Auld Lang Syne

A friend recently observed that January 1, is simply an arbitrary end to a certain time period. It is not spring (traditionally the beginning of a new year in several cultures). It is not harvest. It is not Christ's birthday (that's 5 days earlier), it is not the longest day and it is not the longest night.

What's so special about this one date that makes us all glam up, party all night, buy new jewellery, make new resolutions and sing Auld Lang Syne?

Is it simply a chance to relive the past one year? A chance to think about the happy times, forget the sad mistakes and gear up to make completely new ones over the next 365 days?

I remember making resolutions every year. To lose weight, to keep a diary, to suddenly change all my bad habits or to undo all past errors. This year, I promise nothing of the sort. I've spent years making plans - assuming my life would follow a fixed path towards some destination, and getting frustrated at deviations from the same.

While getting to the house with the picket fences and kids is important, I think its equally important to live life now (do I sound like an alcohol/music brand ad yet). Cliches aside, I want to live in the here and now, and let the big stuff work itself out.

Que Sera Sera.

Happy New Year to all of you! May all your dreams come true!

The Last First Day

Today was the first day of what is (hopefully?) my last term at IIM A. For most of us, this is the last leg of our academic careers. Fond memories, good friends and red bricks make for many nostalgic moments in the sixth term.

As Churchill once said, This is not the End. It is not even the Beginning of the End. It is perhaps, the End of the Beginning

Love's Labour Lost

Gradually the threads dissolve, the strings come undone. We become footnotes in someone else's life, remembered fondly in the middle of drying dishes on a warm Wednesday night. In the end, this is all we're reduced to, this is what we're left with.

Glib laughter, and a very witty thing she once said. A song at the club that you used to dance to. A secret habit of wolfing down cocktail olives without ever ordering martinis. An old tee shirt and a mini collection of her scrunchies, accumulating in your car. A few things that last longer than the relationship was meant to.

Older..! Wiser..?

When I was 8 years old, I had life all figured out. I knew how the planets revolved around the sun, I knew how to ride a bicycle and, from a reading of an abridged version of Swiss Family Robinson, was quite convinced I could survive on a desert island. I was convinced I was going to be an architect, and often built Lego houses with an elaborate bathtub in the drawing room.

By high school, this had changed to an engineer who was drawing pictures of the internal combustion engine and learning organic chemistry. I had a definite ten year plan - to finish college, do a postgraduate degree, get married, settle down, had decided what color my sofas should be and where we'd vacation for the summer.

As I turned 23 I realize that growing older doesn't necessarily mean I have all the answers.
Or any of them.

I haven't figured out a career, haven't settled down, Hell! I haven't figured out how to change a tyre. My best laid plans have often been turned upside down in 12.8 seconds and I have absolutely no idea where I'd be spending my next birthday. As I see dear friends around me get engaged and pick home furnishings, I realize I have a long way to go before I really 'find' myself.

If the past twenty three years have been anything to go by however, the journey is as exciting as any destination would be.

Barefoot in Bombay

How exactly do you end up shoe-less in South Bombay on a slow Sunday evening? You could try being me for a few hours!

It all started when this modern day Cinders expressed a desire to see Bombay. (Do you also get the feeling that this is going to be a long story?)

Until about a year ago, my only memories of Bombay were of its airports. Our flight would land at Sahar International in the middle of the night. My mum and I would then spend several hours hunting down, variously :
* The uncle designated to fly down from Chennai to escort us back home
* A luggage trolley for our Delsey bags filled with Camay soap, Pistas and Charlie purses.
* The Airport Manager who, for some reason, was usually more well hidden than most guerrilla fighters are.

After moving to Ahmedabad, I now get to see Santa Cruz on a more regular basis. Alas! Many many things have changed since I was a kid. The city is called Mumbai now. Everything else is now named after Shivaji, including both airports, a train terminus, about three roads and several tea stalls.

To cut a long story to about medium length, after having seen nothing of Bombay except the airports and the consulate, I decided it was time to remedy the situation. Which is how I landed up in Bombay last weekend.

Fungus, who had kindly offered to show me around town picked me up at Andheri. Usually, when a gentleman says he will pick you up, it means he is bringing a car or a bike. In Bombay, it means he is going to meet you at the terminus and elbow his way through the crowd so that you can get first dibs on a much coveted seat in the local train.

We traveled from Andheri to Churchgate along the Harbour Line and then walked to Marine Drive. As a city, Bombay is very tourist friendly. Names of places and streets are largely self explanatory. Bandstand for example is apparently where the band used to, well, stand.

We sat for a while looking at the sea and the Bombay skyline. I got a little paranoid that I would lose my slippers in the weirdly shaped inter-locking rocks on the corniche, so I removed them and kept them to the side.

I regaled Fungus with stories of broken heels and how Sh. would chivalrously give me his slippers and walk barefoot. Our new age gentleman scoffed at the very idea!

By this point, dear reader, you’ve figured out how this story ends haven’t you? As we get up to leave a while later, I somehow managed to kick my carefully secured slipper over the edge.

In the 12.7 seconds it took to fall, several distinct memories flashed before my eyes. Forks that had flown to neighbouring tables at a 5 star restaurant, that were discreetly retrieved by Sh. Days when I decided to take the quickest route down the stairs at the theater, covering 24 steps in 4.8 seconds - face first. So perhaps, this wasn’t my most embarrassing memory in recent times!

This, then, is how I ended up shoe-less in South Bombay on a slow Sunday evening.

Fungus loaned me his slippers and led the way to the nearest mall. I braved withering looks to squeak out my shoe size to the condescending sales guy. After asking me twice is I was “really sure??” he proceeded to announce it to the entire store in an effort to find ladies’ slippers my size.

I made a witty remark about other leading ladies who’d misplaced glass slippers and still had happy endings. Granted, Cindy probably wore a size 4 while I tend to shop in the corner of shoe shops where they stock the super sized pairs, but those are mere details.

With much effort, we finally bought shoes, fortified ourselves with more coffee, and headed out again to see more of Bombay.

Much fun was had by all!