If Pigs Knew They Stink

 

“Pigs do not know they stink,” Manju, my friend, messaged me after reading my article, Wrestling with the Pigs. The benign comment almost exonerated pigs from culpability for the stink. The thought, she said, was brought up by her husband when they sat down to discuss my blog. He had read somewhere that “pigs do not know that they stink.” They are a kind couple. It would have been easy for them to be considerate and pardon pigs as a class for “they (pigs) know not what they do.” 

I was, however, elated on two counts.  The first, another article of mine, had found space in an intellectual discussion. It felt good. The second, I detected something profound in her statement. It raised two socially relevant questions. How would pigs know they stink? What would happen if pigs knew they stank? 

How would pigs know they stink? There could be two ways. Either the pig itself realises that it stinks, or another pig calls it out. Both can happen only if pigs themselves can identify individual odours and differentiate between the good, bad, and unbearable. Armed with that knowledge, a pig has to realise that there is an odour and it stinks. They also have to accept that their odour is considered offensive and not appreciated by others. Wallowing in mud and filth comes naturally to them.  Even if they are hosed down, they will return to dirt without remorse because they have nowhere else to go. They have reconciled themselves to the fact, stink or not, they are condemned to live in filth with no hope of redemption. However, they do not come up to us on purpose to cause discomfort. It is we who go near them and complain about their stink.

But we humans are not in as condemnable a state as them. We know what is offensive and what is not.  Each society has evolved its own set of rights and wrongs, acceptable and unacceptable. Yet many among us, born and brought up amidst the sense of right and wrong, without a second thought, step beyond legal, moral, and ethical boundaries. The society accepts it with silent indifference, and people with legal or moral authority choose to turn a blind eye. In the times that we now live in, most of us do not care or dare to call out someone unless the act committed directly and adversely affects us. Even when it is committed against us, we prefer to let it go. We tend to look at the drudgery and penalty associated with calling out the act or fighting it out, and opt to accept suffering in silence. Many of the problems prevailing today in society can be attributed directly to this fear of calling out people, even when both the perpetrators and their victims know what is wrong. Worse, we willingly participate in perpetuating it by becoming party to it or abetting its accomplishment in silence.

Corruption is a typical example. Everyone knows it exists. Everyone knows it is wrong, but most of us willingly become party to it to get things done, even when what we ask is our rightful due. We have become accustomed to being bullied, and many among us do not hesitate to perpetuate what we preach as wrong. Rarely does anybody call them out, and in most cases, we all want to get over it and pay up, even if we do not like to. Substance abuse amongst youngsters would not happen without parents first hiding what they discover, and then suffering in silence, between bouts of denial. People who become habitual in breaking the law come to that state because someone with moral and emotional authority and the liability to call out the deviant fails in their obligations. We, the public, tend to evaluate the risk and penalty of speaking out against the possible payoff from abetting and choose silence.

What would happen if pigs knew they stank? Let us apply this thought only to the world of pigs. We will consciously keep humans out of this part.

If the pigs knew that they stank and felt that they would be better off without the stink, or even better, they wanted to emit a fragrance, it would mean they had achieved awareness of the self. They would want to change. If they are given a choice and the means to pursue it, they would try and keep themselves cleaner than they do now and ask those in charge of society for a better environment to live in. This noble and ubiquitous thought is also the prescription to salvation or nirvana. Those with an eye for commerce can easily spot endless business opportunities to cash in on. In the physical plane, there would be products and processes on sale, one outbidding the other with the promise of expanding scopes and fairytale outcomes. In the spiritual plane, in their quest to become fragrant entities from within, they could become religious and flock to those who promise fragrance of the soul and a fantabulous afterlife. Imagine a pig all bathed, beautiful and smelling good.

If pigs lived in a hierarchical society (like we humans do), then there would certainly be a prescribed order of odours. Those with the more offensive odour would be placed low in the hierarchy of pigs. There would be many shades of odour, defining many societal classes, and there could even be classes within each class, all dictated by the accident called birth. 

A sense of Deja vu?

What would happen if others do not want pigs to change? Consider the situation when pigs, with no option left, decide to weaponise their offensive odour! It is a whole new world of possibilities out there. 

I have put across some of my thoughts. There could be much more. I leave it to your imagination.

Now, honestly have you forced yourself into silence when you really wanted to respond differently?

What do you say? Please add your thoughts in the comment section.

PS: The picture here has been generated by Grok

 

This Cancer is Preventable

 

It was a beautiful morning that day, way back in 2008. Then, I received that call from my friend in Mumbai. A Malayalee born and bred in Hyderabad, married to a Malayalee settled in Mumbai, she speaks a unique tongue. Our friendship had gone past the necessity of starting conversations with a good morning or good evening. The telephone calls between us were not very regular, but when we spoke, we picked up from where we left off last. We talked about small things in life. Most of the conversation was reserved for pulling each other's legs and laughing. There was happiness in our conversation, always. It has been like that since we met for the first time in 2005. But that call in 2008 was different. 

 “Arey, do you know something?” she asked. She sounded dead serious. 

In the normal course of conversation, I would have said something funny or pulled her leg. “What happened?’ I asked, sensing something wrong in her voice. “I have breast cancer,” she said.

I was stunned and did not know what to say. I kept quiet, all the while thinking what to say and how to console her. I did not have to. She told me the details of the diagnosis and what she planned to do next.  This was one time when I was tongue-tied, and she led the conversation, and I was just making some incoherent sounds to tell her that I was alive at the other end. There was nothing much I could have done to help her in any manner. 

In the 17 years since then, I have met a few people afflicted with cancer. Many of them survived. Some of them with whom I spent time did not make it. There was nothing that I could have done for anyone to change their medical condition. In a few cases, I helped them prepare themselves and their families for the days ahead. In the others, I was only a witness to the unravelling events. That is when I noticed a pattern.

The initial response to the discovery of the disease is shock, pain, and disbelief. The uncertainty of the future immediately steps into take whatever mind space is left. Almost concurrently, the question, “Why me?” begins to gnaw at the person. During this time, the afflicted individuals and those around them undergo a visible change in their behaviour. They close ranks and behave as if they are guarding a state secret. Extra efforts are made to keep the secret away from other friends, relatives, and neighbours. As the situation worsens, most people withdraw into the shells of their own making and inevitably suffer in loneliness, the intense pain and anxiety. Only a very few choose to share their problem beyond their immediate support system. This reaction is not limited to cancer. When we come face-to-face with serious adversities or life-threatening challenges, most of us react likewise; the way our responses manifest might differ.

Why should anyone share their problem with everyone? 

Why should they publicise their sufferings?

How does sharing our problems with others help us?

Valid questions. The rights and privileges of privacy are paramount to an individual. The decision to share an individual's problem with somebody else is a personal choice. It must unequivocally remain so. 

I am interested in the study of human behaviour and often look at people's behaviour more as manifestations of something beyond what the eye can see. Life, over the last 66 years, has convinced me that the weaknesses and inadequacies inherent in each one of us drive our responses to various stimuli. This holds even for groups. Fake news and propaganda fan our vulnerabilities. That is the reason why it spreads faster than the truth. That is why religious teachers and politicians thrive on fear and hate. When afflictions are personal, individual traits drive the response. Therefore, people from similar socio-economic and cultural backgrounds and even from the same family respond very differently when they are afflicted with similar grave personal challenges or adversities. 

Why do we behave the way we do? 

Some experts point to fear of social stigma as the cause. Diseases like AIDS, lunacy, and leprosy are associated with social stigma. In a deeply conservative society like ours, there are serious consequences and repercussions associated with personal afflictions. The stigma could continue to socially impact the near and dear ones well beyond the life of the afflicted person. In such circumstances, withholding information, hiding the ailment, or denying the adversity can be understood. When COVID-19 was raging, and people at large attired in protective suits were chasing down anyone suspected of being infected, keeping the infection a secret was understandable. Heart-related conditions, diabetes or blood pressure issues are not communicable diseases and cannot be attributed to immoral living. Many people take pains to hide lifestyle diseases and even take offence at being asked. 

Some people tend to hide their problems due to fear of losing their position in society or the image of wealth and well-being they think they have in society. Not long ago, when most of us knew we needed each other, we accepted dependence on others as normal. We were open to sharing and caring materially and emotionally. It was expected and easily accepted. The growth of affluence in society has brought along a sense of omnipotence amongst us individuals. Sharing an adversity or a problem with others is nowadays perceived as an erosion of that self-assumed potency. Anyone sympathising risks being seen as a threat to that notion of adequacy. Deeply suspicious individuals, who take care to remain aloof, have nothing to do with others. They moat themselves into emotional isolation. It could even be due to the fear of loss of opportunities.  Despite easily discernible and obvious signs, people still deny loss of jobs, financial setbacks and many such adversities, hoping to recover and regain the position they think they occupy. Reasons could be any. My search narrowed down to two possible reasons, equally strong and interconnected but less discussed.

We are a deeply conservative society driven by faith, beliefs, and customs. Irrespective of how we treat religion or faith in our personal lives now, most of us have been brought up deeply religious and with the conviction that our present is the result of our past; our deeds, in this life or the ones before. Life seen through the prism of a cause-and-effect continuum in perpetuity, with an infinite repayment term to cope with, comes with the burden of servicing presumed debts of the unknown past with sufferings of the present. Effectively, we tend to believe we are suffering because we did something wrong and are now the subject of divine displeasure.  Destiny, or God's will, is what most people would call it. It may not be the case with all of us universally, but most people around us certainly subscribe to that thought. Subconsciously, we do not like to be seen as servicing debts of the past!  Imprinted deep within our DNA, the belief system that we have inherited or developed has a significant role in dictating how we respond to stimuli. The strong belief that we are reaping the fruits of our own doing drives us immediately to invoke God. We even approach crafty godmen to augment our efforts in seeking divine intervention. They immediately set about using the godsent opportunity to their best.

Most of us, if not all, grew up with the phrase, “What will others think?” It has been used by our parents and elders to effectively rein us in. Our life has evolved around the concept of external validation of right and wrong. 

What will people think when we are in the deep? The guy must have done something bad to be suffering this! Who wants to be seen as having sinned in this life or in the earlier ones? Nobody, especially the afflicted, would. There is another side to this line of thought, equally bad. People tend to think that others will be happy seeing them in a state of suffering. So, they deliberately get into denial mode to prevent others from saying, “This wasn't good enough for him!”

When I reached this stage of the article, I decided to call my friend in Mumbai and check with her my deductions. She agreed with me on what I had concluded. She, a firm believer, told me that she did not ask, “Why me?” I concede, but she would be an exception rather than a rule. 

Did she share her problem with others? 

Yes. She shared her predicament with a very few. The reason she gave me was revealing. When people come to know of an issue, the first response is normally sympathy, genuine or make-believe. The discussion has only one natural course of progression. Usually, it is about people they know and have faced similar situations, and the terrible times they went through. In the garb of providing moral support, the sympathy-talk normally puts the fear of the devil in the person who is already suffering. “I shared the news with a very few, and you were one among those few. I had not disclosed it even to my mother that time,” she replied.

“Why did you share the news with me?” I asked.

“I knew you would not put on a show of sympathy. I trusted you,” she said.

That answered it all. In times of need, there are just a few whom we can trust. Yet, we need to find someone, however helpless they may be, to share our fears and worries. Do not let our thoughts become crabs.

My friend from Mumbai and I talk whenever we feel like. We still laugh a lot. There is happiness in our conversation, even when the chips are down. 

 

PS: Gratitude to Dr Abraham Kuruvilla, a renowned counsellor, for helping me refine my thoughts on the subject.

 

Purpose of Life - Struggling to Define one?

Our daughters call up while travelling to work in the morning and on their journey home. It is a daily ritual. In the morning, I always ask, “Child, how is the day coming up?” In the evening, I ask, “How was the day?” Between the two questions and their answers, we quickly cover the essentials. My wife gets longer talk time with the girls. At times they call at the same time. Then, my wife and I either switch phones or use the conference facility. Technology has made staying connected easy. We catch up on each other’s day through our daily calls. Sometimes, the discussion can turn serious.

“Dad, is it because I was raised as an Army child or the nomadic imprint in my DNA, I feel restless staying in one place for long. I yearn to move places?” That kickstarted the day.

“Child, maybe both,” I replied. “Deep within us, there must be remnant imprints of early mankind’s nomadic DNA. Although Homo Sapiens emerged 300,000 years ago as nomads in Africa it has been just about 10,000 years since we gave up nomadism and opted for the sedentary way of life. I believe wheat and rice enslaved and tethered us to the fertile plains near the Great Rivers.” 

I gave her time to soak in what I was saying. I also wanted to collect and organise my thoughts. I was sure she had more questions lined up.

“I believe, it is the compelling presence of that nomadic trait in our DNA that keeps Tourism afloat. The same trait must be triggering us to move places for better avenues. Isn’t immigration an evolved form of nomadism?” she did not answer, but I knew she was listening. “You are an army child and grew up travelling, moving, and living in many places. Nomadism cannot be dormant in your case. It is okay to feel restless.” I gave her time to absorb what I had said and continued.

“Just like imbalance spurs continuity in a chemical equation, the uncertainty and restlessness we experience spur movement, growth, and progress. Consider your restlessness as an internal trigger. Keep adding knowledge, skill sets and competencies to expand the horizon that envelops you.” 

The silence at the other end now was louder than the sound of the autorickshaw she was travelling in and even the blaring horns of the vehicle passing by.  I knew something else was brewing. 

“Dad, what is the purpose of our lives? I just cannot figure out mine,” she said. “What was yours?” she asked. 

I laughed aloud and said, “Terrible ways genes get passed on.” I knew I could not laugh her question away. My mind was fast at work. I had to come up with an answer. Even as children they asked many questions, even uncomfortable ones. I took pains to answer them. There were times when I sat with them and went through the encyclopaedia. My own life held the answer to her latest question.

I had grappled with the same question at various stages in my life. Each time I had come up with different answers. As a youngster who was, not doing very well at school, I wanted to be an achiever someday. Achievers had good jobs, were financially independent, owned cars and were respected. I secured a good job early in life but the euphoria vanished soon. Circumstances can be compelling if not overwhelming. I had willingly shouldered a lot of responsibilities. Ironically, my life’s sole purpose was to fulfil those first and thereafter live a carefree life and die with a song on my lips. Driven by the desire to be relevant I made a decision that landed me in serious trouble. In the gravest situation, I found myself disowned. When I rescued myself and found the will to live on, I changed course, married a lovely girl and promptly forgot about the purpose of life.

A medical emergency forced me to see life differently. As a young husband and father of two girls, I wrote down ten things to do before I die.  Most of them were to ensure a safe future for my wife and children. Over the next few years, I achieved nine out of those ten. I gave up on the tenth one. As time flew, I crossed fifty and rose in the hierarchy to become a one-star general. I wanted to leave behind “footprints on the sands of time” and worked hard towards it. I was officially chosen as the mentor for the department and I was convinced I had a strong trail of footprints behind me. People called up to know my views on professional matters when I was in service. Many called seeking my intervention in their private matters and I could help. It continued for a while even after I retired. Soon, the numbers fell and then stopped altogether. Some good-hearted folks still call up on my birthday or anniversary. The footprints I thought I had left had been washed away. I do not grudge contemporary footprints over mine, for that should be the norm. With plenty of time to stare at my empty nest, one day I sat down to restate my life’s purpose. Past 65, what should be the purpose of my life?

An honest evaluation of the situation revealed that my wife could, live well without me, once she gets the hang of the mundane things I now claim I do. My children, well placed, need neither my advice nor support. I found myself saddled with a sense of purposelessness. It dawned on me that all through my life, I had only been setting goals, and proudly calling the long-term ones, my life’s purpose. They helped me chart a course moored to the value systems I had internalised. It also ensured I retracted when I strayed. Yet they were merely the desired destinations in time. They also gave my existence a sense of exclusivity. It mattered only to me. No one else saw and felt the halo around me. It took me 65 years to realise that, shorn of that self-ordained exclusivity, life’s purpose had no meaning. 

Has anyone ever heard of the mighty lion setting goals, or living to fulfill his life’s purpose? Has anyone ever heard the Redwood tree (Sequoia sempervirens) or the Douglas Fir (Pseudotsuga menziesii) broadcasting, from the skies above, how much of their life’s purpose has been achieved? Imagine, left alone both the species easily live very long. There are known cases where some redwood trees reached the age of 2000 and some Douglas Firs lived more than 1000 years! 

We are just one of the billions of species on the earth. We have self-assigned a special place amongst other inhabitants and think we are at the top of the food chain. While that notion may provide a sense of superiority, we are hopelessly dependent on all the other species for survival. Pitted one-on-one against other species, we are utterly defenceless and fare badly in survival capabilities. Yes, our ability to fantasise, imagine, record them, and pursue our dreams to fulfilment sets us apart. Setting goals does help but evaluating one’s life on the number of goals achieved may turn detrimental to happiness. Focussed on destinations and committed to quantifying life’s journey we deprive ourselves of the beauty of the journey called life. We must set goals to pursue but not at the cost of living happily. 

Knowing that time is not on my side anymore, and with no pressure to prove anything to anyone including me, I try to make every moment full and happy. I have learned to be patient, and forgiving. Call it age-gifted wisdom, now I let things be and have trained myself to draw positives even from toxic people and situations. I have lived the last seven years without any purpose in life. Yet, I authored two books, wrote for newspapers, published many articles, trained corporate executives, spoke at events, and even became a director in a technology start-up. I love travelling. I deploy my savings and earnings to enjoy life. I stretch every minute and every penny to soak in the maximum. If I had to pen down my life's achievements, I could do it in one sentence. "My wife and I brought into this world, two children whom we groomed to be independent, capable, compassionate  and contributing members of the society." Everything else was incidental. I summed up my 65 years to her. 

“Dad, does that mean doing good, bad, and evil make no difference in life? If short-term gains define our happiness, what incentivises being good to others? Are we not back to the ways of the jungle?  What is life without a purpose?” 

She had been listening to every word I spoke. I wanted to ask her if something was wrong, but I desisted. She demanded an answer, and I had to give it, to the best of my abilities and without counterquestions.

“Child, we are getting mixed up between the means and the end. Imagine eating from a dirty plate with dirty hands when we have the option of eating with clean hands and from a clean plate. The choice rests with us.” 

We live with the mistaken notion that having travelled far from the jungle, we have become civilised. Animals kill for the right to eat and mate and nothing more than that. The hierarchy within a pride or herd revolves around these two elements. Animals also kill to foreclose competition. Humans kill for different reasons and with far-reaching consequences. Most pogroms across the globe started as someone’s life’s purpose. The ‘by any means’ school of thought justifies means with the ends. I hold a different belief system. My happiness and growth have not been at the cost of someone else’s right to life or opportunity. I feel I am more content than many of my competitors.

Success and failures are part of life. Whatever we may accumulate or achieve accompanies us for a short time. The euphoria of success wears out very fast. Even our name and fame do not last long. In the long run, we all are dead and forgotten for sure. Public memory is infamously short and easily manipulated. When regimes change, history gets rewritten, heroes are branded villains and villains get glorified as heroes. Nothing is static. Absolutely nothing should be taken for granted. We must be led by our moral compass and how that compass adapts to our immediate surroundings is a choice we must make. Happiness is something we must find within us. We do it by the choices we make and choices differentiate people. 

“Something to ponder over,” she said.

“Yes; something for all of us to ponder over,” I replied.

 

 

 

 

THE OTHER SIDE OF LOOKING THE OTHER WAY

 

Look the other way, is an idiom unlike any other. It does not catch much attention but easily hurts. Looking the other way allows immoral or illegal acts but its benign version, which could mean many more things like, avoid, ignore, desert, abandon, let down etc, could be immensely painful to those looked away from. The literal meaning of looking the other way is straightforward as the words suggest; looking in the opposite direction. Our roads play host to both literal and literary versions of it. 

Pedestrians across the world have the right of way. In many countries, pedestrians can cross the road, only at the zebra lines. If the light is not in their favour they wait or push the pedestrian button to allow them to cross. If pedestrians push the pedestrian button, they get the green to cross and the light goes red for motorists. People crossing like that wave at the motorists signalling gratitude.

Pedestrians at home are more empowered. They cross roads and motorways at will. They do not have to signal gratitude because they can remotely apply the brakes in our cars with their palms. Some jump over the railing erected to prevent random crossings. The more steel-willed and philanthropic ones go a few steps beyond. They alter or manipulate the railings or barriers to allow unhindered rights for everyone to cross. If you notice pedestrians crossing the roads here, you will find many crossing the road looking the other way. Having outsourced their safety to the goodness of the unknown motorists, they deliberately do not make eye contact. They just look the other way. Risks of tail bang notwithstanding, a few drivers screech to stop while most continue because they are skilled enough to evade the moving two-legged obstacle or too lazy to apply the brakes. The unmindful hero gets to live another day to look the other way because the drivers chose not to look the other way. 

Looking the other way is rarely that detached and removed. There is a painful side to it, especially if it happens in relationships. All of us would have experienced it sometime in life. Irrespective of the pain inflicted, the incident often leaves us baffled with the question, “How could he?” or “How could she?” One only needs to recall the incident to realise how it felt then. At times even time cannot lessen the trauma and its aftermath. There would be nobody in this world who would not have experienced this feeling. 

There is a flip side too. If you feel, you have been at the receiving end of this traumatic experience from someone else, there would be people around you who would have received similar treatment from you. It is so common and sometimes so subtle we may not even realise we have inflicted injuries worse than the worst we suffered.

There is good news. The damage in such cases is self-inflicted and therefore treatable. Cannot believe it? That is because you are not looking at the other side of their looking the other way.  Such experiences arise when people do not react or perform the way we expect them to. The more one expects, the higher the chance of shortfall and the more bitter our experience. This discussion of expectation and response is not related to setting work-related targets and their delivery but to human behaviour in social and interpersonal transactions.

It may do us good if we truthfully ponder over the latest heartbreak we experienced. In most cases, we likely assumed that the person would deliver what we expected, without telling the person what we expected. What about those instances when we tell people what we expect from them? We often expect without consideration of their competencies, compulsions, or circumstances. The converse is also equally true.   

We may be at a loss to explain why someone suddenly felt offended by us. Check!  We would not have known what they expected from us and in the absence of such knowledge, we might not have lived up to their expectations. In most cases, they would not have even demanded something from us but merely expected us to respond as they desired. The intensity of the let-down is immense when the relationship is intimate because we take it for granted the other person knows us well enough to rise and respond.

Sometimes, poor, inadequate and even adverse response is deliberate and malafide. Such numbers, unfortunately, are on the rise. One should be wise enough to differentiate between the intentional and the inadvertent. When people take our goodness in relationships for granted, we should sever and cut losses. A heartache for a short while is far better than feeling used and abused in toxic relationships. It may be kindness, to ask them for reasons. The heinous of the lot will deny even the existence of such an act. It is better to keep them at the farthest possible distance. Sometimes, we need to keep them around regardless of their response. After all, roses don't come without thorns.  

Now that we know, there is another side to someone looking the other way, it could open new avenues to renewing our relationships. 

Let me add a caveat. Tread with caution!

 

Mortui Vivos Docent. - The Dead Teach the Living

 

We left our hotel in the morning and drove to the museum in Haroldswick. It was a long drive that included two ferry rides, one from Toft to Ulsta and one from Gutcher to Belmont to reach cold and windy Muness to see the remnants of a castle. There was hardly anyone around and when we came across someone, an occasional car, or a small group of cycling enthusiasts, we waved at each other earnestly. My wife and I were with Dr Abe and Dr Elizabeth vacationing in the Shetland Islands, an archipelago in Scotland, the northernmost region of the UK.

It was cold, windy, and wet. I love visiting museums and old buildings. Museums, for many, are like cemeteries, resting places for relics, reminders of tragedies and some made-up stories. Museums, to me, are roads to the past and windows to the future.  I call it, ‘Mortui Vivos Docent.’ or 'The dead teach the living', a phrase I picked up from a book I read recently. In Latin, ‘mortui’ means ‘dead,’ ‘vivo’ means alive, and ‘docent’ means ‘guide or teach.’ Pathologists of the yore thus justified cadaver dissection. When I leave a museum, at times after spending the whole day, I feel very enriched and connected.

Every piece in the museum is a cadaver of sorts. For those inclined to listen, each exhibit is an unsaid story. For those who can visualise, exhibits can become the means to a journey in time to the generations before us and witness their struggles, trials, and tribulations and their triumphs or failures. Each boat, fishing tool, and other items on display that day had an individual story to narrate. Collectively it was a moving story of grit, grime, sweat, blood, and triumph. I could visualise the noisy landings of the herring-laden boats, the splashing sounds of countless feminine hands and the unkind words of their masters. I could hear them haggling about their wages and smell their smoky cabins. I could see some beautiful eyes sparkling through weatherbeaten faces and sense romance even amid hardships. I was there experiencing the poverty and misery of a people and their undying hopes kept alive by indomitable will.  The sunset well after 10 at night helped us with a day far longer than I had ever seen. The next day we spent time in Lerwick museum. In the three days we stayed on the Island, I travelled back in time, two centuries. I was amazed at the way the museum had been curated. some of the places I visited were run mostly by volunteers. It was a treat to the eyes. I recalled my trips to museums back home and the difference in how we maintain and curate relics.

We set sails, out of Lerwick in the evening and berthed at Aberdeen as the day broke. The next day we pulled into the car park of an inn at Bradon Mill, Hexham, to commence our walk to The Hadrian Wall. Running over 73 miles, it was built on the lines of the Great Wall of China, on the orders of Emperor Hadrian way back in AD122, to demarcate and guard his borders. It was built during the ascend of the great Roman Empire, known for its strong legal and administrative systems. Over time the state acquired unquestioned authority over the people. Corruption became rampant. Unable to cope with it, people looked for alternative socio-political and religious systems, setting in motion the fall of the Roman Empire. One thing led to another and the great Empire bit the dust. The Hadrian Wall, the largest Roman archaeological feature in England, remains a testimony to the rise and fall of the Empire.

Standing next to the wall, or its remnants, I was transported 1900 years back to witness the mighty Emperor's perception of threat and how he planned to secure his kingdom. An audacious construction for those times, rudimentary and primitive for contemporary defence, the wall hit me hard with the realisation of the transient nature of our authority and how irrelevant our wealth of material possessions becomes with time. The memory of a powerful emperor, once the world under his feet, now rests on a lifeless piece of primitive stonework. The beauty of the area around me captivated me so much that I forgot about the wall, standing next to it. That much for the ancient authority!

On our climb down the hill, I realised that our assets or authority neither make us immortal nor guarantee eternity. Men of intellect like Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle with hardly a material belonging, are revered far beyond all rulers of the past combined. This is one reason why despots attempt to manipulate history while they reign, little realising the futility of trying to make or alter history. 

“Memento mori, quare ne obliviscaris vivere,” a Latin phrase translated literally: “Remember you must die, therefore do not forget to live,”  is the lesson I learnt.

 

Ms Louise and Map of The Shetland Islands

“Ladies and gentlemen, good morning. This is your captain.  In a short while, we will be docking at Lerwick. We hope you enjoyed the night sailing with us.  We wish you a good time in The Shetland Islands,” streamed in the skipper's announcement.

Our vacation to Scotland and beyond was a gift from Doctor Abe and Elizabeth, our exceptionally big-hearted relatives, retired doctors, and hosts. We were accompanying them on the trip to The Shetland Islands.  Abe rented a car for the journey. We drove out from Birmingham and headed to Penrith for the night. Enroute we stopped by Lake Windermere and Dove Cottage, in Grasmere. It was one of the most picturesque journeys my wife and I had ever undertaken. Surrounded by so much natural beauty, Wordsworth could not have been anything but a nature poet. At Penrith, we were invited, by my wife’s cousin, Anna and her husband, a doctor, to dinner in a countryside pub. Everyone seemed to know everyone else and everyone acknowledged each other's presence. We left for Edinburg the next day. Edinburg did not heed the weatherman’s warning of strong winds and rain. We spent a bright day walking there. When we reached Aberdeen the next day to catch the ferry to the Shetland Islands, rain and wind caught up with us but could not impede our plans. Cocooned in the comforts of the ferry, we did not feel the biting cold, strong winds from the North Sea. After a night-long sail, smooth barring the occasional rough sea, we docked right on time at the Pier in Lerwick. 

When we drove our SUV out of the ferry after breakfast, it was only 7:30 AM. We knew we were early for everything else but sightseeing. So we decided to drive around. “The outside temperature is six degrees,” said Abe. “It is comfortable inside,” I said. When we stepped out into the parking area near the Lerwick Town Hall, we realised what six degrees with the cold winds from the Atlantic felt like. It wasn't much different from the cold howling winds I had befriended amidst the mighty mountains of Ladakh. “Let us get to the tourist information centre,” said Abe when we were done seeing the beautiful stained glass windows in the town hall. “Let us go,” I replied. I did not realise, I was about to meet someone I will never forget. 

There were other tourists already when we reached the Information Centre. We waited. “Hi, Can I help you?” the beautiful young lady with one of the most disarming smiles I have ever seen, asked Abe.  I craned my neck to read her name tag. “Louise,” I read. 

“Hi. We are here for three days. Can you please tell us what we should see around?” Abe asked. 

“You, driving, walking, or looking for public transport?’ she asked. 

“Driving.”

“That sounds good. Where are you put up?”

“In Brae.”

“That makes it easy. You are in the middle of the Island. Lemme give you a map,” she said and tore out a sheet from the bunch of printed maps on the counter. 

“That's it. She will give the map and say, you can find your way now,” I thought. You can’t blame me for my insane thought. The traveller I am, I have been to tourist information centres closer home. More often than not, I regretted wasting my time going to such centres and coming across disinterested, insincere, and ignorant people who were more eager to connect me with some operator lurking in the shadows than answering my queries. I recalled how, at one place, the man was busy playing on his mobile and even refused to acknowledge our presence. I made him realise that we were alive and around him. “Read the display boards. I don't have anything more than what is written there,”  he muttered, pointing to the shoddy stuff on the wall. It might have been display boards when the centre was inaugurated. He promptly went back to his absorbing video game. 

Lerwick was different. She picked up a pen and started marking the map with a running commentary of what we could expect to see or must-see. It took her ten minutes to explain to us. She was calm and deliberate. Each syllable of what she said was clear. I watched her expressions as she spoke to Abe. I saw commitment in her glowing eyes. She was making sure we saw everything possible in three days. Then I noticed that she was writing things on the map, but upside down. I craned my neck to see what she was writing. “Oh sorry. I know it's upside down for you but it's faster this way. Hope you won't mind,” she said. “Not as long as we don't have to walk upside down,” I replied. She smiled. I don't know if she got my joke. 

“Where can we see the Orcas,” asked my wife.

“Oh, they keep moving. They are wild animals. There is a social media page, Orcas of Shetland, run by some enthusiasts. They keep track of the sightings. Sign into it, and maybe you will get the latest information. Hope you get to see them,” she said. It looked like she wanted us to see the orcas. “Reach Sumburgh Nature Reserve early morning or late evening, you can see puffin chicks when papa-mama comes calling with food.” 

“Thank you very much,” Abe said.

“In case you need help in between, call on this number,” she said and wrote it down on the map. “Have a great time,” she said as we left. 

“Hi,” I heard her eager voice again. She must be attending to the next tourist, I knew.

“I am impressed. This is called commitment,” I said as we walked out of the information centre.  I had not seen anyone so patient and descriptive in any information centres I have been to. It was not that we were the only ones asking for information there was a queue waiting to be attended to. 

During the next three days, we travelled all over the Shetland Islands, as she had instructed. We drove onto the ferry at Toft and drove out at Ulsta. We drove onto another ferry at Gutcher to drive out in Bellmont. We went to the castle in Muness, the Boat Haven in Harroldswick and the Hermanness National Nature Reserve. Since the sunset was only at 10:20 at night, we had time to retrace our ferry trips and drive to Sumburgh head, the southern tip of the Island to see the nesting Puffins. 

“Hold on,” I said, as we were driving to catch the ferry to the mainland. “We must thank that lady for facilitating our trip.”

“Yes. So much information in one sheet and so well briefed. Three days and not a minute wasted,” replied Abe taking the next exit to turn the car towards the information centre. “Thank you very much, Louise. You made our visit beautiful,” I said when we reached the centre.

“Awaa, you are so kind,” she replied and smiled. Her face lit up. “Did you see the Orcas?” 

“No,” I said. “We didn't cross paths. Maybe sometime later. 

“The Puffins?” 

“To our heart's content.” I was impressed. She remembered what we had asked despite the number of people she met to answer day in and day out. When I walked out of the centre, I was awash in gratitude and admiration for Louise.

“One doesn't have to be a doctor to be clinical. One doesn't have to be a missionary to have a missionary zeal. One doesn't have to be the owner to have a deep sense of ownership. One doesn't have to hold a high office to be responsible. Any job can be glorious and rewarding. One just needs to be like Louise,” I thought walking back to the car. People like her make organisations come alive. People like Louise make the world a beautiful place.

“You are silent,” said Abe.

“I was thinking if I have thanked Louise enough,” I replied. “I hope we find more people like Louise.” 

PS: You can see most of what we saw on the trip on my social media pages.

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A Bridge to Nowhere

 

Colonel Kochu Koshy Panicker, my colleague in the army, hero of many an action, and rightfully a gallantry award winner, organised the day-long contributory cruise in the Ashtamudi Lake.  ‘KK’ is an excellent organiser. Once he takes on something, expect nothing less than the perfect. As his boss, I fearlessly delegated tasks to him and sat back without worries. I attribute my rise in ranks to teammates like him.  KK is special. He smiles even when under severe work pressure. Dr Santy, his wife, an academic, is his strength. With them around, possibilities are endless.  

On the 4th of May, I drove 95 KM one way from my home with my wife and two of my grandchildren and stayed the night with the Panickers. The next morning, my wife, grandchildren, and Dr Santy travelled with me another 21 KM to join the cruise, KK and his team had organised. KK had left early to tie up things. There are a lot of houseboats in Kumarakom, that offer similar daylong cruises. This cruise, I knew would be special. 

I wanted my grandchildren to see, feel and learn first-hand, the camaraderie and oneness amongst us, the veterans. KK, Colonel CRM Nair, Colonel Madhu, and Major Rajendran did a great job organising it. Some people who promised to be on the boat did not join. It put a bit of additional monetary pressure on those who landed up but nobody complained. The juniors enjoyed every bit of the day and have not stopped talking about it ever since. They learned to conduct themselves, offer a helping hand to the elders, and be good community members. I came back with more than a cruise. 

“Look at that bridge,” someone called out aloud. There was a bridge, jutting out a long way from the land into the water but it had no signs of landing anywhere. “Must be under construction,” I said. “No,” someone replied. “It is the “bridge to nowhere.” Some of my fellow veterans, chipped in. Most of them settled in and around knew better. “A bridge that led nobody nowhere,” I thought. I took a close look and even clicked some photographs. “Appacha[1], why doesn't that bridge go anywhere?” asked my grandson. I told him that there must have been some constraints. 

I was curious to find out. I scoured the web for other brave engineers and authorities who made similar bridges to nowhere. I came across an Arch Bridge built in 1936. It spans the East Fork of the Gabriel River and was meant to be part of the road connecting the San Gabriel Valley with Wrightwood, California. The project was abandoned due to a flood.  Trekkers enjoy using the bridge even now. There was also the mention of an old Bridge in Kentucky. When the bridge was made, it connected two pieces of land and people used it. It is now in disuse.  There was yet another Bridge. It was proposed to connect the town of Ketchikan in Alaska with Gravina Island which had an International Airport and housed 50 residents. The proposal was also called the ‘bridge to nowhere. Initially expected to cost the exchequer $398 million, it was finally cancelled in 2015 on allegations of ‘pork barrelling[2]. Not even one brick was laid for this bridge. I also came across a movie with the same name. The 1986 New Zealand horror thriller is about a group of teenagers who fight for survival after encountering a mysterious hermit.  

The ‘Bridge to Nowhere’, near Thevally, Kollam is class apart and without parallel. I am not competent to discuss how this engineering marvel came into existence, the political reasons behind its creation, and the allegations surrounding its existence. What saddens me to no end, is that despite my search, I could not come across any proposal to mitigate this problem or to bring it into use at least for tourism purposes. Three things are clear. Firstly, it is a colossal, thoughtless, and criminal waste of public money. Secondly, it showcases the impotence and inability of the public to hold their representatives to account. Thirdly, it shows the rot and deterioration that has infected contemporary society with the “Why should I? Let someone else do it” attitude[3].  Till they demolish it or find ways to use it, ‘The Thevally Bridge to Nowhere’ shall remain a monument to the unquestioned lack of accountability authorities enjoy due to the public’s attitude to gross irresponsibility. 

It is just one of the very few visible ‘bridges to nowhere’, while we live amidst countless invisible bridges to nowhere. ‘Bridges to Nowhere’ amongst us? 

We would have come across people, who despite our best efforts and intentions neither connect nor reciprocate. Intentionally or unintentionally, even we might have refused to connect. Denial would be our first response. Just try and recall instances when someone waved at you or greeted you and you knowingly did not respond! You did not allow their bridge to land on your shores! It could have been driven by some compulsions or ego. That cannot be called afflictions. Such acts seldom go unrewarded. 

The afflicted are those who closet themselves and do not allow any bridge to reach them however hard others may try. Incidentally, it could be an early sign of depression. On the other hand, there are many bridging experts around us. They thrive on retractable bridges.  They put out a bridge when they need something from others or allow other bridges to land only when they see some use of the other bank in the near future. They are crafty, manipulative, selfish, and mean. They will somehow find ways to land their bridge whenever they want. We would be familiar with at least a few in our neighbourhood. 

Bridges connect two distant banks of a gap that otherwise would have remained separated and isolated. Multi-span bridges stand testimony to the difficulty and complexity of connecting distant banks; the further the banks, the more challenging the efforts. Even in life, it is the same; the more emotionally distant someone is, the more difficult to connect with them. One may need a few steps forward, to connect, the first few could elicit no response. 

The importance of the banks on both sides of the gap that will take the landings cannot be left unsaid. If the banks are not strong enough to take the landing, the entry and exit load, especially that of heavy vehicles, will soon render the bridge unusable. In life also, it is like that.  Individuals, the banks, need to be strong enough to take on the demands of the other end of interpersonal relationships. Expectations can ruin the bridge. Keeping account of give and take is akin to injecting toxins. Many a marriage flounder because the landings on either side are not strong enough to take the expectation loads. 

The day before I had an incidental discussion on the subject with a quick-witted former colleague of mine, now commanding a unit. “Sir, technically isn't, nowhere also somewhere?” she asked. It made me think. Yes. Nowhere is also somewhere. When ‘nowhere’ becomes the ‘somewhere to be’ for someone everywhere and always, that person might already be a recluse or one fast in the making. It is a deliberate choice of cutting oneself off from others. Do not mistake it for ‘personal space’. Yes, ‘nowhere’ can be a chosen destination for solitude. Most people mistake loneliness for solitude. When nowhere becomes the destination, people deliberately retract all the bridges and destroy the home-bank landing. On the other hand, there are people, who long for bridges to land on their shores but do not know how to initiate the works. Their hand wave may not look enthusiastic, their smile may be incomplete, or their body language may not be welcoming enough. It is there we must put our spans forward manifold and reach out. Who knows, there may be a gold mine, a heart of gold, waiting to be won. 

Modern means of communication have shrunk the world, into, what people call, a global village. But sadly, while geographical distances are being bridged either physically or remotely, more and more people are retracting their bridges and withdrawing deep into their own shores in the guise of finding personal spaces. Our efforts to span relational gaps can prevent bridgeable gaps from turning into chasms. 

Beyond the memories of chilled beer, good food and great company the “Thevally Bridge to Nowhere” gave me a few lessons for life.  I shall wave and smile as always but my eyes will be quicker to spot the bridge looking to land.

Even you can…

 

PS. 

1.       Over the last two days, I have been going to the local swimming pool with my grandchildren for their swimming classes. I know smiles are the first step to launching the bridge of friendship. I have already made  new friends. Among them, a doctor, an IT engineer and a business man, all there to teach their children swimming.

2. If you like the article, do subscribe to it. It costs you nothing but means a lot to me. You could reciprocate my attempts to bridge with you through my written works. 

3. Consider expressing your views in the comments section. I assure you of a response. if you have personal queries please address it to my mailbox jacobtharakanchacko@gmail.com

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[1] Appacha’ - That is how my grandchildren address me.

[2] ‘Pork barreling’. It refers to the act of a legislator taking away a lot of money to service just his constituency. It also denotes spending too much for too little in return.

[3] I will be flagging this to the local authorities and also asking people whom I know in the locality about my idea of finding alternative uses if it can’t proceed further.

The Regulation Holdall and a Lesson for Life

 

In the initial years of my army service, I travelled by train like all other army officers. When I travelled on duty, the regulation ‘holdall’ was my companion. It was a masterpiece of utility. It held my things together throughout the journey. It took on a small mattress, my military boots that could never find space elsewhere, and all the other unwieldy stuff required to be carried along. There was a way to pack it.

I first spread the mattress, put a blanket and two sheets folded to size, spread the mosquito net, flipped the covers over, and tied the laces through the three eyeholes provided. Unwieldy things were then shoved into the compartments at the two ends. The holdall was now ready for the makeover.  I rolled the holdall tight, into a cylindrical entity and tied it with the attached leather belt that went through a big leather handle. It was the strongest thing in leather I have ever seen other than the saddle. My orderly was a great help. Over time I learnt to reduce what I carried along and we became experts in compressing the holdall into a sleek cylindrical piece of luggage. It did not matter whether it was dragged, carried, or even dumped anywhere. Thieves did not want it because it was unwieldy to run away with and it was not worth being sold in a flea market.  It became my bed in railway waiting rooms and my sofa on the platform when I waited for the train that promised to arrive in ‘some time.’  Occasionally, I deposited my holdall in the railway cloakroom giving me time and freedom to explore places around the railway station.  Times have changed.  I retired from service. I do not know if the holdall is still a regulation supply item. I hardly see anyone with it.  

My holdall was neither classy nor good looking but it took on everything a bachelor possessed. Most modern suitcases would shudder to consider the stuff my holdall could accommodate. It handled the favourable and weathered the inclement equally well. It gathered a lot of scars but was still as useful as ever. It became more accommodative and flexible as it aged. Finally, it looked big or small depending on how well I rolled and bound it. The coolie, I hired at the station to carry my holdall, often complained that it weighed much more than it looked. Once I landed at a station at an unearthly hour and found no one to help me with my luggage.  I was not kind to my holdall, lifting, dropping, and dragging it.  I had a delicate suitcase to take care of. My holdall picked up a few tears but delivered my stuff safe and sound. My holdall carried a beautiful lesson. I recognise it only now. Wisdom comes with age! The wise say, “Better late than never.”  

The first bag I owned was an airbag. It carried my stuff, mostly snacks from home to the school hostel. The snacks did not last more than a day amidst growing boys. The bag found space in the dormitory cloakroom. It came out again only when I went home on vacation. I lugged a few textbooks that I did not read anyway. I wanted to show my father I was serious with my studies, though my report card said otherwise. Years later I became the proud owner of a classy wheeled moulded suitcase, the one I bought from the Army canteen with my first pay. I have vivid memories of both these pieces.  

They were both beautiful to look at but had limitations to what they could take in and carry. One day the zip of the airbag gave way. Those days we could repair bags. After repair, it looked good enough. Soon both the zip and the handle gave up. I think it gave up because it could not bear to carry meaningless loads anymore. I do not remember what happened to it.

The suitcase was a bit different. The wheels of my proud possession could not take the rough of the railway platform and gave up one day. It limped through the journey back to the unit. There I knocked the wheels off and continued to use it for a few more journeys. I could always find a Coolie at the station. Sleeker and better-looking suitcases were already in the market. One day the hinges gave way when I tried to push in things I thought, the suitcase could hold. I put it away in the attic of my quarters for some time. I do not recall where it vanished. 

Life is like that. We can choose to be a holdall, an airbag, or a suitcase! Our looks, connections, wealth, and social mobility do not matter. Some good-looking, stylish people you see around may not be as happy as they seem.  Many of those laughing in public necessarily may not be happy. They may be putting on that face, out of compulsions while breaking up within. Looks can be deceptive. They may be like bags with broken zippers or missing handles, or suitcases with broken wheels or cracking hinges or locks. We may not know. 

Life is a journey that throws up the unexpected and at the most inappropriate time the unwanted. It will always be so. What matters is our ability to take in what life gives, organise it and pack those such that we are not held back in our journey.  The trick lies in separating the ones that we need, the ones that we are forced to carry, and the ones we can discard. When held within limits, time heals even the most terrible things. What we cannot discard has to find compartments so that they do not divest us of the freedom of movement.  The job becomes far easier if we can detach ourselves from what we do not want and discard those at the first instance. Often it is not as easy as it sounds.   

Some memories, especially of losses, heartbreaks, unmatched expectations, unkept promises, and treachery are so hard to forget, that we compulsively carry them even though the stench of the putrefied experience is unbearable. We forget that the putrid attracts maggots. It consumes us from within. Redemption lies in finding the strength to throw out garbage. In many cases, the requirement may be just a stitch or two. At times, it may be difficult to detach and discard on one's own. We can always find someone who can give a patient ear and suggest ways without being judgemental. Together, we can spread our holdall, and prepare for the journey ahead.  

Yes. The scars could be deep, but it is still better than being consumed by one’s sorrows.  

This article was spurred by a friend's response to my reel titled “Creating Memories.”  This is my answer.

My gratitude to one of my brothers in arms who posted this photo on the social media group.