Careless Thoughts With A Question Mark Attached

It is the turn of the “why” to come under the scanner. All the “whys” of yours and mine need to go through this. An exercise not to demean them but to take a close look at the behavioral angle attached to it. Why, a three letter neat word that can sometimes have the depth of an ocean. Have you read the unsaid why in the eyes of the tsunami victims or in the eyes of the shocked child whose parents were brutally mowed down by a speeding car? The hesitant why written all over the face of a student being called to the Principal’s office or the desperate why as a child looks up at the gloomy sky on the day of his football match, are interesting shades to notice.

Why is it that my tone changes every time you approach me for some help? Why do I expect a smile from you even though I hurt you? Why the one who gives is glorified than the one who receives? Why do life always throw its surprises when we least expect it? Why does it rain the day we have forgotten to bring our umbrellas along? Why is the boss always right? Why does the spouse taste sour after a few years in the sun? Why does every debate have to end with a win or a defeat? Why is there an enemy for every friend we have? Why do we feel delighted seeing a rainbow across the sky? Why does the grass look greener on the other side of the fence? Why do young hearts race seeing the one they love? Why do eyes that once shone go grey with age? Why do we forget to say thank you or even a sorry? Why does why always end with a question mark?

The list can turn as big as a bale of hay lying rolled up on the fields. Why not? Why is that part of our mind that seeks, that make us think. Most quests have begun with this three letter word. Observation also leads to the door of the why. Young and old minds alike knock on the knob of why as they ponder over ways and rules. You and I have so many whys to cope with in a given day.

A shrug, a cold stare, a warm smile or a wink could be in reply to a why. Heated words, sleeves being rolled up, a boom, a bang could be all because of a small why. A walk, a leap, a decision, a nod could be for a why. A gasp, an exclamation, a loss could all be hidden in a why. Infidelity, loyalty, arrogance, superiority, greatness can all be rolled into a single why. Awaiting a birthday or an anniversary or a hero’s return, waiting for a letter, an email could be the reply, to a why do good things take time to show up. Drenched in one’s Sunday best attire or a sneaky glance at the gorgeous beauty passing by is also a why.

What if there were no whys? Would there be answers then for most questions would disappear. Would I still expect you to smile even after I have been rude to you? Would the receiver always bow to the giver? The world would remain just the same. Love, anger, delight would still flow. Then why banish why? After all it is just a three worded chip that holds the explanations to so many of our thoughts and behaviors.

One last why from me here to you, why is your glass half full while mine is half empty?

My Lesson Book

1975. A new day dawned and all of my thirteen year self was looking forward to this day. Of course I had no clue then that the day would unfold in a very special way and even after thirty long years I would be able to remember every moment of that one special meeting. With excited hands I stuffed the bag with chocolates, toys that I once played with, old clothes, some were mine and others of our relatives and friends. Did not forget my autograph book, there were no digital cameras then! The hands of the clock seemed to move painfully slow but eventually it did arrive at the special hour.

It was a meeting with Mother Teresa, a beacon of light for the millions of homeless, sick and orphans. There she was, smiling as she hugged each one of us. I wasted no time and showed her all that we had got along for ‘her’ children. She smiled, thanked me warmly. I felt proud of myself. She then held my hand and led me to a wooden bench. It was a moment I cherish the most. Not letting go of my hand, she told me words that changed me forever.

“Donations and aid I get plenty but what I need is you” were her words. Giving clothes or toys or other items that we no longer need is not true giving she continued and I listened with all my heart. Reach out she said, come when you can to be with the children who are not as fortunate as you. Then she kissed my forehead to perhaps wipe away the uneasy lines that had formed as realization dawned how utterly wrong I was.

Things donated after spring cleaning our house is not true giving. It is only when we can give selflessly do we understand the difference. That day I learnt my first lesson that left an indelible mark in me. As we walked out into fading sunlight that day I looked up to thank God for the day.

Life moved on but the teaching remained with me and each time I get surprised when I hear a “Thank You” for a small gift that I have made to the unexpecting. It is wonderful to catch that glint in the eye of a little kid half naked perhaps.

1996. We were on a visit to my husband’s ancestral village. Swaying green fields as far as the eye could see. A cluster of mud plastered homes surrounding a pond and then again open fields. My husband was going through an entire gamut of emotions. This is the place his father grew up and went on to become a doctor. The village priest’s grandson became our guide telling us of the changes that the village had witnessed. Walking through paddy fields, balancing on a trunk of a tree while crossing a canal, waving to the little children who had a curious glance in their eyes, it was a journey back in time.

An elderly lady walked out of her home to greet us. Poverty and age had taken a toll on her once beautiful face. Her eyes shone as she told my husband that there was none to match his father be it in education or behavior. It was almost fifty years since he had left the village but he conducted himself in such exemplary manner that he lives on in their hearts even today. My children were listening intently and so were we. It was indeed a proud moment for all of us.

The road brought us to an iron bridge over a canal. It was fairly big and had four posts at the four corners. Our guide stopped and asked us if we could guess who had built the bridge. We looked at each other, ran our eyes on the posts to see if there is a name inscribed. But we were clueless. With pride he told us that it was my husband’s grand father who had gifted the bridge to the village. During the monsoons the canal water would flood the roads making it impossible for the villagers to cross it.

The young boy then went on to tell us that the four posts were built to inscribe his name on it but the grand old man had refused saying that gifts made with name tags lose their meaning or worth. The legend goes that the day the bridge was inaugurated there were festivities and prayers but our grand father did not step out of his home. It was a true gift.
I was happy that my children had learnt their first lesson. As for us it was another chapter read on character and a close look at our roots.

2005. Just a few days back we received a request from someone we know asking us for some financial help. My husband readily agreed. But a very excited me told my husband to tell the person concerned that the amount he gives should be spent judiciously and not for any silly reason. I got even more excited as I saw that calm smile on my husband’s face. He held my hand, sat me down and asked me what would have been my feelings if I were receiving the money with a condition attached. I could not help but just stare into his face. How well he said it all in one sentence. He explained, often a simple line can hurt especially when a person is under duress. True. One more valuable lesson learnt.

Thus continues my learning. My book is always open. I have come to realize that there could be a lesson at any corner in life. We just have to keep our hearts open. Each of these experiences have touched and changed my out look towards life. I can only hope that it shows on me. If not footprints I wish I can leave tiny prints behind that would stand testimony not only to a life well lived but loved as well.

SEVENTY TWO SUN’S AGO

Seventy two years under the sun. What was the sun like that many years ago? Your mother, the cradle that held you for the first time? I would like to know how you cried taking in the first breaths of life. Did you know that your journey had begun? Did your mother hold you close studying your tiny face? Your father must have been a proud man that day. Were there celebrations? No photographs, just memories for you.

When did you take your first tiny step, steading yourself and walking across the room? You fell and cried, must be. Grand ma must have scooped you up into her arms or it could have been your father. The memories in you must be lying like pressed leaves in a book.

You were three and am happy that you were too small to realise that you had lost your father. Grand ma, you and your sisters stayed on in her maternal home. Did you miss your father and when you saw your friends had a man who took care of the family? Or is it just that you accepted it all much like you do so many things even today?

You grew up in the lap of nature. Trees would give you fruits and also shelter when you hid from your mother chasing you with a stick. The river was your companion. You plunged into it to escape heat or just splash around in delightful abundance. A boat ride in the evenings would take you to the village fair. Were there balloons?

What was it like to be told that a line has been drawn on the ground, through people’s hearts – partition of a nation? That it was time to pack up and leave the home you grew up in? Were there tears as you left some of your belongings and friends? Did you understand why a happy photograph was being torn through the middle? Did you look back once to bid goodbye to the river or the mango tree? Your marbles, did you give them to your friend who looked through tears as you left?

A new beginning. What was it like to move to a new country, call a new place your home? How long did it take you to make friends again? Was it when you missed your past that you took the football to the nearby field? Was it the reason for you to hit the ball so hard? Did you get amazed that two strange looking gentleman were watching you hit the ball that hard?

Football, cricket and sports in general became your existence. Yellowed pages of news papers still talk of your glory. Many still remember the fire in you. You were the first to take ten wickets in a first class cricket match. Devastating good looks and raw power of a tiger made you a lethal combination!

A maiden came by, lost her heart, left her palace and decided to make a life with you. You got married. Soon came along a little girl. Toddling much like you did perhaps. Life flowed on and you went with the tide. Did you remember the river of your childhood days? You now had a home of your own with a tiny garden. Your mother, wife and daughter completed the picture for you.

Forties you dealt with deftly, going through the motions of living and realising that it was curtains for your sports career. I remember that last football match when you scored a goal from nearly the half line. A beautiful end to a glorious innings on green grass.

Retirement you faced with pride. A long journey well completed. You went abroad and also to the land that was once yours. We saw you running like the little boy. You visited your school, the place where your home used to be, the river that recognised you inspite of all the grey hair. What was it like to breathe again the air that was once yours?

You move on. Not one to get caught in emotions or get into a swirling pool of depression. Maybe the river taught you this early that life is all about flowing on. It could be a flat terrain or a mighty drop but just keep swimming on.

On your way to seventy two, you held so many hands, steadied so many rocking lives. I love the friendly yelps that greet you in the mornings. All stray dogs gather for their morning breakfast and you their obedient waiter! The plants too if they could would do the same as you water them unfailingly every morning.

It is that morning once again, the same sun, a slight chill in the November air. Only seventy two years have gone by. It makes me happy to stretch out my heart and wish you a very Happy Birthday.

He is special. He is our umbrella. He is my father.

You cannot Take It away From Me

Great people are sprinkled like seasoning by our Creator on the masses to spruce up lives. Sometimes to lead them, other times to entertain them and sometimes to just dazzle all with the glamour quotient.

Click, click, and click I highlight a few such great people and what is the one thread that strings them together? It is their birthday, nineteenth day of November.

Indira Gandhi was India’s Prime Minister for many years. No talking of her political decisions or beliefs. She is remembered by all as the most charismatic leader that India ever had. Tough yet elegant. Impeccable dressing style. Gave short cropped hair a character that became a wave with women who wanted their exterior to be read as “professional”. She was personality personified. In her speech, gait and gestures she was class apart.

I too have her within me. So what if my sari gets a little crumpled while hers remained pleated the entire day. My long unruly tresses if cropped will look like hers and I have the natural grey tuft at the front already. I can be groomed to add that element of personality. I know she had a lineage but I have anonymity and they are strikingly similar!

Calvin Klein! Do I hear you drool? The man who gave us designer jeans and innerwear. He went to New York’s Fashion Institute of Technology. He became a household name and now a world wide name. From fashion Street in every town to Wall Street, he is a name to reckon with.

I went to Kitchen Institute of Technology, is there much of a difference? I run a household and wash jeans and innerwear everyday. Yes I am known too, try out the vegetable vendor to whom I owe some money and the corner grocer’s shop where I spend productive time bargaining and complaining.

Meg Ryan and Jodie Foster. Now do not get green with envy. Yes I know them. My tryst with celebrity began when I was a kid. It is all about one’s luck. You either have or you do not. Nothing to get green or pink with me. Meg had sent me an email once with the heading “You’ve Got Mail” and Jodie entered my life like a “Twister” and silenced me with her “Silence of The Lambs”. Now you get the connection. We three are deeply connected.

Of course I have kept the best for the last. My knock out punch. “I brought the first Miss Universe crown to India” read her opening lines of her biography. She is the tall, talented, beautiful and now a movie star. A heart throb of millions. Striking smile and also a poet. Intelligence is her middle name. She is Sushmita Sen. She can light up an entire universe by just her presence.

So? Is that what you are asking? Okay I did not bring home a crown or a hat for that matter but I have the head that can wear one. The difference in height can be overlooked just about eight inches. I can walk on stilts that will bring us close. Striking smile I do have. I have seen people gape open mouthed every time I break into a smile. The front two teeth are missing and I am not visiting the dentist soon. Foolishness is my middle name; after all there is a thin line that separates the two. My heart throbs a million times every time I try my hand at poetry, as I jerk out ill matched words. About lighting up the universe I cannot say much but humbly must admit that I do know how to light the gas burner.

But I have got to be special otherwise why would my Creator chuck me down to earth on the nineteenth day of November? I am still searching, forty three years now for that one reason being clubbed together with the elite, the high and the mighty.

Doorbell. Milkman grinning ear to ear, as he informs me that today’s milk is free. He must know it is my birthday today. Beaming, I was fumbling for the right words to thank him. Just then he said that his cow had given birth to a healthy calf this morning. Open mouthed I closed the door.

Welcome little calf; join the special brigade on the nineteenth day of November. Just the right companion I needed to feel at home amidst the august company.

365 x 24

“Shop Closed Stock Taking in Progress”, I put out my board. It is that time of the year to take count and try and square off things in the neatest possible way. Accounts I am always weak in but have been able to balance the records with my rhetoric. Thus begins another exercise with a few more strands of grey this time.
The chocolaty taste of the black forest cake of last year still lingers in my mouth and it is time again to cut another cake. Hopefully my family will remember. You can never take anything for granted and rewards are dependent on one’s performance. So lets get down to manipulations, I mean calculations.

Does time really fly or is it that we live through every moment and in the intensity lose track of time? 365 days mean 8760 hours. Do not bother to re-check the figure because I have used a calculator! Now given my insomnia I have slept no more than5 hours each day so that means in hourly terms just 1825 sleeping hours. That leaves me to account for 6935 waking hours, only!

Now where are the payment slips of all the good things I have done this one year? Moment of truth for me. I, me, myself stare at the little chits clumsily stapled together.

Helped my son with his research on colleges – read one slip. Now, how can so much of intense labour be squeezed into a line? I worked a lot hard to help him zero on the college that he finally selected. Is there a negative marking scheme for the lung power that I used more than my intellectual ones to prove him all wrong as we went along? Not fair, after all I did work, shout or scan is immaterial. He has flown off to the college is what matters. Okay there were a few feeble protests from neighbours saying that housing laws permit noisy work to be done within a stipulated time and they could hear me yelling even after two in the morning. All for a good cause, people! I give it 1080 hours.

Next one read helping my daughter choose her wardrobe for her first job. I loved this task. Splurged my husband’s money and did not allow him to complain because it was for our “little daughter”. 28 days I went round choosing her outfits, at least 6 hours everyday. I neatly rub off the 3 hours daily spent at coffee shops and eateries. I was just resting my tired legs you see. 168 hours devoted to this very important hand and eye coordinated task.

Looking after my husband – now that is a very time consuming task. It is a 24 x 365 job. I have kept him agile by making him run round in circles for every straight question he asked. Made him feel false vanity at being able to provide a lavish lifestyle for us even if it meant drilling a hole into his savings. Never had to count his pennies because he had none left after every month. That is a neat 12 hours each day that too a very conservative count. 4380 hours accounted for.

Looking after the sick, the needy and the poor souls. I have developed a very unique style and it works wonders for me. Once I was visiting this old man lying in bed for months and his old wife nursing him but had reached her wits end. Like Florence Nightingale I descended on them and used my “cooing” voice to shake up the old man. He went into coma. Surprisingly, the old lady kissed my forehead and blessed me because it meant less work for her. I never returned to them for I wanted to remain an apparition that did the trick but never returned to haunt!

Now the sick sit up seeing me, the sprained ankles straighten out, the headaches and tummy aches disappear. I do not know the reason why and stake no claim at any form of wonder healing. All I know that no sick soul wants to hear my soul stirring “cooing”. Okay back to business, a flat 365 hours for this.

Nurturing the plants and caring for pets. I love them. One particular plant was showing symptoms of a teenager, refusing to blossom even with all the manure and attention. One evening I had a heart to heart chat with it. Look buddy you got to obey me. Perform or I will have you shipped out. Choice is yours. You are mature enough to take your own decisions. I ignored it for the next couple of days. The morning after that it was a sight to behold! Bright bell shaped blossoms hanging from it giving the garden a divine look. I kissed the plant and whispered “you have matured my child”.

Cats have been around me since time immemorial. At present they are a colony of eight in our house. One of them had aged and had almost become human. Its feelings, emotions and even intelligence could match any of us. The other cats had a good time nagging it and even ignoring it. My poor soul felt left out and I would pet it till it purred again. But age was catching up fast and within weeks it was immobilized. I moved it to my bedroom corner away from naughty kittens who loved to tug at its tail. Then one morning it was still, cold, it had passed away at night, silently bidding us goodbye. We buried it under a shady tree in the far corner of our garden.

I forgot stock taking in progress! Wiping off a trickling tear I write 730 hours spent with them.

Miscellaneous chores some routine, some mechanical and some very personal fill rest of the hours. Got 212 hours left to account for. Time to square off! 212 it is for this segment.

I told you I balance very well. I did it. Add up all the hours and you will see 6935, the figure I started with.

Accounts closed for this year gone by. Time to open shop again as I move the board back into the basement. Now it is waiting time to see if it is black forest or truffle cake or the rainbow delight. Slurping I wait in anticipation.

Tick Tock Tick Tock… I wait for my moment, knife in hand.

Allow Me To Be Low

Pen is strange. It spurts out words that are our inner reflection. If we allow it to go on until it tires, we get a clear image of our mind mapped out for that moment. Mood swings, depression, highs or lows are modes on which we opearte at different times.

Today I just set my pen free. Let it write on and carry my soul with it. Dark grey is the the colour it chose from the palette. Storm brewing as clouds gather to give it size and momentum. The core looks calm in a dark shade of blue with hurt. Still waters run deep. The hurt looks to have depth. Clouds in a protective gesture, huddle around it. Fuming at times with fury becoming almost black and then again settling to dark grey.

The pen stops.

Time I took over and wrote with it. A dark blue palcid spot surrounded by dark grey masses. Try painting it. That’s me now.

Not a new state but the difference is that I am looking at it without feeling guilty. The placid blue spot is my soul and I accept ownership of it. Not always it got to be a vibrant red for me to bare it. Blue is also okay. It is just an honest reflection.

Acceptance is recognition much needed for the healing to start.

I wait for the next map to emerge, a red spot with green wings until then it is blue.

Snooze And Muse

I was scribbling away. Why can I not get it? Rhyming words should be easy. What is there in it after all? Thunder with blunder, pain with main or bat and cat. I think I am getting the hang of it. Okay a fresh set. I scribble on : lame and tame, fell with hell, most with boast, dream with cream or ice cream! Trailing, wailing, sleeping, snoring…..

A good shake up made me wake up. Good I thought the poet in me is alive even after a snooze. I look at the paper on which I was scribbling and I found that the words had rearranged themselves while I was sleeping. Read on with me.

In rain and sun over hill, under a veil, in a shadow,
Catch it running on the meadow.
You try in vain, I stop in pain
“Tired”, I exclaim!

Sunny smiles and orchards and vines,
Yes on the hills too lined with pines.
Melting butter on a toast, waves kissing on any coast,
In fading twilight listening to the last post.

Dew on grass, perhaps even in crass,
Tired traveller, watch him pass.
In a flame, on a crutch the little boy lame,
The leaping joy looks the same.

Strides with pride, flying leaves that have dried,
Stains on the maiden’s cheek that tell you she had cried.
Laughter drifting through the woods,
A busy merchant selling his goods.

In a rabbit’s burrow or in a robber’s den,
It could be a barn or a writer’s pen.
Fear and delight, mid day or night,
Lovers walking hand in hand, holding tight.

The eye of a storm, in any shape size or form,
Thunder, lightning or a rebel breaking all norm.
A single flower, Rapunzel locked in a tower,
Wish upon a falling star, a bird flying back to its bower.

In chiming church bells and in dark prison cells.
Flying bats, prowling cats, listen to the gypsy woman as she foretells.
Tossing ship at mid sea, or a lawyer demanding his fee,
Peacefully sleeps the shepherd boy under the shade of a tree.

Can you see what I can see,
Watch all the scenes with child like glee,
You will see what I can see ,
Life throbbing in each, like it does in you and me!

Back To Basics

Don’t wear your emotions on your sleeves – I was glancing through one of the smart shortcut, do-it-yourself handy books in a book store. Simplification had started with instant noodles then coffee and now it has crept into our psyche. Instant is now tagged onto success and even character building methodologies. These until a few years ago was taken or understood to be a long drawn process. Sometimes even an entire lifetime looked inadequate.

Take the example of the person who sat on the chair at the helm of any business, institution, company, a decade ago. It took consistent, mature, exemplary, dynamic performance coupled with his human touch to be able to get there. The incumbent would be baked in the oven of experience and all his skills – soft and business had to be chiselled before he was thought to be worthy enough.

From the basket of soft skills that are struggling to exist, I pick one, ‘being sensitive’ or in one word ‘empathy’. This almost is being pushed to near extinction by a genre of breezy, trendy traits like aggressiveness, brashness that are producing more brats. These are being safely harboured under an umbrella painted “attitude” on it. Successful people are the ones with loads of “attitude” is the belief of today.

The word empathy has a simple meaning – the ability to share and understand another’s feelings. The Oxford Dictionary defines it thus. Put to test, it is an uphill climb. When did I last empathise with a fellow human being, I reflect and the honest reply pops up. Not in the recent past. “I” has become the all consuming factor in our lives. Where is the time to think about “you”? If I have to put myself in your shoes, won’t I be losing out on precious time? I am in the rat race you see. It is all about who gets there first.

Stop. Get where and how?

If I cannot feel or see your point of view, my fellow human being or colleague or friend then what does that make me. Sub-human. That is the point blank answer. Unsettling, is it not? How we love to throw our power around. Whatever maybe the relationship. What matters is who calls the shots and who is at the receiving end. Why has it become so difficult to do what is actually so human in nature. It is a basic trait that we are all born with. Why are we allowing it to slip off our behavioral radar?

The reasons could be many but to me what comes foremost is our changing value system. Moral science classes have been replaced by smart lesson ones. Their argument, it enhances a child’s growth. A growth devoid of values? Every institution is bursting at the seam with smart, intelligent individuals. They all know how to make everything else tick but ask them on the people front and you can count your find on your fingers. Also soft skills are not given much importance and just remain words decorating the mission and vision statements. Uncomfortable question but I must ask how many promotions or even recognitions are given for being a good human being? None.
I am the boss and I can shout at you for your lapse. But to do that in public is a lack of empathy. I would not wish it on myself even in my nightmare. But I do it to you. Warped way of deriving pleasure. Sorry chum you would have to scramble up the ladder to try it on others or do it now to the ones below you. The game continues. More importantly, tolerated. After all I take care of the bottom line. How we play is no more important but winning or delivering is the target.

Fools were those who nurtured. Those who helped to blossom. Those who put out a hand to steady and support. Do you remember your father’s encouraging words and his hands on your shoulder the day you failed to get selected in the school football team? Your mother’s hug when you got shouted at in front of the class for failing in chemistry? What was that, love. What were they doing, empathizing. It can be as basic as that.

There is no leave left in your account and you need to be at the hospital for a family member’s surgery. You hesitate to even ask, a rule is a rule after all, you reason. Your Boss calls you and says that you can have the day off. You have no words to thank. That is empathy. You think is he the same person who just the other day shredded you to pieces in front of the whole department? Being blunt is perhaps required to get work done or to bring somebody to task but it should not become an opportunity to hit below the belt. Even during a ‘yelling’ match remember that you are dealing with another human being and not a block of dead wood.

Even lending a patient ear is empathy. Any act that says “I understand” is empathy. It may sound archaic to the modern but some things are timeless. Pre requisite for any top, middle or junior position is being a good human being first. It is the human qualities that make a person outstanding. History is alive enough to tell us that.

You don’t have to wear ‘empathy’ on your sleeves but let it become your permanent core attire. Understand to be understood. No, there are no instant tips that could help you imbibe empathy. It comes with practice. No short cuts for this outstanding quality that enhances one’s character. Power, position, authority are temporary or transitory, yet we strive towards it. It will make better sense if we invest some of our time consciously steering our actions to just remain on the human track.

Empathise; you never know when you may need it. After all it is a human world.

Not Always The Blonds Do It

Was turning through the pages of my bygone years. I use my zoom lens to pin point and get a close up of the prettiest face that I had seen in all my forty three years. Pretty, beautiful and then add on a few more adjectives to it, stunning, glowing but all of them together cannot describe her beauty. She was my Miss Universe at first glance.

August 1994, Jakarta was at its opulent best. It was our first stint abroad. Every first is something that we seldom forget. That day we were going to the Bank to open our first non-resident account. I normally wear flat sole shoes but that day I could feel a spring under my feet. After all our first Dollar account! My husband was his usual self, calm, composed, dignified.

Our shimmering silver Gallant came to a halt in front of the portico in the Bank. The door was opened for me with a smiling "silakan datang ibu", welcome madam. The short walk on the red carpet and we were at the main glass door. I looked inside and time stood still for me.

Right in front sat a young Indian girl in her early twenties. Face of an angel. Big eyes that can drown the world. Lips that hold the sweetness and colour of perhaps a thousand orchards. She was writing so had her head slightly tilted. Dark short hair nicely brought together by a black bow clip at the back. Her skin honey toned with just perhaps a drop of strawberry at the cheeks. My husband had to gently nudge me, to shake me out of the spell. We moved forward and straight onto her desk!

She stood up and her face broke into a warm smile as she extended her hand to us. She was tall and had a figure of an hour glass. She was dressed in Business attire I noticed. I knew I was not looking but gaping. Such beauty! Prinncess, no Empress, how about queen, no fairy... this is what I was doing while my husband got busy filling the forms. She was talking to someone on the phone, her laughter sounded like sunshine rippling through the waters.

In crisp business language she took us through the entire process of opening an account and other details. I knew my husband was listening but my mind was hoping if only my 6 year son would be transformed into a man of 25, I would be at her home this very moment talking to her parents. "Your signature Ma'm", I was studying her face. God really must have crafted her as a designer piece and must be proud of His creation. If I had my way, I would have like to spend the day at the Bank but you know how all good things come to an end and so must this trip. I don't know what happened to the spring below my sole, I was dragging my feet out of the glass door. Her last words to my husband were "Done Sir". It echoed in my ears. It happened to Wordsworth hearing the solitary reaper.

A week later I get a frantic call from my parents from India, some cheque book and other related material had landed in their house. My otherwise calm husband was livid. Why did the Bank send it all there was his question and my prompt reply was let’s go to the Bank to find out!

Next morning I was dressed when the sun showed up. Children and husband gave me curious looks but it was my time to show what a cool dude was I. Again the glass door and yes I saw her. A red top was peeping through her business coat. She looked fresh as lime today. Her skin had this golden glow. Greetings over. My husband began in his curt voice, why can't he be a little soft; after all she is so beautiful!

She smiled and said that while logging in our details she had interchanged the addresses. Oh poor thing, I thought. But my husband mercilessly went on ..."but how could you do this, we need the cheque books urgently". Come on we can do without it for some more time I replied in my mind. She said it would take another two weeks. Okay by all means, from me. My husband just gave her a cold stare and asked if we had any choice. Men! Her parting words again were "Done Sir" as my husband demanded that this time there should not be any goof ups.

No cheque book meant very little to me until that day. The next day I spent standing in queues in front of the school, electricity office, bank tellers making payments by cash. By afternoon I was tired and I knew the meaning of a cheque book! The pretty face came floating by in front of my eyes, let down, I let her go. Did I catch a glint in my husband's eyes seeing me sit with my feet in a tub of warm water? "Just a few more payments tomorrow" he said as he went in to change. "WHAT?" screamed I. Children came running out of their study stared a little and went away. Wait till I catch Ms. Beautiful!

The cheque books arrive and I stared at it in disbelief, spelling error. I reach for the phone and this time her melting wax voice was not enough to curb my outburst. "How did you land at this Bank" I thundered. "By bus" she replied.

It took two months and eleven days to get our cheque book.

Our Uncle's daughter was getting married back home. We decided to transfer some money into our uncle’s account - our wedding gift. So there I was walking through the glass door. Ms Beautiful, I noticed had a different hairstyle. Black cascading locks all around her face. I explained the reason of my visit to her. She replied, "Done Madam". Somehow this phrase rang a warning bell inside. I walked out through the glass door with awry steps.

There was a bunch of letters in our mail box. I went for the one from the Bank; I ripped the envelope, something egging me on. My eyes nearly popped out reading the letter. Even your wildest imagination will not lead you to this. I call up my husband as a reflex action and read out the content. He heard me out and said "Done Sir at it again"! The letter was indeed signed by my black hair Goldilocks.

It read that the amount we wanted to transfer into our uncle's account has been credited into ours from our uncle's account! I know you need a second reading to get the meaning clear. Trust me this is true. We have protected this letter as a piece of relic. Again we walked through the glass door, Ms Doe eyed beauty was sitting pretty behind the desk. My husband thrust the letter in front of her. She looked up with large eyes, accented with mascara, then looked down at the letter and up again. She could not spot the reason of our visit. My husband in his ice cold voice told all that is to be told. End of it she said "Done Sir". I was gaping not at the beauty but at our luck!

Our string of unique experiences with Ms Beautiful got longer with passing time. I had just received a call that the amount we had asked the Bank to transfer for a relative's treatment had not reached. Obviously there was a tinge of ginger in the caller's voice but it singed my skin. I call up Ms Beautiful. "When is your transfer due" I ask rudely. "The Bank has placed me at this desk specially created for Expatriate Indians, so no transfer for me" she ended softly. Bang, I thumped my fist on the table. Oouch!

Now my parents were coming over to spend a month with us and they were supposed to pick up the required amount from the Bank at their city. All formalities completed by us and now it were over to my parents. I was keeping my fingers crossed. The phone was ringing and my hands trembling, premonition you can say. Ms Beauty cannot let this occasion pass off peacefully. It was my mother; she said that "Mr." has been prefixed to her name so the local Bank was refusing to accept her identity!!! Ms Horror here I come!

But this one day I gifted her not only the cake but the baker, the basket and the oven as well! We had just twenty four hours to make payment for registration of our dream apartment. We rush to the Bank, pass through the glass door and straight to her desk. We need to withdraw our funds, we explained in plain terms. She efficiently punched on the keyboard with her manicured fingers. She looked up with those eyes and a look that could launch a thousand ships and said "all your accounts have been closed and balance is nil". I am happy that I survived that day to tell the tale!

It is another story that the manager of the Bank personally came home to apologize.

I was relieved that my son was just eleven when we left Jakarta.

Into Light

Photo by Suhel Banerjee 

Into Light

There was a nip in the air and festivity all around. Twinkling lamps and gizmo lights dorned every house. Etheral, is how the world looked from our terrace on Diwali (festival of light) night. We had gone up with our basket loaded with candles and clay lamps. All around the ridge of our terrace we placed the lamps and candles.

Here I must introduce you to our little group on the terrace that night. This is my husband, a business executive, a man with outstanding character. Loves family occasions. Quiet but particiapting always.

That lady in her mid sixties is my mother. Talking nineteen to the dozen. Effervescent. 'The one eyed Jack' look for tonight is real, she had a sudden malfunction of the optic nerve this afternoon. Condition medically unexplainable said the doctor but could not stop her from being on the terrace tonight.

My father, strong, well built man in his early seventies. Both eyes have been operated on. A player of repute in his heydays. Watch his big strides! Candle in hand raring to go.

This is our family companion of thirty plus years. A dwarf. She has been more of a mother to my children than I have. Ever smiling, ever active. Right eye, no vision. Left eye has high powered lens.

Four children of our staff, our energy and laughter.

They have finished placing the lamps, as I was going through the introduction. I hand each one a candle and ask them to start lighting the lamps. Oh I forgot to introduce myself, I am the self appointed manager tonight, the one who calls the shots!

"Give everybody a chance to light a few lamps" I mildly warn the kids who were racing through lighting the rows of lamps. I see my father struggling to light a lamp, he says the candle wick is too thin for him to light the lamp. I replace it with a thicker candle and he starts lighting faster now. My mother said that she was seeing two lights and didn't know exactly the point of contact. I guided her hand to the lamp and she managed to light a few. Our companion mate was slow but managing. My husband had finished an entire row and was waiting in his usual gentlemanly style.

All the lamps were lit and I switched off the electric bulbs, remember I lead the orchestra tonight! Tiny lamps with their golden glow gives our terrace a divine look. The dark night and twinkling lights, I was completely lost, singing in my croaking voice. Oh how I love this darkness and the tiny droplets of light in a row. My father came with groping steps towards me and asked my permission to have one terrace light on. "No" I replied with all my authority and again got immersed in my singing and occasional twirling!

My mother tripped but thankfully she found a chair to steady herself. A few amongst us rushed in to seat her. Expected, I thought while singing, she is one eyed tonight. Now I was in my crescendo and almost felt like an opera singer. Never mind what the others were thinking, the dark night had got to me and I was enjoying. My father again disturbed me asking the same question, can we please have one terrace light on. "NO", old people lose their aesthetic sense! With one electric bulb on it would spoil the entire effect that has been created.

Time to replenish the oil lamps, I tell my team. The kids rushed to pick up the tiny oil bottles that I had kept ready. Are you noticing my percision? Leaders are made of such material. Not my words, borrowed thought but am just making the connection for you. I love the obedience with which they all headed for the lamps. Generals must be feeling the same way looking at their platoons. It is Diwali night and I am allowed these few stray thoughts!

I start my rounds. "No children, not so fast, give others a chance", they slowed. My Dad was managing I observed as I passed him. My mother was still not knowing where the lamps were, I held her hand and refilled a few lamps. She gave up and preferred to be led back to her chair. Our companion mate was doing a good job, I thought as I strode towards her. I froze. She was pouring oil on the ledge. She could not make out where the lamps were. I caught her hand and led it to the lamps.

My father came around and asked again if a terrace light could be switched on. "Why Dad?" I asked with irritation, exasperation and perhaps with a fair tinge of frustration. He slowly replied "...we, three of us cannot see in the darkness, a light perhaps would help us see the lamps."

Silence.

In that one moment I realised how selfish and insensitive I was. I knew that three of them had a vision problem but I refused my father thrice to switch on the terrace light. I reached out and switched all the four terrace lights and heard my mother say "the lamps are looking beautiful, atlast I can see them from here".

I looked heaven wards, forgive me for this. Give me light in my soul so that I may understand and spread the light of happiness. Let not the light engulf me in my own petty world, help me feel.

It is so easy to take things for granted that we have no clue how it is to live without it.

For us that night, the evening had just begun with all of us seeing the lamps twinkle and spreading happiness. I had joined my husband in the silent mode, my mother was singing and my father striding across the terrace with firm steps. Our companion deftly refilling the lamps.

Oh God let there be Light, always.

Customer's Delight!

"Sorry" was the magic word and also the most abused word in our vocabulary. I say "was" because it is time for a new phrase to wear the crown. It is a phrase that has become synonymous with customer service, the key area in any business today. Companies spend unabashedly to spruce up this department because the mantra for today is "customer satisfaction" and then going beyond to "customer delight".

We, the customers could not have been born at a better era. Today's mail brought in a colourful envelope screaming the words, "For You Dear Customer" on the envelope. With great expectation and childlike anticipation I opened the envelope. A bunch of offer letters informing me about what comes free if I care to buy some of their products, tumbled out. But what caught my attention was a canary yellow sheet saying two movie tickets free of the latest blockbuster if only I add points to my kitty. In simpler terms, spend thrice the amount for two movie tickets! All this packaged with love for me, the dear customer. I am honoured, I manage through my teeth as I shred the pages and throw them up like confetti around me. I head for the broom.

My father was taking a flight to a western city, about two and a half hour flying time. My son went to see him off at the airport and came back with the good news that his grand pa had got a window seat at the front. All's well. The telephone was ringing and I knew that it was his arrival message coming through. Never assume. It was a very tense voice of my husband who was to receive him saying that there was no news on my dad's flight and the airline authorities have zipped their lips. It took me a few seconds to get it right and then I called up all the customer sevice numbers of this airline but no concrete reply.

Our ordeal had begun! . It was a friend from the airlines industry who gave me the news that a snag was detected in the aircraft before take off and some passengers were sent off on a different route. "The flight has been aborted" said the young voice from the customer service desk. "All passengers have either been sent on flight via a different route or have been re-booked by the evening flight and I am sorry Ma'm your father's name does not appear in any of the list". It was as if she was reading a passage from the boring tales of destiny! Where then is my father? It was a cry from within but it hit against the glass wall. "Will inform you, if we get any further information". I wanted to throw the paper weight at the phone.

The clock was ticking away, doing its duty. Again I called up the customer desk, in a very put on tone oozing of concern they said they were paging for my father on the public announcement system. I could feel gratitude flowing through every vein in my body.

No call came from the airlines office even as hours ticked away. Can they not feel our anguish? "We are trying and will get back as soon as we have any further information. Your contact numbers are..." I had stopped listening. It was my father, I wanted them to know but a customer has no sub-tags unfortunately.

Our own helpline had swung into action. Everyone was calling up someone whom they thought could help. I received a call from a very serious sounding voice, a senior officer in the police department asking me to describe my father and his clothes. My heart sank. As I described him I was trying to be as precise and calm as the trained customer service agents. Clothes? Blue shirt with pencil thin stripes. Any identifying mark, the officer asked me. I looked towards my mother who had the word fear sprayed all across her face.


The telephone rang and I grabbed the receiver, I was prepared for the worst but it was an excited voice of my huband saying that my father had reached by the de-toured flight! I made him repeat every word he said! My father was given a boarding pass with a different name and they had manually rectified it only after my father protested. Hence the official list did not bear my father's name. There was festivity all around, everybody rejoicing at the news. We were all crying and laughing together.

In all this I remembered the airlines, I dialled their number and the crisp, voice that replied began on the pre ordained message "... we shall inform..." I cut it short. Gave them the news that my father had reached his destination flying four and a half hours with them and am surprised at how they had no clue! Pat came the taped voice "We shall look into it. Thank you for choosing to fly with us. Inconvenience regretted". Dead went the line! Amazing! I called back again knowing that it would make little difference. I had to.

Excuse me I began, do you have any idea what our family went through in the last six hours? Any idea what it is like to fear that you may have lost someone? Have you ever had to describe the clothes of your father when he last left home? Do you understand what it is to get no news yet you are talking all the time? "We understand ma'm. Inconvenience caused to you is regretted". This time I slammed the phone.

Just travel back with me by a few weeks. It was mid October and I was shopping for the most important man in my life - my husband of twenty three years. I chose the sparkling mall rather than the traditional shopping complex. It is such a pleasure not to sweat while you empty your purse! "May I help you Ma'm" greetings at ever corner of the large store, I was enjoying it thoroughly! The uniformed young girls and boys trailed me, spraying fragrance on my wrist and telling me how each one was exquisite and just right for a gift. I felt special with all the attention being showered on me. I settled for a designer watch. The perfect gift. It was wrapped with elan that made it look even more special. I walked out feeling on top of the world even though my purse felt lighter!

On his birthday we quickly ran through the birthday song, making it sound like rap music! All to give him the gift and watch his face turn from satisfaction to delight. I am thinking the customer service way! With pride and dexterity of a magician I hand him the box. He is floored with its look, I can read it in his eyes. Wait till you open it and your jaws would drop, guranteed. With care he removed the wrapping and stared at the beauty inside. You can wear it for your next scuba dive, scratch resistant... I could hear the gloat in my voice. You just need to press the tiny button at the side to set it ticking. He did that but the hands of the watch did not move. Let me show it to you, I took the watch with my all smiling, all knowing look. I too pushed the button but all was still like a frozen night. We all took turns but no luck.

'Disappointment' is the word I use because I have no other that come to my mind right now. It was as if someone had poured a bucket of water on leaping flames in a hearth. The rest of the evening was spent in my husband taking turns in consoling each one of us how it is the thought that counts. He said he was lucky to have us who cared for him in this very special way! I wiped a tear waiting for morning.

On my way to the mall, I made the call to their customer service desk and was greeted by the the perfect warm, well tailored, accented voice "how may I help you". I poured out my sorrow in a diagonally opposite voice. End of it she assured me that they would replace the watch. So far so good. She ended by saying "Inconvenience regretted". I nearly crushed my phone.

Any idea what it is to feel disappointed? Any idea what it is to be let down at a moment that matters to you? Any idea knowing that you would have to wait for another year to make it perfect for your loved one? Take note all those who are responsible for dishing out ready made lines without caring to even understand the context.

Customer service is not about being slick in responses but in tuning to them. It is all about empathy and not reciting lines which when translated mean "get off our backs". It is not a robotic service but training the agents to understand each case and respond with approprioate words. Depth in understanding and listening is what is needed to the service. Customers are not be dished out an asprin tablet because thats what reduces pain. The service has to be more human, trust me that makes it easier for the customer even if you fail. Often the twang in the accent, the overtly caring tone is where the customer service agents are trained for. That too is required but maturity in understanding a customer is a skill that needs to be honed.

Allow the interface to speak to the customer in their own language. For then they would be forced to listen and comprehend the reason for the customer making that call. It is not about hiding behind these pre- empted lines but stepping out to make the interaction meaningful.

To all the gurus who make the customer service rules I very humbly say "inconvenience regretted" for discomfort caused.