The wise rag picker....

Even before the sun can peep from the horizon, before it can make the dew drops on leaves vanish, Chellamma would start her journey from her small river side hut, towards the garden near the fish market. During the four kilometer stretch from the riverside to the garden, she would pass through the housing colonies, the public school, the local taxi stand, and my house, which was near the small Catholic Church. To the people all around in that locality, she was just a rag picker. For some of them she was a figure to be made fun of, and for some others, an excellent character to frighten their naughty children. The untidy figure, with dark wrinkled skin, hair style like that of a which in fairy tales, would convince anyone, why the children get frightened on seeing her. She would start her journey by picking up the empty plastic covers, used up batteries, fallen twigs from the wayside trees and garden, and would fill up her basket with it. Somehow she would earn her bread from those small things. When she would pass through the local taxi stand, the mischievous drivers would call her by her nickname. One can realize her vocabulary in slang at that time. Unfortunately the drivers always wanted to annoy her and hear the from her mouth. I used to wonder how could they amuse themselves by hearing the abuses from Chellammma’s mouth. Unbelievably, all these were the part of her routine. Very few people in the area knew her real name. Instead she was known by the name “Poodi”, the meaning or the origin of which, nobody knew. Everyone in my house knew her much better than anyone else in the area. That was because, she used to stop only in front of our house, on her way back from the garden, to have some rice soup, or dosa or lemon juice or even a matchbox. It was an amusing sight to see her lighting the beedi, which she would carefully take out from the small plastic bag tied to her waist.

I knew her since my childhood. She used to visit my grandmother every day during her return. My grandmother retired as the Jail warden in the city’s Central Jail. She would be sitting on the steps near the backside door of our house, reading the Bible in the morning, sometimes trying to tell me stories of Jesus, the saints, and the traps set by Satan. But by around 11.00 am she would be waiting for Chellamma to come. When she comes, she would sit on the gravely ground of the backyard, under the shadow of the thatched barn, to talk to my grand mother. She would smoke beedi, and tell some stories, sometimes do nothing but gossiping. The colloquial language she spoke was another amusement for the youngsters at home, including me. I would hide behind the door and peep at her, to see her smoking beedi and enjoying herself by looking at the smoke rings getting dissolved into thin air. My mother would give her something to eat and drink. As a gratitude for this, she would help my mother by buying fish from the fish market. She used to call my mother ‘Amma’ though she was much older to my mother.

She had a brother, who was a hunchback by birth . He would beg in the bus stands and if I can believe what others say, sometimes he used to do pick pocketing also. Whenever I see him, I used to think about the Hunchback of Nostradam Church. Chellamma also had a daughter and a grandson. But she was always independent and never she tried to intrude into the life of her daughter who was divorced by her husband, a thorough gambler. Chellamma knew that the income her daughter is generating from the riverside Mill was just enough to kill the fire burning inside two stomachs. She used to say “ as long as there is god, the trees will fell twigs for me, people will throw plastics bags for me, I will earn some coins with that….and above all..a glass of rice soup would be assured from amma….what else I need?”

Only on two or three days in a year she would put up with tidy cloths. One of those special days is Onam, the festival of Keralites. That day she would be in a dark red or dark green blouse, a silk bordered white dhothy and a white shall. On those days she wouldn’t forget to have two more things…a patch of sindoor on her forehead and jasmine flowers on her hair. My eldest brother would then, for the sake of fun, ask her whether it is her wedding anniversary or not. She would blush like anything, forgetting the fact that she is an old lady, with a smile showing the orange coloured teeth tainted with pan. It would be followed by the stories of her late husband, the memories of which she still cherishes and the silent listener would be my grandmother.

For us, the members of my family, she was not a mere rag picker. I never felt anything because, I was just a kid, still trying to get away from her frightening face. My mother never forgot to keep her share of food and drinks everyday. By chance if Chellamma do not turn up on a day, my mother and grandmother would ask my sister “ I don’t know why……Chellamma has not come for the soup”

When the time wheel turns, everyone has to move with it…. me too. From a kid I grew into young man. So many changes occurred to me. Procession of unforgettable incidents happened in front of me. But hardly any changes occurred to Chellamma. Her attire was exactly the same as that of the past years. Like the rivers and mountains witnessing the rising and setting of sun and moon, she witnessed the deaths and births in my family, along with us. She participated in the rituals, which followed the funerals of my aunt, my grandmother, my father and the baptism ceremony for the kids of my brother and sister. I still remember the curiosity with which she watched the newborn baby crying on my sister’s lap. Just like I used to get frightened on seeing her, my nephews and nieces also got the privilege to be afraid of her, just because of her appearance. In fact in the recent years, her appearance had become worst, partly because of old age and the loss of memory claiming the rest of the part.

After becoming an earning member in the family, working in a far away place, the only source from where I got updated about the incidents in my small locality and whereabouts of the characteristic souls from there, was my sister’s letters. That time I didn’t have phone connection at home. The only means of communication was to be at the mercy of our postal department. My sister would write detailed letters, may be in seven or eight foolscap papers with each and every inch of that paper utilized. In that letter she would describe every individual I know, may be about someone getting married, may be someone passing away, or how the small township is progressing, how the country roads on which bullock carts plied, now bear the imprints of the wheels of the majestic vehicles like Maruti Esteem and Honda city, or construction of concrete mansions on either sides of my tiny thatched home, making it a black spot on a white paper and so on. Always while reading those letters I used to feel that I am there at my home, feeling the nearness of those individuals mentioned in the letter. Most of the time, there would be a line about Chellamama in those letters. It may be about her health or may be the new pranks my nephews and nieces are playing on her and her affectionate response to all those pranks. Once my sister had mentioned in the letter that instead of having daily visits, Chellamma’s visits have become once or twice in a week only, as she is unable to walk properly. She was not an exception to the vulnerability of old age. In one of those letters my sister had narrated an incident, which made me respect Chellamma as a wise human being, much above the status of a rag picker.

One of the residents of the locality, a lady, was admitted in the medical college hospital due to some sever illness. That lady was staying near the Catholic Church by the riverside. When she was discharged from the hospital, my mother and sister thought of visiting her. Unless some unavoidable circumstances arise my mother would never venture to go out of the house. That was primarily due to arthritis seizing her legs. If she had to walk, then it would be like a snail’s creep. On a relaxed afternoon, when the sun was not so hot, both my sister and mother started off to visit the lady. Her house was near the church, which was about a kilometer away from my house. On their way, while they were walking past the stationary shops in the local market area, they saw Chellamma coming from the opposite way. She had the empty basket over her head. Since old age had taken its toll on her, she used to start her journey in the afternoon only. Getting up early and picking up everything useful to her was a Herculean task for her in that old age. When she came closer, my sister and mother smiled at her and extended a warm wish as they used to do whenever Chellamama comes home. But to their surprise, Chellamma neither responded nor paid attention to them. Though it was in a clear and loud voice, they called her by name, she didn’t listen to them and walked away. My sister was surprised at that strange behavior in Chellamma. She decided to ask her about this next time when Chellamma comes to have soup. After a week, Chellamma, came to our house on her way back from the days work. After giving her the soup the first thing my sister asked was about her unusual behavior on the road. She thought Chellamma would say that she couldn’t hear or see them because of the day by day deteriorating hearing power and eyesight. But her reply was something different.

“My child……, I saw both of you from a distance. I heard you calling me and asking me about my health. But I deliberately avoided you. Didn’t you notice that you were talking to me in front of the local market area and the taxi stand. All those ill hearted mischievous people were watching everything. If a rag picker like me, talks to people like you, my child….the shame is on you. I have nothing to be ashamed of or to loose But the people around can think of you bitterly if you let them see you care for a rag picker like me. If I had responded to you by stopping there, I would have brought disgrace to you. Chellamma has not been to school to learn…but I have seen the life and know the people around me. I would be loyal to Amma for the food she gives to me..and moreover for the care she gives to me….so my child..never ever try to talk to me on the road. I will not give attention to you, if you try.”

My sister said she stood speechless for some time. She said she had never thought of those words from a lady like Chellamma. She proved that, to be a wise human being the schools or certificates are not necessary. On hearing that incident I also thought that Chellamma is better than many highly educated senseless creatures whom I know in the locality.

On my last vacation, while I was sitting in the kitchen, over the big wooden box for storing the food items and utensils, a place I liked since childhood, my sister was updating me about the incidents in the locality for the last one year. Chellamma’s demise was one among them. She was already going through a tough phase of physical uneasiness. Though it cannot be called a tragic death, it was in an unusual way she succumbed to death. She was on her way to pick the twigs and plastics and she was working near the railway track. She was walking through the unpaved road by the side of the railway track, two kilometers away from my home. She was picking up something from the edges of the metal lining of the track. She didn’t hear the train coming. She heard the whistle of the train only when it was very near. Though she was pretty far from the rails and the moving train, she was still closer to the track’s metal lining. She made a futile attempt to walk farther away, but the weak limbs didn’t allow her. Then the strange thing happened. The fast moving train made a rush of the air towards the sides and that was strong enough for Chellamma to loose her balance. She fell towards the side and hit her head on the heap of rocks by the side. Her frail body couldn’t survive that impact. The witnesses for her last moments were the people sitting in the teashop near the railway crossing. They informed her daughter immediately. Next day morning she was cremated. That marked the end of the long journey Chellamma had had……… not the picking of twigs and papers, but of struggles for her existence in the world, of being the puppet for amusement by the people, of being like a member of our family, seeing the flowers blooming and fading in it. Both my sister and my mother went to see her daughter after the funeral as they came to know about the incident only after the funeral. For the outside world, she went into oblivion as a rag picker only. For us, she was not a mere rag picker…… but a wise human being.

(wrote this sometime in 2002 0r 2003)

Last mail from Sakshi

My computer was getting slower and slower. So on a sunday, I thought of doing some system clean-up and repair. I updated the anti-virus software, defragmented the hard disk and cleaned up the data stored in it. While sorting the data, I saw the folder titled “Old mail box”. As I was looking for something for a time pass, peeping into the old mail box seemed like a perfect idea. As I opened the old mail box, I was taken back to the initial years of my career. All of a sudden, so many old faces, which were getting dusty in the cup boards of memory, became vivid in front of my eyes. Good old memories, fun filled, anxious and sad moments.. everything came like a procession. Within the old mailbox folder, there was a sub folder named as “resignations”. I opened that folder.

A few years after my career begun, I started feeling that I belong to somewhere else. I wanted to quit the job I was doing and find the place suited to me. The overdose of sales and marketing tasks in my job was making me uncomfortable. But somehow I didn’t have the guts to resign from the very first job I had. What if I fail to land in another job immediately? What if I have nowhere to go after I resign? That fear pulled me back from resigning, every time I thought of doing it. Whenever I heard a colleague or a friend resigning, I would admire them silently, for their bold decision.

Well.. my time also would come. I just have to be patient. I told myself. That time onwards, I started collecting all resignation e-mails sent by colleagues or friends. I thought, keeping many formats would help in framing an appropriate resignation e-mail, when I am ready to do so. I had a nice collection of resignation mails, coming from a plethora of people. I would like to put them in three categories. First..people who would send mail to every tom dick and harry in the world and write mails full of words which they never meant.

Second….who are very reserved, whose nature gets reflected in their mails…with few chosen words only.

And finally the third group… who are selective in the mail recipient list, but they write emotional mails, clearly stating what they really meant to say and how they feel while they leave.

Alfred D’Souza, the gigantic looking foreman who was (in)famous for his histrionics and innumerable verbal explosions with his peers and supervisors, sent a mail when he resigned. It was sent to everyone in the company. Though I never had any interaction with him and barely knew him, I also received a copy of his resignation mail. The only people who didn’t receive it were the house cleaning staff, as they were contract workers from a service provider and didn’t have email access. If they had, probably he wouldn’t have spared them too. Alfred belonged to the first category I mentioned. I read through the resignation mail he sent to all. It was indeed a big mail. The most interesting lines were as follows.

“….All those moments I spent with you will ever remain in my memories as the best moments of my life. I enjoyed working with all of you. I would like to thank each one of you for those good moments we have shared. Especially, I would like to thank Azhar and Sanjay for their support and guidance. Me and my loving wife Isabella are moving to Canada to join our relatives there. If you ever visit that part of the globe, we would be happy to be your host. To reach me anytime, my email id is

“Alphie-alphie@yahoo.com”

Kind regards

Alfred “

After I read the mail, I thought about what he wrote, in detail. Almost every word was a lie. No colleagues ever spoke good of him. He treated his subordinates like slaves. He never had good relations with his peers or superiors. His bosses, Azhar and Sanjay, had several issues with him. They found him a hard nut to crack. But he was excellent in his work and he delivered superior quality work. That only saved him for many years in spite of complaints from many others. At home also, he used to have fights with his wife Isabella. He used to verbally and physically abuse her. Things went on to the verge of a divorce. Somehow the marriage survived. No one, not even his few friends, liked to be his guest, while he was there.

So…if every word is a lie.. why take pain to write such meaningless mail. That too, copying to everyone, who doesn’t even may know who is Alfred. To me, it seemed like a mockery exercise. But that was Alfred. And in my career, I have received mails from several mellowed down versions of Alfred.

The second category was epitomized by Ranjan Panday, the electrical engineer. He was a nice but extremely reserved guy as per his colleagues. He wrote the shortest resignation letter I ever saw. It read like this

“Dear All

Today is my last day in office. I am moving out to Delhi. It was a pleasure working with all of you.

Thanks and Regards

Ranjan. “

I must say, I had received few mails only, which truly belonged to this category.

Many of my friends belonged to the third category. Ishan, Loui, John, Arpana, Lekshmy, Surjith, Andy and many others. They sent their bye-bye letters to only selected people. Why to clutter the mail box of others? I read some of them, which I had kept in my inbox. I was quickly reminded of the warmth of their friendships and the time I spent with them. Some of those events flashed in front of my eyes as if from a movie flash back. Gossiping at the cafeteria, friday hangouts for movies and dinner in McDonalds. It was then I saw the mail from Sakshi.. the most disturbing resignation letter I ever received. Before I read that mail here, I should tell something more about Sakshi.

‘Sakshi Rawat’ …that was her name. She joined as a recruitment manager in the HR department. Rajat Thakkur, the HR head of India operations, knew her very well. He only brought her into his team. She was young and dynamic. As usual, there were many people who disliked her for being in that position and also being close to Rajat. That’s the professional politics. It is universal. One can never fully escape from it clutches.

The technical division where I worked was on the 6^th floor. As the office was facing an acute space shortage, the departments were not arranged in a specific functional order. We worked on temporary spatial arrangements while the maintenance works were carried out. Finance and engineering divisions were put together on the first floor. Technical and HR divisions were together on the 6^th floor. Just because of that reason, Sakshi happened to be my distant neighbour. Her cubicle was three seats away from mine. There was a glass partition in between.

Unlike scores of other girls in the office, she had a peculiar personality. She had an ‘average look ‘(a statement of self-description by her only). She always wore full sleeve shirts, with sleeves rolled up to her elbows and trousers, resembling boyish attire. She had an elegant smile mostly on her face. She spoke with an American accent. I guess that was because of her US upbringing during her early school days. Some people who didn’t even have good English speaking skills, thought hard every day to comment on her American accent. ..again a common syndrome in professional politics. More than anything, what made those people frown were, her cigarette smoking habit and good rapport with Rajat. Sakshi always tried to keep a distance form those guys. (She referred to them as MCPs..male chauvinist pigs …Uhh..what a terminology. It was a term new to my vocabulary)

She would take a break from work almost twice daily. One in the morning and then one post lunch. She would then go to the front yard on the ground floor and smoke cigarettes. Many eyes would be scanning her from the windows around. She became the talk of the gossip monger’s club.

Rajat was a strict HR manager. Though there were people, wanting his fall from grace, he was too good at his work. He knew how to handle such guys. The ugly side of the professional politics had no effect on him. Sakshi also had a good professional relationship with Rajat. She would take freedom to go his room to discuss official matters without any fear or hesitation, while many others would pause for a moment before knocking on the door, or making slight noises to catch his attention and let him know that they are waiting outside his room. People commented on her for that ‘freedom’. As there were many ‘creative people ‘there was no dearth of spicy stories connecting Rajat and Sakshi. (another part of office politics syndrome). These stories were discussed by them in cafeteria during lunch.

I didn’t befriend Sakshi initially. We just exchanged smiles and causal ‘hi’, and ‘how are you? ‘sentences only, while walking past each other. Though I used to go and talk to my friend Archana, the payroll supervisor who was seated next to Sakshi, I dint dare to start a friendly talk with her. Don’t know why?

But I should confess. I admired her. Admiration for what? Don’t know clearly. May be for her unique personality, her boldness, her professional excellency. Or may be that sweet smile I liked?. I have no idea to express it exactly. I admired her. That’s it.

Many times I would look at her while she speaks over phone. It was nice hearing her stylish accent. I do not know if she ever noticed me looking at her or not. Once I joined Archana and her friend on the lunch table in our canteen. In the mid-way of the meal, Sakshi also joined us. That was the first and only time we spoke anything other than the usual greetings. She spoke about her previous company, her career aspirations, office politics which concerns her etc. Though she looked boyish in her attire, that talk with her revealed the feminine side, not explicitly expressed usually. Though she appeared to be stylish with her accent, cigarette smoking habit and dressing style, there was a simple girl in her, who believed firmly in Indian culture and family values, who had ambitions, likings and dislikings just like any other normal girl. Though many people disliked her, I admired her very much.

Tough days awaited her after Rajat got a promotion transfer. His successor unfortunately belonged to the MCP group Sakshi mentioned to me earlier. Rishab Gupta, who took over from Rajat, was never fair to Sakshi. In the following one year, unrealistic targets and heavily biased appraisals with critically negative feedbacks followed. Though her position was not a high profile one, there many people who were united against her. They conspired on a disgraceful exit for her. Finally, after six months of fight for survival and dignity, she succumbed to the bitterness of dirty office politics. MCPs won the game. She was asked to resign. Management sited incompetency and unprofessional behaviour as the main reasons. Sakshi, her detractors and the office walls only knew the exact reasons.

One fine day morning, I saw Sakshi’s resignation mail in my inbox. I looked at her seat while reading that mail. The seat was empty. While I read that last mail from Sakshi, an unexplainable sadness engulfed me. A colleague, whom I admired, is being asked to leave in an unfair way. That mail was addressed to a handful of people only.. not to every living soul in the company. Perhaps, only those people, whom she thought, would be concerned about her well-being. I felt happy for a moment, that she considered me in that list. The mail was emotionally charged. The words in it spoke of its own. It was like this..

“Dear friends

I hope, by now you are all aware that I am asked to leave.. I loved the job I was doing. I was proud to be a part of this company. I did my best to be a true professional in all aspects related to the job I was assigned. But it pains when I realize that I can’t be here tomorrow onwards. I have resigned today. In fact I was told that my services are no longer needed here. Though I know from the bottom of my heart, that I am competent enough to do the job I am qualified to do, with full passion, enthusiasm and sincerity, there were concerns raised about my competency and professional behaviour. I take it as an opportunity to get rid of those short comings (though I really do not what they are). Hopefully someday someone will realize my worth as an HR professional.

While thanking each one of you for being my friend and a supportive colleague, I should also acknowledge my apologies. If I hurt some of you knowingly or unknowingly, please forgive me. Apologies if my behaviour at any time damaged the office decorum.

I would miss this office life. I would miss your company. It hurts. When I say…I mean it.

If you would like to be in touch with me, my personal mail is

‘ Sakshi_rawat@hotmail.com’

Kind regards

S.S.S.S

(Sad Sad Sad Sakshi)

PS: Hopefully the front yard corridors won’t have to complaint against the cigarette smoke from a female lip anymore.

I read that mail many times that day. I felt like shooting all the MCP’s in point blank. That was the culmination of one of the dirtiest office politics I have ever seen in my career. Three months later I saw Sakshi one more time in the office. She came to collect her dues from the company. We talked for a while, standing in the corridor. She was not successful in finding a job till that time. That was the last time I saw her. After that, neither of us contacted each other. We were sucked into the whirlpools of our own lives and career issues.

Finally my turn came to send out a resignation letter. After eight years of service in the first company I worked with, I gathered all courage to put up my papers and explore a new career I loved to pursue. While writing my resignation letter I considered few things.

That …I would send a formal mail with carefully measured words, to my superiors informing them about my decision.. my official resignation mail.

That …I would send my emotionally charged bye-bye mail to only those people whom I considered as my friends or well-wishers… my personal resignation mail.

That .. I would not write any hollow and meaningless words. I would only write what I really mean in my heart. …like Sakshi did.

And.. that’s what I did. I sent my official mail to my boss and his boss. My personal mail was sent to some thirty odd people, who all wished me good luck, for a new career. I had a small farewell party. Among beer glasses, delicious dishes and background music, my friends bid adieu to me. Few lips shivered, few eye lids became wet. Mine too.

Will I write more resignation letters? No idea (Future is not for us to see …ke serra serra … the beautiful melody reminds me). But I have been receiving many many resignation letters from colleagues, belonging to all categories I mentioned. But to be frank, few of them fall in the third category.. and almost none of them so far had the emotional intensity as Sakshis’ mail.

Sakshi.. wherever you are, I sincerely wish you to be bestowed with the best career options you can think of. Hope someone has already found you a worthy HR professional. God bless you.

Jose

Bangalore

5^th Feb, 2011