A couple of days ago, I completed a year at my job. Unremarkable, perhaps, but for two facts taken in tandem – I am now 29 years old, and this is my first real job. Oh sure, I have been paid a stipend for teaching in grad school, I washed dishes in a cafeteria for minimum wage, taught kids at summer camp, even made a few bucks my freshman year fixing people’s computers. And I got myself through my last summer in the United States by playing poker (nothing on the level of some on this site, though). But this is my first salaried-with-benefits, qualification-based, full-time job. I started it a month after I moved back to India, which makes a month ago the anniversary of my return, and it’s an occasion. 

Or is it? I never thought that I wouldn’t get through a year. Perhaps it more a celebration of staying in one place for a year than having a job, perhaps the occasion is the validation of my commitment. But I love my job, it pays me handsomely, I get two-day weekends (very rare in India). I would have been a fool to leave. 

What, then, makes it something I (or people around me) need to make a note of? Anniversaries are nice, whatever the reason, because they give us another mark on the life-chart I am sure we all keep; we collect dates and durations as, perhaps arbitrary, indications of progress. Still, I don’t think that’s what it is. I get the feeling that it is linked to my larger, trans-continental, move; it is symbolic of a level of “success” in satisfyingly transitioning not only from one culture to another but also from debauched student to proper adult. And as soon as I type that, I laugh out loud. 

Most of my money has gone toward a tricked-out PC, 50-odd DVDS (The Criterion Brazil kicks some serious ass), 20-odd video games (Oblivion kicks some serious ass), eating out, beer, assorted electronics, and around 300 cheap books (I’m talking 90 per cent off list price). I’m not boasting – I just think, for me, that’s the whole point of having a job: being completely immersed in what I want and being able to get it. I’m swimming in materialism, indulging my desires, and dying of glee. 

Oh I believe in what I do; I believe in education, publishing, editorial responsibility and all that. But at the end of the day, I am yet to move completely into the realm of “responsibility” as seen by the world I live in – being unmarried, kid-less, mortgage-free allows me to extend my student sensibilities and aesthetics into a sphere where I can always get the things I want. 

Shameful? Definitely. Perhaps one day soon this will change. For now, I am happy with the thought that what society (specially Indian society) demarcates as desirable and what satisfies my hedonism can, actually, be reconciled with such little effort. 

Now if only this fucking job would give me the time to play Oblivion.

As you might know, my name is Kris. And I’m a guy. It’s short for Kristoffer. (Actually, if you’re reading this, you most certainly know these things unless you are very unobservant, as 110% of people reading this are either a friend, relative, or both.)

But I just found something out — Kris is a girl’s name.

A big part of my job includes inviting people to speak at conferences. And nobody knows who the hell I am. Here are some recent e-mail replies I’ve gotten (rest assured, I do sign my e-mails with my actual name, “Kris”).

This one is, after 27 years, beyond expected:

Hi Chris,

It looks OK to me.

Nobody spells the name “Kris” with a “K”. So that author is forgiven.

Weirder is this:

Hi Kevin. I submitted . . . that I thought would be widely popular.

He probably just mixed me up with my brother Kevin. Who he’s never met.

Still weirder is this:

Kim:

I would be pleased to present . . . in Denver.

All I can think is that he read “Kris,” thought “girl,” and then just replaced the name with whatever he thought I should be called.

These are from two different authors:

Karen, No problem on the revision.

***

Karen -

Agreed.

I should really take the hint and go by “Karen” from now on.

Finally, here are two replies (in chronological order) from the same author:

Kris,

Please include the following in your upcoming enewsletters . . .

Yes!

Kevin,

Can you confirm you received this and you have what is needed for the next enewsletter?

No!

I’ve thought about this for way longer than I should’ve: She knew I was a “Kris” through e-mail, then we spoke on the phone, she heard (from my manly voice) that I was of the male persuasion, then (who’s heard of a boy named “Kris”?) she changed my name to Kevin.

Obviously.