I Want the World to Change, but What about my Home?

The irony of my armchair feminist stance slapped me in the face for the first time late 2019, during one of my fortnightly sessions with my therapist. I have been a self-proclaimed champion of gender equality since I was in college, fondly called ‘krantikari’ or ‘feminist’ by men, depending on their opinion towards my stand. (In case you were wondering, the ones who called me a revolutionary believed in the principle - of gender equality - so long as it didn’t change their lives, and the ones who called me a feminist were making a mental note to (a) avoid such topics in future when I was around, and (2) NOT marry one, if they could help it).

My cook, who had been working for me, as of 2020, for around two years, called one day to ask for a day off, because there was no one to watch her children, aged 14 and 5. “The elder one will be fine by himself, akka,” she explained, “but many younger son doesn’t eat if neither me nor my mother is at home with him.” On further probing she said that her mother, who usually watches her sons while she works as a cook for multiple households, had left for their village without a specified return date. 

I didn’t look forward to cooking for an indeterminate period of time, because along with working  part time, I had an energetic three year old daughter. I was lucky to have gotten a job that suited my qualifications, and with flexibility in terms of time, and to some extent, in terms of the deliverables, too. However, I had been wanting to spend my out-of-work time in exercising, getting back in shape and kicking the PCOD out of my system. Cooking didn’t feature in my plans. And of course I was paying my cook, what the English would call, ‘a king’s ransom’ and I couldn’t possibly continue paying her salary when she wasn’t going to turn up for more than two days in a row. Right? 

One of my foremost reasons to not go back to the corporate grind post baby was the absolute lack of workplaces that were friendly to working mothers. Oh, sure, there is the perpetual WFH on paper, and a manager who merely sulks instead of yelling when you ask for a day off because your toddler is sick or needs to be picked up early from day care. But the reality is that organisations don’t know why they should do anything to help working mothers balance their professional and personal goals, and even if they want to, they haven’t fully figured out how. So rather than be treated like a semi-liability for having a child at home who needs me (and therefore a life outside office, duh), I chose to go my own way. It was a privilege, because my husband was working full time, and we had savings that enabled us to continue our present lifestyle even if I was not bringing in the big bucks. 

Any time anyone asked me why I didn't "get a job" they got this eloquently worded, assertive explanation. But when my cook brought her problem to me, I realised, for the first time in my life, that my household was a workplace too, for her. I also realised how difficult it was, both practically and economically speaking, to have a workplace that was truly adapted to working mothers and their unexpected pushes and pulls. If I, with a single household to run, couldn’t manage it, how can I castigate organisations for not trying, or worse, failing? 

Long term repercussions notwithstanding, I invited her to bring her son over the next time. My daughter was close in age, and one day when she was at home from school the two of them even played together amenably. On other days he would sit in the kitchen balcony and play games on his mother’s phone, while she cooked. All offers for snacks, or to play with my daughter’s toys when she wasn’t around were politely refused. Eventually my cook started leaving him at the security guards’ office at the gate rather than bring him upstairs into my home. 

There are several clashes of thought in this situation, from class-based prejudices to my cook’s need to demonstrate her professionalism by not bringing her ‘home’ into her ‘place of work’. In my opinion, none of them is unique to her situation. 

Covid-19 hit soon after, and with schools closed, not having a job to tend to whilst keeping the home running and a rapidly frustrated and lonely toddler engaged turned out to be a blessing. With life resuming some shades of normality these days, I tell myself I want to discover my own goals first, maybe try a few things, before going back to work full time. Starting with: a small scale example of successful enterprises by happy working mothers, maybe? 

Picking my Battles

I feel battle weary. Nothing like the true blue action in Amish's latest, but a test of will and perseverance all the same. 

I brushed past another insidious comment today with a seemingly innocent one of my own, effectively quelling a potential confrontation. There have now been so many word wars I have avoided, I have ceased to keep count. 

It was only recently, as I celebrated a year of being on my own, that I realised all that I didn't do, at the same time I noted all that I did. I didn't act as much as I observed. I didn't look back as much as forward. Finally, I didn't fight back even though I could. 

I don't remember the first time my parents advised me to "pick my battles", but it's been repeated often enough since. I first let things go when I was barely out of college. Dictated by pride, convincing myself that silence was the hallmark of the dignified. But that only led to the fire burning inside of me instead of outside. The next time I smiled at a disparaging dig it was at work. I had smiled because my next decision, which had been to quit that job, had suddenly become so much easier. 

Over the past month or so, the figurative demons I have been fighting have been the makings of my own mind - a potent mix of abundant hormones, a rapidly tiring body and a burning purpose to do work worth my while. Strange bedfellows have been my only constant thus far in my life, and this was no exception. 

That was how I was discovered by the newer insurgents over the last three days, hurt and snarling. Pride dictated that I put up as normal a face as possible, but it barely lasted a couple of hours, crumbling in the face of constant querying, judging and commenting. Hankering for some peace and quiet, I put on my cloak of silence and found a cosy corner of my mind to sulk in. I had barely started licking my wounds, and was in no state to be the charming hostess that was expected of every daughter in law in an Indian household, urban or rural be damned. 

Yesterday, by noon, I had felt dangerously close to a precipice. I had lost control over the mask that had now become my trademark inexpressive face, and had turned to spouting venom the moment I stepped out of the house and encountered another non-familial human being. I knew I was treading dangerous ground, because when I would search my memory for those interactions, I would remember nothing. The only time my excellent visual memory fails me is when I am raging beyond expression. Oh, this was so not good. 

I napped my way through the stress, my already weak body crumbling under the mental strain. Only to be rudely woken up with a reminder of my non-dutiful behaviour - "We had guests at home and you slept through it all. You could have come out of your room and spent 10 minutes with everyone. What is so difficult about that?" 

Keeping my tongue in control was difficult. Allowing such a rabid invasion of my house when I was in no state to entertain, let alone stand in one place for a few minutes was difficult. Most of all, keeping quiet through it all, when all I wanted to do was scream my head off and chase everyone out with a stick, was difficult. Compared to these scenes repeating in head, my napping through the afternoon felt like a hungry python whose snores are only rivalled by its stomach grumbling with hunger. 

Now that we are all caught up with my non-issues, I replay the retort of my dreams for the nth time, open my laptop and begin to type out a blogpost. 

Put Everything at Stake

When I recently completed two busy years at my ex employer, my LinkedIn inbox flooded with ‘congratulatory’ emails. You know, the one that LinkedIn has so thoughtfully penned so that we can just hit the ‘Send’ button instead of actually typing something useful, or god forbid, personal. 

After limboing for more than two weeks, I finally updated my current position on LinkedIn to a savvier version of ‘unemployed’. In case you are searching your ignorant brain, it is ‘Independent Consultant’. By that time I had lost the rest of my sparse bravado and was sweating at how my established and much secure peer group would react at this coup de idiocy.  Now, LinkedIn’s profile format mandates that we enter the name of the company we are working at, so I checked the only option that I was prompted - ‘Self Employed’. So now I am, if one had to make a sentence out of this as we would of any full time job, independently working at employing myself. 

Then I forgot to toggle the button that proclaimed ‘yes, publish an update to my network about my profile changes’ before making said edits. Might as well shout out my potential pennilessness to the world. Que sera sera and all that. 

Before barrelling into the much anticipated self flagellation on this seemingly unreasonable decision, I agreed with myself that I now had a lot at stake. I had given up my only source of regular income (not to mention the emotional security of a job and all its attendant benefits like free lunches), so I owed it to myself to make better use of my time. If I squandered this period of my life I would have no one else to blame but myself, for a change. If one turned this statement around (the mathematical equivalent of its contradiction being true if a statement was true) it would be that employed management professionals in the mid-senior level have notoriously less to lose. I have a weakness for Victorian era stories, so I see a strong parallel here. During the late 1890s, the aristocracy ruled most of Britain. They had so much wealth - immovable assets like land and farms which generated income - that maintaining it was in itself a lifelong job. While a few exceptions multiplied their holdings and therefore their wealth, a large majority lived a life of decadence: singing, dancing and wining their lives away. The ton, as this set was fashionably called, was known for its unforgiving attitude towards anyone who crossed the line of propriety in any form. To me the only plausible explanation for this uselessly rigid behaviour was that they had so much of material comfort, that the only thing that mattered anymore was their reputations.

To cut to the present, whenever I have socialised with my peer group, the only thing that has mattered was where everyone was working. What was earlier a vocal exclamation of pleasant surprise and not a little envy (because I had worked at what was viewed as a 'happening startup'), now I see a casual shrug and a not so covert move away towards someone with whom they can do corporate speak, and maybe further their 'network'. 

It is no surprise therefore, that more than 12 hours after I mistakenly told my LinkedIn network my new job, my inbox remains bereft of congratulatory messages. Here’s my vote for a message template that reads: “Congratulations on following your true calling. Hope you have fun and write about it someday.” 

Conform or Perish

The road to a job change, or for that matter any change, is a thorny one. It's no wonder then that we have all, with such alacrity, stuck our butts to our plush office chairs with Fevibond (the ultimate adhesive!)

The day I quit my full time, obscenely high paying job felt liberating. For exactly 3 days. Then 30 days of a free floating feeling with the soft cushion of the ocean on my back and the sun on my face followed. As the first month drew to a close, I filled the next 15 days with the purposeful vigour of determining the path that would catapult me to overnight superstardom (because that is my destiny, duh). I am now in my last 10 days of my job and feeling like the ground I am standing on is rapidly depleting. 

I don't think I am fated to be famous; I am snowboarding towards the abyss of a cracker that showed tremendous potential, only to fizzle out. The least I can do is to take a detour so that I can atleast pay the bills that pile up every month. 

My reasons to become independent were not because I had an idea that I was passionate about, or because I wanted to change the world, one person at at time. I admit it. I just got tired. Of people telling me what to do, over and over and over again. Of stupidity that got paid to be more stupid. Of obsequiousness and pandering and oily palms. I didn't think it through. I just thought enough to realise that I was unhappy in the present. The amount that got credited to my account every month was supposed to make me feel better, but it didn't. So I opted out. 

Not wanting to limit the options in my future, I pressed every button that would get me a call. Any call. Only to realise that I was not ready to do anything than talk to myself. My first interview went somewhat like this:

Interviewer: Nivedita, I think you are obscuring the contribution that you have really made to your team. Don't worry, I am not going to get confused if you get into details. So what I would really like to hear is how you solved this particular problem, using a framework. You see, I love frameworks and it would be great if you could use this approach to explain your work to me. 

Me: (Grinding teeth and punching my stuffed toy's face) Sure. Can I take 2 minutes to compose my answer, please? 

The worst thing a criminal can do is to create more criminals. That's why today's prisons are not exactly the epitomes of rehabilitation. Needless to say, I did not make it to the next round. Frameworks are for dudheads who don't know anything about action but know everything about talking. My personal opinion, but hey, I am entitled to one, right? Oh, right. Am not!

My second call was with a recruiter, who, after calling me at 9.30pm on a Thursday night, proceeded to apologise for "calling late" in the most insincere tone I have ever heard. He asks me if I have "2 minutes" and when I affirm he asks me, "Can you tell me more about what you do currently?" 

Now, both him and I know that this is not a 2 minute question. So I decide not to oblige, because "I want to put my best foot forward", and well, I am just not ready to interview on the fly. He insists. I insist right back. I finally request him to call me the next morning. It's been a week. 

The reason we are all the way we are is a complex network of incidents, experiences, influences and a whole lot of other things that scientists and thinkers today are all still trying to decode. What we have done, with this absolutely unique, precious and highly evolved science is to dumb it down to conformation. A rigid set of rules. 

A + B + C = Smart

D + E + F = Stupid

A + C + G = wait, what's this? Oh, ok. Stupid!

I refuse to conform. I have spent too much time and energy trying to be A+B+C, feeling like being packed into a 2x2 carton. The only upside was that no one asked me any uncomfortable questions. No one noticed me either. 

I refuse to perish. Like animals in captivity who lose their inborn skill of hunting, I refuse to forget what I have painstakingly built. Sure, it doesn't fit into a financial model and doesn't massage anyone's ego, least of all mine. But I don't care. There's got to be a way out and if I spend the rest of my life digging myself out of this tunnel, so be it. That, at least, will not be a life in vain. 

The (Un)fairness of It All

I feel embarrassed to admit that it has only been a week since I accepted that the world is not a fair place. I know, I know, it seems obvious and practical and realistic. But to me, it felt boring, this feeling. It rang of resignedness, of giving up, of failure (my least favourite word). I resolved to redeem myself from this tragic fate: I was going to stand up for what I believed in. Break, but never bend, that would be my motto for things I considered important were involved. 

Thanks to circumstances currently beyond my understanding, I ended up watching Alain de Botton's charmingly witty and stealthily harsh TED Talk. It was about success and failure, mainly, but a bulk of the justification for not getting swayed by either was his argument that society and the world at large were too complex for a neatly ranked list or a normal curve. So we should be less quick to judge others, and infinitely more gentle when we pit ourselves against the world.

For someone who claims to be in touch with her instincts, it took a vaguely probabilistic allusion to convince me that Failure was heading my way, one way or the other. Then Hugh MacLeod took 49 PDF pages and around 100 of the normal A5 ones to tell me that the pain of making sacrifices will always hurt more than I think it would. I tend to feel sadness and anger way longer than happiness or joy. Maybe because I feel completely entitled to all happiness but not sadness.

If the Present is a Gift that I don't like, can I give it back?  There are times when even the mathematically sound logic mentioned above does not help. I wallow in the Unfairness of It All; in the hollow certainty that there will be people who should have gotten more and even more people who should have gotten less. Maybe the notion of karma was created to address this thorn in our side. After all, as highly intelligent beings, we are more likely to accept something we don't or cannot understand. It is comforting to know that justice would eventually prevail in the universe. So what if I could not see it? He can. 

It is stupid to expect to get what we deserve; what we think we deserve is our measure of our own worth, of, for a 30 year old, having spent 946 billion seconds with ourselves. The maximum someone like a parent or a sibling could have gotten with us would be half this number. Decisions like marriage or job options are made in a fraction of this time. How is it, then, that we can expect the world to give us our due, or worse still, constantly surprise us with its generosity? 

Hence the copious literature available on defining our own measure of success; standing up for what we believe in; following our heart, da-da, da-da. In reality, it's the least resistant path to Failure. The difference is this: I think this path can be flipped that to get the most resistant path to Happiness. It's a surest shot of a path out there, and so, definitely worth taking.

The Longest Walk of My Life

I must admit to thinking that the title sounded very ‘Chetan Bhagat’, if you get my drift. His books are the a-b-c of what to do to make people turn the cover to the read the first page and not put it down till the last. No mean feat, as anyone who tried to write a book could tell you. If you don’t know any such person, the millions of copies that each of his books sold should be enough to convince. 

Nevertheless, I would persevere in calling this the Longest Walk of My Life in my recent past, because I have a short memory when it comes to forgettable experiences, and most of them are well, forgettable. So, the question here was not about what I was looking forward to, but of what I was willing to risk to get to what I was looking forward to. 

Ten minutes, the friendly person at the Reception had said. Only four minutes had passed. The longest four minutes of my life (not counting the one minute I had to swim in 20 feet deep sea without my mask, but more on that later) and I had six more to go. Six and a completely dark and lonely stretch of road ahead. With possible redemption at the other end. 

Behind me, the Greats beckoned. Gold End, Havelock Favourite, Symphony Palms, Holiday Inn. The here and now, looking good. Did I dare? Did I dare venture into the unknown; did I want it badly enough to take an immeasurable risk to my safety? I stood in front of El Dorado, indeterminate. To the right stretched adventure, dark and mysterious. To the left, the familiar, brightly lit and warmly welcoming. 

I remembered Santhosh, the receptionist’s expression when I asked him, Is it safe for me to walk? Is it safe for a woman to walk, all alone on the road after dark? His answering smirk spoke volumes. Of course, what kind of a question is that? I am disappointed. I had rather hoped that you would ask what I would recommend you eat. Pah! Go away now, allow me to get back to my game of Solitaire on the computer. 

Switching on the flashlight on my phone, I turned right and started walking. A lone tube light shone a few metres away, banishing the dark. I walked faster, my eyes on it, unwavering. The sound of a motorbike behind me, every thud of the engine sounding like my heartbeat magnified a 100 times. I swallowed and concentrated harder on the tube light. Then capitulated and turned. Just in case. Looking for escape routes. A narrow lane turned into a few houses, bunched at right angles to each other. A child played in the lane, its buttocks bare. 

The motorcycle vroomed past, the two travellers too engrossed in their conversation to look hither or thither. The tube light illuminated the grubby interiors of a small room of around 30 square feet with a low wall facing the road and an entrance of about three feet in width at one end. Red plastic chairs caught my eye, as did the dark shape of a man in a nondescript shirt and lungi, his pot belly creating a gentle curve in the in the lower half of his torso. I looked ahead and saw more tube lights. I looked back to see the incredible feat I had accomplished, the proverbial walk on fire. It seemed irrelevant now that I had crossed it; ordinary even. All that courage and nothing to show for it except a sweat soaked shirt. I licked my lips and tasted Odomos. 

The phone glowed two minutes past the ten minutes it was supposed to take me to reach the best place in Havelock to have dinner (I supposed non vegetarians may venture to have their own opinion on this matter considering that it was an island on the Andaman Sea, but vegetarians had to be content with what was handed on from previous travel accounts of like minded individuals) I continued walking, the tube lights and the stray motorist passing me. I noticed the words “COCO” painted in blue on a red board, the nearest tube light putting the part above this line in the dark. I walked faster, unconsciously, my eyes riveted on ‘COCO’. The dark parted to reveal ‘Anju’ painted in the same faded blue paint. More lights, this time within an enclosure in which a few blonde heads bobbed.

Twenty minutes later, I scooped a spoonful of Paneer Makhani into my mouth and tasted sweet, sweet victory.

My Search for Satisfaction

You know this feeling when you are sitting in a group and someone says something significant and you chose that exact moment to get lost in reverie? By the time you are back to the World the information is dated and the moment has passed. But the lingering feeling that you have missed something does not. 

I feel this way all the time. It's like as if everyone has struck a deal with their conscience to forget its duty for a while, so that they can push, claw and do whatever else it takes to clear their way to the top. If that is indeed the top (The Ladder of Mediocrity tells you more). I forgot to do it, and now it is too late. No one listens to me now, let alone my conscience. 

The human trait of perennial dissatisfaction has been termed as one of the major differences between us and other species in this world, and has also been attributed as the reason for mankind's progress today. This dissatisfaction has also manifested itself in the Attitude towards others. Acquiescence and compromise are the new words for backwardness. It's the New Age Theory-of-Relativity. Why bother with the universal definition of good when being better than bad is enough? But the single thought that my dull brain is unable to wrap around itself is: everyone is ok with it. There is smugness, superciliousness and maybe even a hint of resignation, but no one is asking why. Everyone is only talking about the what. 

To be honest, I was one among the madly rushing horde till recently. When it hit me that the Ladder everyone is scrambling to climb is actually an Illusion, I lost all interest. Phat. Just like that. Because I knew that this was not going to give me Satisfaction. But then, is there anything else on offer?

I don't have an answer to this question. I have just started the search, and I don't expect it to end well. But I cannot be without trying. If there is one emotion that I do not want to have in my life, it is Regret. 

Till we meet again. 

Kiddies' Class

Like First Class, Business Class and Economy class, all airlines and trains in India should also have a Kiddies' Class - the class of travel of parents / adults with kids. This set of seats / set of coaches can be more spacious and brighter than the other coaches, with play area and child safe interiors.
As a parent if i can be guaranteed a safe and enjoyable journey for myself and my child(ren) either by train or flight because of such facilities, I will surely be willing to pay atleast 10% more than the current fare.
As a frequent traveller / traveller without children I would be guaranteed a quiet, peaceful journey during which i can catch up on my reading and sleeping. I would definitely be willing to pay atleast 10% more than the current fare for such a facility.

Travelling with children is not easy. As the popular joke goes, there are two classes of travel - one with children and one without! I am a successful survivor of an eventful 5 hour train journey with 3 hyperactive young girls, right next to me. Firstly I admire their energy levels - they reached new heights in consistency of performance, in this case, vocal volume. So much so that their high decibel comments, shrieks and playful banter are still echoing in my ears. Secondly, I admire the energy levels of the adults supervising them, who were also consistent and meticulous in trying to get them to pipe down. Needless to say they were barely successful.

Since I do not want to be a wet blanket and crib on what is otherwise considered a joy in one's life (in this case, children), I want to be constructive and suggest a solution. Kiddies' Class anyone?

Motichoor ke Laddu

Partly because I have a sweet tooth, partly because motichoor ke laddu is one of my all-time favourites and partly because what I'm about to blog is something I wouldn't want to forget anytime soon, I have the named the post so.

It's been a while since i put the finger to the keyboard "for the blogging purpose" (inspiration for the use of this phrase to be revealed in a while) so I'm thrilled to have finally got inspired. After nearly a month, the perfect motis (pearls) are just popping out of the keyboard, it seems. So here goes.

Friends are my strongest link to sanity. Truly. In my world there are currently 2 people - Me and the Rest of Them. That's what it feels like most of the time - like I'm fighting a lone battle with the rest of the world. It's those gtalk chats and phone calls stolen during work hours, the SMS rallies in the middle of the night, the occasional but raucous dinners in swanky restaurants in the city and the even more occasional surprise cross-continental calls, that make it all worth the while.

College life is now this distant memory, almost like as if it happened in another life. The world seemed so much simpler then, almost like a toy world. Things were either black, or white, or any other colour which someone seemed to have figured out and told me.Barely a year into the corporate world and I find my settings changing hues so rapidly, I feel stunned and clueless most of the time. Far from being able to share my true feelings, I have to contend with having to figure it out on my own. It's a dog eat dog world. Nothing is what it seems. At last I understand what these phrases mean!

As I quoted to someone recently, "it was the best of times and the worst of times". An oft repeated quote by a senior guy at work, I find it to be quite apt to describe my current state of life. I can safely say that I am leading a very exciting life currently. Hundreds of new things happening every day, tons of learning to be done, decisions to be taken, impressions to be made.. it seems that 24 hours are just not enough! Sometimes better gets better; sometimes worse gets worse. The peaks are as stark as the troughs in this sine wave. Neverthless, I know that twenty-odd years later I will look back at these times and say "Those were the days."

Don't Quit

When things go wrong, as they sometimes will,
when the road you’re trudging seems all uphill,
When the funds are low and the debts are high,
And you want to smile, but you have to sigh,
When care is pressing you down a bit,
Rest, if you must, but do not quit.

Life is queer with its twists and turns,
As every one of us sometimes learns,
And many a failure turns about,
When he might have won had he stuck it out;
Don’t give up though the pace seems slow—
You may succeed with another blow.

Often the goal is nearer than,
It seems to a faint and faltering man,
Often the struggler has given up,
When he might have captured the victor’s cup,
And he learned too late when the night slipped down,
How close he was to the golden crown.

Success is failure turned inside out—
The silver tint of the clouds of doubt,
And you never can tell how close you are,
It may be near when it seems so far,
So stick to the fight when you’re hardest hit—
It’s when things seem worst that you must not quit.

Don't know who wrote it. Quoted from: http://www.collegegrad.com/jobsearch/Graduation-and-Still-No-Job/Dont-Quit/

The White Tiger

My curiousity about this book was first aroused, predictably enough, when it won the Man Booker Prize. I have read both positive and negative comments on the book, the most striking of them being "How can a page turner like this win a Booker?"
Sad, but true. Page turners sell the most but are the bottom of the heap, relegated to airport terminals and the occasional reader who picks up a book when all other timepass options have been exhausted. Which brings me to: What does winning a Booker tell you about the book, anyway? As the saying goes, one man's nectar is another's poison.
But I digress. This post is about the book, not what it won.

For a non-Indian, the book may be a revelation: Yes, there is an India beyond the traffic clogged roads, the spanking new and tall buildings coming up at an amazing pace (Wish I could say the same for the flyovers and the Bangalore metro!) and the 9% GDP growth. And yes, it's not pretty at all.

For an Indian, it puts to words all the emotions of this other India, the majority India. Mass migration, urbanization, poverty.. the list goes on and on. There are people who accept their fate and spend their lives pulling rickshaws or selling vegetables, and there are people who will not.

To make a point effectively, we have to provide a stark example. Hence the book takes us to one of the places in India where this poor man-rich man difference is as stark as black and white: Rajasthan. Replace the 'Laxmangarh' with a 'Lakhansipur' in UP or a 'Daulatpur' in Bihar and the story could be the same. The poor man is the good guy-turned bad, and the rich guy, when not being cruel or downright arrogant, is confused and utterly lost.
I bet we can write an equally good book on exactly the opposite happening in India: How a good rich man becomes poor and becomes bad, or how a bad poor man becomes good and therefore becomes rich.
One swallow does not a spring make.
Also, I don't think the book speaks of anything that we should be ashamed of as Indians. Indeed, there is an abundance of literature on this topic, but not all of it has won the Man Booker of course, for various reasons. TOI's India Poised campaign was based on it. Shashi Tharoor has talked about it in India: From Midnight to the Millennium. So do, I suspect, Gurcharan Das in India Unbound and Ramachandra Guha in India After Gandhi.
Read it, it'll help you pass a boring weekend afternoon.

Doormat

You know that you have been treated like a doormat when:

• You go out of your way to help A and then A yells at you for not doing enough
• You stay up nights looking for a solution to B's problem (which has nothing to do with you)
• Even after clear cut job allocation of a project has been done you spend more than an hour collating the findings and formatting the report (which was actually C's job, but C is 'too tired to work')
  
• At the end of all the fracas you are the most stressed, the most irritated, and you have worked the most

When will I learn??

Round and Round

Round and Round goes the Merry-Go Round,
As the world whirrs and whirrs.
Recognise the same swivelling chairs,
The same people hunched over their screens,
As the world whirrs and whirrs.
Recognise the “lame ducks”,
The same errors on trying to execute different files,
As the world whirrs and whirrs.

Um, Did I say merry?
I can't believe that I have been driven to write something like this!!