Second Best

‘We try harder’

This was how Avis positioned itself when Hertz was leading the market. In a humble, smart statement, Avis gracefully slid into the backseat (pun very much intended), but made a memorable campaign out of it, a positioning statement that is studied now as a case study in business schools.

While the company made hoards out of humility, how many of us are really content with being second best? Or can even accept being second best? How many people really relish criticism – of any of their creations, their article, their music, their rajma? It is professional and mature to accept criticism, yes, and attempt to reach perfection, but just how many internalize the criticism to actually use it? Of course, when your boss tells you that your idea is impracticable, when you stayed up all night researching the concept, you say yes. When your wife says you cannot cook, after you left no stone unturned to make her a surprise dinner, you say yes. When your painting teacher tells you that you’ll never be a painter, when you have given the painting your all, you say yes. These yes’s are based on one simple assumption, that boss is a better businessman, wife is a better cook, art teacher is a better painter. They may not be the best, but they are better than you are. They know more. You become second best. And how many people can honestly admit, that they welcome that view? It may be true. But there is that inexplicable frisson of disappointment, an inaudible sigh of frustration, a silent cry of ‘Goddammit’ deep, deep down. Always.

I have a colleague who, apart from being my muse for this post, is also an obnoxious and possessive creative designer. Without a doubt, great at what she churns out of her Mac. But stubborn as a mule, a conformist to the archaic, and a professional nightmare, though when you gossip with her at the coffee machine, she is as sweet as candy. Her refusal to accept criticism completely limits her talent to what has been explored – but she is happy. She is not willing to be acknowledged as second best. She bludgeons her way though briefings and feedback meetings, and I can see that it hurts people to tell her to do it right, probably as much as it hurts her on hearing it. Not that I am the prophet of humility, but it is painful to see progress being stemmed in this way.

On the other hand, another one of the designers is always looking for comments, ideas, and feedback from her team and others. When she receives it, I have seen her tweak her creatives to incorporate the new information. One would think she is a pushover, but she deletes it right out if she thinks it adds nothing to improve the quality. If she thinks it works, she has no qualms about apportioning rightful credit to the originator of that idea. She is constantly looking for sources to sharpen her vision, and will not stop until she arrives at what she thinks is perfection.

There must be someone out there who is better at this than both of them, separately and put together. Most of us are second best to someone at almost everything we do. We may or may not exercise our right to say ‘Goddammit’, when someone brings it to our notice. But what determines whether we become a Hertz, an Avis or a Sharma Taxi Garage, depends purely upon how open we are, to knowing that we are always second best. And we’ll always try harder.

The Multitasking Mantra

Multitasking is overrated. When men claim that they cannot do two things at the same time, attributing it to dilution of focus, they do a rather smart thing. They take care not to bite off more than they can chew. With women, though, it is expected. She must be adept at talking on the phone and feeding the baby at the same time. Especially in a job interview.

If the lady wants a job, she should preferably be single – being single, in some convoluted manner, symbolizes one’s independence. If she is married but without kids, uh, umm, ok, maybe she is more stable. But what about her husband? Is he a demanding fellow who will want her home on time every night? No? Good. Because now that we are employing you, lady, you must convince us that you have no home life and that your buddy-boy can manage without you. Newly married? Uh-oh. Is that going to be your excuse to get home early? The fact that you are in love and would still like to spend time with him? Snicker. Children? Let us not get into that. I understand, while marital status defines life stage, and life stage does have quite a bearing on routines, but I don't understand how life stage defines a person. How does being a newly-wed determine that one will run home as early as possible? And which book says that single-dom translates to ‘more committed to one’s work’?

The universe plots against women who want to have it all, and balance it out. All the diamond ads, that show the pendant-wearing woman expertly handling being a mom, a cook, an entertainer, an engaging conversationalist, a romantic wife, and a nine-to-fiver, are commonplace. Whether it is lipstick, jewelry or washing machines, no one cares. But the hotshot male executive, who is holding a baby in the boardroom, see that tug at your heartstrings. It is as clear as daylight. With women, multitasking is a hygiene factor. With men, it is the three extra toppings on the pepperoni pizza.

The man can come home early and cook a disastrous dinner one day a week, and expect to be treated as a darling for even thinking of putting in the effort. But the other four nights, it is the woman’s job, and this has nothing to do with the man not wanting to help. It is just a tougher time for her when he cooks, because it is a bigger mess, more energy is expended in trying to explain the exact recipe to him, and much more energy goes into cleaning up. But the fact that she may get out of work an hour early to cook dinner will label her ‘lacking initiative’ for life. Like initiative is directly correlated to your hours in the office, even if you are doing nothing. A half hour for gym? Lady, stay home, stay happy, stay healthy.

Some ‘fun and fearless’ magazines and websites also talk about how to compartmentalize one’s life, so that one aspect of life does not affect or disrupt another. Why do they forget that people, especially women, cannot be compartmentalized, broken up into bits and pieces, to fit predefined moulds of expected roles?

Maybe it is the women’s own expectations that have projected themselves on to the world. They expected so much of themselves, to be everything to everyone, and now her employers expect the same, and her family expects the same. Looks like there’s no avenue where she can outperform the great expectations without developing ulcers. But something has to bridge this chasm between the ‘thinking’ person and the ‘feeling’ one. Someone, at some job interview, has to realize, that the part that stays in office and gets paid, is connected, heart and soul, to the one that goes home and cooks. Someone has to realize, that if she is not looked down upon, and in fact encouraged to go home and fix the damn dinner and make sure that her family is getting the best – her – she will emerge better in her own eyes. She will feel those very feminine energies of self-worth from creating and giving, energies that unleash a whole new woman at work each day.

The Orange Sweatshirt

Fashion is fun. What one wears can really reveal more about the person than words, actions, eyes or body language. It can reveal moods – a yellow teeshirt wearer is a happy person, and I apologize for the staleness of that deduction, but it is true. Preferences – someone who wears straitlaced suits to work, and is not open to exploration with wardrobe (atleast at work) is the person who is not likely to take too many risks with his boss. Someone who can twine scarves into belts is obviously creative, and obviously resourceful. Someone who owns a lot of jackets that are wearable inside out, and in different tones, is not content with one alternative for decision making, and probably likes to mix and match – will atleast try everything once. Someone who wears a different pair of earrings everyday, is excited by variety. The matching handbag or the matching tie person is comfortable with rules and routines (oh, they can break ‘em if they want to, but they are not natural rebels), and the wild child will wear red with purple. And the best part, a person cannot be labeled, the way he can be labeled through body language and the like. Because attires change everyday, if not twice or thrice a day. Every bit of information that can be extracted from one outfit, will morph the next day. And they can dig deep into their wardrobe, and their mood, and become whoever they want to be.

It is even more fascinating how a personal style statement evolves as one grows up. As a child, a personal statement is actually of the parents, how they dress up their new Barbie or new Ken. My mum would dress me up in completely ordinary, cute-girl-next-door frocks. Not many of them had lace, or puffs, or anything to do with pink. It was clear how down-to-earth and practical mum was. By the time they lost interest, school had begun. School uniforms, are actually garments that bring out the true genius in kids, as they come up with the craziest and most ingenious ways to set themselves a bit apart in a sea of white skirts and striped belts. The best-ever time for fads, and I’ve now realized, the best time for teen fashion to position themselves indelibly in their impressionable minds. It began with the knocking off of inches from school skirts – to rebel, to expose not just chubby knees, but a subliminal message, that we are not a separate race, and it is ok for the guys to hang out with us (mostly because at that time, the boys wore shorts - knee length pretty much the same). Then the sneakers trend sneaked in. Nothing other than pure white was allowed. From citing athletic prowess to be allowed a streak of blue or gray (people reporting to morning games for school team practices were allowed branded sneakers), to getting people abroad to send them branded shoes in total white, to combing shoe-shops to look for smart sneakers with the tiniest dots or skinniest lines – all options were exhausted. As we grew up, and teachers realized we were old enough to explore, we explored backpacks, Stick-‘em Stones, mismatched junk jewelry (styles that sold a lot that month were pairs of earrings with one lock and one key, and one sun and one moon), bracelets, pendants, hats, and watches. We learnt to accessorize – in short, we learnt how to make the best of any situation!

College showed us the importance of denim – few could get themselves out of their jeans. It started with jeans with teeshirts and sweatshirts for college (and for the guys, with collared shirts for formal days!!!), and evolved to jeans with sparkly tops and heels for partying. A trying and traumatic time of painful growing up (in school) had passed, where we explored and experimented to our hearts’ content, often unsuccessfully, and many a times laughably. We had reached a time when we were comfortable in our skins, the burning need to differentiate oneself had considerably simmered down, and the jeans complimented that perfectly. More importantly, now we were not being pushed into uniformity, like in school. Any occasional urge to be unique was satisfied by teaming the denim with a short kurta, jhola and chappals on one day, for a journalist look, a hooded sweatshirt, sneakers and a backpack for a sportier feel on another day, or the ends of the jeans turned up a bit and floaters and sunglasses for beach mode on a particularly sunny day. And if you were in a relationship, a boyfriend’s oversized sweatshirt was also quite a statement – a statement that was truly exclusive, because not many people are in that intimate a relationship in college times. If it was his university sweatshirt, even better. Newer denim textures and looks featured regularly from then on, low-rise, slim fit, boot cut, dark wash, stretch, skinny, and they were tried out and won their share of approval, but there was no pressing need to discard familiar styles – they were classic, comfortable, understated, and smart.

Post graduation, work and other subsequent activities took us to the realms of formal attire – getting dressed up for presentations, interviews, lectures, dinners and most importantly, dates. Sure, dating was happening in jeans as well, but now one had grown up, and the next lesson was to learn how to mask one’s intentions, thoughts and opinions, till the time it was acceptable to reveal them again – as we learnt to hide our true selves to get our way and make our way, the jeans were shown the door, only to be picked up for after-work or after-dating hours. Now we started realizing how great the men actually looked in suits, which to me was that they look cuter when shaved, gelled and smelling good – which is not necessarily how they are all the time. But for good looking, well-groomed men, we learnt to lower the stakes and accept that there is an unshaven side, but as long as it is not in front of us, it’s fine. As for us, we went into the skirts, pantsuits, salwar-kurtas, and sarees – and were amazed at how fantastic we were looking with our reality hidden! The dark, soft materials were making us look slimmer, sexier, and with the vulnerability tucked away at home, confidences were at an all time high. Makeup was discovered, and elegant jewelry, minimalistic handbags, slim heels with tapering toes, clean, streamlined accessories. One had to give up red, pink, purple, yellow, and limit adventures to gray, navy, maroon, tan, and obviously, classic black, in plain, checks, pinstripes, what-have-you.

As our personal style statements were transforming in line with our maturity and attitudes, we noticed fashions evolving with time with the evolution of public opinion, trend and the growing knowledge and awareness of discerning consumers. Fashion crept into everything; everything had to look sexy to appeal to anyone who thought he was anyone. It made its way into every known product – from paint and window dressing to mobile phones and laptops, from coffee mugs and lampshades to sinks and bathtubs. Everything was customized to whatever extent it could be, to define as much as it could of the owner’s revealed identity. Everything acquired color schemes. When being in a relationship was passé, we got as individualistic as we could get. When committed relationships came back into fashion, we went back to sweatshirts (but only the boyfriend’s).

Some trends fizzled out fast, like wearing gym clothes outside the gym, lipliner darker than the lipstick, fake tans, platforms, blond hair on Asians, dotcoms, Kajol’s sister, the Rang De Basanti-type silent outrages, and night shifts at BPOs (not that fast, this one – but it did). Some keep going in and out of fashion – wavy hair, lipgloss, pastels, Alice bands, the color pink, going to business school, marriage, and women’s lib. Some old rules reinvent themselves and become the newest statement – huge watches, wearing brown and black together, yoga, adventure sports and vegeterianism. Some are forever, like blue jeans, kitten heels, Chanel No. 5, clutch bags, the tux, any version of the little black dress, New Year’s Eve in Goa, candlelit dinners, Al Pacino, and F.R.I.E.N.D.S.

Yet, even with all the changing fashions and mind-boggling choice, sometimes I still long for that faded, old, orange sweatshirt – comfortably worn-out, familiar, soft, warm, smelling vaguely of the boyfriend’s cologne. Bright, yes, but didn’t attempt to stand out. Always around, no choice involved in deciding to pull it on, and knowing everything will be fine tomorrow, even while panicking to finish coursework late at night for a paper the next day. It was a simpler time.

Writer’s Blog

Apparently, all this time that I haven’t had a single inspiring thought, and have been cursing myself about how incompetent and unimaginative I have become, there was another soul that I know of who was going through a similar dry spell. And maybe so many others that I don’t know of. And while we were ‘unassuming’ enough to call it a ‘drying up of thoughts’, according to the comments, it is more commonly known as writer’s block.

Only, it seems even more pretentious calling it that than calling myself Goddess. I can be Goddess, but Writer is way too exalted. Those are people who have printed words attributed to their name, words that many others read, relate to and remember. Bloggers are mere mortals, not writers. Bloggers are generally opinionated fools (there you go, I’m one), mostly churning out ‘Dear Diary’ posts. Of course, there are the more worthy amongst us who keep up with news and trends and current affairs, but again, that is reporting. Many of the pages I frequent, most of whom are solid writers, whether published or otherwise, are transitioning to travel phases in their lives. So their posts are now limited to photos of their sojourns and a descriptive line or two. Not much writing. Some are outraged by the unending coverage of Gere-Shetty and Ash-Abhi. Some are exploring the joys of wine and fine dining. And some are sharing recipes.

Then there are the timid – who are actually extremely talented writers, but don’t write anywhere but their own notepads, occasionally sending a few lines on group mails to people they know – because they don’t think they write stuff important enough for people to read. Personally, that is a loss to blogosphere. Because these guys are writing direct dil se. And that's what is so beautiful about this (blog) world. There is always someone, somewhere, who will read what you wrote and think, wow, that happened to me! Where are the people who are writing this?

"some words can put you to a nice calm...while some could really make you uncomfortable...the only thing that inspires me to write is when I feel love all around me...and when I have that feeling...I see a story in everything...in every person... in every moment...in every mistake we have made...in every evening that we have spent with ourselves...in every breath we have taken...in every person we have known...in every heartbreak we have had...in everything that has touched us...the space around you is packed with ideas, stories and writing...you can't escape it...it will get you...sooner or later..."

- dedicated to a dear, dear friend who doesn't blog

The Good, The Bad, The Beautiful

It is officially over. The strike, not the marriage (phew!). During all this time, while I was playing, or pretending to play, good wife and housekeeper, not one incident stirred me enough to write something good. All the time spent in experiments with Italian cooking and makeup (no, not just Italian makeup), movie marathons, shopping sprees, entertaining, and trying to roll a perfectly round chapatti, left no room for the bad girl. The girl who lived her life in small apartments and not to forget quite an expensive hellhole in Bombay, just so she could live alone. The girl whose weekends were a haze of vodka in the evenings and Big Macs the next afternoon. The girl who freaked out enough to plan an entire day at the salon when her best friend announced her engagement, and the girl who used her kitchen for a bar.

OK, maybe it wasn’t all the bad girl. But it wasn’t completely good either. Good girls don’t order takeout everyday. Good girls don’t stay out till morning. Good girls get married at a certain age and then move to wherever their husbands’ careers take them. Good girls cook dinners and keep them warm till the husbands come home. Good girls make friends with their husbands’ friends no matter how infinitely annoying they may be, give up their entire lives, and are nice to the husbands’ bosses. They look nice when out with their man, have impeccable taste while decorating, and oh, good girls don’t smoke. Or drink more than one cocktail, for that matter. But mostly it is wine. White.

All said and done, yes, literally, because both avatars have been tried, they cannot coexist. The bad girl is reckless and rebellious and guilt-free and has no one to think of herself. The good girl is on a perpetual guilt-trip, because every decision affects someone other than her. And as much as I would like to blame it on the husband or the job, these girls have nothing to do with the presence of, or lack of, either element. Being good is considering others, being bad is considering yourself. Or the other way round. Being good is denying most pleasures, being bad is indulging them. Being good is 25 going on 40, being bad is 25 forever. And something I just cannot shake off, I have had more stuff to write about as the bad girl. The good girl comes home from work and reads the newspaper while she starts dinner, because she didn’t read it in the morning because she was making the bed and the breakfast. The bad girl comes home, kicks off her shoes, lights the one cigarette of the day (hey she can be good too, she has almost quit!), fixes herself a drink, and switches on VH1. Dinner can sod itself. (I’m reading too much British chicklit). The good girl lives for everyone’s approval. The bad girl doesn’t care.

But being both is the inner tug-of-war. The good girl knows she can’t give in to her instincts all the time. The bad girl tells her to take a hike. Maybe that is the lifelong challenge. Maybe, that is the beauty of it all, of having choices, of being whoever she wants to be, of being all that she wants to be. The good, the bad, and the beautiful.

The bad girl is up right now, at 3.30 in the morning, because she just had to write this down. The good girl is hopping mad, telling her she so won’t be up in time tomorrow. Bite me, sistah.

Nameless

Hi…(shyly).

Hey, long time! How are you? (Pretending to be nonchalant)

Not bad. As long as there’s alcohol. (Smiles). So, don’t see your husband…

Yeah, he had to stay home. Becoming a workaholic, that man. Even I could attend only ‘cos I had to fly into town for some meetings…but I’m not complaining, just glad they had a reunion! How’s the family?

Wonderful! Home never gets old! My sis is getting married, by the way.

Oh my god! Really? That’s lovely! When is the wedding? Arranged or love?

In May. Completely arranged. But she is happy. So, you tell me, how’s married life been?

Exciting! (Winks).

Well, chalo, let’s catch up later…(Slightly uncomfortable).

Sure. Nice to have seen ya…(Shifting feet as well).


The eyes conveyed something that spoken words didn’t. They said,

There’s so much to catch up on, have a drink with me?

Of course, I thought you’d never ask!

Tu nahi sudhrega bhai! Shaadi ko kitney saal ho gaye? Abhi flirting band nahi honi chahiye?

On my deathbed, dude. Only then…ha ha ha…

God, it’s been so so long! Sometimes I wish we had kept in touch.

Yeah, so did I. but neither of us worked at it. There was just so much anger and confusion.

Hmmm. True. Sometimes, I still wonder why.

Because it would never work. You knew and I knew. But we just had such a great time, no one wanted to face truth.

We did live in a fantasy, didn’t we?

Yup. We did have such a good time, remember Goa? But hey, life had to bring us back to reality. Life does have strange ways to get one back on track. Nahi?

You’re right. How come we never talked about this? We could have ended up being friends long ago.

Well, I tried (indignantly). You are the one who shut me out!

Hey, I was a broken man!

Blah! You pretended to be all wise and all, when you were just being a pain in the butt.

That’s so charming. You’ll never change.

Remember your idiotic jokes? Hey, the one with the uncle?

You remember that one?

I remember ONLY that one!

Well, you refused to speak to me as well.

Well, I was furious at you for being such a wiseass.

I was scared. I told you. I was just protecting myself.

Doesn't everyone?! You didn’t trust me. That was all. And I didn’t wanna bribe you.

Are you saying I lost you ‘cos I didn’t trust you?

Wah! What a line! A bit too late on the ‘lost you’ line, honey. This is the way it was meant to be, and you did know it before I did. ‘Cos of which, you were as hurtful as I was.

You are right, I treated you rather shitty as well. Call it even?

Absolutely.

I’m so glad we talked about this. We should have done this a long time ago.

Don’t tell me I didn’t try.

Don’t start again. Let’s please not jump at each other’s throats, and try and stay the way we were…? We were awesome as friends.

I wish we could, and I really want to, dude, but after the alco wears off, life will take us back to reality again.

She saw the knowing acknowledgement of that statement in his eyes, and two people walked away from each other. Because of an indescribable, but nameless connection. Not lovers, not friends, not a couple, nothing. Nothing but having once wanted to take care of each other. Look out for one another, cover each other’s backs. Collect assignments, save a seat at dinner. Bring back something from each trip to the city, teach a hypertense woman to relax. Life’s reality doesn’t deal with nameless connections.

Randomness, A Bit

Random observations over a really rainy weekend:

Men are way more vague than women. There are more interpretations to a man’s words than a woman’s. Mostly because they use so few.

If the phone plays music when it’s on hold, the office seems much larger than it is. It may be a three-strong firm, if they play music while transferring calls, it will seem like thirty.

There is no pleasure in home-made golgappas. It is the quintessential street food which must be filthy to be tasty.

Opinionated people think they are the smartest. As one opinionated friend of mine put it, ‘We are of the opinion that we are smart.’ If only someone could correct them.

The names of best friends get clubbed together in conversations, the way even couples’ names cannot be clubbed. Paris-Nicole, Munna-Circuit, Leena-Tanvi, Naina-Ruchika, Adi-Sarang. What I could never figure out is why one comes before the other. Is it the more famous one, or the more dominating one, or is it simply because it sounds nicer that way?

I feel the hungriest when I cook.

It’s a rare, rare situation to actually like your boss.

Rainy days are too gloomy.

I am bored.