Whose wine is it, anyway?

In my first month at Marico, I was like a foetus in the corporate womb. I was struggling to hit the ground running. I could have blended in with the office carpet and no one would have even noticed! No one, except Corporate Sherlock! Just like the bohemian detective, Mr. Sarwate possess riveting observational skills and were thus quick to notice my discomfort and even quicker to gauge my personality type. With twinkling eyes, mischief up his sleeve, he had the ability to strike a chord with anyone and everyone at the workplace. He was and continues to be starkly different from regular corporate honchos. With the least bit of effort, he could get people to blurt out their darkest secrets and divulge personal truths. He is eloquent and maintains an air of mystique. With words he is precise; seldom betray his thoughts and is always keen to know what is on others minds. When it comes to work, he is technically sound and some would go as far as calling him a genius. With colleague

When I was young and unfamiliar with the functionalities of our rotating planet, I was highly influenced and affected by things people said. When I was small and talkative, people told me that bearing my heart out thoughtlessly was a weakness I needed to overcome. I believed them and gradually learnt to hold my silence. In my teen years, I was told that to be noticed I needed to be pretty and pretence was key to popularity. I believed this theory and tried to be someone I'm not, just to get accepted. I hated myself for not being inherently skinny. I hated my hair for not being painstakingly straight. I refrained from smiling lest I reveal my un-shapely set of teeth. When I stepped out of college, I was informed that pretence wouldn't help me land a job and I needed qualification. I believed this notion and worked towards getting a degree. When I finally landed the job, it was put across to me through snide remarks that being qualified wasn't sufficient. I needed to know

God has put in a great deal of thought into creating you. He has used umpteen skills and craftsmanship while sculpting your curves, while giving shape to your full lips, while giving spark to your glistening eyes. You are his masterpiece! And yet you have make do and fall in love with the first draft he prepared. The uncouth unfinished and incomplete male specimen is to be your life partner. This is not God's fault; he exhausted himself after creating you. He lacked the necessary motivation to correct the first draft and bring it to your level of perfection. So women, please be kind to men! They are incomplete and crude! Overlook their lack of polish and shortage of finesse. Ignore their false sense of pride. Confuse them instead with high vocabulary and complex ideas and Love them, despite their glaring shortcomings.

They've put me up in such a compact place; the walls are dripping with slime and blood. I cannot even stretch my arms without disturbing the position of things. I make a mental note to complain about the transportation service that landed me here. The name, if I correctly recollect, is “The Conception”. The Conception has quite a wide network and can be easily reached at www.conception.org The “org” in this case doesn’t stand for organization; it stands instead for “Organ”. In all fairness, I must admit, the food is quite wholesome, a tad too healthy, but sumptuous nonetheless. There is the occasional turbulence, when everything wobbles and I experience slight discomfort. I reach out and stomp the slimy walls in defiance. That usually brings the tremors to a halt. If I’m not wrong, I’ll be out of this damp accommodation within a week or two. To make myself “at home” and to put an end to the cramping, I tend to shift at times, leading to a series of tremors. I can’t wait to

I habitually refrain from working against the clock . The hurried packing of essentials, pigging out on jam and bread, haphazard donning of the attire while it’s still under process of being ironed is not really the way I like to function. So I am an early bird who likes to chew her worm at leisure. The restful morning brings with it a barrage of chirping and an array of sun beams that gently caress the skin. Having an early start ensures I can chow down my bacon and gulp down my tea with an air of triumph. Even the dog days of summer seem pleasant at daybreak. With ample time at my disposal, I can rise and shine with optimistic cheer, drink in the sunlight and waltz around filing my office bag and conclude with absolute conviction that I have packed everything except the kitchen sink . With a spring in my step and a flex in my knee I find my feet and march to work. If you are an early riser, you can never get up on the wrong side of the bed . The reason being, once the alarm is

We, in Mumbai, have come to terms with the fact that we enjoy absolutely no standard of living. Especially those of us, who travel by local trains, are sufficiently happy if we don't end up writhing in pain on the platform. My day is incomplete if I'm not punched in the face by someone's elbow or handbag. My travel experience is incomplete if someone doesn't sneeze or cough in my face. My earrings have been wrenched out while in the process of trying to get off the train. My hair has been used as a lever/handle by the people in queue behind me. They have latched on to my locks and tried heaving themselves into the train or off the train. Quite a fairy-tale experience this! I'm the contemporary Rapunzel! In Mumbai, our fashion sense is not guided by magazines and by what’s trending. Our outfits are chosen based on their sturdiness and ability to withstand friction during excessive body contact. Fat women terrorize packed train compartments by parking indefinab