6 years and a career spanning multiple companies across multiple countries has taught me a few things. Here are the pearls of wisdom, arranged in no particular order, for your benefit. Read carefully. I have made these mistakes (and more) so you don’t have to.
Botch Conference calls
Read through the instructions carefully before you dial in. There is a reason why the good people at Cisco took the pains to create a 30 page user’s manual filled with hieroglyphics at single space type and size 3 font. You do not want to be in a conference room filled with your peers and seniors, dial some random numbers and hear this on the line, “Hello dear, this is Mollykutty. How is the weather in Gulf? When are you coming next? ”
Mix up Relatives
Keep track of all your relatives, whether you are on talking terms with them or not. They come in really handy on those Mondays when the previous night’s Heineken hasn’t metabolized in time for you to make it to the office. Remember their names, use an excel sheet if you must, but never, ever, make the mistake of killing your third uncle once removed two times in a year.
Choose the wrong ringtone
This is the simplest advice of all, and one that could so easily be overlooked. Cell phones have an annoying habit of ringing every time someone tries to call you. You do not want to be engaged in a deep conversation with your boss on how to improve the monthly sales of paper towels in Gurgaon and have your phone shout out “Jimikki Kammal” midway through the discussion. The song is great to build rapport with Jimmy Kimmel or to launch the careers of young dancers in Mollywood, but it tends to ruin the atmosphere when it comes to office decorum.
Get caught stealing stationery
Really. Grow up. Everyone knows that the easiest thing to do in any office is steal stationery. It’s a no risk, high gain deal. I myself have been running a very lucrative black market in office supplies, specializing in wet markers, for years now. I have a tried and tested method that has never failed to produce results. Of course, you might have to wait a bit if you want heavy duty items like paper shredders or scanners. And you would have to pay extra too, because I would have to work from the office on weekends to fulfil an order for a paper shredder. The real trick, however, is not to brag about it near the water cooler or on social forums. It’s how amateurs get caught.
Get drunk with your boss
This is the biggest no-no of all. The sort of professional debauchery that characterizes office space interaction nowadays will ensure that sooner or later you will find yourself sharing drinks with your superiors. The trick is to get them drunk without crossing the threshold yourself. The negative consequences of failing to keep count of your Heinekens could be many. For instance, you might start reminiscing, and blurt out how the last time you had this many Heinekens, you were so wasted the next day you didn’t feel like going to office, and had to kill off uncle Damodaran from Ottappalam.
Ages 30 – 35 are the worst for most folks of our generation. You tend to get the short end of the stick in all situations, foreign and domestic, professional and otherwise. You see, it’s a combined effect of the young age and your standing in society that does the trick. You are not young enough to qualify as a newbie anywhere, and you are not yet old enough to effortlessly exhibit gravitas. You are too old to be given the benefit of doubt typically reserved for the youth and yet you are too young to be above suspicion if something goes wrong in your general vicinity. It’s as if the moment you cross the age of 30, you enter a sort of anthropological doldrum where you are aided by neither the fair winds of youth nor the anchor and gravity of middle age. You sort of coast around. You know that you have gained enough experience and life savvy to take an adult decision about somethings in life, but you are not yet sure what they are.
And it’s not as if your elders and betters help you. Your boss seems to think that you ought to take more responsibilities and start acting as if you own the company (whatever that means) whereas your mom calls you at night to check if you remembered to put the achaar she sent you in a ‘cool dark place, away from sunlight.’ The friendly young woman on TV reminds you that you ought to have started investing at least a good twenty years ago in order to afford a grocery store visit in your old age, whereas your dad thinks he ought to slip you 250 rupees every time you leave home because snacks. Your mother’s sister seems to labour under the belief that you ought to recall the name, age, marital status and vocation of any given member of your extended family at a moment’s notice (“My God, what is this, chechi ? Your daughter does not know that our cousin’s brother in law’s wife’s sister’s son is working in the same company as she is ? Why hasn’t she gone to visit him at his house yet ? What will they think of us ?”) whereas your dad steadfastly refuses to involve you in any discussion regarding a marriage proposal that has come for you ( “She only needs to know when she needs to know.”)
Even far from the marrying crowd, the society at large is not forgiving of this age bracket. I went shopping recently at an airport store. It is my habit, upon finishing check in process, to potter about the airport and wander into any place that sells books. In this case, it was a book cum curio store, one of those establishments that result when the owner is paying through his nose for floorspace at an airport and decides to cram in as many sellable items as he can, in a vain effort to increase revenue per footfall. The inevitable result, more often than not, is a crammed store that has barely any manoeuvring space. Let loose in such hazardous environments, I am more inclined than ever to render my personal impression of the bull in a china shop routine. So I am generally quite cautious and carry myself with much dignity and care in such situations.
In this particular case, I was about to leave the store after some pleasant browsing, when I happened to find myself at cross purposes with an elderly gentleman. Both of us wanted to cross a particularly narrow aisle at the same time, but in opposite directions. After a respectable period of mutual contemplation where we mentally took stock of the situation and tried to decide the best way to approach this mini standoff, we silently agreed that the best way forward for both of us was, in short, just that. So we contorted our bodies into a sort of mini pireutte, presenting the slimmest profile forward, and inched our way slowly through the aisle, careful not to bump into each other. This complex mini manoeuvre soon had the desired effect, leading the elderly gentleman further into the store’s interior, while at the same time safely depositing me near the exit. Or so it seemed.
For no sooner had I put one foot across the threshold when a tinkling, crashing sound reached me from within the store. One of the ornamental glass figurines stocked on that aisle had just crashed to the floor and lay strewn about in, if not a thousand, at least a few dozen pieces. The store clerk rushed over in short order and took stock of the situation. I and the elderly gentleman silently sized each other up over the wreckage. We were both equidistant from the scene of the crime, and as such, perpetuators of equal potential. We both silently threw accusatory glances at each other, each one visually entreating the other to man up and admit to the error. The store clerk, after inspecting the crime scene thoroughly, stood up, smoothed her skirt down, and looked askance at me. I felt offended. Why just me ? Why couldn’t it have been the elderly guy ? (The astute reader will observe that I have, by this point in the narrative, ceased to refer to the guy as a gentleman. For upon further reading, it will become clear that this guy was neither manly, nor gentle) .
The clerk refused to acknowledge what was a patently offended expression on my face and asked, ‘Sir?’ The question mark at the end was not a call for admission of guilt. No, guilt was assumed. The question mark instead meant ‘Cash or card?’. I refused to give in. ‘But, it could have been him as well,’ I blurted out. ‘Why do you assume it’s me?’. Finally, the clerk turned to the elderly guy, who put up a remarkable air of innocence and said ‘ Sorry my dear, I had already reached the end of the aisle when the sound came. And I see this young gentleman has a backpack with many loose straps and knots. Maybe one of them hitched on the curio without him noticing ? These things happen.’ I was indignant by now, especially since I realised that the clerk had started to side with the guy automatically. I was presumed guilty even before I had a chance to explain that I am usually quite careful in such situations and would not, could not, have done the deed. Moreover, the guy had not, as he stated, reached the end of the aisle when the sound came. He had moved there silently while the store clerk was busily inspecting the wreckage. I started protesting. But curiously, the more I started protesting, the more the clerk started believing it was me, and the more smug the guy started looking. It was a losing battle. His age conferred a maturity on him which signalled a certain level of dignity and honesty which was clearly fake. However, that veneer of respectability was good enough to fool the clerk, who looked at me as if I was an arrogant snob who looked rich enough to afford to pay damages, but was instead, black heart enough to refuse to do the right thing. Throughout all this exchange, the guy never had to utter more than 4 sentences.
Finally, the argument was drawn to a premature close by the boarding announcement for my flight. I had no option but to pay the cost of the ugly figurine, and rush for my departure gate. As I was turning to leave, I risked a glance at the guy. He smiled pleasantly at me.
I attended the wedding of a close friend recently and was struck by how far we Mallus had come as a society when it came to the art of wedding photography. The bride and groom had arranged for separate professional wedding photographers, as well as a separate group of ‘candid’ photographers. On top of this, three friends each of the bride and the groom had bought DSLRs recently and fancied themselves modern day Steve McCurrys. To add icing to the cake, every guest had brought their own smartphones and were merrily clicking away throughout the event. Even the bride gave in to temptation and took a selfie before the pujari could object. Thankfully, she remembered to include the groom in the selfie titled ‘ Tradition meets Romance – My Big Day !’
All this gave pause to yours truly. Over the years, weddings had ceased to be about the subjects themselves and more about those who surrounded them. Union of hearts and souls till death did them part became not so much important as the union of relatives and long lost friends, who found weddings a great excuse to get a few days off work. Even so, these events continued to be contained within the immediate family and friend circles, which for Mallus is still about 200 strong for an average family. There used to be just one additional group of people who were invited enthusiastically into the inner circle – the wedding photographers.
They were given carte blanche to cover the wedding ceremony without hindrance; freely allowed to go where they pleased and take what shots they wanted. The purpose of their existence was to capture in graphic detail those precious moments in time which would hopefully give the family a lifetime of sado-masochistic pleasure. Mom would forevermore inflict the wedding album on all visitors to their house. Supriya would sneak a peek ever so often to sigh at how much thinner she looked as a bride. Sugunan would sneak a peek ever so often to marvel at that luxurious head of hair he had on his wedding day. Grandma would scan the album over tea and biscuits, finding faults with the design of the necklaces worn by the guests and remembering how brilliantly decked out she was on her own wedding day. The bride’s dad would sneak a peek ever so often to remind himself how much money he had to waste on the wedding, all to invite that good for nothing Sugunan into his family. In short, wedding photographers were custodians of time and memory. And they used to execute their duty with care, dignity and a certain dispassionate , even clinical, professionalism. However, as with many things in life, the evolution of society took a toll on this ancient guardians of memories as well.
The era before digital cameras – In the name of the craft (1950 – 2000s)
During this idyllic era, weddings were all about the bride, groom and the bride’s aunt who insisted on being present in all the wedding photos. Photographers managed to distill the art of wedding photography to an exact and methodical science, often sacrificing aesthetics for functionality, all in the name of the craft. So much so that wedding photos often followed a formulaic pattern. It would begin on the morning of the wedding, with one set of photographers each at the bride’s and groom’s house. Both the families would have contracted one studio each for the event, and they would go about their duties, covering the bride and the groom individually and later, collectively. The photos were broadly classified into 4 groups:
Pre wedding dakshina photos – these were primarily shots of the bride and the groom offering dakshina to the elders in their family. The process involves offering them a betel leaf, betel nut and a one rupee coin (pre demonetisation era) and then bending low to touch their feet in an unprecedented show of obeisance. These photos were all shot from the same angle, and if flipped forwards fast enough, would act as a flip-book with relatives replacing one another in animated fast motion. The bride and the groom would invariably have the same expression on all the photos – one of anticipatory panic, hoping against hope that that pesky mundu or loose saree would not fall off during all the bending and swooping.
Wedding shots – the money shot would of course be the one in which the panicked groom attempts to tie the mangalsutra on the bride, praying to all the gods that he doesn’t screw up. The photographers would would form a protective cordon of strobing flashes around the newlyweds, trying to get as many clean shots as possible, often obscuring the entire event from the hundreds sitting in the viewing gallery, depriving them of even a momentary glimpse of the actual event that they had been invited to see.
Sadya photos – this is where the photographers would earn their keep as professionals. They would have to roam around the sadya hall, trying to click half decent pictures of ravenous guests shovelling in mouthfuls of rice and sambar, all the while refraining from grabbing even a cup of water themselves. It’s a special kind of torture, having to watch people all around you eat gluttonously, having to smell all that tasty food surrounding you and yet have none of it. To top it off, you have to work as well. It’s no surprise that hungry and irritated photographers often resort to cheap shots like taking pictures of the groom with a big handful of rice soaked in sambar halfway up to his open mouth.
Post wedding romantic photos – all photographers would attempt this finale, some with more finesse and élan than others. This part of the event is more or less akin to the improvisation in a Carnatic music performance, where the singers and the musicians suspend rules and regulationsfor a bit and dig deep down to unleash their creativity. Photographers would make the couple pose in embarrassing poses while they strived to achieve the perfect romantic shot. This is where the innate creativity of the most conservative and unimaginative studio photographer would wake up. Some have even been known to go crazy with props like umbrellas, chairs, flutes and on one memorable occasion, a full grown cow, with comically disastrous consequences.
The era of digital cameras – Have camera, will shoot (2000 – 2010s)
Then came the wave of socialism that washed over the photography industry, short circuiting many a studio photographer’s career. Canon, Nikon and Sony started mass producing high quality digital cameras for relatively low prices, and almost every kid on the block bought one. Those who bought DSLRs immediately rushed out to take really close up pictures of ugly lizards sitting on backyard dumpsters and surprised ducks trying to cross the road – spending fifteen minutes on taking the photo and half an hour thinking up captions. Those who couldn’t be bothered with lizards and ducks went after more sedate subjects like fences, doors, the sky or even sleeping friends.
Have camera – will shoot
These photographic endeavours extended to the wedding halls as well. You could see hordes of friends from both sides hovering around the bride and groom, clicking away merrily. Ex boyfriends trying to take pictures of the bride getting dressed (for old times’ sake) and soon to be ex friends trying to take pictures of the groom having that last hurried cigarette to calm his nerves now had the brush to paint the canvas of their imaginations. In their frenzy to get the perfect shot, these friends soon started falling over the professional photographers trying to cover the wedding.
This era also saw the rise of guerrilla photography, often referred to as candid photography. It originated as a sort of rebellion against the formulaic predictability of the wedding photography techniques of the previous generation. Photographers, in their quest to reduce wedding photography to an exact science, had taken all the fun out of wedding albums, until there was little to no discernible difference between photos taken at your dad’s wedding and your own. In a bid to re-establish the ethos of creativity that ought to drive all photographic endeavours, people increasingly started turning to candid photography – i.e. photos taken without the direct knowledge of the subjects.
Candid photography also sought to capture the true essence of weddings – apathy leavened by bouts of panic. So it was that wedding albums came to be filled with pictures of the bride’s sister chatting up a friend of the groom, little lamps that mom thought would be a cute decorative addition to the mandapam but which almost ended up lighting the pujari on fire, dad’s panicked expression when the caterer told him the sadya would be late and the grandma nodding off backstage. Professional photographers started specialising in candid photos in a bid to keep pace with the times, and very soon became adept at taking photos of everything except the bride and the groom.
The era of drones – Missiles are optional extra (2010s – present)
Soon after the US military started using drones for reconnaissance and shooting missiles at the Taliban fighters doing potty behind Afghan rocks, commercial photographic studios realised that drones had other uses as well. They could be used to cover weddings too. The only difference between using a drone for military reconnaissance and wedding photography is that missiles are optional extra for the wedding. This then gave rise to the birth of the commercial drone photo and videography industry, where the wedding assumed secondary importance compared to the pre wedding destination photography. Hundreds of couples spent all the money they had saved up for the honeymoon on destination wedding preps, flying to Mauritius and the Andamans to have drones capture their fun filled frolics in knee deep ocean.
Drones entered the wedding halls as well, buzzing merrily over guests hunched up to eat sadya. Sugunan could now empathise with the hapless Taliban fighter who wanted nothing more upon waking up in the morning than to answer nature’s call with some modicum of dignity and privacy , but instead was met with the loud fury of a drone hovering around his head. Such sort of nonsense can easily put one off feeding or potty.
It is hard to predict how wedding photography will continue to evolve. Technology may end up automating everything associated with weddings, with the unenviable result that wedding photographers may all have to retrain as drone operators in the near future. The only certainty is that Supriya’s dad will continue to be puzzled by what his daughter ever saw in that nincompoop Sugunan. The guy can’t even eat rice and sambar properly, for heaven’s sake.