“Swim here New Boy…now!!” K dictated as he spat on the floor near the wooden desks. The New Boy was trembling with fear as his feet resembled the dance steps of the popular Ketchup song. There wasn’t enough water to swim but enough to drown him in the realm of fright. He took a sizeable number of blows from K and kicks from the two-dozen audience of class VI students. The only trade-off: a bubble gum he had purchased with great difficulty for Rs. 1.50. It meant more than what a bottle of Jack Daniels would mean to him now. Parting with it with a heavy heart, he cursed his parents for getting him to his fifth school in 8 years of academics.
Fifteen years later, as he prepared to join his fourth company in 4 years of corporate experience, the plight of being tagged a New Boy throughout his life just flashed in front of his eyes. Whistling past towns and cities with an arrogant horn, that of a steam engine, New Boy realized how he only took pit stops at certain stations and then moved on. Not every station was forthcoming and warm. Each time the train arrived, the crowd welcomed it with loud roars of “New Boy”.
Each year the New Boy would struggle to build his identity, pick up the new local language, turn hostile classmates to friends and get biased regional teachers to appreciate his efforts. Next year, like a pawn he’d be picked up from the white checkered square and placed into the black one. He would learn the tricks of the trade, master the operational processes, read the pulse of the client’s whims and massage the ego of the insecure manager. Next year the entire world would conspire against him and create an Economic Downturn to ensure he chose another job.
Cities changed, so did schools and organizations. Tiny, fiery eyes gave way to dark skins with protruding lips; Kela Bongali (bloody Bengali) changed to Bangali Saala (bloody Bengali again); “just a fresher” changed to “you can’t have direct reportees yet”. What never changed is our innate propensity to judge. If only as human, our retina allowed us to see beyond the color of the skin, the size of the eyes, the accented speech, the salary one drew or the number of years one had worked…the numerous New Boys wouldn’t dread to make a New start each time…
Monday, January 31, 2011
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
My Idea of Equality as on January 18, 2011
It’s a 6:30 am cab for office this winter morning as i recollect the candid conversations with my doctor-cousin a few years back. Anosmia he says it is. When you lose the ability to smell...and to a great extent taste. The Indica takes a left turn from the dump-yard where on usual days the stench is unbearable. Today is different. I look outside the window pane, oblivious to the reek of the rotten waste across the road, the aroma of boiling tea from little shacks and the smoke from broken huts. A copy-pasting job surely kills your appetite but this morning there's more to it.
The tasteless days last for weeks, sometimes an entire month. Anosmia grows with each day. Anger turns to frustration and explodes into despair. The loneliness I am so fond of screeches aloud in my head. The symptoms seem synonymous to PMS. Except for that one doesn’t start shouting randomly at colleagues or burst into tears or argue over non-existent issues. It gives you a perspective though and it's fun. It acts like caffeine, stimulating your brain right from the start of the day. I can't help as my nose and tongue pull me into an egalitarian mode. There’s nothing as a pungent smell or an alluring fragrance; and a bitter-sweet taste or tangy flavour. Everything is simple – Insipid and Equal.
For breakfast in the cafetaria, the 6 foot tall, spike haired, parantha-loyalist Delhite; and the petite, shy looking, dark Tamilian who craves for a vada dipped in sambar – they all look the same. Why the cold war? I feel confused. The Tamilian sniffs the freshly poured sambar and gives me a smirk…not sure why. Reminds me of the numerous Sholay jokes where Thakur is asked to toss the coin, shake hands or pick up the phone.
From the brightly lit conference rooms to our very own ammonia lab (read men’s toilet), I can’t spot a difference. I see a senior manager, an analyst and the floor cleaner – all composing enchanting music, that of a placid waterfalls standing next to each other in the loo. Just that every musician has a different expression. The senior is a visionary, too engrossed, as if in a superior connection with the divine. The analyst is too shy...perhaps intimidated by the senior musician’s presence; frequently looking at his instrument, composing melody at an intermittent tempo. The cleaner is nonchalant, a thorough professional possessing a been-there-seen-it-all manifestation. He performs as though the stage is all his and leaves before the automatic flush could applaud his concert with a thundering drizzle.
From the convoy of Merc and Volkswagen that brings in a troop of fair skinned clients from the west; to the formal-clad assistant manager (whose shirt is crisply ironed and shoes that shine like his slime-ball head) who greets (almost salutes) the guests with all his paan-stained teeth out…..They all look the same.
From the boss in electric blue shirt who actually knew nothing but incessantly had “I knewed” (to be pronounced as “nude”) on his lips; to the loony intern from a premier pharma college who is at other's mercy to swipe him out of the glass enclosure even when nature calls him aloud....they all look the same.
Its ironical that due to some involuntary action, my fingers type in Swami Vivekananda’s Chicago speech on google this morning. It’s the same speech that I would have read a million times since Class III. Not that it is difficult to comprehend; it’s a masterpiece in true literary sense. But the timing is spotless. Swamiji elucidating the importance of equality and tolerance during an era of religious extremism and social evils…And me getting a forceful taste (or rather lack of it) of the need for equality in turbulent times at workplace.
The day at office ends with a very serious dilemma as I approach the customer friendly coffee vendor in the cafeteria. Should I have coffee or tea is the question. Without a blink of an eye, picking up a steel cup he says “coffee saar…strong-aa?” The Sholay jokes start looming large in my head….
The tasteless days last for weeks, sometimes an entire month. Anosmia grows with each day. Anger turns to frustration and explodes into despair. The loneliness I am so fond of screeches aloud in my head. The symptoms seem synonymous to PMS. Except for that one doesn’t start shouting randomly at colleagues or burst into tears or argue over non-existent issues. It gives you a perspective though and it's fun. It acts like caffeine, stimulating your brain right from the start of the day. I can't help as my nose and tongue pull me into an egalitarian mode. There’s nothing as a pungent smell or an alluring fragrance; and a bitter-sweet taste or tangy flavour. Everything is simple – Insipid and Equal.
For breakfast in the cafetaria, the 6 foot tall, spike haired, parantha-loyalist Delhite; and the petite, shy looking, dark Tamilian who craves for a vada dipped in sambar – they all look the same. Why the cold war? I feel confused. The Tamilian sniffs the freshly poured sambar and gives me a smirk…not sure why. Reminds me of the numerous Sholay jokes where Thakur is asked to toss the coin, shake hands or pick up the phone.
From the brightly lit conference rooms to our very own ammonia lab (read men’s toilet), I can’t spot a difference. I see a senior manager, an analyst and the floor cleaner – all composing enchanting music, that of a placid waterfalls standing next to each other in the loo. Just that every musician has a different expression. The senior is a visionary, too engrossed, as if in a superior connection with the divine. The analyst is too shy...perhaps intimidated by the senior musician’s presence; frequently looking at his instrument, composing melody at an intermittent tempo. The cleaner is nonchalant, a thorough professional possessing a been-there-seen-it-all manifestation. He performs as though the stage is all his and leaves before the automatic flush could applaud his concert with a thundering drizzle.
From the convoy of Merc and Volkswagen that brings in a troop of fair skinned clients from the west; to the formal-clad assistant manager (whose shirt is crisply ironed and shoes that shine like his slime-ball head) who greets (almost salutes) the guests with all his paan-stained teeth out…..They all look the same.
From the boss in electric blue shirt who actually knew nothing but incessantly had “I knewed” (to be pronounced as “nude”) on his lips; to the loony intern from a premier pharma college who is at other's mercy to swipe him out of the glass enclosure even when nature calls him aloud....they all look the same.
Its ironical that due to some involuntary action, my fingers type in Swami Vivekananda’s Chicago speech on google this morning. It’s the same speech that I would have read a million times since Class III. Not that it is difficult to comprehend; it’s a masterpiece in true literary sense. But the timing is spotless. Swamiji elucidating the importance of equality and tolerance during an era of religious extremism and social evils…And me getting a forceful taste (or rather lack of it) of the need for equality in turbulent times at workplace.
The day at office ends with a very serious dilemma as I approach the customer friendly coffee vendor in the cafeteria. Should I have coffee or tea is the question. Without a blink of an eye, picking up a steel cup he says “coffee saar…strong-aa?” The Sholay jokes start looming large in my head….
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