It was definitely heart that I felt the pinch at, deep down a strange tingling sensation, like a flutter. The meaning of the phrase – “I love you so much, it hurts” became very clear to me. I was unmistakably in love. When the world outside was shivering in dry, unforgiving Delhi winter, I was warm and cozy by the flame in my heart. A flame that glowed steadily and filled my life with warm and soft light.
There was hardly any time when I was not thinking of her, yet I was not distracted, on the contrary I was sharply in focus and actually quite inspired. The rapturous feeling of contended bliss was more pronounced in the mornings when I woke up to find that my world was still intact and alive like the fresh morning dew on pristine roses.
Nothing beats the energy of youth and the inspiration of love; together they make a potent combination.
Plowing through your years at the IIT can be quite taxing, but here I was cruising through, at least at that time, taking life by its horns.
It’s a pity that I do not remember his real name, but he was affectionately called Laat Sahab. Laat Sahab was a post doctoral student and as research scholars usually are, he was all sagacious and ripe, not just in Applied Mathematics but also in matters of life.
With my other friends I usually had many a night of challenging discussions and hotly contested debates but Laat Sahab, whenever he was around, always elevated the discussion to a whole new level.
“This is the only relationship in which you actually get to choose. All other relatives of yours are decided by fate and you have to live with your siblings, parents or even the ugly uncle. You cannot change any of that, but you can certainly choose whom you are going to spend the rest of your life with. And that my friends, is a decision that you should never let anyone else take for you.” – He said authoritatively waving his index finger. As he said it, I proudly looked around in the room. I was one of the few in our group who was headed in the direction of a love marriage. It was a seal of approval from someone no less than Laat Sahab.
It was hard to find Laat Sahab alone and even harder to find him in a mood where you could get some pearls from him. It was one of those rare moments when I was talking to him all alone and he was lucid, probably enjoying his first cigarette after dinner.
“For us Indians, the phrase ‘love at first sight’ should not be used. It should be ‘love at first opportunity’ “
“What do you mean?” – I asked, puzzled.
“Well, in our society we do not have a free intermixing of sexes, so whenever there is an opportunity of interaction you will find a crush, easily mistaken for love. I have seen ‘lovers’ having an innocuous eye contact one day and the next day the guy would be pining in love and the girl blushing in her dreams”
“I know what you mean; quite often I have seen teenage romances prosper at marriage ceremonies or other occasions, but there sure is true love, right?” – I asked, a little hurt, sensing an insinuation.
He thought for a while, looking at the ceiling as he let out circles of smoke. I had learnt by that time that greater the pause before he said anything, the more colorful the thought.
“Love is like a mango” – He closed his eyes as he said and then paused. His words hung like cloud of smoke in the still air of the room for a while and then he started speaking again, as if catching up with himself.
“A crush is like a raw mango, all innocent and green; you may stand under the tree and admire the freshness and the firmness of it. Most of the time you move on, but occasionally you pluck it. This is like taking the first step, the act of seeking. Then you may start to ripen the mango which requires the right amount of warmth and shade. This is like actually falling in love and working towards a relationship. Getting it to the right level of maturation requires a sense of timing, a few days early and it is still raw, a few days over and it may be overripe. You cannot move too fast or too slow in love, if you wait long enough you may end up smothering the flame for the lack of fuel, a little too fast you may blow it out in your haste. Only when the mango is ripe to the right level with respect to smell, color, texture and taste is when it is consummate. Finding true love may be sheer fate but bringing it to fruition is a work of art” – He opened his eyes with a slight smile.
I smelled a whiff of mangoes even when there were none.
“And where does the arranged mango er… I mean arranged marriage fit in your orchard?”
“Arranged marriage is like mango pickle. A pickle made by your mother and family. They do everything for you, pick the mango, slice and dice it, apply the masala of tradition and oil of culture, keep it in a jar till the right muhurat and only when it is ready, as are the heavens, is it presented to you on the appointed hour, all nicely packaged in a fancy bottle”.
I was still imagining the bride stuck in a bottle like a genie trying to come out, stepping over pieces of mango pickle when he said –
“But make no mistake, pickles last much longer than the fresh mangoes, besides eating mangoes can be messy…pickle is an easy way out”
Several years later in San Francisco
I was talking to Ben and I thought of Laat Sahab and his wisdom when Ben expressed his views on the matters of heart, while we were talking over coffee one evening.
“Love is nothing but a humanized form of the genetic disposition to procreate”
“In other words, you think it is just about sex. I think that is a very narrow view, focusing on just the physical aspects.” – I had heard this argument before and was unwilling to let Ben paint all the beautiful emotions and nuances of romance with a stolid brush of carnal instincts.
“Let me ask you this – before you fall in love with a woman you actually go through the process of liking her, it is like a mental process of approval, only when you approve of her is when you get attracted and then begins the liking process.” – He asked.
“I am not sure if there is a formal process as you describe it, but I know what you are talking about, you definitely get attracted first before anything else begins”
“But you would agree that there are generally agreed upon parameters for beauty that are shared by most men, now I know a lot of it is cultural but I am talking about general traits. Heck, if it wasn’t for this general definition of beauty, there wouldn’t be a Miss Universe or a Miss World contest” – He said.
“At a broad level, yes, there are some characteristics that are commonly possessed by beautiful women in general, what’s your point?” - I asked.
“So let us talk more specifically, good looking facial features, nice smooth skin, fair complexion, well formed firm breasts, slim waist, shapely hips, well proportioned thighs and legs…what else?” – He was counting on fingers as he spoke.
“I agree, not necessarily in that order but yes there are some well established beauty traits, though I would argue that the definition of attractive features in Africa and China would be quiet different from that in Europe or India”
“Sure, but if you leave out the subjective traits like facial structure and racial features like pigment, the more sexual aspects are obviously common across the board. And you know why men like a prominent bosom or a curvaceous behind?” - He continued on answering himself.
“It is all coded in our DNA. Full breasts indicate enough milk holding capacity for your babies, slim waist indicates state of not being pregnant and so available for producing off springs, wide hips tell you that there is enough room to have live births, smooth skin indicates generally healthy, to not only be pregnant but also take care of the babies, nice facial features generally tell you that your off-springs will also look good and so will have a better chance of survival and reproduction. It is all in the genes for women to try to look nice and men to seek them. All the poetry, metaphorical references to love and romance, all the golden evenings spent in thought of your beloved, all the love songs and ballads, all of that is just an intellectual sugar coat over millions of years of evolutionary instinct to replicate. That all there is to it” – As he was talking, he was checking out a blonde as she was paying for her lunch, leaning a little while signing her check.
“You people are living in your cocoons” – Kapil proclaimed
“You must shed your inhibitions and try to merge with the mainstream”
“What does it actually mean? Does it mean I have to change my way of life to get acknowledged as an equal?” – MJ asked.
“Well, first of all no body is treating you badly, there is no discrimination. Well hardly any, right?” – Kapil asked.
“Sure, there is no active discrimination but I can see it in the eyes of people. Some people are prejudiced from the get go but thankfully they are not that many, most however treat us differently” – MJ retorted.
“I know what you are talking about. Look, there are two ways to deal with this, you either become insecure and slide deeper into your shell or you try to get over it. The more you act like the majority the less you will be noticed as an oddity. Sometimes asserting ones identity is a good thing, but you must understand that you are a minority and you have to play by their rules”
“But that is my whole point. Why can’t I be accepted for what I am? So what if I am different? Why do I have to shun my religion, my culture, my way of life, to be accepted as an equal?”
“Now don’t get ahead of yourself. No one is asking you to throw away all your traditions and culture. All I am saying is not to stand out, because if you do then you will be ‘noticed’ and the mere fact that you are noticed changes people’s expressions, which you take to be ‘discrimination in their eyes’ ”
“It is not always that subtle. The other day I was at a grocery store and the clerk greeted the customer in front of me with an ear to ear smile, joked about weather and price of commodities, he even offered to help him out with his bag. Then when my turn came he frowned and gave me a cold shoulder, did not even return my greeting. In fact he started to toss my stuff into the bags with discernible contempt.”
“It happens sometimes. Freak grocery clerks are not the best this society has to offer. You have to forget the bad experiences but remember the good ones. That is the only way to keep things in balance and maintain your sanity.” – Kapil moved his both hands in alternating up-down motion, imitating a balance.
“I am not overly perturbed by things like these. That clerk probably earned a tenth of what I do and that could explain his animosity, my point is that I can change my outward behavior but how can I change the color of my skin, or my accent? I think that is what matters most”
“Yes it does to some extent. But to be one of them you have to start speaking about things that they understand, and I do not mean accent. How many times has it happened that you go out on lunch with your colleagues and you drop out of conversation because you lose the thread?”
“Happens all the time. When they speak amongst themselves they talk about arcane TV shows from the past or games I don’t really follow, how do I keep up?” – MJ nodded as he talked.
“And the other thing is food. I don’t really like the food, even though I eat meat I do not enjoy deli style meats. There is nothing like a chicken curry”
I was silently listening in to the interesting conversation between Kapil and MJ. Kapil was from Punjab and MJ from Andhra, with a difficult name to pronounce even for us, so we went by the acronym MJ. We shared the same apartment complex and had run into each other many a times at the swimming pool and gym. The other thing in common was that we were all from India and were on work visas in US.
Once in a while we got together, like today, over dinner at my place.
“Tell me you guys, how many non-Indian friends do you have?” – I jumped in the middle of their conversation.
“Well, I have several American and Chinese friends” - Kapil smiled
“Acquaintances from work don’t count, you know them because you share the cubicle wall or face them in meetings” – I said.
“Hmmm. Well I do not really have a social circle beyond work and then there are you guys”
“And you MJ?” – I asked.
“Does Pakistani count?”
“No not exactly”
“Then none. What is your point?”
“Nothing, just curious”.
Those were the heydays of technology boom, also known as the dot com era. Nasdaq was at its all time highs and new ideas were getting funded at the drop of a hat.
It was circa 1999.
India too felt the reverberations of the boom, perhaps in a more resounding way than even the US. While for US it was another zenith of the cyclical wheel of boom-bust machine, for India it was the first morning after the socialist nuclear winter, a shot of hemoglobin after an era of anemic 5 year plan ideology.
Indian IT industry caught this wave and the first surfers of this were the H1B visa holders, forming a beeline at the several US consulates in India. It was a mad gold rush… or shall I say sand rush?
Anyway, I was one of the several, trying to make hay in the shining sun. Already a lucrative job offer under my belt, I was looking for a backup job driven by my quintessential Indian hoarding mentality.
Luckily my first job was a permanent position in a handsomely paying telecom startup, so for my fallback I was going after just about anything to requite a mental checkbox.
I saw this Ad in the Wednesday’s Ascent and after having called them first, I drove up to this “Software Consultant’s” office for an “interview”. As I was trying to navigate through the crooked by-lanes of Mehrauli slums, I quickly realized that I had made a mistake in responding to this Ad. By then I had already invested 3+ hours in this, including the morning rush hour commute, so I decided to follow through it.
It was a residence-cum-office of a middle aged Sikh gentleman who had setup a body-shopping rig. Mr. Singh was a corpulent thickset person, wearing a buttoned up hand knitted green cardigan and a suit with red tie tucked in his cardigan.
Mr. Singh admitted that he was not technical and so he introduced me to his cohort for a technical interview.
This other gentleman was from Andhra and was probably one of Mr. Singh’s selectee. “All set for a glorious career in the land of opportunity” in the words of Mr. Singh.
He grabbed my resume and ushered me to his office with an air of authority.
I don’t know if it was my IIT background or my bored looks that mellowed him down considerably. He did not ask any “technical” question, all he asked was how many years of experience I had for stuff he nervously read from his checklist – “C? C++? Java? Oracle? HTML?...” and that was it. He then started to talk about what other offers I have, where I want to go in US etc.
Only when I began to get restless and started to look at my watch did he walk out and let Mr. Singh in.
“So I hear you are technically solid” – Mr. Singh said. “You lack experience, but don’t worry you have come to the right place. I have openings in Fortune 500 companies; very soon I can put your career on the fast track”.
“Ahem. OK” – is all I could say.
“So I have an opening with a multinational bank where.....”
“Wait. Did you say bank? Because I am not interested in financial sector” – I interjected.
“No no it is an IT job, you see you will be writing software”
“But it is still a bank, I don’t want to work for a bank”
“You don’t understand you are going to work for us and you are going to write code as you would do anywhere, it doesn’t matter if it is a bank”
“Do you have anything else?”
“Oh don’t worry, I can place you with a credit card company”
My head dropped. Let me get out of here is what I thought – “OK, so what compensation should one expect in that position with my background and experience?”
Mr. Singh smiled then leaned back in his chair with his hands behind his head.
“Tell me, what are you getting monthly?”
“Excuse me?”
“I mean what is your monthly salary?”
“Well I make enough, but this is a company in India, what does it have to do with a US job?”
“Just tell me.....OK let us assume 40,000 per month, right? Or say 50,000 per month, round figure?”
“Hmmmm” – I could not think of what to say in the situation.
“What if I give you One Lakh Fifty thousand? (150,000)” – Mr. Singh started twiddling his handlebar moustache with a smirk on his face.....perhaps expecting some reaction from me.
I jumped out of my chair – “Wow! I will take it......Wait you mean 150k USD Right?”
It was Mr. Singh’s turn to look astounded. – “NO NO NO” – he violently shook his head leaving his moustache half twisted.
“No I mean 150,000 Rupees” – He said slowly.
“Ah! So this is a job in India with Rs. 150k per month? Sounds great!”
“NO NO you don’t understand. Not even the President gets that salary. I meant Rs. 150k per month in US”
On the way back from Mehrauli, I found it hard to drive as my eyes were all tearful from the convulsive laughter I was having.
Now every time I see someone with the handlebar moustache and a paunchy disposition, Mr. Singh’s words echo in my ears -
“What if I give you One Lakh Fifty thousand?”
A recent BBC study indicated that 81% of Indian youth want to leave the country for greener pastures abroad.
Now that is an alarming statistic, or so it appears if presented outside of the Indian context. One would be lead to believe that there is a serious trouble brewing in India or a serious problem like a famine or an epidemic that people are trying to escape from.
In fact I was surprised to find from the same study that only 50% of Iraqi youth want to emigrate despite the hellish conditions there at the height of insurgency and ethnic conflict.
So what is it that is making the Indian youth look outside when India is purportedly making enormous progress and people are getting richer in absolute terms, not just the “purchasing power parity” dissimulation? As usual there are no simple answers for questions like these. I am sure sociologists, economists, political analysts, technocrats and others would have their own take on this. I have the luxury of being none of the above so I can postulate outside of any framework. I have been fortunate to have come in contact with Indians living all over the world - US, Canada, Europe, Asia, Australia and other lesser known places but I am still to meet an Indian expatriate who does not want to go back, with the possible exception of the “off-shoot” Indians living in Trinidad, Fiji, Mauritius and West Africa of which I know a few who still have ties back home.
I routinely take BART train from Fremont to San Francisco. If you board the train from Fremont or when the train gets near Fremont station on the way back and if you look around you will find that most of the passengers are Indians. In fact Fremont station in the morning hours looks no different from Delhi’s many metro stations, as far as ethnicity goes. What is different though is the fact that people do not talk to each other much. If you find people talking then more often than not they will either be talking on their cell phones or it would be a group of “consultants” fresh from India.
Hard as it was, I was still able to break the ice with a fellow commuter who kept similar times like mine, frequent eye contact led to smiling nods which led to occasional “hello” and brief chit chat. His name was Vivek and he came from Lucknow.
On one such commutes I broke into a conversation with him.
“When did you come to US?”
“Almost 5 years ago” – Vivek replied
“And do you intend to go back?”
“Oh absolutely! No question about that. In fact when we came to US we had not planned to stay on for this long”
“Why?” – I asked
“I am on H1B visa here, on temporary basis, me and my wife’s extended family is all in India. We have no ties to this country except this job that I have. Besides things are changing in India very fast and now there is hardly any difference in saving potential here and back home. It is just a matter of time for us”
“Haven’t you applied for the green card?” – I asked
“Yes we have but that process is a long drawn out, even if we get the green card we may still go back. We belong there.”
“What attracted you to US in the first place?” – Even though I knew what motivations the work visa holders have, I still asked him.
“Oh you know of course, easy money, I mean comparatively. I was earning a decent salary in India, but the money here really flows and if you save enough you will have more than you could ever imagine getting back home”
“Is it still the money that keeps you here?”
He considered for sometime before replying.
“Well, when we first came to states we did not like much here. Everything was different, even the damn light switches were upside down. [chuckled]. But then as time passed we began to like the setting, it kind of grows on to you. Life is so easy here....and then there is respect and freedom, you could go to the post office and be assured that you will not have to wrestle in a line like in India, only to be treated badly by the clerk. Freedom to walk up to the police patrol car in the middle of the night if you are lost on the road and not fear being hassled like in India, even mugged! Buy milk for my kids and not worry about urea in it. It is these countless little things that we know we will miss in India. No it is not just about the money anymore
“But will you still go back?”
“Yes, sure, sometime in not too distant future” – He smiled.
My job has taken me to many places on the globe, last year I had to make several trips all over Europe. On one of those business trips I added a couple weeks of vacation in remaining of the Western Europe. I was not at all surprised to see a lot of Indians in Europe, despite a little more conspicuous racial discrimination, Europe remains the third most attractive destination after Gulf and the US.
US was the first foreign country in which I ever lived outside of India and so my mental image of “foreign” Indians was that of mostly white collared techies driving their Civics, Accords and Camries with occasional Beamers. My first “cultural” shock was the blue collared Indians in Scandinavia, it may have been just a co-incidence but all the janitors I came across in Sweden were from India. A similar pattern is evident in almost all European countries with UK at the forefront.
One thing that Indians like me do whenever they are 50 miles out of their homes is to look for an Indian restaurant. In fact we carried printouts of directions to Indian restaurants in all the cities we visited.
One night we went dining to an Indian restaurant in Amsterdam. It was perhaps a family owned and managed restaurant as the girl that came over to our table to take the order resembled the gentleman at the cash counter. We were still looking at the menu when she approached us
“Wat kan ik u krijgen?”
“I am sorry we do not speak Dutch.” – I said, hoping her to switch to English or Hindi. She smiled and said – “Wait” and went back into the kitchen. Few minutes later another girl, a little older, came to our table who spoke accented English.
It was getting a little late and most of their guests had either left or were on their way out. The man who manned the cash counter walked over to us and pulled a chair from the adjacent table.
“How is the food?”
“Excellent, in fact we were not expecting to find such a nice place here in Amsterdam. Since when do you have this restaurant?”
“For about 20 years now. My father had a restaurant in Punjab and I sort of carried on the tradition here in Holland”.
“And that is when you came to Netherlands?”
“Yes, I first went to UK from India but soon thereafter moved to Holland”
We talked for a long time about his life here in Netherlands and how he is settled in his adopted country, how running an Indian restaurant is a challenge in Netherlands as his groceries come all the way from UK.
“Do you ever plan to go back to India?” – I asked.
I probably touched a chord in him as his expression changed; a strange mix of emotions swept his face.
“Initially I wanted to go back for a long time. In fact I still hope to go back. We could perhaps open an exotic European dining place in Delhi” – He was imagining as he was talking, his face lit up for a second.
“But it will be very difficult transition for us, particularly for my family. My son and one of my daughters were born in Holland, they speak Dutch and there is hardly anything Indian about them, plus we are used to the comforts and lifestyle of this place. I could settle there, but for my family even an occasional visit to India once in 2-3 years is tough. Slowly we are losing touch with India.” – He grimaced.
“What prompted you to emigrate in the first place?”
“In those days life was very difficult in India, there were no jobs. I am an arts graduate but I used to work with my uncle on his farm as I could not get a job. Even people whom I know who had jobs could hardly eke out a living.”
“And now even when things have changed in India, you cannot extricate yourself from your life here, even when you want to?” – I asked.
“Yes, at first we thought of going back when we had enough money to open a nice restaurant in Delhi, then we thought we would go back in 5 years, then it became 10 years and before I knew it I became a non-Indian.... Oh! How much I miss India” – He let out a deep sigh and evaded looking at me perhaps concealing his moist eyes.
Trouble happens when you try to apply your newly acquired knowledge in a real world setting, like when you learn all about table manners of high class social dining from a book and then sitting in a swank upscale restaurant you are suddenly confused about which fork to use for a salad!
On the flipside sometimes you take things too seriously, believing every word you learned, you find yourself with a foot in the mouth situation, or barely escape a catastrophe. The other day in Calcutta I fell in the latter category.
I was still getting used to the rhythms of life in Calcutta though I liked Calcutta from day one. Things were always nice and easy, life moved at a controlled pace.
Buses were full but not as crowded as Delhi. The bus would actually stop for you to get down as compared to Delhi where a blue line could drag you to the next stop if there was another bus tail-gating it, while you had one foot down at a bus stop. The bus conductors here did not lean half out of the window and were not shouting their lungs out calling passengers.
I found the people to be very cultured, mild mannered and decent. It was a cool respite from the ruthless hustle bustle of South Delhi.
However, sometimes I felt like being a bull in the china shop, sometimes patronized my new Calcutta friends about racy stories of Delhi, like how time moves fast in Delhi and how their Calcutta is charming but I could not imagine spending my lifetime in these languid settings.
The other thing I sincerely tried to do was to pickup the local language, indeed I learnt a few sentences and could speak my way through daily chores without switching to Hindi, but that was after a while I had stayed there.
Once I hailed a taxi, the driver was a Sikh.
“Sardarji tussi Rabindra Sarobar jachchi?” – I asked, biting my tongue as I finished my sentence.
He frowned at my strange mixture of Punjabi and Bengali.
“Baithiye” he said “Lagta hai aap Dilli se hain” (Please get in. You must be from Delhi)
One day I was in a taxi going somewhere when right outside the Calcutta medical college someone waved the taxi. I had learnt by now that people can share the taxi and divide the fare. The man jumped into the front seat and taxi moved on. After about half an hour the man signaled the driver to stop and started to walk away.
In an instant I craned my neck out of the window.
“Excuse me sir, you forgot to pay your part of the fare”
The man turned back looked at me curiously and said – “Ask your driver”
I did not understand, I stepped out and asked my driver to demand money from him.
The driver appeared uncomfortable, he said – “Let it go Sahib, he is a Saarjan”.
I recalled he got on in front of the hospital, so he must be a surgeon.
I was now genuinely enraged. – “Well he may be, how does it matter to me?” then I turned towards that man and said – “You must pay up your share, it’s the law”.
He approached me in measured steps and in a cold voice said – “You are telling me about the law? Do you want to settle this at the police station?”
I blew my lid. “Ah! So you find out that there is someone from outside who does not speak Bengali and you think you can push them around? You do not know who I am mister. Let us go to the office of superintendent of police and settle it there. Surgeon you may be, but you do not know me” – I waved him to get in the car.
I saw the expression of that man change, he was thinking fast, and then he looked at his watch. I knew it was an evasive gesture. Then he narrowed his eyes as if considering the situation.
Slowly he withdrew and pulled out his wallet, handed a 20 Rs note to the driver and walked away very fast.
The driver looked at me in disbelief.
And though relieved that the impasse was over I was still very confused about the pre-eminent position surgeons hold in Bengali culture.
Later that night I related the incident to Doctor Tripathi, my friend, who was also my host in Calcutta at that time.
At first he shook his head for a long time not believing what I was telling him, then later when I mimicked the whole incident again, even vocalizing the “Saarjan” with emphasis on “aa” sound did something click with him.
“You lucky son of a gun, he was a sergeant! That explains everything” - He was now laughing.
“Sergeant? What is that?”
“Oh! Sergeant is a police officer, like an inspector, you do not have that rank in Delhi. If you had gone to the police station with him they could have roughed you up, finding out you were a mere student acting smart”.
I circled my lips as if to whistle but just let out a deep breath without any sound.
While boarding Air India flight from Delhi to LA there was the usual confusion and commotion that is almost always seen on a typical Indian airport. However, what was striking was that there were a large number of Airport Authority, CISF and Air India people loitering around, overseeing that commotion, each brandishing their flashy badges but completely oblivious to the fact that prior to boarding people had made 3-4 informal lines, without any seat number or seating order.
Someone from Air India announced that they would now start boarding and everyone just flowed towards the gate, flocking the single gate in utter disorder.
No attempt was made to ask for any seating area ordering or seat number. Imagine about four hundred confused people clamoring in a small area, peeping over each others shoulders and tripping over hand baggage.
What was even more confounding was they were checking the boarding passes and passports just before boarding no less than three times! And this after you had already cleared the security.
Perhaps the densest part was that there was one person checking the boarding pass at the entrance of the tunnel leading up to aircraft and then there was another person at the aircraft gate!
After having waded through a staff of at least twenty people, it took a lot of time for passengers to settle in the aircraft as there were people shoving their luggage while a whole file waited anxiously behind them.
Anyway, after a delay of almost an hour the plane reached Frankfurt for a brief stopover and refueling. There the waiting area was "manned" by just one woman!
When we began to re-board the plane she authoritatively asked everyone to come by seat numbers and announced seat numbers in order. Neat lines were formed and everyone got in a fourth of a time. Suddenly it appeared that the plane had so much fewer passengers!
It is beginning to get dark early now and cool breeze brings the temperature tumbling down each evening. September is nearing its end but the days are still holding on to their warmth. It actually gets warmer in September than August or July in this part of the world, it is like summer trying to put its best act before it is consumed by winter, like a last flickering act of a dying candle...
It is not just the rhythmic patterns of seasonal change that I do not notice, it is also the coming of going of each day that I pay little attention to.
It is true that there is always something to look forward to, a coming Friday for example is always a welcome occurrence, but in general it is easy to lose track of time. And before you know it, you cross a milestone.
Age 35 is one such milestone which I recently crossed and it dawned upon me that no matter what I do or do not do, the time marches on. Not that I am missing anything in life or not that there are things that I have not done which I have suddenly realized I should have done.
It is just the constancy of contentedness which bothers me once in a while. It is the want of the unknown or perhaps the realization of the limitation the passage of time makes you learn.
When I was very young I was recklessly insensitive to any physical limitation that one could have. I remember we used to stay up all night to study for the exam the next morning even when it was not necessary...and now I begin to panic when the side-clock nears midnight. The prospect of a long day of meetings without proper sleep is daunting.
When you are young you believe that life is simple and you are just too good for the world. And that world is mostly filled with hackneyed, you will get what you want and nothing bad could ever happen to you. It is only with years that you brush off your naiveté and your voice deepens with thoughtful pauses. Sometimes I wonder if it is mature consideration before speaking or scrambling for words that manifests in an “ahem”....
Just yesterday I ran into Ben again. After having seen ups and downs of managing a number of small to middle sized high tech companies for over 30 years, he has now, as I say, “grown the wings of an angel”. Wise and seasoned, he is now providing much needed startup capital for bleeding edge tech companies.
I am not looking for any capital and he was not particularly interested in what I am doing at this time...regular jobs seldom interest him. So we talked about other random stuff. Some usual some unusual things, some patterns in technology and politics, lack of newsworthiness of news channels and, yes, even weather.
Just while we were parting he casually said, drinking the last dregs of decaf cappuccino from his cup - “So what do you want to do when you grow up?”.
I gulped. Then considered...waited...thought...then casually shrugged - “There are a few things I am considering, lets see what happens”. It was as if the answer was frozen somewhere inside me and as it thawed I felt so light again.
He must have caught a gleam in my eyes, he smiled and gave me an approving nod.
