On the old Mumbai-Pune road, in an establishment called Toni Daa Dhaba (as spelled by Toni). Apart from its culinary delights, the place also houses several bewildered guinea fowls and emus that you can choose to eat, if you be of a gruesome nature. One of the birds was obviously a poet who recognized a kindred soul and marked the moment with defecation.
In between talking about bird droppings and kindred souls, I do have something to say. For the last three years, I've been a working girl. Well, sort of. I've felt supremely useless and smugly superior, sometimes at the same time. I've bitched and whined and complained while cultivating and air of productivity to cover up my deep desire to do nothing. Most of the time, it worked. It worked so well, in fact, that it started to make me sick.
So I quit. Because life can't be a trapeze act between one job and another. And sometimes it pays to just jump. Sometimes the bird just has to poop. I'm spending June and July on a detox diet, where I hope to forever be rid of jargon like creative strategy and brand visibility and so forth, things that mean very little in the larger scheme of things. And now I'm going to create the larger scheme of things. Like a wise woman in a movie once said, "You have to be the leading lady of your own life."
I'm taking my life back.
P.S.: How offensive is the Tanishq wedding jewellery ad? Throw some diamonds at your recalcitrant daughter and watch how fast she sprints down the aisle? And would you believe that this weekend, the Times carried a feature about Indian women being essentially dour and humourless. Evidence? Sonia Gandhi doesn't smile and neither does Mayawati. I mean, I know the Times is a cesspool of endless crap, but this was truly a new nadir even for them.