Vethal's Corner - 2

I have a dream...

Sandhya was an IT professional. A senior in the field, she had begun her career at time when things weren’t as rosy as they seem to be now. She had seen the ups and downs, the twists and turns, the roses and thorns. Hailing from a lower middle class family based in suburbia, sheer grit and determination had seen her through to where she stood now. Right from her education to building her career, every brick and stone was laid down by her own efforts, with parental support being restricted to the initial finances.

Sandhya’s secret desire, ever since her childhood, was to become a scientist. She did not know of Abdul Kalam, back when she was growing up, and considering her humble background often wondered if she was building a castle in the air. But her parent’s debts and her concerns about younger siblings future, forced her to make alternate choices in life. She did not enter the IT field through the traditional route of campus placements. But rather, started off with multiple odd jobs related to it, did many courses and certifications, made strategic job changes, impressed the right people, deftly moved the coins to make a quick rise to middle management.

Her career moves were mostly fuelled by her burning desire to give her family the comfort they never knew of, or didn’t dare to dream of. She was quite a satisfied human being, when she looked back at her family back in the village. She had tried to bring them to the city, but the metro bewildered them so much, that she didn’t have the heart to make them stay.

Nevertheless, her childhood dream remained unfulfilled. And often resurfaced as an occasional sigh or as a far away look in her bright eyes.

Manoj was a happy go lucky guy. With affluential parents, who were both doting as well as disciplined, Manoj had the right blend of backing and talent. He was good at almost all that he did, but was extremely moody. He did only what he liked, or rather seemed to like for the moment, but since he did it well, his random swings didn’t bother others much.

Manoj got placed into the same IT company where Sandhya was working, immediately after his graduation, and as he always liked to say “ Macha, it was pure luck da.. I didn’t even give it a try”. Manoj had a slick tongue, and the influence of a good schooling, which promptly brought him the limelight among his peers. Sandhya too was one of those, who noticed the sparkly yet spoilt youngster. Quick to spot talent, she pulled him under her wing. They shared a great rapport, and soon Manoj was Sandhya’s protégé. Sandhya liked Manoj’s never say die attitude, and Manoj couldn’t resist the challenges and recognition Sandhya showered him with.

But, as with people spoilt for choice, Manoj soon diverted his interests elsewhere. He got tired of the field, and moved out of the company to pursue his higher studies.

Few years rolled by, and their paths crossed again, in a different company where Sandhya was in the upper echelons of middle management, while Manoj joined there as a expert consultant, a couple of research degrees later.

The rapport wasn’t the same, although things weren’t altogether strained. But Manoj’s re-entry had a profound impact on Sandhya.

She began to get annoyed with her family, and their concerns. The brunt of her unfulfilled dream hit her worst, when she saw it realized by another. If only, her parents were able to afford that English medium school.. If only, her parents were educated… If only, they had had more money… If only, she didn’t have to worry about her younger sister and brother… If only she didn’t have to repay that housing loan… She began to feel small when compared to Manoj’s flamboyance. Her self assurance, which had survived many an assault in the formative years of her career, seemed to have suffered a death blow in Manoj’s presence. Life seemed unfair.


Now tell me, Vikrams of the world.. Whose achievement was greater? Was it Manoj’s ? Or Sandhya’s? Do the ends matter more than the means? Does the world see how arduous your path was? How difficult your journey was? And how far your starting point was? Or does it merely look at the heights you have scaled? Even if they are mostly consequences of a fortunate birth?

Sandhya herself couldn’t take pride in her success, and yearned for being someone else. Is that view that she has of herself, or is that a perspective that the world forces on her?

If you dream strong enough, your dreams become reality. But sometimes, reality can come in the way of your dreams, however strong they are. Has Sandhya lost her dream because she chose to be a realist?

People 10 : The Look-out.

A run down shack on a busy highway. A road in a constant spate of traffic.

Homes and residences, smoky images on black and white memories.

Flash forward: Office buildings, enterprises, bus stands, traffic signals, policemen, petrol bunks, politician’s statues, posters, billboards, big city lights. Accidents, ambulances, trauma care, lives lost, livelihood earned.

A dark shanty. Broken panes. Peeling paint. Moldy well. Littered lawn. Creaky gates.

He sits. Atop the compound wall. A small slab on the gate post. Legs crossed. Arms hugging his lanky body. Rocking himself back and forth. Beams from headlights, cast an eerie halo. A smile, running parallel to the lines on his face.

Is he a mad man? Why is he seated here? Who is he smiling at?

Is he the watch man of the shack? Why doesn’t he have a chair to sit on?

Why isn’t anyone else noticing him? Is he really there? Is it a Ghoul? Having a night out of the graves?

The Uncommon Man

I happened to see an interview of R K Laxman on CNN-IBN, today. The wit and brilliance of his answers made it a masterpiece of a show. The interviwer , a Ms Anuradha Sengupta, was so unlike the rest of the CNN-IBN coterie. Her questions were reflective and intuitive. Moreover she seemed to be enjoying the intelligence of the legendary cartoonist. This was a follow up to the Indian of the year award function, where he was honored with a Lifetime achievement award.

Some bits that I relished (recollected from memory, may not be verbatim) :


Interviewer : Your cartoons depict corruptness of politicians, lack of implementation of schemes , traffic jams and other such decadence. Is Mr Laxman a cynical man?
R K Laxman : Yes, I am a cynical man. I was born a cynic.
Interviwer: Don’t you have any optimism?
R K Laxman : no. Optimism is believing everything will be good. It only makes things worse.
Interviwer : Do you think the media of today, the papers and the TV channels give the common man a voice?
R K Laxman.: The common man will never speak. He is not interested in being heard.



Interviwer: Mr. Laxman, in today’s world, do you see yourself as a moral crusader?
R K Laxman: No. I don’t. There is nothing to learn from my cartoons. I simply want people to see the ridiculousness of some situations.I am no moral crusader.
Interviwer: Why not?
R K Laxman : It is not my business.


Interviwer: Is Mr Laxman a difficult person to live with?
R K Laxman : Yes. I have my demands.
Interviwer: Like what? Do you need to be left alone?
R K Laxman: Yes. I like to be left undisturbed.
Interviwer: Do you give others such liberties?
R K Laxman: No. I don’t.I correct them.
Interviwer: Mr Laxman, you have double standards.
R K Laxman : Yes. I do. Its good to have double standards.


R K Laxman’s satirical sketches have always been succinct and right on target. Some of them are gems to be framed. It was a rare treat to savour a sample of the Uncommon mind behind the Common Man.


P.S : Do try to catch it, if there is a re-run, or if it is available on the web. A must watch.
P.P.S:Cross posted at the media blog.

Update: The transcript of the interview can be found here. Link courtesy : Aravindh

Fair Fare

She pulled her dupatta tightly over her head. The cold air from the A/C chute was biting.
Her mind kept racing back. She looked out of the window. Perspiring motorists. Blinding heat.

“Will this bus go to Tambaram?” the old lady had asked,folds of age flapping about her bones. “I will take the bus to my village from there”.

“Yes”, she had replied, her voice sounding strange.

“But you may not be able to afford fare, this is a special bus”, her glance spoke these unsaid words.

Was she understood? Did her look say the things that wouldn’t come out her mouth? She searched for the old lady in the bus. If only she had had more tact.

Why do they have to make the fare so high? She didn’t need this A/C bus. The office is air-conditioned anyway. Why did it have to be her? Why hadn’t the old woman asked someone else?

She felt caged inside the Volvo bus. It was not her fault that she could afford this bus. It wasn’t her fault either that the old lady couldn’t. She shuffled uneasily in the cushioned seat.

The lady next to her was absently fingering the Ipod dial. What a marvel, this device! And what a model! She thought of her own shuffle, which paled in comparison.
Wish she could afford this one.

“One Tambaram, please”, someone asked the conductor. Her thoughts reeled back to the bus stop. Was the old woman still waiting for the bus? The heat outside was horrible. There was a slight jam. A poorer cousin of the Volvo was belching out excess passengers, who were hanging from all crevices.

Was the poor old thing being nailed by this human sledge-hammer? They should give free rides for the elderly. Especially the ones below the poverty line. She cursed the lawmakers of the land for their ineptitude.

She could have purchased the ticket for the old woman. Brainwaves like this occur only in retrospect.

She got up way ahead of her stop. Balancing in the standee-unfriendly bus drugged her hyper active conscience.

Getting out of the bus, she waited for a while to see if any other 21G would pass by. Nothing was visible as far as her line of sight could reach.

Her legs slowly joined the beat of the street. And she walked into yet another day at the office, her conscience lulled to sleep by the music of monotony.

People 9 : Rain and the Junction

Relentless downpour. A major junction. Clogging slurry of (auto) motives.
Rain lashes from the sides of the Auto rickshaw.
Everyone wants to reach there as soon as possible. Wherever their ‘there’ might be.

Chilly winds bite the bone. Radios tune in to the myriad frequencies. Some invisible DJ conjures a concoction of FM waves.
Rap interludes from the auto-drivers, fluent in their curses.


“Poi Tholailangalenda, evlo neram than manushan ingaye ninnu saavarthu” (Why cant you fellows get going, how long can a man die waiting here…)

An assorted spread of choice Chennai swear words follows.*

“Intha car kaara naainga nalla ulla okanthutu nagara matenranunga. Oru aathra avasaram na ingaye Samadhi aaga vendiyathuthan…” ( These dogs , sitting inside the car , high and dry, don’t move … Even if a man is in an emergency, he might as well dig his grave here..)**

“Yov, Poi tholayenya..” , (Hey, get going), directed at the fish-cart (tricycle) in front.

Dripping wet, he was religiously wrenching his torn lungi dry. A snugly fitting polythene carry bag formed his head gear. The boy ‘manning’ the fish-cart replied, “Iru pa, konja nerathula clear agidum” (Wait, It will get cleared in a while).

And the RJ babbled, “Mazhai na excite agathavangale iruka mudiyathunga…..” ( There can’t be anyone who is not excited by the rain… )






*: With all due respects to the passenger ‘madam’, of course.
**: Was born again, each time a ‘car-kaara’ dog tried to overtake the auto.

Just Wondering - 7

It is strange that blows that could have once broken backbones, hardly make an eyelid bat.

Is detachment the panacea to all pain ?

Still,what would man be, but for the ability to wish and hope?

Lost In Translation

“Santhusht a Irukatheenga”, a smiley faced SRK ad-vises us Kuppans and Subbans of Tamil Land. This is the dubbed version of the DishTV ad on one of the Tamil channels. DishTV may not have plans to penetrate the rural veins of TN, but such an ad would plant a premature R.I.P on any possible prospects.

Ads are money. And big money at that. They provide the return on investment only if they reach the targeted audience. TN is not like other Indian states. You cannot afford to expect people to know what Santhusht is, especially when repeated in Junoon-tamil sentences. By a face alien to the masses (barring the peeps SRK made into few elitist tamil movies).

The equivalent Tamil word might destroy the lip-sync. It may even kill the cute little skewed rhyme the sathusht-dish-wish make. But retaining it would make the very first step in communication wobbly.

One can reason, that inserting incomprehensible info can create curiosity, but what the heck, even the well orchestrated “nalarai pal” and “pulli-raja” campaigns became relics way too soon in their life cycles.

When there are toddlers who can recite 1330 kurals verbatim, why do kids with tongues pasted to the roof of their mouths dub for ads? Creativity can take a backseat, but sensibilities can’t afford to. Ads as such, are an intrusion, and are more often than not used as breaks from the couch to check on the launderette or the cooking. Given the limited attention capture time, sloppiness can be a costly mistake.

As a contrast, the Tanishq ad for Diwali made one Santhusht. It had a known persona of star value, Asin, totting the jewellery for “Dhanteras”, also a concept new to tamils (the majority). It clearly conveyed the message, with Asin urging us, with flawless diction, to book in advance for the festive “Dhanteras”. I, for one, looked up for “Dhanteras” and was able to place the context.

As a check, I asked my maid, what she understood by Dhanteras. “Namma Atchaya thiruthiyai pola Deepvali ku etho podranma” (translated as “They are launching something like our Akshaya Thrithyai for this Deepavali”).

Its time ad-men paid attention to the basics.

Just Wondering - 6

Can someone crave for both company and solitude at the same time?

Vethal’s Corner - 1

A Success Story

Your chances of success are directly proportional to the degree of pleasure you derive from what you do." - Michael Korda

Raj and Suraj were best friends.

Both of them were good students. But Raj excelled in extra curricular activities as well, especially at oratory where he was a natural pro. When it came to academics, Raj studied for pleasure, and was good at what he did, while Suraj worked with a motive, that is, to consistently top the class.

Both of them were adored by their classmates, and teachers, with Suraj claiming a slightly higher share of the teachers’ adulation.
Suraj, however admired Raj for his flair in oratory and secretly yearned to be like him. He accompanied Raj to all his competitions, and was the best under-study that one could hope to be.

So deep was his desire for emulating Raj, that Suraj once told Raj “Your speech today was mind-blowing! Not a single day goes by, without me wishing to be you!”

Raj was taken aback by this statement. “How can one wish to be someone else??? You are your own absolute. Don’t ever compare yourself to others”.

But, Suraj’s longing was insatiable. He continued to follow Raj’s moves like a puppy. This sometimes irked Raj, for he was used to having his space. Suraj obviously was blind to his friend’s discomfort. He stuck to Raj during the day like a leech, and burned the midnight oil, trying to repeat the day’s speech in front of the mirror.

It was the Annual inter-school oratorical competition. The school, as usual, had nominated Raj to represent them. Suraj however had enrolled as an independent contestant.

After a fiercely fought contest, the judges declared “It was a close call. Both had very good ideas and counter points. But the subtleties of oratory were flawlessly displayed by Suraj, whom we declare the winner”.

Raj was crest-fallen. He refused to speak to Suraj thereafter. Suraj continued to win laurels. But at the corner of his mind, could never figure out why Raj broke their friendship.
He once overheard Raj saying to someone, “He is a phony. Even Charlie Chaplin didn’t win a look-alike contest of himself. Suraj simply aped me. He lacks the gift. One needs the inner spark to go on forever. The hype and hoopla is bound to die down soon.. All that glitters isn’t gold”.
Although these words hurt Suraj, he couldn’t deny or accept their import completely.

Now, Vikrams of the world, was Suraj a pilferer? Was his claim to genius fraudulent? Isn’t Genius 1 % inspiration and 99% perspiration? What about being blessed with talent, then?

Or as Raj said, would Suraj’s trail of glory peter out? His desire to be like Raj drove Suraj towards his claim to fame, what if that motive force disappears?

Suraj did not have the love or passion for oratory that Raj had, but that didn’t stop him from being a great orator, did it? Is passion for work the key to success, or is it passion for anything that is the key to success?

Suraj could have won the medals and prizes in something that he really loved, was he being superficial in choosing oratory?
By observing Raj and copying him, wasn’t Suraj inventing a “formula” for success?” Like following the trends of exam questions of the past 15 years and scoring 90% without knowing the ABC’s of the subject?

Hasn’t Suraj’s way to victory discouraged Raj who genuinely possessed the talent and love for oratory?


P.S:

This comes on the wake of Saraswathy Pooja. Saw a documentary on a Malayalam channel (guess it was DD) on the value of real ‘education’. Although, I understood the dialogues only in bits and pieces, the concluding line reached deep. It went like this: “Children, you don’t study for your father, you don’t study for your mother, you don’t study for teacher, nor do you study for your country. Then whom do you study for? Yourself.” (A pathetic literal translation. Please excuse.)

Just Wondering - 5

Is there a state of mind, where nothing can interest a person ? An Eternal Ennui of the Extreme kind ....All shades merging into one blurry blend of grey.....All tastes mixing into insipid blandness....Every second as dull and dreary as its predecessor...

Can someone die of boredom?

Chak De, So they say !

I am really happy about India winning 'a world cup'. Even if it has been in a form of the game new to most of the contenders. And even if Lady Luck did more than smile upon the Boys in Blue (BIB).

But not long ago, an underdog of a sport, unfortunately one that was once India's pride in the commonwealth, did a heroic resurgence after decades. A bunch of non-descript Indians won the Asian hockey Cup, with less or mediocre media mileage than they deserved.

And unabashedly, the media pulled in a Bollywood flick, Chak De India to attribute this feat to.
Possibly scripted in the wake of the BIB's sad show at the Caribbean World Cup ODI's, this movie chose a Hockey Vs Cricket theme, perhaps for want of a Cinderella of Indian Sports. It could have been Tennis, Athletics, Kabaddi, or even seven stones and hopscotch, for all that you care. Although, it capitalized on the popular anti-BIB sentiment, I felt it was more of an Indianized version of Hollywood's Baseball- Movies. Of course, with a lot of babes for extra coverage.

Not to mention King Khan as the hard hitting coach.

Basking in the rare media attention thrown upon them, BIB's poor cousins, gratefully, nevertheless unnecessarily dedicated their hard earned victory to the actor and the movie.
Less was said of the win, in itself, and lesser of the people behind it.

Perhaps enthused by his name becoming resonant with one sport, King Khan made his presence felt at the Twenty20 Cup, where the BIBs salvaged a thrilling win. With our Baadshah of Bollywood, Chak De-ing them. Step aside, Mandira Bedi, you small screen belle!

Not to be outdone by tinseldom, our respected political brethren from all friendly and not so friendly states, jump into the fray announcing hefty sums of tax-payer's money as rewards to decorate the BIBs.

Our poor cousins, realise what a ride they had been taken for, blink back their tears at the scraps of media attention thrown to them, and begin a Satyagraha-of-sorts, that,sorry to say, looks more pathetic than anything else.

Despite not being a sporting aficionado, one can't remain blind to this incongruity. But, that’s what we, as a nation, have chosen to be. Becoming selectively amnesic, lapping up to the upcoming ODIs. Degradation of the sporting fan into the dastardly voyeurs who watched the Gladiators at the Colosseum.

Yet another classic instance of the Great Indian Apathy at play. (Pun –intended.)


An update :

• Another voice raised.
• Another feat that would go un-noticed.

Just Wondering -4

A short cut to Ramar Sethu

Karunanidhi : "Who is this Rama? From which engineering college did he gradute? Is there any proof for this?"

Advani :''Today a civil war is going on and the government of Tamil Nadu is adding to it"

My father : "Intha Rendu kezhathaiyum pidichu jail la pota Ramarum nimmadhiya irupar, sethu vum nimmadhiya irukum." * (chuckles)


* Translation :
'If both these old croonies are put in jail, Rama would be happy, and so will the bridge. '

Just Wondering - 3

Why does a super-powered Genie always have a human master to command it? Is it for the same reason that a few lesser mortals hold the leash over the rest?

Inspiration : A chance flicking of channels that lead to a glimpse of Disney's Alladin.

People 8 :Magnanimity

Rush hour traffic. Zillion diversions. Buses that don’t stop for everyone. Share Autos to the rescue. He waits for one. Shifts his weight to his good leg. A blue ID tag dangles, from his white collar.

They whiz past him. The traffic police shoo them away. He holds his knee for support.
One crowded Auto stops for an extra ten rupees. He hops on beside the driver. Three of them perched on a seat for one.

He is not a local. Smiles make up for the lapses in language. He wants to get down mid-way. Another busy junction. The traffic constable brandishes his lathi. The auto driver mumbles his complaint.

He gets down and extends a ten-rupee note. A fare in excess of the distance he has traveled, but which the auto driver considers fair for the trouble caused. A Khaki coat’s righteous claim over the white collar.

He thanks the auto driver and limps across the busy road.

Yet another busy junction. The auto driver jumps down and runs behind his client. The auto stands idle, blocking the milling vehicles. The driver helps him cross and presses a 5-rupee coin in his hand.

Smiles cover up the lapses in language.

Just Wondering - 3

Why can't the mysteries of Death also include the means to perpetrate it?

Pot-Pourri

Charity Begins at home.

I am writing this on the last few days of my stay in a foreign land, on a business visit.
A charity sale was going on in our office. It was a cookie-candy-pizza sale as a fund raiser for the Alzheimer’s disease research.

Colleague: what is going on? Why are there so many cookies and Pizzas?
Me: It’s for charity.
Colleague: Charity? Is it free?
Me: No! It’s a fund raiser. Charity for the needy
Colleague: Oh.. Then India needs lots of charity.. Ask these people to give us the money..
Me: Why? To end up in the politician’s pocket?
Colleague: so what? We will fill up the politician’s pocket so much that some of it will at least overflow to the public.
Me: Our politicians will enlarge their pockets, if something like that happens.
Colleague: Then we would fill them up even more, so that something surely overflows.
Me: Or…. Better still… We could puncture the politician’s pocket…
Colleague: suddenly becomes mature, looks away and shrugs
Me: Come-on, what was wrong with THAT !!!????

***********************************************************************

Those wonder years in the wonder land..


There is this friendly cheerful lady in office. A single mom living with her parents, and her 4 year old daughter. Over lunch, I asked her about her daughter. Among other interesting anecdotes, she told me that her daughter freaks out her grandma with an imaginary friend of hers. The little girl used to say with a straight face, “Nana, I am not talking to myself. Can’t you see this girl sitting on the toilet seat? She is waiting for her momma and papa to come and pick her up...”

Kids imagine all sorts of things. I had imagined so many things. I always wanted a houseful of siblings. I had imagined an elder sister and a younger brother. So strong was my hallucination, that I went around telling children at school what my sister did to my hair and how my kid bro broke my toys. It wasn’t until a couple of standards later, that one of the girls from school came to my house and asked my parents for my akka and thambi. My mom had to bail me out, by saying they were cousins.

Then there was this game that I used to play with myself. I used to imagine a parallel universe where things happened opposite to the world as I knew it. When I cried, I imagined that my counterpart in the parallel world laughed. When I stood, she sat. When I slept, she was awake. When I said yes, she said no. There was no rhyme or reason to this little game. But I kept playing it. And it did amuse me a lot. I don’t remember when I stopped playing this game, and it is surprising that I still can recollect it.

Childhood is when reality is imagination and imagination becomes reality. Things didn’t have to exist to be true. As long as they kept you happy and amused. As long as you believed in them.

Then all of a sudden you grow up. Imagination becomes difficult. Or Art.
Beliefs become naiveté. Or do they? Some may linger on. I, for one, could use a parallel universe every now and then.

Just Wondering -2

Is Patience a form of self deception? A narcotic that lulls your consciousness to reality? Does a strength of spirit warrant a dishonesty with oneself?

Why is plain old common sense that tells you to give up and move on , viewed as slackness of the soul?

Isn't it mulish waiting that is an indication of lassitude and reluctance?

Just Wondering - 1

Does anyone think that Kareena Kapoor and Paris Hilton look alike?
Has anyone noticed that Urmila resembles Jeniffer Aniston?

Or Is it just me?

People 7

Hay in the Subway.

Moist Highway. Drying Sun. Milling morning vehicles. Sub-terrain Pedestrian pathway. Choc-a-bloc with arms laden with lunch boxes and scurrying legs. Away from the prying rays of the sun. Still Sequestered with little pools of inky black water.

An abandoned heap of hay. Soggy and damp. Condemned to decay.

A body slumped against it. Wrapped in rags, that could have once been pink or orange, or brown or may be even white. A lifeless head hanging down. A messy tuft of silver and grey.

Was he dead? Was she dead? Will they dispose it? Is he/she dying? Is he sleeping? Drunk? Did she shelter here from the nightly lashes of rain? Hungry? Will the sun breathe life into yet another life-form?

Joy Ride

A crowded metro bus. A family of gypsies. A mother, a father and a bunch of kids, of all ages. The adults carrying an infant each, balancing all their bags and wares.

A bus ride. Window seat. Sitting on par with others. What excitement ! Chitter chatter. Peals of laughter. The eldest is the noisiest. The others are too young to realize this unbridled joy. The mother watches them with sedate eyes. Her infant tugging her pleated skirt, that clashed with the rags wrapped around her.

The father holds on to his little one, like a beast of burden. The merry of his oldest stirs in him a vehemence, uncalled for. He swings around, and thrashes the lad.

Striken face. Bawls of shock, and bawls of pain.

Did the noise disturb his reverie? Was he embarrassed in front of the ‘saaamys’ and ‘ammas’ ? Was he afraid that some saamy or amma would scold him? What if the conductor pushed them out of the bus?

Or was he afraid of letting his son taste a joy that may not always be his ?

People 6:Mommy Dear

A high profile outlet of a well-known chain of jeweler’s stores. A young couple. Romance is in the air. The husband holds up many a necklace to see which suits his lovely wife the best. An adamant toddler, all of two years and a half, may be. Refusing to get down from her vantage perch, viz her mother’s hip.

Pink turns red, when the little one intrudes into the adult’s bliss. The mother struggles to balance both her burdens, small and big. The neglected husband stomps off. A bored child, slides off her hip. The sales persons watch the melee. The haggard mother is left confused and dazed.

Not even once did the husband offer to mind the child. Newly flaunted Gender Equality bowing down to stereotypes ingrained from childhood.

And the sales persons watched.
A high profile outlet. Professional service. Sans the personal touch.