Nobody gives a damn?

It was almost six in the evening and I was rushing to the club to do some last minute arrangements for the Children’s Nite taking place that night. I met one of my husband’s colleagues en route who said, “You work so hard for everyone and no one gives a damn.” I do not know if he meant it kindly or otherwise. I just smiled back at him then because I didn’t have time to think. As I continued on my way, however, I did ponder on the statement. It took me back to my teenage days.
No one gives a damn. Funny how things repeat themselves. A long, long time back when I was in school, maybe in tenth grade, I had a very good friend. One fine day, she came up to me and said very suddenly and seriously, as she still does, “Tulip, no one gives a damn. Always keep that in mind. Just go ahead and do what you have to do in life.” I do not know whether she remembers what she told me but that statement had been my strength in some difficult times.
Today, I am a married woman and things have changed. I do not hold on to the ‘rebellious’ thought of ‘No one cares’ because I realize that there ARE one or two people in your life who do care genuinely. And, because of these one or two people, it does not matter whether anyone gives a damn or not. At the same time, I understand people are mainly egoists as opposed to egotists. Believe me, I am not being cynical and pessimistic when I say: You may have a soul mate, but there is just one you…
Anyway, I am rambling and digressing. To come back to the present tale, I think we all work for different reasons. Someone may be working for money, someone for recognition, someone to help boost his ego, and so on. I have passed through a number of stages in my life. In the beginning, when I started work as a reporter, I was like a school kid. I was a hard worker, doing my best to gain the appreciation of an extremely hard taskmaster of an editor. Work that I thought was brilliant was thrown into the waste bin and I learnt, one published story at a time, little by little, step by step.
One day I realized I had learnt almost all that that place could offer and joined a publishing company that had been calling me up for a while. Here I discovered another kind of motivation—to be the best in my field. I competed with myself and excelled. As I moved on, I had young and elder people working under my guidance. At this point of time, I started getting a number of calls with good offers, and this time I chose keeping finances in mind. I realized one does not have to make a ‘hoolahoo’ and show people that one is working hard in order to get good results. In the big bad world, people just care about results, not how hard you have worked. People really have no time to give themselves a damn, leave alone you.
I kept learning and a lot of lessons that work did not teach me (and that is a lot) are being taught to me by marriage and my child. At this point in time, i.e. today, whenever I take up any work, I do so because I genuinely feel I would like that work. Even to the point of sounding hypocritical, I really do not care if there is no money or ‘recognition’ and I do not really mind if everyone does not say ‘Thank you’. At the same time, when someone does say a genuine ‘well done’ it touches my heart. Sometimes, even words are not required.
For example, the Keyhung crèche was not in a good shape some couple of years back. We got the place in shape. My mother was visiting at the time and the two of us popped in every morning and played and worked with the kids and the teacher. We did not make a big noise and except the manager and my husband, who was the factory assistant, nobody got to know. The crèche was cleaned and repaired, new playthings were organized, and walls had pictures on them, and so on. After my child came about, I lost touch and when I went there just a few days back, I saw chart papers with vegetable prints that I had taught so long back were put up on the wall. The children recognized me and came running, the teacher was all smiles, and my child was now able to join them in play. I was really touched by the change from what I had seen the first time we were there.
As I reached club that evening, a young boy who was going to be announcing the programme came with his opening speech. At the end, he had written, “Thank you, Tulip Aunty from all of us. We really appreciate the effort”. I crossed out that line but it did help me smile.
As I stood on stage behind the screen with my fingers crossed, more nervous than the kids behind me, I saw Sanjib peeking in through the stage door, with his thumb up. And as the programme ended, the parents were as excited as the kids.
Hmmm…Maybe some people do give a damn…and maybe these are the people who matter.

Tiku Mama

Tiku mama with Arjun...

As soon as I reach Ambari, I walk into the TV room. He is inevitably there, watching TV, with his legs folded and his fingers curled around a cigarette. I can see him in his lungi, and the vest, his hair a shade between flaming orange and dirty grey, smiling at me. I do not want to remember that he had lost his hair, and the last time I met him his head was covered with a gamucha to cover up the effects of chemotherapy. A gamucha, not a cap—that was Tiku mama. It was 1982 when Arun, my father, passed away and we came to stay at Ambari. Dhriti and I grew up with Riku and Miku as one family. If my mother baked a cake, they would be there downstairs to share. If mami made rotis, we had it with honey upstairs. In the middle of everything there was always Tiku mama. Everytime someone felt ill, we would troop to him and he would hand out small homeopathy sugar pills. We mostly faked illness for that. There was a version of scrabble called ‘Word making and taking’ that we used to play. Come exam time and Tiku mama would make us his special timetables with a time for everything from watching TV to eating to Maths. I already loved books and he loved to discuss different books with me. He taught us the importance of having a well maintained library and both Miku and I had notebooks where we catalogued all our books. We had hearty discussions on any topic from Perry Mason to Sangam to Global warming to Pakistan-India with him. Tiku mama loved Raj Kapoor. Cricket was his life. He was however an enthusiast on all other sports, especially tennis. I remember watching the 1985 Wimbledon matches with him. Ma was away and both of us sat late watching each and every match we could. As we grew older, we moved away but Ambari was always Ambari. He was always there when I came for a visit and if he wasn’t the house was empty. In times when he was worried about something, he would pace up and down, smoking his cigarette, in his quintessential old white lungi. He did so many things and knew everything and if you had any problem on anything he had the answer. Anything from cattle rearing to ship building to security software to baking cakes to knitting to car mechanics. Everything. You go ahead and think of something, ask Tiku mama a question and he will give you the most sensible answer there is. I got married from Ambari and he made the Doi-Mas at my athmongola. It was, everyone said, the yummiest. Ma and I spoke to him over the phone just as he was to go in for his first operation. I asked him if he was scared. He said “No, it’s ai paar or sai paar so I am not scared”. Ma and I was crying after we spoke to him but he was smiling. It was not ‘sai paar’ yet for him and he also met Arjun, my son. Miku’s wedding went off very well, and hundreds of people visited the house in the days prior to the event and attended the wedding, everyone had a chance to talk to him. He joked about his illness and was always smiling when I met him. In fact, because of that the news came as a shock. I thought he would always be there, despite his illness, despite everything. He must be smiling now, wherever he is. He must be missing his lungi, cigarette and cricket matches though. I miss you Tiku mama and so does Dhriti and Miku and Riku.