Requiem For a Dream

So, a lot has happened since the time I last posted here. Indian cricket has hit its nadir, Vidya Balan has created Bollywood history of sorts (go girl, go!), UP has just passed from one set of thugs into the hands of another, and Rahul Dravid did the only thing any dignified individual should do.

I didn’t watch the test series against either England or Australia, though I did hear abt them and later, read their coverage. I don’t know if you’ll call me a pessimist, but to me these twin series marked the end of an era, a golden age in Indian cricketing history that for me began not with our Wold Cup victory in 1983, but with that memorable test victory against Australia in 2001. Harbhajan Singh created history during that series and nobody could quite comprehend then captain Sourav Ganguly’s strange fixation on this spinner. For me, that test series has always been abt one thing alone - possessing ‘balls of steel’ - something which I consider as Ganguly’s legacy to Indian cricket. Does that mean I am belittling the efforts and achievements of the other players like Tendulkar, Dravid, Laxman and Kumble ? No way.

All these players epitomise the joy of watching cricket for people of my generation; of uplifting a beleaguered team to its moment of glory. To claim, as some do, that its only moment of glory was lifting the World Cup last year, is foolish. Excellence takes years to come by; it is a by-product of a manic desire to hold the bull by its horns; and of an unquenchable thirst. Once you have sat at the bar drinking the finest liquor, no matter how badly you crave a drink, thirst is only an idea, a vague concept. So, no, I am not going to write off our current players, nor am I saying that they are at fault for playing too many matches or being involved in too many endorsements. They are just not thirsty anymore. Enough said.

The newspapers are full of columnists playing tribute to one of India’s finest batsmen. As I read them, I am filled with a deep sadness: maybe Dravid is a greater player than Ganguly after all. Look at the outpouring of genuine admiration! I am simply blown away by Rahul Bose's tweet, "Rahul Dravid reflects an india that is honourable, ethical, hardworking, and thoughtful."

Please note that I use the word greater and not better. Greatness is not a mere matter of statistics; it is a holistic concept of hundreds of minute qualities and habits and choices and achievements and decisions that define a person and his legacy. It is the goodwill that a person leaves behind when he’s no longer around.

In an odd way, it seems befitting that I write about my favourite sport in such elegiac terms today. The past few weeks signified the passing of an era in a personal sense too. But let's not talk abt it today.

Perhaps my next post will be abt a good book or film; perhaps it will be a long rant about uncouth Indians who rush into the elevator as if there’s a fire raging behind them; or maybe I will end up telling you why I think Barack Obama should kick Biden's ass and nominate Hillary as second-in-command; or maybe I will just tell you abt the time the world fell apart and the plate slipped from his hands as he looked on with helpless anguish.

One Last Breath - RIP Chris

When certain events unfold, they say Nature joins in the mourning. Flowers bend their heads, birds forget their music, and the musk deer loses her fragrance. I'm sure something like that happened today, for as i suddenly looked up from the computer screen, i was startled by the darkness outside. Rainfall in December in Mumbai? C'mon! Then my eye caught sight of the news. Everything fell into place. Why not? After all, 2011 didn't spare many.

While I didn't always agree with some of his views, I couldn't help but be dazzled by the clear, cold logic of his reasoning; his wit; his unequivocal support for the values he believed in, and his unflinching commitment to calling a spade a spade, diplomacy be damned!

He was often in the news for his controversial views on Islamofaschism, his support of the invasion of Iraq, and his disbelief in God. I'd like to believe, the man possessed a heart too large and an imagination too liberal  to accommodate our puny definitions of God. In his own way, he was a greater believer than either you or me.

If you haven't read him before, this would be a good place to start: where he knew the end had begun. And yes, do please read this too: a smack reply to all those who offer glib platitudes in the face of cosmic helplessness.

RIP
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Time To Go Home

Late and starting to rain,

it's time to go home,

We've wandered long enough, 

in empty buildings.

I know its tempting to stay

and meet those new people.

I know its even more sensible

to spend the night here with them

but I want to go home.

We've seen enough beautiful places

with signs on them saying

This is His house. That's seeing the

grain like the ants do,

without the work of harvesting.

Let's leave grazing to cows and go,

where we know what everyone really intends,

where we can walk around without clothes on.

by Rumi

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Always Luminous

Not sad or anything, just a feeling of loss that there wont be any more of his wonderful films.

RIP.

Whimsy: Doubt is

....  as insidious, itchy, & persistent as the sting of the bed bug.

... as calamitous as the toddler's frivolous blow to the house of cards.

... permanent as the names you carved beneath the wooden bench.

... as devastating as a prima donna's first wrinkle.

... as hopeful as a death-row inmate.

... as resigned as a passport applicant.

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Try as she might, the key did not turn. After a quick frustrating struggle, she realised the locks had been changed. When? Why - the thoughts raged within her. Not wishing to give in to the doubts that'd assailed her for the past few months, she broke the kitchen window and stepped inside. At first nothing seemed out of the ordinary, then she noticed the pictures.  Had so many people really grieved at her passing away?

@ the Dance Class

I don’t think of myself as a hyper attentive or indulgent mom. In fact, most people tell me that I’m way too severe with D. I dunno, I’m like my dad I think. He was very strict too & the only thing I remb. dreading as a kid was his displeasure. Yet, somewhere he succeeded in instilling the unshakable faith in our minds that his love for us was boundless, that he was our pillar no matter what else went wrong. That remains true even today. 

The thing abt her is that she’s a strange mix of flippancy & forgetfulness and soulful sensitivity and as she grows older I can discern when one overshadows the other. Usually nothing u can say or do will dent her armour of complete indifference when she makes repeated spelling mistakes or has lost her new water bottle or is unable to do something that most of her other classmates have completed; but of late, there have been instances when I can suddenly glimpse a facet that reveals she is hurt or painfully self conscious. I don’t like to see her that way.

She’s been having problems at this dance class I’ve enrolled her. It’s not some tough classical kathak academy or anything, just some light bollywood hip-hop numbers. Though she likes dancing, for some strange reason she’s uncomfortable and unable to pick the steps and do well there. It came to a point a few weeks ago when she said she wanted to stop going to class. Now, I’m not the sort of parent who’ll send her kid for Abacus tutorials or Phonic Kids or Personality Development (I kid u not!) classes, but I do believe, if you’ve started something, don’t just drop out because it’s getting tough. Try it for a while at least. I said as much to her and now make it a point to return early twice a week so that I can drop her to class and just generally bolster her spirits or cheer her after the class by grabbing a milkshake at McDonalds or something.

Today, the dance teacher had assigned a slightly older boy to take charge of the class as he was busy with some other kids. On an impulse I stayed back and was observing D’s class from out of a small crack between the door and the frosted glass.  Apparently they were doing a dance which D was totally clueless about! I mean, her movements were rigid and unsure and after a few minutes the boy started scolding her and the other kids snickering. Usually if we are at home and I scold her about her spellings, she is quick to shoot back some rejoinder. But there she stood, absolutely quietly, fidgeting one toe then the other, and I could see the acute embarrassment that gripped her. I still don’t think I have the power to convey in words all the thoughts and feelings that assaulted me immediately. My first impulse was to walk inside and ask the other kids to shut the ef up; I next wanted to tell the boy to stop scolding her and teach her the steps instead. And yeah, I wanted to tell her that not getting a few stupid dance steps right, is not the end of the world. 

But I couldn’t do anything but stand there and watch her discomfited. I didn’t even feel like returning home then, just sat on the stairs for a while. In that moment I knew, I have the strength to face anything He throws at me, as long as it isn’t directed at D. I love a lot of people, but the kind of ferocious love that I felt for her then, scared me. How am I going to ensure that she is spared the serious health hazards or deep hurts that dodge us through life? What can I do so that while she rides the crests and troughs of life, she is never sucked underwater?

A scene from Finding Nemo comes to mind. Marlin tells Dory, ‘I failed him. I told him I’d look after him forever and I let him be lost.’ Dory replies in her half comic half serious way, ‘Boy, that sure is a strange thing to promise anyone.’ She's right.

I know she’ll be a lil upset when she returns from the dance class today. She doesn’t know I was there standing outside when the others were laughing at her. Perhaps, we’ll order some takeaway and watch an hour of Finding Nemo together. Those impossible spellings can wait for a day, I'm sure. 

Egypt & The Finkler Question

I work with a global logistics behemoth and things have turned completely topsy-turvy in the last few days owing to the crisis in Egypt. We have been bending over backwards communicating updates to anxious customers and assuaging fears. There is skeletal staff at the cairo offices. For inter-office communication via messenger we use the Microsoft Office Communicator (OC) application. Usually it is work but sometimes it’s a nice device to learn more abt people sitting in far away places, thinking different thoughts and seeing things you’ll never be able to. Rashid Alwai is the communications executive in Egypt and as we were discussing what updates to issue, the conversation meandered off to the current uprising.

Whenever such events unravel, the world and media form opinions abt its impact. People actually facing these events often have totally different things to say. For Rashid, the ousted President Mubarak was not as bad as he’s being made out to be. At a very simplistic level, he feels that only those Egyptians who have no work or are too lazy to work are part of this opposition to Mubarak. Though I didn’t argue with him I don’t think this is the complete truth.

Mubarak’s 30-yr rule has been fairly authoritarian and he’d even been planning to instal his son in his place. Discontent was natural.

I’m currently reading The Finkler Question. A lot of jewish authors have tackled the question of jewish identity and inheritance in their works but this has gotta be the most in-your-face kinda book I’ve come across. As I was thinking abt Egypt yesterday, I wondered – what would be the repurcussions for Israel. After all, Egypt had been the jewish state’s most powerful ally for decades. What happens if the Islamist Muslim Brotherhood comes into power after fresh elections? It has always opposed peace with Israel and will go all out to rouse Arab nationalist passions, if not for anything than to consolidate its position. With the Hezbollah in Lebanon, Hamas in Gaza, can Israel really bear the burden of an Islamist Egypt?

A broken-hearted D told me yday that her close friend Aarya had refused to share her stickers and chocolates with her, despite D having always shared her stuff with Aaarya in the past. What moral conundrum! How dyu explain to a 6-yr old sweetheart what you still haven’t figured out yourself. Told her, she should try explaining to Aarya that it wasn’t a very nice thing to do to one’s friend. Couldn’t tell her that she too shouldn’t share her stuff in future, nor did I feel like advocating the path of calm acceptance. There is enough time for all that later.

Pens For Hire & the Radia Tapes controversy

I spent some time reading the transcripts of some of the Radia tapes. Lot of mudslinging, lot of biggies offering their two cents and lot of experts bemoaning the state of Indian journalism. Now I wonder, didn’t people know before this story broke out that most of Indian journalism is peopled by liberal arts graduates, who in the absence of any talent and viable career opportunities, join a newspaper after graduation and climb the ranks slowly. Having started my career with the one of the prestigious newspapers in Kolkata and then having moved to Mumbai, I was appalled when I started work at the Express in 2001. To say that the editorial quality sucked, would be an understatement. What was more disgusting was the lack of political awareness and any thought-building endeavour which every individual (not just journos) should possess. Reporters covering the hospital or education or BMC beat would saunter in around 4 pm in the evening, file a routine story which lacked any element of journalistic enterprise and demand bylines. Those were early days and I recall the almost daily arguments I’d have with two senior correspondents who used to cover the Dabhol power scam and the Ketan Parekh story. I gradually discovered a world beyond the mediocre environs I was ensconced in. I discovered Joann Hari & Stephen Fry from the Independent, Maureen Dowd, Paul Krugman , Stanley Fish from the NYT, Henry Porter from the Observer and several others. I also loved Bhanu Pratap Mehta, Sudheendra Kulkarni, Tavleen Singh, Swapan Dasgupta and MJ Akbar from mainstream Indian media. Oh, Vir Sanghvi too.

And now, Mr Sanghvi has let down fans like me so badly. I don’t have anything original to say beyond what the worthies are talking about, save this – something precious has been irreversibly muddied wrt these columnists whose articles I so looked forward to every week. I followed their views, usually nodding my head vigorously and occasionally even disputing them in the comments section. The disputes never mattered for this was an exercise in learning, in forming opinions and views where an expert perspective was available at hand to guide me. To be told later, ‘Babe, whatever you read was merely a transcript of the views that were fed to him/her from a partisan industry insider solely interested in pushing his/her agenda’ is worse than adulterated liquour in my book. Sounds melodramatic, but true. So pardon me if I sound mad or outraged as Arundhuti Ray usually sounds.

What is also interesting are the clarifications offered by Sanghvi and Barkha Dutt in the face of the controversy. While Barkha claims she didn’t feel the story was important enough (a Sr. NDTV journalist now needs tutoring on what comprises an imp story!), Sanghvi says he has to speak to various sources to gather opinion in his capacity as a columnist. Of course, poor child didn’t know that gathering opinion and then arriving at independent, unbiased conclusions is what a columnist ought to do – not parrot lines fed to him by industry lobbyists.

What is hilarious is the way people are baying for Barkha Dutt’s blood, turning their personal dislike for her into a once-in-a-lifetime-opportunity to get back at her for all those time she mouthed homilies for the cause of the Naxals or the minority community displaced in Gujarat. I am no fan of Barkha Dutt but I think it’s important that we take note of one small detail here: she is a cog in the wheel of a much bigger cart. Why aren’t we questioning the PMO, or the finance minister who promises probe after probe after much damage has been done or the CBI who has held on to the tapes since 2008. If Radia was under the Income Tax department’s scanner, why weren’t these disclosures investigated before?

And no, I don’t want to end on the desultory note that ‘nothing will come of this’. I still believe in Ratan Tata & I didn’t find anything particularly objectionable in his conversation. He is a paying client and it is only right that he appoint as his PR consultant one of the most well-connected people in the industry. I see no conflict here – a capitalist hiring the services of someone he believes can deliver what he wants at a fair price. The conflict of interest is for journos like Sanghvi and Dutt whose pens are for hire; and the conflict of interest is for those politicians and bureaucrats like Ranjan Bhattacharya who gleefully claims, ‘Ab toh Congress apni dukaan hai.’

A Matter of 'Adarsh'

The last line says it all.

Freedom to Choose

For as long as I can remember, I have always hated those sleek black phone covers people protect their expensive BlackBerrys, Iphones and Nokias with. I have never used one of those and enough people have commented on my decision. You use a phone, it will gradually wear away; to try and protect against the inevitable seems futile. Somehow, it reeks of a lack of courage, the inability to color outside the lines, to explore the moon. Very few people can do these things and they change life forever for ordinary mortals like us. Galileo did it, Thomas Cromwell did it, Ayan Ali Hirsi is doing it now. Therefore, it is imperative that we allow artists and free thinkers all the freedom that there is. Sure, there will be those with hidden agendas, there will be those in the pay of political parties who will sell their art to push forward their narrow, vested interests. But in due course, people will learn to distinguish the wheat from the chaff.

What saddens me is the rise of the Hindu extreme right, as a kind of reaction to Islamic fundamentalism. I adore Rohinton Mistry & see no reason why his books should be banned from the Bombay Univ curriculum simply because they carry insulting notes about Balasaheb and the Shiv Sena. This is like saying a mother will stop loving her child if others say bad things about him/her. Followers of the Shiv Sena and fans of Balasaheb will stay committed no matter what an author writes. I know this, for despite everything, I still possess a certain degree of respect in my heart for the late Bengal CM Jyoti Basu. In matters of liking or rejecting someone, the intellect often falls short.

So, no, the book shouldn’t be banned. Nor should Ms Roy be stopped from dropping her two cents (if she's arrested, she'll claim martyrdom for life). Let people be. As it is, there are too many rules to follow and too less space to navigate our lost ways. 

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The Bill of Lading

It serves as a badge of inclusion,

Endower of titles,

In a world full of labels,

It helps avoid confusion.

We got it when we were young,

You and I both were taught to use it with care.

You settled here, never crossed the mighty ocean,

I voyaged to Tahoe and Hana and set in motion.

Ancient curses and cursed passions.

I’d heard of those from her,

Seen her wither and die,

Didn’t heed her warning cry.

Travelling to foreign shores,

Without a bill of lading?

I was called to settle the scores,

And pay the dues of mating.

I met the captain, just a while back

A kindly man, but not one to go slack.

He read the penalty, imposed the fine,

It was unreasonable, I gasped,

It was payment in blood, for a glass of wine.

I couldn’t protest, you were not around,

I paid in full, head hung in shame,

What once seemed pristine,

Is now steeped in blame.

You smiled smugly, in silk robes replete

The impostor had been ousted,

The ancient curses calmed,

The rites of passage are now complete.

Failure ...

... rankles, undermines confidence, deprives sleep, forces you to confront old demons. Once you have failed miserably, is there any sense in re-attempting the same? Even if you do well the next time, will the pain of the first attempt vanish? No. That is your's forever.

The problem with eternal restlessness is that you are forever seeking, easily moving from one fulfillment to another, never quite sure what you want. Restlessness is a curse, and self-doubt and loathing are close cousins. For the quester wants are like clay dough that children play with - changing shape and easily malleable. Anything goes. And if you are forever seeking and striving, you are bound to fail sometimes; the odds can't support you forever.

You are a moth and all you ever wanted was to be a butterfly. When you do finally metamorphose into one, you tear those beautiful wings.You spend all your life seeking something and when you finally find it, you realise that's not what it was about. Or you do something stupid and lose it. What then? You decide to key in a new search. Thus begins Eternal Sunshine of the Restless Mind.

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I read Updike's seminal 'Run, Rabbit Run' again recently. Morbid is too mild a term for such works. Yet, I understood his impulse to run. Point is: do you run towards or away from?

I used to listen to this song a lot while growing up; post a late night conversation with L, she said something and it came back:

Run To You


I know that when you look at me
There's so much that you just don't see
But if you would only take the time
I know in my heart you'd find
A girl who's scared sometimes
Who isn't always strong
Can't you see the hurt in me?
I feel so all alone

I wanna run to you
I wanna run to you 
Won't you hold me in your arms 
And keep me safe from harm
I wanna run to you 
But if I come to you 
Tell me, will you stay or will you run away

Each day, each day I play the role
Of someone always in control
But at night I come home and turn the key
There's nobody there, no one cares for me 
What's the sense of trying hard to find your dreams
Without someone to share it with
Tell me what does it mean?

Devdas, the Shakespearean King and their Rights

I'm not a huge fan of SLB but you gotta give it to the dude: when he gets it right, he evokes the tragic grandeur of Guru Dutt. Check the above scene even if you think SRK is worse than H1N1 & the Afghan mujahedeen combined. C'mon, it's less than 2 mins!

When i first read 'King Lear', i was puzzled cause i couldn't appreciate any obvious tragedy in what happens to Lear. He's a cranky, selfish, egotist who doesn't really care about anyone but himself & gets what he deserves. But wait, let's not be hasty. The beauty of this great tragedy is not what befalls him, but what it makes of him. There is something deeply moving and almost spiritual about the way he changes once he has lost it all - daughters, the crown, dignity. Yet, never has Lear stood taller than in those scenes on the heath when he stands challenging the elements. There is something about being stripped of all your dear possessions that must shake the very foundations of who you are.

Devdas refers to something similar in the film above. He has been stripped of his village, his home, his beloved, and wonders when it will be his life. It is shattering if one comprehends that the man is left with no centre to define himself anymore. He has to start from scratch or simply perish. However, like Lear there is a bit of assertion left in him. The world gives and takes away temporal titles and rights. But, there are some unassailable rights which no one can take away from us. It is this right to his mother's affection that he speaks of. These are the rights we arrogate to ourselves to make meaning of our lives & cling to in our darkest moments. Probably what makes them so unique is that there is no expectation that flows from these rights - they are deeply personal & ours alone and you know no one can take them away. 

On middle age versus youth

Explaining he phenomenon of middle age that replaces the excitement of youth, judith warner writes, “There are trade-offs: intensity versus contentment, exaltation versus peace. And perhaps the best exchange of all: you trade in an idea of yourself for a reality that, if nothing else, can make you laugh.” Don’t know whether I should find solace in this or give in to the feeling of utter poignancy it evokes. Desolate seems a good word. Perhaps the fundamental difference is the gradual dawning and acceptance that you are neither the centre of the world, nor are things going to get much better. Life is, it will.

Paradise Lost or Rejected

'Dev D’ reminded me of the DPS MMS scandal that shook the nation a few years ago. At that time I like many others was unequivocal in my disgust and loathing at the spectacle of young children who had made news out of peddling what should have been the most sacred (ok, I am old fashioned) and private of acts into a sickening display of how fast track technology coupled with rampant consumerism had eaten into the moral fabric of our lives. I cannot say that I never stopped to think about the girl in question, I did; but there was a sort of quasi ‘she-got-what-she-deserved’ strain that diluted much of my anxiety and concern about her future. A larger share of my sympathy was reserved instead for the parents who through no fault of their, were being forced to live and participate in this nightmare.

I think time and motherhood has changed a lot of that – not that I find the whole episode any less distasteful. What has changed is perhaps that the focus of my attention, the pivot, has shifted from the two adolescent participants to the surrounding world that encompasses them.

One of the common ideas that has unified all nations and civilizations across ages has been a uniform insistence on the ‘myth of the lost childhood’, a recurrent idea that has permeated popular culture through films, TV talk shows, and literature, and even occupied a special place in anthropological and scientific studies. This theory of childhood as an exalted place of special privilege and innocence that has succumbed to a Faustian future of eternal damnation actually arises from our own inability to fight the very forces that usher in such bleakness. Parents regularly lose sleep over a whole range of issues and usually interpret ‘corrupt’ or wayward behavior in terms of simple morality, of ‘good’ versus ‘bad’, of ‘us’ versus ‘they’, of ‘then’ versus ‘now’. What we fail to realize is that they are a product of our lifestyle – the 24x7 stress, high degree of competitiveness, parents’ busy schedules and the accompanying compensatory consumerism. All of this often results in conveying conflicting set of instructions to children.

A closer examination of our motives and lives will reveal that most of our moral panics regarding our children are merely a reflection of our own fears. Mostly it is the fear of losing face, alongside the more fundamental fear of loss of ground. Not only are we apprehensive about what others’ will say, we’re plagued by insecurities regarding the social standing and economic well being of our children. So great are these insecurities that we struggle without comprehending that the real focus of our anxiety is not that the child fared poorly in his mid-term semester but that we intuit in this the seeds of a far greater failure to live up to the standards prescribed by our success.

It doesn’t help that medical jargon and the media often offer an easy way out to parents with their overblown focus on ‘messed-up kids’ or, ‘emotionally disturbed adolescents’; they offer clueless parents a way out to avoid looking inwards, to introspect and take stock of the highly complex problems of everyday life.

Maria Kefalas, of St. Joseph’s University, a specialist in teen sexual behavior says, “For a 14-year-old to be having sex it’s usually a symptom of a kid who’s really broken and really hurt. ...Teen pregnancy is so high in America compared to other places not just because of access to contraception but because we have a lot of poverty. But Americans don’t want to see themselves as a poor society. They want to make a moral argument: if only teens had better values.” The same can be applicable in every case in differing degrees.

While I largely agree that more than parenting, one’s peer group influences early behavior to a large degree, the onus on setting the right milestones rests squarely on us parents/guardians. In this light it is important that we re-examine the very nature of the milestones and whether they gel with the larger domestic fabric of our shared lives and interactions. It is no use lecturing one’s children against rampant materialism if buying a toy after every bitter argument you’ve had with your child is your way of demonstrating love. Instead of blaming the West or the onslaught of MTV or Channel V or mulling the strange appeal of teenage style icons like Britney Spears, we need to cast a keener eye on the kind of dysfunctional household where a child finds nothing wrong in uploading nude photographs of oneself on the Net. Imagine the lack of real life model in the child’s life who cannot even envisage a lack of self esteem in the act; imagine the desolate solitude of his existence where he is so starved for attention that he is incapable of discerning between right and wrong kinds of attention.

Cross posted from 4indiawomen

Fallen Angels - On Expressions of Grief

Currently there is a debate raging within the U.S. military over its awarding of the Purple Heart – the prestigious President’s medal to war veterans. Historically, the medal has gone only to those who have been physically wounded on the battlefield as a result of enemy action. The Pentagon’s recent decision not to award the Purple Heart to soldiers suffering from post-traumatic stress (PTS) has caused great controversy and disappointment to family members of those suffering from PST. During the 2004 presidential election, John Kerry’s Purple Hearts, awarded for his service in Vietnam, were dismissed by his opponents because the wounds he suffered were not considered grave enough. While many who suffer from ‘perforated eardrums’ (the commonest war injury) receive the Purple Heart, the Pentagon has overruled the eligibility of those other fallen angels, those suffering from PTS, to receive the same, citing ‘difficulty of accessing seriousness’ as its chief justification.

At the heart of the Pentagon debate lays the futile attempt to somehow, quantify and qualify such variables as damage, grief and pain. So accustomed have we become to ISO certifications, benchmarks, standards and regulations that we are in fear of losing our essential humanity, that single bond that alone can mitigate our individual tragedies and sorrows. The vainglorious and impatient man is so insulated in his plush cocoon of temporal victories, of troubles overcome and hurdles crossed, that he forgets that there are those who may not share the same fortitude or courage that he’s been blessed with.

“Stop wallowing in self pity, after all you have other things to bother about. Look around, there are millions with far greater problems than this stupidity you’re obsessed with”, had said the mother of the 18-year old girl who committed suicide over one of the commonest trifles in almost every adolescent’s life – heartbreak, a broken relationship. Actually, it could be a host of other similar issues – poor academic performance, failure to gain admission into IIM at the third try, merciless ragging in the hostel. We laugh at these curious instances of adolescent angst and grief and loftily proclaim a hierarchy of sorts.

After all, what are these when compared to the headaches of us middle aged busy professionals – endless mortgage payments when you’ve just lost your job, a messy divorce, a diabetic father-in-law who refuses to watch his diet and requires hospitalization almost every week, the daughter whose blood transfusions are getting more frequent with every passing day, a philandering spouse or … … hey, feel free to add your own variations.

No dialogue is possible between the two groups for each is competing with the other to prove the supremacy of their grief, not share it.

People make a big thing of those who complain, who seek to share their sorrows; crudely put - of the proverbial pain-in-the-ass. He/she is shunned at office parties, goes uninvited at weekend luncheons and is barely ever asked out during a Friday night drinking binge. People assume he’d either decline, or worse still, spoil the soiree. We never stop to ask ourselves if there is any relief we could offer to the poor soul, concentrating instead on what he can or cannot offer us.
“Take it easy/ move on/ look towards the end of the tunnel” – life is so replete with these utterly moronic exercises at profundity that I wonder how will such sage discourse help a mother whose 25 -yr old firstborn is counting his last days in the hospital; likewise how can I even dare to advise/show the Citibank executive how he should channel his rage after he has just lost his job and has a family of six to look after? To attempt to write off or qualify any of their concerns reeks of the worst degree of insensitivity and high handedness.

It’s said that happy people make happy employees. Fair enough. Are we then suggesting that we marginalize the unhappy, the depressed, and the unfortunate (for whom happiness is a premium). Why can’t we, the merry band, take a bit more onus for the others? After all Bill Gates could as easily have sprouted the famous management mantra to the refugees in Congo and Rwanda, “Work your ass off, or languish in hell.” But he didn’t. To never have felt pain and yet weep for another who is in pain calls for far greater nobility than an ordinary human being can summon. Pushing the envelope is what I call it, and maybe, it’s just a dash of empathy that we all need today.