Shuvashree Chowdhury's Blog, page 35

A New Rain.

The clouds gently glided,

As tender leaves dripped;

Ruffled wet crows shook,

Mynas crooned transfixed.

A pigeon hopped my balcony-

Over the railing dripping wet;

Streaks of soft lightning tinted-

Leaves in varied green shades.

The sky again turned all grey,

Fresh clouds floated, a haze;

Then came a torrent of rain,

In the breeze leaves regaled.

I took in all the varied sights,

Yet not a drop of rain have I felt.

I’m shielded well from the damp,

On my senses a canvas I draped.

As early tomorrow I’ll go away,

This rain I won’t long see again;

As a fresh life cajoles me now,

So a different rain I must crave.

PS: Just wrote this on the balcony of my mother’s house in Calcutta, and in conclusion was the sight of this rainbow in the picture above…that I’m viewing even as I post this :)  

When I Gave Up Wearing The Sari To Work Habitually

That morning, as usual I walked into the swanky reception lounge of the MNC head quartered in Toronto, Canada – one of my most valued clients, as international sales executive with SITA travels – the most reputed travel company in the market then. This was in the year 1993, and barely a few months since I had joined them after a short stint at Computer Point – a firm which was to later shut shop. Smiling at the receptionist, who by now was a friend, I briskly walked into the administrative office, as it was my scheduled time for a visit. This MNC occupied numerous floors of the Jivan Deep building in Calcutta at the time. I visited them twice a day, due to the potential business, from the steady flow of international travel of their senior executives. The senior administrative manager, a much respected man in the company, looked at me over the head of a visitor sitting across him and asked me to visit the desk of a man whose name was let’s say – Amit Chatterjee, who was to travel to the US.

Asking around on the office floor, I soon found myself seated in front of the young Amit Chatterjee, in his late twenties perhaps, with wavy hair and a gold-rimmed pair of spectacles. He was barely able to speak coherently from continuous blushing, while repeatedly looking over and much beyond my head. I turned around curiously and found half a dozen men, staring his way with their heads raised curiously, smirking at him. Then as I looked back at him irritated, he looked away, and I realised all the smirking men were trying to entertain themselves at my expense. By now most of them had seen me coming in and out of their office twice daily. In irritation, I walked out saying “Please leave your requirements at the travel desk. I will get back to you with a proposed itinerary.” As visibly flustered I marched back to the admin room, with the heavy ABC (travel guide) that the manager had asked me to bring along, I was determined to let the men of that MNC know I meant business and business alone. I relayed the incident to the manager and his assistant, who looked quietly down.

That evening, when I returned to that MNC’s admin office, the receptionist a middle aged Anglo-Indian woman, always well dressed in smart suit dresses, her overall grooming immaculate, called me and gave me a note from the man Amit Chatterjee I had met that morning in which was hand written – “Dear Shuvashree, May I take you out for coffee, we could discuss my travel plans over it?” I was so annoyed on reading it, that I marched into the admin manager’s cabin and handed the note to him, and in spite of my meekness till that point – from being so new in my job and yet his being kind in giving me a steady flow of business, although having 3 other registered travel agents, I asked him menacingly – “Dada, what is going on here – is this a conspiracy, you ask me to meet this man Amit Chatterjee, now the receptionist ( I took her name) is giving me his note and trying to convince me how sweet and popular a man he is, not to mention with the brightest future after being an IIT and IIM pass-out, and justifying I must at least have coffee with him.”

The manager did not respond, and I walked back to my office down the street livid, but determined to take my job more seriously than yet. The next morning, I was back at the same MNC’s office but as a professional – was cordial to the receptionist, incidentally there was the same one though they had numerous, and rather friendly to the manger, but without any mention of the incidents of the day before. There was one big change in me though, unlike my pictures in the previous post, my hair was pulled back off my face in a clip, and I had worn a salwar kameez – this is how I would present myself at that office for long after.

But it’s quite a different matter that this Amit Chatterjee (name changed), through his friend the sophisticated receptionist, was relentless in his chase of me, to have just one cup of coffee with him – before he moved to Toronto where he was transferred. This was after getting his travel plans confirmed, with another travel agency. I know you might be thinking by now I’m rather arrogant, foolish even, as my closest friends insisted at the time – that he was the ‘catch’ of a lifetime…But I could never like a man who would humiliate me in public like that…so what if he’s now actually settled in the US and a CEO today :)

PS: This post is inspired, and in response to a jocular comment on my pictures in sari here (these are photos of the pictures so poor in quality) from my early working years that I’d posted on Face Book, by a school friend who wrote – “I wonder what kind of waves were being created in the corporate circles when this beauty was floating around !!!” to which I replied – “All funny things would happen actually…haha.”…But then it took me back to those times, which seem like a ‘comedy of errors’ now. :P

 

 



 
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Have I Taught You To Love?

“Forever – is composed of Nows” –Emily Dickinson

 

I treated you like you were the only one,

You treated me as I was amongst all, one;

Yet I gave you all in me I had left to give,

As that’s the only way I know how to live.

 

You were not ready to let your ego go,

While I didn’t ever allow it to you, show;

I wanted you to know you were my core,

As you tried to project I wasn’t your fore.

 

You did not support my forays into light,

While I was so proud of your every flight;

I sheltered your hurting every way I could,

On my bare toes you ensured you stood.

 

To make your today I tried every which way,

To choose your outfit, red carnations bright;

Yet how could I have them adorn your life?

As balloons of pungent words you spewed.

 

Now that we no longer can communicate,

Live our lives in our separate selfish ways;

I wish on you, someone you can celebrate,

As I taught you to love, teach her to cherish.

 

What Emotional Strength Means To Me

 “It is not true that suffering ennobles the character; happiness does that sometimes, but suffering for the most part, makes men petty and vindictive.” — W. Somerset Maugham in ‘The Moon and Sixpence’ 

I had just joined a new school, my heart sore in moving from one boarding school to another, in standard two. It was a week since the new session had started in January. In the math class, I was unable to answer a question the class teacher asked me after asking me to stand up. In spite of repeated aggressive threats, taunts, and assertions – as to how and why I was unable to answer this simple question which surely anyone could from this school, I still could not respond. I could not bring myself to tell her I hadn’t learnt the topic yet. I was asked to step in front of the class and a number of questions were flung at me. Each span of my acute silence, with my head bent down low, eyes fixed to the ground to hide the stinging tears of humiliation, was followed by a stinging lash on my hands and back. This was with the thick wooden rulers used back then, over the actual purpose of their make and sale.    

After the initial question that I was unable to answer, I didn’t hear any question, as I was swamped by the immense pain of the stinging lashes to my tender skin and bones. So I continued to look down, the tears drying before a single drop had spilled out, a fierce pride and stubbornness taking their place, even as I no longer felt the stinging pain that kept showering all over me with acute velocity. I had shut my mind from the pain I was so ferociously inflicted, my heart already numb from the change in school and then admitted to another lonely life away from home. The teacher kept beating me, in view of the whole class, as I stood like a log, not flinching, no drop of tears on my face now set firm. She kept flinging the questions at me repeatedly, thinking she would break me and get me to answer. But I had shut myself emotionally and physically, too far gone for her to reach me. In exasperation, she asked one of the girls – all looking at me in shock, no emotion on my face, to take me and leave me in standard one, where I was to complete that day of my five year old life.

That evening after school, over the bath in the enormous junior dressing room bath, I stood in queue with others my age, a towel and a mug with a soap dish in it, in hand, in my white petticoat and bloomers – compulsory then. The elderly attendant Vimala Didi suddenly pulled me roughly from out of the queue and turned me all around ferociously, noting the black and blue marks all over my body. She asked my classmates and was given a detailed description of what the new girl – me, had encountered in the hands of the teacher who went berserk. She dragged me out roughly by the hand, out of the bath room with large tanks of water – leaving everyone to help themselves from them, or to go over to the other two attendants. She got me into my frock and marched me to the Principal’s parlour-office at the far end of the campus, almost dragging me in her anger. There she pulled my dress off assertively and showed the Principal the mask of blue black my body, face, ears, was. “The teacher even hit her on the head” she hurled at Mother Superior in rage “The other girls told me. What is going on here?” Then she dragged me back, still in shock, to the medicine room and left me to the care of the Sister in charge.

The next day after class in standard one, I was again marched to the Principal’s office. There I saw my mother standing opposite Mother Superior, nodding slowly, as Mother kept apologizing to her. The teacher, who had mercilessly beaten me monstrously – such that if I was not strong enough could have even died of it, was standing with her head bent apologetically. I looked at all of them with no feeling whatsoever, not even the physical pain – it was all a haze of numbness, I’m not sure if I was given analgesics. I looked at my mother hoping that at least now she would take me home, but all she said, that too without a look at my state – the blue black bundle that I was, but  looking at Mother was “Since you have already taken up the matter, what more can I say?”  I remember looking at her once, shutting myself to her perhaps forever – as I would never allow myself to open up to her again. I realised my father would never know this incident and he truly never did lifelong and perhaps the reason I wasn’t taken home. I was rather marched back to the games field and left amongst the girls of class two, who rushed to take me back into their fold. The same teacher came back and incidentally minded our games time, never looking me in the eyes ever over the many years she was there.

I might have locked this episode away in my mind, as I did so many painful memories of my life thereafter and those who inflicted them. But a year or so back, much to my shock, this teacher sent me a face book friendship request. I accepted after some thought, as she was so inconsequential now after all, for me to nurse a childhood grudge. What liberated me emotionally from this incident was the day I spent thinking over, forgiving, and then accepting her request. But all of the memories came rushing back, when at a school get together recently, a dear friend – a doctor based in London, with a daughter about five now, suddenly blurted “How could you accept Ms….’s friendship request?” She then recounted to our close boarders’ group who remotely recalled, all the details of this event, as vividly as it was the day before and added “We reported every detail to Vimala Didi, and that is why she pulled you out of the bath queue before your turn.” Then again turning to me passionately she added “After all this, did you have to accept her friendship request? How could you?” The rest of the group lectured me over this too as I kept quiet.

That night, a year back now, that we all spent at a seaside resort, since we’d gone on a trip, all the details of this incident came rushing back to me as if as a slide show. Thinking of my friends’   advice I was glad I had not divulged to them of my other detractors who’d done more harm, and I’d forgiven and allowed them as friends on my face book. They would have thought I’ve actually lost my self-respect and sanity. But it was their love and concern, their passionate anger even now, and the knowledge they had supported me in their little ways back then, that made me cry over an incident four decades later, having kept locked coldly for a lifetime. Over the rest of the days of this trip, I thought about all the trouble I have had a knack of attracting lifelong, without even being a troublemaker in the remotest sense of the word, which could have made me so bitter about life.

But god has given me one thing, even if not the good luck he’s given many I know, that is a positive and optimistic attitude – to tide over all the hurdles, toughen me in the process, without turning me negative and nasty. To me, true emotional strength lies not in not being hurt or not being sensitive to low oxygen levels in life – I’m in all honesty immensely sensitive to pain, in spite of all my bravado, but I can wear a life-saving mask real fast. Toughness truly lies in the ability to fight being suffocated – from pettiness and vindictiveness, emerge positive from the worst experiences. Just because you’re crushed in love you cannot stay lonely forever to protect a breakable heart. If you’ve lost a professional battle, been looked over for a promotion and raise in spite of all your efforts, you cannot stop giving your best, hide in fear of being defeated again. Strength to me is the ability to win over life’s constant endeavour to crush you menacingly, to stay afloat however strong the tide, then fly high with the strong wind of experiences.  

In The Autumn of Our Lives.

There’s much I want to say to you,

But none of it have I been able to;

It’s the little things in life that matter,

So nothing big I’ve ever asked of you.

All effort I make for you with fervour,

Is reflection of my deep love for you;

Why then, do you dither in showing-

The love I know you feel for me too?

There is much inside you keep hidden,

Never admit it’s me you’re in love with;

It’s love of your ego you’ll rather stroke,

Misunderstanding my love you’ll evoke.

You overlook notes I play only for you,

While I scan yours for what is my due;

I pronounce my love in so many ways,

But you crave straws others chuck you.

I paint the sky in red, violet I drip on you,

In all rhymes I sing, I envelop you in hue;

The wild green we paint each other with,

It’s because passion in us still rings true.

Yet we freeze each other out in silences,

Under which bitter fuming currents brew;

Now that this tide is so full of our grief,

With time, a bridge will we ever construe?

Let’s throw open our dam of grievances,

Even if we wash each other with refuse;

Then we’ll cleanse our hearts outpourings,

As egos coalesce, we’ll build bridges anew.

You wish I’d be independent and strong,

Allow you space to wander, trot the globe;

But I’ll learn to survive, live without you –

Will you my love, once I am forever gone?

PS: This poem is inspired by a lovely new Bengali movie “Bela Seshe” that I watched this evening – the official trailer with English subtitles is in the link here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R2RmKpu1Mn8

You could read this article too, in the link below: http://m.thehindubusinessline.com/blink/watch/playing-bimala-pushed-the-young-swatilekha-sengupta-one-of-satyajit-rays-most-controversial-heroines-into-depression/article7433599.ece

A Poem

A Poem

A propelling word, and then a few lines,

Spurting compelling thoughts in my mind;

I first mark them down at the nick of time,

Lest they involuntarily leave me behind…

 

These lines delve into a maze of thoughts,

That chase unconscious unravelled tracks:

I now let myself get lost in their troughs,

They lead in my core to veiled grasslands.

 

I’m surprised by the intricacy of my soul,

Whose thoughts I unconsciously abhorred.

Yet it was that momentous fleeing thought,

That has led me to myself – otherwise lost.

 

From deep within the fissures of my mind,

A well of experience, emotions; wisdom arises:

Infusing repertoire of words, language imbibed,

A poignant, myriad kaleidoscope I inscribe.

One Of My Poetry Initiatives:

The link of the Hindu coverage of “Poetic License – an evening Of Words”: http://m.thehindu.com/features/metroplus/an-evening-of-poetry/article7264768.ece/

The New Indian Express coverage of the poetry event on Friday: http://www.newindianexpress.com/cities/chennai/Once-Upon-a-Rhyme-at-Amethyst/2015/06/01/article2842654.ece

Pictures of the “Poetic License event” : https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.10153424792644974.1073742029.614624973&type=1&l=e7f91a2e15

 

It Is Always Darkest Under The Lamp

It is always darkest under the lamp, ‘Diya tale andhera’:  While we were in school, my mother thought that my sister and I should learn swimming and cycling, in addition to most other outdoor sports we were exposed to, and were pretty good at in boarding school. During school vacations, starting from my fifth standard, she would wake us up by five every summer, march us out to a nearby swimming pool. There she would coerce us to get in, even as she followed us in, in the aim of teaching us herself. She was an ace swimmer – who had amongst her numerous qualifications also been a coach and nominated a referee for the 1982 Asian Games in Delhi after her long Delhi University  Sports Lecturer/facilitator stint, for Swimming and Gymnastics.

But to her dismay, I her elder daughter, was scared of water and hated it, as it suffocated me. I always clung to the pool sides, barely able to dog paddle, looking for a way out to escape her clutches. Ma would trace me in the large sized national meets pool, in spite of all my efforts to duck and try to pull me into the deeper end, forcing me to keep my pathetic attempt at swimming going, even when I could not go any longer in sheer breathlessness. I hated her with all my heart then, and would sneak out of the pool and seek asylum with the formal coach there who had at some time been my mother’s student and knew her well. She was kind to her teacher’s daughter, even though I‘m sure amused at the cruel irony of fate.

 In any case, for the next 5-6 years till finishing school, every morning of our summer vacations I was marched down to the swimming pool in a bid to complete my swimming certification, but all I could as yet manage was far from enough in qualifying me as a ‘swimmer’. Even though my sister who took to water like a fish, was very good at it, as she was Ma’s ardent disciple and follower and made the most of Ma’s style and expertise. But I, in my bid to avoid and dodge her around, was a pathetic failure and in frustration she would repeatedly say amongst all her admonishes flung at me in Bengali – that I forget the actual phrase now – “It is darkest under the lamp. I have taught so many people to swim, but could never teach my own daughter.”

Then after my tenth standard board exams Ma bought 2 Bicycles, to get me to learn cycling. She had come in her youth, come second in the all Pakistan cycling championships, with a borrowed sports cycle that she managed, just before the start of the race from a kind young man who sympathised with her use of a regular one instead of a professional one. Again I avoided Ma, but this time in sheer stubbornness I learnt it all myself. I would walk the cycle to a distance away from her view, to a nearby park, determined that I would return cycling, then show it off to her and I did manage but rather shakily. Again by this time, with Ma’s guidance, my sister was an ace cyclist just as she was a swimmer.

Today all this strikes me as ironic, and makes me want to cry, to ask God’s and Ma’s forgiveness for my inanity, go back to those days and learn all  I could from mother, even though I can swim now – having learnt much late from coaches far from good as she was. This is, as I struggle as I’m sure no one would, to find acceptance as a writer, when I’m married to a man who is constantly reading, guiding, editing the work of literary aspirants many of whom befriend him only in that hope, with no interest or time in mine. I ran alone, pillar to post in search of a publisher, even as he forwarded friends, friends wives, and strangers manuscripts after reading their Synopsis, in my presence, to well-known publishers and editors, telling me repeatedly “But how can I send my wives?”  

No one will give me public space for a few words, even on subjects I’ve got the professional expertise in, added to my decent usage of the written word, while he gives it out aplenty to those just starting out – more from his need to find suitable people. I also have friends, some of whom with much experience in the literary world except those very senior, would not care to read and offer suggestions let alone help me, as when your own husband won’t, why would someone else need to – obviously you’re not good enough then! Most people, unlike my husband believe in helping their own. All this exasperation came rushing to mind on receiving a message from a very dear friend – “I need a help from you if possible. My bro-in-law, a very artistic guy has also written a book which he is keen on getting published. Can you help him in finding a publisher?” 

Now with my limited resources, which can barely help myself other than upholding my dreams by my sheer grit, I will surely help her and the best that I can do is put her on to my husband who will rather help her than do so me. So you see, I’m paying for disrespecting my mother, am I not? So pray for me people…I’ve even confessed my follies publicly now!!!  :P 

An Oyster In The Sand

I have nothing anew left to say to you,

My soul feels empty, barren, and bare;

All the love that I’ve showered you with,

Just wasn’t enough to get you to care.

But now that I’ve given all I have to give,

I can no longer on my heart let you tread;

Allow you any further to crush its yearning-

Incapacitate it of loving someone who cares.

So go away my love, find your true calling,

Allow me on my own to withstand the glare;

Let the waves engulf me body and soul now,

Thereby wash away all of you that is yet left.

Surely there’s someone there looking for me,

With a heart full of love and concern to spare;

That which he could not lifelong as yet lavish-

On one who left early, sorely implanting it there.

I would gladly wash up on him, at life’s shore,

The waves returning me anew, my soul fresh;

Where he’d pick me tenderly as a gift so rare,

Draw me out from an oyster with loving care.

He would recognise the hand of god in this,

In my washing up on his shore on golden sand;

Wouldn’t my heart he now shelter and cherish:

Acknowledge it’s that pearl valuable and rare?

This poem is inspired by my rereading of “The Pearl” a novella by American author John Steinbeck… https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Pearl_(novel): 

“In the town they tell the story of the great pearl- how it was found and how it was lost again. They tell of Kino, the fisherman, and of his wife, Juana, and of the baby, Coyotito. And because the story has been told so often, it has taken root in every man’s mind. And, as with all retold tales that are in people’s hearts, there are only good and bad things and black and white things and good and evil things and no in-between anywhere.” 

“If this story is a parable, perhaps everyone takes his own meaning from it .”

EID MUBARAK! …An Excerpt From My Novel Across Borders.

EID MUBARAK! To all my friends…

May Allah bless: Your days with happiness; Your weeks with prosperity; Your months with contentment; And your years with love and peace! Happy Eid al-Fitr!

On this joyous occasion I take pleasure in sharing with you an excerpt from my novel Across Borders, that vividly describes my view of the celebration of this festival of love and warmth, through the narration of Maya the central character: 

ACROSS BORDERS

– Chapter 6 –

The Riots.

Soon it is time for Ramadan. In 1964, the first day of Ramadan of the year 1383 AH, is the 16th of January. It has been over ten days that I am living in Zaina’s house. It is here and now that I gain understanding about the actual significance of Ramadan. Muslims around the world anticipate the arrival of this holiest month of the year and unite in a period of community-wide fasting and spiritual reflection. The annual fast of Ramadan is considered one of the five “pillars” of Islam and all Muslims who are physically able, are required to fast each day of the entire month, from sunrise to sunset. The evenings are spent enjoying family and community meals; engaging in prayer and spiritual reflection; and reading from the Quran. The fast of Ramadan has both spiritual significance and physical effects.

However, in spite of being part of a Muslim household, since being Hindu, I have religious independence and am not expected to observe the fast like everyone else. The children and I are exempted from the fast, but I participate in other activities with the rest of the family. Particularly during this time, as well as other times of the year, Muslims are encouraged to read and reflect on God’s guidance. The first verses of the Quran had been revealed during the month of Ramadan and the very first word was: “Read.” I spend considerable time trying to understand the learning’s of the Quran from Uncle and Aunty. I sit with the family when they have their meal at 4am. Though they do not eat anything till sunset, the children and I have our breakfast and midday meals as usual, prepared by the cook.

I look forward to Iftar with the family. Iftar is the evening meal when Muslims break their fast during the holy month of Ramadan. It is often a community affair, with people gathering to break their fast together. Iftar is done right after sunset, by traditionally consuming a date first, when the fast is to be broken, followed by a large meal. I love eating out of the common large platter of Iftar food items, like piyaju and beguni (batter-fried onions and eggplant); jilapi (batter-fried sweetmeat dipped in sugar-syrup); jhalmuri (puffed crunchy rice spiced with onion, chilli and ginger); haleem (a type of stew made into a thick paste from pounded wheat and mutton or beef); khejur (dates); dal puri (a spiced-lentil stuffed pastry) with chola (spiced, cooked chickpeas); fish-kebab; Mughlai paratha (paratha with egg-filling); pitha (pounded-rice based sweets) and seasonal fruits and drinks such as Rooh Afza (a rose flavoured drink) and lemon sharbat.

During the month of Ramadan, Muslims, in addition to observing a strict fast, participate in pious activities, charity and peace-making. Many believe that Iftar as a form of charity is very rewarding and that it was practised by Prophet Muhammad. This is also the time of intense  spiritual renewal. I am certain God will reward Farouk uncle and his family for their benevolence in hosting me, feeding me and keeping me under-cover all through Ramadan. I am overwhelmed with gratitude for this family, for hosting me during the sacred month, especially when other Muslims are out there killing Hindus in the riot. There cannot be a better form of charity than protecting and feeding the child of perhaps another God. Allah chose this family to give me a new lease of life, but more so to teach me to respect and love people of all religious faiths.

I will later learn of the killings of a number of my close kin by Muslims in the current riot and the subsequent ones leading to the formation of Bangladesh in 1971. But my private experience of living amidst a Muslim family, who adopted me in turbulent times when not even those close cared to find out whether I was still alive, will always spearhead my reverence for the faith. This incident will never allow me to hate Muslims like most Bengali Hindus of my times, who in addition to their own hatred, will leave behind gory tales to feed the hatred of subsequent generations to come. Their hatred is perhaps justified, stemming from Muslims killing their loved ones, wiping out entire families, usurping their land and property, chasing them away from their homes and plentiful lives in East Bengal, to an existence of bare minimum and struggle, in starting life afresh in West Bengal.

At the end of the month of Ramadan, Muslims throughout the world observe a joyous three-day celebration called Eid-ul-Fitr (the festival of fast-breaking). The aim of this festival is to promote peace, strengthen the feeling of brotherhood and bring oneself back to the normal course of life, after a monthlong period of self-denial and religious devotion. Muslims are also encouraged on this day to forgive and forget any differences or past animosities that may have occurred with others during the year. Possibly due to these tenets, by now the riots have  petered out, from gradually running out of heat since Ramadan started to being reduced to cinders at its end. I would like to believe its end was hastened by Muslims recalling the teachings of the Quran, making amends to their mistakes, retracting from instigating innocent people to rise in arms against fellow humans; not merely due to the fasting period sapping out the energy of those murderous amongst them.

On the day of Eid, as is customary, Farouk uncle and the family go for the morning sermon and congregational prayers at the nearby mosque. After they return, I join them in visiting friends and relatives, exchanging gifts and greetings, feasting, celebrating the completion of a month of blessings and joy. Shortly after Eid, Taahira auntie’s younger brother is getting married at Dhanmundi, a place little distant from where we live. I attend all the ceremonies along with the family and am given a new blouse-piece to stitch into a blouse, to match a sari I own. It is given to me as a token, in living up to the custom of every family member wearing new clothes to the wedding. With all the expenditure incurred lately, since building their house, it is what uncle and aunty can afford now. But I sincerely appreciate their magnanimous gesture in considering me a part of the family and in demonstrating so.

Stand Up To Bullying: It never has to do with you, it’s the bully who’s insecure.

I was a good twenty-five years old, when I was dispensed, without any ceremony, the responsibility of inducting, training on the job, and leading a team of 15 young men and a woman, all barely a couple of years younger than me. This was in an isolated, though all glass, twenty-four hour office, in my second year of joining the airline. There were passengers visiting our office all the time, but no one else from the organisation really walked into this office much, located in the building adjacent to the then Calcutta airport, to overview activities. Two of the men who were actually recruited for the airport side activities, on meeting me at the regional office, suddenly insisted upon the general and sales managers to join my team. Witness to their sudden keenness in change of department, I realised they thought I was going to be an easy boss, and this would be a continuation of their college days, what with the entire team joining us from St Xavier’s College – a premier institute.

As expected, when the group reported the next day, the lone woman was withdrawn, but the men thought party time had just begun. One wanted to prepare the job roster for me, and another the shift/timing roster, like one does try to help their teacher in school or college. I politely declined such help, as I was not going to run a college here, as this was business after all, for which I was solely going to be held responsible. On the first few days, the team went out for lunch break two at a time, and on all these days, one of them took almost an hour when half an hour was allotted, while others returned on time. After watching this trend, I summoned the man who came in late to my desk, in full view of all the rest. “Why are you late every day?” I asked firmly. He grinned, while I noticed everyone’s eyes on me, though looking indirectly, most of them breaking into sly smiles. I repeated myself firmly “Don’t you hear me, why are you late every day…don’t you know that lunch break is only half an hour?” He grinned again. I knew this was it, if I didn’t act now the team watching me was going to be out of my control for good. The lone lady looked down shamefacedly.

“Get out” I suddenly snapped. “Wipe the grin off your face and return”. He kept grinning and replied cheekily, while others smirked “But we were taught at the customer-service training to smile all the time.” I looked at him sharply, and more than real anger, just to get the team to respect me I firmly repeated, with a powerful tone. “You will not smile henceforth, if you want to work in this office. If you see me anywhere in the airport also, you will wipe the smile off your face instantly. Am I clear? You will never smile at me, do you get me?” His smile froze with the forcefully menacing tone of my voice and I noticed so did the rest of the teams. They never smirked at me again and we settled into a respectful working relationship, of course with some trivial trick or other constantly, that I more often than not tended to allow them the liberty. The lunch incident had established my credence with them, from their initial perception on seeing me before joining, as one of meekness.

In a year, in this office, due to a lady cleaner absenting herself often, then for over a week without information, I had replaced her with another young girl. In another week, the first one returned to beg and plead that I take her back. But I had given my word to keep the new girl, whose mother incidentally suffered from cancer and she needed the money, so I retained her. Suddenly late one morning four tall, bulky, ruffian looking men marched into our office pushing the glass door, almost shaking the glass walls alongside. They marched to my desk and resting their hands on my desk menacingly, one picking up the phone handset shoving into my hand said “Mai Bapp ke phone lagao” I looked at them shocked, and two of the young men from my team got up and stood beside me as the gangster men repeated in Bengali “Call your owners…How can you sack the cleaner, don’t you know she is a member of our union?”

I explained to the goons the circumstances, but they were adamant and said “we will not allow the new girl to work, in fact we won’t allow anyone to clean, and we will break the girl’s legs if we find her outside. As for you…you’re in a glass office, so think how easy it is for us to stone it down.” I just kept staring at them in horror, in fear, but looking calm and composed as another added from behind “we will not hesitate to use acid or a blade.”  I was totally shaken, the pit of my stomach churning in fear, but this only made me very angry as I telephoned our general manager, who advised me to “take the old cleaner back” as he added “Are you mad, don’t you know what they are capable of doing?” But I had made up my mind that a unionised employee, one who could resort to such threats through goons could not be taken back, as she would really be a trouble maker.

“Sir, I will not take her back” I said firmly, “And how can you even consider it…Now knowing she is part of the airport union which is so aggressive?” Luckily I could stand my ground with the support of the HR and Airport managers, who I telephoned, even as these huge men marched out with a flourish, threatening to return shortly.

In an hour, I suddenly saw a group of over 150 men and women of the Trinamul Congress union, come in procession and sit filling the entire covered corridor outside our glass office, staring at us menacingly, even as a couple of men would come inside and threaten me in turns. I was scared, believe me…very scared indeed. I had vivid imaginations of how it would feel to have a blade slit my cheek, acid thrown on my face, and how would I live with the scar…or what if they slit my skirt or trouser with a blade as they threatened. Was standing up to these bullies worth it? But I had taken responsibility of the new young girl’s job now, and then the older previous girl would be a menace if we took her back. But worse still, would my team ever respect me again if I cowed down? I had just begun my career with the airline, where I had at the time planned to spend a very long time. I was also worried of my parents finding out and forcing me to quit the job. Also the general manger kept pressurising me to take the girl back in worrying about my safety. “You all are my responsibility, don’t you understand?” he screamed at me several times over the phone, along with various other threats. But I firmly replied each time “Sir, trust me on this. I’m in this good or bad.”

For the next three days my team and I walked in and out of our office, passing a group of about 100 to 200 people including a number of women, staring at us in the most menacing and disrespectful manner. Then getting sick of this intrusion to our lives and the office uncleaned for days, I suggested to my team “Guys, let’s clean the office ourselves. They cannot stop us, can they? In fact, you all just help me to carry the bucket and broom etc. in, I will sweep and swab the floor, let’s see what they do to me.” I didn’t want my team to get a scope to complain, that I had asked them to sweep and swab the floor, thus wanted to do it myself. “You all clean the computers and the phones with Colin spray, in the meantime” I said. But they said in unison “No, how can we watch you cleaning…we will do it. You just supervise us.”

So all of us cleaned together, we swept and swabbed the floor with much flourish really enjoying ourselves, laughing and joking, showing off to the union watching us in shock, as we thoroughly cleaned the computer screens and telephones. In a while we saw the unionised group disperse and then the next day, as we were now used to their presence, awaited their coming. But they didn’t ever return and I got a new cleaner. I didn’t want to risk the young girl’s safety by taking her.

These experiences, followed by numerous others as this, I have been unluckily lucky to encounter in the organisations I worked for afterwards, left me with the confidence, than bullies never leave you alone until you look then in their eyes and deal with them. But over that, those watching you cowing down cannot respect you if you do so, how then can you have any impact on them thereafter?   For too long, society has shrugged off bullying as a ‘rite of passage’ and by asking victims to simply ‘get over it.’ These attitudes need to change. Every day, students, workers, are bullied into silence and are afraid to speak up. Firstly let’s understand, that bullying is when someone repeatedly and on purpose, says or does mean and hurtful things to another person, who has a hard time defending. Let’s break this silence, let’s stand up and take small steps into ending bullying. Let’s stand up for what is right even if we are standing alone.

Please watch this video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AAhlGeHTtaQ