Rationalisations

Several years back, when I was in school, a few of my classmates (and incidentally my friends)
were convicted of having vandalised our chemistry teacher’s residence. While the nature of the
misdemeanour remains moot to this day, I seem to recall a very belligerent vice principal and his
potent ultimatums. I was the class monitor then; as it is with life, I was given the unenviable
alternatives of either letting my entire class burn in the morning sun for everyday of the week or
naming the perpetrators. After three days of sweltering heat, my classmates’ spirits began to wilt;
fingers were pointed and the miscreants were in danger of being exposed. Partly due to my
newly born patriotism (a concomitant of growing up) and partly because I was goaded on by our
geography teacher to maintain our camaraderie - an emotionally charged discussion with my
classmates later, I went to mediate with the vexed authorities. An hour later, I would emerge
with the tidings that our sentence had been reduced; however, with the added responsibility of
remedying the damages caused. As an added bonus, I was also allowed to protect the identities of
my classmates who had fallen from the ‘figurative’ grace.

When we look back at that day, my friends and I usually end up laughing our hearts out.
However, the events of that day also served to underscore my ability to mediate. A Catholic
school which emphasised learning through catechism, the presence of two parents who
encouraged me to question everything around me (while also letting me deal with the trouble that
my curiosity would lead to,) and a younger sister, to whom I was supposed to be a guide, tutor
and friend, invariably led to the development of my ability to negotiate. I also imbibed the desire
to lead and the capacity to think on my toes – an indispensable tool when you have a younger
sister who likes to get you in trouble. I also learnt to deal with disappointment (tipped to become
the captain of the Blue House in class ten, the plans were dropped because we suddenly had two
senior classes,) and turning disadvantage into advantage. (I could now participate in the debate
competition.) I believe that these qualities, backed by my strong academic background, have
helped in my growth as a decent and empathetic individual; I can positively affect the society if
given an opportunity to impel myself forward – an education from a reputed business school.

I completed my graduation in Civil Engineering from the National Institute of Technology,
Durgapur, which boasted a diverse community of students from every corner of the country and
from different countries as well. I was associated with the Music Club of our college as a western
vocalist and later, as the Convener. I was also the mainstay of the team that progressed to the
finals of the most prestigious event (Junkyard Wars) in our annual technological fest (Aarohan)
in the years 2009 and 2011. Junkyard Wars was an event that entailed the usage of ordinary
items to re-invent a device of potential technological implications for the present or the future. I
was also fortunate enough to be given a trial for the college football team (although I could not
convert the same, subsequently.) In our final year of undergrad college, I was involved along
with two others in an academic project which involved the study of the behaviour of reinforced
concrete (RC) beams wrapped in Glass Fibre Reinforced Polymer (GFRP.) GFRP is a material
that is used to retrofit – repair and strengthen – damaged or old reinforced concrete structures.
Several such incidents, planned as well as chance, taught me the importance of providence in
life. I learnt to operate within a team, take responsibility in crunch situations and most
importantly, innovate from within extremely banal resources; as well as put to appropriate use,
potentially powerful and diverse materials towards furthering technological research. I believe
these events have gone a long way in moulding me towards a future in a reputed B-school.
I joined Shapoorji Pallonji and Company Limited (SPCL) as a trainee engineer, after I completed
my graduation in 2012. I was posted in Jharsuguda, Odisha (in the Hindalco power project – 0.6
million mega watt plant); the core of my job was the supervision of the construction, and
maintenance of standard construction procedures implemented on the RC structures. During my
tenure at SPCL, I noticed several factors that led to delays in the execution of the project –
improper allocation and utilisation of resources resulting from blatant miscommunication among
the employees involved at different levels, and strained personal relationships that affected their
performances on the field. However, I was also aware of the amount of effort that was put in to
meet deadlines under relentless situations; the tact and niceties involved in mitigating the
indigenous population of Jharsuguda. This was a life changing experience for me. In my six
months of employment with SPCL, I had been exposed to the realities of life and its vast
implications; the methodology involved in the huge project also impressed upon me the need to
delve into deeper factors that affected the functioning of a company, the human relationships
which affected the project at the grass-root level. I was made aware of my lack of experience and
the nuances of the real world of business; I knew then that I wanted to pursue an education from
a B-school that would equip me with finer knowledge and tact which is mostly imperceptible,
but greatly necessary to handle the niceties of the industry.

I was unemployed for a year; post my decision to leave SPCL. In the period that followed, I was
forced to slow down; I learnt to look at everything from a detailed perspective. I realised the
value of pertinacity, as I commenced a personal battle to overcome my drawbacks, to teach
myself patience, humility and the value of money. Stripped of the capacity to support myself
almost overnight, I forced myself to retrench at every step of my life; my pride made matters
worse as I had almost never asked for money beyond that what was needed (during my
educational life.) I learnt to be tenacious. In a solitude that was thrust upon me suddenly, I now
realised the importance of a family. I felt remorse for the first time, as I learnt to handle the loss
of people that I felt were important to me. I learnt the most important lesson in life, how to let
go. Thus I learned the importance of balancing emotion and logic - the tenets of the business
world. I believe my experience in certain matters and the lack thereof in certain others provide an
excellent mix of balance and an ability to innovate or approach matters from different angles;
thus making me an excellent candidate to pursue a higher education in business – for mostly, I
think I am ready now.

(sic)

Bicycles and hurt egos.

"If you top your class, maybe your dad will buy you a bicycle."

"Okay!"

A flustered looking eleven year old R popped up the suggestion, after the nine year old S had been nagging for a ride on his shining Hercules Tango. Evident, considering the fact that S was inches shorter than R and sitting on his Atlas made no difference.  He'd still have to pedal faster than R, if he harboured any hopes of beating his buddy.

"Ready?"

Chubby looking A squeals from behind his glasses, intently looking across from R to S.

"Yes!", they shout in chorus.

"Go!"

S starts off well. Blessed with a strong heart, he is pumping in the extra volume of air needed for the 3 full laps around P colony. 2 laps later, R's obvious advantage is showing. With bigger tyres, he will eventually edge out S. S' misery is not over yet; in desperation he crashes into the freshly burnt leaves that market the onset of winter. Covered in burnt leaves and dirt, he gets to his feet slowly.

Another day, another race lost. In the distance, R and A are howling with peals of laughter.

 Eleven years ago, such races were considered far more important than getting good grades in class and being made to hold your ears and stand on your desks. For, the proud nine and ten year olds would bravely get hit across their knuckles, for not doing homework; and still make faces at their teachers, when they'd be writing on the blackboard.

Eventually I managed to top my class that semester, and my father help up his end of the deal. I was gifted a beautiful mauve Hero Devil Dx (I still draw flak for its colour; unfortunately I have always appreciated the colour.) I would not stop however, till I won; and my perseverence paid off, as I beat Saikat after a few days. His days as the reigning champion were over. I was the new kid on the block. I was the toast of the town. (That is, the one which is made of the twelve year olds, and their imaginary battlefields.)

For years, my cycle remained my best friend. From racing back in the evenings after tuition, to travelling miles off to different colonies that we had never been to. From being surrounded and chased by buffaloes (many contradict my version of the story to this day) and mad dogs. From riding in the cold foggy mornings to school, when the one dominant party would call a strike on their whims; there being no bus service on those particular days. From watching Apurv ( name will not be changed even on request. :P ) crash into : 

1) cooking pots kept at the side of the road that went through the village.

2) an old man

3) an old man on a scooter

4) an ox, head on (So close to saying RIP, Apurv)

5) could easily add more, but this would embarass him. :P

From making new friends, and wandering across endless boundaries.

We used to have a Philips cycle in our garage, which my father had inherited from his father, who had inherited it from his father, who had bought it from the market. In those days, possessing a cycle was no less than possessing the average Honda of today. I had learnt to ride the cycle on this very bike, that was easily twice my father's and my age combined.When I was handed the cycle for the first time in my life, I was made well aware of the great heritage it carried, and I could almost feel my great grandfather gazing intently. It was a massive cycle, and no one really expected a miracle from a seven year old. I shamelessly crashed seconds after mounting it.

Days and more crashes later, I had finally learnt to ride. That day still remains one of the brightest chapters of my natural life-time.

Naturally, when mother proposed to get rid of it, my father and I protested. As is with the natural order that we have come to accept, our protests were put down effortlessly. Mother, who believes that memories live on in our hearts has never been one to believe in dusty frames and old letters from the past; gave it away to our help.

Naturally, when the presence of my cycle was questioned, I defended desperately and managed to persuade her. I have been clingy all my life. I have always believed in assigning importance to a paper napkin or a certaind deo; or incense sticks because it reminds me of my girl when I am missing her. Or my ex roommie's library card, because that makes room number 311 complete, everyday. I could definitely not agree to losing the one part of my childhood, that I had grown so attached to. 

When I was in class eleven, I had become careless, impertinent, and arrogant. I would leave my cycle without locking it, and attend classes. I was rightfully punished, when one afternoon I discovered it wasn't there. 

What ensued, was a 5 hour long impossible search for a part of me that I had grown unaware of. When Rohit, Manish, Swarup and I finally gave up, I had realised the pain of losing the most wonderful part of my life. I was heartbroken, naturally, and the feeling when my first crush rejected me was an infant compared to this. I prayed to my God, so that the cycle would be returned to me. I was depressed, and I could not accept that I had just let go of my greatest prize.

I spent a week, devastated.

Jeremiad

What can be the touchstone for happiness? How far is someone like you and me, prepared to go to appropriate that what is necessary? When does that what you and I have, become superfluous? Is satisfaction like the peremptory HIV that keeps changing its configuration according to the medication, or like any tangible entity has a definitive cloying point? Is redundancy just a mirage in the pursuit of happiness, or will there be a point when enough is enough? The maxim, money can’t buy you happiness, is grossly misplaced. After all we are slaves of relativity. What is enough for me may have just begun to stir your attention. Want, therefore, is a relative concept. And want is a function of a)cognizance of one’s predicament and b) aspiration. Aspiration can be defined as the conscious appraisal of one’s predicament and the ability to dream, keeping in mind a certain safety factor. This safety factor may be practicable or it maybe hypothetical, but there is no way to determine the accuracy of the safety factor; this parameter is influenced to a large degree by external events which are known to some of us as probability, and as most of us love to call it, God. God has always been a point of fierce polemic while man has evolved; new theories have sprouted and have been extirpated but the intransigence of both parties in this matter implies that the topic remains widely contested every-day. I will however take a non-committal stand, and will proceed by calling this certain potential factor, probability. What are the odds that a mendicant comes across an unclaimed million dollar cheque or a billionaire’s primary estate is razed to the ground by a random event like a tornado? They are very low, but then that is the essence of probability.


The question therefore remains, how far are we willing to discount the odds of an event taking place because they are low? What is the true measure of rubric to be followed when betting on probability? There is sadly, no definitive answer to that. We can only refer to actuarial tables and infer the boundaries of the absurd and the feasible. But occasionally when the supposed sacrosanct boundaries are violated, we are forced to revise our theories dealing with what is risible and what is not. And more often than not we are left not laughing about the upshot. Therefore if I assume that b) aspiration is partly dependent on a) cognizance, we have want as the function of dreams, reality and its acceptance, a safety factor and the undeniable presence of probability. Let me make things interesting by throwing a new parameter into the mix: ethics. Ethics vary from person to person. If you wear a supposedly risqué outfit to the office, how unethical are you? That will depend on the definition of risqué; a décolleté can be blatantly offensive in some parts of the world while somewhere else it might be modish. I will again refrain from being judgemental but I strongly feel this is something that chauvinists and jingoists need to work on. True, there can be no absolute boundary for ethics, but the elastic limit that we have need not be stretched too far either way; or the whole society will fall apart. (Sadly, this is what is happening now, and I have no rationalisation for that; only shame and anger at the moral turpitude and the ridiculous rationalisation of the same by the moral police of our country. There can never be an explanation of acts of cruelty. I am sure no one, however blatant his or her personal appearance is,deserves such bestial treatment.)

Want is important. Want leads us towards advancement. The desire to improve what we currently possess is the spark to development. The unhappiness that roots from being malcontent with the current state of affairs is the beginning of evolution. To be able to dream, to be able to solve an underlying problem, we must face the privation resulting due to the lack of something. Necessity has always been the mother of invention. Whether necessity slept with ethics or money, is a different question altogether. Inventions serve our want. How far we are willing to bend the rules to meet our own demands, how far we are willing to push our resources and sate our greed to the precipice of no return, is a question of bad parenting; ethics is to be blamed for dumping necessity when she was pregnant. Of course she would end up marrying money, but we know money;money is an infidel bastard. And the irony being I have the luxury of condescending on money, knowing full well I would not have a laptop to begin with to write this piece without money.

In retrospection, when I look at the little children playing in the inclement sun, unaware of their predicament, unaware that they have nothing to eat when they return home, I see hope in man. There is this inviolable conviction in their eyes, balanced by the paucity of expectations from life, simply because they have never come across our definitions of material want. What they have is negligible compared to what we throw away. They survive without the basic amenities of life and they are not a quarter as querulous as we are. The most baffling aspect to them is that they are happy! They are only slaves to physical sensations like pain or hunger. They do not assess the future with every breath they take, like we do; therefore they do not have expectations and do not worry about the possible vicissitudes of life.

But this happiness is temporal. With time they will realise that they have had nothing so far and the physical anguish will be accentuated manifold by the mental agony. The waves of despair will begin to haunt them as well, and in the end, no one can be happy. Happiness is such a romanticised word. You can be resigned to your fate, never happy. And if you deny that, you are almost necessarily looking at the means of ameliorating your extant life. Happiness exists as long as ignorance exists. And be grateful that we are not happy. If we were to be happy, we would have accepted everything probability threw at us;thus precluding the necessity of constantly pushing ourselves.
Meanwhile I will continue to wonder at the little children celebrating mock Durga Pujo outside.And I will hope to help them someday.

Continuum

Transience.

Grand pa could never really recover from the shock of the death of his wife; and as complicated as possible are relationships between elders, their love remains exalted. He would live out the remaining two and a half years of his life with us. I was always my grandparents’ favourite. Maybe they loved me dearly because I was the oldest, or maybe I always thought they loved me the dearest. I had never been exposed to having an elderly person in our home before; I didn’t know how I had to deal with him. At first I used to spend time with him, an hour a day cumulatively. Then even that ebbed. I would hardly see him twice a day, even though he lived in the room neighbouring mine. I got busy with college, new friends, new emotions and new priorities. College was a vastly different experience to me. I used to come home on the weekends, sometimes in two weekends; that’d be the only time I ever really got to spend time with my family. Sometimes I used to stop at his room to find him staring blankly at the window. I never bothered to ask him what he’d be thinking about. I always assumed, he were okay. As the days passed and as college grew even more fascinating, my academic prowess dwindled as did my emotional attachment to this man. Something about him repelled me; maybe the musty smell around him, or the constant smell of his skin medication. Now, I like everything to be perfect. For example, I take great care of a new phone when I buy one, but once it develops scratches it becomes extremely pedestrian to me. Maybe seeing a human being in such decrepitude bothered me, or maybe I was too scared of the ineluctable and maybe that drove me away. Or maybe, I just didn’t want to, because I was lazy. I remember his unkempt beard and his bony cheeks against mine, the countable number of times we hugged. Before leaving for college every week on Mondays, I used to touch his feet for blessings and he used to say: ‘You’ll make us all proud one day. I know that’. I used to smile passively and pick up and my bags and go.

During the end of my second year, I failed in a subject. (Ironically, I am very good at that subject now and I am considering another degree to explore it further. That is the story of another man who changed my life, but we’ll save it for another day.) The failure didn’t hit me like I imagined it would. My academic prowess had been waning for the last three years, and I accepted failure as just another day. I came back to my hostel room, proud that I had achieved this inglorious feat as well and my pathetic excuses for my roommates and closest friends that I had, celebrated with me. (I love them very dearly by the way, and the three of them will probably be grinning like arses when they read this line). The World Cup was near and I spent my summer vacation, chasing stupid science projects, women and Spain’s glorious feat. And then one day when I was returning from my then best friend (and before he gets his pants in a twist, he is still my best friend, although I am almost certain that with the burgeoning of new priorities in his life, I have taken a back seat and happily so) Tathagata’s house the day before our college was about to reopen, I got a call from my mother, asking me to hurry up because my grand pa was critical.

I reached home late that night due to inclement weather and traffic conditions. As I walked past my grand pa’s empty room, mum told me that he had been having problems breathing for the last two days. My parents had tried to reach me, but apparently my phone was silent the entire time. I accompanied my father to the hospital and rushed to the ICU. I still wasn’t sure of what I was supposed to feel as we scurried through the connecting pathways. Now there is something about the stench of a hospital that always manages to unsettle me. Maybe it is the ubiquitous smell of the disinfectants splashed lavishly. We stopped when we were standing in front of my grand pa. He was barely breathing, his eyes watery and without an iota of recognition. He was fast fading.

That was when I realised that maybe he would have said something to me. I realised that grand pa was this close to his death and I had managed to not even have the scintilla of regard for what he would have wanted to tell me. If he were to die tonight I wouldn’t be able to hear him say a word, even if he wanted to. I realised that I had so much that I wanted to tell him for so many days, and I didn’t; and now I had completely blown it. A spate of such thoughts rushed through me as I sat down beside dad in the lounge. My train of thoughts was disrupted by a sudden question, “I think he is going to be okay, don’t you?” I looked up at my dad, and even though I knew what I was supposed to say, I replied without blinking, “No. I don’t think so.” Given his condition, we both knew my answer was logically correct. I still don’t know whether I said the right thing, whether he wanted to be lied to. Two hours later, I would be correct.

The next day, as we sat beside each other watching my grand pa’s remains burn (the body is beaten with a heavy bamboo stick to facilitate burning, something I loathe immensely) beside the Damodar, I thought about my past actions, my memories of him and the brilliant glow in his eyes when he’d reiterate his faith in me. When we returned home that day, my father broke down and said, “Now I have no family left!” To which I replied, logically and quietly, “We are your family.” I think, my reply was correct, irrevocably.

I attended college the next day and as I waded through the condolences, I heard that the examination where I could redeem my prior failure had been preponed by a week. I knew I was facing extermination. Now you see, “Design of Reinforced Concrete” is not a subject that can be mastered in a week. I had wasted my summer vacation chasing illusions, and had also lost my grand pa. For the first time, I fell on my knees and I prayed hard. I prayed that my examination be postponed so that I could at the least, pass. I wanted to quit college, I wanted to kill myself. I received a phone call from Ishan Roy later that evening, informing me that the exam had been postponed by a week. I knew that this was my miracle. I used the pretext of my grand pa’s death to prepare from home, where I studied twelve hours a day till I had learnt the subject by rote. I used to murmur formulae wherever I went, during whatever I would be doing so that I could pass. I was nervous on the day of the exam and I was trembling when the paper was handed to me, which prompted the then HOD and my future mentor to smile and say, “Cheer up lad. This is an easy paper.” I attempted everything that I knew.

A week later, the results were out. I had scored 37 out of 70, the second highest. The paper had been checked very stringently, and I had managed a solid performance. This would be my grand pa’s final gift to me, another shot at my life, offered in exchange for his death. I excused myself and went outside the classroom; I sat down on the floor and I buried my head in my paper sobbing.

I have erred several times since, and I have failed in several human relationships since. I still make mistakes; mistakes that I know I am going to regret later. I have also fought with my father since; but these times, I have been temperate. I promised myself I would not throw my life away again. After all, it’s not mine you see. It was lent to me by someone that loved me unconditionally, even after his death. So you see, I am not entirely evil.

There, Bhutra.

The tribute as I promised. In memoriam. 

Temporal

I promised Bhutra I'd write this two years back. Now the content is a little ornate compared to the original plan, but the main idea remains the same.

When you come across the adage, “Out of sight, out of mind,” you (and I) are filled with disgust at the possibility of the existence of people to whom such words do apply. You and I are repelled because we think, and quite rightly so, that we owe this little to someone we know, naturally. We try hard to rationalise that we are human and therefore it “behoves” us to act in a manner that is in concord with “rational” behaviour; behaviour that needs us to respect precepts - precepts that require of us, certain sophistications; behaviour that will help fit us correctly into a society. Women can’t stay out late because it is unsafe for them; you must love your neighbour (in a manner that is absolutely dependent on your priorities and/or certain other factors), and a host of other rules that we ought to adhere to, so that we can fit right in. The basic assumption here is that most people behave in that manner, therefore we must act accordingly. So unfortunate is our adherence to these precepts that when a victim goes to file a complaint, questions like “what were you wearing and what were you doing out so late” take precedence over the simple fact that a gamut of human rights were violated. What I am trying to say here is that, logic and reason should take precedence over tacit guidelines; the simple fact that this kind of deviant behaviour is accepted as normal, given the circumstances is not only ironic, but also sad. Rules exist because we do, not the other way round. Man’s vices are now accepted as an inherent part of him, over which he has no control; give him the circumstances and he will act in that manner, because that’s expected.

But then again there are certain things that are expected of us, because we are human beings. Now we aren’t much different from animals; we act in the same manner, doing what’s best for ourselves and the ones around us. Like animals we believe in communities, in harmonious relationships with others. Occasionally we aspire to do something that benefits others, but then that is because it makes us feel good. We are usually selfish, and quite rightly so. The trick is to use the selfishness in a broader perspective, and call it a virtue. Our actions should not be guided by noble motives; they should be guided by our attempts to do something while not harming others. That is the noblest motive today, if you should ask me.

I am a decent, empathetic person. I feel sad when I find poverty around me; mostly I am not able to do anything. I take a mental note every time I see suffering, that I will change this when I am capable. I feel angry when I read reports of men, women and children suffering in one way or the other, when I read reports that mention how corrupt politicians at the helm are destroying the golden legacy left to us by our fore-fathers. I feel unhappy when I realise that the corrupt passport office needs to be paid up before I can expect my police clearance, even though I have an impeccable record. I feel sad when I find humans suffering and I feel better when I see the pain alleviated. I am basically a good person, because given the circumstances, I wouldn’t harm a fly!

I am also incapable of human connection. I grow tired of seeing the same person over and over again. When I have talked to someone for a long time, I run out of words to say. I am not evil. Probably the only people I can tolerate being around for a substantial amount of time, is my family. Add distance to my lack of longevity, and oblivion is moments away. I think I am afraid of constancy. I am afraid of being around the same people all my life. Yes, when I come across worse, I do long for the past relationships. But as soon as I come across better, the longing is gone. I guess we are all afraid of being tied down, but somehow we learn to adjust. I used to write down the names of my friends on the walls of my room, so that I could remember them. But then, they are just a coat of paint away from becoming the forgotten past.

Don’t think for a moment though I don’t care. I deeply care about the ones I have loved or love. It’s just that when there’s no tumult in my life, I don’t see the reason to be around someone. As far as love is concerned I seriously doubt if I have ever been able to do so, if you go by the clichéd definitions of love, that is. I like it as long as there’s intensity. Once distance and complications creep in, I always get cold feet. Then there are my principles. Because I think that I am not being honest with someone, I force myself to take decisions that end up ruining my relationships anyway. When someone I care about is in trouble, I don’t hesitate to help; when her troubles are over though, it becomes palling. I care about my friends as well. I just don’t feel the energy needed to pick up a phone and call someone and tell them that I miss them; because honestly I don’t. I make ponderous and maudlin posts on social networking sites because I have to force myself to feel as I type, because norms demand that I do so. I love the moments for what they are worth, and I hate it when I am supposed to reflect on them. Here’s the brutal truth: all of us deal with the same problems, but you’ve probably worked out a way to circumvent these emotions, and I haven’t.

When I was young, I used to visit my grandparents. I remember some lovely moments that I shared with them. As time rolled on, other priorities superseded them and my cognizance of their existence got restricted to once a year, when I visited them with my parents. As the visits became even more fitful, so did my attention, until one day when I heard my grand ma was close to her death. I remember that day very clearly because I had never seen my grand ma like that before. She was reduced to her bones and she was as light as a feather. She could barely recognise me. Now I have never been one to hide my emotions. I broke down instantly and hugged her and cried for as long as I could remember. That’s the worst position to be in because you see, memories never fade. There is something so redolent about the sadness of death which has the purging effect of smashing your mental bulwark. I can accept defeat, rejection and scorn gracefully, but this was something which was irrevocable. I could not accept the fact that she was so close to being taken away and I could never really have her back again. She died within a month. I have a pristine recollection of how much I cried that day, as I watched her remains being incinerated at a crematorium in Kolkata.