Fragile (Micro Fiction)

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An intermittent hiss was all that was left of the horrifying trade tragedy. Tortured metal and dying embers lay scattered around the stunned space that once held a thriving medical drug assembly line. Nobody had seen it coming.

Not only did the labor torch their own factory and facilities, some of the senior staff were manhandled by the workers of the Fortune 500 pharmaceutical company. One senior manager and several supervisors had gone up in flames with their offices, charred beyond recognition. Some rioters had been taken into judicial custody even as the Trade Minister mouthed platitudes about continued faith in the country’s ability to protect investments.

In all the hullabaloo of the aftermath, an open letter had surfaced. It was addressed to the General Manager, Human Resources.

Dear Sir Ji,

I hear there is a search warrant in my name but I will be on the train to somewhere as you read this.

It is presumptuous of me to write this note. You are a global businessman while I am only an old faithful wanting to make one last good gesture to the company that made me who I am.

For some time now, I had been trying to reach you about the change in the air around us. It was not just the lock down after eighteen hours of work that exhausted me. It was the looks of accusation from my subordinates that bothered me more. I had begun to avoid the sales staff, fearing the resentment in their eyes at overwork, bad pay, verbal slurs and sycophancy. I had come to feel unsafe in what had been home for twenty seven years. 

But nobody in the management was listening.

I know a thing or two about the good workers. They are so heavily invested in their productivity, they have very little negotiating space. It is the reason you must not push them over the edge. A tiny shift in the mental gears and one of them can go ping.

Please do not bring up labour reforms or the politicization of trade unions here. Human beings are fragile and a man can lose his will. I wouldn’t have known this of myself but here is how I acted on automaton the day of the fire.

I saw Ram Yadav on my way out of the factory. He was in a huddle with three police constables outside the boundary wall, right next to our guard room.  They were signalling furtively towards the service lane. Their body language frightened me and I skirted away. Once safely inside my car, I turned back for a look. A tight knot of torch bearers was hovering nervously at the far end of the lane. My hand went instinctively towards my phone to punch your number. But then, guess what. My limbs took on a life of their own. I reached for the ignition key and turned it, replacing the instrument on the dashboard. Who was I to get involved?!

You have to admit. This was a massive management failure. I don’t know if the board is every going to acknowledge or appreciate the ongoing personal and economic costs to those injured and bereaved.

Goodbye Sir Ji.  I will contact you next when my workplace tragedy support group is ready. Who would have thought?

No longer yours,

Deserter by design

Person (Micro Fiction)

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Keerat’s own osteoporosis or her daughter in law’s supposed ailment, it was hard to tell which nettled more.

The two storeys high “Sekhon Farm” with its five watchdogs and twenty Jersey cows had begun to ring hollow ever since her Ajaib Singh’s marriage to the Chief Justice’s daughter. “I feel I have lost my son,” it was a refrain Keerat’s septuagenarian husband liked to ignore. He was tempted more than once to suggest she take a leaf out of his own mother’s note book on freeing one’s son so he may bond better with his life partner but he was a wise man and kept his counsel.

The genteel couple had brought up their son with the time worn values of hard work, enterprise and discipline. It had taken blood and sweat to raise him to be a productive young man. “We did all the tough part and I am now supposed to just hand him over meekly to a strange girl he happens to be married to,” Keerat had turned acutely possessive of her son. “Well, that’s a new! It wasn’t all that while ago I remember you decrying his being insensitive, laid back, careless and forgetful. Now that his loyalties are divided, you hold him up as a shining symbol of his industrious and sterling lineage,” she resented her husband keeping her grounded in this manner. 

But they were one in their concern over this unexpected and bothersome new challenge in Ajaib’s life. His bride had taken ill with a rare and expensive disease. It bothered them no end to see their son bowed down with work and worry. Keerat’s reaction was tinted with annoyance at her daughter-in-law, “Are you sure she is sick? She looks just fine; I think she is just plain lazy. Her parents should have told us of her illness. I believe multiple sclerosis is hereditary.”

“It has been called the invisible disease Mother, the symptoms can disappear completely between attacks. And who is to say about the point of onset, she has been diagnosed with its progressive form, very hard to predict the direction her condition will take.”

Ajaib sat his mother down in front of his laptop, “It is important for us to understand what is happening to her. Multiple sclerosis affects the central nervous system and there is as yet, no cure available for this disease. The more you deny her suffering from it, the greater her stress and worse the MS symptoms.”

Keerat fell silent, struggling with her mixed emotions. “Not many of our friends and family know about it Mum because I was myself uncertain as to what we were dealing with. But we are approaching decision point soon. I am afraid she may be slipping into depression. Her epileptic seizure last week shook her up real bad.”

“A fit, did you say a fit?” Keerat’s voice went up an octave.

“She was alone at home. Everything was fine when I left her for the airport. Some two hours later, she just keeled over. I cannot risk it again.”

The mother broke out of her stunned trance, “How can I help?”

“She is more than my wife, your daughter-in-law or Sunny’s mother Mum. She is a person, a very proud, self-respecting and right now, a deeply grieving person. She is gradually losing her independence and that is very painful. We have a very tough time ahead. Help me to help her.”

“Look up a service dog on that computer of yours. We should consider getting her a pet soon, trained to assist her with the daily chores,” Ajainb’s father had come in quietly and had been listening in with increasing concern.

Keerat sat up with a new sense of purpose, “A pet that could fetch her cell phone, open the door, switch off the lights or keep her company at night when she is in pain. You are so right, she needs her own team on this.”

 “That and an unconditional love,” Ajaib’s voice grew softer.

Isolation (Micro Fiction)

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“Lime pickle or ginger powder for tea? Which of the two should I leave out?”

Despite Air India’s generous baggage allowance on the Tokyo flight Sarita had agonized over the two after dealing with winter clothing, homeopathic medicines and Vicco Vajradanti toothpaste.

Her son was on a sponsored study course at the University of Tokyo. This trip had come up unexpectedly.  The family was to attend his graduation nearly six months away but they had received an official email from the Japanese government mentioning a cardio vascular affliction. “I will need more time to get clearances for international travel. You better go alone,” her husband had urged her. He had seen her off at the Indira Gandhi International Airport with words of encouragement and reassurance.

Sarita was not fooled. Her sixth sense was telling her to prepare herself but she calmed her restless mind during the flight with a looping recitation of the Gayatri Mantra. At the Narita airport, she scrutinized her son keenly as he busied himself with her baggage and the cab.

“Did you bring the gift for Sensei?” were his first words as he turned towards her in the car. She nodded briskly, her eyes drinking him in. The voice stuck in her throat, choked at the memory of her own panic attacks back home at the thought of him alone in a foreign land. She fought down an insane urge to run her hands over his limbs just to make sure he was whole. “I got an inlaid bangle box, thought your teacher would appreciate something traditional” she was finally able to put his mind at rest.

He was pleased, “Can we have her home for a meal soon? Her conversation classes have been a great help.” She patted his knee, swelling up with pride at his ease in this vending machine capital of the world while he pointed out the landmarks along the drive to his university. They were soon enough, removing their shoes at the door to his dorm.

The sun rose sharper in Tokyo. “Mum, be careful with the garbage, all right. Two separate canters come for the cans and the organic.” He had been full of stories about Sensei “I will walk Sayuri Sensei to the dorm from the Ebisu station, she is not familiar with this ward”, he had announced over the kitchen clatter during breakfast.

Sarita saw him off to school and busied herself with organizing his mini residence, “My poor baby does not get time to clean and cook.” And there was the happy anticipation of meeting someone mellow who had clearly been an anchor to her son.

Tokyo’s street lamps had come alive when the front door lock clicked open from outside with a key. Sarita watched curiously as an elongated young Japanese beauty undulated in, ahead of her blushing son. Several times during the polite evening, insecurity stabbed at her as she watched Sayuri’s serene melancholy fend off his smitten looks. He had clearly drawn great strength from her.  “Your son is a brave man. It can get very lonely here if you do not know the language,” Sayuri smiled at the mother, admiring the bangle box closely. “Yes, we got an official communication about his health,” Sarita’s voice was tentative.

There was the slightest hesitation before Sensei dived into her neat handbag to pull out a tightly folded sheet of paper. “I took him to a private clinic here before the school got wise to his condition” she held it out for Sarita.

Indeed, it was a medical prescription in her son’s name drawn up by one Dr. Tsuneo Takagi, Researcher and Social Isolation Expert, Roppongi Hills Clinic.

The words pierced her clouded vision as Sarita struggled to reconcile cardio vascular trouble with medical notes on social pain, expatriate loneliness, interaction therapy and depression.

A voice yawned in her head. It was her mother, “Don’t be so ambitious! Keep your children with you as long as you can, you are sending them too far away from home.” 

Horsepower (Micro Fiction)

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His habit of eating eraser in class was a cry for help.  It had taken Deborah months of work with the school counsellor to trace it back and resolve somewhat. Her heart sank at the thought of the nine year old out in the cold again; the school session was ending and he was graduating to a new and an unfamiliar teacher. She knew from experience that no amount of inter-class briefing could transfer the affectionate trust a teacher builds over time with a student.

An avid horsewoman, Debbie began her day with an invigorating ride astride ‘Touchwood’ her favourite horse in the school stables. And it was on these windy gallops that her students came to mind, challenging her to think of ways to help them best. She stood in the stirrups now, reining the horse in as the chestnut took the tree stump smoothly. The Ooty downs were poignant in their sleety silhouette at daybreak, her usual riding hour in the countryside. “Yash Gautam needed to open his heart to trust again; he needed a fresh line of communication” she followed the little child in her train of thought, guiding her horse over slippery slopes.

The Ooty Hunt Club was out at this hour, a moist earth having swallowed the sound of some eighty pairs of hooves. Debbie steered away from the Master of the Hunt, her gloved hands chafing at the straining reins and eyes stinging with images and the strong wind. There was Yash wringing his hands during assessment debriefs, “Papa talks to me only if I get A2 and above.” She lowered herself gently back into the saddle, rueful at the memory of him bouncing back from free play in the school grounds, “I am happy alone. Nobody likes me! I don’t like the games my friends play.”

Deborah had been proactive during the recent parent session. Her exchange with Yash’s parents nagged at her memory now. “I can’t help with his school work, no way. There is no time. And we cannot afford a maid. Yash sweeps, swabs, helps with the baby and massages my legs when I am tired,” his mother had disclosed in a soft voice. There had also been a mention of the father who equated parenting with a ‘no TV and three hour daily study’ rule.

Yash clearly needed help far beyond her own capacity as a busy teacher and coordinator. Who could heal and teach Yash respect, forgiveness, confidence, fair play? The child needed unconditional acceptance and the opportunity to lead. Debi slowed down as the stables came into view. Touchwood’s appreciative neigh at the thought perhaps of the customary carrot and jaggery treat brought a smile to the teacher’s pensive face. She patted the horse’s neck gently before dismounting with a strong toss of her dark hair at the stables driveway. She led her horse into the stall, gazing into his unafraid brown eyes and marvelling at his proud carriage. Her mind was made up!

Bright and early on the Investiture Day, it was an impatient wait for the Gautams. Barely giving them time to settle into their chairs, she resolutely pushed the Indemnity Bond made mandatory by the Horse Riding Club towards the father along with Yash’s scholar badge, “Sign this! I just found your son a lifelong role model and a teacher!”

Jeevansathi (Micro Fiction)

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“Are you grilling them? Cook the Sheek Kebabs in water, they taste tender and are healthier!”

It was Saturday evening and the palatial living room of Manveen’s parental home rang with energized talk of real estate investments, jewellery purchases and palazzo pants. The women showcased their provider’s earning capacity while the men glowed with magnanimity over premium liquor, having given their wives permission to sip wine.

The talk moved to Jeevansathi.com !

“There seems a famine of nicely brought up, suitable girls for our sons these days?” grumbled Mrs. Dhingra. “Most are too educated plus the money they make is going to their heads. And would you believe it, the last match we explored rejected our proposal because of location preference. Imagine!”

The pita bread snapped as Pammi auntie mumbled over the tastefully arranged platter, “I am quite liberal and mentally prepared that Titu’s bride will wear skirts and tank tops. Of course, she will go clubbing with him. A drink once in a while is all right too.”

Dabbing at her mouth with the embroidered serviette, it was Mrs Kalra's turn to fret, “The change in values has been so drastic. I think most young brides-to-be these days would only be too happy not to have to deal with a mum-in-law at all. I would be quite fine with giving my daughter-in-law her space but please, it scares me to think she might take our son away from us.”

“My Titu is a handsome Sikh but I am not fixated on appearances. I feel looks can be taken care of with polishing and grooming but I draw the line at smoking. It is against our religion, leave alone the health risks!” Pammi auntie was emphatic.

Manveen had heard enough. She put down the Sheek Kebab tray on the center table after having taken it around the room. Her ears quivering in the direction of the bhangra beats coming from across the manicured lawn, she plucked her way along the exotic flower beds towards the shaded gazebo. It was dark inside and she paused tentatively at the arched doorway. A solo ember described a quarter arc at the far end where Titu sat smoking, in his turban.

Unfaithful (Micro Fiction)

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Racing to make it to the biometric attendance machine, Reena came up short. It was Khili near the school gate, family driver balancing a humongous bunch of anthuriums and plenty of other flower arrangement accessories. The teacher swiped her vibrating phone impatiently, motioning at the guard with her free hand to let the two in. Khili suffered from Asperger’s syndrome and would need help.

“Khili has practised putting together an ikebana Ma’am,” it was the mother on the other end of the phone. Laden with notebooks and other teaching paraphernalia, Reena beat back her impatience. The parent was apologetic and anxious, “We expect Khili’s participation in the flower arrangement competition to be therapeutic at best. Do keep an eye on her, she should be fine.” The teacher and taught made a bee line for the junior wing lobby, the driver lumbering at a deferential distance.  

Tall for her age, Khili was of a striking Chitpavan Brahmin pedigree. Her golden brown mane contrasted beautifully with her blue green eyes. An acute dysgraphia notwithstanding, she occasionally responded in class with graceful articulation. The teachers were fond of her and let her be.

 

“Madam, Saab will pick up Khili after school. I have to go on another errand,” the driver was staring at Reena’s feet, eyes shifting. Too busy to take much note, Reena frowned at him, vaguely wondering at the dislike that rose in her heart at the expression on the swarthy face. “Khili’s parents are legal luminaries, both. They dote on their only child. Surely their driver is an old faithful, they would not trust him with Khili otherwise,” went her thoughts as she made her way to the staircase going up to the next floor. “It must be terrible to have to depend so heavily on a third person to take care of your most precious loved one, one never knew these days.”

There was no time to think any further. Your typical day at school went its roller coaster way. The first half was well and truly upon Reena when a colleague sent for her to come to the competition venue. 

The hall was curiously silent as she entered. Muted music played in the background as usual, over and around the feast of colour and beauty, painstakingly arranged by the students on tables aligned for the purpose. The three judges were huddled around Khili’s handiwork, frowning at what they saw. The blue vase contained a single, dried, thorny twig rammed viciously into the tiniest metal frog. All the fancy flowers sent by her mother lay in a mussed heap on the side. “Send for our counsellor,” Reena barked, reaching for the phone to dial back the last received number.

Lament (Micro Fiction)

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They sat facing a freshly dug grave. Its wet smell heightened their incredulous grief. Mamta did not know where to look. It hurt to recall the last moments. She skirted David’s entreating eyes. “Oh my God, how am I going to live with this? She was my wife, how could she?” he was bewailing. Anguished sounds punctuated his piteous refrain, “I feel betrayed. Are you certain about this? We had our differences but Annie couldn’t have been so bitter.”

Mamta plucked at an autumn leaf absently, her mind’s eye replaying the frames before the impact. “When I’m gone, I don’t want him touching my body. No goodbye hugs or kisses or caresses. He is not to lay a finger on me. I am calling upon our friendship to ask this of you. Please give me your word,” Lotika had been insistent, reaching out to switch on the wipers while smiling wryly at the look of shock on Mamta’s face in the passenger seat. The hail was crashing like an overturned drawer on the windscreen and the clouds had begun their wispy descent.

She remembered reaching out to wipe the precipitation, squinting at the road sign; twenty three kilometres to go, it had read. Briefly distracted by the lush green ice berg in her brown sandwich, they always carried food in these reaches, she had registered the “No overtaking” sign. The rocky yellow neon rotated away as the car turned around the steep gorge. “I know he is not a talker and the non-committal silence is eating you up. But have you tried counselling? He is such a great guy in every other way. Perhaps you need to be more accepting?” she had mumbled through a crunchy mouthful, glad for the comfort of food in that cold downpour. Unknown to the driver, Lotika’s forlorn frame around their block and her listless marriage to David had long been grist to the local gossip mills.

Lotika’s eyes had welled up. Mamta would remember the tear as long as she lived, one moment it was sliding down the pale cheek and the next, there was a spray of tiny violent shafts. Her ears still burned at the clangourous thwack. The oncoming tanker had nicked their blue ambassador, winging it across to sail into the chasm. 

She took his hand gingerly now, her shoulder throbbing even more at his lament, “I could not say goodbye. Her folks wouldn’t let me close to her body. No closure for me it seems. I would have wanted to give her one final hug.”

The words stuck in her throat. There had apparently been a will, a last wish from Lotika.

Attention

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It will be annual diary time for teachers soon. There will be records to fill up; lists of textbooks and duties, method of teaching, detailed syllabi, workshops attended, special efforts for bright students, remedial measures to improve the weak and of course, most important of all, what inspired the teacher most during the session.

Inspiration!

The challenge is of acknowledgment. There are indeed two levels at which the school operates, much like the Hindu system of consciousness levels. The surface is represented by its public interface. There is the school diary, website, speeches made on official functions, the school magazine, assembly addresses by school heads. One hears of the school being a tree of knowledge, a centre for learning, the nursery that nurtures leaders and aims at an all-round development. There is another level however, at which young lives singe and burn in the cauldron called school life. It is not obvious to the eye but there are daily glimpses in student aggression, in creative graffiti, in groupism, in exclusion of others, in bullying and risky behaviour. As a teacher, you would wish for a horizon where these two worlds converged.

It has to start with the question of what schools are trying to do. The staff, the resources, the CBSE, the related paraphernalia; do we have a system that focuses on empowering a student or eliminating him at various levels? Do we celebrate or crush differences? Are we building young people who are force multipliers or are we churning out force dividers?

At the moment, there is a focus on a version of discipline based on a strong sense of shame. The measuring scale has been marking only one unit: test scores. There is an ocean of untapped original talent that has been drying up for lack of attention and recognition. While we could be learning from students who have things to say, we line them up for scrutiny under glasses tinted with pre conceived notions. And the outcome is legions of young who leave schools feeling an odd mix of grief and relief.

CCE! The “continuous and comprehensive evaluation of students that covers all aspects of their development” may correct that by forcing teachers to look at their students more closely. We keep bemoaning their lack of attention in class. It is we in fact who need to pay them more attention. 

For attention gives life and vitality.

Limerence (Micro Fiction)

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Photo credit: Shashi Nayagam

The ripple in his white school shirt had the power to turn her knees to water. She only had to shut her eyes and that tensile walk would come back, a rolling sort of stride. He was tall, salt and pepper shock bouncing in the hill breeze on those rare occasions he swiveled in her direction.  

One did not turn and gaze back, you see. It was the 1970s and well brought up teenagers pretended the other gender did not exist. There was awkward shame, a sweaty palpitation, neurons hissing and crackling if you were caught staring at your object of interest. Glances had to be stolen, furtive and flickering. At fifteen, you were fighting a losing battle against hormones. And all they did was, call it puppy love!

She thought of mountain peaks every time he came into her line of vision. His frame intruded into her sleep laden eyes at night as she lay imagining what it would feel like to fly off a cliff, diving into the open skies. Just once had they gotten close enough during a class picnic photograph for the whiff of freshly cut grass to take root in her nostrils.

When the teacher droned in class, lessons simply ebbed against the roar in her ears. Her body faced the blackboard but her spirit would be aligned with the right hand corner where he sat, focussing hard on the instruction. It was no use fighting, her skin blushed all over and thin fire washed the pores.

This state of dopiness would have continued unabated had her half yearly report card not come in to her parents, all covered in red ink. Here she was as a direct fall out therefore, ensconced in the family car, ruminative of the chain of events at home leading to the drive today. She snapped out of her reverie as the driver killed the engine and turned to her, “Your appointment is in five minutes, baby.”

She walked into the building bearing a blue sign: Dr. Asmita Pathak, Clinical Psychologist and Self Esteem Expert.

Valentine

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I watch you grow with pride  
You’re sure and strong in stride

The certainty that you matter

Must never ever shatter

The darts when they come

From outside yes some

But watch out for those

That will come from close

A haven that heals

Wounds and bad deals

May become your inferno

Its ringmaster your beau

His family will idolize

Their son, a grand prize

You may be dismissed

Have you reminisced?

Put down they may

In many a way

Food and his care

They will have you dare

Your music is shoddy

Do not neglect your body

Another’s wife a master cook

No cobweb may you brook

When you take the wheel

Does he guide and squeal

Who has the remote?

Is he mocking your taste?

There’s an hour I fear

Pray hark my dear

As much as the physical

Rape can be mental

You are bright and gay

And you hold sway

Over life, a time

Of dozen, a dime

No hitting no names?!

Look out for other games

And have a plan

If he is not half the man 

Valentine does not pose

With diamonds and rose

He is one who will cherish

Not letting you perish

Pindari Berth (Fiction)

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Her friends called her crazy. 

Who takes leave at the financial year end to go visit a house that was home thirty years ago? But word had come from her school alumni association that Pindari Berth had been served demolition notice. Pachmarhi, the Queen of the Satpuras, was coming into its own as a tourist destination and frenetic construction work was in progress. She winced at the thought of a greasy crane flattening a lifetime of memories into dust. She had to say goodbye.

Pindari Berth! Named after a glacier in the upper Kumaon Himalayas, the white structure seeped into her view as she stared out of the car at the ghats swishing by in a green blur. She inhaled the air deeply, letting the pungent scent of mahua wash over her lungs. The mango trees were laden at Panarpani where her cab stopped for a tea break. She wandered away from the hissing kerosene stove to reach for a raw green fruit, holding it to her nose…..it whispered of her childhood, of bicycle rides, frilly frocks, birthday bashes and family picnics. A quick nick and her teeth stung with the tangy juice. Urgency took hold of her to reach Pindari Berth.

Dusk had fallen when they sailed into the claustrophobic hush typical of hill stations. The car wheeled into peeling green gates, door banging shut. She slowed at the shadow of a young girl, swinging on freshly painted rails. With a shake of her head, she turned to the cottage, “Phantasm!” A lantern was coming into view, swinging eerily and slowly. It was Mr. Devasher, he was hobbling with age! They embraced and she drew back in alarm at his smallness. He felt papery, wispy and light, a far cry from the gregariously avuncular neighbour she remembered. She peered at him, reluctant to let go the sleeve of his brown Burberry . He disengaged himself gently, “Let us go inside, I have brought the keys. I cannot fathom a hotel coming up here.”

The two shuffled through the rooms, the air thick with reminiscences. There was dust and cobwebs, door hinges creaked and groaned. Her host held up the lantern to significant points, “You see here, your Dad had his bar set up in this corner. And there, beyond that is the area your Mum used as her studio.” She felt drawn to her room. It was just a space, she told herself, concrete and bricks and stone and mortar. But it was coming alive to her, right there as they looked on at nothing.

She heard sibling bickering, all huffy and irate. She smelt childish hurt mixed with disappointment. She sensed her own laboured metamorphosis. A hundred emotions waltzed in the air and there was more! In that window glass besides the bed was her Dad’s concerned watchfulness. On the mantle was her Mom’s nurture. Near the steps outside lay her sister’s cautious affection! Her ears rang with laughter, screams, and shouts. Her nose twitched with smells from her growing years; the Ponds cream whiff, the merest zephyr of Fluffy, wafts of fresh baking. She wanted to spread out her arms and hug Pindari Berth close.

“Shall we go home for dinner? Your aunt will be waiting for us. The builders are coming at 9.00 am,” the voice was tentative.  She turned to pick up the lantern Mr Devasher had left on the portico ledge. He shook his head, taking it from her and leading by the hand. 

She nearly missed a step at the sight outside. The lawn trees were alight, a thousand fireflies twinkling in their lush leaves, like twines of X-Mas lights.

She stood gripping the wrinkled hand, tears rolling down her face. “Goodbye Pindari Berth,” she whispered to herself.

All photo credits to Shashi Nayagam
http://sewingwithmoonbeams.blogspot.in/

http://www.moonbeamworld.com/

Paralysis (Micro Fiction)

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Pic by Aqseer

Simranjit Kaur scrunched her dupatta to the nose, widening her eyes to stave off the itchiness.

Paddy fields were deadly incubators. The pesticide combined with stagnant water making toxic fumes that rose over the railway tracks, curling into her second class compartment where she sat alone, numb and unmoving. She willed the train to move. “Sixty, fifty nine, fifty eight” went her ninth round of reverse counting.

Her mind was treading sluggishly, images fogging and swirling. She recalled her mother, distraught at the birth of a daughter and the harm it would do her social status. There she was again, waving at Simran to come help in the kitchen instead of riding the farm tractor. A steady stream of sepia shots permeated Simran’s throbbing head...memories of plucking gourd with her grandmother and trailing her feet in the tube well canal as the motor pumped rhythmically into the narrow canal wending farmwards.

“Was that the ghuggi bird trilling, the local dove?” she would wonder from under the dupatta covering her face, on many a meditative noon spent prone on a jute cot under the Kikar tree. The dull shuffling of buffalo hooves returning from the river invariably kept pace with the darkening sky. Twilight on the Sangha Farm was bleak, made sadder by the moans of the muttering hens, picking their way into the coop.

Just as the family women made busy over the makings of supper, her grandfather would stride in, holding aloft a brown paper bag of hot jalebis. Indulgent in the aftermath of a profitable day, he would rib her on her ambition “How can I set you up in a petrol pump? That now, is your brother’s privilege. He will bring us a plane in dowry at his wedding while I will have to gift you one, at yours.” 

She smiled thinly at the image of the hot clay oven that the family women used to singe their arm hair while sticking in the rotis, no waxing needed at the beauty parlour! Inhaling greedily on the cold air now, her thoughts wandered to the farm dogs that would be trotting in from the fields for their last meal of the day. Strangely enough, there was nothing in her mental rerun from her joint family married home.

The train belched, metal clatter jolting her back. She heaved up slowly, peering cautiously through the grimy window of her coupe. No sign yet! The horn wailed raucously, signalling departure. A movement caught her eye, right there near the entrance gate. Simran ducked swiftly, adrenalized out of her dark stupor. She hurried into the train toilet, her mind racing. Her brother-in-law would have found the body! Jaswinder had been her only support through all of her marital torment. He had finally put his foot down that morning at the family’s eternal denial mode, offering to visit them and counsel his older brother.”

“Too late!” she flinched dolefully, dropping her bloody kirpan through the rickety toilet bowl.

The Transition

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It is that time of the year when teachers sit shell shocked, gel pen poised over the final report cards. They shake their heads slowly, willing themselves to absorb the impending conclusion of the session. Any attempt to look back only brings forth a blur. It seems as though the year is getting over before it had a chance to begin.

It was no different the year before and the one that preceded it!

The school calendar is so choc-a-bloc that its sheer momentum numbs. There is a pattern. The year takes off well; there is the novelty of the class and teacher composition. But as the events come steam rolling, there is a Ferris Wheel syndrome. Students and teachers hang on to their seat arms, buffeting through tests, competitions, festivals, tournaments, workshops until their eyes begin to glaze over with the effort to keep up. And it isn't until December that they take their second look at each other.

It is the first time in the year that teachers will feel a pang. The students look dearer, now that they are ready to pass on to the next class. “There is so much more I could have done with them,” some are likely to tell themselves. Their eyes linger on the young faces, knowing fully well that most will be unrecognizable should their paths cross again.

The incoming class does not know it yet but the stage is being set up for the grand comparison. “My last class was so much brighter. You all are not a patch on them,” the pearls will spew forth over the first few months. Then like every other year, just as the familiarization gets underway, the Sports Day and the Annual Function will rear their heads. It is in the translucence of the dust settling on these frenzied celebrations that the new class will reach its peak. In that magic moment of complete synergy between the teacher and the taught, primed for take-off, just as they are slipping into some rhythm, the tail end of the school’s annual calendar will loop into view and they will be off again, hurtling and careening through the remaining year.

The word is transition; it is a time for mixed feelings. There is sadness to see off a batch and excitement at the first blank page with a new class in the new school year. Welcome 2013-14!

(Published in the Times of India Student Edition on 27 Feb 2013)

At your age

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Two things happened today.

A young lady half my age offered to carry my bag. On seeing me recoil, she reached out to grab it and we tugged a bit, my sense of independence rivalling her classy upbringing. She resolved the impasse by insisting her driver see me to the car.

The second event took place as I entered the British Council Creative Writing class room. Another young watched me set up my laptop before declaring solemnly, “I am very impressed with you!” My heart fluttered with delight, steadying itself in readiness for praises of my writing. She exclaimed, “It is wonderful that you have so much enthusiasm for learning at your age!”

At your age!

I have been hearing this phrase of late and have formulated a reason.

It has to do with my veering off the course, I am certain. There is a view of life stages we Indians cherish; the celibate student, the married family man, the hermit in retreat and the wandering ascetic. And even though social realities have transformed beyond recognition, the four stage view remains the bedrock of Hindu socio-religious tradition. Having seen my kids through for instance, I should by extension be throttling back to enjoy life’s hard earned siesta. I am being told in other words that there is a role cut out for me. Be aunty like, content and supportive of the status-quo around me!

Instead I have jumped off headlong into ever growing adventures. I have taken up new fields of study, am working at acquiring new skills, and am busy exploring new situations. There is so much more time to reach in that the radius of my capacity to reach out has been expanding. It in fact is oddly liberating to have this authentic world view that comes from living a full life to come back to rest where it started, with me! My reflection becomes sharper with every challenge I take up and the process puts me in ever greater touch with myself.

Is this not life, in the final analysis. After all, the familiar, non-threatening and limiting orbits are not getting anyone far; there is only so much that you will gain by driving the same path, sitting in the same chair and meeting the same people, over and over.  It is safe yes, but it is also numbing and stunting to be in a sanitized environment full of order and convenience.

You live so that you may know yourself. You breathe so you can shape yourself better. You engage for the permission to nurture yourself. You therefore need to continue growing and learning to the end of your life.

Oh yes, if you loved yourself enough, you would hear what life has to say: you owe yourself big time! 

Indispensable

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The world is kinder today. It is expected to be at any rate. Witches burn, children starve, civilians perish in wars, women are raped but not without protest. There is a strong pretence at civil liberties; an educated progressiveness that is synonymous with a repugnant horror at inhumanity and injustice; to that extent we have evolved as a species.

Some beliefs persist nevertheless, unchallenged and unquestioned.

No one is indispensable! This is the golden one at the workplace. There isn’t an employee who has not had this unappetizing negation hurled at her or an employer for that matter, who has not flourished it with the swagger of Salman Khan at some time in their respective careers. I would say these infamous words reverberate across board rooms, offices and corridors of power. No one is special, we are told. One pair of hands is as good as another. An employee’s absence does not mean a hiccup to her company. Just about anyone can replace her at any given time. Her personality, her background, her ideas, her strengths, her convictions are as easily substituted as a pair of pencil cells in a torch.

This is the biggest ever bluff that needs calling.

How come in a world so full of talk about human rights, there is not a squeak about a good worker’s professional self-respect? Truth be told, every golden employee at a place of work is indispensable. How very regressive is it to speak of people in terms of holes that merely needed plugging! A company is the sum total of its employees and every solid piece in the puzzle adds value to the jigsaw. Take away one and there is sure to be disturbance to the group dynamics.

The world has long moved beyond the assembly line production days of initial industrialization. Job opportunities and requirements have metamorphosed to include a mind boggling skill set; it is no longer about just a pair of hands. Work involves personal integrity, value judgement, and risk evaluation, sense of loyalty, creative solution, professional investment, and willingness to learn and grow in addition to basic and relevant competency. Surely the range involved here begs the demeaning insistence that one is just as good as another. It even sounds callously inhumane!

People are unique. They bring a very special value to their work spaces. And companies stand to gain huge returns by acknowledging this immutable but long denied truth.The reluctance to acknowledge signature contribution has been a convenient mind-set that has saved employers bother and effort. Imagine what would happen if they were to admit people were indispensable! How would they dismiss and control in a culture that viewed employees as individuals, needing sensitive handling. It would involve acknowledging their exclusivity thus admitting their value to the company. Perhaps business heads are wary of losing negotiating strength thus.

It is time though! Is it not time leaders began to care more deeply? It is high time they thought more, applied more and took the trouble to keep pace with an employee’s growth. This destructive cliché has placed productivity in a self-fulfilling downward spiral. Bosses refuse to admit people are indispensable and so crushed does this make the employees feel that they begin to act dispensable.

In the complex and modern work place that we literally live out our lives in, every single worker stamps the company's growth story in her personal way. People are crucial, central, cardinal.

The Execution

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Like a plump seed, rich with promise

Of growth and flush branching

Springs the idea of a friendship

That will endure life and ravaging

There is hope shy, timorously tender

A twenty four carat witnessing?!

Of you that is more than their reflection

In that moment begins the dying

One day you do not water the bond

Then ease out on the weeding

A veto on mulch is bound to bring

Whispering wheeze from sapling

Rooted in that yawning pain

Bothered at the blighting

Combating blast and howl and canker

The cusp comes into sighting

And yet it weathers the life force hardy

Through night and day yet smiling

For ties do not make us

We execute the tying!