It was time for him to leave – again.
She died a million deaths – again.
Waited with silent anticipation for his return.
To be born again – to live and die – yet again.
She was attending an Urdu reading – a series of hard-hitting and cynical anecdotes and observations about human nature – set in the backdrop of the India Pakistan partition. The narrations rang out with the religion-tinged, communal haze characteristic of the period – dividing people on the basis of the faith they were born into.
The intellectual audience, comfortably ensconced in the distance that history creates, felt safe in the present.
She scanned the place and noted with mild, yet genuine surprise that the group was predominantly comprising cultured Muslim intelligentsia.
Miraculously that morning, I was running nearly two quarters of an hour early. It was an alien feeling. I was pressed and dressed, the house was clean, the kitchen counter wiped down spotless, the fish were fed and my sole little plant had been watered. There was nothing more I could do at home. And so, almost reluctantly, I headed out to work some twenty-five minutes before my usual time of departure.
I contemplated taking my usual diversion – a circuitous and yet swifter route to office, but then decided on the direct, albeit typically busier route.
“Oh what the hell,” I reasoned to myself. “I have all the time in the world to kill.”
The roads were still sparsely populated, as peak hour traffic was yet to start. A sleepy little policeman waved me onto the center lane. With one eye on the car ahead of me, I fumbled with the car stereo as I plugged in my music player and leaned back in my seat – enjoying the first strains of John Denver’s guitar. Languorous mornings are a special time – meant to be savoured for every little moment of pleasure they afford you.
It was with this thought in my head that I drove up to the Barista on the way to work. A freshly ground cup of java and a warm banana muffin sounded like the perfect accompaniment to my day – and so I shifted gears, flashed an indicator and rolled the car into the vacant parking spot outside the coffee shop. Going in meant pausing the song – and it was with some reluctance that I turned down the near melancholic strains of music, propped my sunglasses on my head and stepped out of the car – slamming the door shut.
The coffee shop looked quiet – in anticipation. There was the single barista-hand behind the counter, looking up at me, as I pushed the glass door to enter. Since I am a caffeine addict, and a regular, we knew each other by face. I tipped my head slowly to one side in acknowledgment as I approached the counter. A gentle aroma of warm roasted coffee beans wafted up to greet me.
“Good morning,” he smiled. “A takeaway coffee with one Demerara sugar?”
I love the easy familiarity.
“Yes please,” I nod happily, looking towards a pastry case overflowing with freshly baked muffins. “Can you also warm up a banana muffin to go?”
He starts to open the case and reaches for one glorious specimen with his tongs. “How about some vanilla butter and jam to go with it?”
“Hmm”, is all I can manage in happy approval.
I look around as he gets to work. It’s a warm, sunny day and the orange walls of the coffee shop seem to glow in the morning sun. There is soft music playing in the background, and the smell of caffeine is everywhere. I screw my eyes shut, enjoying the grinding of the machine as he dispenses my coffee, the steaming of the frothing milk and the chime of the oven. This is what heaven must feel like.
When I open my eyes, he is stirring the sugar into my takeaway cup and dropping the warmed muffin into a paper bag. Two more customers have walked up to the counter and are standing next to me. I wonder how long they have been there for.
Suddenly one of them lashes out with surprising ferocity at the barista hand, “Do you know, that in the time that you are taking to make up this lady’s order, a normal person can finish his breakfast?”
The moment is gone.
I wryly hand over the money for my order. He scurries back with the change and apologetically wishes me goodbye.
As I walk out, I watch the reflection of the two men in the glass door – as they place their order and find a place to sit and wait. I cannot understand the essentially Indian need to be urgently noticed, instantaneously served and fussed and fawned over, especially at restaurants and cafes. If only we could get over the need for an ego massage – would the joy of being in the moment make itself known to us in a flash of clairvoyance.
I take a sip of my velvety coffee and laugh to myself as I walk back to the car. Sometimes the need to be acknowledged over rides the pure pleasure of the experience.
Today was the first day after the big day.
Satyam finally came out with its financials last evening – restated to incorporate the impact of the 1.5 billion dollar scam perpetrated by its erstwhile chairman – in what can only be termed as India’s answer to Enron. It was a proud moment for my team in finance – a moment of tremendous achievement and collaboration between us at the office of the Chief Financial Officer, our Finance team, our consultants – KPMG and our auditors – Deloitte. The effort was enormous – as all incumbents spent a stream of near endless nights and days – toiling to tie up loose ends and release full and transparent disclosures.
It was one of the best hands on lessons in Corporate Governance and transparency that one can get.
I have learned that Corporate Governance cannot be taught, learned or enforced. It is not a system that can be put into place. While the framework is necessary as a preventive measure, I have learnt that ample opportunities exist for ‘creative’ management. You can still comply with the laws of the land, the accounting standards of the world and stand up to scrutiny, while actively engaging in profit planning. You can trade on insider information on behalf of your extended family and it will probably go unnoticed. You can travel executive class and bill it to your bleeding company without a second thought. You can bribe politicians, secure contracts and manage judges all in the name of business. And you can most definitely dream up yet another two billion fraud, execute it, spend a year in custody and then be out a free man at the end of it all.
Life’s like that.
Rules and laws, policies and procedures are fantastic guidelines – but they can never be fool proof. We have all made that personal call from the company land line, picked up the pencil or pen from work, charged our non existent medical and fuel bills to the reimbursement facility and basically made really simple personal choices that are quite contrary to our workplace policies of honesty and integrity. Often a fear of being caught and the consequent stigma attached to it is the only thing that holds us back from committing acts with a higher monetary impact. Policies like a whistle blower policy or even self-certifications only force us to calculate the risk and reward of any situation. And so, while I may pick up a pencil from work, I will hesitate to walk out with a hundred dollars (or even the one rupee that the pencil is worth!)
But think of the best companies in the world – Companies that are known for their high standards of Corporate Governance and immediately the face of the leader / entrepreneur behind the company’s success will also flash through your mind. Ethics are always a personal choice and never enforcement. And so, governance is merely an extension of your personal value system – an Infosys will retain its excellence till Narayan Murthy and Nandan Nilekani stay associated with it. Beyond them, it is a question of the values of the next leader who steps into their shoes.
But then, how do we create lasting governance standards, you may ask? The only answer to that is, by upgrading our value systems as a society. It is only when your personal dharma prevents you from spending an extra rupee – will you make that same choice for your employer or company. It is only when you are a kind hearted individual, will you genuinely extend yourself for your stakeholders. And finally, it is only when you are an honest soul – will you find in yourself the courage to come clean with your employees, shareholders and customers.
Corporate governance is anything but corporate – it is all about yourself and the choices you make.
Business ethics was easily one of my driest subjects at university – probably because it missed out on the personal front. But the yearlong journey with this company has taught me with tremendous clarity – that creating or destroying a Satyam (Satyam = truth; in Sanskrit) is not in its information systems, policies, audits, regulations or disclosures.
It is a split second choice that each of its employees faces every second in his or her career – The choice to stand by personal values or yield to temptation.
I sat back and glared at my laptop screen in frustration. The email intimated me of yet another performance review – the fourth in six months. For a company that does not pay very well – it sure as hell finds multiple occasions to ‘appraise’ its employees. This time it was meant to be a telecom review with a panel comprising ‘senior management from the company’ and my immediate reporting manager – Durga.
Word on the street has it that they were most unhappy with Durga’s recommendation for an out-of-turn promotion and increment for me. The unhappiness manifested itself as repeated clarifications, discussions and finally ballooned into a full blown power struggle that was escalated all the way up to the Chief Operating Officer for a resolution. I got my increment – and they – simmered away, waiting for the next occasion to prove their point. This was going to be that occasion.
Anyways – enough of background now. So I glared at the laptop screen in frustration. This was unbelievable. I had been appraised more number of times than a new bride steals shy glances at her newly wedded husband. And yet somehow, here I was, yet again listing out my role responsibilities and accomplishments in a template that appeared jaded and somehow clinical. Work has been a bit of a roller coaster ride – long hours, limited personal time and an environment of stress and uncertainty. Sometimes even Durga’s repeated encouragement and appreciation strikes a hollow chord.
And so, I perfunctorily populated the review template and sullenly dragged it over to Durga for his approval. He was inordinately busy – buried in a pile of papers and phone calls – trying very hard to keep a collapse of the entire system at bay. He definitely did NOT have the time for this red tape-ism right now.
“Can you spare a minute or two please?” I asked with some hesitation.
“Sure”, he peered up at me. “Sit down. What seems to be the problem?”
“Oh, you need to appraise me yet again. I am so sorry. It appears like the feedback process in this company is unidirectional and robust!”
He smiled gently and reached out his hand for the appraisal template. “I do agree. Let’s have a look, shall we?”
For the subsequent ten minutes, the only sound in his office, was of his pen scratching away vigorously at the papers, while I gazed around the book shelves tentatively.
“You cannot be so routine about your appraisal Shruti”, he said suddenly. “You have to tell people what you have done – what SHRUTI has done. You have to educate them on the difficulties you face – this is most unlike a regular assignment.”
“Hrrmph”, I mumbled.
He seemed to have not heard me.
“Take it back. Make the additions I have scribbled. Try and add some more color and detail. Your passion is missing in this. Write about how this assignment has had a physical, intellectual and emotional strain on you”.
I stood up and dragged my feet out unwillingly.
He raised a quizzical eyebrow at me, “You seem to believe otherwise?”
“It’s just that they often convey that being a premium recruit implies tremendous hardship – late work hours, poor rewards and tough appraisals. They won’t appreciate it.”
“But tell me Shruti – do you think it is sustainable?” he asked me gently. “And moreover, why would that stop you from fighting? I could not have implemented so many things if you were not around.”
“It just seems over rated to me, that’s all.”
One look at his expression and I knew that I had gone too far.
Pressing his mouth into a thin straight line he reacted; “Leave the ratings to me please. You concentrate on the communication. Please spend an hour or two and really think about it.”
I walked out and flung the sheets of paper on my desk.
My colleagues looked at me and tried to console me with some well meaning, albeit even more depressing thoughts: “Relax, you are just caught in a power struggle. It’s got nothing to do with you. Just get done with this.”
Finally, after much procrastination, there were no excuses left to avoid sprucing up the presentation. I chewed on the end of my pencil as I tried to think of interesting points I could add. I jogged my memory for interactions I’d had with teams, problems we’d dealt with and challenges we had faced. Durga had scribbled little pointers on each sheet and I used them to add depth. Eventually it reached some level of respectability and so at an unearthly hour in the morning, I clicked the ‘Send’ button and dispatched it to all the reviewers.
The appraisal call started ten minutes late. Durga was in a meeting that had spilled over, I was unable to find the dial in code and my stomach was a jumble of nerves and butterflies. I hated being there. Much too soon though, we were in the call.
The Associate HR Director called out plaintively, “Shall we begin? Shruti please start your presentation.” And so the ordeal began. Slide after slide, I took them through my points – adding Durga’s penciled in notes and little details from my experiences. After the first two slides, the curious combination of breathlessness and listlessness I was encountering had faded away. It stopped bothering me that I was being appraised by an audience who knew nothing about me, and who probably merely wanted to prove that I did not deserve the increment that I was receiving.
It was almost like there was a spectator Shruti inside me, who was listening to what I had to say for the very first time – listening, appreciating and encouraging – reliving my experiences as I waded through them. I remembered details I had forgotten, relived and really appreciated the stress and pressures that I had encountered and re-celebrated the successes that I had achieved. It was an alien experience – almost like waking up.
The presentation wound up and the panel started to give their reactions and feedback. They were unanimously appreciative of the work I had done, the commitment that seemed to jump out at them and the clarity that my communication carried. I had Durga to thank for most of it.
But mostly, I could not wait for the niceties to be dispensed with and for the call to be over. There was a wave of warmth spreading from my toes and fingertips to my cheeks and ears. It was nice to be appreciated. But more importantly it was most fulfilling to be able to enjoy my own journey. What is a simple task for most people to appreciate – really came together for me only after this presentation. Life’s little joys are in the details – in the memories we create and the enrichment we gain from re-living them. Accomplish this and then how well other people receive you, or even the politics that may surround you, starts to fade into insignificance.
Sometimes it is good just to be reminded.
I often meet new people (especially now that I have shifted continents), who in the course of current social norms, ask for me my email address and eventually add me as a friend on facebook. Hence it is not long before they discover this blog of mine. Curiosity piqued, they read through it, and end up mildly surprised. (It is my personal opinion that the surprise is directed more at the fact that a benign, cheerful and reasonably average person like me could foster a complete secret blogging world of opinions, stories and experiences.)
Consequently, I encounter interjections about my writing skills; or even an air of familiarity from a recent acquaintance, who has spent an idle Monday afternoon, reading through my experiences. If only they understood the reality – I suffer from a lifetime of writer’s block.
And I am not exaggerating. My blog home screen, often stares back at me, with a sense of despair, as I sift through the thoughts in my head – not unlike a drowning man clutching at straws.
Stepping back, I now realize that the ingredients were all there – Take two cups of a family of eloquence – generations of great writers, readers and orators, add to it a pound of passionate reading, stir in a convent education focused on languages and serve fresh garnished liberally with a mix of travel, cultures and experiences. I think, the question then, that becomes relevant, is that how on earth have I managed to avoid writing more frequently,
It is a hard one to answer. I think that most of the battle is fought in my head. I remember thinking up elaborate plots for books, as a child. I recall writing limericks, poems (at the time I thought they were heart wrenching, now they appear more of the gut wrenching type!) and even publishing a few in the school magazine. And yet, every time the words spilled out of my head on paper – they seemed to pale in comparison to the wonderful standards I had in my head. Valiant protagonists seemed to lack depth, plots that sounded so meaningful in my head came across as sketchy and the humor seemed scratchy and strained.
And all the time, as I followed the stories narrated by my expressive family – laugh till I cried at the funny ones and was moved by the touching ones, a part of my brain was constantly admiring the gift of effortless expression that they seemed to enjoy. I would often scribble little pieces of prose and poems in diaries – till mum once found them and read them, post which all writing attempts were summarily abandoned in embarrassment.
All those years though, I was convinced that there was a great novel in me, just waiting to be put down on paper – but I would wait till the words decided to well up and flow unabated.
One month into my Australian stint, I met Saee Keskar – we became housemates and she introduced me to the concept of blogging (her own blog, being quite a delightful read). I suddenly realized that here was a safe forum to experiment with. I could blog short sketches – so what, if they were not Booker Prize material. I could experiment with dialogues, rhyme, narratives, abstract concepts, character sketches – anything. I would often get feedback from a few readers, but for most of the part, I was just another anonymous addition to an ocean of bloggers. There were no expectations of excellence from me.
The freedom was strangely exhilarating. And when my family and friends did eventually chance upon it, I even started to receive some compliments and admiration. My parents distributed the link to my blog with a great sense of pride – it became a talking point with people I met. People started telling me that I have an easy style, or that I write from the heart and even that I write with great panache. All of this was much to my constant, genuine astonishment – I believed I was yet to achieve the kind of output that deserved such a mention. Oddly it came from the very people, whom I deemed as outstanding authors. Along with all this new found glory, often came the dread of having to live up to expectations of excellence.
Writing is the one thing in the world that I love – it motivates me, thrills me, and enlivens me.
Writing is the one thing in the world that I truly hate – it makes me feel dull, talent-less and boring.
It’s like being caught between a rock and a hard place!
It has taken me a long time to crack the mystery behind my ‘Writer’s Block’. Talent does not equate to an effortless output. Instead, it demands diligence, persistence, risk and commitment. Most of all though, it demands self confidence. Till such time as I can truly crack this mantra, my writing will stay limited to sporadic bursts of excellence on my blog. It will never translate into that wonderful book of my dreams.
And I truly believe that there is a book inside me, just waiting to be written. So, I must keep chipping away at the block
I was driving back, near mechanical and dead tired, after a vigorous aerobic workout session. It was way too early in the morning, and I was sweaty, groggy and hungry. The beats from the loud, pumping music that we jump around too, was still playing in my ears. I crossed into the exhibition grounds right behind my house. Home and a hot shower were only minutes away. My foot crept up to the accelerator – almost as if it were a magic pedal that could instantaneously transport me back to my house. The complex was flooded with young people, replete in their track suits and leotards – getting their daily dose of cardio.
I live on the outskirts of Hyderabad town, in the heart of what is known as Cyberabad – A locality dotted with glass encased buildings, IT parks, shopping complexes and coffee houses – a testament to the huge software industry settlement that exists here and draws young programmers and executives by the bus loads. I turn on my ipod and plug it into the speakers of my car – globalization has truly caught up with India.
And then I spotted her.
I had only just turned onto my street – complete with its newly sprung apartments and shiny, mid-sized cars – all designed to cater to the needs of the yuppie denizen. She was middle aged, short and plump – her gray hair scraped back into what could only be termed as a pigtail. She was picking jacaranda blossoms off a little tree that was perched on the boundary wall of one of the apartments that I have just described. In one hand she carried a little red plastic bag – evidently used and re-used a plethora of times and folded away neatly after being relieved of its daily burden of flowers. The flowers were picked with eminent care and transferred to the red bag – its crinkles having been neatly smoothed out earlier. She wore basic rubber flip flops and a cotton sari and it seemed like even time stood still to watch her.
Then she was gone – well, actually – technically, I was gone. A direct result of my foot still resting on the pedal, I think. But somehow the quaint picture she painted remained with me all day, with the traditional simplicity of her piety – metaphorical in my microwave-able, modular, centrally air-conditioned and vacuum sealed life. And the fragrance of jacaranda lingered on.
I remember starting to work with Paul in Brisbane, two and a half years ago – a nervous, reserved and awkward girl, who desperately needed a half-decent job to pay the bills. I was thrown in amid a flock of gloriously easy and confident Aussies. There were two more girls like me – both supremely confident, relaxed and comfortable in their surroundings. I felt like the ugly duckling, the stranger between them.
Every day at work, was just that little bit out of my comfort zone in terms of personal interaction. I do realise that there has been a lot of debate and discussion about racism in Australia, but my own experience is most contrary. The average Aussie is a very friendly and open-minded bloke – and this group of psychologists that I now worked with, brought with them a range of interpersonal skills, confidence and laughter. It was so different from the stiff, formal and somewhat distant work environment that I was used to in India.
Every day, people around me laughed, chatted and connected – with an almost gleeful ease, while I sat silent – shy and yet wanting to somehow be a part of these jokes and conversations. Discussions rallied around pets, weekend plans, college professors, diseases, drinks, boyfriends, politics, sport and even sex. They were never intellectualised or third person discussions; instead they were personal – strong opinions and experiences. I had seen nothing like it.
And then, there was the completely different sense of personal spaces. People routinely held my hand – between both of theirs, as they spoke to me. The boss, colleagues and even clients hugged me on birthdays, celebrations, commiserations and sometimes, just randomly. The Canadian director Brian would follow the French habit of planting plump kisses on each cheek EVERYTIME he met me.
And each of these gestures would feel like an invasion on my personal space, at first. Paul noticed my stiffness and was very supportive. In every voracious exchange, he made it a point to ask for my opinion, and listen patiently. Every Aussie nuance and story was explained to me, so I could get the context. When I met Brian for the first time, and dodged his kisses on both cheeks, everyone rolled with laughter. And when I felt safe enough to make a joke or wisecrack, it was celebrated and enjoyed. It was like a release.
Gradually, I felt less and less closed, less distant and more included. It was a safe work environment. We would have pranks, outings, jokes and debates. And yet, everyone was very respectful of my cultural and social boundaries. Every time there was a topic that I found awkward or too personal, I would respond plaintively, with mock severity and raised eyebrows,
“But Paul… I’m In-dian!”
It soon became a joke between us all. Every time someone hugged me or kissed me, Paul would mime,
“But Shroootee is In-dian!”
And as the days passed, pulling me into the future, the boundaries relaxed and the controls melted away. I was subjected to conversations and jokes that could only be deemed as scandalous by Indian corporate standards (Paul colourfully chose to refer to them as grotesque) and would participate without hesitation. And every time someone would laughingly chant…
“But Paul…. Shrootee is In-dian!”
We would laugh, keep track of each other’s personal roller coaster-like lives, empathise, support, celebrate, and share the outrage – all the time feeling safe. It was an extension of my friend circle, family almost. And it was a vibe that was picked up almost instantly by our clients, co-tenants, new employees and contractors. Strangely (or maybe not) everyone was drawn to it, wanting to be a part of this wonderful, caring family.
And all of them would learn the joke,
“Why Paul, Shrootee is In-dian!”
A lifetime later (2.5 years chronologically!) I relocated back to India. Two months after that, I forayed back into the corporate world. Much to the amusement of my new colleagues, I would greet people, ask them about their lives, try to remember details, have chatty conversations and generally keep doing, what had now become a part of me. I was often accused of being over bubbly and too friendly, for someone from the CFO’s office.
“You will get taken for a ride,” I was told by one concerned colleague.
And so, there was a gradual tempering down and modification of my behaviour once again, to suit the current work context. While Australia and Paul had ensured that I could never be a shy, reserved girl again, I did successfully tone down the congeniality.
Or so I thought.
Some two weeks ago, a Senior Vice President accosted me on the Executive Floor. He had been told that it was my mother’s birthday, and he called out to me, wishing me as he walked up, arm extended for a handshake. Hearing a birthday greeting apparently triggered my brain into autopilot… and I reached out and hugged him cheerfully, thanking him affectionately.
There was a curious mix of horror, amusement, awkwardness and paternal affection on his face as I stepped back (mentally kicking myself – the auto pilot switch had been rapidly flicked back to manual mode by then). People around were craning to watch this unexpected display of affection. Laughing it off, we continued on our respective trajectories… but I swear, I could almost here the gleeful voice of Paul floating out to me across the Pacific…
“But Shroooteee…. He is In-dian!”
At ten thirty at night, I am still at work – seated in the cabin of the chief accountant of the company that I have been deputed to. The effort of chasing him the entire day, to attack long-standing issues, has left me irritable and cranky. It is late; I’m hungry, self-righteous and bone weary.
He is balding, tall and lean, with an unexpected potbelly – so characteristic of middle aged Indian men. Peering over the screen of his laptop he looks at me with a neutral expression on his face.
“Yes madam, why have you been hounding me all day?”
“I am hardly hounding you, Sir”, I protest feebly. “I am merely seeking your expertise and input in closing these issues.”
“What issues are you talking about?”
I name the first problem at hand. It was a bizarre situation that involved trying to renumerate an associate in a foreign land, who for complicated reasons, was without a bank account. The problem was being tossed from one desk to another with astonishing frequency, and the poor man in question had all but torn his hair out in frustration.
He tilts his head sideways and listens to me patiently, feigning ignorance. I finish my tirade and wait for his reaction.
“Really?” he asks, eyes rounded in astonishment. “When did this happen?”
Having elaborated on the details, I look across expectantly for him to take the lead. He catches my expression, and with a thoughtful look, fingers tapping his chin, seems to think things through.
“It is a very sad situation”, he comments – almost to himself. And then snapping into action he sits up and methodically lays out a possible courses of action.
“Are you happy with that?” he asks.
I nod silently.
“Excellent”, he says. “By when can you get this closed – the associate must be very upset.”
Stumped – I look at him incredulously. The buck was being passed rather surreptitiously over to me.
“I am facilitating here sir – I am delivering an urgent request to you”, I say diplomatically. “I hardly have your expertise and authority.”
His amused, gleaming eyes do not miss my inadvertent flinch of annoyance. Clicking his laptop shut, he looks around.
“I cannot say anything about you, but it’s nearly eleven at night, and I am really hungry. Don’t you have any biscuits?”
I could not have heard him right, I thought.
“No, I’m serious. Don’t you have anything to eat?”
Bemused, I shake my head. He gets up and walks out of the office, returning five minutes later with a few colleagues – laden with biscuits and cups of coffee. We spend the next ten minutes unwinding, chatting and learning a little bit about each other. It was time pleasantly spent; over much needed sustenance and relaxation.
The air in the cabin seemed noticeably less hostile – almost friendly even. Perhaps this is what management gurus mean, when they say that employees need informal bonding time. Hopefully now, after this midnight caffeine-and-cookie session, we would be able to cooperate with each other. He seemed to think the same as he looked over at me with a twinkle in his eye.
“Shall we get to the next item on your list, madam?” he enquired, smilingly.
“Sure,” I returned happily.
This time, I picked the most contentious outstanding issue on my list – one that people had been trying to get done by him for weeks – and started to detail the problem. Things ought to move faster now.
He squeezed his eyes shut and heard me out. Then with studied innocence he looks across at me blankly.
“That’s shocking”, he exclaimed. “How come no one informed me?”
In spite of myself, I sighed. Management gurus are yet to encounter such seasoned corporate tactics. Coffee and biscuits notwithstanding, it was going to be a long night…!
Somehow things ended up being a crazy scramble to get packed, grab some lunch and get out the door to the airport. I was flying to the beautiful city of Hyderabad for a six-month assignment. After three years of picking up and moving every six months, I have become an expert at packing and pushing baggage allowances to the very limit. And so, clutching onto two laptops, a sack of cabin luggage and a crumpled boarding pass, I boarded the flight and looked for 19F – my assigned window seat.
Frequent travel on all forms of public transport, has led me to develop and confirm a hypothesis of my own. Should there be even one wailing infant either already on or getting on to that bus, train or plane, it is definitely going to be seated within one seat’s distance from me. It’s almost like my own personal take on Murphy’s Law.
“Good afternoon Ma’am,” the air-hostess greeted me pleasantly. “May I help you find your seat?”
An infant bawled unstoppably in the distance.
“Thank you. I’m in 19F”.
I watched her wince involuntarily and eye me with sympathy.
“Let me guess,” I said in resignation. “It’s probably near all that adorable screaming.”
She looked at me tiredly. “It is Children’s Day today and as a promotion, all children fly free today.”
It was my turn to look sympathetic. Clearly, she had had her share of ear splitting babies for the day.
As I sat down in my seat (no surprises – it was right in front of the VERY energetic baby), I could not help but notice two gentlemen walk the aisle to occupy the seats in front of me. It looked like Mirza Ghalib and his companion had stepped off the time traveler’s machine to catch this flight. Complete with loose trousers, long flowing tunics, grey beards and skullcaps – they were the picture of devout Muslims.
Even though India is one of the most culturally diverse countries in the world, you do get accustomed to some homogeneity in urban dressing, especially for men. It was definitely an unusual sight and I could sense that, not just me, but all my fellow travelers followed their progress into their seats. Almost imperceptibly, the young business executives in the surrounding seats shrank away as our two co-travelers found their places, studied the overhead bins suspiciously before shoving their well-worn bags and settling in.
As I stood up to access my bag, I watched one of them keeping an eye on my movements from the corner of his eye. Immediately uncomfortable, I quickly picked up my music player and closed the overhead bin. They were unusually alert and kept scanning the area, keeping an eye on everything. It was making people nervous and a little jumpy. My neighbor mumbled under his breath and disappeared behind a colossal newspaper, while the baby behind us continued to test its lung power.
The plane taxied for take off, during the safety demonstration. Almost immediately the call button for the seats in front of me went off. An air-hostess made her way towards the two men, a look of wary irritation crossing her face.
“Can I get some water?” The younger of the two men requested, while the other mumbled into his cell phone.
“Certainly,” she said. “But first sir, may I request you to please turn off your phone?”
Everyone was on edge while the older man switched off his phone and glared at her. This was definitely not going to be a restful flight. The lady with the baby started to chant a prayer under her breath, not too discretely.
Fifteen minutes later we were airborne, in a near smooth take-off, notwithstanding a heated exchange on the value of seat belts and remaining seated, between the two men and the air-hostess. Presently, the meal service was announced. I watched with some trepidation, as the two men craned their necks, following the progress of the catering team down the aisle. The trolley rolled to a stop next to them and the air hostess looked at them enquiringly.
“Well, would you like Vegetarian or Non vegetarian sandwiches sir?”
“What is a sandveets?” The older one inquired gruffly.
“It’s a stuffing between two slices of bread sir,” she grimaced, after a long, incredulous pause.
He looked at her thoughtfully.
“Is it Halal?”
She shook her head regretfully.
“I am afraid I do not know, sir. Would you like the vegetarian ones, just to be safe?”
She handed out rectangular meal trays and rapidly pushed on with evident relief towards me. There was an explosion of noise from the two.
“What is this thing in the box?” One of them exclaimed, holding up a sachet of ketchup.
“That is sauce, sir”, she answered with admirable calm. “You eat it with the sandwiches.”
Someone next to me snickered. I wondered how a person who had never known a sandwich was now on a flight to Hyderabad. Too many stories of infiltration and terror were rather fresh in my mind. I could tell that I was not the only one thinking along these lines.
The two hours flying time seemed to go one forever, as we watched every movement of the two, much-too-aware of their surveillance of us. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the pilot announced our approaching descent and requested us to keep our window shutters open. The younger of the two opened the window and nudged his companion. Both of them looked out, appearing preoccupied by the wing of the aircraft.
I do not know about the other travelers, but I can vouch for myself and say that I was holding my breath as the plane landed safely and taxied to a halt. Everything went as planned, without a wing blowing or an engine dropping off. Relieved, I reached up for my bags with clammy hands, shaking my head at my fatalistic imagination. A mobile phone rang in the row ahead and the old man picked it up.
“Salaam waley-kum Saleem miya,” he said in Urdu. “We have reached safely.”
The man listened carefully to his caller for a moment and responded slowly.
“Oh yes… we tried a ‘Sandweets’ and ‘soss’ and saw all the houses looking like little toys as we landed.”
Both men grinned at each other – their first smile in the entire journey.
Flooded with remorse and guilt, I took in their innocent exchange. Recalling my overwhelming anxiety and awe on my very first air journey, undertaken years ago, I realized that I had lost the objectivity that symbolizes being Indian. These are troubled, paranoid times and I was guilty of prejudice. I could tell that once again, I was not alone in feeling ashamed. With a sigh, I picked up my bags and smiled perfunctorily at the air-hostess.
The baby continued her verbal assault of my ears. Yet the silent screaming in my head drowned her out.
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