Twerpa the banker

Twerpa calls herself a banker. How she become one is a puzzling story altogether. Having neither the qualification nor the aptitude, she pulled strings with 'friends in high places' to get herself the opportunity - trumping so many others who, undoubtedly, would have been so much better at the job. And, deserving of it, too. As is characteristic of the ruling political party in this region, they would rather have their lackeys appointed to such offices than allow for a process that favours the professionally eligible, qualified, or the meritorious. 

Anyhow, it is interesting to see how Twerpa spends her work day and sets an example for professional excellence, something she takes immense pride in boasting about. She reaches work well past 10 in the morning and takes a good half hour or more to settle in. But, barely has she settled, a troop of her colleagues accost her, forming a phalanx around her, chattering inane gossip - more likely about the colour and style of their clothes, dinner the previous evening, or malice about an absent colleague. Never mind that there are a number of already exasperated customers patiently waiting in line, most of whom have travelled from far away places. Twerpa pays them no heed. Neither do her colleagues. To her, these customers are unimportant and troublesome distractions that incur on her precious time.

Juicy tittle-tattle now at its end, Twerpa irritatingly summons waiting customers and rudely inquires the reason for their visit - after all, these irksome pests need some telling off. How dare they congregate at the bank! It doesn't matter that they have some bothersome difficulty or gripping necessity that requires patient redressal. Twerpa's annoyance knows no bounds. She is loudly discourteous. These people forget that she is the one doing them a favour and not the other way around! With utter resentment writ large, she peers into her computer screen and lackadaisically clicks one key at a time using only one finger, while the other hand is busy navigating her cell phone, scrolling through dozens of WhatsApp forwards and endless groups that she is a part of. Even as she does this, she mumbles that she should be given a lifetime service award for her contributions. Exactly what her contributions have been, no one can tell.

But, in the midst of such a dreary day, Twerpa has some relief. The clock has just struck 01:00 PM. It is lunchtime and this comes as a huge consolation. Unperturbed by the swathes of people that have now formed a long line in front of her desk, Twerpa uproots herself from her chair with boundless energy and firmly places a desk sign that reads 'closed' and marches away, as if she has finally achieved victory from the excruciating torment that she has suffered through the morning. She certainly needs much deserved rest.

Speeding away on her scooter without bothering to wear a helmet, she reaches home in a matter of minutes. After all, lunch is a scared affair, which cannot be indulged in at the workplace. And, certainly no amount of work, however pressing, could interfere with this privilege. So, Twerpa spends more than a leisurely hour savouring her meal, while customers at the bank wait patiently not knowing if they would meet a responsible hand to tend to their requirements. Evidently, nothing of this concerns Twerpa who spends some more time at home, napping after an elaborate meal. Perhaps, this is her idea of work-life balance.

After what seems to be eternity, she returns to the bank. Even then, her disposition is not inclined to attend to customers who, by now, have spent most of the day waiting for the likes of her. She casually saunters off to her desk only after stopping over to meet and greet a few colleagues, at whose desks the conversation is about what they had for lunch.

For all the attitude and importance that Twerpa displays, her job is menial and does not require any creative effort or decision-making skills. She is required to update account statements and ledgers while managing a help-desk for customers who visit the bank. Something as trivial such as this, she is unable to perform even to the basic standards of customer satisfaction. Evidently, she is neither concerned nor makes the effort.

With a system that thrives on individuals grovelling and being toady, than being critically evaluated for their performance, or for the lack if it, Twerpa has not a thing to worry about. Her job is under no threat whatsoever. Neither will she be questioned for her conduct at work. Her friends in high places, equally incompetent and unproductive imbeciles, guarantee to shield her. Consequentially, Twerpa will have a comfortable job for a lifetime that will not require her to even make the slightest effort. And, in the end, she will walk away with fat pay-cheques, annual bonuses, endless perquisites, and a pension that she is entirely undeserving of. A whole host of other unmerited benefits apart, she enjoys a tonne of public holidays, annual leaves, and off-days caused by plenty of strikes that political buffoons so relentlessly impose. But, above all, the lack of accountability and responsibility must be the two most shining traits of Twerpa's job. Makes one wonder if we live in times where the customer is actually king or sin!

Whereabouts

Jhumpa Lahiri's Whereabouts is the reflection of a certain kind of life, which, you could say, is engagingly involved but detached, immersed, yet removed. A bold but guarded existence that is keen, observant, perceptive, and practical, living in bare reality, far from pretensions or wishful thinking. 

Set in an unnamed place, evidently in Italy, this is the story of the narrator who goes about her everyday living in the backdrop of her solitary life. Lahiri's expression of even some of the most elementary things, in a manner that is exquisite, yet simple, makes for wonderful reading - often allowing the reader to plunge into some sort of recollection and escape, contemplating how life was or would have been under similar conditions. But, above all, it is hugely refreshing to the mind, to be able to induce a calm sense of detachment and freedom from the mundaneness of human existence, although that is not overtly conveyed in any sense.

The dominant theme of the narrative, recounted in first person, is a focus on the passage of life itself, that is fleeting, complete with everyday occurrences, beautifully described, often with limited words, yet, in a tastefully appealing manner, surely to have a lasting impact on any perceptive mind. It is an incredibly powerful portrayal of how life is transcendental and that the nature of events is momentary and fading, without lasting consequence.

Even so, it has everything in it - love, the lack of it, romance, desire, deceit, age and its effect, vulnerability, emotions, people and their interactions, and so on. What it does not restrict itself or follow is a certain structure or form. Instead, one finds immense freedom and relief in the manner in which the story is recounted, knowing that there are no fixed destinations to arrive at or people to go to. There is a deep sense of liberation in that thought.

Dumblore Cottage

Dumblore Cottage stood mid-way on a lofty hill surrounded by tall Pine, Oak, and Eucalyptus trees. Nestled in a beautiful setting, this place was home for a brief while. The owner, a certain Mr. Fickle Henpeckshaw must be credited for picking what he must have thought was a swanky colonial name for his drab property. That, he did, decades before organized builders adopted the trend for their expensive, fashionable apartments, littered across India's large metropolitan cities.

But, Mr. Henpeckshaw can be offered no more praise. It is very likely that he chose the name by sheer accident, given his comprehension, or, more likely, the lack of it. For Dumblore was no more than an incongruous, ugly monstrosity, covered in wretched pale-yellow paint giving it a thoroughly distasteful appearance. On the inside, the onslaught of this reeking pale-yellow had a more pronounced and nauseating effect in the form of an uglier, cheap mosaic floor that ran across the entirety of the house. The only two things that were of any positive consequence were the wicket gate and the gravel-filled walkway that lay covered with pine leaves most part of the year.

The Henpeckshaws were an unpleasant and boisterous lot. Mrs. Henpeckshaw, who heaved herself across the grounds, with some difficulty, even at the most odd, ungodly hours, was particularly snooty and cold. On sunny mornings, she would be sprawled on her 'favourite' rusted armchair, bawling out long lists of inane instructions to whoever appeared in her presence. The old bat would be seen flapping about without purpose as if her sole intent was to cause discomfort. She was not unlike a medieval vassal to whom the title of being landlady automatically meant being irksome to those who set foot in her property. Quite naturally, she was disliked by all. I suspect by her family, too.

And then, there were the children. Noisy, uncouth mongrels. All three of them. With their funny names or whatever else that they were always yelled at to be brought to attention, even if for a moment.They ensured that every gathering, however important or otherwise, was quickly turned into an utterly disorderly circus. Keep away from the madness was the generally accepted, but unspoken perception.

But, Rosy, the dog, was a class apart. Pleasant and fine-mannered, like a well-schooled lass, she was the only solace that came from that crude lot. She was full of love and you could be assured of a very warm greeting whenever you met her. There were no ulterior motives. An incredibly loving soul in a terribly soiled world, you could say. But, then, so are most dogs, if not all. One can hardly meet a human being who is dog-like. And, for that reason, one's faith in pooch-kind remains undamaged. In saying so, I do not speak only for myself, I can be certain.

Mr. Henpackshaw was rather inconsequential. He was comical in his appearance. Clad in ill-fitting baggy trousers and a dull gray sweater that sagged upto his knees, the old carthorse could be seen trudging about with his filthy cloth bag. But, no one paid any attention. Neither did he demand any. He had no mind of his own. Almost any question put to him would be met with the stony "I will tell you later." That was his stock phrase. One needn't have been intelligent to surmise that it was Mrs. Henpeckshaw who did all the thinking. He was only vocalizing her opinion. That was all he was permitted to do, other than, of course, running errands, paying the bills, and grocery shopping.

The Henpeckshaws received no visitors. They weren't the hospitable kind. Although, you couldn't say the same of Rosy, the dog. Almost anyone who ventured into the property got a sound yelling from Mrs. Henpeckshaw. It appeared that was her only motive in life. Even the dutiful postman was not spared. The tenants got it, too. I suppose everyone got used to the spectacle or simply put up with it. After all, no one wanted to fight the eccentric, old maniac. So, they let it be. The annoying twerp milling about with no purpose or consequence.

Our stay was brief and lasted no more than a year, when we found ourselves moving to another place we called home. But, that brief interlude of passage spent at Dumblore was formative, although it is the mighty blue hills and the wonderful trees that I will remember and cherish most. And, Rosy, too.

Nearly forty years have passed since. It would be a gross understatement to say that times have changed. They have, indeed. So have the topography and the landscape. The new has become old more than many times. The past is barely discernible. There are few people or elements that share this bygone era that now lingers in only in memory. Of the few that exist, they are scattered far and wide, unsure of meeting in the future. Perhaps, not inclined, too. Disconnected, you could say.

But, there's nothing that will fade the recollection of Dumblore. Not even the vagaries of time or the savageness of life. Nestled in a misty hill that has been pillaged endlessly and its remains conditioned for  countless monstrosities that have since cropped up, Dumblore still stands firm in my memory, as an icon, defiant in the face of changing times, as a momentary escape to fight life's passage, in an attempt to preserve something that is now lost forever, yet inconsequential. You may call this romanticizing the past. But, since when was being romantic a bad idea?

The tales of sordid Sinpra

Sinpra was an English teacher. Exactly how she became one remains a mystery beyond any measure of comprehension. It simply defies logic. Her capabilities are non-existent and her qualifications dubious. For the teaching profession, that is. And, there are plenty who would vouch, under oath, that she hadn't once held a Wren & Martin in her hands, let alone teach or even read from one. Of course, it is doubtful if she knows what Wren & Martin is.

It is surely a matter of great fortune that Sinpra has retired after long years in teaching, a profession for which she had neither the inclination nor the aptitude. Mercifully, a whole crop of students now stand to be spared of her ineptitude. But, what a whole lot of others had to endure being her students is so shameful that the only reparation lies in her being prosecuted for criminal delinquency, negligence, misdemeanour, and a host of other related charges. It can well be reckoned, without an iota of doubt, that she, along with her kind of shamefully incompetent teachers, may have well caused the present state of unemployability among the youth in India. The present state of public discourse and intellectual bankruptcy are other similar such fall-outs. If these are not crimes worthy of severe punishment, then I do not know what else is.

But, before you hee-haw about the severity of my accusations, here are somethings for you to consider. It is "estimated that 33% educated youth in India are unemployed due to lack of future-ready skills, despite obtaining a degree. Over 53% of the respondents also confessed that they were unable to find the job of their choice. Almost 75% said that training in futuristic skills could have helped them in bolstering their professional career." [Source: ImaginXP]

Anyhow, this post isn't about India's plaguing employability problem or some shining quick-fix to make things better. I could go on and on about supposedly educated or qualified people who cannot put together two sentences of any language to make sense about what they intend to communicate. However, this post is about Sinpra and her aptitude, or better still, the lack of it.

Sinpra's letters are comical or tragic. Or both, depending upon how you would want to look at it. She almost always doesn't begin with any salutation. There are no dates either, presumably due to the foolhardy notion that contemporary letter writing, even of the utmost formal kinds, does not require any dates to be mentioned. And, then, there is her spewing that comes with either no punctuation at all or so full of them in all the wrong places. Decoding the garbage she produces in the form of sentences is evidently far more complicated than the efforts of Alan Turing and his group of code-breakers who broke the Enigma during the Second World War. 

On one occasion, when she declared the passing away of a relative who lived in a far off place, some of us struggled to comprehend the facts, lost in the appalling nonsense of her lingo, bewildered and wondering if it was the person in question, their spouse, or the place that had actually passed away!

Sinpra is the kind you would call 'WhatsApp Queen' or 'Chancellor of the WhatsApp/Facebook University' - the abhorrent kinds who would unfailingly and relentlessly inundate you with ludicrous forwards imploring you not to ignore them and to continue circulating them onward. Just how an entire generation of people seem to be hooked on to this despicable activity, on an everyday basis, is difficult to comprehend.

For every retired or banished Sinpra, there are hundreds more that emerge. Crawling like vermin, deep and high into the echelons of a tired and superfluous system that requires urgent reform, if our future generations would have to find any place in an increasingly competitive world. 

But, these deadwood Sinpras that infest our systems will fight tooth and nail to avoid any reform or even the slightest mention of it. How else could they survive and thrive? Other than by keeping alive an unmeritorious ecosystem of dimwitted non-performers who have callous and scant regard for their profession or the consequences of their actions. Ever notice maggots feasting on rotting flesh or flies gorging on fecal matter?