, soon after I completed two years, my boss asked me "What has been the highlight of these two years for you?" While I mumbled something, it got me thinking, at how bizarre life tends to be. Here I am, working as a social media consultant, literally living on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram, writing blogs off and on, doing a bit of research, and have recently started understanding the coding and technical aspects of websites. It's almost funny how what I do now, has no direct relevance to what I studied all these years, or is nowhere close to all the jobs I had held so far. I am not trained in media, or language, but here I am, as part of the Media and Communication Division. Ironically, it is a job I am quite passionate about, and my work is almost an extension of my own personality now- an ideal situation no?

I remember ages ago, I had gone for an interview and the interviewer told me my resume was "eclectic". Maybe it was a unique way of saying "You lack focus." But perhaps it is the best way to define my personality and my experience with jobs too. When I look back at my 'career graph' (for want of a better word), it is a classic case of "Jack of all trades/Master of None". I really admire people who have had a single goal their whole life, or even their whole adult life, and everything they have done is directed towards achieving that goal. On a personal level, I have struggled a lot with being that goal-directed person, but now at this adult age of 30, I truly have made peace with the fact that I am nowhere close, and for my own sanity, I shouldn't try to be. I am a very "go with the flow" kind of person, and it has always benefited me, given my life circumstances. What I find amazing in a sense, is that all the jobs I have had, have been perfect for the life space I was in at that time.

Who knows where the future takes me?

Of being a guest writer

Over the past two weeks, I have written two blog posts for two veryyy different blogs. I shall be immensely immodest and say that I was invited to do the two posts - fancy much!

CSR is an organisation I interned with three years ago, for four months, way back when I was engaged. It was a dream job, where I got paid to write and waste my time on social media- utopia! Well, except for the money ;) Anyhoo, so the boss from CSR pinged on Facebook the other day and asked me to write a post for their new initiative "Write with us"on gender based parenting. Thus "Raising a boy" was written. As soon as it went live, an acquaintance pinged me on Twitter and asked me to write for "The Earrings Project", which she had started a few months back with a friend. I had found it super interesting since and had been meaning to write for it for quite some time. And so "The Wedding Gift" happened.

The point of this post is not to advertise my writing (although, comments would be greatly appreciated!). I had a super fun time thinking and writing both these diametrically opposite pieces and it made me realize how therapeutic writing is for me. I mean yes I like the appreciation which accompanies it sometimes, but at the end of the day I love writing, by itself. I love putting my thoughts to words, I love seeing a blog post take shape. Since I turned mom, writing provides a much needed mental break from mom-hood, even if I am writing about my baby.

Here's to more guest posts, blog updates and maintaining sanity!

कुछ ग़म सिर्फ अपने होते हैं

कुछ ग़म सिर्फ अपने होते हैं।
छल्ली हो जाती है आत्मा
दिखती है तोह सिर्फ एक मुसकुराहट।
कुछ आंसूं सिर्फ अपने होते हैं।
चेहरे पर शिकन की एक लकीर नहीं
पर दिल के सौ टुकड़े बिखर जाते हैं।
कुछ दर्द सिर्फ अपने होते हैं।
मरहम लगाती है दुनिया
पर घाव गहरे होते रहते।
कुछ ज़ख्म सिर्फ अपने होते हैं।
हर पल सदियों सा लगता है
पर घडी के कांटे रुक रुक कर चलते हैं।

कुछ ग़म सिर्फ अपने होते हैं।

(one of those pieces of my writing which entered my mind well-formed- miracle indeed! don't judge my hindi- i have officially learnt it only till 4th!)

मुझे वहां ले चलो...

मुझे वहां ले चलो
जहाँ हवाएं अपनी सी थी।
जहाँ की घास ठंडी सी थी।
जहाँ सूरज की रोशनी चुभती न थी।
जहाँ वृक्षों की छाँव में घुटन न थी।
जहाँ इमारतें बाहें फैलाती थी।
जहाँ हर सड़क दिल को छूकर जाती थी।
जहाँ हर फूल मुस्कुराता था.
जहाँ सब मेरे आपे में था।

मुझे वहां ले चलो
जहाँ कोई भी गैर, पराया न था।

*Magical Sunset*

The sky started to turn darker, as if it was cloaking itself to keep prying eyes from looking. The many hues of the clouds blended together in compromise, not fighting anymore for space in the sky. A gentle breeze came in, unsure of its surroundings at first, but slowly ruffling the leaves. The magnificent and radiant sun, which had warmed everything during the day, bowed out gracefully and allowed the moon to replace it for the night. The curtains slid through, telling us that today's show was over; it was sunset. But it would happen again tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after...

(written during English Elective exam, 1st term, 11th grade- who knew one could write sense during exams???)

Bitter Chocolate- Revisited

This is a piece I wrote about two years ago, as catharsis. In the past 24 hours, two conversations have reminded me of CSA again, so it felt appropriate to put this piece up here.

****************

A teacher recommends three books in her class. The students take turns borrowing the books and share notes.

“So how was bitter chocolate?”

“Umm, depressing yet amazing…very well written…you should definitely read it.”

So I get the book and start reading it. The book begins with an author’s note which churns my stomach. Ok, its ok, just a book, I tell myself. Except that no one told me that it’s not JUST a book. Bitter chocolate is an experience, albeit a traumatic one at that, which makes your mind go totally haywire. But first, let me tell you about the book in much the same fashion as Pinki Virani, the author, writes it: dripping with facts.

Bitter chocolate is a book about child sexual abuse in India. It is divided into three notebooks. The first deals with what CSA is, the statistics and the effects of it. The second notebook gives two detailed case histories. Finally, the third notebook talks about the healing process, recovery of CSA victims and their families. The book is interspersed with several real life case histories.

The book ends with a list of books recommended by the author on CSA and related subjects, such as marital abuse. It also contains a small compilation of contact details of NGO’s working in the area of CSA, in the major Indian cities.

Now that the facts are over, let me come to the real thing- Bitter Chocolate was a harrowing experience for me, which shook my very soul. I was never ignorant to CSA/sexual abuse before reading the book: the countless OPRAH shows which I have watched on the subject will vouch for that.

But this was different. Very different. Perhaps it was the Indian context, perhaps the cold bloodedness of the hard facts or perhaps it was the sarcasm underlying every word in every page of the book; I don’t know.

But I know that I will never be the same again. I am seeing every human being in a new light, in a new perspective. Every male seems like a potential perpetrator of CSA. Looking at every woman and child makes me question: have they been sexually abused today? Or yesterday? Will they ever be sexually abused at any point in their lives? Oh leave aside strangers. I have started to doubt my family members, my friends, their families, neighbours and about countless people who I have ever known in my life: all of them seem like they hold some secret related to CSA….do they?

None of these emotions are in any way exaggerated or written for effect. Not even the fact that after I finished the first notebook, I stayed up all night crying inconsolably, questioning just about everything in this universe.

Would I recommend this book to anyone? OF COURSE and not just to anyone, but to everyone who cares to listen. To everyone who has ever loved and trusted. Essentially to everyone who knows how to read. It would be to create awareness, to make CSA a dining table conversation. But more than that, perhaps I would recommend it to people in hope, that someday, someone, somewhere would read it and find peace, even for a few minutes. Or better yet, prevent CSA from taking place.

Would I read it again? Or rather, do I have it in me to go through the whole ordeal again? Honestly, I don’t know and I can’t say.

So coming back to the question: how IS Bitter Chocolate? Simply put, an experience.

 ********************

Destiny's Child

My first memories of life are of the tiny, cramped infant ward of the orphanage where I spent the formative years of my life. I can remember the cries of the other infants, some for food, some for water…some for love. I remember being the only infant who never cried, whether it was for hunger or thirst, and definitely never for love. The doctors and nurses would often come and examine me, sometimes thrice a day, as they were worried about me. I loved the attention and basked in it. I liked the glory of being the ‘child-who-never-cried’. Even as I was growing up, I never talked to anyone, preferring to nod and shake my head instead. And I enjoyed the silent attention I got; the whispers, the gossip, the so called ‘theories’ of why I was the way I was. I preferred to be by myself, not depending on anyone for anything. Dependence, for me, meant weakness. So life resumed in a silent and orderly fashion until one day, fate decided to turn my perfect life around in the most unbelievable way possible. 

It was a Tuesday, I remember, and I was walking back from school, as usual preferring the uncommon route back to the orphanage. I must have been all of fifteen years old. As I was walking back, the plastic bag which had conscientiously held my books for three whole weeks started to tear, and finally let go. My books, adhering to the law of gravity, fell with a loud thud on the road. As I bent down to pick my books up, I heard snatches of what sounded like shouting in the otherwise lifeless street. My curiosity took over, and I walked towards where the sound was coming from. It seemed to originate from the other side of the cement well, I soon realized and kneeled down to look through the tiny space towards the side. A man was tied to an old rusty steel chair in every way possible and another man (looking very much like the innocent faced head of my orphanage) bent down and to my utmost horror, lifted a long shiny black knife, which positively glistened when the rays of the afternoon sun caressed it. Slowly, he started to stab the man repeatedly, in various parts of his body. With each stab, the man groaned and screamed, struggling to escape, to get away from this torture. But in a matter of few minutes, a tired moan ended the story. He was dead, I realized. And the killer started to laugh, a shrill yet confident laugh which haunts me to this date and comes back every time I…anyway, I ran; perhaps out of fear, perhaps out of wanting to escape the situation. So I ran, as fast as my legs could take me, to the orphanage and flopped down on my mattress. I closed my eyes and the entire incident replayed itself in my mind. As my mind dissected the incident I had just witnessed in various ways, to my utmost surprise, a smile, or rather a wide grin formed in my face, leaving no doubt in my mind that…that this was it. This was what I was destined to do. 

I started in the orphanage, giving the honour of being my first choice (victim has a very morbid ring to it) to one of my roommates. I did everything as I had witnessed it, with the exception that I gagged him. The moans and shouts went completely against my quiet demeanor. And it was carried out just as I had imagined. However, nothing could prepare me for that indescribable feeling of pleasure when the knife entered the soft flesh; my blood raced inside me and goosebumps formed all over my body. It gave me an immense high, greater than any drug can give man. It was intoxicating, the feeling of power, of giving the gift of death to unknown people, from all walks of life. Some were doctors, some writers, some businessmen and some average working people. But binding them all was me; I gave them the gift of death, the chance to live life again. And so it went on, till one day, destiny decided to catch hold of me and change my life again. I fell in love. 

She was ethereal, arresting me with her cognac eyes and pulling me towards her like a magnet. Everything about her was perfect. And all her perfections began to cause imperfections in me. I could no longer think of anything else, and my sleep was gone for good. I couldn’t gift anyone death for months altogether, which made me even more restless. For the first time in my life, I was hungry…for love, belonging and security. Until one day, it struck me that I couldn’t fight my destiny any longer. My destiny was to be the giver of death, and I couldn’t escape that. So I did what my instincts told me to do; I gifted death to my beloved. It was done like all the other times before, except that I didn’t gag her…I wanted to hear her voice. But when it was over, I didn’t feel powerful and I definitely didn’t feel proud. I felt hollow from inside, as if someone had ripped my insides from me. As I looked at her limp and lifeless body, tied to the steel chair, I felt something strange. I was crying, I realized. I wept and wept, for my lost love, for my destiny and for my growing hunger. 

From then on, no matter how hard I tried, no matter who or how many people I murdered, I couldn’t fill the emptiness inside me. Regardless of what I did, I could never go back to being the person I used to be before she entered my life. I wept often, thinking of who I might have become, had it not been for my destiny. I had turned into a serial killer, murdering innocent people and robbing their lives. I had become so engrossed in the power and attention that I had convinced myself that I was doing the right thing. I lost all connections to the world and became a wanderer, aimlessly passing from one place to another. There was no goal, no aim in my life, as days, months and years flew by, escalating the grief in me. Until one day, my destiny called me again. And I smiled, the same way I had years ago on the orphanage bed. I went back to the town and the street where it had all started, where destiny had called me for the first time. Except this time, I was on the other side of the cement wall. I sat on the steel chair and lifted my knife. I could see my own face, staring down at me and telling me that this was it. And suddenly, a smile began to form, as the knife slowly slid into my flesh…

 -September/October 2002

My Place

I was walking in the soft silky sand.
Huge waves were crashing in the distance.
People were laughing, surfing and talking.
But I was alone. All alone.
I walked towards the water,
Looking in the distance.
It was big, so big,
That my problems seemed small.
When the cool water gently touched my toes,
I forgot everything,
My anxieties, my tears,
My hurt and my fears.
But as the water left me,
It all came back.
And I was alone. All alone. 

-9th April, 1999

The way I see it

Blue gates.
A wrought iron swing.
Yellow railings along a ramp.
Cobblestone building.
Assorted newspapers arranged neatly in the guardhouse.
Blue doors.
Worn out leave books.
A sea of posters and notifications merging together on the notice board.
Long queue of coloured buckets under geysers.
Clanging plates and spoons in the mess.
Multicoloured, circular chairs and left over decorations in the common room.
Shouting during cricket matches, reality shows, meetings, mealtimes, attendance…
Just shouting.
Running to be on time for mealtimes, attendance, baths, classes…everything.
Would-be doctorates rubbing shoulders with fresh college graduates.
The insane and the intellectuals,
The control freaks and the lazy bums,
The ones from the North, South, East and West,
And everywhere else.
The ones who scream and the ones who are quiet.
The best roomies,
And the irritating ones too.
All co-existing…sometimes peacefully, sometimes not.
Clothes along the railings and balconies.
Birthday wishes at midnight.
Messy rooms,
Neat rooms,
Spic-n-span rooms.
Laughing uncontrollably for hours.
Sudden power cuts.
Running across floors to share an inconsequential incident.
Borrowing scissors, ribbons, scotch tape, pots & pans, mugs, plates, spoons, buckets, books, clothes, shoes, jewellery, mattresses, blankets…
EVERYTHING…except perhaps toothbrushes and underwear.

THIS is our world…the way I see it.

THE KITE RUNNER

i used to be a hardcore fiction reader, i abhorred non fiction with a passion, and i was convinced that i would NEVER read non fiction, for as long as I lived. Ironically, I hardly ever read fiction anymore- save the random Danielle Steele novel which i find hanging around. In fact, i hardly really read anymore, except for newspapers, and books like 'Im ok- you're ok', 'the iitians' and 'Bitter chocolate'. Don't get me wrong- i enjoy that today, i have learnt a lot from these books and others of their ilk. i have moved beyond the sidney sheldons and the john grishams. So i sort of surprised myself when i, on the spur of the moment, decided to read 'the kite runner'- a book i had heard a LOT about, and which i had often told myself that i want to read. All i knew about the book before i began reading, was the little bit that i read in the backcover, and a friend's reaction that it was amazing.

little did i know that it would be a book that seems like it would live in me for a lifetime. A book which touched every chord, every emotion in my heart. a book which pulled at every heartstring and gave me the 'choked throat' feeling countless times.

the kite runner is a brilliant commentary on friendship, loyalty, changing times, war, afghanistan, freedom, father-son bond, master-servant relationship, and above all, finding peace. a simple story, told with even greater simplicity, it is a book which is dramatic, but never melodramatic. its a book of life altering moments, about regret and ultimately, redemption. it is delightfully cute in parts, scary in others...and yes, tragic in others as well.anything more i say about the book, will perhaps reduce it to the 'scenes' and the 'dialogues'. i dont want to do that. i think its a book to be read, and not to be told or heard about.

personally,i am so glad that this was the book which i chose to end my hiatus with. thank you mr. khaled hosseini...for you, a thousand times over.