Dear child,
I’m glad you liked Three Idiots. Sure, I did too. Sure, Aamir and Madhavan looked oh-so-cuuu…te…., notwithstanding their baggy under-eyes. Sure, parents are myopic, self-seeking, insensitive ogres, who thrust their aspirations, fears, and problems on their children. Sure, it is idiotic to expect every child to become an engineer. As if becoming one could resolve all issues in life. Of course, it won’t.
But do you really expect parents tell their children, hey it’s ok for you to go ahead and get that banjo, streak your hair pink or whatever, and become the rock star that you think you were born to be? Sorry. Think again.
Not because parents are bigger idiots than Aamir Khan supposed, but because they know that the kind of solutions offered by the movie were pretty idiotic. Child, take it from me, no Brazilian wildlife photographer, nor French fashion designer, or even a Japanese sumo wrestler or Chinese gourmet chef is going to send up tickets for every starry-eyed teenager in middle class India who thinks he has it in him.
No, child, I’m not trying to discourage you. Just telling you like it is. Those things happen only in movies. In reel life, as our smart-alec media would say.
Every child who goes cricket coaching and dreams of a century on debut does not get there. Every player who plays league cricket or Ranji Trophy cannot hope to make a living out of cricket. He needs to get into the national eleven to be able to do so. In real life, baby, just 11 people out of the 1.2 billion Indians can make a living out of cricket at any given time.
When it is time for hard decisions, you need to put away the gloves and pads, pack up the bats and chest guards, and turn to books to see you through examinations and a job. That’s the truth, call it bitter if you wish, but swallow it you must.
Sweetheart, please understand that only in some avocations can a lot of people make enough money to keep their homefires burning and their tummies cheerfully full. In the arts and in the sports, success depends not on an acquired skill or qualification but on an individual’s exceptional talent and the right opportunity. Naturally, the chances of success are fewer. More people can successfully bring home the bacon with a professional qualification, be it a scientist, or an engineer, or a doctor or banker, than by taking to the arts, crafts or sports.
Child, no, I’m not trying to discourage or demotivate you. Nor indeed am I decrying the arts and sports. Just stating cold facts. You can go back to your passion - art and music, dance and sports - once you have secured a ‘career’. And then you can cultivate them with enthusiasm, throw yourself wholeheartedly into them, and derive the pleasure and satisfaction you deserve. But do not mix up the two.
Remember always darling, no parent is dying to see his child become an engineer. But every parent will die to see his child happy and comfortable. If you can convert your passion into a vocation and be as comfortable as you want to be, that would be perfect. But as this seems just too good to be true, too idealistic and romantic, we believe that as a standby you must arm yourself with a skill and a qualification that will help you make both ends meet. Because, sweetheart, mark my words, neither Aamir Khan or Chetan Bhagat will divert a few of those crores they have made through ‘Three Idiots’ to create a fund to support unemployed wildlife photographers, artists and cricketers. They are not such idiots.
With lots of love
Your anxious amma
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Gloriously sunwatching
Jan.15 was boring. I wasn’t in the mood for work. Just 3 of our 8-member team were working that day. The others had sailed off on Pongal holidays. I buried my nose in my system grimly. I must get into work mood. Then Elumalai showed me something that changed my day. Elumalai is one of the three of us who were working that day, the third being Mohana. He flashed a pair of funny-looking glasses under my nose. "To watch the eclipse," he said. "From the Science Forum people."
The eclipse. The total solar eclipse. The longest in this millennium! And here was a chance to actually watch it? Wow.
Our sales head RK came in worrying about train tickets and got excited by the glasses. He dashed off downstairs with Elumalai trailing anxiously behind. Ten minutes later they were back. “Fantastic sight. It has started,” RK announced. It was about 11.30. More excitement! Mohana and I ran down with the glasses.
Incredible! The sight of the sun, with a small portion nibbled off. As if it were just there, at arm’s reach. We see this on television every eclipse, but to see it with the naked eye is something else. To see the sun is awesome enough, to watch it hide behind a shadowy moon is incredible. To feel the palpable presence of the sun and the moon at the same time in our skies in daylight – how strange.
Elumalai saw our excitement. “I’ll try to get more glasses,” he said. Wow again.
“I’d like to send one home for my daughter,” I begged. My daughter was at home, and my husband who was at a meeting was close enough to my office to pick up the glasses and carry them home. I worked out the logistics and called him. He was loath to leave work, but he didn’t stand a chance. “Ok,” he resigned himself. “I will be there in about 20 minutes.”
Meanwhile Elumalai dashed off to get more glasses. “Let’s invite everyone in the office to watch this,” suggested Mohana. Yes, yes. She was right. This was for everybody. I scampered off to find the Software Team Lead whose team sits right ahead. And then a couple of calls to other Team Leads in the other floors. “Please spread the word,” I begged everyone. “Around 12.30 downstairs, in the courtyard in front of the building.”
Elumalai got back with five more pairs of glasses and some leaflets on the eclipse. My husband arrived. “You know the deal I’ve been talking off, “ he began with a broad smile, winding down the window pane on the driver’s side. “It’s finally…”
“Yes, sure,” I interrupted. “Now here are the glasses and this is how they must be used. And if you don’t get home in the next half an hour, Tara will miss the most glorious bit.” A baleful glare, and the car zipped up and zoomed off, bearing the precious glasses and an angry husband.
“Deals happen every day, total eclipses don’t,” I rationalized to myself, turning away.
It was close to 12.30 and restless colleagues from around the hall were glancing in our direction. Mohana, Elumalai and I trotted downstairs followed by various people from various departments. It was exciting to see so many people curious – who did not mind leaving behind deadlines for a dekko at the sun. What drew them to the courtyard, I wondered.
Their reactions and expressions were delightful to watch. A quizzical look up into the sky changing slowly into a look of incredible wonder, their jaws falling open and their lips forming a broad beautiful smile as they met mine. As if recognizing a sister, a co-participant with whom something precious has been shared.
Some of them were puzzled. “Is that the sun or the moon?” some wanted to know, upon seeing the fast growing crescent. “And if that is the sun, then where is the moon?”
We explained as best we could, and hovered around the little groups that borrowed the glasses, making sure to keep the glasses in view, recovering them from groups that had finished with them. About 500 people must have seen the eclipse at various times that day: many came back once or twice later to see it progress.
Besides our colleagues from other departments, there were employees of other companies in the complex, the security guards, some shop boys and delivery boys from nearby restaurants, some visitors and pedestrians who walked in out of curiosity seeing the crowd.
There were even three transgenders, who strolled in for a dekko and tried to make away with the glasses, only I caught them near the gate. It was delicate but I had to retrieve the glasses without creating a scene. I invited them to join us. That stopped them, “Look through the glasses,” I told the one who had it, and then insisted that the others follow. “Is that the sun?” one of them asked. “Will it disappear completely?” asked another. I explained that in about half an hour, the sun was expected to be completely hidden, but this would not be visible in Chennai. But it would definitely get darker than it was.
“Can we please take the glasses,” begged one of the trio.
“No, no,” I was agitated. Lots of people would assemble there soon and I had very few glasses, I explained. “You may come back again for another look.” The threesome gave up the glasses regretfully, but thanked us warmly before leaving.
It was a good two hours before we returned to our work stations, tired but happy. There was a feeling of having been privy to something momentous, of witnessing a cosmic phenomenon of significance, indeed of participating in the phenomenon, for were we not part of the earth ourselves? A sense of connectedness, of belonging to this cosmos – to the earth and the sun and the moon. No words can describe it.
The eclipse. The total solar eclipse. The longest in this millennium! And here was a chance to actually watch it? Wow.
Our sales head RK came in worrying about train tickets and got excited by the glasses. He dashed off downstairs with Elumalai trailing anxiously behind. Ten minutes later they were back. “Fantastic sight. It has started,” RK announced. It was about 11.30. More excitement! Mohana and I ran down with the glasses.
Incredible! The sight of the sun, with a small portion nibbled off. As if it were just there, at arm’s reach. We see this on television every eclipse, but to see it with the naked eye is something else. To see the sun is awesome enough, to watch it hide behind a shadowy moon is incredible. To feel the palpable presence of the sun and the moon at the same time in our skies in daylight – how strange.
Elumalai saw our excitement. “I’ll try to get more glasses,” he said. Wow again.
“I’d like to send one home for my daughter,” I begged. My daughter was at home, and my husband who was at a meeting was close enough to my office to pick up the glasses and carry them home. I worked out the logistics and called him. He was loath to leave work, but he didn’t stand a chance. “Ok,” he resigned himself. “I will be there in about 20 minutes.”
Meanwhile Elumalai dashed off to get more glasses. “Let’s invite everyone in the office to watch this,” suggested Mohana. Yes, yes. She was right. This was for everybody. I scampered off to find the Software Team Lead whose team sits right ahead. And then a couple of calls to other Team Leads in the other floors. “Please spread the word,” I begged everyone. “Around 12.30 downstairs, in the courtyard in front of the building.”
Elumalai got back with five more pairs of glasses and some leaflets on the eclipse. My husband arrived. “You know the deal I’ve been talking off, “ he began with a broad smile, winding down the window pane on the driver’s side. “It’s finally…”
“Yes, sure,” I interrupted. “Now here are the glasses and this is how they must be used. And if you don’t get home in the next half an hour, Tara will miss the most glorious bit.” A baleful glare, and the car zipped up and zoomed off, bearing the precious glasses and an angry husband.
“Deals happen every day, total eclipses don’t,” I rationalized to myself, turning away.
It was close to 12.30 and restless colleagues from around the hall were glancing in our direction. Mohana, Elumalai and I trotted downstairs followed by various people from various departments. It was exciting to see so many people curious – who did not mind leaving behind deadlines for a dekko at the sun. What drew them to the courtyard, I wondered.
Their reactions and expressions were delightful to watch. A quizzical look up into the sky changing slowly into a look of incredible wonder, their jaws falling open and their lips forming a broad beautiful smile as they met mine. As if recognizing a sister, a co-participant with whom something precious has been shared.
Some of them were puzzled. “Is that the sun or the moon?” some wanted to know, upon seeing the fast growing crescent. “And if that is the sun, then where is the moon?”
We explained as best we could, and hovered around the little groups that borrowed the glasses, making sure to keep the glasses in view, recovering them from groups that had finished with them. About 500 people must have seen the eclipse at various times that day: many came back once or twice later to see it progress.
Besides our colleagues from other departments, there were employees of other companies in the complex, the security guards, some shop boys and delivery boys from nearby restaurants, some visitors and pedestrians who walked in out of curiosity seeing the crowd.
There were even three transgenders, who strolled in for a dekko and tried to make away with the glasses, only I caught them near the gate. It was delicate but I had to retrieve the glasses without creating a scene. I invited them to join us. That stopped them, “Look through the glasses,” I told the one who had it, and then insisted that the others follow. “Is that the sun?” one of them asked. “Will it disappear completely?” asked another. I explained that in about half an hour, the sun was expected to be completely hidden, but this would not be visible in Chennai. But it would definitely get darker than it was.
“Can we please take the glasses,” begged one of the trio.
“No, no,” I was agitated. Lots of people would assemble there soon and I had very few glasses, I explained. “You may come back again for another look.” The threesome gave up the glasses regretfully, but thanked us warmly before leaving.
It was a good two hours before we returned to our work stations, tired but happy. There was a feeling of having been privy to something momentous, of witnessing a cosmic phenomenon of significance, indeed of participating in the phenomenon, for were we not part of the earth ourselves? A sense of connectedness, of belonging to this cosmos – to the earth and the sun and the moon. No words can describe it.
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