Why is Uma so striking? Well, she is sexy, smart, successful and thirty.
Everyday, you can see her lock her front door, step nimbly down the stairs, and slide into her new Ford Escort. Always in an immaculate business suit, Uma looks every inch the Senior Manager she is. I've never seen her return from work because we're fast asleep by 9.30.
But a few hours ago, something happened.
I was returning from my evening walk, when Uma's car zoomed past me. She braked hard, flung open the car door, and banged it loudly. Her handbag slid and fell to the ground. Instead of picking it up, she began kicking at the bag. Once, twice, thrice, and then a series of hysterical kicks, punctuated with the choicest profanities. She must have hurt her toe, because she clutched her foot and began yowling. I rushed forward to help her, and she buckled on to my shoulder. Had she not been the wafer-weight she is, I would certainly have fallen and cracked a few bones.
Uma was sobbing hard now, so I held her hand, retrieved her bag, and led her upstairs to my flat.
She sank on the couch in my living room and continued to release loud, piteous sobs. For a good ten minutes, the angst spilled out of her like long jammed-up phlegm. In the meantime, I got up to fetch her a glass of water.
At last, she looked up and said, 'I can't go on. I need to talk to someone. Help me out, please.'
How tormented her eyes were! Gone was the surefooted executive. This was a woman hurting. I took her hand, and said, "Tell me."
'I…was supposed to get my promotion today,' she began. 'VP, Sales. I slogged my hind legs off and exceeded my target. And what do I get? Nothing. An under-performing bitch is promoted over me, and now I've to report to her. Why, because she's sleeping with the boss. Never mind that Uma Hughes hasn't slept properly in weeks. She's nobody, nothing…'. She held her head between her palms, rasped a few residual sobs, and began stabbing at her temples with sharp coffee-coloured nails.
"Headache?" I inquired.
She nodded, kneading her forehead with spindly fingers.
"Would you like something to drink?" I said.
"I wouldn't mind some black coffee, please. Without sugar."
I hesitated. "Can I offer you chamomile tea instead? It's very soothing. Have you tried it?"
Before she could answer, her cellphone rang. Briefly distracted, she glanced at the caller ID, screwed up her face, and pressed 'No'. "They can all go f*** themselves," she hissed. "Oh, I'm sorry. Please don't mind the language."
"It's fine".
She smiled weakly, "No, I've never tried chamomile tea, but please, I would love some.'
Standing in the kitchen, I wondered how I could help Uma. It was while dipping the tea bag into the transparent cup, watching the water slowly turn a beautiful golden color, that it came to me.
When I returned, Uma was groping in her battered Gucci bag. She pulled out a strip of tablets, and tore one out of its casing. She picked up the glass of water.
"Aspirin?" I asked. She nodded, drank half the glass, and plunked the aspirin in the remaining water. While she shook it to mix it well, I asked, ""Doesn't it give you acidity?"
She shrugged. "Yeah, that's why I always keep antacids in my bag."
"Oh, okay. But I've heard that antacids kill your appetite."
She downed the aspirin and gave a wry laugh. "Appetite? I've forgotten what that is. I have such severe constipation that even the thought of food makes me feel bloated. Which is good in a way, I guess, because I don't have to worry about dieting for the time being. I have a real tendency to put on weight here, you know." She patted her flat abs.
For a little while, we just sat there, Uma and I. She sipped delicately from the cup and bit into the home-made coconut cookies I hade served, juicing the moment. At last, she said, "You know, this is lovely. In fact, I was so keyed up all day that I hardly ate a thing."
"Oh boy," I said, "But you work so hard! How do you last through your day without proper food?"
"I survive," she said, pulling out a slim cigarette from her Aladdin's cave of a bag. " For people like me, whose lunch is always iffy, multigrain bars are just the ticket. One and you're all set. And by the time I get back home, I'm just too dead to want to do anything but boil a packet of soup. If I'm feeling really good, I order pizza. Lighter?"
"Er, no. I'll get you a matchbox."
"No, that's fine. Please don't bother," she said, replacing the cigarette in its pack. "I should be going now. I've wasted a lot of your time."
"Not at all," I said. "I'm just glad you're feeling better. But I do want to say that food makes a real difference. Earlier, when I lived in the world of deadlines and headlines--as a TV reporter--I neglected it for years. But now I realise how important it is to…"
She cut me off. "I know, I know, right now I'm not exactly eating earth's healthiest diet. But then there's one thing I'm really regular with: my supplements. I've got this fabulous A-to-Z multivit, so it takes care of all my nutrition--vitamins, minerals, calcium, you name it."
"Nutrition, yes," I said, gently. "But what about nourishment, Uma?"
Her lovely blue eyes widened into a frank stare. "How do you mean nourishment?"
At that point, I decided to say it. 'You know what, Uma, when you have the time, I would very much like you to meet someone. You'll be glad you met him.'
"Doctors," she rolled her eyes, slinging her bag back on her shoulder, and getting up to go. "I don't see the point. I've taken every single medicine they can prescribe. And if you mean a shrink, then…"
"No, no, not a shrink, Uma. He is just a learned man, who offers very simple answers for those who seek them. There's something about him that makes you look at life with a fresh pair of eyes."
"Yeah, so is he one of those new-age gurus?" The mocha mouth had curled into a cynical smile.
"No," I said, patiently. " He doesn't dispense medicines, he doesn't spout philosophy, he doesn't seek fame. All he does is reconnect you to yourself, teach you to take the key of your health and happiness into your own capable hands."
I could see she was intrigued.
"Fine, I'm definitely not going to work tomorrow," she said at last, "Will he see me?"
"Of course. Can we leave at 10? I'll take an appointment, of course."
"Sure, 10 is great. And…er, thanks a million for everything. I'm sorry, I made such a fool of myself."
"Don't worry about it," I said. "Everything happens for a reason."
*
Uma's story continues in my book, The 9 to 5 Yogi: How to Feel Like A Sage While Working Like A Dog
http://hayhouse.co.in/BookDetails.aspx?Id=rZPWIwVZzAc=
But a few hours ago, something happened.
I was returning from my evening walk, when Uma's car zoomed past me. She braked hard, flung open the car door, and banged it loudly. Her handbag slid and fell to the ground. Instead of picking it up, she began kicking at the bag. Once, twice, thrice, and then a series of hysterical kicks, punctuated with the choicest profanities. She must have hurt her toe, because she clutched her foot and began yowling. I rushed forward to help her, and she buckled on to my shoulder. Had she not been the wafer-weight she is, I would certainly have fallen and cracked a few bones.
Uma was sobbing hard now, so I held her hand, retrieved her bag, and led her upstairs to my flat.
She sank on the couch in my living room and continued to release loud, piteous sobs. For a good ten minutes, the angst spilled out of her like long jammed-up phlegm. In the meantime, I got up to fetch her a glass of water.
At last, she looked up and said, 'I can't go on. I need to talk to someone. Help me out, please.'
How tormented her eyes were! Gone was the surefooted executive. This was a woman hurting. I took her hand, and said, "Tell me."
'I…was supposed to get my promotion today,' she began. 'VP, Sales. I slogged my hind legs off and exceeded my target. And what do I get? Nothing. An under-performing bitch is promoted over me, and now I've to report to her. Why, because she's sleeping with the boss. Never mind that Uma Hughes hasn't slept properly in weeks. She's nobody, nothing…'. She held her head between her palms, rasped a few residual sobs, and began stabbing at her temples with sharp coffee-coloured nails.
"Headache?" I inquired.
She nodded, kneading her forehead with spindly fingers.
"Would you like something to drink?" I said.
"I wouldn't mind some black coffee, please. Without sugar."
I hesitated. "Can I offer you chamomile tea instead? It's very soothing. Have you tried it?"
Before she could answer, her cellphone rang. Briefly distracted, she glanced at the caller ID, screwed up her face, and pressed 'No'. "They can all go f*** themselves," she hissed. "Oh, I'm sorry. Please don't mind the language."
"It's fine".
She smiled weakly, "No, I've never tried chamomile tea, but please, I would love some.'
Standing in the kitchen, I wondered how I could help Uma. It was while dipping the tea bag into the transparent cup, watching the water slowly turn a beautiful golden color, that it came to me.
When I returned, Uma was groping in her battered Gucci bag. She pulled out a strip of tablets, and tore one out of its casing. She picked up the glass of water.
"Aspirin?" I asked. She nodded, drank half the glass, and plunked the aspirin in the remaining water. While she shook it to mix it well, I asked, ""Doesn't it give you acidity?"
She shrugged. "Yeah, that's why I always keep antacids in my bag."
"Oh, okay. But I've heard that antacids kill your appetite."
She downed the aspirin and gave a wry laugh. "Appetite? I've forgotten what that is. I have such severe constipation that even the thought of food makes me feel bloated. Which is good in a way, I guess, because I don't have to worry about dieting for the time being. I have a real tendency to put on weight here, you know." She patted her flat abs.
For a little while, we just sat there, Uma and I. She sipped delicately from the cup and bit into the home-made coconut cookies I hade served, juicing the moment. At last, she said, "You know, this is lovely. In fact, I was so keyed up all day that I hardly ate a thing."
"Oh boy," I said, "But you work so hard! How do you last through your day without proper food?"
"I survive," she said, pulling out a slim cigarette from her Aladdin's cave of a bag. " For people like me, whose lunch is always iffy, multigrain bars are just the ticket. One and you're all set. And by the time I get back home, I'm just too dead to want to do anything but boil a packet of soup. If I'm feeling really good, I order pizza. Lighter?"
"Er, no. I'll get you a matchbox."
"No, that's fine. Please don't bother," she said, replacing the cigarette in its pack. "I should be going now. I've wasted a lot of your time."
"Not at all," I said. "I'm just glad you're feeling better. But I do want to say that food makes a real difference. Earlier, when I lived in the world of deadlines and headlines--as a TV reporter--I neglected it for years. But now I realise how important it is to…"
She cut me off. "I know, I know, right now I'm not exactly eating earth's healthiest diet. But then there's one thing I'm really regular with: my supplements. I've got this fabulous A-to-Z multivit, so it takes care of all my nutrition--vitamins, minerals, calcium, you name it."
"Nutrition, yes," I said, gently. "But what about nourishment, Uma?"
Her lovely blue eyes widened into a frank stare. "How do you mean nourishment?"
At that point, I decided to say it. 'You know what, Uma, when you have the time, I would very much like you to meet someone. You'll be glad you met him.'
"Doctors," she rolled her eyes, slinging her bag back on her shoulder, and getting up to go. "I don't see the point. I've taken every single medicine they can prescribe. And if you mean a shrink, then…"
"No, no, not a shrink, Uma. He is just a learned man, who offers very simple answers for those who seek them. There's something about him that makes you look at life with a fresh pair of eyes."
"Yeah, so is he one of those new-age gurus?" The mocha mouth had curled into a cynical smile.
"No," I said, patiently. " He doesn't dispense medicines, he doesn't spout philosophy, he doesn't seek fame. All he does is reconnect you to yourself, teach you to take the key of your health and happiness into your own capable hands."
I could see she was intrigued.
"Fine, I'm definitely not going to work tomorrow," she said at last, "Will he see me?"
"Of course. Can we leave at 10? I'll take an appointment, of course."
"Sure, 10 is great. And…er, thanks a million for everything. I'm sorry, I made such a fool of myself."
"Don't worry about it," I said. "Everything happens for a reason."
*
Uma's story continues in my book, The 9 to 5 Yogi: How to Feel Like A Sage While Working Like A Dog
http://hayhouse.co.in/BookDetails.aspx?Id=rZPWIwVZzAc=
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