All characters appearing in this article are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Every morning, I wake up to a call from an extremely enthusiastic girl. Just to remind you of the fact that most males from my Alma mater have the luxury of getting such calls only from their mothers, colleagues or wives (courtesy the increasing trend of young people falling into that trap). Of course, I am young and unmarried and my mother would never dare call me in the morning.
Anyway, when it comes to that call, a winter morning infuses enough courage in me to touch the "reject" icon. But, she never understands, does she? She keeps calling me, once every seven and a half minutes (a made-up number) until I finally decide to give up. Even the wake-up caller at the ritzy Ritz-Carlton (no, they still haven't automated that) would have given up on me. When I finally answer the call, contrary to my expectations, she never seems pissed at me and carries her bit of enthusiasm all along. My bewildered mind keeps wondering how she could still do it, after being rejected far too many times for far too long.
The one good thing about this time of the year is that it is not quite uncommon to switch ON your television to the sound of a Kookaburra. And again, there are only two good things about cricket these days - Matthew Hayden's commentary and Led Zeppelin's songs, the only things that keep me from falling asleep again.
However, one fine morning, I did manage to frustrate the "girl" to the extent that she reported my stakeholders of my lackadaisical attitude towards work. And yet again, she chose the best time of the day to do that. This time, I woke up to angry calls and I was obviously mad at everything wrong in this world. Again, I turned to my savior, the television, only to witness a very unusual scene. I could listen to victorious chants coming from the Barmy Army men in limited-overs cricket. The conditions so lousily favored the batting side that even the English batsmen were slogging away to glory. I so much hate the usual lopsided contest between the bat and the ball. The day couldn't have been worse. Suddenly, a wicket falls, and there's Bob Marley.
Now, I'm not a Bob Marley fan. But, he somehow reminds me of that West Indian quartet of the 1970s - Marshall, Garner, Roberts and Croft. Of the 1970s, when quick bowling was about the eyes, the art, the concentration to unsettle a batsman. Of the 1970s, when commentators used to say, "I wonder if this would be at his jaw as well", "That would have broken his jaw, that's ALL RIGHT". Of the 1970s, when aggression meant aggression, when all was fair in love and war. So much unlike today when a batsman gets unluckily hit by a bouncer and dies and the pundits call for a ban on bowling such deliveries.
And, I could somehow relate it to the workplace of today. Of course, my current workplace is much more kind than the past one could ever be. But, isn't today's workplace about the aggression, the ruthlessness, the art of unsettling others, the schadenfreude, the going-to-the-extent-possible to break someone else (and not just jaws)? Laid-backs don't stand a chance here. There are hopes, there are dreams, but, like it or not, the environment breaks more people than it makes. The cricket of the 1970s happened for good, but I'm not too sure if the workplace of today will be do any good. Anyway, life moves on!
P.S.: For people like me, who, more often that not, work on discovering trends in women, celebrities, make-up products, Botulinum toxin, under-wears, infertility rates et al., we need to dream. Only then can we stand against the workplaces of today. So, just in case, despite the repeated warnings, if you're reading this, I have only one thing to say, "With a pretty fucking please with sugar on top, let me sleep!"
Every morning, I wake up to a call from an extremely enthusiastic girl. Just to remind you of the fact that most males from my Alma mater have the luxury of getting such calls only from their mothers, colleagues or wives (courtesy the increasing trend of young people falling into that trap). Of course, I am young and unmarried and my mother would never dare call me in the morning.
Anyway, when it comes to that call, a winter morning infuses enough courage in me to touch the "reject" icon. But, she never understands, does she? She keeps calling me, once every seven and a half minutes (a made-up number) until I finally decide to give up. Even the wake-up caller at the ritzy Ritz-Carlton (no, they still haven't automated that) would have given up on me. When I finally answer the call, contrary to my expectations, she never seems pissed at me and carries her bit of enthusiasm all along. My bewildered mind keeps wondering how she could still do it, after being rejected far too many times for far too long.
The one good thing about this time of the year is that it is not quite uncommon to switch ON your television to the sound of a Kookaburra. And again, there are only two good things about cricket these days - Matthew Hayden's commentary and Led Zeppelin's songs, the only things that keep me from falling asleep again.
However, one fine morning, I did manage to frustrate the "girl" to the extent that she reported my stakeholders of my lackadaisical attitude towards work. And yet again, she chose the best time of the day to do that. This time, I woke up to angry calls and I was obviously mad at everything wrong in this world. Again, I turned to my savior, the television, only to witness a very unusual scene. I could listen to victorious chants coming from the Barmy Army men in limited-overs cricket. The conditions so lousily favored the batting side that even the English batsmen were slogging away to glory. I so much hate the usual lopsided contest between the bat and the ball. The day couldn't have been worse. Suddenly, a wicket falls, and there's Bob Marley.
Now, I'm not a Bob Marley fan. But, he somehow reminds me of that West Indian quartet of the 1970s - Marshall, Garner, Roberts and Croft. Of the 1970s, when quick bowling was about the eyes, the art, the concentration to unsettle a batsman. Of the 1970s, when commentators used to say, "I wonder if this would be at his jaw as well", "That would have broken his jaw, that's ALL RIGHT". Of the 1970s, when aggression meant aggression, when all was fair in love and war. So much unlike today when a batsman gets unluckily hit by a bouncer and dies and the pundits call for a ban on bowling such deliveries.
And, I could somehow relate it to the workplace of today. Of course, my current workplace is much more kind than the past one could ever be. But, isn't today's workplace about the aggression, the ruthlessness, the art of unsettling others, the schadenfreude, the going-to-the-extent-possible to break someone else (and not just jaws)? Laid-backs don't stand a chance here. There are hopes, there are dreams, but, like it or not, the environment breaks more people than it makes. The cricket of the 1970s happened for good, but I'm not too sure if the workplace of today will be do any good. Anyway, life moves on!
P.S.: For people like me, who, more often that not, work on discovering trends in women, celebrities, make-up products, Botulinum toxin, under-wears, infertility rates et al., we need to dream. Only then can we stand against the workplaces of today. So, just in case, despite the repeated warnings, if you're reading this, I have only one thing to say, "With a pretty fucking please with sugar on top, let me sleep!"
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