A jewel on the street

                                                                                              

We have an unenviable knack for criticising what we have. Criticise and crib about everything, our future as a nation, our polity, society, infrastructure, government, neighbors, well just about everything except ourselves. Indulging in nostalgia, we lament our present and pooh-pooh the future. The poor are busy with their eternal fight for survival.

The super-rich have no time for the mundane. People like us, living in that large space called the middle class, spend just too much time on discussing, criticising, lambasting, lampooning others and others’ actions. We masquerade as experts to pass judgements; but do precious little about the issues ourselves. When was the last time you met with your friends over dinner? Didn’t you cover all the topics that you and your friends think plague our country, often with frenzied arguments? Didn’t some of your friends make authoritative pronouncements dishing out panacea?

I talk to people, given half a chance, everywhere I go; talk to taxi drivers, waiters, shopkeepers, politicians, journalists, cousins and uncles.

“These politicians have really looted our country.”

 “India has no future. Population, corruption, communalism, tribalism, castes, damn everything.”

“It is so hot and humid. Really, the weather is sick. I hate it here.”

And so on and so forth...don’t they sound familiar?

We focus on the negatives, true as they are, and miss out on our celebrations. It is naive to say that we do not have major challenges. But, we sure have a lot to cheer about as well. Our obsession with failures, soaked in elitist cynicism, is suicidal. We need people who see silver linings amongst the darkest clouds. Need people who dwell on the positives; people who spread positivity. They are rare.

I found one the other day.

Taxi drivers are always a good source of information. Befriend them and you get to feel the pulse of the country. It is true from New York to Taipei (i.e. in this case, if you are lucky to get one who understands any of the languages you know), and Iceland to South Africa. On this early morning visit to New Delhi, I tried to catch some sleep instead on way to the hotel, with a long day’s work ahead.

However, when we got stuck in traffic over the narrow fly-over near Vasant Vihar, I had to talk. “Traffic is not good even at this hour! This fly-over in particular is not well designed.” I expected an instant endorsement from the taxi driver, someone who suffers the most from traffic woes. He replied, to my utter surprise, “Not true. It was terrible before. Going to the airport, we used to queue from Munirka till Dhoula Kuan turn. Delhi roads have improved a lot.”

That was an unknown territory for me! I looked around as if I was trying to make sure I was indeed in New Delhi! Reassured by the Army Hospital and the Hanuman Mandir on either side, I wanted more.

“This city is the best in the world? When I left home for the airport, it was raining; lovely to get a few showers at this time of the year. Now it is bright and sunny here. Where will I get a city that offers such a contrast in one morning?”

I had no reason to correct his facts. Facts were not important at that time; it was all about the sentiments.

He continued, “You should come to this city after ten years. By then, all traffic problems will disappear. Government is bringing in big changes; New laws to restrict number of cars on the road and for parking, with huge fines. The problem is with us. Complain about everything; do nothing. We list what the government has not done; but never consider what we did not.”

After some time, I saw silhouette of the mega malls adorning Saket skyline. My champ continued. “You see those malls, sir? Many people today go and buy a shirt there for five thousand rupees; but, they would not pay their taxes... Even then, I tell you something sir; we are a great nation. It is incredible. We have so many problems. Yet, we are getting stronger and better. Whole world respects India today. Even the American Presidents come to India more often now than they ever did.”

“You said a few lovely things, brother”, I said with full admiration for this jewel on New Delhi street. I paid his dues with handsome tips and went in to the hotel literally singing to myself. My staunch faith in a bright future for our country was reinforced.

Sipping a drink in the lounge, later that evening, I heard people talk on the next table. “My God, what a horrible traffic condition in this city; this is disgusting! I have never seen traffic as bad as this anywhere in the world.” Convinced that the man had not seen much of the world, I turned my head. He continued with his onslaught, “What are the authorities doing? Is anyone in charge? This country is really going down the drain.”

Another man added, vigorously shaking his head in disgust, “It is straightforward. The corrupt politicians have ruined everything. They don’t care. Look at the Swiss bank accounts? The Germans have...”

I felt suffocated. Leaving my drink, I went out of the hotel aimlessly towards the busy road. I might have been looking for another jewel on the street...far away from the madding crowd! 

                                                     Before writing the epitaph

I wonder how it feels to consciously wait for death. How it is for a healthy person to pass every day doing the daily chores, eat, sleep, read, watch, talk, feel happy, get angry and be disappointed knowing well that the end is not far away. How does it feel to receive news of contemporaries leave this world one after the other? What kind of thoughts cross one’s mind on hearing comments like ‘Good thing he did not suffer; after all he had a full life’ when a close buddy dies. What if the person who died was a few years younger?

Death strikes ruthlessly without any concern for age. However, our reactions to death do depend on the age of the deceased. Death in a tender age is devastating news for everyone in the society. Death in the thirties and forties is termed cruel, unacceptable and shocking. In the fifties, it is lamented as premature and unfortunate. In the sixties, depending on which part of the world one lives in, it evokes silent acceptance to guarded disappointments. But, it is still news. Death in the seventies is considered understandable. It is not considered out of turn; surprise is unceremoniously replaced by sympathy. All you get is a general feeling of ‘wish he got a few more years’.

But, beyond the eighties, death slowly turns logical. This ultimate truth starts digging deep and one sees tell-tale signs of changes in behavior of the people. We see people turn somber, affectionate, reflective and spiritual. Now, spare a thought for the good old folks, past their nineties, when the world waits for their final moments. How does it feel to know that one’s death will not surprise anyone?

Death is the only guarantee birth brings with it. But, we live our lives, just the way we must, as if we shall go on forever. We feed on hopes; hopes for a better day tomorrow. We valiantly fight everything that comes our way riding on these hopes. We juggle with priorities, wrestle with crisis after crisis, from health to profession to family, convinced that there are years ahead to live, enjoy, contribute and share. Where do we get strength to do the same when there is not much of tomorrow left? If one falls sick, everyone prays for a speedy recovery. But, in the nineties, everyone prays for a peaceful end. How depressing would it be to know this?

I have seen old citizens, barely able to take a few firm steps at one go, push makeshift trolleys with daily provisions on the streets of Amsterdam, to Paris to New York. Born to a culture where taking care of aging parents is considered a sacred duty, I used to wonder where their family members could have been as they struggled to survive a day with not much of the next to look forward to. As I saw more, surprises slowly gave in to an understanding of the harsh reality. After my chat a few years ago with a senior executive in Reykjavik, the capital of Iceland, it became clearer. He was intrigued to hear from me that aging parents in our society are expected to be taken care of by the children. To quote him, “That is sure not expected of us. They took care of their children, we take care of ours and our children shall take care of theirs.” Chilling stuff! Looking from where we stand, the lives of old people in those societies must be even more agonizing. How dearly I hope that we hold on to ours despite relentless assault by alien cultures.

That is only a hope. Alas, it is not a conviction! The other day, I was in a small grocery in Kolkata with my friend to pick up a few things for breakfast. A gentleman, probably in his late eighties, wobbled to the shop asking for a small loaf of bread. The shopkeeper, himself in late sixties, told him that there was no stock for the same. Clearly short of hearing, the old man asked the shopkeeper twice again. The man in the sixties, forgetting that his time was not very far away, lost his temper and started abusing the old man for wasting his time. Strange! First of all, what was the compulsion under which such an old man had to come himself to fetch the bread? On top of it, why did the shopkeeper have to shout at an elderly man who obviously was short of hearing? Is that a preview of things to come? Are we going the wrong way? At home and on the streets, does our present generation hold the aged people in reverence as we have been traditionally doing?

We cannot reverse the clock. But, we must what we can. When we come across people in the eighties and nineties, we must be compassionate. We need to spend quality time with them. If they are our own, we need to find ways to be with them as often as we can. We should commit ourselves to the formidable task of making them feel wanted; make them believe that our world has been richer with their contribution. Encourage them to take pride in their past. Let them relish every moment in the present. They are lonely in this wide, big world.  

Do it before it gets too late. Writing a poignant epitaph later is just not good enough!