I in I Am An Entrepreneur

Meghna Maiti

Who am I? It is perhaps the inanest question, yet it’s also not so easy to comprehend always. I am Meghna Maiti- a fairly responsible daughter, a reliable friend to many, a decent journalist and a writer, an editor and so many other identities. At different phases and circumstances, I play each of these parts and feel satisfied with the way I juggle each of these layers. But I know, I am much more than all of these, beneath all these layers of personalities. I am also a breathing presence, pulsating with life force who could go on solitary walks under the clear, blue sky and think of achieving the impossible.

I am a woman.

I am still a child for whom life is all full of beginnings and no endings. At some level I am already a ghost who is sometimes haunted by unpleasant past, bitter experiences and setbacks that killed a part of me. I am made of the influences of numerous stars and constellation that chart my future path and decide the course of my destiny. I am somewhere a Sagittarius on the cusp.

I am a ‘mean’ person, a ‘selfish’ brute and an ‘arrogant show-off’ for some people. To some I am even ‘rebel’ and ‘radical.’ And to some others, I am a wannabe elite, a gold-digger and a witch. I have always popped all these comments with a pinch of salt.

Yet according to many people, I am an extremely honest and loyal person. But I know for sure that I am no embodiment of virtues. And I am certainly no Mother Teresa. I know that.

I am also thoughts, concepts, feelings and ideas. I am amorphous mostly, unless I am on a special date when I certainly put on an appearance.

To some people, I am the she-bull and the juggernaut. And these are mostly people in my professional network. To some others, I am the ultimate ‘lightworker,’ a healer. They are again friends whose personal issues seemed to have disappeared like magic with my entry into their lives. They swear by me all the time and call me ‘Miss Sunshine.’

I am a dude, a bro, a girl, a buddy, in a chatroom.

I am still ‘Alice in Wonderland’ for my school-friends. I am ‘lady Shakespeare’ to some school friends who still laugh at the way I insisted everyone to speak only ‘English’ in school.

To some I am fantasy. To some others I am the mystic lady. And even others say I am an enigma created of ethereal dust.

I am at time everything and at times nothing.

I have been called an African, an Ethiopian, to be most specific. I have also been called a tribal woman, for being too primitive with my instincts.

I have been called a foodie, a good cook, a devourer of all things edible, without any complain.

I have been called a communist, a socialist, the voice of the silent majority. I have been called a true ‘bengali,’ a Calcuttan.

I have been called a confused ideologue.

I have been called a heathen.

I have even been called ballsier than men by the men.

I am bravery, courage, spunk. I am daring. I am a clown.

I am not confused any more. I am not clouded in my mind.

Slowly, I realise I am all of these. I don’t exist as parts. I am a whole person. Do not seek me as any of these individual parts. I am either a full person or neither.

I Am An Entrepreneur. I exist in relation to all the other parts.

I am constantly building, breaking and re-inventing every time.

How are you an entrepreneur? Please share your story.

ENDS

No Free Press, Item Numbers please

“Hell breaks loose through the breaking door

Whining its splintering, wooden hinges

Claws wrapping onto the arches beyond

Gnarled feet pressed on the threshold…..”

It cannot get more chaotic than this and yet there is a strange sense of silence. Even as alarm grows in Press circles over numerous job losses and that of few impending ones, the entire fraternity, rest one or two, choose to remain absolutely tight-lipped. And some have decided to dwell in self-imposed complacency. Quite in an Orwellian fashion, the journalists in their confined space resemble zoo animals from a distance- management a fierce middle white boar, editors a small white porker and reporters, sub-editors a maddened squealer. Each one displays a definite set of behaviours: while management plants itself strategically a few inches away from the editorial side and clamps down its big paws on the editorial side; the poor editors with their hands tied keep mum and calmly seeks support from the big brothers. The hullaballoo in Press circles continue throughout the day and during the long night the voices of one of the few that rise above the muffled drone is that of one or two gutsy editors, who speak the truth but then they have to immediately pack their bags and leave. In the process, the already existing crack between the honest, truth seeking common people and the Press grow until it becomes a wider chasm.

The road to perdition only intensifies with the editors slumping at their desks while yawning, and yelling mindlessly at the journalists or asking them to just get lost as the management has zero tolerance for any kind of dissent and that it must have its own ‘mindless,’ ‘yes-man’ as the editor.

So, in a situation like this, what is the need of the hour? What could possibly bring back the zing into this much-loved profession? What could breakthrough this hell of a clutter and connect this entire power cycle in a more synchronistic manner? A force that is all-pervasive and powerful……..Ummmm……Perhaps, an item number!! Like say, a Mallika Sherawat or a Kareena Kapoor? With gloss on their lips, multi-coloured skirts and swaying hips, they could fill up the gap in the system and put everyone in their places and slowly but deliberately erase all notions of hierarchy, high and low, light and dark, me and you. They could be the much-needed change agents to point out the flaws in the system; show the inter-relatedness of all beings and above all, set out the line of demarcation between what ‘sells’ and what does not ‘sell,’ what is ‘flesh,’ and what is just pure ‘spirit.’ 

Armed with aides, prodded by jolts from several businesses, racing from meeting room to sumptuous dinner time at five star hotels to the power hour at the airport, management has no time to listen to anybody, least of all poor, common journalists. We, lesser mortals, just gamble with our lives and professions, perennially at their mercy. The editors are aware of everything and yet they chose to stay in their safety zones. And then sadly, in the process, the only saviours who could make everyone turn around and take a notice could only be item women, for sure!!!

ENDS