Friday, November 29, 2013

The Photograph

“I bet I can take a better picture than you can” she said, defiantly, a challenging smile playing on her face.
I looked down at her and smiled. I had gotten used to her throwing the gauntlet from time to time.
It was like this. I was a photographer on a freelance assignment. Not much money in this one, but seemed like a great opportunity to visit Imphal. The capital of the eastern state of Manipur, one of the seven sisters – the forgotten easternmost part of India.
The publication also informed me that the writer would also be there for the three- day shoot. I shrugged my shoulders. “Whatever.”
I thought in a way it would work out well. She’d create a story and I’d substantiate it with the photographs. Win-win.  Right?

I met her on the flight.
Having asked for an aisle seat I was unceremoniously dumped into one of the middle seats. With the overhead cabin space full my 6 foot frame was cramped in the centre with my heavy camera bag on my lap.
When she came across to the row where I was sitting, she gave me a somewhat amused look. I was not amused. That was probably the beginning of three days of irritation. But how was I to know.
My anger melted when she offered me her aisle seat. At some point, she suggested that I keep the camera bag under the seat back in front of her so as to allow me some leg space. I readily agreed.   
She started the conversation. “So you’re a landscape photographer, I heard”. She looked at me curiously like I had something growing on my face. “The sunrise-sunset types.” She threw her head back and laughed.
"That’s a very supercilious comment, young lady!” I said drawing myself to my full height. Not too difficult, considering. But a tad uncomfortable, in that tiny aircraft seat!
She laughed. Apologized. “I didn’t mean it that way! I’m sure you’re great at what you do. It’s just that landscapes don’t move me too much.” She added hastily, “I mean, they seem so inanimate… as if… there’s just no one around, you know? Kind of lonely?”
Inanimate? Lonely? I had never thought of my landscapes that way. To me, the beauty came out in the spectacular silence of nature. A glowing sunrise. A red hot sunset. A sky that was tinged with myriad colours. A snowcovered mountainscape.  Undulating sand dunes in a desert. Craggy hillsides that brought out the brutal harshness of nature.
And the human touch?  I was there, was I not? Behind the lens? How did the picture get taken in the first place! Humppph!
We debated lightly on that. But she steadfastly maintained her ground. Landscapes were lonely. Landscapes were not alive. Landscapes didn’t move.  And didn’t move her.
Human kind cannot bear very much reality” she said, almost to herself. Over the next two days a lot of quote wisdom was going to come my way. I wasn’t quite prepared.
“T. S. Eliot said that.” She pondered a bit. “I think I don’t like landscapes because it’s all so stark, so real. Maybe I can’t take it” She looked wistful for a moment, then she challenged me again.
“But what kind of ‘lighting’ do use for that?”. She made air quotes with her fingers for the word lighting. “Nature does it for you, doesn’t it?”
I smiled a wry smile. Okay, I thought. The usual not-knowing-much about photography types. These smart phones with their whatever x megapixel cameras. And of course the extra smart people with their smart phones. Like this one here.
I sighed, took a deep breath and told her all about the exposure levels and adjustments you made to make the most of the lighting that Mother Nature provided. Yes.  Nature did provide the lighting but only the good photographers knew when to take the pictures. How to make the most of the light. What to do in certain light conditions.

As she listened with interest, I warmed up further to the subject. “For instance, sunsets allow you a very, very small window of time. Miniscule. Lose it and you’ve lost your picture forever.” “And sunrises?”

“Aha!” I was beginning to enjoy my expert status now. I spoke of aperture settings, where to place the camera, image stabilizations, ISO settings, and the works. I thought her eyes glazed over a bit in between as I explained depth of field and other important aspects including timing. The all-important moment.
She seemed far away.

“You know what Ansel Adams said?” “No”, I replied.

“You don't make a photograph just with a camera. You bring to the act of photography all the pictures you have seen, the books you have read, the music you have heard, the people you have loved.”
True, I thought.

The next day we were going for a recce.

We met for breakfast then started out. The city, if it could be called that was abuzz with life. Everything seemed normal. Till we were on our way back early afternoon. Till an army truck passed by.
“Quick!” She said. “Take a picture of that tank”.
“No!” I protested. “We’ll shoot at the lake when we get there. Besides I am here to shoot landscapes. Not moving trucks. And that’s what I’ll do.”
“Do you know what Golda Meir said?”
“No” I said, edgily.
“Don’t be so humble. You’re not that great.”
How could 40 kgs. of nothing rile me so much, I thought.
We went back to the hotel in silence.
“Tomorrow I am going to the lake early to shoot the sunrise.” I said at dinner, shortly. “Very early”. I emphasized.
“I’d like to come”.
“4 am then. I’ve organized a car. Dress warm”.
She nodded. Said good night and walked away to her room.
At 4 am she was waiting down. Sufficiently bundled in warm clothes. We got into the car in silence. She carried some papers. Obviously she had done some research on the lake in question.
As she got out of the car when we reached, she took out a small digital camera from her bag. I almost choked.
She looked defiantly at me.
“Even I can take good pictures”.
I smiled.
“I bet I can take a better picture than you can” she said, defiantly, with a challenging smile on her face.
“Yes of course” I said, smiling. My irritation of the earlier day was replaced by amusement. I was going to enjoy the day.
It was still dark as we made our way up to a vantage point from where we could see the lake. The sun would rise from the other side.
As we reached the top we saw a wizened old man brewing tea on a kerosene stove. He was still pumping up the stove when we reached him. His deeply furrowed face glowed in the light but it was impossible to guess his age. His eyes had a young twinkle in them and he smiled broadly as he handed us the aluminum cups of the steaming brew. We sat on the rickety wooden bench and sipped the hot tea silently.  
Then we waited for the sun to come up.
I had set up the camera and I was clicking away even as the first ray seemed to appear from behind the horizon. From deep within a light was appearing and the darkness was slowly melting away at the horizon replaced by the pinks and pale yellows of the early morning light. Mesmerized, I photographed almost every single ray. I wasn’t going to miss anything.
In those moments, I was one with the sun, one with its tiniest movement as it rose slowly majestically up the horizon, one with nature, one with myself.  It was only a few minutes after dawn that I realized she was nowhere to be seen.
As I scanned around I saw her. She had curled up on the bench near the tea stall and was fast asleep. The old man looked at me then looked at her and smiled indulgently. So much for sunrise and sunsets and all that talk and questions about lighting.
I gently shook her awake. Now I was in my element. Proudly I displayed some of the gorgeous takes of the early morning.
She smiled. Didn’t say a word of appreciation. Hummph I thought. Hardly someone who’d understand great photography.
“Do you know what Thoreau said?” she asked, a little later on our way back.

"No”, I said, back to my irritable self, “And I don’t want to know”. We went back to the hotel in stony silence.

It was only after a few days that I got a large envelope in the mail.
Inside protected with two thick cards was one of the most beautiful photographs of sunrise I had ever seen.
On the far horizon a burnt pink sky was heralding the first rays of dawn. The waters of the lake glistened pink. In the foreground on the left was an old man, the old man at the tea stall! A part silhouette, his face was bowed in devotion his hands joined in prayer, with reverence at the first rays of the sun. From one side the soft morning light played with his deeply furrowed face, lighting every line, every wrinkle with a kind of mystical beauty. The rest was just darkness.  
As I looked at the photograph it seemed to speak to me. It encapsulated an entire message. That of the smallness of the human being against the vastness of that endless lake. That of the darkness of the night dispelled  with the gloriousness of the rising sun. And that of hope – with the dead stillness of the lake compensated with the life the old man brought to the picture.
Behind the photograph was a post-it note.
It said,
“It’s not what you look at, it’s what you see
– Henry David Thoreau”.





Friday, December 24, 2010

The Painting

It’s not easy being an art dealer.
Not in these recessionary times. Not in India. But at 35 I was kind of too entrenched in this profession to change tracks now. Having had enough trouble changing markets, by moving back to India at the height of recession, I didn’t want to try another new thing in my life. Moving back to India was tough. But every time I look at the painting I know I did the right thing. And I smile.
Ajay Mehra. That’s me. In two years, already a known name in this niche field. The good part though, was that I dealt with large corporate and architectural firms. I hardly had any private clients. Why is that good? In a perverse way, it was good because then I didn’t have to talk about the painting. I hardly entertained my clients at home. It was only close friends and they knew about it.
Art was my first love but also one that had treated me badly. I loved to paint as a child but my parents realized early enough that I had no talent in that department. It took me, of course, many years to reach that painful realization, by which time a degree in economics seemed the right thing to do.
However as a child painting consumed me. And I was greatly encouraged there by an indulgent grandmother who probably saw in her first grandchild everything a prodigy could be. She got me a little easel, an apron, a palette; a variety of brushes, a whole set of oil colours, and from time to time would bring me large coffee table books of the Masters. Perhaps, unknown to her, while it did not improve my painting skills, it vastly contributed to my intimate knowledge of the styles and eras of art, and I knew the paintings of the great Masters almost by memory. It was what would finally stand me in good stead when I lucked into this profession, just because I landed up interning as a lowly bookkeeper in an art auction firm.
On my 10th birthday, my grandmother walked in again with what I knew by this time, had to be a gift related to painting. The gift-wrapped package left nothing to the imagination. When I held it I knew it was a framed painting. My grandmother was perhaps a little more excited than I was as I ripped the wrapping paper to reveal the painting inside.
Now I can laugh and safely say that it was hideous. It was a still life. By probably some unknown struggling artist. (Today my experience tells me that that unknown struggling artist must have remained that way). The painting featured to the right a vase of flowers, a sad imitation of Van Gogh’s sunflowers, only they were pink roses, or maybe carnations, on a table covered with a bright purple table cloth. A few lavender flowers peeked out from below the pink bunch. A water jug sat aimlessly next to the vase and a diaphanous orange and yellow curtain seemed to be flapping in the background. The wall to the right was a rich maroon. To my boyish eyes, this was a lovely riot of colour. I looked lovingly at each stroke painted and mentally tried to figure out how much paint and how many colours the artist had had a field day with. I hugged my grandmother who obviously was delighted with her poor choice! The painting went up in my bedroom soon after. And stayed there. For almost as long as I can remember.
As I grew and moved to college, university degree, hostel life and finally a stint abroad, the painting moved as my parents moved to their retirement home. Of course my mother keeping with the sentiments of my grandmother, who was long since gone, kept packing and unpacking the painting till finally she was too old and relegated it to one of my packed cartons that I did not have time to look at, during my 10-day visits to my parents. By this time my parents had also given up the hope that their only child was ever coming back.
It was only when my mother passed away that I was left wondering what my father would do alone. The immediate solution was to take him back with me. But that presented new set of problems. Kavita, my wife, was working too. And between two growing boys and a hectic schedule which revolved around work, entertaining, a reasonably busy social life and monitoring homework and extra-curricular activities for the children, looking after my father got more and more difficult. It was also embarrassing when I had friends and some select clients over. My father was unable to follow their accents as they spoke or simply walked away. I began to entertain less and less and Kavita and I chose to go out more and more.
Over a period of time I realized that even my father was beginning to dislike the lack of any social interaction and when he expressed the desire to go back I jumped at the idea. The only option was to find a good retirement home for him, in India. I did what was necessary. The retirement home I found had everything my father would need plus emergency services, a doctor on call and small issues taken care of.
On the whole an undemanding person, my father had no complaints and seemed to be happy. I made frequent visits; though short, to see that he was doing fine. On one of the visits he told me that he missed the family. On another he handed me the painting. Wrapped carefully by my mother well before she had passed away in a series of plastic bags and paper, it brought memories of my mother and grandmother flooding back. I carried it as hand baggage back with me to New York.
The next day l left for work only to come home and see the painting placed prominently on my bedside table. I was staring at it with glazed eyes when Kavita walked in and laughed. “It’s hideous!” she said, “And you brought it back?”
I told her about the painting. And what it meant to me.
A bit mollified and anxious to make amends because she had hurt my sentiments, she said, “Look, this frame is falling apart. Should I get it redone? Maybe we can put it up in the boys’ room now”.
It seemed like a good idea and I nodded.
A few days later, I was in the office and the phone rang. It was my wife. When was I coming home she asked. There was a letter waiting for me, she said. I wondered why she had made that call. But soon got caught up in client meetings and forgot about it till I was on my way home.
Once home, Kavita smiled and handed me a small yellowed envelope. It had my name written on it in fairly ornate writing. My grandmother’s writing! I couldn’t believe it.
“Where was this?” I asked my wife. “At the back of the frame,” she said. “They called me from the shop and I went and picked it up”.
With trembling hands I opened the envelope. The paper inside was yellowed too. I opened the small square paper in which my grandmother had written a letter.

Dear Ajay,

I hope it is you who is reading the letter. I know you will love this painting when I give it to you. But I also know that soon you will outgrow it. And soon you will be embarrassed by it.
I am sure you don’t know why I bought this painting. If you’re older when you read this you’ll agree that there is a lot wrong with the painting. But I feel that you will learn those lessons from books. I do hope I am around when you do and I get to see you as a fine painter or at least as someone who appreciates good art.
Sometimes in life things don’t look very good. They don’t show you in good light. But they are there for a reason. They are there because there are sentiments invested in them. It’s the reason why I still have the first blanket that we wrapped your mother in. Or for that matter the booties that you wore, that I knitted for you. Lemon yellow. They now have a hole in them. But they grow precious by the minute to me. Because in them I see not just you or my grandson, but a whole relationship, a knitting together of the time we’ve spent together, me telling you stories, you waiting for me to come over with gifts, you poring over the books I got you, you taking to painting with such enthusiasm. Everything comes alive when I see that bauble of yellow wool and it brings back so much joy that no amount of new booties or expensive things can bring.
Don’t you think this is what makes everything in life special? Relationships with our children? Our spouses? Our parents? Our grandparents?

Kavita was staring at me while I read the letter. Tears glistened in my eyes as I looked up. She hurried across and started reading the letter with me. I looked down and continued… the next three paras of the letter went on to reminisce the wonderful moments we spent together. With her. With my grandfather. With my parents. Almost choking I read through those and as she neared the end she said…

I do hope again, Ajay that it is you who are reading this. And I do hope that in some moment of embarrassment given away this painting.
Wherever you are, whenever you find this, remember me and remember this. It’s not the money, the fame, the social circle, possessions, it’s relationships that matter. And though on the surface, a relationship may look as embarrassing as a painting that is garishly done, behind it lies a lifetime of love and memories to cherish.
And that’s what makes it priceless.
With love
Your grandmother
P.S. If you are not Ajay Mehra who is reading this, please please try and contact him on the address on the envelope.

I looked at Kavita. She too had tears in her eyes. I knew what she was thinking. Had we missed out on what was most precious in our life?
The next few months went in a tizzy. My decision was made. I was going to get back what was most priceless in my life. I moved back to Bombay and got my father resettled with us.
The painting now has a pride of place in my house, the letter framed in my study. When guests come and admire my invaluable Manet, Monet and Picasso print collection, they often wonder at this painting. I smile and tell them, “This one? It’s priceless”.
And I watch as the rest of the family smiles.

Thursday, December 16, 2010

The Flight

From as long as I can remember, I loved flying. It wasn’t just about the glamour, the speed, the bragging rights. It was that specific moment of take off and touchdown that got me particularly excited. It created a unique kind of thrill in my heart and I often challenged the pilot mentally. When the plane was landing, I’d count slowly from 1 to 10. The pilot had to, absolutely had to, touch down between 8 to 10. I don’t know who won or who lost, if he didn’t do it in the stipulated time, I just felt good if he did it right. It was like a joint effort and an achievement.
At 29 with a few decent years put in my career and a job that required travel this was a game that not only took the boredom out of flying, it even brought in an element of excitement.
This time however flying was not really that exciting. It came with mixed feelings. And it was really a ‘flight’ in every sense of the word. You know the ‘flight or fight’ response? I was tired of fighting. And now I was flying away, walking away figuratively speaking, leaving it all behind.
It was not an impulsive decision. Those had happened earlier. A sort of pulling away and then being pulled back again, and then regretting it. But things had gone too far the last time. And that’s when I realized that this relationship was not going to work. But was I going to tell Manav that? No, this time would be different. And this time would be final. I was determined.
In the aircraft I took my window seat and anxiously looked at my watch. The next few hours would be the longest and I just wanted to get them over with.
I had spent months planning this. I had picked a working day. A morning flight. An afternoon connection. And then another. A convoluted, tiring route. But I knew I had to do it this way. I just wanted a clean and complete break. Besides, I knew him too well to take any chances. But by then I would be too far away for him to reach me. It had seemed perfect at that time. But now I was tense. Almost ready to throw up.
After all it was a working day. Manav would expect me to be in office. But there were so many things that could go wrong. I could dodge his calls till about 7 pm. But after that he would wonder why. Then very likely he would land up at the office. I had managed to keep him away from the office the past month with difficultly. He had no idea I had finished serving my notice period. For that matter he had no idea I had quit.
I closed my eyes. I went back to the last big fight we had and I shuddered. It was a mistake from the very beginning. I had moved to Hyderabad on the rebound. Got into a relationship that seemed great in the beginning but wearied me at some point. I wanted out. He wouldn’t let go. And I was too weak to put my foot down. Every time I did, I landed back there with him much against my wishes. This time I wanted to end that vicious cycle.
The usual airline safety announcements were being made and in anticipation I gripped the seat handles. Something was being said about a passenger. I groaned inwardly. I couldn’t afford a delay at this time.
And then my phone buzzed. I glanced at it. It was Manav. I froze. The phone was on silent but vibrate mode and I continued staring at it blankly. I should have put off the phone. But I deliberately had not. Another two hours and my line would be disconnected. Till then it was better this way. He’d probably think I was in a meeting. The phone continued buzzing insistently. I was scared. In seconds I imagined him having gone to my office, discovering the truth somehow and rushing to the airport. While there was no base in what I was thinking, or imagining, I couldn’t get past the dreaded thought of him suddenly appearing.
The announcement cut into my thoughts again. Before I knew it, a stewardess leaned over and asked, ‘Ms Kapoor?’ Horror. “Yes …” I said hesistantly. My heart sank. “We need you to come this way for a bit,” she said as she smiled.
How does one walk on legs made of jelly? I stumbled out of my seat and numbly followed the hostess to the cabin door and the exit of the plane. It was over, I thought. All that elaborate planning. The getting of the other job in Dubai. Quitting. The secrets. And all that lies. And now I was back to square one. With no way of escaping. He was too powerful to let me do that again.
I reached the cabin door where two of the ground staff were waiting for me. “Ms Kapoor?” one of them reconfirmed. I nodded dumbly. “You left your passport on our desk. We thought we should return it personally.” The stewardesses looked surprised when tears glistened in the corner of my eyes. They probably thought I was feeling extremely grateful when I said, “Thank you, oh, thank you!” over and over again. Clutching my passport, I made my way back to my seat and sank into it ready to break down completely.
Bucked up in my seat again, I closed my eyes. The phone rang again as the captain announced instructions for all electronic devices to be switched off. I switched off my cell phone and closed my eyes. That was a close one. I clutched at the seat handle and took a deep breath as we started taxiing on the tarmac.
“Excuse me?”
It was the elderly lady next to me. “First flight?”
I smiled wanly. Yes seemed the right answer.
She warmed up to it. “It’s like this… at some point you start counting …”
I smiled “..From 1 to 10?”
“Yes, yes… you know about it?”
I nodded…
“So let’s do it… together?”
The aircraft took off at 9. This time I had won.

Tuesday, January 5, 2010

Wolf Whistle

The alarm went off. Yet again.
I sat up with a start. I was late! I had overslept… that too on a day of a very important meeting with a venture capitalist. I stumbled across the room, stubbed my toe on the bedside, burnt my tongue on scalding hot tea and rushed out of the house in 20 minutes flat, giving up my breakfast in favour of a clean shave. I was angry. Livid. At myself. The world. And everything in between. Right now at the lift which seemed ages to come to my floor.

As a young man who had decided to go ‘all entrepreneurial’ as my friends put it, it was difficult to get out of a regular job profile and try to set up and run my own business. It had been almost 18 months since I had started out on my own. I had a few good ideas that needed the right kind of push… and of course the very right kind of funding. It was an uphill task but I was not one to give up. I was touching 30 soon and somehow thought that this would be my watershed year. I had to make it or break it.

I got into the car and stepped on to the pedal. The watchman at the gate must have just seen a blur, but I really did not want to be late for this one. Not every day do you meet Venture Capitalists who are actually asking for ideas with their cheque books on the table. My heart was pounding with excitement; I was beginning to see the light at the end of the tunnel.

Absentmindedly I flicked to the one radio channel that I listened to, mainly because they played good music. Being late and hyper was not a great combination while driving in peak hour traffic and I was hoping some good music would calm me down or at least occupy me so that I did not swear at every vehicle that came remotely close to me.

After a few minutes I was reasonably in control of myself and it finally looked like I was going to make it pretty much on time for the meeting. My blood pressure which had reached medically impossible numbers seemed to be coming close to normal as I still inched forward in the traffic. As the song ended on the radio, the RJ started droning on and on. While I loved the music on this channel, the radio jockeys left much to be desired. Considering the sonorous monotone with which today’s RJ droned on, she probably had been deprived of her morning pick-me-up. Then in an attempt to be funny she talked about some needless research that had been done in some part of the western world.

Apparently 8 of 10 women were actually flattered when men wolf-whistled at them. I smiled. She continued. Further research had shown that 3 out of 4 men did not whistle at women for fear of being labelled cheap or freaks. I smiled even more. My mathematical mind quickly opened up an excel sheet to see how many flattered women were out there considering only 25% of the men actually whistled. I laughed out aloud. Already I was in a pleasant mood.

So much so that I did not see the car in front of me lurching, the next minute the hazard lights were on and before I knew it the car came to an abrupt halt.

Screeeech! I slammed on my brakes just in time! Just when I thought I was in control.

Fuming I got out of my car, slammed the door and went to the driver’s side of the car in front. “What the….!” I said, but regretted it immediately. Before I could even finish, she gracefully got out of the car and said, “Look I am sorry, I’ve been trying to change lanes but no one ever gives way in this city. My car’s been giving me trouble since some time; it’s just that I could not move to the side to stop. Sorry…“

I breathed out audibly, looked at my watch and stared at her, really not knowing what to say. I looked behind at how close my car was to hers. There was no way I could move my car without the 10 odd cars behind backing up. I just shrugged my shoulders helplessly.

She however continued,” I’ll just get a cop to help me move it to the side… I know… I am holding up peak hour traffic… I’m late myself. But there’s nothing I can do.”
I looked at her clear honest eyes and sighed. I was not one of those who fell for the damsel-in-distress stances. Funnily though, here was, technically speaking, a damsel in distress, who was pretty much in charge of herself. Impressive, I thought.
Before I could react, she had walked across to the traffic policeman. From a distance I could see her explaining her plight to the policeman who was nodding sympathetically. In moments he had rustled up a band of motley street guys and before I knew it she was leading them back to her car authoritatively.
In my mind, the honking of the cars behind faded into oblivion as I stood enthralled by her car. She had left the car open, and the window open (and true to all women) even the radio on. As I came back to myself I heard that same sonorous monotone of that RJ! Funny I thought, she listens to the same radio channel. I smiled.

“Oh, I see you find humour in the situation. Give me a minute and you’ll be well on the way. I love the fact that people do help in this city.” Saying that, she nimbly stepped in. The motley gang took their stance behind her car, the policeman shouted instructions and her car was slowly wheeled to the side. I watched for a moment. Then looked at my watch again. All this had taken only about 5 minutes but to me, I had gone through a rollercoaster of emotions. The worst was the one I felt now. A sense of loss. I did not have her number.

I shook my head as I got into the car, almost in a daze. I stopped for a moment to make a quick call to the person I was to meet. I was going to be ten minutes late. He was surprisingly most accommodating.

I reached my destination. Somehow the whole presentation did not seem important. My mind was on that girl I had met. In some perverse way I wished I had actually crashed into her car. At least we would have exchanged our phone numbers.

The receptionist asked me to be seated.
A few moments later, she said, “They’ll see you now… follow me.”
They? I wondered.
I was expecting to meet only one person. I asked the receptionist who the other person would be. “His partner, of course,” she said as she opened the door.
I walked in to see two people sitting across a large table. As I stared openly, Mr. Gupta came around the table and shook my hand.
“Welcome, I was looking forward to this meeting. Meet my partner Ms. Sengupta.”
I smiled. So did she.
“We’ve met” , she said smiling as she shook my hand. “This morning.”
We both laughed.

Months later as we sat one lazy evening in a coffee shop overlooking the sea, I held her hand and confessed.
“Did you know, the first time I saw you, I actually wanted to let out a wolf whistle? “
She smiled, “But you didn’t. Because you would have been labelled cheap or a freak?”

We both laughed. We were both on the same frequency!

Sunday, September 6, 2009

Monday-morning Blues

Monday morning.

The sun was shining brightly outside. A stray bird chirruped outside my window. And a gentle breeze wafted in. All seemed right with the world. The world that is, not my world.

I just turned over and continued to lie in bed. My immediate thought? So what if it was a bright and beautiful day, it wasn’t for me. If this was going to be a day anything like what the last few days had been, I did not even want to open my eyes.

The past two weeks had been harrowing. Ever since that Friday two weeks ago: the day I quit my job out of sheer frustration. It had been a nightmarish scenario where I had been made a scapegoat. Changing my job had been on my mind for several reasons. I felt I had not been really appreciated for all that I put in. Thanks to a superior who had vested interests and his own personal agenda. I tolerated it to an extent. But when I was pulled up in front of a client for something I had not done, I thought, enough is enough. There was only so much I could take. I submitted my resignation in the very next hour, took a waiver on my notice period and walked out.

I was sailing high on the cloud of optimism, for a couple of days after that. There were so many things I wanted to do. See movies I had missed. Catch up on books I wanted to read. And sign up for that 3-day Feng Shui course. In the meantime I would look for another job, one where I was recognised for my worth.

My cell phone rang, shaking me out of my reverie. I looked at it suspiciously. Of late, I was not in a mood to speak to anybody. Checking the number on the display I saw it was Sonia. I had to take that call. Sonia was my one friend at work. Yes, friend. In an eat-lunch-or-be-lunch corporate scenario, I had actually found a colleague who had grown to be more than that. We shared office gossip, our own personal secrets and sought each other out for advice. We celebrated our little job victories together. And commiserated with each other’s falls. What would I have done without Sonia!

She was the only one who consistently told me that I had done the right thing. Optimist to the core, she kept saying that I had a better future in store. Her optimism was infectious. But two weeks and several job rejections later, my optimism had lost its shine like a brass jug exposed to the salty air of the sea.
But back to the insistent ringing.

Hello”, I said dully.
Hi”, chirped Sonia from the other end, making me look up at that bird still on my window. “Still in bed? How’s it going?”
Yes, with the job search and all. How was the interview on Friday? Any result?”
Yeah, sure”, I said dryly. “The outcome was a big No. Actually, it was not a NO, it was a YES MAYBE, some time in the future. Oh, you know how it is, Sonia. I’m so fed up of this. This is the fifth rejection so far. I don’t know whether I’m ever going to get a job.” And I broke down.

There was silence at the other end. I thought I had dampened Sonia’s optimism. But Sonia was indomitable.
Do you know what I just read?” she asked me gently.
No”, I said still sniffling. And actually not really interested.
Sonia continued, “I just read an article on successful job-hunting tips by someone, I forget his name. Anyway, he’s talked about a model for the typical job hunt. He says, the more NOs you get out of the way, the closer you are to YES!”
Oh”, I said, still not getting the point.
Don’t you see?” Sonia gushed excitedly. “You have five NOs out of the way, my dear friend, it means you are getting closer to a YES!”

Good old Sonia. Wonderful dear colleague mentor friend philosopher guide. She always had the right things to say! Or possibly to read. I could have hugged her then.
Sonia continued, now in a sterner voice, “So my dear jobless friend, I now suggest, you throw back the covers, get up and start getting more NOs out of the way.”

I laughed. It was a bright, cheerful Monday morning after all.

Monday, August 17, 2009

The ties that bind

‘Here, take this tie.”

I paled. It was one of those days when we had no meetings scheduled and I thought that the strangling neckgear in the heat could be done away with. But here was my boss handing me a tie.

“But…” I stammered.

He cut me off. “You have an appointment at 2. I will speak about it later. Come back to my office in about 30 minutes. I have some important calls to make.”

That was Mr. Rao, my immediate senior for you. Curt, to-the-point, no-nonsense. I, of course, knew him as a man with a heart of gold. This was my first job and over the past three years I had come to, silently of course, regarding him as my mentor. He had in his own brusque, business-like manner taught me everything I needed to know to ensure a smooth transition from college to career. A bit like ‘what they don’t teach you at Harvard’. I really appreciated that.

One promotion down the line and I thought I was settled. This was the job that I wanted all my life. I was doing well. Life was good. And I saw opportunity for growth within the organisation provided I worked hard. Mr. Rao, of course, believed in working smart. Well, ok, I thought I was smart enough to stay here without jeopardising my career prospects in this small but growing organisation.

At times Mr. Rao in his subtle manner talked about complacency and the need for change to ensure growth. I was not so sure. We always had an argument about the comfort zone at work. He felt true growth came from change. Words, just words, I thought. But then, they lingered at the back of my mind.

Half hour up, and I gently knocked on Mr. Rao’s door. The tie definitely needed an explanation. He looked up from his desktop, over his gold-rimmed reading glasses and said casually, “It’s an interview. I’ve instructed Janice to update and print out two copies of your resume. Your application was already sent last week.”
Stunned, I stammered, the second time in the day, “But…”

He continued, “You need the change. And this is as good an opportunity as it gets. I don’t think the interview should be a problem. Provided of course, you reach there on time.”

I stood there speechless. Interview? But I had not asked for it. Then why had he done it? What did I know about interviews. My last one was when I joined this place. Of course, I had grown since then. I stayed in touch with current market trends and knew my work well. Hard work. Constant updates. A finger on the pulse of the market. And of course, my boss.

Mr. Rao looked up again. “Oh yes, remember in any interview once if you really are what they are looking for, the final clincher is honesty..."

I continued gawping. Speechless.

Mr. Rao looked down at his papers, summarily dismissing me. "Now if you will allow me, I have this report for the CFO that I need to concentrate on.”

I stumbled out. The rest of the day went in a blur. Janice handed me my cv on an alabaster sheet. Along with that was a glowing recommendation letter from Mr. Rao. I knew all the right things to say at the interview. Till they asked me what was the one thing I would miss about my earlier workplace if I chose to join them.
Honesty. The word popped up in my mind again.

“My boss.” I said, “He has been my friend, philosopher and guide and I appreciate all that I have learnt from him over these years”.

I got the job.

Now I was excited about the change. I was taking one more step towards growing in my career. When I called Mr. Rao, I thanked him profusely. “Sir” I said tentatively, “how can I ever thank you for what you’ve done?“

He simply said, “ Could I have my tie back?”

(c)All rights reserved

Friday, July 17, 2009

The Flying Lesson

I could visualise him. Neel. My little wide-eyed, wanting-to-know-everything-about-everything grandson. All of six, he was the driving force of my sixty years. I could picture him right now, nose pressed against the glass pane of the window, waiting for me. Waiting for that evening at the aero-modelling club. While here I was at the Board meeting called unexpectedly, but unavoidably, on a Sunday.

I sighed inwardly. At sixty, I had retired from work. But not from life. I had always looked forward to a quality retired life. With my work having taken me far and wide, and reluctantly away from the family, when my own children were growing up, I had decided that spending time with the family would be a priority.

But work did not let me go so easily. As a member of the Board of Directors of three companies, retirement just meant that I didn’t have that corner office anymore. Meetings, seminars, conferences, award functions, still took up my time. Especially when all I wanted was time with the family. Especially the new generation.

Sometimes I wondered, was it because I was too busy when my own children were growing up? Did I lose out? Were they deprived? Then I realised that grandparents and grandchildren shared a special bond, and here I was experiencing one of those blessed relationships in life. I wasn’t going to think too deeply about it. I was just going to make the most of it.

Somewhere at the back of my mind, an article I had read began to ring true. It talked about how ‘Dads’ influenced children and their behaviour right up to adulthood. So what if his Dad was busy. I was a notch up: as a ‘grand’ Dad! I could still do my grandfatherly bit.

That’s how the ‘Grampa Sundays’ came to be. Every Sunday, Neel and I would plan a little ‘misshun’ on our own. It could be a visit to the museum, an hour at a distant park, the aquarium or simply a walk on the beach. It was just our special time together. Neel and me.

No bribes of ice-creams, special rewards of chocolates or promises of gifts from his parents could take Neel away from our little Sunday outings. On my part, I tried my best to plan something new every time.

A shuffling in the chairs brought me back to the meeting. It was decided to call the meeting to a close. As I got into the car to drive back home, I casually glanced at my watch. And gasped in dismay. It was past six in the evening. Neel would have had given up on me. It was too late now to take him to the open ground where they flew the model airplanes. Neel had been looking forward to it all week. And now I had let him down. My heart sank. How was I to face those big, brown reproachful eyes? How was I going to make up for the loss of a Grampa Sunday?

Then an idea struck me. I swung my car around, walked into the nearest department store. Within minutes I was on my way home. The temperature at home could have sent the hermits of the Himalayas into deeper penance. Gingerly I opened the door to Neel’s room. He sat on one corner of the bed, and gave me a reproachful sideways glance. Inwardly I thanked myself for my last-minute thinking. I would never have survived that look.

I went over and sat next to him. I knew this was not the time for an explanation. I simply said, “Sorry, Neel. You know the time we spend together is very important to me”. It was like the floodgates were waiting to open. He burst into tears. “But you promised to take me there… show me those model planes fly! I wanted to see those aeroplanes fly!”

My eyes welled up too. I quickly gave him the package, saying, ”You know what? There’s something better you and I can do today. Look what I have got for you. ”
Somewhat tentatively Neel opened the long rectangular gift-wrapped box, glancing at me in between, trying to gauge what was inside. When he opened he gasped. It was an aero-modelling kit of balsa wood, complete with a small motor. Quickly wiping his wet nose with his sleeve, Neel looked up at me and asked, “Can we make this… now?”
“Of course, we can”, I said, “it’s still Sunday, remember?”

We worked late into the night on our model. It was that of a World War II fighter-bomber. And as it took shape, even my heart raced with excitement. Neel was handing me little bits to glue together, running around with excitement from time to time, his hands spread wide like the wings of an airplane.

Neel agreed to go to sleep only after I made a secret promise to him. The next morning, we both rose early and went up to the terrace. There Neel took out his first model aircraft. Handing him the remote control I placed the little wooden plane at a distance. At the flick of the switch the motor whirred and the plane took off, tugging at the string that held it to the ground.

Looking at Neel’s face in the gentle light of the morning, my heartstrings got an even bigger tug. I may not have been much of a father, but by trying to be a conscientious grandfather, I had rediscovered my boyhood. Finally, I was flying as a grandparent.