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 arm who posted this photo on the social media group.

 

Venturi Effect- Profound Lessons from a Road Rogue

 

I was sitting at the back of the class and playing book cricket. Our Physics teacher was working hard on explaining the Venturi effect. “Remember! Energy is neither created nor lost. It gets converted from one state to the other,” he said. “No loss, no gain,” I found the concept interesting.  

Book cricket was my fiefdom. I made rules and decided when to start and finish the match. “Time for a drink break,” I told the cricketers, closed the book pitch, and gave all my ears to the teacher. “So, when the water in a pipeline comes across a choke point, the pressure inside the tube at the choke increases, and the velocity decreases. The moment it comes out of the choke, the pressure falls dramatically, and the speed of the water increases correspondingly. People designing the layout of long-distance pipelines incorporate it to install inline flow meters. It also makes sure that pipelines do not get clogged,” he said. Intuition told me it would be a sure question in the examination. I studied the part well.  Sure enough, the question was there. I answered well and got good marks for my answer. It helped me pass the examination. That day, the essentials of the Venturi principle became sedimented somewhere deep within me. 

Experimenting with life is integral to adolescence. When I was growing up, smoking was considered macho. I picked up smoking early in life and became a heavy smoker. One day, I decided to cut down on my nicotine intake. A friend suggested I use a filter cum cigarette holder. I could fix my cigarette into the pen-like filter and smoke.  

I learned from the manual that it used the Venturi principle to extract nicotine from cigarette smoke before it reached my lungs. The cigarette certainly looked longer, but the filter stole the punch from the smoke.  I opened the filter in the evening to clean it. It was one of the most repulsive sights. A thick, dark, brown, sticky substance stared at me from the filter hold. It was nicotine that would have otherwise gone into my lungs. I did not like the sight.  In two days, I stopped smoking cigarettes using the filter. I threw the filter away. It took me another 30 years to throw cigarettes away for good. Somewhere in between, I also forgot about the venturi.   

Last Sunday, I saw the venturi principle in action once again.  

The six-lane road was for three vehicles abreast in each direction. The median ensured it. When commissioned, the flyover and road would have drained the flow either way very fast. Over the years, the density and volume of vehicular traffic increased manifold. Now, it remains packed beyond capacity almost throughout the day. That Sunday, I was on the side heading for the airport or beyond. All traffic leaving Bengaluru (Bangalore) had to take this route. The flyover was crowded, with vehicles of all shapes and sizes. Traffic moved at snail's speed.  

The left side of the flyover had a channel with two tails. The channel split into two tails about 50 meters from the entrance. One was a lean-mean left hook that served as the exit. It was wide enough to take just one vehicle. I was heading for it. The straight tail rejoined the main lane at the end of the flyover. The straight part was the problem. People on the mainline used it as a shortcut to overcome the congestion and join the main line ahead. Slow traffic creates unruly drivers. The slower the traffic, the ruder those inclined became. Vehicles ahead of me had already choked the entrance to the funnel. I had no option but to queue up because I had to take the exit. 

According to the rules of fluid mechanics, flow at the outer bend is faster than the flow at the inner bend. This law applies even to vehicular traffic flow. I use the lessons I learned in science classes in my daily life. I kept my car to the outer side of the funnel within the lane, directly facing the entrance and behind the car ahead of mine. I was sure I would be the one to enter the funnel whenever that car moved.  

The banks of a river define its course, and the laws of physics govern its waters. That day, “might is right” was the operative law on the road. Indian roads can be elastic beyond imagination. It can expand in any direction. One needs only to insert a tyre or nose of a vehicle. A new line will automatically take shape. Lanes lose significance or relevance.  It is not rare to see two-wheelers on the pedestrian path or cars nonchalantly coming against the flow, throwing one-way rules to the wind. 

The car on my right tried to nudge me to the left and out of the entrance. Then, from nowhere, a car came from the left, honking loudly, and stopped at about 60 degrees to the entrance. He then let his car roll into the gap between my car and the car in front. I knew he had got the better of me. He looked at me like the victor and let his car roll ahead. I saw a vicious, wicked smile on his face as he looked at me with contempt. He crawled ahead, and I rolled behind. When we reached the exit, he gunned his car ahead.  The road was empty. 

 

I continued driving behind him at my pace. There was enough space for everybody on the road. I could see the traffic light in the distance. I pulled up at the traffic light because it had turned red. The man who burned his tyres to race ahead was there. I looked at him and shrugged my shoulders. Then, two bikers snaked their way between our cars and parked right in front of his car. The light turned green. I could hear him honk loudly, even as I rolled ahead.  

Life is like that. There are many people around us taking shortcuts and gaining short-term advantages. They are in perpetual competition with everybody and for everything. They derive happiness in victories they notch up, even when insignificant.  It is how they find self-esteem and realisation. Life is nothing beyond a race from one traffic light to the next. It is beyond them to comprehend that life is a marathon.  When it is time for reckoning, they often find people they had left behind through unscrupulous means and manipulations standing ahead, relaxed, smiling, and happy.  

Reflecting on what happened, I recalled my teacher’s words. There is no loss of energy, just a change of form. How true, I thought. We waste a lot of energy daily on competitions that we create unwittingly. Maybe it is time to pause and look at the road we took so far. Did we edge someone out only to find them overtaking us at some traffic light ahead? 

Qualifications or “Callification,” Selection and Retention Criterion

 

Endless Efforts

 

“Callification?” Your efforts to find out what it means in the dictionary shall go in vain. I just made it up.  Patiently read through it; you will know what it means.   

The three submersible pumps working continuously and in tandem could not fill the colony’s overhead tank. The employees kept the pump running. One pump ran dry far too long and burned itself out. The open well also ran dry. They told no one. Why should they? They had nothing to lose. I noticed the unusual activity and enquired. This had been going on for a few days. It should not have. 

I did a quick calculation of the flow rates of the pumps, the capacity of the community tank, and the tanks over the individual houses. Considering the endless efforts of the pumps, all the overhead tanks should have been filled and overflowing. It did not happen. I concluded that there must be a leak somewhere in the pipeline. The large amount of water that leaked out must have gone under the foundation of somebody's house. People seemed to be oblivious to the potential losses and damage. 

Stimulus 

“Let us check the pipeline to identify and plug the leak,” I suggested. “You have no qualifications to decide what is wrong with the water distribution system,” came the only response in the group. I was not surprised. I did not expect anything different from that individual. Did the crass response stem from deep-rooted prejudice germinated in ignorance? 

Ignorance? The individual had never bothered to ask me about my qualifications or experience. He could not have known about my academic or professional qualifications.  I did not have to revisit the lessons in fluid mechanics or applied engineering or fall back on my experiences in managing the civic amenities of one of the biggest cantonments to understand the elementary science problem. I also did not have to rack my brain to remember my lessons in missile technology. After all, determining why an overhead tank refuses to fill up is no rocket science.  

Prejudice? Prejudice is a platform internally constructed by an individual using preconceived notions about individuals, groups, or even things. The result of a “taught” or “thought” concept, it invariably becomes a subconscious driver. It influences, often negatively, everything an individual thinks, says, or does. We all carry prejudices of some sort and tend to use broad-brushed templates in our thoughts, and actions. Some amongst us make it obvious and take it to obnoxious levels. Prejudice is the result of our inability or unwillingness to reason out within ourselves. If we sit down and dispassionately analyse our conversations and the decisions we have taken over time, we should be able to spot the prejudices underpinning them. 

Many believe that the job of the Army is to only guard the country’s borders. They think that everybody in the army stands in rows along the borders preventing people from crossing over. Some feel the Army is all about marching and doing physical exercises in the morning to prepare themselves for a duel at the border and doing sentry duty. They ask, “What does the army do when there is no war?” They cannot fathom the extent to which officers of the Indian Army toil on various contemporary academic and professional subjects. Their mobility up the hierarchy ladder is largely linked to their performance in these tests. Unfortunately, such injurious ignorance is prevalent even amongst the “supposed to be” well-read.  

Response 

I was angry and instinctively wanted to respond in the same coin.  The wisdom that age, exposure, experiences, and knowledge bestowed on me forbade me from stooping down. I decided to deny traction to the foul mouth. His response, however, triggered a much deeper thought. I am, by nature, given to analyse the ‘why and how’ behind every ‘what’ I see or experience. Why did he say that? Nobody does anything once. There is always a pattern and they leave a trail. He did. 

Besides his prejudice, which I was aware of, there must be an underlying belief that prompted the response. In possession of a professional degree, he had given himself to the belief that formal qualifications define an individual’s competence and his place in society. It showed in his generally loud and contemptuous behaviour. Unfortunately, there are many like him, enslaved by similar beliefs. This misplaced belief has forced people to obtain fancy qualifications by whatever possible means. It is common knowledge that people adopt illegal means to secure academic degrees. Some go to the extent of even buying doctorate degrees. Esteem somehow seems tagged to the few letters that find a place after an individual’s name. Do formal qualifications denote competence?   

Understanding “Callification” 

The discussion does not in any manner advocate the thought that an educational degree is a waste of time. One needs to have the basic requisite educational qualification. Mere possession of the qualification, however, is no guarantee of the presence of expected skills or the aptitude to apply the acquired knowledge. If an educational degree defines comparable competence, two equally qualified professionals like chefs, doctors, economists, fashion designers, lawyers, or musicians, should all demonstrate comparable performance. This is not the case. 

Everyone gets the initial foothold into a profession using the few letters representing a mandated educational degree. It may also be the inescapable requisite for career progression. Degrees merely indicate that the person has cleared a qualifying examination, by whatever means. The marks obtained by the person do not in any manner indicate his proficiency. It merely shows how well he fared in recalling answers to the questions, which in turn was anyway a matter of probability. This gives the individual the required ‘qualification’ to secure entry to an organisation or a job. Once an entry has been obtained, they need to perform in the role assigned. In performance, the difference between grain and chaff lies in “callification.” Without callification, however, smart one may be, one cannot make lasting Impressions in the field one has chosen. 

“Callification,” is the calling from within. If a person has a calling from within to be in a profession, then the quality of the work, he or she gives the organisation and the impact the person makes easily stand out from the rest. They are normally so self-motivated that they only need to be told the end state, not the how. Team leaders can easily distinguish between those driven by qualification and fired by “callification.” 

Selection Criterion 

Recruitment is now mostly an outsourced activity. Recruiters and head hunters are guided by the selection criteria template provided by the client. They look only at the qualification and track record of the prospective resource because they have no means to determine the callification.  Team leaders at all levels would love to have those fired by “callification” because it makes achieving goals easy. Many “callified” people are considered mavericks and leaders unsure of themselves may be loath to have them around. 

One of the common responses I get to most of my articles is, “What is the remedy?” There is no panacea for HR problems. It must be tailored to suit each situation. I cannot help HR professionals or those involved in making policies on selection, career progression, attrition,
and retention, by prescribing any means to determine if someone has the “callification” that they are looking for. I certainly know of a CEO who goes to great lengths to look for it.  

The CEO 

The qualification required to get on to the organisational roll is just an engineering degree. The degree guarantees the prospective candidate only an opportunity to sit for an examination conducted by the firm.  The exam unlike entrance processes adopted by many other firms focuses mostly on the application of knowledge that the qualification was supposed to have provided the candidate with. It also evaluates the ingenuity and adaptability of the candidate. 

Once a candidate gets through the written gateway, he or she faces an interview. According to the CEO, they look for the “spark” in the candidate. Talking to the CEO, I understand that the candidate reveals the presence or absence of the “spark” they are looking for within the first five minutes of the interview. The candidates call it the “desire to do something special” and I now call it “callification.” The candidate’s lack of communication skills does not become a barrier in this determination process.  It is a vibe, a feel that the candidate sends across and one that can easily be picked up by the discerning. The firm attributes the almost 100% retention of the resources to that spark or callification. The firm has been growing, in size and business. 

With no malice to recruiting agencies and professional head hunters, third-party recruitment may always ensure qualified resources, not “callified” ones.  Organisations staffed by “callified” people can make even deserts bloom.

Challenges, Adversity and Struggles - Elephants , Ants and Kunjel Mooppan

 Child Smoker 

The car was a beast from the outside but a cocoon from the inside. The unending leg space and silent air conditioning inside made it ideal for friends to travel and talk. The endless roads, devoid of traffic, encouraged the car to race with the winds. Whenever Jose, my friend, forgot to rein in the beast, Cini, his wife, lovingly reminded him of the brake pedal. Jose and I are childhood friends.  

“Do you know how we first met?” Jose asked my wife as we headed for Khor Fakkan from Al Dahaid. I tried hard to recollect but failed. “Something interesting about it?” she asked. Jose had already narrated many incidents of our childhood since we arrived in Sharjah two days ago. We had been laughing at ourselves and reconnecting. There were times when we laughed till our stomachs hurt.

“Like all houses in the locality, our houses were farmhouses and shared a common boundary, a high mud bund we call Kayyaala. It was one of the few kayyaalas in the locality without dispute. One day, I was sitting in my house and found smoke intermittently emanating from his side of the Kayyaala. Curious, I went to investigate. I found him sitting under a tree, smoking a cigarette. We must have been in our 7th or 8th grade. He had come home from the hostel for summer vacation. We have known each other ever since.  We became close during our college days. Search for a dignified livelihood took us on different roads away from each other. He joined the Military Academy after graduation to become an Army officer. We wrote letters to each other. Gradually, we got caught up in our own lives, and letter writing stopped. Whenever we happened to meet, we met as if we had never left each other's side,” Jose said.

Jose completed his Bachelor of Pharmacy course and opened a pharmacy in our area. He met Cini, a beautiful girl with bright eyes, and married her. Like many other Keralites, he landed in Sharjah, where he found a job in a pharmacy and Cini in a logistics company. Jose then moved into the shipping and logistics business. He worked hard for almost four decades and did well.   

What Next?

During their last trip to Kerala, Jose and Cini visited us and stayed overnight. The visit cemented the friendship between the two families. “Have you been to Dubai?” asked Jose. “No,” I replied.  “You land there and leave the rest to us. We have enough time,” Jose said.  “It will be nice to have you with us,” said Cini. We decided to fly to Sharjah. It was the third day of our visit, and Jose was driving us to Khor Fakkan. The four of us, with so much time together, bonded well. Like most couples inflicted with empty nest syndrome, our discussions somehow meandered into the question, “What next?” 

I am retired and spend time mostly reading and writing. I published my second book recently. I am also a director of a company. I am happy, gainfully occupied, and content with life. I come across many others who have settled down to retired life. Older or younger, many of them were in distress due to loneliness and lack of purpose. Uncertainty about ‘what next’ persistently tormented many of them. Contented, happy, and gainfully occupied, yet occasionally, the question, “What next?” gnaws me too. 

Jose is continuing with his business but plans to scale it down. Jose and Cini also grapple with the “what next” question. He has seen enough and surmounted adversities that can decimate lesser mortals. He is not one to be cowed down by challenges, but “What next” somehow cropped up in many of our discussions. Pensive silence inevitably followed. Jose invariably brought laughter back by saying, “Come what may, Kunjel Moopan[1] is happy.” 

Struggles 

In the highly connected contemporary world, social media is king and influencer. Many have found success and have become rich and famous through this platform. Some of them paint larger-than-life pictures of themselves. One easy way to do it is to share the real or make-believe struggles one overcame. Think about it. We all do it too.

Parents tell children, “We struggled a lot to reach here. How easy it is for you.” My parents told me of their “struggles.” I found most of them unbelievable. I told my children about my “struggles.” I am sure they would think I made it up. I can never bring myself to agree, however hard I may try, that my children had to struggle for anything. ‘Struggle’ is an element that can romanticise success, however small, and make it look spectacular. Struggle makes success an achievement. 

 

I vividly recall my grandmother's words; “aanekku thadi bharam; urumbinu ari bharam” a Malayalam phrase (ആനയ്ക്ക് തടി ഭാരം ഉറുമ്പിന് അരി ഭാരം). On the face of it, it meant “for the elephant, timber (log) a burden and for the ant a grain of rice (the burden).” Those content with its superficial meaning will miss the pearl within. The real meaning of this phrase was revealed to me when I grew up and started encountering challenges in life.

Elephant or Ant - The Choice

Adversities are opportunities to employ our potential. Challenges test our ability to apply our potential. There can be no progress in life unless adversities challenge our potential. When challenges become existential issues that call for persistent efforts, they become struggles. Adversity, challenges, and struggles exist everywhere. It is we who decide to make a challenge turn into an adversity and then create a situation of struggle. If we learn to address challenges individually, we prevent them from turning into adversities. When we adequately and timely handle adversities we do not create struggles to contend with.

Adversities do still turn into situations of struggle. Situations that demand struggle also call for reassessment. Some of the questions that we must ask ourselves about such situations are given below: -

What is the ‘struggle’ all about?

Is it the result of not shedding “baggage’ that we were to jettison?

Is it an amalgamation of several problems that we did not handle appropriately?

Is it a result of ‘too little - too late’ or seeking ‘too much - too soon’ or that got us here?

Can we isolate the ‘struggle’ into individual problems and handle them? 

Do we have the required competencies and how can we deploy them?

What are the external forces and what are internal obstacles? Can we separate them?

Are we seeing ghosts where none exists?

Are we making a log out of a grain (mountain out of a mole)?

Honest dissection of the situation through a set of questions, like the ones tailor-made for individuals, above can help us redefine the situation, reimagine solutions, and maybe tackle them as individual problems rather than seeing them as one gigantic existential struggle. If we still feel that we are in the struggle zone, then it is time to call for external help. There is a sense of inadequacy and helplessness attached to struggles. There should be no hesitation to seek help like the ants. The essence lies in identifying when we need to be elephant-like or need to be ant-like.

Despite all that we may do, results may or may not be to our liking. It is in handling results, especially unpalatable and suboptimal ones, that we need to learn from Kunjel Mooppan.

Kunjel Mooppan

Kunjel was one of the farm labourers in our area. His old face revealed the rugged and weather-beaten life he led.  Whether the crop yielded well or failed, India won or lost in a match, it did not affect him. He had seen so much of life nothing could shake that man; Not even personal losses like the death of his wife and son.  It was not that he had no feelings or emotions. He cried when he lost his wife. He cried when he lost his children. There were times he went to sleep empty stomach. There is so much to learn from him about accepting the inevitable. When the crop was good, he advised the farm owner to save a little for the rainy day and when the crop failed, he said the next one would certainly be a bumper crop.  When the day was bad, he said tomorrow would be good. Many of us could underplay his zen-like existence by attributing it to the minimal access he had to creature comforts. He smiled because nothing affected him permanently. Nobody makes poverty a wilful choice. Zen-like approach is a difficult choice very few can make.

Transformation

Dunes gave way to townships, and townships gave way to dunes. Along the way, many manmade greens stood out from the natural dunes. We then stopped at Masafi for a cup of tea and found the green coolant dripping from the engine. Jose opened the bonnet took a quick look inside and asked the stall owner, a Malayalee, where he could find a mechanic. As we drove towards the mechanic, he noticed that the temperature gauge did not show a climb. The mechanic was of no help. “We push on,” declared Jose. We drove into the series of tunnels and then into the magnificent sights of all, The Khor Fakkan beach.

We walked around the beach and admired the beauty around us.  “Houston, we have a problem,” I said sitting in the vehicle as Jose started the car. “We are heading back to Sharjah. Coolant level ok. Temperature ok. Here we come,” said Jose and turned the car onto the highway. “Switch off the air conditioning,” I said in a bid to lessen the engine load. Once we crossed the mountain range and the tunnels, we switched on the air conditioning. It was a big relief. We kept a close watch on the engine temperature lest we irreparably spoil it. Four hours later we were home.

“Kunjel is happy,” said Jose.

PS: The next day we took the car to the mechanic. We had to change the coolant pump. It had broken!

 

 

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[1] The name changed to conceal the identity of the person concerned.

A Table Full of Dishes ; Sanu Ki?

 Ubiquitous Affliction

“Sanu ki,” a usage in Punjabi, is both a phrase and an idiom. “Sanu” translates to “us” and “ki” means “what.” Together, it merely means “to us, what” or in other words “why bother?” Simply put it means “I don't care.” That is where it stops being a phrase. Depending upon the context, “sanu ki?” assumes many a meaning. Commencing from being a plain expression indicating disassociation, it can mean anything like irrelevance, irreverence, scorn, and at times the sublime state of acceptance of the inevitable. One needs to spend time with people who speak Punjabi to capture the essence of the “sanu ki” served. It can mean anything depending on how, when, and where it has been said and to whom it has been delivered.  The difference in tone can change the associated meaning. The versatility of this phrase or idiom is what caught my attention.

In Malayalam, my mother tongue, there are different versions of ‘sanu ki?” Starting from “namukku enthiru de? to “nammaku entho venam?” words, tones, etc continue to change as we travel up north, from the southern tip of Kerala.  I am sure there would be something equivalent in all languages and different versions, within the same language, depending on the local dialect. Irrespective of the language, or its local dialect they all essentially mean the same, “sanu ki?”

Harmless as it may sound, it can pack a deadly punch when it becomes an attitude. Some, having got away with it for some time, become “cordycyeped[i]” by this attitude. Irrespective of the size of the organisation or its field of operations, if even one member of the team becomes infected, then it is likely to spread to other members sooner than later, spelling disaster for the organisation.

Disaster Everyone Shut Their Eyes To

Established in 1985, Enron became a multi-billion-dollar behemoth. Everybody was sure about its future, or everybody thought so till it declared bankruptcy. The company was packed with talents. They were masters of the ruthless pursuit of profits. There was nothing stopping them anywhere and in whatever they attempted to do. Yet, Enron fell and when it fell, it fell like a pack of cards because something that talents could not prevent pulled it down from the inside.

Postmortem dissection revealed that a few at the top had lied deliberately and some around them colluded while the many other equally talented kept quiet about it. They all individually were afflicted with “sanu ki.” More than the greed of a powerful few at the top, the fall was ensured by the silence of many who could stop it but chose to abdicate. It is said that it is not the violence of the few that kills a society but the silence of the many. 

Cost of Collusion

Most of us find it difficult to speak up even when we know that the path or the decision being taken by the organisation, we are part of, is wrong. We could be worried that by speaking up we could be seen as anti-establishment, end up damaging hierarchical relationships, and spoil our chances within the organisation. Under such circumstances “sanu ki” is the path most of us normally choose. “Sanu ki” killed Enron. Dissection of organisational failures across the world would reveal that “sannu ki” was the ailment that finally killed all of them. If we look around, we can see many people within our families, organisations, and societies remorselessly abdicating their responsibility, to tell the truth. If we muster the courage to look within, we can see many instances where we too have abdicated. We can go to any extent to be seen to be nice without realising that if “sanu ki” can decimate organisations and societies it can destroy us too. The sad part of it, we actively collude with others either for favour or out of fear.

It is easy to compliment someone successful. It is easier to ignore a flaw and let it pass by when it does not impact us adversely. There are many who even at the cost of discomfort keep quiet when they see things go wrong. Most of us desist from giving the correct picture or feedback to those whom we know for fear of offending or spoiling the existing relationships. Anyone who musters the courage and gives suggestions that are contrary to what we believe in is considered offensive and even inimical. Most of us avoid such people.

On the receiving side when things have gone irredeemably beyond, the very same people who chose to be nice through silence would be the first ones to come forward with an “I told you so,” or an “I knew it.” We are conditioned to be nice to the extent of allowing our near and dear ones to fail. Luckily for this world, not everybody believes in sannu ki. Some do bite the bullet.

Bite The Bullet

Recently, on my social media page, I posted a picture of a few dishes laid out on a dining table. Many of my friends liked it and some even posted comments.

One message bucked the trend. "What do I make out of this Picture? What is it all about?" came the private message from my friend in Canada. What is so difficult in understanding a picture?" I thought. many had already seen, put their likes, and even commented. That was my instant response. I did not feel good at all. I tried to justify my act and refrained from giving any weight to his argument.

I had been blunt all my life. I had fallen foul with many for rightfully telling them what I thought was wrong with them or in what they did. Few well-wishers advised diplomacy. I tried but like all half-hearted attempts, it failed. I knew that many in the hierarchy avoided me because of my reputation. Interestingly, I was handpicked by two Director Generals only because of this reputation. I also rose in the hierarchy. I continued to be what I was. If I had chosen to be blunt then, I must give that right to others, now and always too.

After the initial discomfiture, I looked at the picture. He was correct.  Without context, the picture looked meaningless. If you want to understand how awful it was, just try switching on any Indian movie song sequence, preferably one that you have never seen before, switch off the audio, and try watching. I felt the same about the picture I shared without annotation. Most people who liked and commented on the picture must have given it their own context. Were they being kind or were they merely exercising their option of “sanu ki?” Either way, I was happy with all of them.

The Chinese Dinner My Daughter's
Mother-in-law so painstakingly
prepared for us 

On the other hand, here was a man who took time out very early in the morning, risking the friendly relationship we had forged over time, to tell me that I had fallen short. I knew it was straight from the heart and with the sole intent of correcting me regardless of what I felt. I immediately sent him a message of gratitude and made corrections to what I had done. I checked my previous posts. Most of them were without any reference to context, just like the movie song sequence that had no audio to accompany. They all had many likes and comments too. All my incomplete posts seem to have met with people who exercised their choice of  “sanu ki?” 

Today, people find it difficult to point out mistakes. Parents find it difficult to advise or correct even their own children for fear of repercussions. Imagine the damage we are inflicting on ourselves. We forget that “sanu ki” returns to bite.

Human Beings and Human Doings

Recently, a friend gave a talk about “human beings and human doings.” The content of the lecture is her intellectual property. The title set me thinking. I am convinced that it was ‘human doings’ that helped us evolve into human beings and it is in these very ‘doings’ that we, as a society or species, will either flourish or flounder. ‘Sanu ki’ goes against the grain of collective survival.

“To err is human,” didn't someone say? 

"To correct is even more human," I feel.

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[i] ‘Cordycyeped’ is a concept that I had discussed in my previous blog published on Jun 15, 2022. The link to it is given here.   

https://jacobshorizon.blogspot.com/2022/06/beware-you-could-be-cordyceped.html

You Too Can Prove Shakespeare Wrong

    

 

“Friends, Romans, Countrymen, lend me your ears.

I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.

The Evil that men do lives after them;

The good is oft interred with their bones 

So let it be with Caesar.”

 

These lines came to me just out of the blue and with it, the name of Mr JS Iyer, one of my teachers. 

Act 3, Scene 2 of the Shakespearean play, Julius Caesar reverberates on stages the world over as the play itself or as part of elocution competitions in many schools and colleges. These lines did not mean anything to me beyond the next examination, those days. Strange, these lines had to come up while I was sitting in my study taking stock of life. I had just published my second book, "Dare Dream Different." With that, I checked off the 8^th of the 10 “things to do before I die,” a second time. I had drawn up that list in 1988. The paper on which the list was written could not stand its age and one day when I opened it to read, it just disintegrated. I know well the two I am still left to do.  

Thoughts have a strange way of making their presence felt. They come and go at their free will. I do not know why Antony’s speech came to the fore. It set me thinking. Is that the truth?  What about those who do good? Are they of relevance only till their graves? Are good deeds destined only for oblivion? 

Eulogies mean nothing to the dead. More of a social grace, it just adds to the frills of the spectacle called, funeral. Once the flow of eulogies from both eloquent and emotional speakers at the funeral ceases, the dead is nothing more than a memory.  Memories of people are fleeting but those of injuries, remain unobliterated. It always comes back with the same set of emotions. In an era where everybody is blaming someone dead long ago for the ills perceived today, Shakespeare, the visionary, was right. 

 

I am happily retired. I had a very successful run in my career. I did not reach the topmost position but I was considered. I blame no one for it. My bucket list is all done barring my desire to play the keyboard and obtain a pilot license. I have second thoughts on both but I have not given up. My book just got its first overseas sale. I was as happy as I could ever be. “The Evil that men do lives after them; The good is oft interred with their bones.”  Why did this occur to me now?  How was it linked to Mr JS Iyer? Mr. Iyer taught Mathematics and not English. Suddenly, things fell into place and I solved the puzzle.

 

I vividly recalled the incident. It happened in Feb1975.

 

I was in the hostel of a residential school. It was a weekend. My father had come to visit me. I was in the 10^th class and did not show any signs of doing well in life. I do not know why; I could never sit through the full duration of an examination. I left when I thought I had written enough to pass. I scored just the pass marks in all the subjects right from the fifth standard till the tenth. There was nothing great about it but it allowed me to continue in the elite school, receiving the scholarship and free education. The board examinations were just one year away. Just passing meant nothing. Worse, it would be a loss of face especially when my cousin had passed out from the same school with honours. My father was naturally very worried.

 

We were standing at the highest point in the school from where two roads radiated down. I was at the lowest in my life and the road ahead for me was nowhere in sight. I could clearly see the dormitories in the distance and the parade ground below. There was neither any clarity about what destiny had in store for me nor did I have anything worth parading. My father was disturbed. He was counselling me and I had shut myself in. It was then I saw Mr Iyer cycling up the gradient. Those days most teachers could only afford cycles. I am sure, he must have seen worry written large on my father's face and mine too. He stopped. 

 

“Good evening, sir,” I said, as he came close enough. It was customary for students to wish their teachers whenever they met a teacher. It also helped me break the barrage from my distraught after. “Good evening, Jacob Tharakan,” he replied. “How are you Mr. Tharakan?” he asked my father.  My father opened his bag of woes about me in front of Mr Iyer. “I am worried about him,” said my father. After the little conversation, Mr. Iyer told my father, “Don't worry Mr. Tharakan, I can assure you that one day your son will make you proud. He has a great future. Take my word for it.” Mr. Iyer then mounted his cycle and went his way.

 

“He can say all that. He was only trying to console me. I find it difficult to believe it,” my father said. I liked what he said. I also knew that Mr. Iyer was being kind. “Maybe one day I will do well,” I said to myself. Later that evening, after my father had left, sitting with my friend Jayakumar, in the corner of the farthest football court, discussing our future, I started believing in what Mr Iyer said. Our discussions about what we would be became more meaningful. It changed the way I looked at myself. Mr. Iyer helped me change the way I looked at myself. It changed my life. Jayakumar later became a banker and I joined the Army.

 

I became an Army officer in 1981. I did very well in all the Army Courses. I became a Brigadier in 2010. One evening, sitting with my wife and enjoying our tea, I felt like calling up Mr Iyer. I managed to get hold of Mr. Iyer's number and dialled. I knew my call would be a surprise.  He had retired long back and must have been quite old. I had never tried to contact him before that. I was not sure if he would recall my name. “Good evening, sir,” I said when he picked up the phone. “Good evening, wait,” he said. I could immediately make out that he was trying to jog his memory. “Jacob Tharakan, Ashoka House, My son, Suresh’s classmate,” he said. He even called out my roll number. It was my turn to be surprised. 

 

“Sir, you still remember me?” I asked. “How better can a retired teacher spend his sunset years?” he said. He asked me everything about what I had done all these years. “I am very happy you remember your teachers. I am grateful you called. It made my day,” he said. He was emotional and so was I. “Sir, how can I forget you? I can forget anybody or anything in this world but not you. You trusted me when even I had lost faith in myself. I know my call is many years overdue. I called to thank you for what you have done for me,” I said. I must have spoken to him once or twice after that.  

 

Corporal punishment was the norm those days.  Some teachers let their anger loose on hapless children. Nobody questioned them. I have received some myself. Mr Iyer never hit or admonished any child. I never saw him getting angry. He was a gentle soul. He was not at the center of any alumni activities and never got the attention or recognition he deserved; not that I know of. He was a Guru, who did his job and faded away. I retired on the 31^st of July 2017 as a two-star general. Mr. Iyer passed away on the 19^th of Jul 2019.

 

I am not young anymore but I am surer about myself than ever before. I spend time telling stories to my grandchildren when they come to visit; just like my grandfather did when I visited him. This is one story I will tell them when I meet them next. The story of my teacher, Mr Iyer who proved Shakespeare was wrong.

 

Maybe with kindness and empathy, we too like Mr Iyer can prove Shakespeare wrong. Maybe our grandchildren can tell others how their grandparents proved Shakespeare wrong. Maybe, proving Shakespeare wrong can be the next item on our bucket list.