Bonded again

I noted my admiration for Ruskin Bond in a post that I wrote many months ago.  Here is the link for those of you might wish to read it.

The mastery of a writer over his craft lies in his or her ability to dive into the depths of the minds of his characters.  And present them in a way that makes the reader identify with the protagonists.  It is manipulative, in a nice way of course most of the time.  And Bond is a master of that.

Bond's mastery was in full display in the lesson that I helped my son with last night, The Meeting Pool.  Rusty, the main protagonist, comes back to a pool that had been a memorable part of his childhood.  He and his two friends, Anil and Somi, had spent many years enjoying the innocent pleasures that the pool afforded.

A full ten years later he lands up there, keeping what the author describes as "his part of the pledge" to be back with his friends - only to find that the other members to the compact were not there.  The passage of time seemed to have not only obliterated all memory of the pledge from the minds of his friends, but also changed the course of the stream that made the pool as much as it had the "course of the lives" of his friends.

A disappointed Rusty then sees a group of boys splashing and having fun in the river.  And then the author says, "(H)e did not really see them.  His mind was romping with joy as he saw Anil and Somi splashing about in the shallows of the secret pool."

As I explained the story to my twelve year old son, weary from an evening full of preparation for his exam, I noticed a wistfulness in his sleepy and weary eyes.  "That is how I will feel when my friends and I grow up, Dadda?" he asked me, as he yawned and dropped off to sleep.  That is the power of a master writer.

In a similar situation would many of us not react like Rusty?  The happy days of the past are frozen in our minds like a framed picture.  And we wish that the protagonists of that past would just remain as they were.  Just like we would not like our children to ever grow out of their toddler days.

As I read through the story I was reminded of another great story by another master craftsman, Tagore's Kabuliwala.  In the Kabuliwala's mind his little girl had not grown up until he met the now all grown up Mini.  Do read it.  I would have considered my life incomplete, if I had not read it.  As a thirteen year old I was moved by the story as I imagined by my Dad being separated from me through my growing up years.

And then as I sat down to write this post I am reminded of two young people that I had come to look upon as my own children that I would probably never get to see again.  In a strange way life has cast me in a condition similar to that of the Kabuliwala.

The sad difference though is that Abdur Rahman, the Kabuliwala's daughter probably missed her father just as much her father missed her.  That must have made the pain more unbearable for the father.  I have been mercifully spared of that agony.

Nanni....Namaskaram...

Thoughts triggered by a humble dog

One more teaching term just got over and the grades were released to the class.  Interestingly in the system that I work, this is a much anticipated moment, not just for the students but also for the teachers.  You might wonder why, because that might sound a little out of the ordinary.

The reason that teachers in IIMB wait in anticipation of their grades is that their teaching feedback is released only after the grades are released by them. This helps ensure that the teacher's reaction to the feedback does not spill over to the grading process.

Feedback matters to us teachers at IIMB for three reasons.  First, it tells us how we have all done as teachers.  Second, if we get a great feedback it gives us a reason to preen for a short while. ie., for those who like to preen.  Third, in some ways it influences our career.  It would be inappropriate for me to say more than that about how it affects our career.

As I worried about my not so happy teaching experience in the term that just concluded a younger colleague asked me if I was worried about the feedback.  I responded to him that that I was nearing the end of my working life.  And soon none of these things would matter any more.

That is when I was reminded of this incident that happened some thirty five years ago.  It was a regular Chennai morning on the Eliot's beach.  As the sun was coming out, all ready for another fiery day, I saw this somewhat elderly gentleman, who was on his morning walk, being chased by a lowly cur.

Until a few weeks earlier this man had been perhaps the third most powerful individual in the Indian financial sector, after the prime minister and the finance minister.  He had retired as the governor of the Reserve Bank of India.  And here was this lowly creature, chasing him with the same irreverence with which it would have chased a poor and illiterate rag-picker.

It appeared at that moment that all those years of fame and power in office did not matter.  Not to the dog at least.  Nor to the fellow walkers who seemed to be all focussed on the amount of sweat they were working up, completely unaffected by the crisis that seemed to be building up around them.

His glorious past did not come to the poor man's rescue.  In that moment of unseemly discord between the money man and the mongrel that latter seemed to be all set to prevail.  The elderly man gathered pace, hoping to avoid being bitten by the dog.

As a young officer in India's leading development bank, hoping to reach the position that the old man being chased by the dog had held, I learned an important lesson in life on that morning.  As I grew older and often rued my luck as I plodded through a patchy track record in my professional life I often consoled myself by reminding myself of the dog chasing the former governor of RBI.

As a Hindi poem that I learned in school, Gulab Ke Phool, concluded,

Woh dekho, kaanteni hain usmen
Aib duniyaa mein kismein?
Tum aibon par dhyaan na dena
Vidya seekh sabhi se lena

(Look, there are thorns in it.  Who does not have faults in this world?  Dont pay attention to the flaws in anyone or anything.  Take lessons from everyone and everything in life.)

As I narrated this incident to the amusement of my young colleague, the recent teaching debacle looked utterly immaterial.

Nanni....Namaskaram...