It was in the waiting room of the Hayes station that I met Shoma Mitra.
Shoma Mitra and her son, Mohul Biswas.
I was waiting for the train, disinterestedly staring at a rejected piece of advertisement of Dell laptops that was occupying my seat before I displaced it; and cursing a whole set of morning events that had lead me to miss the earlier train by a mere minute. To see the tail of a train disappear away into the wilderness of tracks, for me was a regular sign of abject failure to never manage on time. It was then that the door creaked open and a plump lady pushed in holding in her palm the hand of a three year old boy; both covered in an extravagance of coats and scarves. Guided by her son’s pull to one of the seats, she asked in a suitably appeasing tone, “Do you want to sit here...?” The boy looked indignantly at the seat and then very solemnly answered, “No, it is dirty.” “Then sit on this one”, guiding him to the next seat while carefully accommodating herself on the first seat. “Ki Shona, any problem. Jol khaabe? (Do you want to have water?)
Now that happens to be the universal lingo that any Bengali mother, anywhere in the world will continue addressing her child as, until she realises that he or she has grown up (and that she usually realises pretty late). “They’ve got to be Bengali”, I said to myself. And so while I made pretence to study the Dell advertisement even harder, my ears perked up like the antenna of an insect, straining to catch a few more words of Bengali between the two to confirm my suspicions. However it seemed that behind the Dell laptop leaflet, I was forced to accept defeat as a sudden whisper of the child in his mother’s ear made the two suddenly get up and proceed out of the door; presumably because of the boy’s demand to use the washroom.
With the announcement of the train being made roughly five minutes later, I walked out of the waiting room. I saw the two standing on the platform, heads strained in the direction of the yet-to-arrive train, with the mother still tightly clutching the hand of the child. A gush of audacity overtook me, and in a fit of recklessness, I suddenly walked straight up to the lady and asked in Bengali, “I am sorry; but are you by any chance a Bengali?”
It was then that I got a full view of Shoma’s face. She was not quite tall; infact I could recollect her irritating quality to allow herself to be dwarfed by most people. Her nose supported a pair of dark-rimmed spectacles, which looked fashionable but at the same time made her glasses look more conspicuous than her face. In reply to my question her face suddenly broke into a very warm smile, as if she had stumbled upon an old friend, and she exclaimed, “Yes! Are you a Bengali too.....?” A whistling train cut her short and all three of us boarded the same compartment, with the son having to be buoyed by both the mother and I from the platform into the train. Inside, before either of us could regain our composure she started speaking, “Oh it’s so nice to have found a Bengali here! What is your name? By the way, my name is Shoma Mitra. I am much elder to you, so you can call me Shoma Aunty. And this is my son.” Nudging him, she said, “Mohul baba, tell Dada your name. His name is Mohul. Mohul Biswas.” And before I could phantom the discrepancy of the surnames, she said lowering her voice, “Mohul’s father and I have separated. So I am a Mitra, and he is still Biswas.” She said it with a kind of theatrical nonchalance; as if they were lines that she had been used to repeating, and that she had them very well rehearsed.
I managed to give my name, number and allow myself to be judged by my surname, my father’s profession and my current occupation; things that every Bengali would discreetly enquire from any newly acquainted fellow Bengali.
“So, how long have you been staying here, Aunty?” I asked.
“From 1986, I think. Ya........1986.”
I was taken aback. I was used to seeing Bengalis and infact other Indians too, strut about like proud peacocks in London, as if using their arrogance and stoic reserve to advertise how well-settled they were in a much better life. And here in front of me was this lady who had come to England about the time I was born, and was conversing with me without any show, sophistication and infact with a potentially rustic simplicity. “Mohul likes Elish fish with rice. He just doesn’t eat anything else for dinner. So I need to keep going to Hounslow to buy fish.” she continued as I wondered, sitting opposite the two in the ongoing journey to Holborn in the tube train. “I first came around twenty years back from Kolkata”, she replied to my enquiry. “That was when an Indian firm offered me a position in their London office after my graduation. I wanted to do something different, and so I broke away and came here. I still remember how I had learned cooking on phone from my mother and sister receiving dictation in a flat in London. Then I got married, went to Kolkata. And now I have come back. My father is no more. My mother is in a flat in Kolkata, quite close to the airport as a matter of fact. We will be visiting her quite soon, aren’t we Mohul? Mohul shona, you want to see didu, don’t you?” she said, as if suddenly aware of letting herself ignore her son for too long.
“I am taking Mohul to see his father today. According to the court settlement, he gets to meet him once every fortnight.”
We stood framed at Holborn station’s eternally long escalator, while I fought the umpteenth invitation by Shoma to accompany them to lunch later in the day. In the station, I shook hands with her ex-husband. He seemed quite pleasant. I mean, that was just how much you could size up a person in one handshake. As I left them, they infact looked very much like a happy family with the child gambolling about between them. And so when I reached college, I absentmindedly asked a friend, “If you’ve broken up with somebody, can you possibly not be bitter to him? Can you honestly make a good friend out of him?”
Shoma Aunty called the next day and I dutifully handed over the phone to my mother. I could sense a feeling of caution from my mother’s side as she chatted on the phone with her; like me even my mother seemed to have been taken aback with the huge superfluity of speech. She reciprocated back by inviting Shoma Aunty and her son for dinner. After keeping the phone down, she did what I had always seen her do after knowing that guests would be coming over-- consult my father on what dishes she should be preparing.
Shoma rung the bell and seeing her once again in the dark British evening with a fluffy coat, talkative smile and clutching Mohul who was covered from head to toe like an astronaut; I was reminded of how she was permanently smiling ever since I had met her. After handing over a bottle of wine and box of chocolates to my mother, she gave an unprecedented big hug to my mother; who for the second time in the day was caught wondering how to react to this sudden gush of intimacy. As Shoma accommodated herself on the sofa, while Mohul started laying down his arsenal of cars and fire engines on the floor, I realised that she was once again in her talkative usual. While my mother was in the kitchen getting the tea, she continued chatting inconsolably with my father. “Dada, Mohul ato dushtu hoyeche. Badi te aei sofa theke arakta sofa jump korte thaake. Nijeke Spiderman bole!” (Mohul is so naughty, at home he keeps jumping from one sofa to another. Calls himself Spiderman!) As I listened to her talk, I realised that from the very beginning, her talk would closely gravitate around to Mohul who unaware, was absentmindedly pushing his cars and trucks with intense seriousness.
Leaning on the wall, absent from Shoma’s attention; I heard her tale. The tale of a bright girl coming to London, making her own small fortune out of her job, getting a house for herself and ultimately even a British passport. Then meeting someone, going to Kolkata with him to marry. In the temptation of a settled life she lets go of all that she had accumulated over so many years-her job, house and money. Within a few years after marriage, her sister-in-law expires of cancer. Mother-in-law convinces herself that her daughter-in-law was responsible for this calamity. Harsh words exchanged, her parents regularly insulted in conversations, physical and mental abuse; and within all this- birth of her child. Which does not mend matters. Instead it becomes a liability, as if a curtailment on her bargaining power. Husband stays aloof. Would often come home drunk. Shoma decides that she does not want her son to be growing up in this abusive-being abused environment. Cuts her losses, gets a divorce. Her decision makes her the topic of endless discussion, ridicule and offensive curiosity amidst relatives in Kolkata. Finally, she could bear no longer the shame and stigma of being a single mother in India. Immigrates back once again to England, this time with a child in tow. Seeking the support from a foreign country that her own country denied her. Back to square one. And with less than what she had, when she had first come in 1986.
“He’s now married, you know.” she continued. “He contacted me again when he too immigrated with his wife to London. For Mohul’s sake, I have kept good terms with him. Mohul still knows that father goes to work very far off and hence can meet us only once in a fortnight. I do it for him. I am now trying to get work in the council or school. But I try not to brood over what has happened. I try to be happy, to be smiling, to make Mohul feel good. One day when he grows up, I want him to learn Science. I am deeply interested in religion, you know. I would like to sit in a rocking chair then and debate with him for hours whether Religion supports or contradicts Science..........”
Shoma Mitra, with her talkativeness and her eternal smile, remained our acquaintance for quite some time. As promised she came once from her new home in Greenford with a car to take us there, telling my father, “Dada, I told you I would come personally to take you for dinner to my house in a Mercedes car! Unfortunately I couldn’t manage a Mercedes this time. But I am sure Mohul will buy me one when he grows up!”
Then like leaves on an autumn tree she withered away from being an occasional visitor to a historical archive entry in the telephone book.
I was staring at the harsh light of the projector that flashed onto the white screen displaying a set of horrendous looking equations that was sending my professor into raptures. He pranced on the stage, excitedly drawing figures, scribbling expressions and talking animatedly, while I looked on clueless. I could not understand a word he was saying. Instead I felt like sobbing. Sobbing since for the first time in a long time, I was feeling so lost. The lectures seemed to progressively make lesser and lesser sense to me. I didn’t have any prospective job, a couple of interviews that did happen, all turned out into mare’s nests. My PhD applications seemed to have drifted into a state of lethargy, while people around me were getting lucrative calls. Back home, I had already appalled my parents with my mock exam marks. Hearing their regular nagging mired with expectation that I do better, seemed to make it a messy piece of dialogue. I had a tumultuous break-up with my girlfriend, and I wasn’t quite sure whether I was relieved or sad about it. Life had turned into one big, free fall. The more I tried to rein it in, the more it slipped out of my hands, like restless sand through a closed fist. Nothing was right. Everything was horribly wrong.
Thinking so on my way back from college, I got off the train at the Hayes station, and for no particular reason my attention fell on the quiet waiting room on the opposite side of the platform. It was there, two years back that I had met Shoma Mitra. And her son, Mohul Biswas. And that chubby smile that would hover on the face as if somebody was constantly tugging her cheeks up.
And it was then that it suddenly struck me, that she could so effortlessly smile inspite of her entire life been thrown in doldrums, while here I was, with a much safer and perfect life, with a protective family, friends, house and money; but still feeling depressed and low. While she happily remained with a ray of light in her world of darkness, I was surrounded by light, but yet chose to dwell in the shadows. I had seen her smile so many times, but tragically I could never understand the price of that smile.
And at that very moment of realisation, Shoma Mitra robbed me.
Robbed from me my authority to frown and bemoan at my life. Robbed from me the right to dismiss her smile as simply a product of facial contortion of muscles. Robbed from me my utter disrespect for the so many better things in my life which were denied in hers.
And all this because of the one fine, bright day when I had ventured to ask her “I am sorry; but are you by any chance a Bengali?”
Tuesday 17 February 2009
Sunday 8 February 2009
Dogs don't have to come from Slums
Slumdog Millionaire paints India in poor light. That’s why Indians are still not sure of their feelings for the film. If it wins the Oscars should they rejoice that an ‘Indian’ film has made it to the academy awards? Or should they be ashamed of how a Mumbai slum is appalling enough to appeal to the global audience.
In my opinion, there is really not too much of reason for Indians to be ashamed of. We are infact great people of a great nation. And how do I know that? Simply by stepping into London’s National Rail carriage 8:30 in the morning.
People in India may not appreciate this, so I must tell you a bit about British trains. Normally trains run on diesel or electricity. But British trains run on diesel+electricity+old-fashioned politeness! It’s a gentleman’s carriage with gentlemen sitting, who expect every not so gentlemanly person to behave as gently as possible. People sit quietly on the seats-one person per seat, and read books! Hardly as in Mumbai where people will argue eloquently if a seat for three is not being utilised to accommodate four butts. Even when people have to stand in these trains, there is an aristocratic discipline with which they carry themselves. I have spent hours in Indian trains where I have had to tolerate a shoe trampling my foot or a pugnacious armpit hovering around my nose, or trying to not feel envious of the luggage who is frankly more cosily accommodated than me. Out here, its paradise. No sweat. No shove. No loud talking. Only polite whispering. Gracious smiles. Good perfume.
So why should we be proud of our trains, or of ourselves?
Now this is the depiction of an English train when there had been a train at the station two minutes before and a train after it will glide into the station, two minutes later. What happens when this impeccable infrastructure breaks down and suddenly you find no train for half an hour thanks to excess snow; and the platform looks just as populated as a busy Indian platform on a general day.
SLUMDOG HAVOC!
All of a sudden people find themselves quite in the cross-fire between 18th century courtesy and the 21st century practicality of trying to get to work on time. The train slowly and ominously entered my platform today, and it was jam-packed. Lots of people on the train and lots of people on the platform and one humungous cocktail of humanity ensuing when the train stops; that's life as usual for a Mumbai commuter, but life out of the blue for the British gentleman!
Now in Mumbai, before a platform comes, the people in the train who are bound for the next stop collude and the entire gangway reshuffles to get divided in two rough halves, the ones to get off, crowding around the door. In London, people do not rely on this kind of team effort. Here people stay where they are, and after the train has stopped politely ask to be excused! So the train halts. The doors open. And the scene freezes. Then you hear a cacophony of ‘excuse me’s’ and ‘I have to get off’ being heard from inside the train. About roughly two minutes later, the inmates force themselves out as if escaping from a burning apartment.
But that’s just the beginning. The real fun is when you try to get in.
In Mumbai trains, there is a kind of universal understanding that regardless of how crowded the train is; as long as there is a willing person on the platform, there will be a few square centimetres of place reserved for him in the train. That kind of universality evidently does not appeal to the Brits. So after a handful lucky have got in and a third lady trying to elbow her way in…….the system of politeness and courtesy goes for a toss!
“Can’t you understand, the train is too crowded”, sermonised a girl comfortably inside, to a resolute lady who was trying to desperately accommodate her bulky bag and body inside the train at one go. “F***k off, Why don’t you get off the train then.”, came the reply. “What, how dare you....YOU f***k off, who the f*****g hell do you think you are!” came the counter attack!
Frankly I was disgusted. While Indians try to find a solution by shoving in, ‘pole dancing’ on the train, occupying every inch of available space; all these ‘foreigners’ do is to abuse through their nostrils! As if the entire problem of space and time allocation would be solved by a heated exchange of f***k’s. Which made me think, that given the size of our population, we do pretty well. Under pressure, we are a fantastic organised force. We can do a much better job of getting into trains, getting out of trains, accommodating people into trains; and similarly efficient in other situations; that these Westerners with all their refinement and seemingly gentlemanly superiority are helpless like babies! All those who sneered at India; its poverty and apathy in the film of Slumdog Millionaire should reconsider - if their country was in a similar situation-demographically, economically, socially- they would have behaved like irresponsible brats.
Half an hour on the train, listening to the f***ks, excuse me’s, stop pushing you b*****, can’t you see, there is no place,EXCUSE ME PLEASE, ’ I suddenly realised a very important thing.
Something that I had involuntarily forgotten while watching Slumdog Millionaire.
That it's a matter of pride to be an Indian!
In my opinion, there is really not too much of reason for Indians to be ashamed of. We are infact great people of a great nation. And how do I know that? Simply by stepping into London’s National Rail carriage 8:30 in the morning.
People in India may not appreciate this, so I must tell you a bit about British trains. Normally trains run on diesel or electricity. But British trains run on diesel+electricity+old-fashioned politeness! It’s a gentleman’s carriage with gentlemen sitting, who expect every not so gentlemanly person to behave as gently as possible. People sit quietly on the seats-one person per seat, and read books! Hardly as in Mumbai where people will argue eloquently if a seat for three is not being utilised to accommodate four butts. Even when people have to stand in these trains, there is an aristocratic discipline with which they carry themselves. I have spent hours in Indian trains where I have had to tolerate a shoe trampling my foot or a pugnacious armpit hovering around my nose, or trying to not feel envious of the luggage who is frankly more cosily accommodated than me. Out here, its paradise. No sweat. No shove. No loud talking. Only polite whispering. Gracious smiles. Good perfume.
So why should we be proud of our trains, or of ourselves?
Now this is the depiction of an English train when there had been a train at the station two minutes before and a train after it will glide into the station, two minutes later. What happens when this impeccable infrastructure breaks down and suddenly you find no train for half an hour thanks to excess snow; and the platform looks just as populated as a busy Indian platform on a general day.
SLUMDOG HAVOC!
All of a sudden people find themselves quite in the cross-fire between 18th century courtesy and the 21st century practicality of trying to get to work on time. The train slowly and ominously entered my platform today, and it was jam-packed. Lots of people on the train and lots of people on the platform and one humungous cocktail of humanity ensuing when the train stops; that's life as usual for a Mumbai commuter, but life out of the blue for the British gentleman!
Now in Mumbai, before a platform comes, the people in the train who are bound for the next stop collude and the entire gangway reshuffles to get divided in two rough halves, the ones to get off, crowding around the door. In London, people do not rely on this kind of team effort. Here people stay where they are, and after the train has stopped politely ask to be excused! So the train halts. The doors open. And the scene freezes. Then you hear a cacophony of ‘excuse me’s’ and ‘I have to get off’ being heard from inside the train. About roughly two minutes later, the inmates force themselves out as if escaping from a burning apartment.
But that’s just the beginning. The real fun is when you try to get in.
In Mumbai trains, there is a kind of universal understanding that regardless of how crowded the train is; as long as there is a willing person on the platform, there will be a few square centimetres of place reserved for him in the train. That kind of universality evidently does not appeal to the Brits. So after a handful lucky have got in and a third lady trying to elbow her way in…….the system of politeness and courtesy goes for a toss!
“Can’t you understand, the train is too crowded”, sermonised a girl comfortably inside, to a resolute lady who was trying to desperately accommodate her bulky bag and body inside the train at one go. “F***k off, Why don’t you get off the train then.”, came the reply. “What, how dare you....YOU f***k off, who the f*****g hell do you think you are!” came the counter attack!
Frankly I was disgusted. While Indians try to find a solution by shoving in, ‘pole dancing’ on the train, occupying every inch of available space; all these ‘foreigners’ do is to abuse through their nostrils! As if the entire problem of space and time allocation would be solved by a heated exchange of f***k’s. Which made me think, that given the size of our population, we do pretty well. Under pressure, we are a fantastic organised force. We can do a much better job of getting into trains, getting out of trains, accommodating people into trains; and similarly efficient in other situations; that these Westerners with all their refinement and seemingly gentlemanly superiority are helpless like babies! All those who sneered at India; its poverty and apathy in the film of Slumdog Millionaire should reconsider - if their country was in a similar situation-demographically, economically, socially- they would have behaved like irresponsible brats.
Half an hour on the train, listening to the f***ks, excuse me’s, stop pushing you b*****, can’t you see, there is no place,EXCUSE ME PLEASE, ’ I suddenly realised a very important thing.
Something that I had involuntarily forgotten while watching Slumdog Millionaire.
That it's a matter of pride to be an Indian!
Why Romeo and Juliet should have learnt Chess
It's rather intriguing-we are all in here to do business.
Each one of us are solving this eternally long debit and credit problem where at the end of every period, we look back and check if the debit column and credit column match. If there is a mismatch we try to console ourselves telling that surely credit will catch up with the debit and finally for every penny spent, for every moment utilised, for every contact made and for every hand shaken- there will be a pot of gold that is waiting to be realised sometime later.
Consider this. I am talking on the phone with somebody. That somebody is doing something utterly noisy in the kitchen. The conversation is going on great. Suddenly the noise subsides, and it does not take a Sherlock Holmes to deduce that the kitchen session is now officially over. After a few seconds, you realise something odd. You realise that the somebody has grown reticent. Withdrawn. And you feel on the telephone the same kind of unease that might grip you if you would have unknowingly swallowed something poisonous. The sense of something not being right. And all of a sudden, there are a few strategic things said; a few deft techniques, some pauses, some implied sighs, jabs and within the next couple of minutes, nothing remains of that very interesting call. Hardly surprising. Presumably when you have food sitting in front of you, it would be some sort of a talent contest in self-restraint to mind the call instead of not hogging the food!
So we are all master accountants. Holding onto a call only till we feel it mutually comfortable to do so. Doing a favour thinking of the favour in return. Talking sweetly with someone because it would be sour otherwise. Making an effort because its worth the effort. Meeting someone because we WANT to meet that someone. All for a reason. Give and Take. Nobody's time and company is for charity.
And a ‘best’ friend is simply one who can do all these without making it seem like a business proposition.
And that’s why I am eternally sceptic of this funny thing called love. It’s a high stake game of Debit and Credit. A Casino Royale of all gambling contests. Two people in a fierce war of maximising returns. There can be two equilibria in this game.
Either both are equally selfish and they are in the relationship because they realise that its a fantastic business proposal. So very naturally in this case the relationship falls apart the moment either one finds his or her interests compromised.
Or there is the other extreme when both are selfless, and are ready to stick on regardless of payoffs. That’s rare. The last I saw of it was in Shakespeare’s plays!
But very often there is a third case. Where one is selfless while the other one still at the calculator maximising payoffs. Where one person feels that love is this fantastic moon-light radiated bliss of mind while the other person considers it a household gadget that you should handle carefully once the warranty period is over and throw to the dustbin once it’s stopped working.
And that’s when you have a ‘heart’ attack which no amount of 999 dialing can avert.
So that's why before you fall in love; learn how to play chess. That’s most of what we do in the world; play chess. The good players win. The bad players lose.
The challenge is not in finding the soul-mate.
Its all about avoiding the check-mate!
Each one of us are solving this eternally long debit and credit problem where at the end of every period, we look back and check if the debit column and credit column match. If there is a mismatch we try to console ourselves telling that surely credit will catch up with the debit and finally for every penny spent, for every moment utilised, for every contact made and for every hand shaken- there will be a pot of gold that is waiting to be realised sometime later.
Consider this. I am talking on the phone with somebody. That somebody is doing something utterly noisy in the kitchen. The conversation is going on great. Suddenly the noise subsides, and it does not take a Sherlock Holmes to deduce that the kitchen session is now officially over. After a few seconds, you realise something odd. You realise that the somebody has grown reticent. Withdrawn. And you feel on the telephone the same kind of unease that might grip you if you would have unknowingly swallowed something poisonous. The sense of something not being right. And all of a sudden, there are a few strategic things said; a few deft techniques, some pauses, some implied sighs, jabs and within the next couple of minutes, nothing remains of that very interesting call. Hardly surprising. Presumably when you have food sitting in front of you, it would be some sort of a talent contest in self-restraint to mind the call instead of not hogging the food!
So we are all master accountants. Holding onto a call only till we feel it mutually comfortable to do so. Doing a favour thinking of the favour in return. Talking sweetly with someone because it would be sour otherwise. Making an effort because its worth the effort. Meeting someone because we WANT to meet that someone. All for a reason. Give and Take. Nobody's time and company is for charity.
And a ‘best’ friend is simply one who can do all these without making it seem like a business proposition.
And that’s why I am eternally sceptic of this funny thing called love. It’s a high stake game of Debit and Credit. A Casino Royale of all gambling contests. Two people in a fierce war of maximising returns. There can be two equilibria in this game.
Either both are equally selfish and they are in the relationship because they realise that its a fantastic business proposal. So very naturally in this case the relationship falls apart the moment either one finds his or her interests compromised.
Or there is the other extreme when both are selfless, and are ready to stick on regardless of payoffs. That’s rare. The last I saw of it was in Shakespeare’s plays!
But very often there is a third case. Where one is selfless while the other one still at the calculator maximising payoffs. Where one person feels that love is this fantastic moon-light radiated bliss of mind while the other person considers it a household gadget that you should handle carefully once the warranty period is over and throw to the dustbin once it’s stopped working.
And that’s when you have a ‘heart’ attack which no amount of 999 dialing can avert.
So that's why before you fall in love; learn how to play chess. That’s most of what we do in the world; play chess. The good players win. The bad players lose.
The challenge is not in finding the soul-mate.
Its all about avoiding the check-mate!
What Recedes the most in a Recession
A friend of mine got a job today.
I think he deserves the standing ovation of an entire paragraph made out of the sentence announcing his success.
I was with him when it happened. A magic phone-call vibrated his cell phone and he involuntarily gasped out that it was THE call that he was waiting for. With that gasp; all of a sudden the notes, books, lecture timetables, study packs and an unzipped bag that he was juggling with, fast receded into an oblivious speck and the whole world collapsed to manifest itself into the mockingly bright screen of his cell phone. We were a group of four lounging about at the LSE’s entrance, and with my friend moving away to a quieter place to accept the call; our attention followed him like a dog following its master. While not fully culling our small talk, it was evident that we had all lost interest in what we were talking. Instead we were trying hard to scrutinise his face the way people in India stare mesmerised at television screens moments before a cricket match climaxes. And the moment his face betrayed the first signs of relief we knew that it had happened. The face contorted with joy-pure, unadulterated, and mad; was a face not many were destined to have in this milieu. It was a moment that we knew any person would savour. In this dark, decaying and hopeless world of jobs, my friend had crossed the treacherous bridge to the brilliantly lit world beyond. And we all thought that the least it called for was a firm, congratulatory shake of the hand.
My friend however accepted our profuse handshakes looking bemused, overwhelmed and not aware or caring for whose hand he was limply shaking. His face looked dazed as if suddenly having viewed life for a few seconds in full throttle and now unable to forget the images impressed upon him. But he seemed natural enough. After all, getting a call after chocking yourself with a tie for the umpteenth interview, case study, group work and networking huddles; the Olympics of getting a job can easily put any other hurdle race or decathlon to shame.
But if anyone seemed unnatural, I think it were us; the people who were congratulating him. We were behaving as if somebody had been invited to a grand feast in a country that has been struck by famine. Had my friend behaved the way footballers behave after scoring a goal, and ran around LSE shouting, “GOAL, I’ve got a job!”, I am pretty certain everybody on campus would have also reciprocated by behaving like the crazed spectators of the football match. I go back home and over a cup of tea, tell my parents the news. They immediately become suitably impressed. All of a sudden my friend gets elevated to a different pedestal in the eyes of my family. And typical of Indian parents, who never allow themselves to be impressed by their own children; they said with pursed lips, “See, he got himself a great job. You..................”
Me and many others, Dad...............attend classes; and have by now collected enough material to publish an assorted collection of jokes that professors have cracked and will crack regarding the recession. So as one of my professor explains the nuances of an interest rate model, he adds at the end, “So this is the way people at Investment Banks forecast interest rates. (Pause) (Cough) (Laugh) Of course assuming that any more are left by the time you pass out!” (again laugh)
Indeed behind the doors of an university and shielded by a busy timetable, the current crisis can be talked of humorously, airily and can be examined as a case of great academic interest. Economists are after all known to treat crises with as much delight as palaeontologists get tickled by the skeletal remains of dinosaurs. But it’s a grim reality that we need to face once we are out. And the way we were congratulating my friend today- feeling great for him, but at the same time wondering if we would be lucky enough; it concealed a deep-rooted fear and apprehension brewing in us.
And then it struck me that if this is how insecure we were feeling; imagine the state of the hundreds of people who have been thrown off their office chairs and have as a part of their (in)voluntary retirement scheme, only the cardboard box for carrying their personal belongings. While for us students, it’s like a game having winners, losers and lucky people; for them at the sunset of their careers, it’s like being banished to hell. To hear a new person being hired, reminded us of how unemployed we were; but would remind him of how he was fired. At home, with a family, lifestyle, status and plan for posterity; it’s like heartlessly smudging out somebody’s life long work. I am sure he would have not been the most enthusiastic of hand-shakers had he too been standing at the entrance of LSE, and hearing of my friend’s appointment.
Thus what I find most alarming in this recession is infact this recession of morale. A recession that makes us behave as if we are people fighting for survival in a refugee generating nation with no hope or expectation from the future. A recession that makes us victim of envy even when we badly don’t want to and genuinely want to feel happy for the person.
In short, a recession that dangerously enough has the potential of receding our mind.
I think he deserves the standing ovation of an entire paragraph made out of the sentence announcing his success.
I was with him when it happened. A magic phone-call vibrated his cell phone and he involuntarily gasped out that it was THE call that he was waiting for. With that gasp; all of a sudden the notes, books, lecture timetables, study packs and an unzipped bag that he was juggling with, fast receded into an oblivious speck and the whole world collapsed to manifest itself into the mockingly bright screen of his cell phone. We were a group of four lounging about at the LSE’s entrance, and with my friend moving away to a quieter place to accept the call; our attention followed him like a dog following its master. While not fully culling our small talk, it was evident that we had all lost interest in what we were talking. Instead we were trying hard to scrutinise his face the way people in India stare mesmerised at television screens moments before a cricket match climaxes. And the moment his face betrayed the first signs of relief we knew that it had happened. The face contorted with joy-pure, unadulterated, and mad; was a face not many were destined to have in this milieu. It was a moment that we knew any person would savour. In this dark, decaying and hopeless world of jobs, my friend had crossed the treacherous bridge to the brilliantly lit world beyond. And we all thought that the least it called for was a firm, congratulatory shake of the hand.
My friend however accepted our profuse handshakes looking bemused, overwhelmed and not aware or caring for whose hand he was limply shaking. His face looked dazed as if suddenly having viewed life for a few seconds in full throttle and now unable to forget the images impressed upon him. But he seemed natural enough. After all, getting a call after chocking yourself with a tie for the umpteenth interview, case study, group work and networking huddles; the Olympics of getting a job can easily put any other hurdle race or decathlon to shame.
But if anyone seemed unnatural, I think it were us; the people who were congratulating him. We were behaving as if somebody had been invited to a grand feast in a country that has been struck by famine. Had my friend behaved the way footballers behave after scoring a goal, and ran around LSE shouting, “GOAL, I’ve got a job!”, I am pretty certain everybody on campus would have also reciprocated by behaving like the crazed spectators of the football match. I go back home and over a cup of tea, tell my parents the news. They immediately become suitably impressed. All of a sudden my friend gets elevated to a different pedestal in the eyes of my family. And typical of Indian parents, who never allow themselves to be impressed by their own children; they said with pursed lips, “See, he got himself a great job. You..................”
Me and many others, Dad...............attend classes; and have by now collected enough material to publish an assorted collection of jokes that professors have cracked and will crack regarding the recession. So as one of my professor explains the nuances of an interest rate model, he adds at the end, “So this is the way people at Investment Banks forecast interest rates. (Pause) (Cough) (Laugh) Of course assuming that any more are left by the time you pass out!” (again laugh)
Indeed behind the doors of an university and shielded by a busy timetable, the current crisis can be talked of humorously, airily and can be examined as a case of great academic interest. Economists are after all known to treat crises with as much delight as palaeontologists get tickled by the skeletal remains of dinosaurs. But it’s a grim reality that we need to face once we are out. And the way we were congratulating my friend today- feeling great for him, but at the same time wondering if we would be lucky enough; it concealed a deep-rooted fear and apprehension brewing in us.
And then it struck me that if this is how insecure we were feeling; imagine the state of the hundreds of people who have been thrown off their office chairs and have as a part of their (in)voluntary retirement scheme, only the cardboard box for carrying their personal belongings. While for us students, it’s like a game having winners, losers and lucky people; for them at the sunset of their careers, it’s like being banished to hell. To hear a new person being hired, reminded us of how unemployed we were; but would remind him of how he was fired. At home, with a family, lifestyle, status and plan for posterity; it’s like heartlessly smudging out somebody’s life long work. I am sure he would have not been the most enthusiastic of hand-shakers had he too been standing at the entrance of LSE, and hearing of my friend’s appointment.
Thus what I find most alarming in this recession is infact this recession of morale. A recession that makes us behave as if we are people fighting for survival in a refugee generating nation with no hope or expectation from the future. A recession that makes us victim of envy even when we badly don’t want to and genuinely want to feel happy for the person.
In short, a recession that dangerously enough has the potential of receding our mind.
The Arrangement of Love
There was a Sound of Music song that went, “I am sixteen, going on seventeen.......” and to cut the song short, the rest was about how excited the teenage daughter of the strict Captain Bontrap was to fall in love, or atleast be expected to fall in love.
I am twenty two, going on twenty three............... and only the latter option is valid for me. I am expected to be in love. So when I am talking interestedly with a person of the opposite gender, I am pretty used to some of my friends come delightfully to the conclusion that there is something brewing. And the next time they see both of us together, and for reasons far from romance; they behave like the paparazzi. When I am in a large group of incorrigibly talkative Bengali relatives in Kolkata who have just demolished a mountain of rice (and with it at least three varieties of fish), the word ‘marriage’ has to inevitably be mentioned when I am around. And if they see me irritated, that means that it must be discussed at length in my earshot.
In both the cases, I embarrassedly try to find an exit route out. I have never experienced love. Oh yes I have-it was in that latest Sharukh movie. Let me see, it took him about half an hour to serenade the lady off her feet, and another fifteen minutes to get married. Within the next two and a half hours, it went on about the various problems that can arise after or before you say ‘I do’. When you finally leave the cinema theatre you feel as if somebody has stuffed into your mouth love packaged in a Paracetamol capsule. Of course though I haven’t experienced love, I have seen love. I am sitting in the tube train having nothing to do, a gentleman and lady sitting opposite me, everything is going on fine; when suddenly the two decide to fiercely lunge for each other’s lips. In a tube train, there are not many places to really divert your attention to, and so you need to be uncomfortably aware of two lips and two pairs of hands who have suddenly geared into momentum and refusing to stop.
Which brings me to a very important question, that I suppose most of those who like me haven’t fallen in love must be wondering-Do you require love to marry? How on earth do arranged marriages survive? How is it that you manage to live your entire life with a person whom you don’t love, actually don’t even know very well?
Now I am going to talk about something else. Don’t worry, at the end you will realise why.
My parents decided to gift me a watch for my birthday. But again, there was no element of surprise- since watches are a sensitive affair-its beauty very often lies in the eyes of its wearer, and so you better don't end up buying a watch without consulting the person concerned. And so for the past one week, we went shopping- in malls, in catalogues, on the web. Ultimately we zeroed down on a watch, which was elegant. I have a fetish for archaic looking watches- having an old-fashioned golden case, and with a chronograph that points to the date, month, and year all shown in delightfully small dials inside. A few notches below in the shelf, was a watch of my parent’s choice, of the same company, but looking jazzy, full of steel, with a racy streak to it. There was nothing remotely old-fashioned about it. I couldn’t exactly phantom which watch would look better on my wrist.
For some reason, I finally ended up buying the jazzy watch, though to be honest; I was not really fond of it.
So the watch remained displayed now no longer on the glittering show case of the shop, but on the lesser effulgent settings of my side-table. At first I was angry with myself to allow myself to be influenced by my parents’ choice, and so I refused to look at the watch. As if the watch and I had an ego clash the moment we met. Later, I took off the packing cover and had a good look at it. Minus the confusion of glowing lights, rival watches, and talkative salespersons; this watch didn’t look all that bad now. Yes it was a bit too racy, but come to think of it, it had a rugged but impeccable charm about it.
I replaced back the cover, and again left it. With the strap too long to fit my wrist, I couldn’t wear it immediately. But then by virtue of the fact that I knew that I would be spending at least a decade, if not two with this watch; I decided to look at it again. “The red dial inside does look cool”, I told myself. “The watch looks okay. I mean this is better than a poodle-like golden watch”, I said to myself.
Days went by and I realised that I was becoming more and more attached to the watch that lay serenely on the packing case. I had to look at it whenever I went to my room; and at times I went to my room to just look at the watch. Then came a Saturday, when I had the opportunity to go to a local shop and have the strap cut to fit my wrist. And once I wore that watch on my wrist- she looked absolutely stunning!
Now I can’t imagine life without that watch. I adore it. It looks great. I wouldn’t swap it for any other drool looking old-fashioned watch in the world. I am glad I took it. On my wrist we look like a team.
Which set me thinking that perhaps that’s how arranged marriages work. After all there are so many things that we didn’t arrange. We didn’t arrange our parents. We did not have a menu sheet where we ticked on what we want from them, and what we don’t want them to be. But with all their imperfections, we love them. We did not arrange for the house we would be born in; whether it would be a slum or apartment or palace. But the moot point remains that we call that place our home-and we are attached to it.
Arranged marriages I guess, work on the same universal logic. Where you learn to share your life with the other. Where you accept the other’s existence as a part of your own. Where you tell yourself firmly that, now that the other is there; there can be no another.
And then you have the marriages that are truly made and exist in heaven.
Isn’t it?
My watch winks back in approval!
I am twenty two, going on twenty three............... and only the latter option is valid for me. I am expected to be in love. So when I am talking interestedly with a person of the opposite gender, I am pretty used to some of my friends come delightfully to the conclusion that there is something brewing. And the next time they see both of us together, and for reasons far from romance; they behave like the paparazzi. When I am in a large group of incorrigibly talkative Bengali relatives in Kolkata who have just demolished a mountain of rice (and with it at least three varieties of fish), the word ‘marriage’ has to inevitably be mentioned when I am around. And if they see me irritated, that means that it must be discussed at length in my earshot.
In both the cases, I embarrassedly try to find an exit route out. I have never experienced love. Oh yes I have-it was in that latest Sharukh movie. Let me see, it took him about half an hour to serenade the lady off her feet, and another fifteen minutes to get married. Within the next two and a half hours, it went on about the various problems that can arise after or before you say ‘I do’. When you finally leave the cinema theatre you feel as if somebody has stuffed into your mouth love packaged in a Paracetamol capsule. Of course though I haven’t experienced love, I have seen love. I am sitting in the tube train having nothing to do, a gentleman and lady sitting opposite me, everything is going on fine; when suddenly the two decide to fiercely lunge for each other’s lips. In a tube train, there are not many places to really divert your attention to, and so you need to be uncomfortably aware of two lips and two pairs of hands who have suddenly geared into momentum and refusing to stop.
Which brings me to a very important question, that I suppose most of those who like me haven’t fallen in love must be wondering-Do you require love to marry? How on earth do arranged marriages survive? How is it that you manage to live your entire life with a person whom you don’t love, actually don’t even know very well?
Now I am going to talk about something else. Don’t worry, at the end you will realise why.
My parents decided to gift me a watch for my birthday. But again, there was no element of surprise- since watches are a sensitive affair-its beauty very often lies in the eyes of its wearer, and so you better don't end up buying a watch without consulting the person concerned. And so for the past one week, we went shopping- in malls, in catalogues, on the web. Ultimately we zeroed down on a watch, which was elegant. I have a fetish for archaic looking watches- having an old-fashioned golden case, and with a chronograph that points to the date, month, and year all shown in delightfully small dials inside. A few notches below in the shelf, was a watch of my parent’s choice, of the same company, but looking jazzy, full of steel, with a racy streak to it. There was nothing remotely old-fashioned about it. I couldn’t exactly phantom which watch would look better on my wrist.
For some reason, I finally ended up buying the jazzy watch, though to be honest; I was not really fond of it.
So the watch remained displayed now no longer on the glittering show case of the shop, but on the lesser effulgent settings of my side-table. At first I was angry with myself to allow myself to be influenced by my parents’ choice, and so I refused to look at the watch. As if the watch and I had an ego clash the moment we met. Later, I took off the packing cover and had a good look at it. Minus the confusion of glowing lights, rival watches, and talkative salespersons; this watch didn’t look all that bad now. Yes it was a bit too racy, but come to think of it, it had a rugged but impeccable charm about it.
I replaced back the cover, and again left it. With the strap too long to fit my wrist, I couldn’t wear it immediately. But then by virtue of the fact that I knew that I would be spending at least a decade, if not two with this watch; I decided to look at it again. “The red dial inside does look cool”, I told myself. “The watch looks okay. I mean this is better than a poodle-like golden watch”, I said to myself.
Days went by and I realised that I was becoming more and more attached to the watch that lay serenely on the packing case. I had to look at it whenever I went to my room; and at times I went to my room to just look at the watch. Then came a Saturday, when I had the opportunity to go to a local shop and have the strap cut to fit my wrist. And once I wore that watch on my wrist- she looked absolutely stunning!
Now I can’t imagine life without that watch. I adore it. It looks great. I wouldn’t swap it for any other drool looking old-fashioned watch in the world. I am glad I took it. On my wrist we look like a team.
Which set me thinking that perhaps that’s how arranged marriages work. After all there are so many things that we didn’t arrange. We didn’t arrange our parents. We did not have a menu sheet where we ticked on what we want from them, and what we don’t want them to be. But with all their imperfections, we love them. We did not arrange for the house we would be born in; whether it would be a slum or apartment or palace. But the moot point remains that we call that place our home-and we are attached to it.
Arranged marriages I guess, work on the same universal logic. Where you learn to share your life with the other. Where you accept the other’s existence as a part of your own. Where you tell yourself firmly that, now that the other is there; there can be no another.
And then you have the marriages that are truly made and exist in heaven.
Isn’t it?
My watch winks back in approval!
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