A Holiday, A Flight, And Some Warm, Salty Water.

The gates had been snapped shut, the noisy children had suddenly gone silent, collective clicking sound of hundreds of seat-belts reverberated in an unusually quiet cabin. The aircraft had now started to taxi and the flight attendants mechanically demonstrated safety instructions with their plastic smiles intact. As I sat in my aisle seat looking through the extraordinarily thin girl gesticulating animatedly right in front of me, I felt the first warm drop. And then another. Within a matter of seconds, a steady stream of warm, salty water was flowing down my unsuspecting face. 

A little startled, a little embarrassed, I hurriedly wiped my face off and looked around: had anyone else noticed it? Almost everybody around me, to my relief, was busy doing last-minute things with their phones. Those who weren't, were already asleep. Relived, I craned my neck to catch one last glimpse of Chennai -- the city I was leaving behind that evening.

Chennai, from above, was nothing but a large mass of bright yellow stars and looked no different from any other city at night. Disappointed, I picked up the in-flight magazine. It was while trying to focus on a food article -- with my mind constantly racing back to Chennai, and its people -- that I felt them coming back. Knowing no one was looking, this time, I let them be.

Tears had once been my only companions: with my father moving every couple of years, I hardly had the opportunity to get close to people (by the time I got comfortable with anyone, it was time to go). And so, for years, tears remained my only friends. I cried when I was happy, I cried when I was sad. I cried when I was overwhelmed, or angry, or hurt. I cried when I was alone, and, sometimes, I cried even when I was among people. Slowly and steadily though, as I grew older, I realised the futility of crying -- and the perception it created about me. As a young adult, unwilling to be seen as weak or meek, I started to distance myself from my one-time trusted companions. With a little effort and practice they soon turned into strangers: so much so that I did not shed a single tear during the biggest of tragedies -- not even when I lost my child.

In my experience, tears come to you when you are angry, or hurt, or frustrated -- not essentially when you are sad -- and mostly when you are unable to express it.

In the last few months I had been thorough a whirlwind of emotions. I had experienced joy, sorrow, ecstasy, agony, longing, fulfillment -- all in equal measure -- in a matter of weeks. When you go through so much in such a short span of time, you end up feeling nothing: the joy had failed to cheer me just as the sorrow had been unable to move me. With tasks to finish, responsibilities to fulfill, things to manage, I had, perhaps, become too numb to react. And today, when I finally had a few minutes of solitude -- and nothing to do -- all the pent up emotions seemed to be coming back.

Were these tears of joy, then? Of having met an old friend after almost a decade and realising that nothing had changed between us. Or were these tears of grief? Of witnessing my mother battle death, come out of it, and now fight it yet again even as I holidayed. These could also be tears of happiness though: I had come to Chennai for one of my closest friend's wedding. I had seen her long struggle with loneliness and now, that she had found her match in a brilliant man, I was, obviously, very happy. 

But joy, grief and happiness were not the only emotions tugging the strings of my heart that evening, there were elements of fulfilment and longing too.

Chennai, which had meant nothing to me until around a year and a half ago, was now an important part of my life. I had, in the short span of time, forged a deep bond with the city and its people. Having spent the last four days hurrying between lunches, dinners, the wedding, and much else, ticking things off my bucket list had however ensured I had lost out on experiencing the city my way. It was only after boarding the aircraft that I realised the trip, which I had been planning for over six months, was already over. While on one hand there was satisfaction of being able to do most things on my list, on the other was the regret of missing out on my quiet time with a city I so dearly love: I longed for its sights and smells even before I left its soil.

More than a month later I still do not know why I wept through the flight -- was is joy, grief, fulfillment, longing, or just plain relief that made my old friends revisit me after years. And yet, as I get ready to travel again, I secretly wish to meet them, maybe on another flight.

A Husband, A Lover, And A Woman Torn In Between.

Dear B,

You might be slightly surprised to see this letter, after all we haven't spoken in almost four years, since that muggy afternoon when I left. It is not that I have forgotten you, in fact I remember you very often -- and very fondly -- but I have not had the courage to write to you. I have been afraid that talking to you again might reignite my love for you.

Do you remember when we first met? It was a beautiful drizzly morning with a deep grey sky looming large, the breeze played with my hair, the raindrops tickled my cheeks, I had instantly fallen in love. Sometimes though I wonder if it was really love or just fixation with the new and novel. After all you were completely different from anything I had known until then. But a fixation cannot last three years, can it?

By the time I saw you again, a few months later, I was head over heels in love. In you I had found what I had always been looking for. You were good looking, you were kind, you were intelligent, and you had come in like a breath of fresh air in my stale life, what else could I ask for? I remember telling everyone about you.

They say love gives you confidence like nothing else. And with you, I experienced that. You gave me the courage to let go of my demons, you gave me the confidence to walk out of all the negativity that surrounded me, you motivated me to turn my life around completely, you helped me discover who I truly was.

In the months that followed we spent a lot of time together, most of it quietly by the large tree that peeped into my balcony. Those were hard times, mother was ill, child was young, and my self-esteem at an all-time low. And yet, I was happy and content.

But familiarity, as they say, breeds contempt. As I started to know you better, I found out things that I did not quite appreciate: your occasional indifference, your frequent mood swings, your apathy. Your inability to change, even for me, had started to make me increasingly uncomfortable. It is then, in those doubtful, lonely moments that I was reminded of D.

D had been my friend and confidante for seven years. My relationship with him, which had begun when I was a young and naive small-town girl, was akin to a stable marriage. We had our issues, but we accepted each other with our shortcomings. My enchantment with you however had created a rift and I had mercilessly left him for you. Now I had suddenly started to long for his familiar embrace.

I am not a person who believes in frivolous relationships, and so, even though I missed D dearly, I would have happily stayed on with you: so what if the passion was dying, the love was still there. But your apathy to my kids was something I could not tolerate. The most important thing for a mother is the well-being of her children, she can go any length to ensure they remain happy and healthy. It was the mother in me that forced the woman in me to step away from her lover, into the familiar company of her husband to ensure her children were safe and secure.

You did not show any sign of anguish when I told you I was going, just as you had not shown any excitement at my coming to stay with you. The afternoon I left was most unlike the afternoon I arrived. I was relieved that I was leaving. 

Back home with D life slipped into its familiar routine like nothing had changed. We lived the same way, we laughed the same way, we loved the same way. It seemed as if those three years had not even occurred. But every now and then I was reminded of you -- the way you played with my hair, the way your cold fingers woke me up every morning, the warm sunny afternoons we spent together, and, most of all, the rainy evenings. 

I know it is impossible for us to be together, but is it also impossible to meet up once in a while? After all, however much a woman might love her husband, she always preserves a soft corner in her heart for her lover. 

Wouldn't you like to see me too, B? Would you not, like old times, like to stand with me in a shady balcony for hours without saying a word? Wouldn't you want to play with my curls, or pull my cheeks? Tell me B, do you not miss me at all?

A.

The letter is dedicated to my dear Bangalore, who I miss very much. D, in this case, happens to be my home, Delhi.

Wanderlust

I have been travelling for as long as I can remember. As a little girl I travelled with my parents through the country -- from the snow covered passes of Himanchal, where we went with my four-month-old brother, to the oceans of Kanyakumari, where we travelled, a few years later, with grandparents and cousins in tow – we travelled more than anyone around us, and to the places no one else went to. As a young adult too, I travelled extensively making many routine trips between college and home, and some, not-so-routine ones to far off places. It was probably destiny then that I met my match in a man who was as eager to travel as I was, and together, we set out to chart the length and breadth of the country -- and some unknown corners of the world too.

While travelling with husband, family, and friends had its share of joy, it was the travel of another kind that had me hooked, right from the time I was fifteen.

My first journey alone was made on a particularly warm June morning in 1995. The summer vacations were still ongoing but I was required to be back in town to attend special classes arranged by the school for all students appearing in the board exams. So that my family’s vacation plans were not jeopardized, I decided to travel back to Lucknow on my own and to stay with a cousin until my parents returned. The journey, although not a very long one, became one the most memorable journeys I had ever undertaken.

Over the next few years, especially during college, I made many, many more such journeys – some in the freezing winter nights, when even the warmest jacket, and the thickest sleeping bag could not prevent my toes from getting numb and fingers from swelling up, others in the scorching summer months when the railway coach was nothing but a huge oven and coming out of it without being charred an achievement in itself. Then there was the special one made on a birthday-eve with a special friend discussing our non-existent future together. Every trip, however insignificant, had its share of stories.

There was a catch though. Despite the fact that each one of these journeys was made alone, it was never to an unknown destination: I was invariably travelling from one part of the family to another, or from one home to another. I was travelling alone, but not in the true sense of the word.

It was only recently, at the ripe old age of thirty, that I first undertook my first holiday alone. I went to an unknown town at the other end of the country all by myself. I did not know the people, I did not know the place, I did not know the language. It was, in the beginning, a tad intimidating, but, it gave me a high like never before: I felt strong, I felt powerful, I felt free. I had never felt that way before, but I wanted to feel like that over, and over again.

It was during this trip, and another subsequent one, that I noticed two things. One: the number of women travelling alone in India is abysmally low (those who do are either on a work assignment, family emergency, or, in the rare case of travelling for pleasure, in a group). Two: as a woman travelling alone, my experiences were very different from those I had while travelling with husband, family or friends – I saw the same things in a different light, and, as a lone woman traveller, not confined to air travel or luxury hotels, I was seen in a different light too.

Travelling by myself also helped me uncover elements of my personality that had remained hidden until then. I spent hours listening to the stories of my co-passengers, made friends with strangers, had conversations with taxi-drivers, auto wallahs, and shopkeepers (something, a shy, reticent woman in me had never been able to do until then). Then there was the time I spent with myself doing nothing, talking to no one, just sitting by the ocean, or gazing at the clouds (as a compulsively fidgety person, I did not know I was capable of doing that either). The discovery of the world around me ran parallel to the discovery of the unknown person inside me.

But travelling alone is not always fun, there are times it can get difficult too. In a country where any man -- from seventeen to seventy -- can letch, grope, or insult you, you have to forever be on the watchout. You need to be careful of when to let go of your guard -- and with whom -- and when to retain it. Then there is the planning. With a house to run, a family to look after, a job to attend, finding time -- and money -- to travel is not always easy.

But these are trivial matters especially when compared to the experiences, the perspective, and the knowledge that you gain while travelling alone. After all, as Pico Iyer says, "Travel is like love, mostly because it is a heightened state of awareness, in which we are mindful, receptive, undimmed by familiarity, and ready to be transformed. That is why, the best trips, like the best love affairs, never really end." And who wants a love affair to ever end? Not me for sure.

Dilemma: To Write or Not To Write

It is 1:46 at night and I am wide awake. No, I have not been sleeping all day, neither have I woken up late, but, like every other day in the past ten days, I have spent hours trying to put a decent blog piece together and failed yet again.

The last time I wrote something was five weeks ago, it was about my love for Madras and Calcutta and how the two cities have come to be an important and inseparable part of my life. I was still a few weeks away from my trip to Chennai, and was excited to happy about it. 

The weeks went by sooner than I had thought and it's already ten days since my return.

I had expected this trip to give me a lot to write about. After all how often do you attend your best friend's wedding, meet a close friend after months, reunite with a schoolmate, visit your favourite city and travel through the length of the country -- all in a matter of eight days? 

And these eight days did give me a whole lot of things to write about: the thirty-hour long journey with the girls, the boys and girls I met at the hotel, the quiet afternoon with a friend, the noisy wedding, the long overdue meeting with people I had known only virtually until now, the three-day-long vacation. But there is a problem: most of these are very personal emotions, and I, somehow, have forgotten to write about how I feel. 

A year and a half ago, when I started to write, I dreamt of only two things: one, more and more people should read what I write, and connect with it, and two, my writing should be everywhere -- in the newspapers, on online forums, in magazines. In the last one year both these dreams have been fulfilled to some extent, but in the bargain I seem to have lost the art of writing for myself. Every time I pick my pen, a million questions cross my mind: Who all will read this? What are they going to think? Will my friends judge me? Will my family be discomforted by it? My pen stops midway.

And so, the strongest of emotions stay buried in my heart, keeping me up night after night even as the world sleeps. Hopefully, someday, I will sleep too. But until then, I shall keep trying to put my pen to paper, every single night.

It was only yesterday

It was only yesterday that we had held hands and promised to walk together,
It was only yesterday you had said any storm for me you will weather;

Why is it then, that I suddenly find myself all alone,
Why does a feeling of loneliness engulfs me like I have never known?

Your eyes do not meet mine any longer,
Neither do your arms make me feel any stronger;

Is it that you have found someone else?
Someone with whose warm hands your lovely, long fingers now melt?

May be it is just a fragment of my wild imagination,
Or maybe you really no longer feel the passion;

Whatever it is you just have to say,
And should it give you happiness, I will quietly walk away.
 

Stamp of Approval

This piece appeared in The Hindu dated 13th March: http://www.thehindu.com/features/metroplus/philately-is-one-of-the-simplest-hobbies-one-could-pursuephi/article6986851.ece

I first heard about philately in school. While discussing hobbies someone had mentioned the word, and I, not even knowing what it meant, was more than impressed: it sounded intelligent! A few years later, only when I saw a large, fat album containing all sorts of colourful stamps from all across the world, did I get to know what philately meant. I remember wanting most of those stamps, especially the colourful ones from Russia and America. But that was almost twenty years ago.

In the age of e-mail, courier, faxes, and, more recently, Whatsapp, Skype and Facebook, the fascination for colourful stamps was eventually lost. Until we – my husband and I – became a part of an online community where the members send post-cards to each other through snail-mail.

While postcards were easier to find (if you look hard you can spot them in an obscure corner of a bookshop or a souvenir stall), getting stamps, especially of our choice, was arduous: the neighbourhood post office stocked only a handful of same-old-boring ones and our request for variety was either met with stiff silence or with a freezing glare.

Not to be bogged down, we took our hunt to another level. Every city or town we travelled to, we made a trip to the post office: from the forests of Gir, to the head post office at Jamshedpur, from the airport lounge of Mumbai to the bazaars of Nainital, we went to every post office that came in our way, scouring for unusual stamps. It is on such a quest that I first came across a philatelic museum, and then another.

Postal stamps in India date back to the British period. The first stamp, a white paper embossed with wafers of blue and red, was issued in 1852. The next, which came out in 1854, was a half-anna stamp with the profile of a young Queen Victoria.(The pictures of the British Queen – and Kings – continued to dominate the Indian stamps until Independence).

The first three stamps issued by an independent India in 1947, however, were that of the Ashoka Pillar, the Indian National Flag, and that of an aircraft. In the years to follow stamps were used to display, commemorate, and celebrate the country’s heritage as well as its achievements. In the last 67 years, since independence, India graduated from three types of stamps to more than three thousand of them. These are not only used for postage but also for collection and study of the postal history; most major post offices have a philatelic department – or museum – that stocks and exhibits these stamps.

I had expected the officials at the philatelic bureau to be indifferent like their counterparts in my neighbourhood Post Office, I was in for a surprise though: the first official we met, after hunting for him in the corridors of over a century old Jamshedpur GPO, returned to his desk in under five minutes (as promised), expressed surprise at seeing us (apparently he knew every philatelist in town), indulged us in a long conversation about philately (I was amazed by his knowledge and passion), and helped us pick relevant stamps.

The other officials, who we met at the GPO in Lucknow, were even more forthcoming and their philately department much larger and modern. We were greeted with a warm smile, made to sit at a large wooden desk and were offered tea. Post which, they proudly showcased their collection – a large section of books, specially printed post cards, memorabilia, and of course the stamps.

While husband got into a detailed conversation with them, I forayed into the museum – three large rooms lined with glass covered panels displaying stamps, first day covers, and cancellations in chronological order. The variety was mind boggling and subjects varied: Politics, Arts, Literature, Festivals, Monuments, People, Cities, Towns, Railways, Sports, everything seemed to have a stamp dedicated to it. The oldest stamp I spotted was atop a faded envelope and had been posted to the Kanpur Post Office on 19^th Dec 1948 from the Gandhi Nagar Post Office in Jaipur.

Appreciating the stamps was good, but what we needed more was a steady flow of them (that was why we were there in the first place). Surprisingly the officials had a solution to our never-ending woe: we could become members of the philatelic department and they would send us every new stamp that the department issues. We could also opt for brochures, first day covers, and cancellations if we wanted, and had the option of choosing the denomination of the stamps too.

The process was simple. We filled up a form, submitted a thousand rupees and got a receipt. By the time we walked out, almost two hours later, we had over three-dozen post cards, one brass letter box, a membership number, and, most importantly, a hope of receiving an unending supply of interesting stamps. But the skeptic that I am, I also had a doubt: what if the stamps never turn up? After all, the same postal department fails to deliver something as basic as a greeting card. My doubt was laid to rest, and my faith reinstated, when I received the first batch of carefully packed stamps and brochures by registered post a few weeks ago – well begun, as they say, is half done.

Over The Hills And Far Away

Having been born and brought up in the heart of North India (not to be mistaken for Delhi or Punjab), my exposure to the south of India had always been limited. As a child, all I knew was of a land called Madras, somewhere beyond the horizon and of people called Madrasis (yes, I am guilty of that crime too). Although we made a trip down south when I was about nine years old, but my memories of the trip were limited to the food – we had to eat puri aloo or dosa all ten days; clothing – I had found it strange to see young women in petticoats, which I later learnt was a half sari; and a lot of greenery, beyond that I did not remember much. My only South Indian connect back then was a Tamilian friend, and the weekly dinner of dosas in his house – and his dadi's nine-yard sari – did little to add to my knowledge, except reiterating the little I already knew.

A few years later, thanks to the geography books, I learnt that there was more to south of India than Madras but that hardly made a dent in my ignorance levels. It was only after I met my husband that I learnt a little more about the south (having grown up in a cosmopolitan township, he had many south Indian friends and acquaintances). He told me about the food – the tamarind rice and the biryani, the beef curry and the avial, the appam and the parrota; the language – the lilt of Tamil and the high rate of speech of Malyalam; the music – the soothing melodies and the hip swinging chartbusters, and the movies – complete with entertaining voice overs.

Although he was a fan of everything south Indian and had many south Indian friends back home, he had also shared how the six months he had spent in Chennai had been a complete antithesis of what he had seen all his life. The city – and the people – according to him, were not only closed to, but also strongly biased against the north Indians. There were many uncomplimentary stories of him being harassed during his six month long stint in Chennai (all this when he is not even a North Indian, but a Bengali). It was with these stories that I first set foot in the city (the trip was made more out of compulsion than out of choice). But what I saw – and experienced – changed my perception forever. 

The city in itself was a revelation, quite a contrast to my mental picture of it. I saw no sign of the polluted and congested metropolis I had thought it to be. On the contrary, I found grand colonial buildings springing up amidst wide, tree-lined avenues; sprawling campuses and impressive office buildings, huge roundabouts and imposing hotels (among them was also the one husband had worked for). Some parts of the city reminded me of Calcutta while the others of Bombay, just that the cramped lanes had been replaced by wide boulevards.

And the people: right from queue at the prepaid taxi booth, where they stood patiently and the booth assistant spoke courteously; to the driver, who greeted us with a smile, carried our luggage and helped us locate the guesthouse; to the owner of the guesthouse, an elderly man, who took us home and treated us like his personal guests since he could not get a room arranged for us (he even picked us up from a lonely dark lane when we were almost lost, and dropped us to the airport early next morning); I could see no sign of the hostility I had heard of. I had just begun to savour the city when it was time to say goodbye. But I had decided to return – and experience the real Chennai, on my own.

When I deboarded the flight that morning, two years after my first visit, I was better equipped – and less prejudiced – about the city. Getting to the guest house from the airport was a breeze – I spent the entire time talking to the driver – and the guesthouse – set up amidst lush tropical plants, low-rise bungalows and small fountains – was a picture of calm. 

I spent the better part of my two days there by roaming the streets, walking the lanes, talking to the cabbies – and the infamous auto drivers, experimenting with street food, discovering little nooks and crannies – with breathtakingly beautiful little temples and quaint houses, and doing many things that I cannot do even in my own city. In the evenings, I explored the colourful and bright markets and huge departmental stores, waded through thick traffic, walked in the rain and sat down on benches when I was tired. All this without a trace of discomfort or hint of the hostility that I had heard the stories about. The city – or a certain set of people – might have been unforgiving to my husband once, but to me Chennai had been warm and comforting.

While boarding my flight two days later, I had only one thought in my mind: to come back sooner or later, this time may be for good.

Post Script: As I finish writing this, husband is in Chennai, savouring a traditional Tamil lunch at a colleague’s house and getting ready for his onward journey into the heart of the city. True, time changes people and their perceptions. 

This Piece first appeared in The Hindu: http://www.thehindu.com/features/metroplus/society/discovering-the-real-chennai/article6123100.ece?utm_content=buffer82cf1&utm_medium=social&utm_source=facebook.com&utm_campaign=buffer

The Gender Myth

This Piece appeared in The Hindu dated 24th Feb: http://www.thehindu.com/features/metroplus/the-gender-myth/article6929146.ece?ref=topnavwidget&utm_source=topnavdd&utm_medium=topnavdropdownwidget&utm_campaign=topnavdropdown

"Ma’m, Lavanya only plays with the boys in the bus, never with the girls,” complained the visibly distressed attendant. "What is the problem with that?" I asked her.

Lavanya, by the way, is my six-year-old, who, according to her bus attendant, is not only unruly, but also prefers the company of boys over that of girls.

My first reaction was that of anger and disbelief. Not because she was thought of as unruly — I know she is far too independent and free-willed to be tamed, and have made peace with it. What struck me however was the lady's objection to her talking to, and playing with, boys. 

As a young girl my first -- and only -- best friend was a boy. Protective, sensitive and intelligent, he was neither political, nor bossy (like the girls) and I enjoyed being with him. All was well until we entered our teens and things suddenly changed: it was no longer ok to hang out together, talk long hours or meet alone. I wondered what had changed and when I questioned him about it, he would say, “You don’t know how the world is.” We started to talk less and less, and eventually drifted apart. 

Many years later when we reconnected, he was more bothered about my husband than me: would he be comfortable with our reunion? Most of our conversations revolved around this concern. Needless to say, we soon went our separate ways.

As a society, we are adept at segregating, take pleasure in it. For instance, we insist on separating the rich from the poor, the blacks from the whites, Hindus from Muslims, men from women. We find it hard to allow them to mingle, communicate and form their own opinions and perceptions. So girls stay away from boys, and women from men, unless of course they are related by the way of work, or family, or friends. Anything other than that is questioned and discouraged. 

It gets even more complicated if spouses or partners are involved: explanations are sought, clarifications need to be provided, and friendship is often sacrificed at the altar of marriage. 

If it is acceptable for two women -- or two men -- to be close friends, spend time alone, talk at odd hours, even live together, why is it that a man and a woman doing the same are subjected to labelling and judgment? Because they belong to different sexes, must their relationship be sexual or romantic? 

I recently noticed a lady in my society publicly admonishing her teenaged daughter for hanging out with a boy, and not with other girls. The girl seemed apologetic and the mother livid. I see the same happening to younger children too. Although not so blatant, gender dynamics takes place even in the play ground--boys usually play with other boys, and girls with other girls. And it is not deliberate. They have been divided for as long as they have known -- in school, at home, outside (blue for boys, pink for girls; cars for boys, dolls for girls; cricket for boys, badminton for girls etc). 

Luckily there are people who refuse to conform to the stereotypes-- parents who understand that confining their children hampers their development, banning their teenagers leads to rebellion, women who know that their man talking to another woman does not imply his having an affair with her, and men who realise that just because a man cares for his woman, it doesn't mean he is romantically -- or sexually -- attracted to her. And so there continues to be hope.

An Outstanding Work Dynamic

This piece appeared in The Hindu dated 20th Feb:http://www.thehindu.com/features/metroplus/fitness/an-outstanding-work-dynamic/article6916567.ece

My daily dose of news and entertainment starts at ten every night soon after husband returns from work. While most people would be tired, irritable, and grumpy after a twelve-hour workday, my man is energetic, cheerful and talkative (sometimes too much for my comfort, actually). And then, over his cup of tea begins the session of news, views, and reviews.

When it comes to his passionate discourses on policy changes, environmental issues, or political drama, I mostly pretend to listen (and plan the girls’ Tiffin, or think of my next article), but I am all ears when he narrates stories from work. Perhaps that is why even though I have not set foot in an office for more than three years now, I do not really miss it. Perhaps that is also why I stay abreast with the latest happenings in the corporate world too – be it the latest fashion trends, technological advancements, changing dynamics of the business, or the plight of the workforce.

While it is a fact that most companies today are cutting down on perks and benefits like never before (free transport, free meals, regular parties are a thing of the past now), a healthy trend of investing on employee well being is fast emerging. Building gymnasiums and providing nutritious food options have long been methods of promoting fitness; the latest trend however is to pull the chair away from the employee’s desk.

The ill effects of a sedentary lifestyle, especially those caused by desk jobs, have been proven time an again. Sitting for more than six hours a day, it is said, considerably increases the risk of diabetes, cardiovascular diseases, obesity, and can even result in early mortality. It is also believed that these effects are not only lethal but also irreversible. So much so that even a regular workout cannot undo the damage caused by sitting all day long. The solution, however, is simple: to sit less and stand more.

Standing for three or more hours a day, on the other hand, not only helps you burn more calories, keeps your postural muscles active and toned, and keeps you alert, but it also keeps you mentally agile and helps you connect with your co-workers more effectively.

More and more workplaces are therefore making provision for stand up desks, and sometimes desks that are attached to treadmills too. (A stand up desk is typically a high desk, which can be used while standing up; a treadmill desk is a similar desk attached to a treadmill). In India the concept is still new, though it has been quite popular in the west.

Not to be left behind, husband’s swish new campus has come up with stand up meeting rooms – they do have high tables, but no provision for chairs. The meetings, according to him, are now shorter, crisper, and more productive as opposed to the never-ending discussions that last for hours with bored employees slouching in their chairs. The colleagues on the other hand are more active, energetic, and livelier than before. The stand up desks, or workstations, although are still sometime away.

Closer home meanwhile, realising how much I sit (thanks to my writing), I have cleared the top shelf of my book rack and have perched my old dilapidated laptop on it. And so, while my tech-savvy, corporate man is still a few steps away from his stand up desk, I have one right here in my study.

Madras, Calcutta

In school I was famous for two things: my voice, and my love for Madras and Calcutta. 

To be honest I don't think I sang any better than an average person, but since I could not draw or paint, or dance or run, the only thing I could come up when asked about my "hobby" was singing. That I knew some old Hindi songs strengthened my case. Soon I was one of the voices representing the school in every inter-school competition. It would be pertinent to add that even though I was considered -- or considered myself -- one of the leading voices of our school, I hardly ever sang solo. My biggest nightmare was -- and still is -- to stand alone on a stage with hundreds of eyes fixed at me. Once or twice when I was forced to sing solo I messed up badly. They never sent me to another stage alone.

The other part, about my Bong and Tamilian love, is slightly more interesting and elaborate. It so happened that every guy I ever had a crush on -- and I had quite a few -- was somehow always a Bengali or a Madrasi (although the non-resident variety), the others, even the best looking ones, just never made the cut (I guess they lacked the intelligent gene). Unfortunately the crushes remained only that -- crushes, but they did help me earn a reputation.

I expected to grow out of my love for the Madrasi and the Bengali when I got to college: it was an all-girls college and there was no scope for fancying anyone, let alone have preferences. But neither Bengal nor Madras was to leave me anytime soon -- every introduction during the three years of college began with a question about my non-existent Bengali roots. On getting a negative response the next question would inevitably be, "then you must be a Madrasi, your name is Anubhuti Krishna, no?"

And so for three years I explained to people that I was neither a Bengali (even if I looked like one), nor a Madrasi (even if my name sounded so). I heaved a deep sigh of relief when college got over: no more explanations to give.

Meanwhile something else had happened: I had spent about two months in Calcutta and was supposed to stay there for further studies, fortunately or unfortunately I disliked the place so much that I promptly returned promising never to set foot in the city again.

But as they say, you often meet your destiny on the road you take to avoid it. 

To avoid being in Calcutta when I took the road -- rather the train -- to Delhi, I had no idea that I would end up with a Bengali, that too for life (not before an endearing encounter with a charming Madrasi though). I was now convinced about my deeper connect with the two cities -- and its inhabitants -- and had given up the idea of avoiding them. 

Calcutta soon became a significant part of my life. However much I detested the city and its chaos, I could not avoid it. I continued visiting Calcutta year after year after year. And one fine day I found myself looking forward to the trips. I felt at home among the same chaos, clutter and crowd that once had me wincing, I had developed sense of belonging with the city I had once promised never to set foot in. It was strange, but it was true.

Madras, on the other hand, was only getting farther. I had not been there since I was ten, neither did I know anyone from the city anymore. To top it all whatever I had heard was uncomplimentary: it is too hot, it is too crowded, it is too hostile. My connect with Madras, I suspected, was over along with my infatuation with the Madrasi. Until four years ago, when I finally went to the city that is.

It was a transit trip and I barely had the time to experience anything. In the short span of a day and a half however, I could not help but notice the beauty of Madras. It was nothing I had thought it to be, and everything I had not. I found in it what I had not found anywhere else. It smelt of history. It was wrapped in tradition. It was drenched in culture. And, it felt strangely familiar. While boarding the train back, I secretly promised myself to go back.

It was on my next trip, about two years later that I got to experience Madras a little more. I was alone and had all the time to walk the quiet lanes, rub shoulders with shoppers in the crowded marketplaces, indulge in the local food, and do all the things I have not done even in my own city. I spent the two days soaking in its sights, sounds, and smell. I have not had a chance to go back since, my connect with Madras has nonetheless only gotten stronger: I wake up each day thinking of it, and go to bed dreaming about it. While it is Chennai, or Madras, that I live with each day (by virtue of writing for a paper there), Calcutta remains as close to my heart if not more (especially after working extensively with a friend on his book on the city).

Twenty years after I first became famous for my love for Madras and Calcutta, the wheel, it seems, has turned a full circle. With a Bengali already by my side, all I need now is a Madrasi to complete the picture.