More Ordinary than the Common
Most
Do
you still remember that guy in The Broken
Dream?!
Well,
he was now trying to forge an identity on the anvil of the corporate sector
with the crude and heavy hammer of hard work, little realising that this was
urban India, polished, smart, suave, not his countryside where things were as
they appeared on the face value, good or bad. Here it was all about smartness:
a shrewd, clever mentality and attitude that you naturally acquire when part of
a massive crowd struggling to survive in cramped spaces and always falling
short opportunities. And naturally you take fellow human beings as rivals only;
it is difficult to think otherwise. There is cut-throat competition and you
need smart, light, sharp chisels hidden in your pocket to work less and plan
and strategise more. Here you have to wear the mask of extreme politeness to
prove your education and civilised status, even though that very moment the
second layer of your skin might be demonically on fire. However, true to his
straightforward convictions he spent much of the times on his desk, from dawn
to dusk, lost in the perseverance of the soul, while many suspicious eyes took
breaks to look over his back, their eyes full of insecurity and mistrust.
Having
slipped from the summit where he was just about to put his triumphant flag when
the strong uncontrollable blizzard just saw him toppling down the treacherous
slope, he had somehow managed to hold onto this tree jutting out the precipice.
It was just instinctive reaction to survive. He knew he had to earn his bread
and butter and of course there were many eyes on him still trying to find out
how he would act now. When he started his climb again, already on the wrong
side of age to build up a career in academic publishing, he saw many already in
senior managerial positions even though they must not have read and experienced
even a quarter of what he had learnt from both in books and the overall open
book of life. And wherever he landed up with his ambitionless self carried by
unassuming persona, full of cemented ideas and many brimming convictions, his
heart full of the miseries, and mind stuck up to just the job, he left a mark, and
his presence was felt a bit more disturbingly than it should to ensure a safe journey through
the corporate corridors.
After
his selection to the state civil services he was once happily packing his
common stuff to join the duties of Subdivisional Magistrate when the Congress
Chief Minister of Haryana had got loose motions over this tiny 'coming to
power' and used all his majestic powers to piss at the hard work of all his poor
batchmates. They had every reason to take themselves to be the first-hand
witness to all the ‘Congreslike’ corrupt ways, as they termed it suffering in
helpless cynicism, of judicial manipulation. With the pieces of his broken
dream in his pocket, he had then come to Delhi to earn his livelihood in the
ruff-and-gruff of the private sector. He had started to drink, to create that
hallucinated reality wherein the things which really pinch otherwise took a
backseat and many pseudo-realities came to the forefront with their trivial
convenience, to stop the time at a juncture where the past’s pines, present’s
pinches and future’s insecurities melted into a strange ennui. He would
continuously blabber, ‘Lo! Hee…hee Gandhi-Nehru geenies would not leave me in
peace!’ A common man wants to have extraordinary reasons for his downfall. If
defeat be, let it be at the hands of the strong and the mighty. It still
somehow gives him a pat on the back gesticulating that it was no common fight,
it was a good one and you were pitted against the strong and the mighty.
Even
though it was pretty coincidental, but it affected him a lot, taking a flake
off the purple crust of his wound. His hard innings in the publishing office had
just started, leaving him just a small time, nameless, powerless slogger on the
editing desk. He literally cried once during the weekend drinking binge, ‘They
have robbed me of my soul’s labour of ten years...these...ugh...Congress pimps
of criminality!’ And somebody whom he did not know, and not having anything to
do particularly, having a Congress flag on his office and house nearby where he
had taken his rented accommodation, had turned out to be his enemy, as if the
latter had heard his outpours. Why did this stranger whom he had not even seen
turn out to be his enemy? He was his landlord's enemy yaar! So the influential Congressite took revenges by forcing down
nails into the new tyres of his old car. He got it done to anybody and anything
that was apparently related positively to the enemy. It was quite individual,
general level action, reaction or whatever, but he as the oversensitive victim
took it personally, and very-very particularly. ‘...Congress....you just make a
staunch anti-national element in me! Guys please throw these goons out of power
because if they get another chance, I fear this law-abiding common citizen of
India will end up as a terrorist! So save country, save humanity and save this
common man! Pleeeeaaasssseee!!’ After all the new tyres from an editor’s salary
are more precious than they actually should, but that’s how it was and it took
him into a furnace of rage.
He
was trying his level best to come to the terms of a reality that he had not
even considered as the worst case scenario; his worst case scene having been
the PCS if not the IAS. An editor on the other hand is almost nameless and
faceless among the tomes of proofs and manuscripts at various stages. On top of
that it is like walking on the razor’s edge, you just cannot afford not to make
a mistake. The world is yet to see the first perfect editor. On top of that it
was academic publishing, the crazy professors taking slingshots and still it
paid like pocket money. The world was changing very fast around him. People
were getting unimaginably high salaries around him, and these were the students
who had looked up to him as inspiration. He had even instructed them proudly so
many times. It looked a still bigger failure, or fall rather, against the
background of these pinching facts. Bigger fall, he read bigger causes. Oofs
look at the frustrated common man’s cynicism born of little-little defeats and falls
that he pours out ineffectively from the little personal stage, namelessly and
facelessly. Psst just storms in the tea cups!
Corporate
career is great. It keeps you on the razor's edge. He liked the innings to
begin with. He worked harder than required in fact. He felt the pleasure of
learning as he was forced to grow his skills at all levels. But it’s
dissipating as well. It saps you in the long run. He felt this dissipation
while coming back at the end of a tiresome day in office. ‘So it’s always
advisable to slowly built an alternate pedestal in the medium term--say for the
next 5 to 10 years--so that when things get too hot in your present position
you can easily jump onto that one.’ Given the heat and attrition felt in the
smouldering issues he was already having some inhibitions about the long-term survival
in such an environment, especially if one is just equipped with simply one
visible weapon, the hard work. He had the faint idea what it can be about. ‘This
new platform can be based on the real passion.’ So while he was toiling it out
against his real interests, he avoided getting frustrated with the solacing
thought that it was just a temporary effort to create a bit more stable
platform to jump bigger into the space that would justify his talents, skills,
sincerity and calibre.
He
had to convince himself to stay on the mundane path, slogging at a job that was
almost incomparable to what he had achieved in the PCS. He forced himself to
forget that his magisterial chair had been unjustifiably snatched away and he
had been made to sit on a chair where anybody decently educated to the
postgraduate level could have sit without all the hard work he himself had gone
through. He forced himself to take it as a sort of investment for the future. He
was trying his level best to cling to his dream; to keep it alive; to slowly
and systematically chalk out a medium term plan; to invest time and money in
moderate amounts and when the things were ripe jump onto the platform that he
deserved. All this was easier said than done. His father who always supported
all his actions, ranging from follies to the best ones, felt the pinch of
seeing him slogging it out at a level where he would have reached in any case
even without all the penance he had done. His father’s health was falling and
so the necessity was even more to stay in the job. The more he worked, the more
number of projects he accomplished, almost mechanically, trying to forget his
identity, just the work like any other pettily self-absorbed happy colleague
around him, the more would cynicism strike back. Still he had to work. He had
to forget that he would have been a red-beaconed officer, if not for that
debacle, and again he would grumble from the safe hideout in his rented
room.
Having burnt and baked well in the
furnace of knowledge and experience he spoke and acted impressively and that
would instantly create ripples in the senior’s mind because in his flashes of
brilliance he very much appeared like a replacement for the senior position. A
talented junior having the conviction that he is surviving in the job on the
basis of hard work not the senior’s goodwill, very easily becomes an eyesore to
the boss. Of all the sectors in the private industry, publishing is lucky or
unlucky to have all the highly qualified, educated, bookish-type
big-dream-holders of the past who carry a bitter cynicism in their wounded
selves, having failed to achieve their dreams. When you re-build your innings
from the scattered pieces of the original dream, having full knowledge that the
new one is going to be just a mundane dream like any other lying unrecognised
in the society, almost of the level achieved by even those commonest souls who
in fact never had the urge to build any dream but still reached that milestone
just like it was the most natural thing for somebody human, from the mere
status of being human, you feel the pinch man. You still try to justify your
struggle, you still want to fight to forge a bit less common identity and
having failed to do even that, a cynicism creeps in you. The very same happens
to this class of highly educated people forced to survive in the editorial
departments. Editing is very rarely the first career option for any young soul.
It is mostly a fall back, almost a contingency plan, an effort to carve out
bread and butter when all other options given your educations and skills are
spent. So the people in the editorial departments are the wounded soldiers. They
have the mind and education still nudging and aggravating the bitterness
forcing them to almost misuse it to pamper their distrust and slain ego and cut
any bud of a prospective rivalry to their hard-fought managership.
Across all the companies he worked
for he found himself surrounded by insecure colleagues who more so pampered the
boss as more and more of their deficiencies would come to surface in comparison
to his soul-absorbed hard work. He was after all from an educated peasant
family, and hence hard work came naturally to him. But considering their
natural right to be more educated, well-mannered and better polished they parroted
their excellence in terms of smart work in comparison to his mere hard work.
Now he could never find out the riddle of this smart work. If there is a script
full of errors needing corrections at many levels more than one to just make it
a decent book, where you just have to follow the basics, if doing even that
comes to be counted as hard work only, then he always spat hell on the so
called smart work. Smart work to him came to be this: Appearing far more
sophisticated than you actually are; appearing to be more busy than you
actually accomplish; managing things in a politically correct way not to create
insecurity in the erring boss; instead of taking the project to a smooth
finish, creating issues that would apparently need extraordinary solutions,
taking more time and projecting light on you that you did a very tough project;
to manage to appear a not-so-smart subordinate who appears to survive on the superior’s
kindness not the hard work, etc., etc. What the hell, where do all these gems
of smart work help in turning a horribly messed up piece of writing to a
presentable book. He would just give his best shot in accomplishing the worst
of projects without allowing it to be taken as a tough project because there
were no issues in it and of course it would naturally come to be counted a very
common-type project. In any case he kept on hopping from one publishing house
to another, hoping to find a better, less politicised environment, where there
would be better bosses and colleagues. But it would never be because the same set
of people staffed the offices in publishing. Go anywhere. All this while the
feeling of what he could have been ...if not for ‘that’ debacle...kept on
pinching him with bigger force.
In
one company he came across a brown-eyed human machine. A kashmiri pandit. He
always told him ‘think more feel less’. A very practical advice but not for
someone like him whose wound was a bit deeper leaving him oversensitive
regarding his hardened convictions. Like any other oversensitive person trying
to be the Phoenix he used to write poetry and to get into good books of the
educated superior he showed it to the manager sometimes. The great practical
man who had won a great career fight to emerge as victorious far away from guns
in the valley told him that poetry is nothing but malady for the mind.
There
was a very long-pending chemistry project. Many editors had got cold feet
looking at the thousands of handwritten classroom type jottings with beetle nut
and gutka spots sent by the eccentric
professor. The manager smartly pampered his Jat
ego, called him a Jat many times, to
inflate the legendary pride that this community pumps up after being addressed
as such. The Jat editor thus got
ready to sacrifice his editorial blood for the Kashmiri manager, like many of
his kinsmen were doing as real soldiers in the valley. For almost one year life
meant just that project to him in all its forms. There were big stakes
financially. It was for the IIT entrance exams and there were advance orders.
Everybody knew something big was coming and even the CEO acknowledged the
tireless worker sometime during the lunch hour. But then the group of smart
workers was getting exposed in the light of such soulful, hard-worked assault
on the editorial desk. There must have been many rounds of smart works
involving poisoning ears. As he neared the finish line braving across the
pining sands, the manager turned colours like a chameleon. He and the smart
workers were pitted against the hard worker. More poisoning of ears by the cool
arse, farting otherwise on the chairs. The manager hissed venomously like a kobra. He knew how to
bite...instinctively like all the slithery reptiles of the species.
There
was a new entrant, a friend and colleague of his from the previous company. A
brilliant editor but extremely poor in selling his skills in the recruitment
test involving verbal and the written sections. He even facilitated the answers
to the questions that they asked in the recruitment process to enable his entry
in the company. He just wanted a friend as his colleague again to make it more
tolerable for him in the killing monotony of the work. Since his applicant
friend did not have the capacity to present his skills smarty, he as the over-excited
friend even talked many times to the manager to turn the tables in his friend’s
favour. He was a friend indeed. He knew his friend was a peerless editor, but
just for that little deficit in not being extrovert enough to sell it he needed
this help. Great news, the friend was selected, even though just a year back he
had been rejected in the previous attempt. This friend of his turned out to be
smarter than he thought and pitched his loyalty for the manager and bargained
his friendship to get long-term benefits for his family. Well, pardonable, no
issues and no grudges! Basically we ought to think for the benefit of our own
family first. Just to be human man! The manager must be having super-smartness
to make him think more about a bright career and feel less about losing a
friend.
As
the manager played cat and mouse with him to draw him to the exit gate he
wondered it was just impossible to come across a more spiteful person. In his
weekend drunken outpours he forgot about the erring Congress now and had his
helpless revenge in indoor cries, ‘You swine...It was simply my folly to expect
a friendly kiss from a snake...the helpless creature is bound to bite only.’ He
was so grossly mistreated by the said Kashmiri man that, well, he thought in
his nightmares, if a community could give birth to even a single such human being
then it’s better that Kashmiri pandits
left Kashmir valley because it is too heavenly for such vindictive people. A
wound direct to our own individual self can turn us against others’ collective
wound. His typical Indian mind bound by parochial limits reacted like it does
often times: we react and spit venom on the religious, caste and regional basis
after getting hit in our individual man to man skirmishes. It’s so easy to
generalise! Burning with anger and lynched with helpless agony, his year-long
penance gone down the drain, he even nursed sympathy for the militants in
Kashmir. ‘Kashmir valley is better without pandits!’
he tried to have his raging revenge by thinking as badly as possible. Almost
all of us can be demons in thoughts, and we seek reasons for such demonic
thoughts. He was such presently, all because of this man and his smart
managership!
A Machiavellian
manager believes in the principle 'the end justifies the means'. Very smartly
such an individual follows the principle: 'I will do anything necessary to
achieve my objectives.' Such a manager runs after this credo like fish swimming
in the waters. With every breath he inhales the tendency to manipulate others
and force them to perceive things in his terms. Utterly self-serving and
duplicitous, the Machiavellian manager is made for success during these
not-so-good times. The cold hard steely rationality in him reaches a peak to
become almost amoral. Ever driven by these tendencies such a manager engages in
more political behaviour than anyone around. The mind is always ticking to plan
such schemes as will allow him to take advantage of others. Well, he could
verify it from his personal experience. Each and every bit of this definition
bespoke a thorough lynching by the Machiavellian hunter.
So this particular Machiavellian hunter was inherently
spiteful, at least to him, simply because the junior did not seem appropriate
for a peaceful future. Possibly he himself had the nastiest of communal
experience in the valley when he had to leave home and hearth and rise like a
Phoenix in Delhi again far away from the heaven here in the rut and grit of the
maddening crowd. Whatever might have been the experiences, our experiences
cannot overhaul the instinctive basics of life. All of us are good and bad as
per our convenience. The manager must have had one million justifications for
his actions that literally drove someone to madness. But full credit to his
capabilities; his designs were just meant to achieve certain objectives like a
computer.
As he gave him cuts after cuts, the poor to-be-slaughtered
lamb wondered, ‘There is not the least bit of human element!’ Haa...haaa just
visualise the keema being made of a
soft flesh like him by such a heartless, stony juggernaut! Buddies, just count
your stars lucky that there was just one such hunter playing all his cards in
the basement corridors of the company where he had finally decided to retire
from come whatever may. To the now gone numb guillotined editor, the superior’s
eyes glinted with inhuman, brown, snaky predatorship. Those eyes now seemed to just
monitoring the basement to strike poisonously at anything not matching his
designs. God, this man's mind was ticking 24 hours a day to plot, plan and do
away with everything to his dislike like weeds in a farm. Well, well, well... the
manner this modern pseudo-chanakya was torturing the hapless editor and was
plotting with such insidious finesse that the poor academic worm would have
dropped his corrective pen to pick up a killing gun and join the jehadis in Kashmir! More than that such
an individual might force you to pick up guns against the real you...the real
good self...pump bullets into you softer flesh to become better equipped in
surviving in the mud. After countless tortured days and endless gloomy nights
while he futilely fought to save his job, working harder than ever, he was
rapidly losing the last bits of confidence still fuelling his fight for bread
and butter. If such a strong-willed person is hell bent upon pulling you down,
it becomes a mere countdown leading to your crash in the gutters and it
happened.
That feeling of victimisation, that
pain of unjustified punishment, that fundamentally unreasonable logic of all
the hard work going into the drain, and more importantly those who were already
having a nice time, now getting even better enjoying the cool rewards of the
project accomplished within a fortnight of his exit, all this and more drove
him literally to insanity. Even what had happened to him in the civil services
appeared nothing in comparison to this. There he was just a vague, faceless
victim of the far bigger system; here he was direct victim of somebody’s
ambition. For almost a month he was bedridden in a delirium, burning with
impotent rage and resentment. It was a real loss. He felt like a goat killed in
that halaal way, slowly-slowly put to
death, to give more pain, for the taste and sadistic pleasure.
All of us would very much like to
shoot off to glory like Phoenix from the ashes. But then we have our
limitations. All of us cannot be heroes; otherwise the concept of heroism will
become redundant and this ordinary world will have too many heroes. He was far
commoner now than he was earlier. As the fever ebbed out to give him a
semblance of normalcy, he again had to work, to earn his bread and butter and
mind you it was no extraordinary situation, everybody else in Delhi was doing
it. It involved thousands more capable than him and possibly in worse
conditions still. That was the only solace and he picked up his corrective pen
again.
It was a supposedly better publishing house this
time but here the daggers were drawn along different lines. The plush interiors
were suffused with richly clad, profusely scented and overenthusiastic vanity
about the empowered women and girls. He had decided to keep a very low profile;
not to get highlighted either for the good or the bad. With his simple
countryside brain this was all he could strategise. It was all that smartness
meant to him. In their pleasant narcissism bright, attractive, cultured females
are no less in bitching and jealousy against their own replicas than the
illiterate peasant women. In fact here the situation might get even worse given
a brighter platform and more awareness. There were so many young girls and
women, all of them good looking, all of them from good families, all of them
ultra modern, and all of them bitching and jealous of each other. He had to
maintain a balance; no animosity, no friendship; and distribute his attention
and loyalty to all of them, that literally meant to none of them, without
making them realise any particularity and consequently unleashing their
anger.
Of all the always-expected happenings and mishaps in
an environment that is suffused with so many educated, good looking, narcissism-lorn
young ladies, one particular issue was raising its head. There was a Hindu princess
and there was a Muslim princess. Both were popular and in demand in their own
ways. Both had their share of male adulations and attention. But then such
exclusive popularity and being in demand among the same set of people can very rarely
go smooth. There are bound to be edges of attrition. They had their own
delicate touches in the form of unique looks, sense of fashion and what not.
They were on an equal footing in all the elements of this rivalry to be more
influential and popular except in one sense that the Muslim princess had a
bigger clout having being there in the company for a longer time. The Hindu
princess was a fresh lotus in the pond and basically on account of being a
fresh gust of breeze was creating ripples that was much resented by the Muslim
princess who got insecure that she might lose her footing.
Having a bigger history and deeper clout with that
particular company the Muslim princess took front-footed shots at the subtle
charming deliveries of the Hindu princess. It started just as a skirmish
between two individuals but it had all the propensity of acquiring very
particular sharp edges running into religion, personal lives and even the
affiliations of those around. These personal skirmishes were smouldering in the
form of many so called official project related issues, as they say it, but is
it possible to keep personal prejudices, likes and dislikes away from the professional
issues? So others were also getting drawn into the quagmire. To him it appeared
to happen repeatedly, unjustifiably, without any professional reasons and
without any provocation by the poor Hindu princess. That was the impression
carried by the appearance and strengthened by the more aggressive, loud-mouthed
minority princess who looked a tormentor and the other one just a meek sufferer
after some time. The reasons of catfights became plainly personal after a point.
The minority princess had definitely a bigger clout.
The Hindu holy cow was seen shedding tears many times. It would bring a few men
almost on the verge of fighting for her cause. But the offended princess would
bite back with more ferocity even though almost teary eyed on the surface. If
the Hindu holy cow raised an issue, other educated Hindu lambs eating the grass
of hypothetical secularism ran to defend the Muslim princess. After all
religion was a main issue and nobody wanted to sound communal by siding with
the princess from the majority clan. She had this minority shield. Caught in a
difficult situation, she was even heard shouting the plaintive tales of Muslim
sufferings in India. She had numerous tales of army atrocities in Kashmir to
share while the sheepish colleagues appeared excusing themselves for the
majority’s tyranny. She was educated enough to know this secular conscience in
educated Hindus and never missed a chance to be pampered in office like a real princess.
Under the bombardment of her endless tales of Hindu atrocities against Muslims,
the secular bread earners, the educated chicken-hearted Hindus, were ever so
eager to prove they had read enough books to turn a blind eye to anything done
by her to assure her that they loved and cared for her. Many would run with
hankies to wipe her tears and mutter against their own religion and curse the
Hindu princess who was not letting her in peace so far away from her home in
the valley.
Earlier during the build-up of the Modi wave that
catapulted him to the PM chair, she was always splattering venom against Modi
and was casting Nazi type holocaust forecast of Muslims in India if he came to
power. It was here that he lost with her. To him the Congress was the main
enemy and since enemy’s enemy is your friend by default, he was pitching all
out in Modi support as a revenge for his little debacle from power during the
Congress rule. Once during the course of her endless anti-Modi tirade during
the lunch hour, he lost it and asked her, ‘Do you think the Muslim population
of India would be sent to gas chambers if he comes to power?’ It was
scandalous, not expected among educated, law-abiding, educated, secular people.
It was a communal remark. She had many tears to shed to the higher management
and he was severely reprimanded. In fact would have almost lost his job had not
he shown that uncharacteristic silence during the reprimanding session.
The educated Hindus enlightened by the hypothetical
lines of secularism now clearly allowed the Hindu cow and the bull by default to
be bitten and smothered by the victimised princess. This falling out with the minority
princess put him in a light where he clearly came to be perceived supporting
the cause of the Hindu princess. Very easily there were rumours that he was
having an affair with her and that is why he had splurged communal venom on the
helpless suffering minority princess. The males smouldered in the fire of
jealousy for having missed what he achieved. During his drunk forgetfulness he
was now shouting ‘Kudos to Hindu secularism!’ as much as he shouted of the helpless
pain in that meeting where she had again shed tears to turn the tables in her
favour and he had been reprimanded by the well-meaning bosses for being so
savage to think communally and that too in a publishing house among the most
enlightened gentry in India. He cried aloud, ‘Is there any overenthusiastic RSS
or Bajrang Dal guy who can issue Hindu version of fatwa against this woman!?’
He had
lost his right to professional excellence with the blot of the communal issue
on his editing face. The more he worked, the more difficult they became. They
even jibed that with that type of mentality he better fitted the khaki-shorts and stick-holding gang. The
more he worked, the more were the rumours of his liaison with the Hindu
princess. The more was the noise by the ever-crying minority soul in the
company, who had seas of tears to shed for the atrocities on Muslims, about
Modi’s genocidal plans against them, etc., so more was the effort on part of
the enlightened Hindus to prove their secular credentials. They were now
outrightly supporting her despite nightmarish professional blunders of late. To
save the soul of the Indian constitution they had to help her in the job come
whatever may. These enlightened Hindus thought that they were the last hope for
a secular India, and he being the chief enemy to their clean motives with his
scandalous affair with the Hindu princess. With maximum number of projects
under his belt, but with communal slur on his face, bearing the tag of the
tormentor of a helpless minority princess, he came out of the increment review
meeting, the revised figures of his take-home in his hand. He had got an
increment of just 500 rupees equal to the oldest employees in the company, old
Ram Swarup, the peon who was working for the last two decades. It was sheer
insult. But rightly so, he was just a hardworker and not smart enough to be
called a secular person, the stamp and authenticity of being really educated.
They said he is hardworking, does the maximum number of toughest projects but
that does not save him from being an uncouth peasant. He is just not smart
enough. With his 500 rupees increment, feeling almost a year-long work gone
waste, he yelled, of course after getting drunk, ‘God knows when bigger
plotters would join this particular publishing company and dismantle the
hideous rein of that poor bitchy minority princess ruling over those gayish,
half-woman secular subordinates!’ His soul drenched in misery, he was lecturing
a much younger boy from Varanasi, who had rented a room in the same block and listened
to him with particular attention. He tried to brainwash the young man, taking
it as his revenge against the secular class.
'Educated
Hindus', read it as synonym of 'pseudo secularists', consider it their
Bhagwan-ordained duty to criticise any type of Hindu cultural pro-activity.
They press the panic button if Hindu consciousness takes slightest political
path. They start croaking in large numbers, putting their knowledge and
linguistic skills to the best of their abilities. Haa haa funny species!! They
end up creating more insecurity in the minority community. This type of
hypothetical lip service also qualifies as a form of communalism. The world
will be a far better place if these champions of secularism try to bring down
paranoid insecurity prevailing archaically in the minds of the minority
community.
Well so much for the debate! Pseudo secularists have
made it endless to keep their language skills sharp. Away from this world, a
Hindu khaki-shorts clad man was heard
lamenting: 'The worst of a Hindu will still be less aggressive and more
accommodating than the best of a Muslim!'
His every mistake being counted as a blunder, and
the minority queen’s blunders passing of as inconsequential slip-ups, life was
getting worse. How do we change this world for the better with such
differentials? Secularists of all genres pounced upon this class enemy. There
were many more issues with the minority princess. Using her clout and being in
the best books of the superiors she would never miss an opportunity to pull him
down, his hard work lying scattered around him, being struck down by her smart
strikes. Getting mistreated like this he was being again pulled out from his drunk,
hypothetical support to the Jehadis
in Kashmir. She was also from Kashmir. When he would come back after a
frustrated day, he would reflect in a rabidly communal manner. His drunken
revolts now targeted the minority community she belonged to. Not being able to
take particular targets, he as a petty Indian took generalised pot-shots. He
was truly a big mocking fan of Hindu leniency! He had read history as one of
the optional subjects during his civil services preparations and knew enough
facts about the medieval period to fuel his tongue during the drunken sprees.
Hindu pliancy
flows even swifter than the Ganges in Monsoon torrents. Fastly carried by the
forget and forgive dharma, the educated Hindus would prefer to just flip over
gory pages in Indian history--such as Taimur Lung wiping out the entire Kaafir population
of Delhi and thousands of desecrations of Hindu temples and idols to build
mosques having gates upon Hindu idols so that the true species of Allah could
walk over them--and gloatingly stuck at pages of Hindu tyranny like
semi-aggressive acts of naked Sadhus breaking a mosque to just commemorate the
birthplace of Ram Lalla! Hindus can afford to be better students of History!
Things got so bad and he just on the point of being
asked to go that he cursed her now by her religion not as a wrong-doing individual.
During the final build-up to his smartly managed exit, even at their worst they
had not anything to say against his performance. He had finished more projects
than anybody around and that too the intentionally given toughest ones to land
him in a soup.
He was getting
stubborn now, even more obstinate than the roofless street urchins. Vowing to
focus on being smarter and less of a hardworker he again entered another
publishing house. He had turned very snobbish by now. Being smart was not just
his cup of tea. He was technically almost peerless in his editorial work, but
being smart was just not his cup of tea. Possibly, more than a better edited
book they need smarter, more convenient people. In the bookish, stuffy, insecure
interiors, infested with poor little clerically
educated funny Indians of this new publishing multinational company—that’s how
he termed people and the interiors now—a farty, gayish, woman-bodied poor man—that’s
how he looked at his boss now—was sticking to his chair for almost a decade!
His eligibility and skills: poisoning the ears of a bigger, smarter female who
herself had God knows what means used to reach that departmental head position;
giving negative feedbacks about his talented juniors; nurturing a servile
intern because new joiners are not a threat to his position; etc. Only one
thing was clear to him now, and this he jotted in his journal without drinking,
in full sense and using his bugged, injured logic:
The academic publishing sector in India is infested
with bottom-licking, non-creative, semi-skilled managers who are the products
of a very poor system of education that just puts clerical eligibility in their
little poor Indian brains. With severe leadership and team-building
limitations, these insecure funny middle level managers, just think 24 hour a
day to plot and scheme and strategise against any potential threat to their
position. Unluckily Indian corporate is infested with semi-skilled insecure
bosses who stink with their poor ass in their positions just by swiping away
the careers of real hard-working subordinates.
All his efforts at being a smart worker went
haywire again. This particular poor little creature who could torture him with
such an aloof and cold smile that he appeared worse than a butcher. He termed
him as barely a man in a woman-type body: A terribly vindictive poor little
demon in his indirectly lethal ways. His superior managed by gratifying the ego
of a just-saved from spinsterhood, ageing boss. The latter was yet another
perfect example of a vicious, vindictive, scheming modern ageing single woman
who knows her strengths to serve her professional utility. ‘Just like any other
poorly informed Indian, this gang of people with severe technical and editorial
limitations pay hypothetical lip service to smartness, coolness, polished
manners. But does it help in making a rubbish script into a nice book?’ he
would question. He knew he was a dumb hardworking donkey who could just pull
the worst laden cart full with unresolvable papers to the safety. Forget about
smartness. He can just bray without being smart.
Every time he left a company, he would hope for a
better system staffed with better people who would just not swipe his hard work
with their smart broom. But it would not happen. Only God knew what was to
become of him.
