Mails of Mercy

On a lazy Sunday, for some strange reason I remembered the days when emails were new technology.  Many rushed frantically to register their names in all the available email services, as if it was their pride-of-place in history.  I did too, before sanity dawned on me and I settled reasonably well with gmail.  

I decided to try all the ID’s that I had created.  Not surprisingly, I saw that all had dumped me but one gracious service provider who had still kept my account alive.

The inbox was a reassurance that kindness, benignity and all such human values are still alive in this dog-eat-dog world.

Marian Kate of Malaysia had notified me on behalf of the Malaysia Sweepstakes Compensation Award that I am the beneficiary of USD 2.5 mio.

Steve Morgan of UK had received moneys from an Inheritance Fund, by the selfless help of the great Peter Campos (camping in New Delhi).  Steve, inspired by Pete’s causeless mercy on unrelated individuals around the globe, chose to advice me to contact Pete to claim my money of USD 3.0 mio.

Albert Jones of Lagos was very appreciative of my active efforts in securing his fortune.  As he was busy making investments out of his newfound wealth, he had advised his finance house to transfer USD 10 mio to my account.

Maureen Leighton was on the verge of death, and had no kin.  She had picked me as the most appropriate out of the 6 billion souls in this world to receive her fortunes the approximate worth of which was in excess of USD 100 mio.

Ben Mason of Google UK had written to me that out of gratitude of my continued patronage of Google, they had chosen my email ID for a prize of GBP 550,000.  In terms of quantum, this may not be as big as the others; nevertheless nothing can be as large as Ben’s heart.

By just checking my mails in time I could have been in Forbes 50.  I am not worried about that; you may know me; I am not after money.  But the opportunity that I lost to help Davidson Swick of IMF in performing his duty worries me.  Dave was annoyed that I had not claimed my payout of USD 10.5 mio….. Gratis.  He was in charge of the conveyance and couldn’t complete his job due to lack of response from me.  I hope he kept his job.

Also, I could not help my dear friend Tripathi when he was stranded in Spain. He had lost his baggage, his wallet, his wife's handbag, her jewels, his credit card, debit card, TC and currency.  The hotel had chucked them out into the street, they had nothing to eat and were freezing in cold weather in minimal clothing.  Poor Tripathi!  His life has always been such a see-saw of fortunes and misfortunes. See... fortunately he had his laptop from which he could email me but unfortunately I didn't check my mails.  I feel embarrassed to call him now.

That day, I realised that there are so many philanthropists still alive in our world.  I was ashamed at my abysmal social consciousness.

Believe me. It pays to be good to others. No Question.

The Bane of Sophistication

I‘d been to my ancestral village a week ago.  A place still largely unpolluted, both in its environment and in its people.  To me, a city dweller, this countryside was not just refreshing, but looked a threshold to wisdom.

In the village, most were not literate, but knew what is necessary.  All in the village knew the other.  They could tell the time from the shadows, make fire, knew when would the river swell, when to sow and when to reap.  But they didn’t know my way of making money.  Most were walking and the affluent ones were riding bicycles.  I visited the village in my car.

If there comes a day when electricity won’t work, they would survive, but I won’t.  If there comes a day when money won’t fetch food, they would survive, but I won’t.  They know what life is about, but I know Maths, Physics, Chemistry, Accountancy, Taxation, Trade Finance and what not.  But in the world in which I live, I am conditioned to believe that sophistication is a measure of success.  As I think I am more savoir-faire, I think myself as more accomplished.

In life so far, I have come across some from the urban high societies and some from the countryside.  I valued the urbanites more.

I have been on interview panels, from where I have preferred candidates with a gift-of-the-gab to those with humility and knowledge.  Often I mistook those speaking flowery English as knowledgeable.

I worked with employers who were raw and blunt, but were caring and inexpressive.  And with those who were polite and euphemistic, but were extremely exploitative.  I did enjoy working with the latter.

My mind looks for sophistication in everything.  To it, that which is sophisticated is good and that which isn’t, isn’t.

The day I learn to break free from my urge for sophistication, may be the day of my freedom.   The day I see things without the filter of sophistication, may be the day of my enlightenment.  For sophistication leads to darkness of the mind, for with it I start seeing those without it in poor light.  For it leads to a skewness in my perception of society, for with it I think I am relatively superior or inferior.

I wonder if I am capable of freedom from this conditioning.  For today sophistication is my sophisticated master and I, its rustic slave.

The Pupil's Prose

We moved to different cities thrice in the past 5 years over my frequent change of jobs.  Life was fairly stable before 5 years, when I decided to shake up the routines.  The decision made us to let go of some things that we were clinging to for years, for no reason but sentiment.  There was a long discussion between me and my wife over the books that I had kept for years.  My wife said that she didn’t see me reading any of the books over the past 12 years that we had been married, but agreed to carry the books with us.  She was not convinced, but she didn’t want an argument.  To avoid the acrimonious after effects, I condeded some old curricular books, which served no continued purpose.

After 5 years, and after coming a full circle (we came back to the same city in 5 years), I decided to do justice to the books.  The steel case in which the books were kept was dumped in a corner in the store, over which were stacked several boxes.  The boxes contained items that are sparsely used.  My wife had stacked them in their perceived order of usage.  After a lot of effort, I laid my hands on the steel chest, my eyes beaming in anticipation of the joy of seeing my collection.  I sat in front of the chest and opened it.  The steel case opened with a screech, and amidst a lot of dust laid my prized possessions.  On the top was the English prose book of my college, wearing a tatterdemalion cover.  It had somehow managed to remain in my possession.

I opened the book, reclined on the wall and stretched my legs.  The first essay was ‘University Days’ by James Thurber, a big-time humorist.  As I started reading, my mind slipped into yore, and into my college classroom, where Prof.Bosco taught us ‘University Days’.

Prof.Bosco was a stocky man.  He genuinely believed in his tutoring skills, but didn’t realise that his lack of finesse in manners didn’t make him particularly appealing to his students.  On that day, he walked in and sat ON his desk.  While with the left hand he tried to open the book, he parted his legs and scratched at his groin with the right.  He then lowered his glasses and stared at the students from over the frame.  Sitting wit legs parted wide, he said, “Today… University Days.  It's humour, and I assure, you will be in splits”.

We were almost at the end of the semester, and most of us were worried over our readiness for the ensuing exams.  We looked at anything in our books as more burden.

He started reading out of the book with animated moderations, intended to get us into the mood.

I passed all the other courses that I took at my university, but I could never pass botany. This was because all botany students had to spend several hours a week in a laboratory looking through a microscope at plant cells, and I could never see through a microscope. I never once saw a cell through a microscope. This used to enrage my instructor. He would wander around the laboratory pleased with the progress all the students were making in drawing the involved and, so I am told, interesting structure of flower cells, until he came to me. I would just be standing there.

“I can’t see anything,” I would say. He would begin patiently enough, explaining how anybody can see through a microscope, but he would always end up in a fury, claiming that I could too see through a microscope but just pretended that I couldn’t.

“It takes away from the beauty of flowers anyway,” I used to tell him.
“We are not concerned with beauty in this course,” he would say. “We are concerned solely with what I may call the mechanics of flowers.”

“Well,” I’d say, “I can’t see anything.”

Prof.Bosco paused and looked over his spectacles.  At least half the class was dozing, but we had learnt the art of hiding it from the teacher with masterly craft.  The rest looked up with grim faces and false attention.  The man looked confused.  He must have expected us to be enjoying the session, and at least smiling, particularly so as it was humour that he was reading out.  But the class must have looked pretty serious.  He however, continued unflinchingly.

 “Try it just once again,” he’d say, and I would put my eye to the microscope and see nothing at all, except now and again, a nebulous milky substance—a phenomenon of maladjustment. You were supposed to see a vivid, restless clockwork of sharply defined plant cells.
“I see what looks like a lot of milk”, I would tell him.

At this, Prof.Bosco broke into loud, hideous laughter.  Those of us who were half asleep jolted into awakening.  His laughter was the only sound in the class for a few seconds.  The class gave a strikingly quick response to the situation.  We all laughed along with him for the next few seconds.  Laughing, he looked at the class over his spectacle, and slowly, his laugh trickled to a grin, and stopped at an empty puzzled look.  We must have looked unmistakably artificial.  The class then went into rapt attention.

Through the rest of the lesson, he was noticeably uninterested.  He completed the lesson though, with the detachment of an ascetic.  He must have been used to it over the years.

When I came to, there was a smile on my lips.  I realised how much I missed those days.  I adjusted my recline, and went through the rest of 'University Days'.  It was indeed, very comical.  I thoroughly enjoyed reading it.

But why didn’t I enjoy it in the class?  And that, despite Prof.Bosco’s heroics?  Perhaps, even hilarious comedy, if it is curriculum, is prose to the pupil.

Almost always, the way elders see things and the way youngsters see things appear counter to each other.  What I enjoy today, I didn’t enjoy when I was young.  My pursuits were different as a youngster.

Later that day, I went through my entire English prose book.  It was a legendary collection of essays, often very thought provoking.  I thought for a moment that the educators had painstakingly picked classic essays with foresight, to mould a generation.  But what I read and enjoy today with the weight of my age and experience over me, will it appeal to a lighter youngster?

Well, I should leave this problem to the educators to inquire, for I have enough of my own.

Contradictions galore

I saw a person at the restaurant.  He was impeccably dressed, looked gentle, wished the gate-keeper good morning as he entered and wore a smile at people.  I thought of him as a gentleman.  He chose a seat at the centre table.  The bearer came to him.  He smiled at the bearer and ordered something, which the bearer took down.  A little later the bearer returned and told him what he ordered was not available.  I saw a twitch in the man’s face, and he started shouting at the bearer.  He told the bearer that he should have checked the position before he took the order… that he was a regular customer and not once did this happen… that he comes to the restaurant only for that item… … .  He threw expletives at the bearer and generally at the restaurant.  And walked out.

He left me wondering at my big mistake.  I thought he was a gentleman.  Well… he may still be one, but perhaps one that cannot take a disappointment.  For all that, not many of us handle disappointments particularly well, but the thing that got me astonished was the striking contradictions in the man.

I have a friend who is very intelligent, but extremely talkative.  He is so intelligent that I don’t do without his advice on matters of importance.  If I have to call him, I think well before lifting the phone if I have enough time.  It is very hard to focus on topics, for he often goes tangentially into unrelated stuff, and gives me a run for my money to bring the core subject back as the focus of talks.

There is a store nearby.  The owner started it as a petty shop a few years back and grew it into a sizable store with sheer enterprise.  But he is so forgetful that I often find myself in an argument with him (he was the owner cum cashier) over the change that he has to tender.  He forgets what he received, and asks me how much did I give him.  He looks at me with suspicion when he tenders the change.  He may be doing it to many, but still survived in business.

I once worked with a guy, who is extremely smart.  He took our organisation to great heights.  But he was eccentric, unpredictable, frequently changed his stand on matters, cared a damn for co-workers’ welfare and generally looked troubled.

Contradictions galore, I thought.  Everywhere around.

I couldn’t understand why people can’t stay in balance.  I thought to myself that I was blessed not to have such contradictions in me, until one day when my boss told me, “You are very efficient.  But you are lazy at the same time.”

We see several polarities in the society we live in.  Rich and poor, police and thief, the dominant and the submissive, … … .  Why can’t we have a better place, more balanced?

A while back I was looking to buy a car.  I wanted a particular variant, many features were amazing but the audio system was a showdown.  I asked if that could be taken out for I wanted to buy one of my own choice.  The vendor said, “Sorry sir, it comes as a package.”

Does life come as a package too?

The Dark Hour of Reason

It is hard to believe that there was a time when I loved everyone, hated none, smiled when others smiled and cried when others cried, didn’t discriminate, everything I did was a joy to others, and led an uncomplicated worry-free life.

I believed that everyone and everything was good and didn’t know malice.

I had a lot of restrictions though.  I was not allowed to walk out into the street.  My food, my dress, and everything that I used…. nothing was of my choice.  But I didn’t mind.

The world was such a nice place to live in.  But I didn’t know that I was destined to change… very shortly.   After all, I was a child.

When I grew and went to school, my sense of logic did weird things to me.  I loved some, hated some, smiled when others cried, thought what I liked was good and that I disliked was bad, that white is right and black is wrong, big is better and small is not… and what not.  I used to dream with eyes open, much to the dismay of my teachers.  Very soon my lessons said “all humans are brethren”, but the newspapers talked of an enemy.  I learnt to disbelieve what I read.

When I was more by myself, I started avoiding those that advised me and started hanging around those that encouraged my deeds.  I started thinking that I should be the lord of all that I survey.  I judged others but didn’t realise that others judged me too.  I thought others judge me by what I possess.  I thought it would be nice to have a bike or a car.  I tried to show in my world that I am popular.  I enjoyed visiting a vanity salon that charged me in hundreds but I bargained with the auto-rickshaw for five.

When I tasted financial independence, I behaved as if those that are less affluent are another species.  I liked to move with the affluent.  But I didn’t like it when the more affluent did it.  I enjoyed tipping the five-star bearer a 3-digit note, but didn’t think the beggar that tapped at my car’s window is worth a coin.

Along the way I had friends who died, met with accidents, went broke, fell terminally ill.  I choose to think that I am not prone.  Today, as a full blown adult, weared down by my own contradictions, I am led to think that most of what I learnt may need to be unlearned.

Why was I happier as a child?  I think I know, but I am conditioned not to acknowledge.

I agree with John Betjeman.  The hour of reason is dark…. pitch dark.

The Blind Harmonium Player

Some characters casually walk into our minds without our permission and refuse to move out.  Relatives apart, examples could include teachers, co-workers, friends, lost friends, those that we secretly admired or past relationships.  Strikingly, some may not be great personalities in the popular perspective, but have for some reason made an impact on us.  One such crossed my life early on… The Blind Harmonium Player.

As a child, I grew up observing characters, each different from the other, but this one stood out from the crowd.  He was blind and used to walk past our house every morning.    His wife used to accompany him.  She carried an earthen bowl, presumably to collect food if offered in alms.  He had hung on his neck  a small tin container.  That must have been for money if offered in alms.  He was in rags but clean.  Also hung on his neck was this magical instrument… the thing that stood him apart… and reserved his permanent seat in my memory… his harmonium.

His voice was magnetic… windy and slightly coarse.  He used to sing aloud, always devotional phrases.  My favourite was “Ram Ram Bhaja Re… O Ramaaaa … Shri Rama … Darshan do Shri Rama”.  He was blind and he was asking for darshan.  Perhaps not the vision of this world.  His deft fingers produced titillating music from the harmonium which along with his voice was such a pleasure to listen to.

He always walked in front, and she would place an arm on his shoulder and walk behind him.  I thought it should have been the other way.  The only why I could reason it out was that he had to play the instrument.  Or it may be that it didn't matter to them due to their perception of who was their guide.

They used to just walk our street every morning, not caring to stop at any household to seek alms.  No one in our street used to offer anything to them.  I neither saw anything in the earthen bowl she carried… nor heard his tin container make a noise of coin.  They simply walked past as a ritual.  But every day he would seek ‘darshan’ though.  I could not see a semblance of marital disharmony even in those times they were passing through.  Perhaps, they didn’t think the going was tough.

I think about it with awe even today.  With all the affluence people have today, relationships seem to lack even critical conviction and often objectives of partners are misaligned.

This daily ritual of walking streets went on for several months.  Until one day… when I heard him sing, but the tunes were not the same on his harmonium.  They were intermittent.  I jumped out of bed curiously to watch why.  He was alone that day, and was holding a broken cane on his right hand, tapping the ground before him for guidance.  He used his left hand to play the instrument.  The angst in his voice in pursuit of the ‘darshan’ was unchanged though.  I observed that day that he had considerably aged and was looking leaner and weaker.  And the tin container was missing in his neck.

In the days that came he came alone, and he grew dirtier.  In a couple of weeks, he stopped coming.  But his voice is still in the air when I think of him.  I hope he got his 'darshan'.  With the little means that he had he made an indelible mark.

Several questions remain till today.  Why did he not stop at households to seek alms?  How was that harmony possible between them?  How did they raise a living?  Being the nice ones they were, why were they not part of their own society?  His musical talent being brilliant, why could't he get the opportunity to be materially successful?

As always... I pretend not to know the answer, perhaps for fear of facing the truth.

Yes, You can fly !

There are these phrases that get us thinking.

I consider those best that get us till the very nature of human existence.

This one stayed with me for a while.

"Yes, you can fly!"

To fly, to the human, has probably been the deepest desire. To be able to fly as effortlessly as the eagle, surveying his habitat from a height, enjoying the cool weather up there and watching all of serene nature from a distance pleasing and comfortable to the eye.

To fly, is to the human, the ultimate challenge. Man has, for centuries watched with awe the flying objects, the kite, the paper airplane, the Frisbee, the boomerang, the birds…, for it is his constant complaint to his Maker for being partial towards those that are blessed with flight.

To be able to fly, is to the human, an idea of freedom… freedom from the shackles of his boring slow speed life, and the liberating entry into a world full of speed and charm, a free world where there are no physical boundaries, the dimensions of life are innumerable, the vision is that of a vast expanse, and free from the limitations of distance.

So this one, to me, was very refreshing, and reassuring that I am actually free. "Yes, you can fly!"

But the phrase went on. "Yes, you can fly! But the birds would lose their charm."

The statement was the ultimate betrayal. My dream was disparaged. Why should the birds lose their charm? If I fly ?

It took me a while to understand. Don't we often find that the things that we most crave for, when we get them, aren't as good as we expected? Don't we often land with dirty surprises with situations that we didn't visualize in our dreams?

The question is… Is it always about the other bank of the river looking green? In fact, it often is.

The many things that we yearned for… the bike, the car, the job, the destination… do we actually enjoy them for a fair length of time? Or do we get used to them pretty quickly?

May be… we need to be content with what we have, for there are troubles with all walks, and no path is free of hassles.