GIVE AND TAKE

Vadodara is rightly called the cultural capital of Gujarat. It is a city that combines the traditions of yore with the advancements of today to result in a vibrant culture that represents the lasting values and progress of a humble yet ambitious people. These traditions are imbibed in the architecture of the city's major buildings including the Maharaja Fateh Singh museum, the Nyaya Mandir, the Maharaja Sayajirao University, the Laxmi Vilas Palace and the Vadodara Railway station - monuments that represent a prosperous people with a rich history and a flourishing economy. The city is home to wealthy businessmen and a squandering middle class population which constitutes most of the crowd swarming expensive retail stores and ostentatious restaurants on a weekend day. Seldom would you come across a beggar, and it seems the entire city dwells in peace, with each denizen capable of fulfilling at least life's basic necessities. Of course, all this is merely an illusion that conceals a harsh truth - a fact that is visible to barely a few of its lakhs of affluent inhabitants.

But sometimes, all it takes to draw the curtains off this illusion is just one meeting at the right place.


It was 11pm on a Sunday night. I was wandering on the railway platform, waiting for the Mumbai Rajdhani Express to arrive so that I could escape from the summer heat into the comfort of my berth in the air conditioned coach. I had reached the station a little too early, and the announcement that the train had been delayed by a few minutes did little to dismiss my boredom. Finally, I dropped my luggage near a tea stall and stuffed a pair of headphones into my ears to cut off the noise of the loudspeaker bellowing railway itineraries amidst the honking of trains and the cries of hawkers. I then extracted a copy of 'Shantaram' from my bag and started reading, and soon I was completely ignorant of the bustling activity I was surrounded with.

I had read only a few pages when a gentle touch on my arm prompted me to look up. I saw an old man, probably in his sixties, with his right hand swinging up and down in anticipation while his left hand rested on his stomach. At first I thought he was a beggar, and decided to turn back to the pages of the novel. But then I noticed his appearance, which forced me to think again. He wore a simple, blue half-sleeved shirt and a pair of plain cotton trousers. A gunny sack was hanging from his left shoulder. His face was freckled and wrinkled, a sign of old age. His hair was thin and white, and he had a desperate look in his eyes. 


He repeated the gesture, hoping I would pull out a banknote and hand it to him. I had more than enough money in my wallet than I needed. It would not have been a huge loss to take out a hundred rupee note from my pocket and place it in his open palm. But I was busy considering the appropriateness of what I was about to do. Did he really need the money or was he yet another impostor just trying to take advantage of a person's sympathy and kindness? Would it set a wrong precedent? Couldn't he earn a wage in exchange for work or labour to fend for himself? While I was still in that state of indecisiveness, he left. 


Perhaps he was just asking for help. Probably he was just another drifter who needed some money to travel to somewhere else, or to have a single meal which had eluded him for the day. It might even have occurred that he had lost his own wallet somewhere while commuting and couldn't retrieve it, and had to depend on the charity of complete strangers to reach his destination. Even though he looked destitute, he was definitely not a beggar. He never pleaded to me with fake tears in his eyes or made excuses. He just stood in front of me silently, hoping that I would have the heart to help him out.


As I saw him leave with a disheartened look on his face that portrayed anguish and helplessness, I was moved. I was angry with myself for having wasted all this time in making a simple decision that could help him reach home. I watched him step down from the platform onto the railway track and walk along the rails. I guess he was searching for a packet of 'Lays' with a wafer or two remaining or a carton of 'Frooti' that still had some of the liquid left in it that he could squeeze out to quench his thirst. When he could not find anything, he climbed back up onto the platform. 


Having watched all this, I lifted my bag and headed in his direction, hoping to correct the blunder I had committed and help him out of his misery by giving him a sum of money that would serve his purpose and at the same time not hurt his self-esteem too much. But as soon as I approached close enough to call out and stop him, a storm of passengers disembarking from the Intercity Express blocked my way. When the platform cleared, the man had disappeared, leaving me in a state of despair. I looked around, but he was nowhere to be seen. Disgusted with myself, I slowly walked back to the tea stall where I waited for the Rajdhani Express. I hoped I would see the old man again before I boarded the train. 


But I didn't.


I had a chance to do something that I could be proud of, but I had failed. Because I spent a lot of time thinking. Had I acted sooner, I would have been much happier from the joy and satisfaction of helping a stranger in distress. Days since this incident, I still regret my first line of thinking.

Most of us run after riches and exorbitance all our life. Some of us even manage to achieve more than we had initially asked for. But what do we do of that surplus money that we can do without? We spend it buying redundant additions to our numerous, unending luxuries. We build a multi-storeyed residential complex, replete with a multiplex and a five-star restaurant when we already live in an opulent bungalow. We buy more cars, when we already own one belonging to one of the most expensive brands. We purchase more of the latest in fashion, and when our wardrobes are full, we get more wardrobes.

All this when we can help the larger society by building a subsidized hospital, starting a small scale cottage industry, or simply sponsoring a poor child's education with those extra finances that we do not need. Or as an average citizen, donating a small fraction of our income to charitable institutions and public trusts which can act on our behalf. And if we do not believe in the integrity of these institutions, establishing one ourselves. If every person who earns well beyond his necessities starts to contribute, the collective effort should be good enough to significantly shrink the size of the nation's population that lives below the poverty line. As they say :
"Every drop makes an ocean."
And what fire dare not submit to the might of an ocean?

There is more to life than avarice and indulgence.
We should realize the joy of giving. Before it's too late.

CROSSROADS

It was my last term in SJA as I would soon leave Dehradun to live in the North-East for the next few years. The academic results of standard four were out, and I was a little apprehensive regarding my Hindi grades. I was relieved when I noticed that I had been able to manage a five star rating on my report card, indicating an aggregate score of over 90 percent across all subjects.

After my parents had thoroughly examined my grades on the report card along with the teacher's comments, and had discussed my overall progress with Miss Sheetal, my computer instructor cum class teacher, we headed to the school canteen to buy chocolates for me and my younger sister as a reward for my good performance.

The canteen was run by a rather aged man with white hair and wrinkles on his face. He immediately recognized me as the boy who asked for candies during recess time. After knowing that I had done well in the final exams and handing me over two large slabs of Milkybar, he added a small lollipop as a token of his own appreciation. As I gleefully accepted his present, he asked me a question I had not been prepared for :

"Arnav, tum bade hokar kya banna chahte ho?"

As a young lad of ten who had not given any thought to his future career, I had no answer then. 
"Pata nahi, Uncle." was my honest reply.

"Koi baat nahi. Baad me kabhi aaram se soch ke batana."

Over dinner the same day, gorging mouthfuls of my mother's delicious aalu ke paranthe, I pored over the canteenwala's question. When I could not make a decision by myself, I turned to mom for help. 
"Mummy main bade hoke kya banu?"

She smiled at me, and replied :
"Beta, jo tumhe accha lagta hai."

I rummaged my brain for all possible vocations I could think of, to see if there indeed was something that I could engage in as a prospective career when the time arrived. It was a difficult exercise balancing the pros and cons of known professions as they would appear to a child.

I didn't know what an engineer meant then. 
Perhaps I could become a scientist, just like dad. I was curious to know what was so interesting about the subject 'physics' that he sometimes used to teach me; what lay hidden within the fossilized rock samples he once brought home from remote oilfields which he studied with so much diligence. But I didn't approve of the way he used to come home tired from the office late in the evening after sitting at his desk all day, with little energy to play badminton or cricket with me outdoors. So a 'scientist' seemed like a good back-up option, but probably not my first choice. 
Being a doctor was not much fun either, given that I was not the least fond of disease and death. I didn't like the gloom that descended in hospital corridors, the unnerving silence that prevailed in a physician's clinic. I almost loathed medicines and syringes, and couldn't imagine myself administering the same to a fellow human being. 
There were a number of lawyers in my extended family. From what I had observed on television, I realized that a lawyer had to debate like a fierce orator and often lie, which was not really my cup of tea. The longest I could speak in public was the time it took to recite a poem in the school morning assembly. It was only when I was much older that I started participating in debates and extempores. This vocation too, therefore, was out of the picture.
I couldn't become a teacher seeing that my experience as a class monitor had been horrible and I did not like to be burdened with too much responsibility. I liked playing cricket, but being a full-time athlete seemed to be boring and exhausting. For similar conflicting reasons, a policeman, actor or politician were also ruled out. It looked as if I was arriving at a dead end.

What else could it be? 

And then it struck me. A profession that was both noble and exciting, which commanded respect and provided some peace of mind. A profession that was different from the rest.

On the day the school reopened for the next academic session, during the lunch break, I visited the canteen once again and declared to the old man with an air of self-assurance :
"Uncle, main army me jaunga."

When I said this, I never thought about how much money I would make, or how successful or popular I would become. It came straight from the heart. A soldier was gallant, and he was patriotic, clad in the most graceful uniform adorned with stars and medals. He lived in the midst of beautiful nature in lush green establishments like the IMA. He helped the community in times of crisis. He was brave and strong, and fought the nation's enemies with guns and tanks accompanying him in the battlefield. And at the end of his honourable life, he died a hero's death, wrapped in the tricolour with a crest of flowers and laurels upon his chest and the salute of guns bidding him farewell. That was all that fascinated me. Nothing more, nothing less.

Fast forward thirteen years, and I am an engineering graduate working as an analyst in a multinational consulting firm, aspiring for a masters in business administration from a prestigious business school. "What happened?", you might ask. Well, my parents thought it was too dangerous to join the army or the air force. So I joined the rat race in my quest to land the perfect white collar job that would entail a hefty pay package and catapult me high into the upper strata of corporate hierarchy. And that's how I ended up here.

Today, most of us find ourselves at a crossroads, struggling to find the right path from amongst the multiple routes that diverge in different directions from where we stand. I am no different. I have no idea where I will be in the next five years. I might have completed my postgrad by then, but what comes after that is anybody's guess. It's not as if I don't have a plan, but these are uncertain times; who knows if something would not force me to change my mind once again. It's like a game of chess, where your next move depends on the situation in which you find yourself. 

Now when I ask myself the same question as I was faced with thirteen years ago, once again, it is difficult to come up with a definitive answer. I guess it is not that simple anymore. Times have changed, and so has the definition of the right vocation. I no longer have the luxury of being able to make a decision only with my heart, for now the mind has started to dominate. And because the world around me has grown too mean to let the heart take charge.

ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL?

Ever since the inception of life, the morals of virtue and vice have been at loggerheads. Like the many human civilizations that have come into being over the ages, they have continued to evolve too, each carving out its own territories while attempting to conquer dominions in the other's control. Like a treacherous foe, each has attempted to lure away loyal but capricious minions of the other with the promise of worldly gifts and other consequential gains - material or ethereal. This raging rivalry continues even today, to which every living creature on this planet is a silent witness - a prey, if you will.

The scales always keep tilting, and the person, the prey, is often torn between the two as his fate hangs in the balance. On the one hand, virtue yields long term returns such as self actualization and reverence from one's peers and posterity, but frequently demands patience, sacrifice and a heart strong enough to bear immediate material losses as a compromise for achieving the larger motives of moral integrity and an unsullied, angelical character. On the other hand, the shortest road to glory is often marked with clandestine deals, maleficence and deception. Once you begin to tread this path, there is no turning back; no switching lanes as you are pulled into a vortex of misdeeds which drag you further down in order to rise up. Even if you are reminded nostalgically of the merits of the righteous path, there is already a stained blemish waiting to haunt your life forever once you defect away from the dark side. Perhaps Darth Vader could testify to that.

Superheroes on the movie screen make it look too easy. Never yielding, they continue to battle against baneful, vicious usurpers and threatening villains to eventually assert the victory of righteousness over evil - without ever submitting to the luring portals of corruption, filled with the promise of unlimited power and infinite riches to rule the world. "With great power, comes great responsibility" is one of the fancy mottos that makes them persist in this challenging enterprise.

But then fiction has its own constraints. For one, it's often unrealistic. The principles of moral ethics are much more complicated. Atleast for normal human beings living ordinary lives with no special powers, faced with a Hobson's choice every now and then. Today, almost every face wears a mask to conceal his/her true self. Everybody but little, innocent children - impervious to corruption and malice, strangers to avarice, immune to disappointment and heartbreak, and most importantly, ignorant of all material pursuits that eventually rob us of all the aforementioned qualities.

I have always strived to maintain a rigid set of ethical standards, and have succeeded more often than not. But it's getting more difficult with advancing time. Sometimes I wish I could turn into a child again, just so that I don't have to care about it anymore.

APOCALYPSE

The world as we see it today is the outcome of a plethora of transitions that have, at times, entailed gigantic shifts in the history of the universe. Planet Earth has silently withstood the test of time, surviving catastrophic events such as meteor showers, earthquakes and the defining Ice Ages while the infinite life forms it has been host to have gradually vanished into oblivion, making way for more adaptable and superior beings. Like the changing seasons, it has been subject to constant metamorphosis - from a tiny speck prior to the 'Big Bang', to a humongous mass of solid matter containing the most wonderful of natural endowments that make it so charmingly beautiful.

And yet, come 2012, it must end.

One would never have thought the world would have been manufactured with an expiry date. Well, anybody except a few enlightened Mayans blessed with awful foresight. Perhaps they ran out of material to continue their legendary calendar post the 21st of December, 2012. Or their prediction was just an ingenious gimmick aimed at having their name inscribed forever in the pages of history even after their entire civilization was expunged from the face of the planet. Or maybe, just maybe, we are indeed approaching 'Judgement Day'.


It would be interesting to argue what would beget 'doomsday'. I have been told of possibilities ranging from  natural causes such as climate change or global warming to human blunders such as a nuclear holocaust to climaxes bordering on the insane, such as a zombie invasion. I would envision the curtains being drawn to a close after a more grandiose finish. Definitely better than cities being engulfed in a sheath of ice or flooded by ocean waters. It would be nice to go down with some noise. For example, a war between mankind and aliens would be apt. And what if, a certain John Connor eventually survives to reconstruct the human race once again.

The finale could be left to anybody's imagination. The looming question, however, is -
How long until we can confidently declare : "That's all folks !" (?)

The Medallion

My parents tell me it took a great deal of persuasion from them to make me enter the school gate on my first day in kindergarten. It was with the promise of my favourite chocolates that they could finally bribe me into spending eight hours away from home in the company of complete strangers. With a tiny bag and a water bottle, I set off on the path to enlightenment, completely unaware of what would lie ahead.

The process of 'education' commenced with learning the alphabet in carefree idleness, without having to bother about tutorials and pesky homework assignments. I had no competitors, for every rival was an innocent friend helping me build a sandcastle or planning fanciful treasure hunts in and around the school premises.

Gradually, smiling primary teachers were replaced by shrewish middle school instructors and then nutty professors whose facial expressions were, at any time, representative of the characteristic function 'f(x) = constant'. The contents of my schoolbag became heavier with each passing year. Academics now was a rat race in which mediocrity was not any better than failure. There were rewards to keep me motivated in this arduous enterprise. Every time I stood first in class or did exceptionally well in the annual exams, I received dainties from the school canteen, and sometimes, a bicycle or a holiday vacation present from mom and dad. 'Dolce far niente' was no longer permissible; it was displaced by drudgery and tedium, often resulting from my innumerable attempts to unscramble the Schrodinger equation.

Aspirations and expectations changed with time. Come Roorkee, I no longer cared for the occasional reward or censure. There was the higher motive of launching a successful career and smoothly transitioning to a life in which profession was the attribute that determined a person's ultimate destiny. Four years went by in a hurry, and all of a sudden, my 'education' was complete.

With the final oath, the convocation hat tossed in celebration, I have been vested with the right to pronounce myself an engineer. Today, as I stare at my degree certificate and the accompanying silver medal, glistening like a radiant emblem in all its lustre - now a souvenir from the past, things seem to have abruptly come to an end. I wonder if there's something to look forward to. If only I could relive the last four years....So long, alma mater !