Over the last week, I prepared for an English exam. That’s when I realised how pathetic of a test taker I am. I had to take an academic-grade exam for work, and having been away from the official learning arena for over four years, I had no idea what to expect. I returned to the classroom environment and its fierce competition, with a little apprehension and more than a little nervousness. I could only think of all the things that could go wrong.
I was reading through sample essays when I noticed how much I had changed since my years at school. The recommended essays looked nothing like the ones I now write. When I write a piece for my personal blog or for a work blog, I try to focus on my voice and my opinion, and then form logical structures. The essays for the test, however, seemed childish to an extent. They tried too hard to be unbiased and cover as many points as possible, resulting in too much generality. It was at that point that I also realised—with much dread—that I too had to write in the same way if I were to acquire a proper score.
Gulping much air and all my doubts, I read essay after essay. Every one of them had the same structure: introduction, merits, demerits, and a conclusion. That should be easy, I thought before sitting down to write my own. I read the first essay prompt and felt all sanity evaporate from my mind. I blanked out. I couldn’t, for a moment, understand what to write or how to write.
I had a meagre amount of time to go from an outline to a final draft—a feat I’d never attempt elsewhere. Yet I had no other choice. I could’ve written a scrappy blog post in that time, but to construct a proper academic essay was harder than I assumed.
The samples looked easy enough, and they read like an immature person’s way of presenting their ideas. And yet only when I had to balance two sides of an argument in one essay—with a time crunch of 20 minutes and word limit of 300—did I understand how hard it must be for students. With so many things to consider, it’s no wonder academic essays lack quality writing, overflowing, instead, with stuffed and half-baked arguments.
Accepting that shamefaced reality, on the day of the exam, I wrote an essay so contrary to my nature, and walked out of the room. I had done what I had to do. I didn’t know how I did, but I know now for sure that I’d never enjoy writing academic essays.
For a few years now, everyone I know is obsessed over likes on Facebook. It’s become the sort of thing that gives identity to a person. Like a beacon that assures them they’re in the right path.
Everything is about likes. It’s as if our need for recognition and social acceptance has surpassed our ability to self assess. I know I’ve made a decent photograph of the moon last night, and yet I can’t accept it unless I’ve seen a few tens of likes affirming it for me. And if the tens grow into hundreds, my confidence grows with it.
It’s a good thing in a way, because we need self-confidence to uphold ourselves in society. At the same time, however, this incessant desire for others’ approval is making us more dependent than ever. I’ve lived in the eastern part of the world all my life, and the one thing that differentiates the East from the West is that it’s more of a pluralistic society. The western world, however, is more individualistic by nature.
We see pluralism everywhere in the East; from schools that over-indulge in group activities, to local societies that promote the extended family system, to parents who expect children to live with them until they are married off. (That’s a story by itself.)
As people continue to crave more social media recognition, even the West may head towards a more pluralistic society. The current generation is, by principle, broad minded, and so it doesn’t shy away from accepting its dependence on fellows or the previous generation. Even then, this social shift seems to grow faster now than it did in previous years. Soon, we may all become more social. But — for all the wrong reasons.
The problem is social media recognition isn’t genuine. Most of the time, people on Facebook hit on the like button not because they like the post but because they want to acknowledge whoever’s shared the post. It’s a way to let the entire friends community know that they’re just round the corner. In a way, it’s a desperate measure by one person to remind others that they exist.
Though plenty of people use Facebook and other social media for specific reasons like business ads, community building, local selling, and interests and hobbies, that’s only a niche compared to the vast pool of youth who get on Facebook to chat with friends they’ve just said goodbye to at school. I remember, when in school, my classmates making appointments to meet on Facebook at a designated time just so they could chat on FB. It was a status symbol then—about seven years ago. Not much has changed since, except now it’s Snapchat.
This tendency is making us — both the eastern and western population — unable to survive without one another. What’s ironic though, is that while a proper pluralistic society means to promote healthy social living, we, in reality, aren’t looking for actual human interaction. We’re, instead, seeking recognition through the inanimate, yet animated GIFs and laughing faces. It’d be interesting to see how our society progresses from here. Do you folks agree? Or am I just being paranoid? (I’ve heard I could be.)
Some of my colleagues think I’m brave when I told my boss upfront that I needed a few days off of work for personal reasons. There’s nothing courageous about what I did. I just asked for my right as an employee, as an individual. To my new colleagues, however, it seemed unnatural —though in a good way. Not only did I impress them but I’ve also inspired them to an extent.
These colleagues I refer to aren’t long-term experienced folks. They’re the latest batch of graduates, fresh out of college their parents paid for, just learning to live on their own for the first time.
To them, it’s a big deal that I can walk up to my manager and speak my mind without offending him or sparking vengeance. The first time this happened, they sent me a chat message declaring how impressive I had been speaking up the way I had done. I couldn’t help the laughter in my head.
Almost four years ago, I was in the same place they now are. I was so terrified about speaking to my then-manager that I’d avoid eye contact on purpose. If I see him chatting with someone else anywhere near my place, I’d take a long detour from the vending machine just so I could avoid him. I’d crouch low on my seat risking a lifetime of backache and soreness so that he doesn’t see me. Apart from the fact that he’s 20 years older than I am, he’s just a normal guy. I needn’t have worried one bit about what he thought of me or what he’d say about my preferences.
Now, however, I don’t care. I am more assertive of my opinions. But I’m also aware of the implications — I’ve learned to grow in such a way that I can now voice my thoughts without hurting anyone or my stance in the team. I’ve at last learnt to navigate the corporate world without hitting too many pillars.
Musing on how my current behaviour appears to new interns and team members, I realised that this change swept over me only about a year ago. I sat at work like on any other day, staring into my laptop like everyone else. All of a sudden, a conversation ruffled in my team, and a few moments later, I realised that my manager (not the same as four years ago) and a team mate were discussing attending a conference for which we had received free sponsorship passes.
Our manager revealed that he didn’t want to go. He sounded casual about it, too. He’s more dedicated than anyone else I know, but he doesn’t flaunt it where it’s not necessary.
I wanted to go, instead. I had heard of that event before and had wished I could visit. And here I had a chance, but I let it slip away because I was too scared to ask.
If I had asked, I could’ve gone. My manager would’ve agreed in an instant. And I know I would’ve enjoyed that conference. That’s when I learnt my lesson. It always hurts more not to ask and regret than to ask upfront. They may say no, sure, but what if they don’t say no?
Now I’m more vocal about my opinions. Most of my team has counter opinions and we’ll debate it out. But at the end of the day, we’ll leave happy that we’ve conveyed our thoughts. The more I voiced my requests and opinions, the more I realised that my team and manager prefer it. We now encourage open conversations, regardless of which party ends stronger.
That’s the essence of good work culture. Knowing that I can speak up, share a coffee break with the boss and still have a genuine interaction is what makes me want to wake up every morning, looking forward to work.
I never liked the idea of travelling to or living in Bangalore. From what I had heard, the city is so full of corporates and colleges, with traffic unmoving and pollution unforgiving.
However, ask anyone who’s lived in Bangalore for more than a year and the first thing they’d say is how social the city is. For a lover of the all-night dancing, all-day drinking, and endless cash flow, Bangalore is paradise.
And so when I had to be in Bangalore for a business trip, I wasn’t too excited. Sure, I thought, I’ll have great food and maybe steal a drink. Aside that, I didn’t know what to expect from Bangalore — a city of people from all over the nation, mingling over south Indian breakfasts and east Indian lunches.
I was scheduled to fly with a colleague at 7:30 in the morning, reaching Bangalore in an hour, and begin work at 10. We were attending a job fair (which is a story by itself) and time was paramount. Everything started out well: I met my colleague at the airport well ahead of time but as we checked in our baggage and went up to the boarding gate, a cold voice spoke over our heads: A woman announced that our flight was “delayed due to technical issues” and would depart, instead, at 9 am.
Airport waiting lounges are the worst, I realised as I slopped over a tiny chair, stifling my yawns, trying and failing — again and again — to connect to the airport wifi. I was growing horny and the food counters at the airport stores required a senseless tongue.
By the time we landed in Bangalore, we had already missed the start of the conference. Plus, we had another forty-five minute drive to the venue from the airport. Sucking up disappointment, I looked around the airport.
Even at that moment of annoyance and irritation, I couldn’t help but notice how chilly Bangalore air felt against my skin. Even though monsoon had just begun, Chennai weather still lingered in summer. Bangalore, on the other hand, had taken to the rainy season in far more enthusiastic manner, with temperatures as low as 22 degrees. For someone who had flown in from 32 degrees, the first breeze of Bangalore was miraculous. In spite of my apprehension, I smiled. And hugged myself a little. What a great climate for a nature walk or a mountain hike!
Just then a cab pulled up in front of us. We had to get to work. We drove along without much traffic — it was a Saturday morning with motorcyclists heading towards the nearby Nandi Hills. As we rode alongside the bikers, I felt a pang of jealousy. I would’ve given anything to be on one of those bikes myself. Alas, while they rode on leaving me almost turned on, our driver turned left taking us towards work.
It was the most hectic day of my life. Between the moment we entered at around eleven to the minute we left at around half past six, we didn’t have a single break. We were spoke with potential over-enthusiastic candidates all day. I could neither talk to my colleagues or walk up to them. The morning went by without us noticing it, as did the afternoon and evening. We were aware we were entitled to lunch, tea, coffee, and biscuits, but we weren’t aware when it was time for lunch, tea, and biscuits.
At the end of all, I was too tired to do anything other than kick off my shoes and cuddle up in bed. But my mood changed when we entered our hotel. If it hadn’t been a business trip, I wouldn’t have been able to afford such a four-star luxury hotel. I gawked at the interior of the reception, awed by the sculptures, curved cushions, and the 42-inch television.
Walking into my room, I had to make an effort to behave. As soon as the usher left, I let my glee loose and my jaw drop. It was ultimate sophistication — I had crossed the border from having what I needed to having what I didn’t need, but want.
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A gorgeous double-bed, a small chair with a stool to prop up my legs, a working desk with a comfortable chair, a personal 42-inch television, and a minibar with soft drinks, chips, and a Snickers bar all well above MRP and exclusive of taxes. I knew better than to touch any of those — but I still had a good time caressing the luxury I knew I didn’t need. And when I turned to the bathroom, I saw my wildest dreams realised: a glass bathroom with fancy fittings holding organic soaps.
I had forgotten the growling in my stomach until my colleague called me for dinner. Not in the mood to head out, we headed inside the hotel restaurant instead. Having already seen the reception and my own room, the restaurant wasn’t much of a surprise.
Even the menu had to be artsy.
I scanned the menu many times before deciding to let myself go, and pick a splurge. I decided on salmon wondering how well it’d pair with a beer. I spent about two hours at dinner, nibbling my salmon, biting into sourdough bread, sipping ice-cold beer, and conversing with my colleague. We spoke about work, and yet I was surprised how enjoyable a hearty meal made our conversation.
Salmon
And beer
When I went back to my room, my double-bed beckoned me. I turned away from it — just for a while, I told myself — as I cuddled up in the cushioned chair with a book. I had to leave the following afternoon, and so I wanted to experience every part of the room I had. Reading a wonderful book, I didn’t know when I fell asleep. When I jerked awake, it was 2 am, and I moved over to the bed. Cuddling the soft white pillows, heavy quilts blanketing me, I bid Bangalore a good night and lost myself under the covers
I know business trips aren’t meant to be fun, but that doesn’t mean you can’t have fun.
Books never cease to amaze. I’m reading such a book at the moment—one that came with trusted recommendation. I’ve been reading it far longer than my usual pace, but I attribute that to work and insufficient leisure. Nevertheless, it’s the first time that reading a book for a prolonged period hasn’t bothered me. Other times it happened, I got bored and lost my involvement soon enough. This one, however, keeps me coming back every evening, even if it’s only for a couple of pages.
Somedays I don’t even have the time to read through and appreciate an entire chapter. Even then, the narrative is captivating enough to grip my curiosity. It’s not a detective story—there’s no Sherlock-like whiz running around in handsome overcoats solving crimes and annoying cops all over the place. It’s not a romantic comedy with a bride to be, a confused groom to become, and fidgety bridesmaids arguing over nail colours. It’s not even adult fiction with the heroine trying to battle her adolescent pangs and a drug addled mother. All those story lines are common—I’ve seen them in movies, I’ve heard about them from friends who’ve been to the movies, and I’ve read them myself or reviews of such books.
The one I’m reading now, however—which shall remain unnamed until I finish it—is about a woman and how she’s accepted what’s become of her reality. And each page leaves me a terrified. So much so that I turn the page by instinct to find out what happens next. I relate to the main character, but it’s the last thing I want to do. I don’t want a life like hers and yet I can feel her terror, her disgust, and her mindset carrying over to my own. When she squirms, I do too. When she glows for the tiniest of victories, so do I. As she turns away from the people who command her, as do I. I feel her and know her as if she’s me. And in the fleeting second in between turning the page, I wonder—in terror—she could well be me. And that’s what keeps me going, wanting to get to the end of the story.
Despite my eagerness to know what happens at the end of the story, the build up so far also has me apprehensive. What if it doesn’t end well? I won’t want to read through, to live through, this woman’s life only to figure out that she ends up with what she endured: disappointment. And so a part of me wishes this story would go on, that the weirdness would continue—ironic though it seems.
The Chaos Within 
