The Golden Rule

It is never too late to learn a lesson. This fact was brought home to me, in no uncertain terms, last Friday.

It was the usual kind of day, yet different. No that’s a contradiction of sorts. On second thoughts, it was very different. Because it was one of the two days in the year that I keep a fast. And a fast doesn’t mean gourmandizing on an assortment of the choicest goodies churned out by every Indian home on such occasions-the sweets, the fruits, the juice and the saboodana kheer combined with crisp fried potatoes, peanuts and what-have-you. No, this was a proper fast (read 100 % deprivation) where even water is denied till sundown. After that- and a short pooja- all one has (and that is liberal folks like me) is sherbet and/or tea. That’s it. Full stop till the morning after.

Well, Teej as this special day is called, dawned pretty much like any other day. With me all geared to observe all austerity and ready to brave the world. In the sense that such a day at work can be really challenging, given that my work entails training most of the time, which in turn, translates into talking. And talking when you aren’t allowed to drink even a drop of water, believe me, can daunt the stoutest of hearts. But che sera sera, I was mentally equipped to let the what will be will be part ensue.

Till I picked up the morning newspaper and, in the process, happened to glance at my left wrist. My heart skipped a beat as I took in the fact that it was quite bare. What I mean is that the customary gold bangles that adorned it were not there!! I turned ashen as I remembered the hectic events of the previous evening………………..

On leaving office I had proceeded to the latest mall in the city, escorted by daughter dear, in order to pick up her birthday dress. We had done a recci of pretty much every shop worth its name and she had tried her way through about half of the outfits on display. This exercise had, quite naturally, taken a toll on my generally enthusiastic, energetic self, and by the time we were wending our way home, it wouldn’t be exaggeration to say that I was all but done in. To have remembered, then, that bangles for the following day’s festivity (how ironic, that fasting should be called festive!) hadn’t been bought was a galling reminder. Providentially, my driver suggested that there was a small bangle shop right at the corner of where we lived so a slight detour had us there. Giving myself ten minutes to finish the business, I got out of the car and made the transaction in the stipulated time……….

As if in flashback, the entire scene played out before my agonized eyes. I remembered that I had taken off my gold bangles to try on the new glass ones, and in the whirlwind hurry that I am always in, had quite forgotten to pick them up from the counter! I consoled myself that the lady at the counter would definitely have noticed them the moment I had left and all I had to do was to rush to the shop and collect them.

I did precisely that and as it was still early morning, had to actually knock on her door to make my enquiries (the driver having provided the expert information that she lived right next to the shop). She looked at me quizzically and I explained why I was there. Her blank expression should’ve prepared me, but it didn’t and I was shocked to see her shake her head in the negative and say that she had seen no bangles after I had left. I tried to explain the situation to her and to point out that it was impossible that she could have missed them but she was adamant. There were no bangles on the counter when I had left and my protests that that couldn’t be were quelled effectively by the argument that two customers had come after I had left and there was no saying who could’ve picked them up. Politely, yet firmly, I told her to convey to those customers (she knew them by name) that I wouldn’t sit quiet, that I would lodge an FIR and giving the whole bunch a deadline to ‘find’ the lost articles by 1 PM, I left for work. A suitably dejected entity.


1 PM came and went and predictably enough, there was no word from her. My veiled threats of a police case and the leeway to back off notwithstanding. Meanwhile, I had spoken to folks in the police service and had been enlightened out of my abysmal ignorance. It seemed that an FIR was lodged only in criminal cases; all I could to do was submit a written report. A constable would be dispatched and that would scare the living daylights out of the felons, I was advised. The startegy sounded good. I thought I’d wait a while longer, giving them more time to miraculously ‘find’ the lost goods and then take some steps at 5 PM.

The day seemed to drag interminably. My mind was not on my work-alternately cursing myself for my colossal stupidity and bemoaning the loss of twenty grand or more…hungry, tired with throat parched, I cut a sorry figure indeed!! My computer also decided to leave me in the lurch and I sought the help of IT guys to fix it.

While whiling away time even more idly-waiting for the computer to be fixed and to return to the charade of work-I kept looking at my bare wrist and groaning inwardly. Suddenly, a picture flashed before my eyes-the action replay of a hand removing the bangles in slow motion, as it were. And it all came back-as though from the netherworld, or from a previous life. The clear vision of my right hand taking off the golden accessories and applying a brand new cream to test its quality. …………. and, being extra careful, taking off the metallic items of jewellery in case of reaction! So the memory that I had removed the bangles was correct, but not at 8 PM in the shop- as my deluded mind had kept telling me- but a good three hours later, around 11 PM at home.

Seldom has the world seen me galvanise into action quite so fast. As far as office decorum would allow sprinting, I dashed to my telephone and called home. Five minutes of agonizing wait-though I was surer by the minute-the time it took for the maid to confirm that the missing articles were very much where I had left them and relief washed over me like a tidal wave.

I promptly called up the shop-lady and informed her of my mistake and apologised for having made it in the first place. The predominant feeling, naturally, was one of relief but along with it came a nagging sensation of discomfort and stern reproach directed at myself. Why had I suffered that momentary amnesia? Why had I acted so hastily? Why had I been so sure that I had left them at the shop? The answers seemed to point in one direction: I had too much on my mind and my impatience always kept me in a hurry. Had I not been in such a hurry the evening before….. or on discovering the loss, had I taken the time to think things through coolly, perhaps it would’ve come back to me. Of course the compulsion of leaving for work hadn’t left me with much choice, as not confronting the shop keeper in the morning would’ve meant the entire day being lost…but the lesson that was driven home loud and clear was to slow down consciously. The only sagacity I had displayed was giving the whole thing some time, or having reported the matter to the police would’ve boomeranged on me and how! (Perhaps deservedly)

Suitably chastened now, I have resolved to be more relaxed, to take things a little easy and to slow down the pace-in other words, to stop being BFN

Amen.

Thank you JB

Today is Teachers’ Day; a day full of memories and fond nostalgia. Decades after having left school, I remember, with abiding gratitude, the person who was responsible for transforming me from a verbose writer to one who could express herself much better. She taught me how to be brief, avoid long circumlocutions and how to use short, pithy sentences.
“Vineeta”, she would despair while returning the customary, weekly essay that we submitted every Friday-corrected with a fine-tooth comb, the likes of which the present generation hasn’t seen-“why must you use such flowery language?!!”
And all my self-built perceptions of being a great writer would go crashing.
The assignment she returned first thing Monday morning would be replete with corrections: and liberally splattered with red ink. Looking at it, anyone could be forgiven for thinking that that was the work of a fairly challenged English student.

Because Mother John Baptist-JB as we irreverently, but lovingly, referred to her- was a perfectionist. She would not tolerate a word extra, a phrase that was irrelevant; and wrong spellings were anathema to her (thankfully, that was the one area in which she never had to correct me, may the heavens be praised!) But the ‘flowery language’ she referred to had this uncanny habit of making its appearance in most of my write-ups. To date, I haven’t forgotten her slashing of one of my essay’s protagonist’s pitiable plight-who had heart-rendingly for and by me “been put to permanent sleep” and replacing it with a very matter-of-fact, single word, “ perished’. That perhaps more than any other correction, taught me that ornate words never helped; what we needed was direct expression, succinct description.

JB-all of 70 years or more-with her signature black umbrella- was equally active on the games’ field. And woe betide anyone who tried to bunk games!! No one could evade her gimlet eye, as she flitted from upper field to lower field, from the concrete basket ball court to the grassy hockey expanse, traversing the sprawling acres of our vast campus with magical speed. Her alacrity and the unseen reserve of energy that she seemed to draw from never ceased to amaze us.

That was an era…long gone and forgotten. We don’t see teachers like her any more: it’s a vanished breed. The missionary zeal, dedication and commitment with which she-and some of her peers like Mother John Francis-worked may have gone but we, who bore witness to those times- will always remember………….with a deep debt of gratitude.