How simple her life is and how complex is mine? Work and boyfriend—I have neither. Bhagvad Gita says kaam karo and here I want to do kaam, but I can’t find a wedding to design or a boyfriend to love? God, a little help here please, I say, looking up at the ceiling. Promise, I will take your idol and give you a dip in the Maldives Ocean.
Running out of ideas on how to save my ‘biz-n-ass’, I look around. The office is buzzing with activity now. Most of the employees of the boutique marketing firm, the one with whom we share office space with, are gathered around a round table to my left holding and examining a bunch of bras. They are discussing the ad campaign for the popular ‘body line’ of Veronica Secret bras. I know because the creative assistant had given me few free samples, earlier this week, for consumer feedback. I try to catch the cute assistant’s attention, but he seems busy.
‘Bas ek sanam chahiye, aashiqui ke liye…aur ek pandit chahiye, muhrat nikalne ke liye.’
Humming to myself, I sit back with my legs outstretched on the table and my neck resting against my hands in a power pose. Feeling more relaxed, I swirl my office chair slightly to the right and look out at the flamboyant red Gulmohar flowers flirting with the streaming gold clusters of Amaltas in the backyard. Monsoon is the perfect season for romance. If only there were more monsoon weddings! I would love to design a ‘haldi’ ceremony in rain. Like a natural Holi, where everyone applies the traditional Indian paste of turmeric, sandalwood, rose water and milk on the bride and the rain washes it away. The sangeet ceremony could have a rain dance. It would be so much fun. There is nothing sexier than a girl in a saree, drenched in rain, and saying I love you. I am sure the groom would love it.
‘Do you think that girl in a transparent, wet saree wants to have sex with me?’ I hear Samir’s voice whisper in my ears.
Whoa! Where did that come from? I shake my head vigorously to dispel any Samir-related thoughts still lurking around in my subconscious. My mind is shocked at how anyone can survive five years of deep freeze. My heart, like a teenager is dancing to its own tune.
‘Ispe bhoot koi chadha hai, theharna jaane naa…Badtameez dil, battameez dil badtameez dil…maane naa.’
I open the window a bit, and splash a few handfuls of chilled water from my water bottle on my face. I look around for my team.
I find NetGen watching a video of a course on Digital Marketing. I like the way she keeps herself gainfully occupied, even when there is no work. I also know Amit is on a six nights and seven days honeymoon package to Manali, but I can’t see Pyare Mohan anywhere. His chair, which is adjacent to NetGen is empty. I hadn’t seen him in the morning as well. I call out to NetGen but she doesn’t hear me. Thirty seconds later, she shifts her focus from the computer screen to her phone to check if anyone in her digital world has tweeted, WhatsApped or updated their FB status. I manage to catch her attention in the split second that she takes in switching back from her phone to the computer. I ask her about Pyare Mohan, our production and logistics manager.
‘Pyare is working on the monsoon-wedding special you have assigned to him,’ she informs. ‘He mentioned some vague song from Shree 420 with the bride and the groom walking under an umbrella. Also something about a kagaz-ki-kashti corner, where each family can make a paper boat and sail it in a mini pond. He was going to email you the details but he got an emergency call from his home town.’
‘What emergency?’ I ask, worried.
‘I think it is a baby’s delivery.’
‘What the fuck! I didn’t know he is married.’ And I can’t pay any paternity allowance. I am alarmed.
‘No, it is his cow Noori. She wouldn’t let anyone else touch her during the delivery. He said he will be back in office on Monday.’
I imagine Pyare, clad in his faded kurta and frayed jeans, lying in a shed, with a new born calf next to him, all covered in whatever gooey stuff a new-born calf is covered in. Yikes! Pyare and his unique rustic ways, but they help us in dealing with the local people, as they are able to connect to him. Guess it’s best if he can deliver all his farm babies over this weekend. To be honest, there is no concrete project to engage him—so I have assigned a hypothetical wedding to plan. But he better come in on Monday, else I will have to cut his salary.
Determined to succeed, I call a few hotels and offer to collaborate with them for any upcoming events. I register on some online wedding portals as well. I join an NRI group on Facebook to tap into any wedding opportunities. I add some of our wedding decor images to Pinterest. Making all the efforts to spread my digital presence makes me feel better, albeit misguidedly. At this opportune moment, the office boy brings a tray of steaming-hot cutting chai and mouth-watering Maggi. NetGen takes the Maggi while I take the tea. I know none of my problems is solved, but for now I allow the bagano ki taazgi to replenish my soul.
‘So she wants you to marry?’ NetGen asks out of the blue, with a string of noodle hanging out of her mouth like a worm.
What? I burn my tongue as I swallow too much of the tea. Many people want me to get married, including myself, but I have no idea who NetGen is referring to. I look at her, but she is focussing on curling the noodles around her fork.
‘Your mom,’ she clarifies a few seconds later putting a mouthful inside her mouth.
Oh! So she can hear even when she is glued to her computer.
‘Which mom doesn’t?’ I joke, as I enjoy my tea. ‘Moms are always standing in the queue, with their daughter’s matrimonial application, outside every eligible bachelor’s door that has a sign that reads looking-for-fair-virginal-bride. I think their daughter’s marriage gets them a huge star in their mommy journal by the UN Council of Parenting.’ I didn’t tell her the lame forecast that predicted my demise unless I marry, which is behind my mom’s urgency.
‘Mine has been threatening me with a “groom wanted” ad since I turned eighteen,’ NetGen reveals. ‘And, I don’t think she cares a shit for some stars. I think she married a useless dork and wants to make sure I find a suitable boy before they are all taken.’
I am shocked to hear this. My poor mom only wants me to get a boyfriend and hopefully have sex with him to save my life. I feel truly blessed now.
‘Do you have a boyfriend?’ I ask. I don’t know if this an important aspect in NetGen’s life.
‘A couple actually, but nothing serious. There is this one guy whom I call Tinderfish because he has a fish on his Tinder profile. I regularly chat with him online. Then there is Woody whom I met on Woo and he follows me all over the net. Then I go on random online dates like the one I did last night with this guy from Sydney.’
‘Wow. I didn’t realize you have a happening social life,’ I say, almost admiring her candidness and capability to manage multiple relationships simultaneously. I might not believe in it myself, but why should only men have all the fun? After all, women are known to be better at multi-tasking.
‘How about you? Do you have a boyfriend?’ she asks.
‘Nah. But I need to get one for my mom’s sanity and also for mine.’
‘Well, then get one,’ she says shrugging her shoulders with a no-big-deal air.
‘Now, you are speaking like my mom. I don’t want to pick up a new candle stand or crockery set. I need to find a guy, like a real human with an XY chromosome, whom I like. And he has to like me too. Then we have to cross the five rungs of relationship together before we become boyfriend-girlfriend. Do you think I have time for all that?’
‘Five rungs?’
Clearly, NetGen is unaware of real-world dating mechanisms. So I start to educate her. ‘First, you start with a booty call to check out if he is hot in bed. Then, if he is intelligent enough to make conversation, you promote him to FWB. Then, if he shows deeper interest and starts picking the dinner tab and buy presents, you can start dating him. Next stage is exclusivity. This is when you meet each other’s best friends, talk daily and meet regularly. Finally, it becomes FBO when you announce the relationship officially on Facebook. You have pet na
mes for each other and you officially become boyfriend-girlfriend.’
‘Whew! Is that how your generation does it? That’s a lot of work. No wonder they start so early but are still unmarried at thirty.’
She is talking to me as if I am from another generation, although she is only seven years younger. But again, I think of Tanu Di as someone from a different generation and she is also eight years older to me.
‘So what do you guys do?’ I ask, curious.
‘We just go to the app store and download one or visit a website for a customized version.’
I look at her confused, wondering if she has switched tracks and gone to one of her digital worlds, because whatever she is saying makes no sense to me.
‘See, there is this invisible, virtual boyfriend app,’ she starts to explain. ‘You just need to download it on your phone and then you specify what you would like in your virtual guy. You chose the name, age, looks and even his personality. Once you’ve settled on your dream guy, that’s when the real fun begins!’
‘But if he is virtual and invisible, how does my mom meet him? After all, I really need a boyfriend for my mom to get a star in her mommy journal.’ I don’t point out that the side perks like sex and gifts are also missing in this relationship.
She looks at me like I am from the pre-Internet era. ‘Your mom meets him through voice mails, SMS and his Facebook activity. How many friends do you really meet these days?’
She is fucking right. My eyes shine at this opportunity to create a guy and decide his traits. I can be God for once. And get Ma off my back for a while. One whole fun-filled hour later, I am actually excited about Vir Chawla, my virtual boyfriend. I met him through an ex-colleague on my wedding project at Jaisalmer. He is thirty-one years old. He is five feet ten inches tall, wheatish complexion and handsome. He is clean and organized but not a neat freak. He wears his shirt fully tucked in. He is a bit of a workaholic, since he is a highly placed consultant, but he never misses my FB posts and promptly RTs my tweets. He has Ranbir’s innocence, Saif’s naughtiness and Farhan’s seriousness. I know—unbelievable right? In addition, he has an amazing sense of humour. Like I have barely known him and he’s already sent me a message, ‘Meha, you make Me-ha-ppy!’
Smiling to myself, I sit back and relax. Now I just have to wait for my mom to discover Vir, which I am sure she soon will. With the boyfriend-problem taken care of, I open my laptop to check for any new mails. I find a mail congratulating me on my new boyfriend. It says, ‘If you find any issues with your order, please feel free to get in touch with our customer support. We are always open to feedback and suggestions.’
How APPtastic? A customized boyfriend that has a reference manual and is open to feedback. Martians couldn’t get any better.
There is also a mail from NetGen informing me that she has already heard back from Yourstory and they are ready to highlight us. Woohoo! This is the best news I have heard in the whole day. I am positive we can get some leads from a Yourstory article. NetGen rocks! It’s weird though that she didn’t inform me verbally about it while we were talking. I turn around to praise her efforts but find her listening to something with headphones plugged in her ears. I wait thirty seconds for her to shift between her screens. But she doesn’t. I send her an email commending her efforts. Next instant, I get her mail saying that she needs to send them my picture for the story. I turn to look at her, but I still can’t make eye contact with her. She seems as occupied as she looked a minute earlier. Sometimes I feel like she is lost in the fast-pace of the digital world, which demands constant attention. Congrats, your friend has endorsed you on LinkedIn, click here to build your reputation and identity. Follow fascinating people on Twitter and watch events unfold, in real time, from every angle. Buy now—slimming panty—up to 70% off.
The irony is that in the online world, you do a whole lot of actions, all very quick, but you don’t really do anything. It’s like the movie Click where Adam Sandler puts his whole life, even having sex, on a 32X speed. You end up becoming a robot. The regular beeps of your devices keep your heart beating, but you lose the ability to deal with the imperfections of real world. There is a tiny bit of problem in this, especially if you live in Gurgaon. One hour into the interiors and there is no internet connectivity. Boom! Your source of subsistence is wiped out. And, God forbid, if it is a bigger issue like the network repairing broken cables without any connectivity for days, then you can go crazy like Tom Hanks in Cast Away—alone on an island, with only a dead piece of metal for a friend.
I shall get NetGen to go on a digital detox camp soon, but for now she needs my picture for the article. Quicker the article goes out, sooner I can get some respite. I put on some fresh makeup, undo the hair clutch and comb my hair, so that I can look my best. No, it has nothing to do with Samir looking as attractive as Keanu Reaves in his story. I don’t care what he thinks of me. I mean he might not even see the article or my picture. I just need to look good because looks matter in my business. Technically, it’s the look of the decor and designs, but you know, I can only create beauty if I feel it within and whatever is within shows in your picture.
I turn on my phone camera, smile, and click a selfie. There I am in a short, puffed-sleeve, yellow-printed Anokhi top. I like the way my lustrous dark brown hair bounces around my face and cascades down my shoulders with reckless abandon. But my earring is not visible. I try again, raising my hand this time for the perfect angle. I can see the wooden fish-shaped earring dangling down to my shoulders against my shiny locks, but my smile is forced. I am aiming for another, my hand hurting now, when I hear a sound from the window. I look outside and find myself eye to eye with a squirrel. She is standing on her hind legs, leaning against the window, holding a purple, squashed jamun in her paws for me.
I click a picture of the squirrel instead and post it on my FB with a caption, ‘You never know who you may meet around the corner, holding a bittersweet treat for you.’
Nibbling on the juicy jamun, I decide I will ask the dimpled, creative assistant to click a nice photograph for me tomorrow. I have accomplished enough for a day. I have saved on Uber cost (by walking back from the movie), I skipped lunch (and avoided unnecessary calories), I am about to be featured in Yourstory, and I got a designer boyfriend (so what if he is virtual!). I smile at how imperfectly perfect my real world is. Glad that I can still handle whatever noose real life throws at me, I am about to leave for home when NetGen gets off the call and turns to me.
‘We may get an international project,’ she announces enthusiastically.
I am completely alert, with my eyes wide open. This is going to be one of those lousy days that eventually turn lucky. I wonder whose face I saw this morning. Before my heart can say someone’s name, my mind crushes its voice ridiculing baseless superstitions.
‘I messaged the founders of KISS on Facebook with a link to our FB page,’ NetGen reveals her reason for hope.
‘You what? No way! They wouldn’t even bother to respond. You are wasting your time,’ I tell her confidently, my balloon of excitement suddenly going phuss.
‘Actually one of them already accepted my FB friend request.’
‘Really?’ I am surprised at how fake friendships can work in digital world. Na naam pata na kaam, par teri post pe meri like aur meri post pe teri like. ‘It probably means nothing,’ I tell NetGen.
‘Ya, I thought so too, but then he called me up. I was talking to him just now.’
Now I am literally holding my breath. Relax! It must be the digital marketing manager of KISS. Why would someone as big as him bother to check a link in a random FB friend request?
‘He called and said he sees potential in our work. He liked the wedding pictures showcased on our FB page, especially the one with rose petals in green popsicles on the dessert counter, decorated with matching potpourri.’
This can’t be happening to me. It is Samir. That’s where he hid the butterfly-earrings. I can’t allow Samir to gatecrash like this into
my life again. Maybe all is not lost, says my glass-is-half-full spirit.
‘Did he…er…by any chance ask about…er…our team?’ I inquire trying to figure if he knows this is my company. After all I did that potpourri design while I was working with Sarika.
‘Of course I am not stupid. I informed Mr Samir Singhal to talk to you for any further discussions. I gave him your number. I hope that’s fine. He promised to give you a call.’ She looks eagerly at my face and expects an appreciation.
I know what she has done is indeed commendable. A project with KISS may save my company from dying. If I can survive the shock and the aftermath.
‘Awesome (as in like OhSam),’ is all I can bring myself to say weakly. I already feel like I am sinking.
I seek refuge in the impersonal, online world, but it seems Samir is now leaving traces in my online world too. He has already liked my FB page and the squirrel-post, which has gone viral. The post’s title stares back mockingly at me. Samir Singhal is definitely the most unexpected bittersweet treat I could have run into.
I can hear the warning bells of impending doom, but my heart is stupidly humming, ‘Tune mari entryan, dil mein baji ghantiyan’. It’s amazing how my mind-jockey, MJ, always finds the song that suits my situation! For once, I wish I was living in a digital world. I could have just closed the browser window, erased the entire day and gotten Samir out of my life.
Of course, I have no clue that my stroke of luck has just begun!
Stroke of Luck – Part 1
Good luck or bad luck—I surely have a stroke of luck the next day.
My daily money-counting exercise reminds me that my ticket to the start-up island expires in thirty days. So much for safety in numbers! I always knew it was a farce. Weighing machines, report cards, credit card bills—numbers have often betrayed me. For your information, good numbers like good guys are rare.
After 2020 days of waiting, I finally get a message from Samsung Do Not Call.
Let's Have Coffee Page 7
