Slice of Life #13 — Unpacking Mother’s Suitcase

My mother was a very meticulous woman and raised us as such. She was particular about how a bed should be made. In those days, we had mats that we had to roll them to perfection. Folding of clothes was another of her demands. Folded to perfection, putting many a launderer out of work. It was more of her need to have us believe mundane work needed more attention than we paid attention to. Her credo was – ‘A place for everything and everything in its place.’ My dad happily borrowed it and made it his. She did not claim any patent rights to it. A liberal she was, yes.

We all grow old and as did she. One day, we persuaded her to come and stay with us for good. She loved a patch of green at our place. Insisted on tulasi or basil, flowering plants and banana saplings. She used to go to the small garden and plucked every single flower for her ‘Gods’. I even chided her once that she must leave some on the plants for us to enjoy them. She was adamant. Slowly she stopped going to the garden as she was unable to climb the few steps without assistance.

As for her room, the things in her life were all over the room. They were in full cry to anyone walking past. A bit of an eyesore. I had to close the door of her room when we had visitors. One day she asked for the ‘blue’ trolley bag that I used. All the items she needed were on several side tables and when I asked about it, she said that they needed to be visible and within easy reach. She said that the chest of drawers was useless as she did not know what was in them. Come Diwali, I decided to clean her room and put things in place, tucked away neatly and told her about it.

She said nothing. I did see a fleeting shadow of sadness in her eyes. She veered away not wanting to meet my eyes. She was far too much in love with us. As for the suitcase, I got her sarees in them into the cabinet took away the trolley bag she did not need anymore. The room looked spick and span. There was an overhang of a heaviness of heart that I did not notice. Amma passed away a month later.

A couple of months later, I used the blue trolley bag and found that its zip had given up. She did not want me to use it and hence asked for it. And did not want to tell me. These days, the room looks clean, and each time I go in, I feel it was better off with the odds strewn around within easy reach of the only person who loved me unconditionally – my mother. I realized that old people needed an understanding beyond cleanliness. A sensitivity beyond compare. The blue trolley bag was unpacked and tucked away, the emotions were not. They are alive and each time I look at the trolley, it reminds me of her and my spectacles mists up again.

Slice of Work #13 — Driving a Lesson About Work

I started my career as a Management Trainee at a well-known MNC. It was at a factory manufacturing explosives for the mining industry. Our nearest government district head-quarters were some 60 miles away. I used to be sent to such places to ‘chase’ some matters in the labor department that needed follow ups. It was not a great job, and I used to be really upset that I was asked to do these ‘silly’ jobs. I could never understand why they needed someone from the finest B School. As you can see I had a heavy chip on my shoulder.

It was one such day that my manager called me and asked me to go to Giridih district to follow up on a file on labour. Although I protested, he would not hear of it and told me that a car would arrive at 7 AM the next day. It was a two-hour ride to the town. The following day I was getting ready to leave and seething at the thought of the ‘silly’ job that I was to do. I came down to the car that was to take me to town and noticed something strange.

The driver Ram Lal, was burnishing the black ‘Ambassador’ car to a fine shine. I walked up to him and asked him what he was up to. He said that he was polishing the car with wax. I told him that the dusty road would ruin the shine anyway, and that it was pointless. He said, “Sir, I love my car and I love my job. There is no work that is small and while the dust may yet settle back, if I did not polish the car it would look shabby and reflect poorly on me.” Ram Lal was no ordinary driver.

I got into the car and was about to slam the door when he rushed and gently closed the car with a click. “I did not want the door to be slammed shut,” he said. He started the car and shifted gears in a gentle way. He kept talking along the drive and about how work was divine and that he was fortunate to be working. I had reached Giridih in 90 minutes, and it was one of the best of rides despite the bad roads. I complimented him on that. He said that a car should be driven with the least bumpiness as if a child were in it.

I walked to the labour office. I met the officer with a smile on my face and confidently so as I had got all the simple jobs done with perfection. The work got done in a jiffy. We drove back and I was lost in an even more absorbing conversation with him. He taught me the value of respecting work and doing it with devotion. On Teachers Day, I thought of Ram Lal, my greatest teacher, to thank him and sincerely, so for driving the greatest lesson of work in me. And early in my career.

Slice of Life #12 — Learning on the Fly

It was one of those crazy days. I normally take a flight on Sundays to Mumbai at around 6.15 pm. For some reason I booked an earlier flight on Air India at 5 pm and forgot about it. Midway as I headed to the airport, I got a call from the airline manager telling me that I was being off loaded it way past the boarding time of 4.15. I had completely forgotten that it was an earlier flight.

I rushed to the counter where the reservation Manager of Air India told me that I had been off loaded. My throat went dry. This has never happened to me and I was feeling faint. I pleaded with the manager and he could see my anguish. It was also clear to me that it was over. The manager asked me if he could assist in getting me to another flight. I could have hugged him. It was really sweet of him.

He and I went to another carrier for a later flight. It was an expensive ticket and I gave my credit card to the attendant who insisted on cash. And those were the ‘Demon-ic’ days of the dry ATMs. After three dry ATMs, I finally managed to get cash. Ran back and gave the money to the man at the counter only to be told that the last ticket was taken. My pleas fell on deaf ears, for he was clear, first come first served. Made not even the slightest effort to help. Bless him!

The AI Manager asked me to wait and said he would try. After ten minutes, I gave up not sure if he could anything, purchased a ticket for the next day, hired a cab and headed back home. Five minutes into the drive I got a call from the Manager if I could come back. He had managed to get me a ticket for the regular 6.15 pm flight, the one I had tried earlier but was told it was running full. And he had got it at a normal price. He had not given up. He had been working silently all along for getting me a ticket.

I thanked Sumit Trivedi. That was his name. He helped someone he did not know. For over half an hour he had relentlessly worked his charm on a different carrier in securing me a ticket. I asked him what I could do for him. He said ‘Sir please fly Air India each time, every time ’. I hugged him warmly and walked away in awe of the man. He had mastered the art of Service beyond Self.

I wish I could be a Trivedi to someone. I must.

Slice of Life #11 — Lighting a Lamp of Hope

When trouble comes it descends in a tsunami, perhaps. She was a sprightly girl once. Working in a fine firm with fine friends Got got married to someone in Singapore and had to leave her job. Not a happy marriage I guess for he deserted her. Not the one to give up so easily she found a job in a good MNC. Life moved on till one day she fainted on the stairs in the subway. And rushed to the hospital in Singapore. Was diagnosed with cancer. Fast forward, she was moved to the Tata Cancer Hospital at Mumbai.

Her close friend Vinay from her previous company came to know of this.He called her ex- boss and they both decided to visit her.. The boss had stuffed an envelope in his shirt pocket. He was not the hospital going chap and was scared of such places. Vinay was far stronger. They reached the place and met the girl’s parents. Emotions were high and eyes were teary, and the boss found it difficult to cope. She lay on the bed, almost reduced to a skeleton and she tried her best to avert her eye.

The ex-boss looked at her and waved the envelope, ‘This is an appointment letter waiting for you Mo, and I don’t have all the time in the world. Your team is missing you. So get well soon and I will see you at work in a month. I hope you got that.’ He did not wait for her response. Just turned around and walked out. Scared I guess. Vinay noticed tears welling up in her eyes. He stayed back a few minutes, held her hand. No words were spoken. And yet a poignant conversation ensued. Much later she did say to her parents that after their visit, her racking pain had abated.

Mohini, did return to work in her old firm. It took a few months for her to recover from the dreaded illness. Her ebullience was back and so was the cheer. She continued to dazzle people with her professionalism and humanness. All it took was a couple of guys to infuse a sense of purpose. And let her know that she was valued, that she was needed. They went there to light the lamp of hope, to feed the faith that life holds. In a caring way, albeit differently. And it worked. Faith heals, and hope feeds that faith. One needs a purpose to live… a life of purpose. Life is indeed beautiful.

Slice of Life #10 — Mother’s Pickle & Bottled-Up Emotions

This happened a long time ago. I always loved mother’s pickles, the lemon ones were just finger-licking good. My mother had packed a small bottle all packed and was in my cabin luggage, a small satchel. The airlines had introduced some serious checking at the airports, something new in those days. And I was not aware of it. In all ignorance I placed my bag on the scanner and the security guard at the other end stopped me and asked me what I had in the bag.

"My mother’s home made pickle," I said with a sense of pride. He looked at me and said in a rather rude way that I could not take it in my handbag. And I asked him what a pickle bottle could possibly do, and tried all my ways of persuasion. He did not budge. 'Put this into the checked in bag' he said. And I had nothing to check it in I pleaded. He was adamant, as he should be. The queue was getting backed up.

And then I started pleading with him, and did I look like a person who could do any harm. My words fell on deaf ears and he was getting irritated. Finally, in a rather sentimental way I gifted the bottle to him asking him not throw it into the waste bin. It was my mother’s gift to him I said. And quickly added that he would thank mother if he tasted it. He gave me a blank stare. Just then a smart young man in a white shirt asked me where I was going, walked to the guard said a few words, and took the carefully packed bottle.

It was the commander of the flight I was taking to Hyderabad and he said that he would take it with him for safekeeping. And would give it to me on landing. Upon landing, I was called out and the captain gave me the bottle. He had gone out of his way to do something extraordinary for me. I was touched. I looked into his kind eyes and thanked him profusely and asked him why he stepped out to do this for me. His eyes moistened and he said that he had lost his mother a week ago. ‘I know the value of love packed in a bottle of pickles’ he said. I hugged him, took the bottle and walked away, my eyes welling up with tears.

Happy Mothers Day!

Slice of Life #9 — Mindful Timelessness

I met her in the airport lounge the other day. As ever, immaculate in her crisp saree and warmth in her eyes, on a call, a Kindle in her hands. The moment she saw me she excused herself from the call, rose and gave me an affectionate hug. And we got talking. And I was keeping an eye on the time, just to make sure I did not miss the flight. One can get lost in conversations with Dr. Indira Parikh. We had some 20 minutes to go. The intensity of the conversation was evident. And ‘how’ of it was not lost on me.

Several years ago, Dr. Hemant Parikh, her late husband, an Indian scientist and the young bride Indira Parikh were invited to attend the grand dinner ball in Stockholm on the 10th of Dec. Nobel Prize investiture. And Indira all of 21 years was the only one in an elegant saree, while the wives of Nobel laureates and invitees were in evening gowns and boring black dresses. As always she was the center of attention and many of the Nobel Laureates went out of the way to meet her. In a moment of innocence and naivety she asked one if she could spend an hour with him in his office the following day to know more about his work. There was a shocked silence, as no one would dare ask time of such luminaries.

He was a kindly man and he agreed. His secretary quickly told Indira that she was to meet him only for 15 minutes the following morning. And asked her to come in early so he was not kept waiting. Indira was nervous as came early. At the appointed time she was ushered into his room. There was a great calmness about him. They spoke for a long time, a long long time. And gently as she was ushered in, she was escorted out. There were no calls, no interruptions. Only the two of them. That long meeting was all of fifteen minutes!

She had told me this story earlier. Mindfulness, focus and deep sense of care for another stretches time. I could feel the same thing … some things are worth learning and practicing. Being in the moment. Sans mobile, sans distraction, sans disruption. I had never asked her as to how she managed to do so much in such a short time. My flight got announced, and my watch was all of 18 minutes. Seemed like an hour. I am deeply in gratitude, Indira. For in your company, time is timeless.

Slice of Life #7 — Packing Mother’s Suitcase

Mother wanted to go to Chennai. Like most octogenarian she kept reminding me that her suitcase needed to be packed. I told her that it was the fourth time she had told me. It was clearly her excitement of travelling back to Madras. To her it was always Madras, not Chennai. I told her to keep all her things on the bed in the room for me to then start the packing process. There was a twinkle in her eye. I left for work thereafter.

In the evening, I came back to a double bed full of clothes, and a pile of whatnots that needed to be discarded, not packed! Why would she want to take her magazines in her suitcase? And the bathing ‘Mira’ sheekakai powder, of all things. This came from ‘Madras’!! And six bars of washing soap, and five clunks of bathing soap. And endless sarees. It was going to be a long evening of negotiation. I needed to be patient with her and speak softly.

Reminded me of my school days. When packing my bags to school, I always packed a couple of story books and stealthily put in a couple of ‘tops’ a yoyo and a few marbles. My mother would then come in to inspect my bag before I charged off to school. When caught, the questions, the protestations and the deep sense of hurt if she put away the yoyo or the marbles and a tear shed for good measure, came rushing to mind. The day when she let me carry a story book to school, I hugged her. She said that I was to read it at the break. Fast forward, it was the same game all over only that the roles were reversed.

I tried to persuade her to lose the mags, and told her that the soaps could be purchased in Madras. She protested, said the mags had her favorite stories. I paused. What is it to give in to the ask of a lady bent with burden of raising three children and of modest means, of those times? She looked longingly at me. I relented. What would I tell her? That I would have to pay excess baggage? She had carried the baggage of life without a murmur. And with a smile. I simply put all the stuff in the bag and gave her a big hug. There were tears in her eyes.

The bags were packed, the sentiments were not. I looked away and wiped the tears as I left the room, even as I smiled.

Slice of Life #5 — Falling in Line

It was one of those crazy Monday mornings at the airport. Almost all of the city had converged to take the flight that day, or so it seemed.

These days you have to have to stand in queue with one hand carrying a tray for you to deposit the laptop, your jacket, mobile, etc., and the other is the stroller bag. And to secure one of those trays for these kinds of flight is like getting a big fat lottery. Sometimes, I think someone is going to make some great suggestion as to how we should have a seamless way to deposit our luggage for airport scrutiny.

I was in one of those long queues and I almost made it to the tray lot when a big, wide-bodied, chiseled, tall man walked in front of me and took a tray. Clearly he had jumped the queue. I was touched to the quick and of course, did not want to raise my voice and was going to make a meek sound of protest. Except, my inner voice was a lot louder and I heard myself speak in a firm and polite way: “Excuse me, gentleman. There is a queue here. Would you mind joining it please?” And looked at him and smiled. My fellow queue guys looked at me in horror. The hulk looked at me for a moment, and gave up and meekly said, “Oh, I did not know that.” A lie that I gladly glossed over, and proceeded with my deposits into the scanner. Chose not to make eye contact, I murmured a “thank you.”

Of course, then you join the queue for the physical check. And that took a while, and I reached the other side to wait for my bags to get through the scanner. And I espied the queue on the other side and saw the hulk near the trays. Just then, another gentleman sneaked in and took a tray and stood ahead of the hulk. This was interesting. The hulk politely said to him, “Excuse me sir, there is a queue here, do you mind?”

Just then the heavens smiled, as did I, for this whole business of ‘falling in line’ was falling in line! Just sometimes, you have to speak up and stand up for what you believe in, even in the face of consequences. For that is important. It is!

Slice of Life #4 — Security Check and the Gift

My friend from an MNC called me. Said my referral was the best and spoke ceaselessly about her.

This was some years ago. It was the downturn time, and I had just stopped at the office security. Jhaji, was the most respectful of the security guards at work. Often he would smile at employees who had to suffer the ripping open of their bags to check for something that is forbidden to bring into the workplace, guns or knives for instance. Of course, he did not expect to find anything, and gently zipped up the bags. Many times I have noticed the wry look of the employees, almost to say, “Hey, you have seen me so very many times. Do you seriously think I have something to conceal? Or, do I look like a terrorist?”

Some have even shouted at him for delaying their getting to work. He would always be respectful and apologize for the inconvenience caused. The smile never abated. I could learn a thing or two from him. What a man! He made quite an impression on his colleagues and so, many of those around would mimic his pleasant service. I felt sorry for him many times and wondered what it meant for him to work this way each day, every day.

One day, he had asked to meet me. I had always wanted to give him something, a small gift for him – a pen. I was sure he would like it. He knocked on the door, and a disarming smile met me. He was hesitant. Said, “I have a favor to ask of you. I have a daughter who has done her BE in Computer Science, and would you be kind enough to refer her for a job, to another MNC (that was close by).”

It was time for me to be surprised. I looked at the impressive resume, and asked him why I could not consider her for our own company, and he said, “Not while I am working here, sir. I don’t want the girl to be embarrassed.”

I promised help and was determined to do my best. He walked away quickly. And I forgot to give him the gift. I was lost in thought – behind this person there is life beyond security checks and smiles – an aspiration for a better tomorrow. What gift could I give him? He had given me the greatest gift, of a purpose to life, regardless of your circumstances.

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Slice of Life #3 — Subway Bags & Rubber Bands

My mother is a ‘collector’ of things and taught me to collect small things for “you never know when they will come handy,” she said. My father was a quintessential ‘disposer’ of things and taught me those skills. On an average, I was fine. Most times I would do some spring cleaning.

At times, unknown to me I would pick up things and ‘salt’ them away. Like the plastic bag that we got our subway sandwich in. One of those is long and six-inch wide so you can take your foot-long in peace. I came to my hotel room, and kept the bag in the drawer and forgot about it.

It was one of those days when things did not go right. I wanted to iron my shirt, and the iron fell off the board. In my anxiety to avoid burning a hole in my shirt, I instinctively reached out to the iron, and somehow I burnt the reverse of my palm. Nothing major, but it was an ugly one. I applied some ointment and went to bed.

The next day, I had to keep the burns from water contamination. And take a shower as well. I remembered the subway plastic bag, and slipped over my right palm. The rubber band of the used baggage tag came in handy as it kept the plastic bag in place. Love the airlines for the tags. It was a great shower. I was smiling at my ingenuity. I could use the soap with plastic covered hand. That was a life saver. The doctor was pleased that I had taken the right steps and made some positive comments about it. I was gloating, the pain notwithstanding. I owe a lot to my ‘collector’ side of a mother in me.

What should I collect and what do I dispose off? Diwali is fast approaching ... And I smiled, thinking of my parents.

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Slice of Life #2 — When Bargain Isn't One

My father taught me to shop for vegetables and some more. Each Saturday morning we used to set out to the bazaar at 6 am. The vegetables would have arrived, neatly laid on the jute sheets on the ground. Expectant vendors waiting for the first visitor to their stall. Anticipation was high. I walked with my dad, a stocky genial and cheery man. He took me all around the place and wished all the vendors a cheery morning while evaluating where the veg was fresh. Also, carefully noting the cost of each of the produce.

He asked me to note them down in my head and I was to let him know where to shop for the lowest cost. Also, he carefully noted where the special vegetables were available. Once in a while, he bent to feel the lady’s finger to test its tenderness and teach me too. Finally when he was done, he told me that we were ready. I was to reel off the places where we got the best deals. He always settled on some old vendor withered with wrinkles of days spent in the sun. The price was always a tad more than others. He would not bargain. Said it was a sign of respect to the vendor. Did not care if we paid more. Said that they worked harder than us. And vendors would cry out for my dad to visit them: “Aiyerre, come here!”

I learnt much from him that it is important to know the lay of the land, be generous and kind, settle only for the best, even if this was a bit more, and most of all, help someone who could do with your assistance. These days I try to visit the farmer’s market at Mehdipatnam. And take my sons too. And in fond remembrance of my dad ask myself – What would he want me to do!

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Slice of Life #1 — A Bittersweet Pill

Many years ago, I used to work in a small town. As a normal practice, while I was leaving work for home, I called my wife if there was anything to be bought for the house. It wasn’t easy going home and then getting ready to go to the bazaar after a long day’s work. I was asked to buy some medicine for my ailing mother. It was a common medicine and there were four medical shops along the way home. I was on my scooter and as I passed the first one, I told myself that there were three dispensaries along the way and it would not be hard to get one that sold this medicine. Lost in thought, I missed the second. The third was crowded. I was impatient to get home and decided to go to the third, the one closer to home but a long way from the second.

As I walked in and uttered the medicine’s name, the attender cheerfully said that it was not available and encouraged me to go to the ‘other shop.’ Wondering what there was to cheer about an unavailability, I moved to the other shop and, to my horror, discovered that it was not available! There was, of course, the helpful suggestion to get to the ‘other shop.’ So, I went to the third shop only to be told that it was out-of-stock and was invited to get to the last shop in town – the one that was closest to my office that I missed going to, the first one. I was utterly upset and annoyed. Finally, I got my medicines at this shop, went outside and stopped to ponder at the message that life was laying out for me.

Take the first opportunity that life presents and don’t wait or procrastinate. Simple things are best done and dusted quickly. Say yes to chances, don’t tarry. Keep life simple – do things now! Sometimes it is the smallest of things that brings the biggest misery. It was a bittersweet pill that I will never forget in my life. I always buy at the first med shop on the way home.  The same does not apply to vegetables, but that is another story!

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