Satya Nadella is right. That’s how we think. We are wrong, we ought not to.

Hey, let’s all bash up Satya Nadella… but first, how many of you women demand equal pay or a well-deserved pay rise? How many of us speak about money and scales with our employers?

I work in a country where I pay a double penalty… first as an Asian passport holder, then as female professional. And truth be told I’ve never negotiated.

If it felt too low, I would just not take it; but didn’t try to argue or sell myself.

I would ask if there was disparity based on nationality. To this I’ve received all kinds of odd answers; from how a cup of coffee costs more in London than it does in Mumbai, hence salary would differ (hey, guess what, but we are paying bills in Doha!) to how Western education was more expensive that what I paid for.

This to an extent I would protest and speak against.

But I was and am too conscious about pulling out the gender-card. Should I draw attention to my sex and be seen as being overly sensitive? Should I remind them that I am a woman…? Should I just quietly take the deal before a man outspeaks me at the negotiation table and walks away with a few bucks more?

Ironically, I continue to feel that a good employer will be fair (karma?) and recognise what I bring to the table… And every time I signed on the dotted line, I did believe that it was so. This rationalisation ringing in my head: When they see my work they will give me more.

And it has happened. It also hasn’t.

My male colleagues were different. They asked, and they got. During appraisals, between appraisals, with a second offer in hand, without a second offer in hand… They continued asking even when they didn’t get it.

I rarely saw this amongst women. Not my peers, not the ones who reported to me.

So when Satya Nadella put his geeky feet in his mouth, was he merely describing the best of us? Maybe the best of his female staff didn’t ask, and were slavishly grateful for the ‘recognition’ that came their way, all the same. So he thinks, that’s the way it should be.

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Twenty years in the making, my trampoline is ready… let the adventure begin

Twenty years of pursuing what I love, and being paid for it.

Twenty years of stretching my wings enough to take flights of fancy, and always returning to a comfortable nest.

Twenty years of people holding out a safety net, to cushion my fall. Sometimes it’s a trampoline and I bounce back higher and higher.

Twenty years of working for someone else… But, wait. That’s not what I said or believed in. I always worked for myself, even while employed by someone else, right? Right-ish? Kind of, sort of?

Twenty years into your career, you are too old, too expensive, too opinionated, too high up in that damned ladder everyone is clambering up.

Slowly you realise that the nest gets prickly, the safety net wears off, the trampoline is missing a few springs. You realise that you are working for someone else, whatever delusions you might allow yourself.

What you truly love doing will always have to be done within the confines of someone else’s agenda and dream. That ‘someone else’ who pays your bills and fattens you up into a pro lull.

Whereto from there?

First things first, setting up my home office. Where the magic happens.

First things first, setting up my home office. Where the magic happens.

It took me twenty years to dare to take a risk. But for all the risks I consciously shied away from, I unconsciously paid for.

Entrepreneur I am not (and probably will never be). And the only way of living I’ve known and been comfortable with is one that involved a monthly salary and paid vacation.

What do you do then, when your safety net begins to choke you?

So I paused and took deep breaths. I trekked. I meditated. I negotiated terms that in hindsight were half measures, and unfair to all concerned, especially the wonderful people I worked for. So I stalled, procrastinated… and then learned to breathe again, mainly on the rowing machine.

I meditated on the saddle, knees drawn up, pull and release… again and again, enjoying the drench of sweat and clarity; working hard on my core strength, in more ways than one.

What’s the very worst thing that can happen to me, I asked myself repeatedly over the last six months. Not holding a full-time job didn’t even figure in the top 10 worst things that could happen.

Today, on my last day at a full-time job (for the foreseeable future), that doesn’t figure in the top 20 worst things either.

When was the last time I felt as light and relieved as I have in the past month? The freedom to choose and focus on what I love and am good at; the relief of not becoming immersed in what drains my energy; and the overwhelming gratitude for being surrounded by those both appreciative of what I do and supportive of what I wish to…

Gratitude above all. For even when I shied away from risks, I was always in a place and environment that allowed me ownership of my dreams (be it here, here or here). Even when I was full of self-doubt, there would be more than a few souls who would mock me out of my self-pity, and give a kindly kick to my derriere.

It’s time to respect the generous opportunities and trust I’ve enjoyed, time to pay myself… time to tighten the belt, yes, but also to become more mindful of who I want to be. Mindful that no matter how much I fret and try, I can only do one thing at a time, and that one thing should be what I truly enjoy.

More importantly, there’s only one me, and she deserves her very own trampoline.

 

Presenting...

Presenting…

All in a day’s work. Sexism, racism or what have you…

Act 1. Scene 1. (Wish I had a gun to shoot.)

Location:

At my office desk

Players: 

Me (Brown, female); RandomWhiteGuy (a consultant & soon to be colleague, to be referred to as RWG); Boss

Boss: I have the map for **insert name of popular kids theme park in Dubai**

Me: I love **insert name of popular kids theme park in Dubai**

RWG: I am going there. Do you want to come with me, to take care of my kid.

**What happened in my head: “Are you being sexist or racist, you a$*hole?”, takes out her brass knuckles and punches him in his face**

**What actually transpired (and am so proud of my delivery)**

Me: Could you be more sexist? Would you have said that to a male colleague?

RWG: Ah, you said you liked the place.

Me: Yes, to go to with my kids.

RWG: I have no one to take care of my kid there.

Me: Hire a maid.

RWG: I have a maid, she won’t get a visa.

Me: Do you really want to continue this conversation?

Boss: Maybe it started as a joke…

Me: No, it didn’t. It’s sexist, and I don’t have to tolerate this.

RWG: (Looking clammier than he did few minutes earlier) I didn’t mean to be…

Me: I hope so… (cuts short the conversation and continues with earlier discussion with boss)

Me:  (Still awaits an apology)

Fortunately this wasn’t one of those situations where I fumbled, and later, in futility, thought up a response in my head. I am glad I gave it to him directly, to his face. Yet, I am smarting and furious; I so wish I had a gun, or brass knuckles, or something very sharp…

PS1: RWG doesn’t know me. This is our first interaction. So any excuse of him having a banter can’t be accepted.

PS2: I write this in public, because I don’t think this is an official exchange/communication and needs to be treated as a confidential exchange.

PS3: Healing with writing.

Amend: Added location, and the fact RWG will soon be a full-time colleague.