Why don't you QUIT?

A few weeks back, I was speaking with a close friend of mine who is expecting her first baby. It was one of those days at work when I was feeling particularly restless and I took the liberty of cribbing to her about my life in general and my job in particular. As the conversation drifted from Indian corporate scenario to work-life balance to children to guilt, she asked me- "why don't you quit?".

 

In the last three years, since my daughter was born, I have been asked this question many times- by others and by my own concious. Also, I have asked this question to many other working women, just as my friend asked me. Typically, like most other women, my answer depends on who is asking the question-

- Rich Relatives- "I love my job"- Yeah, I am that type.

- Poor Relatives- "For money"- Because that's what it's all about.

- Colleagues- "Ambition"- Better watch out!!

- Close Relatives, Parents- "Independence"

- Younger People- "I worked hard for this"- and so should you!

- Mean mommies- "I can never spend my life sitting at home"- I have better things to chase than primary school admissions.

- When I need to make some sort of impression- "Women's rights, better world, set example for my daughter..blah blah"

 

However, when a close friend who is nearly an extension of your own being and who knows you well enough to know better, asks you a question like this, you have to be honest. And honestly, I have no idea.

 

I don't "love" my job, definitely not as much as I love my daughter. I don't need to work for money. I was never very "ambitious" and it is not something that drives me on a day to day basis. Maybe I want to be independent but I can be financially secure even if I quit. Also, being a "corporate slave" doesn't exactly define independence for me. I am definitely not big on feminism, women's rights and stuff like that. I don't wish my life to be a statement for any kind of cause. I just want to be happy.

 

So I don't know why I work and I truly believe that I am not alone. Having known many working mothers who struggle with the same questions everyday as I do, I know I am not alone. We are a community of women who don't "love" what they do, who don't need to work for money and who don't work for a cause and yet we work.

 

After much deliberation, I have realised that I work because I pretty much suck at everything else. I'd rather negotiate contracts than negotiate with my maids. But for many other women, I think the answer lies somewhere between conditioning and desire for "respect". With the changing gender roles, women of our generation have been told by their mothers, teachers, employers, feministas and every other women in this world, that in order to gain "respect", they need to work. Our role models are Sheryl Sandberg and Indra Nooyi and not Kara Kennedy and Ann Romney. We celebrate women who work and trash women who quit. We have been fed by books, social media, peers and pretty much everyone in our social set up that we are fighting a war and in order to win, we need to work.

 

While I agree that their are millions of women who want to work and can't do so due to social stigmas, I believe that there is also an increasing number of women who may want to quit but are too embarassed to admit it, even to themselves, because their self-worth is completely interlinked with their jobs. In our attempt to eliminate "discrimination" against women, have we started "dicriminating" against certain life choices? In our fight to be "equal", are we establishing that some of us are more "equal"? Are we fighting for our individuality or are we losing it to others' ideas of individualism?

 

I don't have the answers but I do wish that when my daughter grows up, she feels respected and celebrated, whether she choses to work or not.

 

 

 

 

Surprise

You don't surprise me any longer
my love, you are no new to me
I know when u come every night
and the gift u have brought for me

I know the smile on your face
known to me is the light in your eyes
Your self assured easy moves
your eyes full of lies

I know the gift you bring
you bring for me with care
I know the weapon you carry
I know when the attack is near

I know the exact time, depth
and style of every cut
I know that look on your face
so alive with the blood lust

I know too, the number of attacks
and how much blood i shall lose
I know how much skin would give way
and break for blood to ooze..

I know it all, its a routine
I have learned your reasons
I have accepted your affection
and your expression for all seasons

Yet what is not known to me
is my own state of shock
the newness of pain
the tears that come down to mock

The sequence of action is the same
for every night is one of crime-
struggle-blood-surrender-tears-
N yet it hurts so bad every time...

A Game

There was a game we used to play

waiting for the time every day

when he would come to my door

and we would run to the moor

The game was a lot of fun

it was called hit and run

While he was the tough cop

with a fancy red cap on top

I was the smart theif

who would fool the sheriff

So i had to run from the tree

making sure i get their free

If i could get to the post

i would be intelligent most

but if on the way he could stop me

then victory was his to be

Everyday i would steal

and run as per our deal

I would run so hard and so fast

till i felt my lungs would blast

till my legs were cramped

and my way was jammed

My run was very good

but his hands were wood

that would hold me tight

for me to put a fight

I would struggle n cry

till throat went dry

I would pinch and bite

till my head felt light

As shrilly shrieks became soft cries

he would become my accomplice

He would slowly let his grip lose

look at his little muse

wait for a moment and look

into my eyes, reading a book

Then he would look at the post

in the background like a ghost

which would take me away

he could not make me stay

So he would let me go

in a motion so slow

n i would run like mad

to victory i wanted so bad

Just when i would jump at my gain

i would feel a sudden pain

pain for him who let me fly

n yet again i would cry

Standing at post looking at him

water in my eyes at its brim

he would smile n act it cool

n say that i am a tiny fool

But i know he sweared in his heart

that the post cannot set us apart

so i would run again to his surprize

to get my real bumper prize

He would open his arms for me

this time i would be really free

House of Hope

I live in a house of happiness

high walls, open spaces, open windows

lighted rooms, breezy porch, gardens, gardens

I live in a house of celebration

happy faces, perfumed bodies, perfumed satin

laughing, dancing, music, music

I live in a house of security

High walls, plenty locks, plenty gaurds

fire extinguisher, safety exit, alarm, alarm

I live in a house of garage

rotting trunk, dead snake, dead mice

torn clothes, stinking pickles, decay, decay

I live in a house of happiness,

house of celebration, house of security

and of the garage that no man can see

I am the garage, the garage

Two Lives

We talk at length, my love

of things that dont matter, things so pity

We please with little stories n jokes,

we try so hard to be witty

We talk about routines n irregularities

of books n movies, of silences and parties

We talk of goodness and the good, and of the evil too

we talk of misdeeds n regrets, of gifts n charities

We talk at length, that we do

trying to find meaning in what is said

trying to catch the touch in voice

trying to smell the breath..

We have our own little stories made

but my love, is it but a facade

Its what we have in the name of intimacy

as the feel of our skin and bodies fade

We fight and we argue about non issues

we the jealous, idealism we feign

we burn in fire of the trivialities

of what is not heard or seen

As our eyes get cold n smiles become scarce

as our last kiss withers into the space

The air between us gets heavy n moist

moist are the hollow eyes..moist is the damp face

Yet when u touch me with music,

music in your whispers, in your sighs

it makes me shiver with pleasure

It makes complete the two lives

Misery loves company

A very sad thing happened today, a wonderful person went through a wrong and broke down in front of me... as the tears dropped down her cheek and she looked at me for advice, i gave it her all..the advice, the sympathy, the sermon, saying everything that was expected of someone responsible and considerate and maybe a little more. Why did I do it? What made me console her at length and comfort her pain? What made me spend twenty minutes instead of two minutes of sympathy...I wish it was the genuine consideration of a fellow human but most most unfortunately, I did it as I was relishing every moment of the episode. I may or may not admit, like many of us, but the fact is that misery loves company and it gives us great pleasure to console others. More the similarity between the incidence and your own "jane eyre" episode, more is the pleasure. I have often noticed people sucking comfort out of this vitual umbical cord between the sympathiser and the sympathisee. Its like comforting energy running from former to latter in form of sound & reflecting back , being doubled in force.

We all hate it when we are subjected to a wrong..at some level we almost hold entire world responsible for that and when the episode is repeated to someone else, preferably someone strikingly similar, you love it, cherish it, its a balm to the old wounds gone sour.

Realising what a feel good we are giving to the world, many intelligent people prefer to stick to themselves when in pain. Yet again, not because they can deal with the pain in a better when left on their own, but simply because they hate to give others an opportunity to seek comfort out of their misery. Very smart indeed.

But again, it does not cease to surprise me how can other's comfort become a bigger bother to us than our own misery. Why does it hurt us if others are enjoying your company in misery...how would it make us worse off. But whatever is the logic of the dear mind, it certainly does not hold true when we seek comfort from someone who has been through a similar experience...what happens then?? Why do I confide my clash at career with someone who does not have a job at all rather than the best performer?? Would the hero not help me better? Or do i feel that he would derive more pleasure out of my failure, when it is far more likely for a loser to be comforted by my loss. The games of mind are complicated. It is insecure and jealous, it is hurt and sensitive...

Whatever be the case: whether you are the jealous seeking comfort out of oher's misery or the vain refusing to share sorrows...everyone has reasons to be sad and unfortunately, the reasons always seem to be far more relative than absolute.

I have been here before

I know this road very well

I have tasted the tears you cry

I have the same story to tell

But today I laugh, I laugh at the ways

Ways in which Justice fails

Deep is my pain, but I am the Vain

I shall die but share

I know you do not care

Laugh if you must, but not at me

Deep is my pain, yet alone I shall be

U r a cheat..so m i

I am a cheat, a theif, a crook, a liar n probably a manipulator as well. This is not a confessional..well lets admit v all r...v all cheated at some time in life..cheated system in exams, our partners in relationships, our bosses n collegues n mostly ourselves. We all have picked on cookies mom hid in kitchen, our brother's best tee when he was not around, our company's car for a night out...we all have lied n manipulated. While most of these mischeifs are situational and usually done to serve some purpose, the purpose itself has a subject and an object. Object may vary from your boss to your boyfriend, cookie to car..but the subject of the purpose remains the same...it is the euphoria during the crime. The rush of blood while exchanging question papers to lifitng mom's perfume to faking up you whereabouts in front of your partner.
The drink of sin brings such a pleasure..such a high. The constnat fear to get caught, the tention in the air, the swiftness and stillness of the moment and the pure concentration during the act...the one moment when u r so completely into action. It is this addictive intoxicating drug created by our own brain that pulls a child to kitchen every time mother is out, which makes teenagers call their crushes late at night and which makes so many theives claim they did not mean to do what they did.
I, for once, enjoy this self induced euphoria so much that i have often pushed things off the edge hurting many of those whom i love and treassure just to apologise for my immature behavior. But is this tendency immature simply because "elders" have found substitutes to get high and they can do with artificial stimulators...but the question remains the same: are the sources of adult euphoria really the subject or are they just a comouflage to hide the addiction to their minds' whims... is it always the liquour that makes you high while drinking. I believe you are, more often than not, as high as you think you are (no psychology angle suggested) I have seen woman "cross limits" in the veil of liquor while others seriosuly wonder how can a human body go out of control in 100ml vodka...it is not the liquor but the rush to get out of control, the thought itself is intoxicating enough to make you drunk...
If so is the case, that idea of any kind of "wrong" can get us high, if it is so that there is no pleasure better than going anti-taboo, then this clearly indicates that the worst addiction v can get is discovering our ability to intoxicate ourselves..its like having a brewery right inside your head...and overconsumption is dangerous. You might love the racing heart beats, the slight darkness in thoughts, the fear in background and the quick and concentrated action..u might admire ur ballet to a state of perfect crime...but it is a dangerous trick to appease yourself and consequences are often worst than intended or imagined!!

I dance everynight, for my own desire
To feel rush in my veins, to set the blazing fire
To do what is wrong and do i must not
but weak i am, how is this heart to be fought
slave to my own mind, i perform in the night
victim of my own demons, who am i to fight...