Coming soon...'Freedom is my birthright and I've had it!' 

lost in translation

all is greek...

Among the religions I have lost, punctuality is distinctly placed on the top of a long and happening list. As a result, I walked into the office an hour late. It had only been a month since I had joined and I had already used up all my excuses. When I say that I have used up all my excuses, please do not underestimate my imagination. I regard myself highly when it comes to cooking up creative excuses in all situations, times and languages. For instance – once upon a time there was a black panther that cut my path. The very superstitious me couldn’t make it to the office that day. A Unicorn that drilled a hole in my petrol tank and the Santa who peed in my water tank during his Christmas flight are also contenders for the top spot. It looked like my boss had given upon me. He tried professional advise, changed it to a Coreleonish threat and now it was just an old man’s plea. I ignored all the three with equal disdain. I make the rules around here!

I had an ad campaign to finish. A break from those boring classified clones. I had been sleeping with that ad for the last 3 days. My boss though, did not share the same lust for the ad as me. He threw me in the middle of a couple of nymphomaniacal black & white 3x8 ads. I succumbed to the pressure. And now I am sounding too melodramatic. Anyways, after winning the battle of the classifieds, I went back to my love. The love making session was too short even for the ejaculation of a headline. The jealous boss was at me yet again. “We have a meeting in another 15 minutes. We need to revamp a website for Karnataka State Women’s development corporation. We are serving the government and hence that should be our first priority.” Despite my strong love for women and everything about them, I despised the job.

I reluctantly got up from my chair and joined him. If you have seen a government establishment in any corner of the country, you can describe one anywhere in India without any trouble. They are all the same. Old people with huge tummies that do not represent their salaries in any way; primitive chairs which has seen more bugs than humans; dilapidated walls that told tales of unemployed employees; an elevator where you have to knock on the door for any response; Pentium MMX computers that are slower to react to human command than the peons at the place; and stuff like that.

A small session of introduction took place, wherein I was introduced as the incarnation who would revolutionise the life of women in the state of Karnataka. I was greeted with some respect and treated to a cup of tea that I badly wanted to swap with my boss’ coffee.
I simply cannot explain the torture that I was put through for ‘the 2 hours’ after that cup of tea. Long discussions in Kannada, a language I can hardly understand, forget speaking. Every two minutes, the client and my boss would look at me for acknowledgement of something I was vaguely aware of. I would nod with a look that was a mixture of stupidity, ignorance, intelligence and sophistication. The one, and the only one, that was needed – a look of understanding – was missed dearly. I managed to bring my boss’ attention to the ads pending at the office that had to go in the evening for publishing. A five-minute lecture on patriotism and the state of women in Karnataka was the answer. I surrendered.

I reached back at my work place after a very ‘fruitful’ meeting. I felt as if I was back after fishing in the Sahara. Sudden realization – Mr. Boss was ogling at my campaign beauty. All of a sudden, it had replaced the ‘empowerment of women’ as the top priority. “Women can get their rights later, but these kids need to know their fashion,” said my boss. I had just squandered two hours trying to decipher a language, and here he was, totally indifferent to my multilingual endeavour, brutally ignoring my efforts. At the end of the day, I had racked my brains over impotent fruits. I was lost in translation over nothing.

brief encounters of the third kind

run Forrest, run...

One thing in me that amuses people, and generates a lot of curiosity, is my passion for hopping jobs. I am not sure whether I can blame them for this strange interest they show in me. I am currently on my 8th job in just over a year and strongly contemplating yet another switch. However, I have persuaded my CV into stating that my current job is only my third. As it is incapable of raising a voice against my dishonesty or suing me on the grounds of manipulation and molestation, third it shall be.

I started my Job Venture back in (I am sounding like one of those retired or army men speaking of their endeavours in battles ages old and fought at places vaguely known) Delhi, on the 26th of January, 2006. I remember the day precisely because it was a national holiday. It was our republic day. The day on which, 50 odd years ago, a bunch of our countrymen who were too eager for independence and too lazy to frame laws for our country, begged and borrowed laws from less lazier people from around the world (primarily from the guys who had then, just left us). If we could thrown them out and then call them for help, we might have as well asked them to stay back, frame the constitution, and then bugger off. Anyways, I had the faintest memory of any of these when I joined McCann Erickson, Delhi.

McCann, till date, is the finest work place I have encountered. Hence, my stay at the place was longest of my brief encounters - 4 months. My CV has been forced to mention 8. I left McCann only and only due to financial reasons. At 1500 bucks a month, I couldn't even survive at the truck driver's dhaba for over 3 weeks. I used to play Frisbee in the office with my boss, for which I have been reprimanded on numerous occasion. I used to walk in at 11, 12, 1, 2 and sometimes even later, making a sorry face along with tales of a sleepless night at the office the day before. Booze used to frequently visit the office disguised in bottles as per the demand of the occasion and the drink. Beautiful babes(McCann, Delhi was known for its babes. Thanks to a few lecherous bosses) were ogled at mercilessly. Yet, I had to leave. In spite of all the joys, dal roti at the trucker's dhaba was not a delightful meal by anyone's standards.

The next place was neatly tucked away at Lajpat Nagar in Southern Delhi. Lajpat Nagar is heaven for MILF Hunters. Take my word for it, coz I am one. I collected my joining letter from the agency and never showed up. A better offer the next day was my reason. It could also have been the name of the agency. It was enticingly called 'Grasshoppers'.

Studio Smile was a decent online advertising place. They were desperate for a copywriter and they hired me giving me a 1000% raise(a record that still stands) from my previous pay package. Thanks to my helplessly faithful CV yet again. A staff of over 100, mostly techies, and a small creative team. And only one person speaking and writing for them all - Me. They considered me god around there. The miracles I performed in order to claim the title being - writing subject lines for emails, devising games, conceptualising screensavers, naming good for nothing web portals, etc. And one day my CEO triggered the departure of god. He asked me to create a web site for him. (I hate promoting my own company.) As a result I developed a sudden stroke of home sickness, applied for a leave of 10 days and headed home. That was the last I saw of studio smile. A nice place, very good money indeed. But money is not everything, is it? Yeah, sort of. My boss did try enticing my dad with huge pay packages, flights abroad and what not. I did not budge. MY luggage had by then settled at Bangalore... and THEY WOULDN'T LET ME WEAR SLIPPERS ON SATURDAY FOR HEAVEN'S SAKE!

Imagic Creatives. A place infested with Mallus. Not a very nice thing to say about mallus, but being a mallu myself, I shall take the liberty which Khuswanth Singh took to father santa and banta. They, as in mallus, are always more interested in what others are doing(the others I referred to may or may not be mallus) rather than their own priorities. If I take a leave, before reporting to my boss, I would have to walk up and down three floors reporting to every mallu brother and sister as to why I was absent the previous day/days. It was only after the ritual that my boss would have the privilege of meeting his employer who is being paid by none of the mallu brethren but him. I did not my put my papers down here, I threw them. Not being allowed to smoke in the company of my art director friend and an egoistic bitch as my boss are very strong reasons to quit a job.

I got into Idiom through my Art Director friend at the previous company, which incidentally is mentioned in the previous paragraph. Idiom was a design house and coincidentally, I was the only copywriter. Reminded me of Studio Smile. That did not augur too well. After two days of naming shoe stores and shopping malls, and free lunch, I vanished.

After a month of unemployment and poverty, I joined OpusCDM. Here I met Nagesh Manay, the finest copywriter and the finest boss I had ever worked under. I did advertising campaigns, hunted for models, attended parties, and lived a dream. But it was indeed too good to be true. I was partly responsible for changing it into a nightmare. I spent more time at home than at work during my Opus stint. My boss merely encouraged my habit with a heart as big as the grand canyon. I was in self-destructive mode and self destruct I did. Opus is known for its lack of affinity towards copywriters. For the finest copywriter he was, Nagesh was also the most finicky of them. You don't expect to know a brand in three months as good as a man who has created it 7 yrs ago and seen it go from knees to its feet. He wouldn't understand it though. I stayed at Opus Long enough to claim the title of being the longest staying copywriter. I carried with me a couple of very good ads for my portfolio as I left.

As a result of deciding to quit Opus at midnight, I was again driven to poverty. What next? 270 of them, walk in interviews every other day and a job in a week for anyone who can spell his name right in English - So I joined a call centre. An IBM call centre. I had decided even before joining the place that I wouldn't last beyond the fun days of training and I was a man of my word. A month and I was off. I had just shunned one of the biggest MNCs in the world!

A week after quitting IBM, one of my not-so-favourite colleagues appeared as a messiah informing me about an opening at a small ad agency called Spectrum. I joined without second thought. The interview was a mere formality with tall promises to somebody who had worked at McCann. I threw my weight around, the whole 90+ kgs of my 184cm frame. Right now, I am sitting in front of the computer they have provided me, after facing an intellectual masturbation session by my boss, eagerly awaiting the result of the interview I have given just the day before. The intentions are quite clear, aren't they? ;)

mysterious death of one Ms.Biondi

death doesn't have a pretty face...

I saw her for the first time while I was climbing up the stairs. She was rushing downstairs. She paused at my sight, hesitated for a moment, and brushed past me. She had been up to something – something unpleasant; and she had been spotted. The expression of guilt and anguish on her face had given her away mercilessly. Neither the perpetual innocent look nor the setting sun could prevent me from identifying those expressions clearly. What has she done now? Upstairs, the look in Simon’s eyes told me nothing different. Something had happened, and it definitely wasn’t pleasant. And she was a part of it, or maybe even the cause.

She had moved in with us a couple of weeks ago. To move in with 4 men, none of whom would qualify as the pope even if they were the last four on earth, was a bold move. I had tried to befriend her. Somehow she seemed to send me a secret message that nobody had ever tried to, and nobody ever will succeed in befriending her. I gave up my quest. Time and a vast number of failed attempts had nearly convinced me that she was only a dream, a work of my semi-conscious mind. Whether it was the enormity of the apartment or the diminutiveness of my urge, I do not know.

The stench was unmistakable. I was just back from work and ran to the washbasin as soon as the air in the room started torturing my nostrils. Nearly suffocating myself to death with a hankie, I ran upstairs. There was no sign of her. I did not find her in the bathroom either. The creaking cupboard door grabbed my attention. As I neared the door, I could feel myself trembling. Then I saw it. A hand. There was the body too. Simon. I whispered under my breath. I knelt beside her. She looked peaceful even in death. There were stains of dry blood all over her head and her neck. I did not know what to do. I looked at her closed eyes once again and turned back.

What had she done to deserve it? Did it have anything to do with ‘that look’ on her face? What had she done on the occasion of our first meeting that had resulted in something as brutal as her death? What had she done to disturb Simon? Simon was a very patient man. To invoke this sort of inhuman behavior in him would have taken more than a mere act of disturbance. He had never been fond of women; in fact he had avoided them throughout his life. So any advances of that sort was improbable. Was it an act of mere sadism? No, definitely not if it was the Simon I have known for nearly 20yrs. He was glued to his computer most of the time to even notice her petite figure. Alcohol though has changed many a man to an animal. There was an empty bottle of rum next to Simon’s bed. My suspicion grew stronger.

The bell rang thrice to free from a quagmire of thoughts. I sighed and opened the door. It was Simon. Before I could ask him anything, he spoke. “I did it. I did it. I hold none of you responsible for this. I will clean up my mess and bear the consequences if any. Is that fine?” I was stunned at the indifference. He had just taken a life and he had no regrets or at least his face showed none. “But…why Simon? What did she do to you?” - I asked after a pause. I followed him quietly as he led me upstairs. He opened the door and pointed towards the corner.

There it was. Yes. Now I knew what had enraged him. After all, he had spent sleepless nights and hungry days for it. “What else could I do? Tell me. You know what that meant to me. Did we not give her shelter? Did we not give her food? Did we not give her company? Did we ever harm her? The why?” He nearly roared.

I was speechless. He was right. I knew what it meant to him, for it was a part of his life. It was a mess. Well, the murder was justified. We had given her everything. She had no right to chew up the Creative 7.1 speakers that he had purchased just last month. Especially, when her digestive system had no clue as to what to do with all the plastic she was swallowing. I went down and switched on the television. Simon laid the body of Ms.Biondi in a large plastic bag and walked towards the municipality trash bin nearby…

Is it just me or can anyone else still smell a rat?

One month @ a call centre

thank you for calling ...

note: Except for the title of this article, it has absolutely nothing to do with Chetan Bhagath’s book. On the other hand I feel that this has more meat than the one by him, as this is more factual than his cooked up work. Wholly my perspective, arguments not welcome yet again!

A call center to me would be what the church of Satan would be to a catholic. I had not the faintest of ideas as to what went on behind the high stonewalls, but whatever the deeds were, they were as black as hell. I despised it with more conviction than Manchester Untied fans hated Chelsea. I don’t know why. Despite Mr. Gandhi’s sermons about every job having a dignity, I couldn’t find anything dignified about picking up a phone and reliving pre-1947 yet again. So much for our father of the nation’s inspirational charisma.

I left my job at my ad agency, Opus, at midnight. Freedom at midnight part II. Reasons were aplenty. I don’t want to list them, as you would find them as meager and amusing as the ones Chandler Bing uses to dump his girlfriends. In the process, my bloated up ego prevented me from seeing the financial crisis that was lurking across the ‘month-end’ street. By the time sanity punctured the ego blurb and cleared my vision, the crisis had me by my balls. As my struggle for survival continued as per the ‘one cheap meal a day’ policy, I realized that the drinking curve was at an all time low and was hitting the ‘x’ axis with so much pressure that it could fall into the negative zone. Well, I can stay hungry for a day, but thirsty (in this case, thirst for whisky, rum, vodka, etc.) for a day is unheard of in my part of a self-created Utopia. I needed a job. I had begged. I had borrowed. It was now time for me to steal. I decided to steal my vow – the one that said - I would never ever work at a call center.

Time and circumstances change people. Time referring to the time of poverty and circumstances being the ones under which one turns to a pauper from a prince.
In spite of the long list of jobs I can boast of, trust me, an ad agency job is a hard nut to crack…especially in the creative department. Hence I looked for options.

I had a few optional jobs on hand – ways to quick money.

1. Looting the World Bank - Italian Job, Ocean’s Eleven inspired

2. Ingenious billion dollar ransom generating kidnapping of Laura Bush

3. Auctioning the torch statue of liberty carries, courtesy of my adulterous great grandmother’s French Connections.

4. I could cash the cheque for a million dollars; the one I found under Mr. Bill Gates’ table in a state of trance a couple of days back.

But I needed an option that was quick, easy and ‘possible’; therefore I opted for a call centre job.

I joined the Lloyds Bank Collection Process at IBM on the 24th of February. Very contrary to my expectations, it wasn’t a shit-hole. I was reminded of my college days as I walked in fashionably late into my training hall on the first day. I was greeted by the sweetest of the voices, cutest of the faces and the warmest of smiles – all the three belonged to my communication trainer – Kala. Mrs. was prefixed within a week when some bugger wanted to know whether she was married or not in a stupid game of ‘truth or dare.’ I would have preferred to have a Ms. Kala any day in the above mentioned, self created Utopia. Moving away from the unapproachable Kala, Raja was my best friend in the training room. He was a brand of chewing tobacco. As they don’t allow smoking on the premises, I had to find my ways to meet the nicotine demands of my blood. Shamim, a godforsaken heavy metal drummer from Darjeeling helped my cause. He was my second best friend.

Process training was ‘banking’ raining cats and dogs. I have had the fear of numbers since the year 2000. It started when I met this particular section in my largely unused mathematics text book called Calculus. Truckloads of numbers on the black screen brought back ‘not-so-fond’ memories. I conveniently renamed the black screen as the ‘Black Screen of Death.’ I smiled proudly at the baptism performed. I scared myself when I started liking banking. I was supposed to hate this. I was supposed to pick up my first salary and leave the damned job and head back. Against my will, I was liking it. I scored the highest in process tests. The last time I scored the highest in a batch was when … I can’t recall. It is not my fault. My brain is incapable of remembering and recollecting things that never occurred.

‘Credit card collections’ is indeed an interesting process. First of all, you get the British to listen to you; secondly, you get to boss around a bit - giving them threats as to the fines that will be imposed on them on late payments; how we could go ahead and hand over their case to outside agencies (money extorting thugs) and remind them of England’s poor show against India in the one-day cricket series. People were cribbing about and damning the process while I was bathing in the unforeseen and uncommon limelight.

The training was cut short. My heart broke with such a loud crash that it set off the fire alarm in the building. The requirement was urgent, or so did we hear from a cute, fat and ugly bong lady, who wore the assistant manager’s badge. What I understood was, in spite of all their ethics and principles, the Brits were just not paying back the money on time. If I were the bank, I would have unleashed the extortion dogs on them. Grrrrrrrr….

Call center, to me, was not anymore what the church of Satan was to the catholic. The walls had fallen down, the deeds were fairer and dignity had stormed into the scene and was in the spotlight. It was indeed a nice place to be. But as you know, some habits seldom die. I had to quit didn’t I? ;)

I had to take calls from the next day. I collected a few hundred pounds. As I left for the day I collected my salary. At the transport room I collected my ad hoc transport request, without which you were as good as a flat tire. At the cigarette store I collected my pack of cigarettes, paying 20% extra on each. At the gate, I turned back and looked around at the overwhelming building. I was going to miss the place. I collected the first and last memories of the call center, and in whole, and boarded my cab.

another note: I have nothing against the Brits. They have produced the finest writers and football players in the history of the world. Manchester Untied, William Shakespeare, Hugh Grant, Iron Maiden, David Beckham’s right foot and David Beckham’s left foot – they all rule.