A fine art, or maybe not

As babies, our lives were quite easy. Or, perhaps not. We cried, when we needed food. We cried, when we needed a diaper change. We cried, when we needed attention. Crying was enough. Crying was the sign, whatever the reason.

As kids, we were expected to speak only when spoken to, to answer only when we were asked questions. It was an easy role to play, and we were restricted to executing tasks assigned to us.

As adults, a lot of things started changing. And, the biggest amongst them was the mounting responsibility thrust upon us – to handle our own lives. I guess it wouldn’t have been half the Herculean task it is now, if only our lives weren’t dependent on communicating with a million individuals around us. And that really is a problem we cannot wish away.

Sometimes, I wonder whether I over-communicate, whether I have been overtly vocal about my thoughts. Sometimes, I wonder whether I should have waited patiently for the tide to pass, rather than jump the gun.

And, then I look around at this world. And, I realize that half the world’s problems are because we don’t communicate enough, or at all. We are perhaps scared to communicate. Or, we do not think the fight to communicate is worth it. Or, in most cases, we believe the world thinks the same way we do, and so there is no need to clarify what we are thinking.

How convenient would that be? A set of homogeneous and telepathic people. Bliss! But, the Universe has other plans for us, and so we are left to deal with a set of heterogeneous and pathetically self-centered morons (who by the way must be describing us the same way elsewhere).

I don’t know whether communication helps resolving our issues, or blowing them up further. I don’t know the fine art of communication, the skill that will get our work done and yet keep us in the world’s good books.

What I do know is that when I communicate on something that matters to me, to someone who matters to me, I love myself a little bit more. For having gone the extra mile. For having given the chance to someone to try to understand what I am thinking and feeling. For having given myself the chance to express better.

Trust me, it is a chance worth taking. 

The Proof

There is no love, only proofs of love, I read somewhere. And, this is V’s favorite tool of offense when I tell him complicated stuff like “You have never sent me roses.”

However, over time, I have realized that the statement can be adapted to more than just roses. 

We need wins, constant odes to the worthiness of our existence, appreciation and rewards to goad us on. We strive for excellence in the hopes of success. Where it was marks and grad school admits, now it is promotions and bonuses. If our excellence does not translate into personal success, we categorize it as failure. And, most of us are not evolved to a ‘Zen level’ where we can accept excellence just for the sake of knowledge and betterment of the world at large.

Of late, I have been getting into a number of “what motivates an individual at work” discussions with colleagues and friends. During one such conversation, we were left wondering for some time about our irrational obsession with promotions. Mri told us about how her organization, a multi-national, continuously incentivizes individuals, despite having a flat structure. The signaling that someone is valuable to the organization is done in more ways than one – inter-departmental transfers, intra- and inter-regional transfers, project work allocation per one’s choice and skill sets etc. All this is linked with the individual’s long term career path in the organization and is not restricted to one or two years of service.

I recounted an incident from one of my projects where the CEO of an Indian company was bent on including a number of designations stacking up to VP. When I objected saying it was making the structure too hierarchical, he told me, “Kavitha, this is India. Every other person in the family wants to know what your designation is. I cannot apply global standards of four levels to the top, and give promotions once in five years. That will leave me with many unhappy employees and a very high attrition rate.”

I cannot talk for other countries, but in India, we have been trained to work for wins since childhood. Even hobbies have been encouraged with an eye on the first prize. Perhaps, that is where our obsession stems from, and that is what our organizations have built into their structures. While the drive to win is still an acceptable devil and can be tackled through hikes and performance linked incentives, I have started to increasingly feel the void we have in terms of career development. Our fixation on moving up the ranks despite not knowing whether that is what we really want to and can do is reason enough for that void. And, it seems to be driven largely by our need to prove a point, because that is the only way we think we can prove a point to the rest of the world. It is a well-known but rarely acknowledged truth that someone who is exemplary at number-crunching may not necessarily feel happy about being elevated to a people management role.

I have felt the pressure to prove a point for a long time now, because I have always been groomed to do that. While V keeps reminding me about the value I am adding to the rest of the world and how I should be proud of it, it still remains a difficult task for me to let go of the need to prove a point, look forward to a signal. Perhaps, we need to work hard as a society to groom our next generation towards meaningful existences, with happiness linked to excellence more than success.

The Lone Chair

It was a swanky restaurant frequented by the nouveau riche and old money alike, in the middle of that very fancy mall. There was a waitlist at the front-desk, with the maitre d’hotel trying to optimize table assignment, while serving complimentary drinks to appease the ones waiting.

A family of very well dressed guests occupied the corner table, possibly reserved for regulars. One could see they were at home, for they conducted themselves with poise and yet managed to keep the hotel staff at their beck and call.

The spectacle was enjoyable, for little does one get the chance to observe such dignified richness in these times of the ostentatious.

That is when I noticed Her. She didn’t seem to belong with them, but was hovering near the table, carrying a beautiful little baby boy swathed in velvets. A chair was brought in and placed next to the table. The lady of the family indicated the chair to Her, while continuing a possibly important conversation with the rest of the family.

She sat there, holding the baby in Her arms, clucking softly in hopes of putting him to sleep. When that didn’t work, She walked around, always near the table, in order to placate the child and make it a fun evening for him. Eventually, he decided to reward Her patience, and conceded to sleep, with a smile on his face. She seemed relieved as She set him down in his pram and walked back to her designated seat near the table.

As She sat down, She realized there was nowhere to look, for She had been taught as a child that it was uncouth to look at people while they ate. She bent down and started staring intently at her callus-ridden palms, while the regal family continued its dinner in peace, speaking in grave tones, about issues of possibly great social importance.