in Pursuit of Happyness

The other day, I was sitting at my cubicle staring at the monitor and chewing on my upper lip, when the CEO walked by.

Having worked for companies where the CEO was a shadowy presence - rumored to be working on his tan in the Bahamas with trophy wife no. 6 - it’s always somewhat of a novelty for me to see the founder and CEO of my present workplace pace the hallway, tossing ideas into the air at the same speed he checks his BlackBerry.

“How’s it going?” he asked, stopping at my desk. “Everything OK?”

“Yes …,” I answered slowly, suspiciously wondering if he was about to throw a project my way.

“Are you happy?” he asked instead.

The shock must have registered on my face because he lingered, as though my answer would make a difference in his day.

“Y-yes,” I stammered, trying to recover my composure.

“Are you sure?”

“Positive,” I replied, flashing my best Colgate smile.

As the man walked away to attend to matters of corporate importance, my initial reaction was to speed dial my husband and bark over the telephone, “The CEO just asked me if I was happy. When was the last time you asked me about my feelings?”

Instead, I pulled myself together and continued to stare at the computer monitor, pretending to be v-e-r-y busy in case he walked by again.

“What is happiness?” I mulled. “Is it a state of mind or a feeling? … Why does chocolate make me happy when I know it’s bad for me? … Can happiness be maintained or is it an elusive state of mind - here one moment and gone the next? … Would I be happier holidaying on the beach or in the mountains this winter? ….”

Far from achieving a state of bliss, such metaphysical pondering merely resulted in a throbbing ache in my temples – a condition that could be alleviated only by a steaming cup of syrupy-sweet cardamom tea from the vending machine in the corridor.

Back at my work station a few minutes later with my belly sated and the headache at a reprieve, I thought about the most frequently asked question directed at me ever since I started working - “How do you like your new job?”

Everybody I’ve recently come in contact with (bar the newspaper delivery person and the milkman who start their day earlier than I do) has asked me that.

“It’s nice,” I reply, without going into any specifics. Maybe what these people really want to know is, “Are you happy?”

So, after a lot of thought - which involved another walk to the tea vending machine for inspiration - I arrived at the following reasons that contribute, in a small way, to my happiness quotient at work.

1. Given the average age of the work force, there are days when I feel I’m back in college. I watch young women blush over something their male co-worker said. I see couples coyly sharing food from the same plate in the cafeteria. I hear single girls giggling and whispering on the cell phone in the restroom or discussing a prospect who replied to their profile on Jeevansathi .com. The only difference from college is that everybody’s better dressed and the men have actually bothered to shave before showing up in the morning.

2. Nobody butchers my name anymore. After hearing variations of my name from non-Indians for years, I no longer have to repeat myself or cringe when people address me by first name.

3. I can wear whatever I want to work without worrying about a human resources representative photocopying the dress code page from the Employee Handbook and leaving it on my desk with the “No denims” policy highlighted in red.

4. The reaction on people's faces when they find out how old my older child is. "Oh, quite old!" said a guy doing the math aloud. "You mean me, right?" I teased. "No, no ... your child, I meant," he replied, trying to salvage the situation. I'll bet!

5. As if it’s not enough that the CEO actually walks the hallways, he uses abstractions such as “Fun” when he talks of employee engagement. (Most corporate communicators will point out that using the terms “fun” and “CEO” in the same sentence is an oxymoron.)

6. Compared to my former company’s top-level management whose approachability factor - despite their declarations of an open door policy - rivaled that of the Sai Baba’s, some of the top people in this company are not above mingling with the masses, especially at lunch time in the cafeteria.

7. I get to blog! (Of course, it has to be work-related posts like this one, but even a regurgitated post is better than no post, right?)

8. Generous vacation time, flex time, Diwali bonus for no reason, offsites and parties every quarter on company dime – what’s not to love?

9. Each and every communication from my inbox does not require the approval of five levels of vice presidents and the legal department.

10. Did I mention the unlimited cardamom tea in the vending machine, accompanied by complimentary cookies?

There, it’s your turn now - what are some of the reasons your workplace brings a smile to your face? (Aw, come on, there has to be at least one!)

The beginning of the end

I wish I could say the reason for my blog hiatus is because I'm busy settling a new family member in. But the big news from my side is that after a year's sabbatical, I'm back in the work force.

After driving 60 miles a day in my previous position, my new workplace is a hop, skip, jump away from home. I'm in the same field I was previously in and am answerable to a demanding, unconventional CEO who only accepts out-of-the-box creativity. (All other this-is-the-way-it's-usually-done ideas are summarily tossed in the trash.)

The biggest blessing - aside from the paycheck, return of self-confidence, feeling of usefulness, etc. - is that the spouse is home. While I'm gone for nine plus hours a day, he answers the doorbell for the courier guy, Bigflix guy, other random doorbell ringers, decides on the dinner menu and instructs the cook, ensures the children are fed after school and done with their homework, shops for groceries and acts as my personal limousine driver by ferrying me to and from work.

Given the unconventional work hours (11 a.m. onward), I start my day with yoga classes in the morning. Bending and stretching after breakfast makes me feel better when I go up to the chaat wala at work and order a fried dish and gulp it down with a glass of freshly-squeezed musambi juice.

After suffering, yes suffering! as a vegetarian in U.S. cafeterias, I'm grateful for the subsidized Indian buffet spread and sandwich counter at work. The men behind the counter may not wear gloves, but they're willing to customize your food (mirchi kum; butter beda) and apt to turn the other way when you help yourself to a cup of yoghurt or rice from the buffet bar without paying the full meal price of Rs. 40.

A big jug of complimentary buttermilk arrives at noon in the break room, and three kinds of biscuits (salt, sweet, 50-50) are available all day to complement endless cups of masala tea, hot chocolate, badam milk, coffee and hot milk.

Despite distractions, such as craving a hot samosa on a rainy afternoon ("Rs. 7 only. No change? No problem, pay later, madam,") and impromptu birthday parties thrown for co-workers with pineapple pastries and kachoris, I do manage to get some work done - just in case you're wondering.

Evenings are spent wistfully glancing out the office window to watch the sun disappear behind buildings, and by the time I reach home, the kids are yawning and rubbing their eyes. My own eyes start to droop after dinner, and I gratefully hit the sack, only to start my day at 6:30 the following morning.

School holidays allow me the luxury of spending an extra hour in bed until the maid rings the doorbell, but despite my tight schedule, I now understand why some RNRIs are reluctant to go back.

"Who will leave this aaram zindagi and go back, yaar?" declared a Bay area-returned neighbor.

A few weeks ago when I was jobless and had nothing to lose, I would've raised both hands and half my body in the air.

But, now, as I look at the flowers in my lawn (courtesy the gardener), survey the somewhat clean house I return to (courtesy the maid), slide behind the wheel of a car that's been hosed and wiped down (courtesy the car cleaner), and tuck into the warm dinner that's laid out on the table each night (courtesy the cook), I feel I almost know what my neighbor means.

I'll probably raise only one hand now, rather slowly.

The sound of silence

My darling Terri,

Much as I hate to admit it openly, I’m getting used to life without you.

It’s a strange feeling to not suffer from guilt anymore. I have to constantly remind myself that I can stay out late shopping, dining, partying, because there’s no one tugging at my heartstrings, waiting for me to come home.

After 13 years, it’s a new found feeling, and I can’t say that I really enjoy it.

You see, I loved doing things for you. Of course, I complained, but I miss boiling your morning egg, rolling out your lunch and dinner rotis and drinking my evening tea without you prodding me to take you for a walk.

I miss cupping your warm snout in my palm and dodging your licks as I tried to kiss you on the tip of your wet nose. I even miss that dank dog smell that was both disgusting and comforting at the same time.

With you gone, my love, I feel dispensable. I have quit jobs for your sake, refused dinner invitations and exotic vacations since it meant leaving you behind. And yet, I never felt resentful because you had a way of making me feel as though I were the only one who mattered. Perhaps all dogs have this innate gift. I would have to adopt another pet to know for sure.

“When can we get another puppy?” the children ask. I browse Web sites such as this to look for another dog, but the lure of future employment puts a damper on my pet plans.

“Who’s going to watch the dog if I start working?” I reply, citing brutal work hours in India as an excuse. “Besides, our yard isn’t fenced in; I don’t know how to potty train a puppy; we can’t leave him/her in a kennel if we go anywhere; I don’t know what the quarantine laws in the U.S. are if we ever go back."

“But why can’t Appa watch the dog if you go to work?” the children reason. “He’s home!” Your Appa refuses to be drawn into the discussion, using stubborn silence to convey his opinion on the matter.

Despite his reservations, we took the children to the CUPA shelter last week to make a donation. The children and I shared similar levels of excitement as furry puppies beckoned and licked our fingers through the cages. More than a dozen years ago, on a visit to a similar animal shelter, I brought you home, Terri. I was young then, reckless, lonely in a new land, and confident that my new husband would indulge my whims.

Older now and less reckless, I stood surrounded by polite dogs at CUPA, ignoring the children’s squeals of “Please, please, please, can’t we get a puppy?” We fed the dogs biscuits and bread, laughed at the antics of the puppies, admired the limpid eyes of a cow tied nearby, and marveled at the positive energy of the three-legged residents who had lost a limb.

At the end of an hour, I pried the children away from the puppy enclosure and dragged them back to the car amid protests and whines. We wished the dogs well and drove home empty-handed.

I unlocked the front door when we returned, only to be greeted by silence. You may never come back to me, my darling, but loneliness, my old friend, has.

- Mom

Ghar ki murgis

Normally, visitors call before dropping in. But this duo showed up at our doorstep one morning and took the "Welcome" sign on the doormat rather literally.

They pecked at the glass door until we opened it, and immediately strutted into the house unafraid. Where did they come from, we wondered.

Before the house filled with chicken droppings, I lured them out by squatting on the floor and calling out to them. They ran toward me like eager puppies and started pecking at my rubber chappals.

“Feed the kolis rice, madam,” urged the maid.

“But aren’t their beaks sharp?” I asked, sticking my rice-filled palm at them tentatively. “Won’t it hurt?”

“Of course not,” she laughed.

Obviously, the woman was trying to get her revenge on me - chickens aren’t half as gentle as dogs.

Yelping, I scattered the grains of rice on the floor and the birds cleaned up in a jiffy before proceeding to eat the sewer roaches, straying ants and dead flies stuck on our door sill.

“Are these your chickens?” I leaned over the fence and asked our immediate neighbor, wondering if her Sunday lunch had escaped.

Apparently, they're vegetarians.

"Call security," she suggested.

I ignored her and spent the better part of the morning watching the duo's antics until the children informed me that the birds had escaped from their friend's yard, a few doors down.

"Are they (gulp!) going to eat them?" I wondered aloud.

"They're pets, mom," I was reassured, as the owner was located and informed about the errant birds.

My feathered friends left soon thereafter. And as I walked around the block late that evening, I fervently hoped that the aroma wafting down the street was not chicken-related.

Pay it Forward

I haven’t read the book yet since I’m on a watch-it-first-read-it-later spree. The movie is captivating enough for me to want to read the book, but wouldn’t you know it, our local library doesn’t carry the title.

“So what? Just buy the book,” some of you might suggest, but I’m against buying paperbacks, especially one-time reads, when there’s a functional library nearby. (Yup, am cheap that way.)

The film is based on the premise of showering kindness on random strangers. A fifth-grader takes his social studies assignment of “changing the world” seriously and decides to make a difference in the lives of three people. He then hopes that the three people he helps will repay their debt by helping three others, who will, in turn, help three others and thus keep the kindness chain unbroken until it impacts as many people as possible.

The boy starts out by lending a helping hand to a homeless drug addict. He then connives to have his lonely teacher and alcoholic mother fall in love, and finally extends his kindness to save a classmate from bullies on the playground.

Helen Hunt plays the alcoholic single mother who works two jobs to support her son and her habit. She delivers her dialogs with the speed of a semi-automatic – a trait I found rather annoying while watching her in “Mad About You.” She also looks her worst in this movie, dressing like a hooker with streaky eye makeup as she waitresses in a strip club.

I never noticed Kevin Spacey much before, but his role as a burned, scarred teacher who is afraid to love in this movie drew my attention. Despite a never-changing expression on his face, the man makes love to the camera in a subdued, controlled manner, never revealing his emotions but smiling secretly to himself. Each time Helen Hunt throws herself at him, he moans softly and pulls away, leading one to believe that there are men out there who can resist the allure of a semi-dressed, willing woman.

As a large-hearted man, the pedantic teacher falls for a recovering alcoholic and restores some of her dignity. On her part, the woman overlooks his scars and discovers the person hiding underneath the puckered skin.

Let’s see now, as a shining example of my own random act of kindness, I’d like to start by adopting a dog.

Pssssst, is my spouse listening?